Outsourcing

I’m sat in a little café in a part of this peninsula that I never often reach. I’ve just taken out £50 which I do not expect will last me the week. I’m thinking about where I have to go in an hour’s time. The café is a cute little place, an old home, with fairy lights and free wifi. The coffee is weak, but only £1.20. I’ve been here for the few hours it has been raining and I’m waiting to go along for a medical review. The government outsources the assessment not to the NHS, but to Atos Origin – some stab at a medical consultancy.

Its purpose is to assess if I am fit for work, what help I need to get into work, if there is anything they can do to get me to work, if they can trip me up and force me to work; there seems a pressing theme. Work.

Not that much of a surprise really. I’ve been out of work for the last four months. It is about time that I started thinking about just pressing on with things and ignoring my problem again. It’s a cycle after all, so let’s get riding. Problem is that at the moment it feels like I’m peddling up hill.

I’ve always wanted to be a writer, but there doesn’t seem to be a need for them. Perhaps I should just join the armed forces. I’ve always thought I might like to die for something slightly ridiculous. I once had a dream that I threw myself in front of a car to save a plastic bottle from being crushed. So getting shot at by people I’ve never met seems like the same flavor of stupidity. At least it removes the need to think for myself. If I’m lucky it will even remove the need to end my own life. I can outsource.

Blind

A few weeks ago our lone vending machine was fired.  

The managers told us that it was “uneconomical” to keep 

 it on and so, with the decision being fiscal, we recognized 

 that the decision was final. 

  

We mourned its absence but a week later a representative  

for The National Blind Children’s Society arrived and asked  

to be allowed to place a charity tray downstairs. It was placed 

 there the following Monday and was filled with packets of Nuts 

and Cheesy Bites and Rice Crackers and the like, and on the sides 

 of it, it read that it had an honesty box policy of £1 per packet. 

  

What we learned was that blind kids make great snack food. 

It’s now a recognized fact in my office. The ‘ChariSnack’ tray,  

as far as bins full of empty packets can testify, it is a roaring  

success. Why am I telling you this? I figure that you should  

have an example of why what they say is true, that when you  

lose something you’ll gain something else will fill the space.

Perspective

As a kid I used to run away a lot. The most common place I would have been found, had anyone tried to look, would have been the park. I had a tree there that I’d sometimes spend the day in. In that way that boys do, I’d pee from the top of it and jump down and scare little kids from time-to-time. No I never peed on any of them.
I’d often spend hours just laying there in the tallest branches thinking about life. Soon my thoughts would drift to all the happy kids below and how unhappy I was. The thoughts used to make me cry, so I was glad no one could see me.
Later on my thoughts turned to the kid’s mums and how from that vantage you could look right down their tops. I’d watch their ample boobs wobble about in their low cut tops.
Its strange how your perspective can change with age, and how much difference puberty makes. More than anything it gave me something to distract myself with, and boy was I distracted!

Behind

My ex-girlfriend had a rather large bum, which I fell in love with almost instantly. We used to walk from school to her house and I’d sometimes walk slower to get a better view of her rear. Sometimes she’d look back and I’d grin at her and raise my eyebrows cheekily. Most of the time however she just kept looking forward while I took my fill of bottom-gazing, until I’d catch up to her side again and we continued hand-in-hand to her home.
After some time however it became clear that we couldn’t stay together. I had to go to university and so I chose to leave her behind.

Pavlova

On the evening of the dinner party my Father was always demoted to little more than a fixture. He was reduced to a useless mass that took up space in the living room with the rest of the inefficient males. It would be a good few years until I joined their ranks, till then my games took on a new dimension. I used to play at being a spy. I’d hide in the same places, but report my observations into the freckle on the wrist of my right arm.
I’d be forgotten about while my Sister and Brothers were sent to bed. I’d be left to observe the drunken stumbling of the adults around me. After a few close calls I’d realise that it no longer mattered if they saw me or not. If my Father saw me walking about he’d mention bed, take another sip of red wine and then carry on talking to his friends.
If I went into the dining room to grab a bite to eat, my Mother would put down her glass of white wine and call me to her. She’d place a hand below my chin and lift my head, then use the other to crush me to her waist. She held me in a way that with one swift twist she could have easily have broken my neck. She’d then turn to her friends and carry on talking. Her grip would loosen. Eventually I’d be allowed to wander off with a large piece of homemade Pavlova.

Demijohns

Whilst my Mother cooked I used to hide below the stairs next to the dusty wine racks; below the hem of winter coats. I used to write my name on the tops of the empty demijohns at the very back. Used to suck on a mint cream that I’d stolen from the jar on the counter. Used to listen to the CD player that my Mother kept in the kitchen as it blasted out Enya at full volume. It was either Enya or Crowded House, or some other CD that was increased to such a level that one could hear it above the extractor fan.
My mother had found the fan a delightful novelty when she had first ordered the fitted kitchen, but quite soon its usefulness was outweighed and it became simply bothersome. The problem was that it lacked a switch and was mercilessly attached to the lighting in the room.
I used to hide myself under the dining table too. Listen to the noise of my parents as they argued about the theme for the party. I used to scoot out from under the table, enjoy the brief intimacy of a tablecloth as it brushed over the back of my neck.
I used to surface as my Father laid his heavy, awkward hands on my Mother’s shoulders from behind. Watched as he attempted to massage her too forcefully, digging his fat fingers into her shoulder blades. He’d always mask his mistake. Pretend that he was being cruel on purpose, but inside I knew that he wanted to be gentler. It was in his eyes, there was sadness. He wanted to relax her, rather than put her on edge. My Father has a hard time being gentle, he was a slim man but his hands always seemed to defy the fact.

Squeeze

Personally speaking I try to squeeze every drop of life from a day. She’s never been like that. Whenever she leaves me she bats her eyes and makes the sign of a telephone with her hand when she says goodbye. I get really pissed off at that. I can’t quite make out the awkward dose of ill-acted senselessness. Simply put, she’s ceased to be significant to me. She’s now as real to me as that hand-telephone she holds unringing next to her ear.
I’m hoping that she’ll soon get bored of me and leave me to my crazy flirting with strangers that comes to nothing and my crushes that last a week and no longer. I’m also hoping that the latest crush Jen found that poem I left in her library book before she returns it. Page 130. If she doesn’t then it becomes a message in a bottle. No doubt someone will find it, next year, when they decide to take a module in Poetic Theory but I’m sure it won’t mean as much to them.
As it begins to snow I realise that these girls, like others, don’t quite see the world the same way I do. They’ve never paid enough attention to the details; never asked too many questions of existence. I realise this and giggle and begin trying to catch the snowflakes on my tongue. I’m thinking how each is unique, like me.

Aspirations

Piya and Conner were the beginning of caring for me.
We didn’t have aspirations. We didn’t care if we were compensating for families that didn’t care for us. We were just three kids looking for something to belong to. Closer than friends. Closer than siblings, because for all we knew we had stronger loyalties. Our brothers stabbed us in the backs as soon as they could reach. Our sisters clawed our faces at a crossed-word. Home was a battleground that we avoided, daily, for as long as we could. Ours was a world of distraction. We didn’t care for anything but each other. We were more than a family. We were part of one another.

Universe

In the song Around The Universe, by The Beatles there is a section at the beginning that speaks to me. One of them says “You all right richie?”. Every time I hear it, it makes me smile.
A lot of the time I think about what it means to be content. To have that mantra of enlightenment run through me. A lot of the time I need that smile it gives me.
Contentment is being ok with yourself and everything. Utterly unchanging. Nothing is going to change my world. Except me.

Butterflies

I told a girl once that I could feel butterflies in my stomach. Told her that every time I looked at her pretty face, I got a feeling of trepidation that seemed to make me all light-bellied, a smile appearing on my lips, tugging at each corner.
Each time came a reply of annoyance. She turned to me and said ‘eat something then’ or ‘you want to go to the doctor for that’, but I’ve never doubted we have the same feelings for each other. We split up mid-winter.
I never mention the butterflies now, but still each time I see the woman I love I can taste pollen and wings.

Radio

When I am at my most drastically unhappy I like to stream the radio through my computer and flitter about until I reach radio 4. It means I can write with the laptop and still have something going on, some person talking to me. I can’t bear to be on my own. You all know that by now. I don’t cope well with absences.
I’m a writer and we need to have language filtering through us. In winter you wear a jacket; when I want to write I wear the noise around me. Coffee shops always heave with chattering people in the winter. Fuelled by caffeine and lust, I watch people interact with each other and live through their lives like a parasite. I’m in love with them all and would love to get closer and know them. Often I do.

House

When I got here, when I off the train, walked the long walk to the front door, when I turned the key and stepped in, my heart faltered and the beast wriggled in delight. I felt like I was opening the box of the world’s ills. If I had a choice I’d shut the lid and leave it here forever. Home is so sad, is what Larkin said ‘shaped to the comfort of the last to go’ well in this case, it isn’t. Its shifted furniture; moved in new televisions and hi-fi’s; the doors open differently; some doors are locked; my room is nothing more than a music studio. I feel like weeping for that now disbanded ‘joyful shot at how things ought to be’. Gone is the home, this is the house.
I’ve tried to think of where home is. Where my heart is, or longs for. I love Bath, but it isn’t a home. This is a world of sorrows and I’m a wandering kid without the wanderlust to enjoy it. How do they know how I feel? These people who tell me that it’ll be ok. If they did; they wouldn’t lie to me, they’d understand that the longer I stay here, the less ‘here’ I am, the more ‘elsewhere’ the more ‘anywhere’ I become. There is only so much absence you can handle, before you start to fade physically.

Hours

Telephones are a strange idea. You’re listening to a voice on the other end of a wire. It usually unnerves me, but with Much it is different. I’ve talked to her for hours now and we could go on talking. I’ve woken up after a night of talking, my throat is slightly raw and I still have that fluttering feeling. A little while ago I cursed that feeling, but this time I think it is shared.
In as much as Much is honest and sweet, I can’t help feeling scared. I’m more than easily hurt, it wouldn’t take much, but then Much is more than capable of anything now. She could reach out, climb out and become something real. She could turn around and shatter me. There is no help for the helpless, I have to settle the feeling otherwise it’ll eat away at me.
When it gets to that point that going on is so much pain that giving in seems easier. I can’t help but think, ‘why the hell did I come so far?’ And I keep going, gritted teeth, coat braced against a wind that tears through me. A road like this is a daunting thing, but when you think of what you are reaching out for and how far you’ve come, there really isn’t any other option.

Starting

We first learn of love when we call it a name, someone’s. That is true enough, but we also first learn of pain because grief strikes where love struck first. We walk with open wounds. Love has never been easy for me. It’s like faith. I could never believe in a god because I couldn’t fathom his intentions, his designs. It’s the same for a girl who likes me.
Lord knows what she wants, why she wants me.
Yet nowadays I’m catching a glimpse of splendour when I just close my eyes slightly. That way that on long car rides, you squint until streetlights burst into stars. I’ve just stopped thinking and I’m starting to live. With life comes love, which means it is a natural thing, nothing to be feared. I still get stuck on how like death it is, but I don’t want to dwell on that.

Honesty

There isn’t anything I would not tell the world, however tragic or personal. As long as it is mine to tell I will not hesitate to impart it to anyone. I don’t do it to heal myself, lighten any burden, or try to explain in the hopes that I can reason with things.
Everything that happens I can and do, fundamentally, deal with on my own. I am honest because on the same level that I do not want to be alone, I also don’t want people to imagine that I don’t suffer atrociously.
For me to not speak about the things that matter most would be an appalling lie. For me not to talk about my aching would only falsify the friendships I make. I don’t expect salvation from anyone I meet; I can deal with these things on my own, just not alone.

Child

I had one for the blink of an eye. I dreamt him back into being, after Melissa had the abortion. His name would have been Ben. I hadn’t known a thing about there being a child until a friend told me 9 months after Lissa left. She told me that Lissa had run away so abruptly, because she couldn’t face the fact that I would have wanted to keep him.
So I dreamt him back into being. First the size of a few cells, up to the size of a pea, then I drew motion into him, a tadpole. He grew to a birth of nothingness.
I accelerate past his first Christmas, first few steps; learning to ride a bike, kick a ball in the park. Past his first crush, heartbreaks, accidents and exams. Cast away hobbies and nights on his own, just thinking and listening to music.
I imagined a wife for him, children and then past my own existence, to him telling his grandchildren about me.
So I dreamt him back into being, but he wasn’t back. All I keep thinking is that he ended as a smattering on a toilet bowl and then I start crying again.

Kingdom

You can’t help but hate the guy that the woman you are in love with is currently seeing. More often than not he is a lazy slob with bad manners and an alcohol problem. Most of the time he’ll be taking her for a ride and all the while be scouting for a better, or rather more pathetic, example of a woman to take advantage of. But you hate him most because the world you long for is his kingdom.
You hate him because you are a better guy but you’re too polite to say so. So you end up hating yourself too.

Lasagne

“I can cook,” is the catchphrase of every girl who wants a guy genuinely and drastically; it is also the death knell of a relationship. So that was the format of my relationship with Lucy.
We struck up a relationship at the halfway point of my second year at university. She’s my Twerton girl, much to her dismay. I caught her spying on me from across the street while I waited for a bus and when our eyes met she picked up her light feet and breezed over the road toward me, smiling.
We shared a few nights at mine and she lit up that awkward little room with an energy that seemed to linger even after she’d left.
“I can cook,” was a statement that lured me, and my grumbling stomach, over to her house.
After a serving of ‘where our lives will go’ and a portion of ‘I love you’ I didn’t have the appetite for the burnt lasagne.

Touch

It isn’t only men that try to touch young boys old women try as well.
Having chosen to read a book recommended by Mrs. Snow I was nestled in the crook of one of the old leather chairs near the religious texts where no one much went, and where at least three inches of dust and a dash of cobwebs had formed. I’d gotten up to a typically Mills and Boon milestone in my book, the main character’s first kiss. From that moment my passion for such books was ignited, perhaps Mrs. Snow knew I had the heart of a romantic, who knows?
I’m greeted by a wrinkled face peering down at me and I recognise it, it is Mrs Snow. Her friendly demeanour had dipped and she asked if she could sit down on the chair next to me. I told her should could. Next thing and her crumpled hand is clutching my cock. She hurt me at first, which I can only assume was down to a mixture of excitement and fear. She relaxed her grip, rubbed my crotch and responded to my involuntary erection with a smile, before standing up and walking away.

Kiss

First kiss was with my Dad’s friend’s daughter. I forget her name. We were both 10 and were hiding under the bed. We’d each had just eaten lollies – orange flavour – and we’d gotten it all over our faces. We kissed and then licked each other’s mouths. The event was marred with the accident that took place in the next room. Her brother decided to fall from a wardrobe and break his arm.
That was my awkward introduction to the theory of pain for pleasure.