Blank Page meeting leads to nothing but of blank pages... at least for me

So I tried desperately hard to get something done for last weeks Blank Page meeting. The task was to create something from the phrase "I woke up drunk again". I had initially considered paining something. Something epic using oil paints on a proper canvas, something worthy of the great masters. At least that was my first instinct. Of course with me my first instinct is seldom appropriate and on this occasion it was especially inappropriate owing to the fact that I have all the artistic talent and vision of an autistic oranutang with near crippling arthritis in both his hands. Still, is suppose that puts me quite high up the list for an Arts Council grant, so maybe it’s something worth bearing in mind for the future.

My second instinct was to do what I do best (which, considering my limited mastery of anything, should be considered relatively) and write something. I decided to write a nice short story. Well, I tried to start writing a nice short story but somehow never managed to get round to it. Then inspiration hit me. In the old days of doing my MA in Feature Film Screenwriting at Royal Holloway I used to leave doing my weeks work until I got on the SouthWest Train locomotive bound for Waterloo. Somehow the very fact that this would be my last opportunity to get my work done allowed me to focus on the task at hand. My lecturer even noted that this was a method that she quite frequently employed too, a fact that I felt somewhat vindicated me. So, a few days before the meeting, once it became clear that I would be conveniently misplacing any time that I might have found to do the work, I decided that I would simply write a short story with a pen and newly purchased pocket notepad on the way to the meeting on Tursday. London Transport, however, had other ideas. Unfortunately a trip on the Metropolitan line is somewhat akin to travelling on a particularly decrepit and unimaginative rollercoaster, which is to say that it is a touch bumpier that the 9.32 from Egham and only marginally more exciting (you can after all continually check the daily lack of progress on the new Wembley Stadium as you go past). The result of my tube ride was a pad full of squiggles that bore more relationship to an erratic cardiogram than any recognisable form of handwriting. So, only maginally worse than my usual efforts with pen and paper. My handwriting is absolutely appalling and it always has been. I think that goes some way towards explaining why I've so warmly embraced word processors. Last week I even briefly toyed with the idea of buying a PDA onto which I could write notes which could instantly be converted into a word format document. Of course laziness could also play something of a part in my desire for an otherwise useless pice of handheld gadgetry. It would, after all, save me the bother of having to type up my notes. Besides, anything that could conceal the inadequacy of my penmanship had to be a good thing. I actually tried one out in my local PC World and I was impressed to discover that it could even make sense of my illegible scrawl. But in the end I really can’t justify the purchase, even for a 2^nd had iPaq at Computer Exchange at only £75. I simply don’t have the money, which is why I should really get myself some sort of temping work. I will. Eventually. I actually have the house to my self next week so it’s my intention to do a lot of writing and get busy on the job front. Knowing me I’ll probably just end up spending more or less the whole time playing one iteration or another of Halo.

Creatives Anonymous... Rebranding

Every month or so I meet up with a number of like minded yet eclectically creative types. Tentatively the group has always been refered to as Creatives Anonymous.

Howver, after last nights drinking session (I mean meeting, of course) It sounds like we're going to change the name to "Blank Page" which i rather like.

The only problem is that everybody seems to have thought of calling their blog Blank Page or some derivation of it, which means that it's going to be really difficult to find an appropriate URL that's still free.

The question is… Why?

It occurs to me that I truly have no idea why they felt the need to bomb London. I have no idea about the cause that these people are trying to further. I can assure you, that it's not for lack of trying to find out that I have no idea. From what I can gather they've never given a reason for their actions.

At this time no credible organisation has declared responsibility for the atrocities in London. No organisation has told us why they did it. No organisation has told us what they hope to achieve. Really, I’m asking truthfully, what is their problem? Because to my knowledge nobody has ever told us what drives them to plant bombs that kill innocent commuters. Under what circumstances has violence become the first rather than the last resort? Tell us, why do you hate us so much? What is your problem? Perhaps if we talk, like civilised people we can come to some kind of understanding. Western governments aren’t all great. Some are probably corrupt, and decadent, but not a single one of them is irredeemable. Not one needs to be completely cleansed. Anybody who thinks that is a manic of Hitler-esqe proportions.

But really, I’ve been approaching this all wrong. There is no us and them here is there. If there were that would suggest a very black and white world. And believe me, I’ve lived long enough to realise that the world isn’t polarised. It exists in the ground that lies between the black and the white, the good and the evil. There is no such thing as an absolute.

I though about it for a while too. I wondered, could it be the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that have angered these people? It’s an argument that I’ve certainly heard before, but unfortunately it’s a deeply flawed argument that can be disproved by mentioning a single date. 11^th September 2001. Before 9/11 there had been no war in Afghanistan and the second gulf war was some time away. Yet on that day thousands of people of all nationalities were murdered. Clearly these attacks are not a result of recent wars, so I’m left only with my original question; Why? There must be a reason.

Perhaps somebody can tell me or better still tell somebody more important than me so that we can go some way to sorting this out. However, I fear that the sort of people who would murder indiscriminately don’t need a reason. I suspect that reason is a concept that they left behind a long time ago. But please, prove me wrong.

London

By now I imagine that everybody must have heard about the bombs that went off across London. To be honest I don’t give a shit about the "cause" that people think that they are furthering by murdering innocent people. What the fuck do the evil bastards think that they can achieve with such a cold, calculated slaughter of innocent people of all races and religions? There can be no justification for such wanton disregard for life. If there is a hell I hope deepest darkest level has a spot reserved for those who would perpetrate such foul crimes upon their fellow man.

It makes no real sense. At this moment it looks likely that these heinous crimes were perpetrated by a group affiliated with Al-Qaeda. I sincerely hope that this doesn't lead to attacks on Muslims and Muslim institutions. Islam is one of the most tolerant religions out there. Anybody who claims that by killing innocents they are doing the work of God or Allah is severely misguided. People don't do these things for a belief in the precepts of a religion that teaches us to love and care for or fellow man. People do these things because of hate.

There can be no justification for violence towards the innocent.

One of the things that makes London such a great city is its diverse mix of cultures, races and religions. Each group has been equally wounded by this attack.

I didn’t let any of these bastards stop me from going out for out for a few drinks in Central London this weekend. I won't let any bastard stop me from doing the things that I enjoy. And I advise any Londoner to do the same. Carry on regardless. Let them know that whatever they do, they won't break us, they won't stop us from going about our lives. Fuck the bastards.

A kiss is still a kiss…

I’ve always enjoyed kissing. In fact I think I may enjoy a good kiss even more than I enjoy a good shag. A kiss to me always seems so much more intimate. But also a kiss is something that you can do anywhere in public without fear of arrest. It’s for that reason that a kiss is allowed to be a message to all who are present that shows the love, the affection, the passion or the lust or maybe even just the drunkenness shared by two people.

The last time I shared a public kiss with someone was the Friday before last. It was a good kiss, a deep passionate kiss fuelled undoubtedly by lust and more than a little alcohol. Above all though it was a good kiss, matched, on that evening, only by each kiss that followed. It helped that she was tall. I’m quite tall myself and there’s nothing which curtails a good snog more than the inevitable crick in the neck suffered when getting off with a girl just a few inches too short for just a few minutes too long. As I said, the girl was tall, around 5’ 9 ½” so I heard someone say, and I wouldn’t doubt it, she seemed only a few inches shorter than me and I’m 6’1”.

She whispered in my ear (well, not whispered, the music played far too loud for a whisper to be audible) the words that every man of a certain disposition longs to hear. The five magic words “Let’s go and have sex.” I bid a hasty goodbye to all my friends and swiftly left the Soho bar where I had previously been drinking my way thorough my overdraft. She followed me up the stairs to the welcoming arms of Greek Street where we briefly continued our heated bout of snogging. We stopped; she had to go back inside for a moment. I was on my own. My first reaction was to check my watch after which I reached for my mobile phone intent on calling everyone who knew would be up at this late hour, just to keep them informed. Obviously they’d want to know what I was up to. It had been quite a while since I’d pulled a girl; I hadn’t done it since I met my last girlfriend 5 years ago, so I was more than a little nervous. The girl appeared at the doorway and walked slowly over in what at the time I tried to interpret was a seductive way. In reality she’d had so much to drink that if she walked any faster she’d have probably fallen over. I could see that the magic was dying very quickly. Practical concerns came to the fore. “Do you have any condoms” she asked. I rummaged through my wallet and found my customary single prophylactic. To be honest it was a miracle that I still bothered to carry even one around. My hit ratio hadn’t been good of late, though I suppose that’s down more to lack of trying than lack of success. My single rubber, however, failed to impress the young lady. “Just one” she said incredulously “you’re not a virgin are you?” “What?” now I was being incredulous. “Why do you say that?” Well surely only a virgin would carry only a single bloody condom.”

I was fast loosing any passion that I had felt for the girl. I’m lacking enough in confidence without being accused of somehow regaining my virginity. It was at this point that I started to notice exactly how drunk she was. A few weeks prior to the events of that Friday evening I’d had a conversation with friends about the ethics of sleeping with a ridiculously drunk girl, and this previously hypothetical conversation was now weighing heavily on my mind.

“Are you sure you’re okay to be doing this. I mean, you’ve had quite a lot to drink.”

I may as well end the story there. Between her mocking tone and my paranoid concern the mood was now dead. Sex, was clearly not on the cards.

We went to Bar Italia where I used my last remaining cash to buy her a coffee and panini. The panini was gorgeous, but I could handle little more than a mouthful despite her protestations and indeed sulking (“I bring you hear to the famous Bar Italia and you can’t be bothered to eat anything.”). I always get like that when I meet a girl. The first thing that goes is my appetite swiftly followed by my ability to reason.

We talked for a while, and after a rocky start we began to get on. However, most of the evening, which was fast becoming the early hours of the following morning, were spent mixing with the eclectic crowd of writers artist, film producers and bikers that frequent Bar Italia at that time of day.

It was 6am and the night was drawing to a close. Bar Italia was finally shutting up shop for a while and the undoubtedly fatigued night staff were being replaced by the fresh, new day staff.

It was time to stay goodbye. She could have left much sooner, but she insisted on waiting for me whilst I stuck it out long enough for the first Tube. Her taxi was waiting to whisk her a few miles away to her home when I finally said in what friends have observed is my best “Hugh Grant” style “Actually, I was wondering… um. Oh, no, it doesn’t matter.” “No, what is it?” she asked in a manner that convinced me that she actually wanted to know. No, she must have already known what I was going to ask, she just wanted me to ask. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to go out some time.” Sure, yeah.” She said wearily. I presumed, at the time her tiredness was as a result of it being 6am. “Okay” I said “shall I give you my number?” “Actually it might be easier if you take mine. It’s going to be difficult for me to get to my phone.” Indeed it would be, in one hand she had a massive handbag and in the other an umbrella that when unfurled looked more like a parasol. “Oh, right, ok.” I was surprised. Surely the fact that she had chosen to give me her number was a positive sign. After all she could have taken my number and then simply never called it. So I got her number and she got in her cab. I waited a moment for the cars’ engine to start and waved to her as she pulled away. She even waved back. And that is, and probably will be, the last I saw of her.

She had a somewhat curt manner, but couldn’t help but like her. A few days later I saw a slim girl wearing a luxuriant dress and a pair of large rimmed Christian Dior sunglasses, looking very much like she was trying to impersonate Audrey Hepburn in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s”. Yet despite her finery she still didn’t manage to be half as elegant as the girl who wore only a simple medium length skirt and a green vest top with accompanying green necklace. The girl that I’d waved goodbye to outside of Bar Italia on a warm Soho night was definitely special.

The following day (though not really since it had become so late that that it was now early again) I sent her a text just to see if she got home ok. She never replied. After a few days I decided that she must be alright otherwise, as the last person to see her, I’d have invariably had the Old Bill on my doorstep asking questions. After a few days of agonising over my self doubt, a fair bit of soul searching and, bending the ears a little too much of some very understanding friends, I decided that I would call her. When she answered it was clear that I’d caught her whilst she was out. So I got straight to the point and asked her if she’s like to go out sometime next week (this week. She told me yes and suggested that I text her to let her know what days I’d be free on. The thing is she said this without a hint of enthusiasm. It was as if she were simply scheduling a dentist’s appointment. I texted her a couple of days later to let her know when I’d be free. It’s few days after that and I haven’t received a reply. I’m not exactly hopeful.

Well, the upshot of the story is that I now have a renewed sense of hope (well at least I still can get a girl to get off with me even if I cant manage to actually sleep with her) and a wallet containing not one, not two, but three condoms. Now, all I need to do is get lucky like that again. Well, maybe just a little bit luckier

I’m submitting this now. It’s 4am and I’m too tired to check it over properly, so apologies to all those who have to bear my bad spelling/grammar/writing style. I’m sure that I’ll get around to fixing it later.

...and so I dedcided that I should start my own blog.

I've never been very good at beginnings. Once I get going I'm okay, but it really does take me an awful lot to actually get going in the first place. For some reason I feel like I should treat this opening entry like I'm going on a blind date with you, the reader (if indeed you actually exist). Obviously it may end up being something of a one sided date, since I have no idea whether there will be anybody who will read let alone respond to my idle musings. By the way, I should really start by saying that I've decided to do this as a sort of therapy. I enjoy writing. I may, or may not, be very good at it (I'm certainly not in a position to judge), but I enjoy it none the less. I decide that I have so many odd thoughts that occur to me that I needed to have an outlet for them. Sort of like dreaming for the conscious mind. So, consider this blog to be like a sort of waking dream. A place where my conscious mind can mull over the days events (or weeks, months or years events. It really depends how prolific I decide to be). Actually, saying that it's going to be a "Waking Dream" really hypes it up far too much. It's far too poetic a way of describing what is bound to end up being an absolute nonsense. That aside, I should really continue...

So, I thought that I should approach this in the same way i would approach a blind date.

Actually I've found that as the years go by I've become more guarded about myself, especially around new people. I expect that this is something that happens to a lot of us. I worry about how people will react to me if they know what I'm really like. So like, I would presume, many others, I erect a persona to shield unsuspecting newcomers from my true horrors. You see I'm quite strange in my own way. Quite neurotic. Wracked with fear about the things I haven't done and guilt over those I have. Guilt and regret. My persona tries to sell me as being a confident ambitious and fun. Unfortunately, all to frequently, the real me leaks through.

But then, gentle reader, you've told me nothing of yourself so I don't feel particularly inclines to give you any more of my life story. Not yet. Not all in one go. If you want to know more read on. That is, of course, presuming that there are any further entries to follow. If you're reading this blog now (whatever "now" means to you at this very moment), you'll know better than I in what I currently call now as to whether any entries follow this or whether this passage stands alone.