Why is it so hard?

You’d imagine in our modern society that it would be able to support every type of condition or ailment. It seems to, but still there are corners of society who inhabit meeker souls like me who don’t fit in. We’re not loud, we’re happy alone in our own thoughts. Why should we have to conform to the 9-5 drudgery and meaningless graces of correctness the western world forces on us? There is so little individuality any more.

This was written months ago but I never finished it. And I still can’t. So I might as well just push publish

Certain swagger

I heard a wonderful line from someone on TV yesterday: why do people have so much certainty and swagger nowadays? More to the point, how do they achieve it? Is there no room for the dreamers, the wistful, the grey people at the back of the class who don’t always put their hands up but are always listening?

Them and us

I always find it shocking hearing about the numbers of people who suffer from depression and anxiety. It’s much greater than any of us realise, and although it’s mildly comforting that there are so many, it’s a hidden disease; a silent affliction sometimes masked by facades or medication. If you believe the statistics, a significant number of people that you walk past on the street have some form of depression.

But it doesn’t make us feel much better, does it? Everywhere you look, society seems to race on by cheerily. Women swoon in and out of shops, bags and scarves flying behind them. Men lope after them like dozy spaniels, desperate to honour their need to shop and eager to appear supportive. Let no man get in the shopping couple’s way for they will be hit with bags or, worse, suffer ankle damage from the fashionable three-wheeled pushchair.

All around me people are smiling, laughing, sometimes staring. Or are they staring? It’s a common affliction of mine when I’m in one of my holes that I feel the whole world is not only staring, but judging and laughing at me. I often find a window or mirror on the street just to check that I haven’t got a leek sticking out of both ears, but moreover to adjust the smile on my face and make sure it’s a smile and not a “if you look at me like that one more time, I’m going to rip your neck off” grimace.

I venture into a clothes shop. Inevitably the ladies section is immediately on the same floor as the door and the men’s are found lurking in the basement, reached by an escalator which someone fatter than me might find mildly claustraphobic. It’s a small selection and I’m one of two shoppers, with no less than five employees floating around aimlessly. They’re re-fluffing the jumpers on the glass table by the escalator, they’re straightening the tie on the African manican, they’re justifying their jobs. I leave within a couple of minutes, satisfied that – being broad in shoulder and with a waist of 34in – I will burst most of their clothes as though someone has sat on water balloon. One of the employees, American, smiles and thanks me. I feel strangely attractive, for once, even though the greeting was vacuously and robotically delivered. The vanity of man; the sexy smile of women.

Out of the shop the hurtle of the high street hits me. People in threes take up an inordinate amount of the pavement and refuse to give way, giving me a surprised stare when they bump into my shoulder. Smiles. But not everyone is smiling – there are some grizzly grimaces etching their way onto some of the elder, male shoppers and briefly I feel at one with some of them. Ironically, my acknowledgment of another shopper-hater causes me to smile and I no longer hate the smiley brigade because I am, temporarily, one of them. Until a pack of three daunting women hammer their bags into my legs, one of which catches on my right knee and the bag swings wildly behind the girl’s bum. I look around to apologise on her behalf, as is my wont. She doesn’t. Apologising on others’ behalves is another affliction.

Seven shops, no clothes bought. Each venue is an insult on the senses; a scream of noise, smells, constant chatter, noise, chatter, people. Oh the people. Just so many. “How you going, alright?” flits one of the staff members no sooner have I entered. “Just looking, but thanks” I smile back. Was that too curt, I wonder? The words were polite but my delivery suggested I didn’t want to be troubled again. She doesn’t seem too offended, not that I care – or do I? I’d rather not be troubled, thanks, but I certainly don’t want to upset anyone. Just…fuck off. No, don’t think that – it’ll affect your face, it’ll make you look angry. She’s gone now, as have you, out of the shop without the clothes which you need and back into the humdrum of the high street, onto the next cacophonous store, the next disaster, the next fleeting but ultimately meaningless moment with another human being…

The emotional effect of music

Is the emotional effect of music nature or nurture? Does it make us feel maudlin, sad, happy because of our linking it to memories (such as the first time we listened to a song) or is there something with certain rythyms, lyrics – even instruments – which strikes a chord on a personal level and affects us accordingly?

I’m inclined to think it’s the latter. This song below is pretty new to me. I’ve only just come across it, so am in the wonderful honeymoon period – about my 20th listen so far. Incredibly (or not) this is how it makes me feel: depressed, ecstatic, longing, alone, alive, sad, slightly suicidal and it makes me laugh, too. I rarely listen to lyrics (don’t ask why) and I’m not listening to these either. There is something in the way the piano and strings and voice all tie together which hits me like a brick in the face, soothes my mental ills and calms me like only music can.

The same goes for most duets. If I hear two people singing, either in the same key or one slightly off from the other, I am entranced. I only realised recently that a vast percentage of my alltime favourite songs have this duo aspect to them…stretching from Chopin to seriously hard rock.

Wittering now.

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Now playing: The Cinematic Orchestra – To Build A Home

Oh, just leave me in peace!

I love my family more than anything, more than anyone. But Christ, I do need my space. There is only so much talking I can do; sometimes I just like to be quiet, be alone with my thoughts and be allowed the rare luxury to think. Is that wrong? Probably. But that’s me.