Ip dip dog shit, you are not it.

Yesterday at work, I somehow got it into my head that my colleagues thought I was inadequate, a waste of space. Whether or not this is true is not only unknown, its entirely irrelevant. For, as a result of my little worry, I became.. a waste of space! How this is quite possible, when the sum total of my professional responsibilities amounts to putting bottles on shelves, Im not entirely sure. But a waste of space I was. I dropped bottles, put things on the wrong shelves, picked up the wrong items, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Notice how often the word 'wrong' featured in the last sentence? An awful feeling which definatley turned another day at the office into a 9 hour blushing marathon of apologies, mistakes and self asteem bashing. The thing is, Im not a waste of space. Not as far as I know anyway, but the very thought of me being seen as an incabable idiot turned me into just that. An incapable idiot. What influencial things those self fulfiling prophecies are. My very disbelief in myself led to me actually phyically dropping bottles, among other stupid things.
With this in mind, it becomes clear quite how risky the gamble the Metropolitan Police are taking at the moment actually is. The Met, the most powerful, influencial, and arguably important police in force in Britain have begun contacting a number of protest groups warning that the planned protests in reaction to the upcoming G20 summit in London are going to be "very violent". Not only this but senior commanders have been quoted saying that they are "up for it, and up to it". The idea behind this rather gung-ho tactic is of course to deter as many people as they can from the protests, in the hope that they can reduce the tens of thousands of expected protestors to a more managable number. The risk of course is that by advertising the fact that they believe April 1st to be a violent day in London, they may have just written there own futures. What more of a call to arms could the violence wanting, angry protestors of the UK want than the super confrontational language used by 'the man' , in this case.. the Metropolitan police. What they may have just done is deter the peaceful protestor, the average joe who isnt happy with climate change, capitalism, war and globalisation. And attract the radical shop smashing, effigy hanging anarchist. Of course I hope that April 'financial fools' day comes and goes with nothing but a very clear, profound and above all peaceful point being made by the protest.
My fear, is that if that the uber powerful self fulfiling prophecies which led me to drop a bottle at work yesterday, may just lead some people to throw them on Wednesday.

Photo Nasties.

A few scanned prints from back when me and the shutter release button were closer friends.

Trip, Stumble, Fall.

Why is controlling gravity so pleasing? Ok, so not necessarily controlling gravity, but twisting it a bit. We all know the kind of things.. Marble runs, kites, balloons, bike jumps, trampolines, all childhood staples. We all love them, or have loved them at some point in our lives. Maybe this is some throwback from our jumping monkey origins? who knows. But I fucking LOVE marble runs.
I find it fascinating how often the true roots and instincts of the human being show up much more clearly in children. Throw a baby in a pool, its gonna swim. My mum has been studying children, pychology and sociology in one way or another for as long as I care to think about. She lives and breathes sociology in a very applied way. When we are together, we are generally having a discussion about the milkmans autism, or some guy we know showing classic attention seeking behaviour due to his lack of attention in his early years development. I love it, it makes my brain tingle with the massivness of it all. There is so much going on in the world that has no physical being. It just 'is'. Anyway, as a result of my sociological curiosity osmosis c/o mummsy, I tend to over analyse people when first meeting them. Not in a "urgh your hair is greasy" or "wow big arse" kinda way. All that stuff really doesnt fuss me. More in a "definately on the autistic spectrum" kinda way. A big habit of mine. I just started a new job, in a supermarket. Its all great fun and thouroughly soul fullfilling as Im sure you can imagine. But in real terms what this means is a large body of new people to meet, get to know, and more importantly analyse. Obviously everybody meets new people on a daily basis. But its the situations where one meets lots of people, all at once. that really get my juices going. So far there are a few people which show signs of being great 'sociological specimins' for me and my mum to pick apart over our porridge in days to come. More to follow Im sure.
While dancing around the subject of autism and the like I had the thought of what a polarisng bunch we/they are. Im quite sure that a large number of my closest friends either show signs of, or are diagnosed as having, some kind of attention deficit syndrome or mild autism. The same applies for my (granted rather short) list of people who really nark me. The list of people I just know, 'the aquiantence list' as it shall be known, holds far fewer. I guess its the intensity which often comes hand in hand with ADHD and the like which really splits the pack. I have some brilliantly intense friends that never fail to amaze me with their thoughts and creations. They constantly delight me with their ability to dodge social constraints a little. Swimmingly awkward yet perfectly at ease. And then there are the other bunch. Both groups are kind of 'personal celebrities'. The BIG characters in my life. The people at either the centre of the party, or the centre of my dartboard.
One hundred and eiiiiiighty.

Erotic Atlas.

I find it hard to distinguish the difference between excitement and nervousness. This leads to some ridiculous predicaments. I get nervous before parties, excited before arguments, and confused prior to both. I remember the morning of my driving test I was so excited I couldn't stand still. Nerves didnt feature until about 3 minutes before actually getting in the car. Not the most convenient of times to feel like the sun and its orbitals are going to pop out of your throat. But this happens to the best of us.
This got me thinking, if I can mentally 'cross wires' between these two, granted fairly similar, emotions/feelings. How many other crossed wires must be kicking about going undetected. Connections between things physical, and emotional always make me chuckle, or pause for a second at least.
Its strange how certain items allow themselves to have a whole range of emotions 'attached' to them. While other objects are.. a little more fussy. A kitchen blender perhaps. I struggle to see how a blender could ever be the most arousing thing you have ever seen. A romantic sheep is quite hard to come by. As is a toaster oozing with sorrow. A poignant plate however, Ive seen plenty of those. Hightened only by the dissapointment laden chilli-con-carne congealing on its oh so poignant surface. Sexy stockings? not a problem. Aggresive cars? easy. Angry keys? Im not so sure.
I wonder if the objects that lack any kind of emotional capabilities are jelous of the rich tapestry of feelings other objects are open to? Or perhaps they just feel relief that they dont have the hassle.
It is of course all based on personal connotations. Whilst one object may bring sombody huge floods of emotion, the very same thing will go by entirely un noticed by others. Recently I have gone through a very bizare period where many objects, songs, places in my life have suddenly decided to switch the emotions they fill me with. This is most disconcerting. After the loss of one of the best friends I have ever had, things which used to bring joy, happiness, carlessness have all of a sudden decided to bring sorrow, grief, and memories. I have a CD with his handwritting on. a tear jerker. A strip of condoms he gave me as a stupid gift, guaranteed never to be used. Places that we used to go have somehow become monuments, memorials, places filled with memories. Its really quite beutiful I suppose. I guess this is how people 'live on' after death. Strange that it should come to the surface in my crying over a set of cereal bowls Tom once stole from my house. Of course these places, objects, songs still hold their original emotive qualities. They are all packed full of laughter and mischeif. But now they will always have a taint of somthing much more permanent.
Hows that for emo?
One thing is for sure, My mate Tom, he gave enough happiness and smiles to this world to last long after he has gone. So heres to that. Rock Out.

Pizza Anybody?

There is a man I know, a strange little man. Drinks in the local pub, has a nasty skin infection on his forehead, and a very ugly "shit I thought she was a lesbian" wife. This man, whose name just happens to be Mateo, has one Italian parent. If it wasn't for his slightly continental name and overly apparent pride of his "Mafia roots" there would be no way you could guess. He drinks Boddingtons bitter, enjoys pork pies, and perhaps more importantly, speaks in a broad Yorkshire accent. Or so I thought.
I went to hire a DVD the other night, and on my short walk home from a particualrly unsuccesfull mission (for other reasons) I pass a newly opened pizzeria. Nothing massively unusual so far. As I approach this place I hear the cackle of a very passionate accent wafting its way from inside. I am sure it was an Italian accent as I remeber thinking how great it was that a real Italian peson was making pizzas for the more-often-than-not uncultured people of my village. As I pass the door however I was stunned to see scabby little Mateo vigorously barking orders in a very obvious, overly lively Italian accent. Hardly the 'stallion' I had envisioned on my approach.
Now there is the most obvious case of identity crisis I have seen in a while (about 6 months to be exact.) This sad little man is willing to pretend to be an authentic, born and bred Italian just for the sake of the slightly lacklustre job of preparing 2nd class frozen pizzas in a damp little village. I just wonder how long he will keep it up.
I guess its working though, I now have quite a fancy for a pizza. If only my wage at a 2nd class supermarket in a damp little village would provide for that. Perhaps I should work on my Itallian accent?

and... GO!

Smudges with fingers,
ink left out of place.
The collateral damage
of a pen vs paper passion battle
blasting into blogosphere.

My life, my room, and at times it feels like my mind is filled with scribbled notes on torn paper. The tattered thoughts of paragraphs left shattered and unfinished. I've come to the conclusion that this is my subconscious screaming out, a mind desperately trying to map itself into some kind of sensible order. So, out of a kind of respect for the incomplete, an homage to the unfinished and a shrine to the downright nonsensical, I hereby declare this blog open! Who knows what shape it will take. Id like it to be maleable, gelatenous almost, but with a backbone. A spine of truth, observation and emotion. But then, what has my likes and dislikes, fancys and enemies got to do with the meanderings of my mind? Not alot I imagine.