Another catch-up

I suppose I’ve got some catching up to do. It’s been quite a bit of time, and quite a bit has happened, and that could lead to two things: one, I write about eight billion words and try and capture and recall everything; or two, I attempt to be succinct. And then there’s always the third option – not write at all? something presently unknown? – but we’ll gloss over that for now. In any case, I suppose it’s the bee that’s in charge and the bee that will be deciding. Unless, that is, I actually have two bees in my head, and though I have no power over what they decree, I do have the power of which one I choose. But then again, that’s just me being whimsical and pretending that I’m mad. Of course I know there’s actually an infinite number of bees in my head, and all bases are covered. So…

The Confessions of a Fare-Dodger

Ever since the day of the Montana Hamburger Epiphany almost fourteen years back I’ve been ever such a good boy as far as crime and such goes. But one thing I’ve never been able to give up on is skipping paying fares on the English railway system. There are several reasons for this. One, the fares are exorbitant. Two, the system is screwy and fucked up and totally unfair (it really is). And three, because I’m massively tight. Also, it’s just become a bit of an out-of-control habit – as the Pringles slogan tells us, once you start, it’s mighty difficult to put an end to it. But, thing is, like eating Pringles also, it just makes me feel bad and I know it isn’t good for me. And yet…

When I was coming up from Norfolk the other week I gave myself about eight hours to get to work. I’d checked the fares beforehand and they were all mad expensive. Truly, it’s cheaper to fly across Europe than take a train more than about fifty miles in Britain. So, bollocks to that, and I thumbed it. Except the thumbing was slow and bad and I was still like a hundred miles away with less than two hours to get to my destination. I…

I can’t be bothered to tell this story. In a nutshell, I got stressed out, wandered hither and thither avoiding paying for tickets, worried about stuff, cursed myself for blighting my almost continual good mood with unnecessary sadness, and didn’t get to work at all. In the end my tightness ended up costing me money, rather than the break-even I woulda had if I’d splashed out on the comfort of a train and then earned some. The weird thing was…even though I knew it was making me sad to try and swindle the system and I was constantly vowing to sort myself out and do the right thing in the future, I felt almost pathologically unable to do so. I was sick in my stomach and crying in my soul and yet I still couldn’t do it.

What the fuck, huh?

So I’m gonna try and be better from now on. The biggest bummer was, like I say, I’d been in a good mood for quite a few months and then I was bummed beyond bummed for several day afterwards. A bit like…

Still being homeless

I’d arranged, at least, a place to stay in Leeds until the end of the month, and had that to go back to on my sad late night return, having finally shelled out on a ticket from Sheffield – wee struggle – and ridden the relaxing train of non-scumliness. But when that ended I was still up in the air. Too many things to do in Leeds to leave here. Too many old thoughts and memories and plans and ancient habits – travel, get away, run to the hills, jump into America – to commit to seeing out the summer here. And so…I was back to thinking of secret university rooms on cushions and leaky tents in the rain. More sadness. More self-caused uncertainty. More kinda mild self-destructive behaviour. It becomes so apparent: that my happiness is almost shining and crystal clear like a pure, pristine pool – and that it only takes these little specks of muddy ridiculousness to sully it – and that I’m the one who’s plopping in the mud. Everything is great and yet I persist in foolish behaviours for reasons I don’t understand – really seems to be purely out of habit – and even though I think I ought to stop it, and do what seems apparently right, I can’t. Or haven’t yet. Or don’t. But surely there’s only one victor in this struggle…

So, the day I left my friend’s place I took my stuff back to uni and wondered what to do, deciding not do anything and thinking, well, to hell with it, maybe something’ll arise by the time I need to sleep. And it did: I was called up by an ex and invited over for dinner, and offered the sofa, and offered the bed, and she said, I won’t be having sex with you, and I said, I know – but then her lips inched over towards mine, and her hand went down there where all lines have been crossed – and then she got me touching her, and then she said, I’m ready for you, and then…well, funny creatures, women. 3-1 to her and a good night was had by all, I’d like to think. Certainly, I…

No, we’ll refrain from that.

The next night it was secret university room under a child’s sleeping bag I’d found in the street outside an empty house and it was okay. But the following day the situation was too much and too ridiculous – no one was going to come and rescue me, and I was tired and sullied once more – and I managed to find a cheap local room that I could take on a week-by-week basis and move in immediately. And, whaddya know? It’s better to have a bed to go to each night and a place to hang your clothes than it is to wander oddly through the streets puzzling endlessly over your immediate and unfathomable future. Who’da thunk it?

Not that I wander through the streets, of course. I sit in the nice uni room and ponder useful things to do on the computer and do useless things instead.

Oh Canada

That I Ching I did about giving up my flat (after the fact, sadly) said I was riding a wave of energy and impulse which no longer needed satisfying. Many moons ago I realised that the relationship wasn’t working and I wanted out – I didn’t get out, though; instead, I thought of other things, started making plans in my head, and bought into those plans and dreams and schemes. Then, when the relationship did end I said, right! That’s it! I’m free to bring it all into fruition. And yet…it was all built on the root of that first initial feeling of wanting out; when the out came, the tree that had sprouted from that root should have collapsed. But it had such momentum, and such apparent reality, that I bought into it. The wave rolled on – waves and trees? – and I rode it not knowing that it was high time to get off. Such is life: big lessons and learnings especially in the times gone wrong. But a man has to pay – and for his greed and ignorance in riding the wave and living in dreams, he loses his home and tastes the bitter tang of uncertainty and lostness until he can stomach it no longer. I don’t drink booze because it would make me feel bad in the moment, do daft things, and feel bad later too. I’m wise to that. Similar situation here. ‘Cept I’m not yet wise to it.

So Canada is…a dream I haven’t let go of. Still my calendar is free from July 13th to the beginning of September and there’s a window there. One voice says, gosh, wouldn’t it be awesome? To go, and have adventures, take risks and isn’t this what life is about anyway? Forget being boring and normal and be the Rory you know you are, the Rory that so few people have the ability to be. Good and tempting voice. And adventures and things to write/talk about. But other voice says, be sensible, man. Pay attention to the signs. Leeds is good to you and you feel settled and happy here. Think of your refereeing! Think of your beautiful new kit! Think of 5-a-side and squash and the simple joy of waking up in your own bed and pootling naked to your own bathroom and supping your own sweet tea out your own sweet pot.

Other voice says: yeah, but all you do in Leeds is waste time online – in between the sports – and what would you be without that?

Both voices nod: that’s true, they say, ought to be something better to do with life than just flicking through videos of fights and stupid goalkeepers and boobies.

Sad, ain’t it? So…

Canada! America! Mad adventure!

And…this is the conundrum I am in.

Meanwhile, the rain lashes down and it’s cold and wet and grey – as it has been all ‘summer’ – but the funny thing is it doesn’t bother me, never has. So what if it’s raining? If this was December we wouldn’t mind. Just because a man put his name on it and said, during this month, nine times out of ten, the sun willeth shine and the weather willeth be better, it don’t mean that ‘cos it ain’t my mouth’s got to turn upside-down. Summer, spring, winter, fall – it’s all the same to me. It’s what’s inside that counts. And what the weather man says…is all good – as long as you’re not homeless. How do you dry your shoes?!

Happiness and blogging

I only write when I’ve got something to get off my chest or when I want to have a doolally flurry of fingers and make up stuff and pretend I’m mad. That’s all quite good fun – an enjoyable hobby for me – but it understandably leads people in the ‘pretend world’ to think that it represents something true of ‘real world’ me. So they think I’m mad and crazy and also kind of unhappy, I guess. Looking for something. Riddled with confusion and woe, maybe. But…I’m not: that’s just what I like to write about. And anyway, happiness writes white, right? And very few people want to hear that.

And the other hand, maybe I’d like to experiment with more accurately representing the joyfulness of this existence – and maybe that’d be good for me too. Joy begets joy – and maybe the vice versa is also true. The joy of my wonderful new refereeing kit. The joy of my unexpected game of six-a-side last night. The joy of confronting small boys about their stolen footballs and wondering if their dads really would come down and get me. The joy of seeing branches and leaves dance spastically in the wind. And all the flirty texts I send. And all the girls who…

Too much. Woids, woids – they fall out of me like water from a dripping tap. Splish splosh! Splattering on the sink.

But you know what? I really hate the sound of a dripping tap.

Also…

I had my second counselling session – it was all right but it was really just me talking about things I’ve said a million times before. My mum this, that time that…kind of boring. I guess I’d like to uncover new territory and break through into something – realisations! bucketloads of tears! – but I’m not sure it would. Does all this talking really work? Maybe for some – but experiential is where it’s at. I wanna cry my goddamn eyes out and then never feel paranoid or insecure ever again: that’s what I’m after. Maybe this’ll unlock some door. But all it ever seems to lead back to is how I used to shit my pants as a boy and it doesn’t seem to matter how many strangers I tell that to, we never really get anywhere…

Did I mention my new refereeing kit? Only twice. It’s lovely and I feel so proper and authoritarian in it. I got a small even though I’m generally a medium and it fits me like a glove, much more gladiatorial than all the other referees look. They’ve got fat bellies and generally wear saggy kits that cover over their paunches. But I’m young and handsome and fit and I’ve got muscles to display too. I’m the David Beckham of football referees. If I’d started a bit sooner and made it to the top I’d no doubt have been the first pin-up whistle-blower. Oh well.

I think I’ve lost my passport: that’d be quite somethin’ in this whole going/not going to Canada/America thing. Talk about a sign.

I also had my bike nicked. That links to the above in that neither of them would have happened if I hadn’t given up my flat – so hoping to save money (being tight) ends up costing you it. Who’da thunk that? Well, me: I would. It’s Divine Retribution – except there’s nothing vengeful about it, it’s just lessons and karma and all that good yet slightly painful stuff that helps a man to grow. The bike was chained to the inside gate of the house that I was staying in last week: I came out on the Sunday morning to go play squash and – voila! – it was gone: the bike and the gate. I marvelled at my mind: the instant I saw it I teared my eyes not but, instead, just chortled and said, man, people are fuckin’ crazy. All that trouble for a fucked up twenty quid bike. And how dumb they’d been not to know that they could have chopped through that lock with a half-decent pair of pliers. But no, instead, they’d knocked down a bit of the wall and ripped off the heavy metal gate and then gone lumbering down the garden path with the gate/bike contraption on their shoulders all for a few paltry dozen quid. I feel sorry for people like that: that they’re out there at like three a.m. doing dumb things like that for such little reward. And what about the state of their heads, that they don’t think of the consequences of what they’re doin’? I doubt they’re leading very joyful lives. But then, I nick miles off train companies, so I should know – and deserve it probably too. Luckily I’ve a spare bike, but still…

Passport. Bike. Day’s work. Sleep. And well-being. What else have I lost by stupidly giving up my flat? And still I sit myself in no-man’s land, because of old habits of getting away and wanting to LIVE LIFE TO THE PEPSI MAXXX, YEE-AHHHH!

All this falls into context: the other night after refereeing I was hungry and I stopped off for fish and chips at the very excellent – despite being Asian-owned – Royal Park Fisheries and there I sat, on their step, munching away in the humid night. Over to my left, the massive hulk of the Royal Park Pub – the place where I got my first drunk with my dad aged thirteen, just around the corner from his shop, where I did my first paid work. Over to my right, his old house, where I slept on couches and had Christmases. Viewed my first porno. Laughed and talked and learned. Where I watched Everton draw with Liverpool four-all. Where I puked at the smell of curry. All those memories – and later ones too, aged seventeen and eighteen and nineteen – and here I am, right back where it all happened, and it’s hard to know I’ve ever been away. Leeds 6: it feels like home to me. So why do I want to leave?

A: I don’t. It’s just habit. It’s all I can think of when freedom arises and opportunities come. Old desires as yet undead. Mysterious Grace in Colorado – the unrequited dream woman – and America all forbidden, which of course makes me want to go there. Ideas from years back, unfulfilled. Dreams die hard – even the ridiculous ones. I struggle to let them go because I don’t want to be one of those that says, gee, I really wanted to do this thing but I never did – and now I’m here on my deathbed and it’s too late. I’ve lived pretty much my whole life doing all the things I wanted to do, for better or for worse, but this one I haven’t done. It’s probably wise. But…

Well, I shouldn’t say, “I can’t let it go,” I should just say, “I haven’t yet been able to.”

Fuck! It sucks being good – having a conscience – being unable to glibly ride the trains without paying. I…

There was more to that sitting there eating fish and chips than what I’ve said. There was also the sense of perhaps this is where I ought to be build my life. Okay, it’s not palm trees and sand in Mexico – or sun – or those Colorado mountains and bikers and – okay, it’s full of rain and red brick and the women are generally far from pretty and the people course and noisy and – okay, there’s barely any nature and the only thing that keep life ticking is an infinite disembodied store of generally useless knowledge but – this is home.

What the fuck: that’s the worst paragraph I’ve ever written, lol! It wasn’t even anything to do with what I was thinking about with those fish and and chips. You see! I just – the bee just…waxes lyrical, with what it wants in the moment. A guy in a bedroom thinking without feeling and loving words and the process of typing and –

You’re losing them Rory: your audience is going. You started succinct and now you’re drifting into abstract nothings.

Oh, what to do with this world, one’s head?

Leeds, and refereeing, and bees, and…

Gosh, I hope I get this job. You think it would be good for me to have something to get out of bed for? A reason to live? Some interaction with the real world? To knuckle down and do some work? ‘Cos I do!

The journey – the process that I seek an end to in half the things I write – it ain’t even half-done yet. Patience must be applied. In a little under two months time everything will be revealed and make sense and all these questions will no longer be relevant. Entonces, one mustn’t be in a hurry and if in the meantime watching Shooting Stars or tennis under a rainy sky and reffin’ two nights a week to pay your rent and food in a stranger’s home is what gets you through then why the hell not? Like Lennon said, whatever gets you through the night, it’s all right, it’s all right.

But – damn! – that fish and chips revelation: if only I could remember it now.

Is travel a curse? Could I have been the man I am now – all the good bits, I mean – without having had to go to the States and Mexico and Canada and meet all those groovy people and have, alas, my current day thoughts spread and torn in a thousand directions across the globe like the scene from Hellraiser where the hooks pull apart the guys face and his skin rushes off in every direction?

Email: that’s the problem. And the internet: imagine only interacting with the people in your immediate vicinity, like we did in the good old days. Imagine if I just deleted my email accounts and refused to rush to it every time I had a problem and fired off messages to people I haven’t seen in decades and actually stayed focussed on the place I’m at. Imagine a world in which Leeds is my reality, and these city boundaries are my universe, and I were never to leave again, unless absolutely called, but never out of habit or simple flee escape. Imagine a life in which my room, my head, my local baker for morning’s cheering greetings was all I had…

I see me jettisoning my email as I once jettisoned facebook. I see me quitting the online life as I once quit chess. So little good has come of it. Everyday twenty messages land in my inbox and all they do is serve to distract. The people are lovely and loved without my replies, as am I, and I hope they know it.

Imagine a world without texts.

We’ll still have letters and phone calls. We’ll still, perhaps, come to visit…

Is that all?

Oh, there’s always uni. Did I tell you I failed my first ever course? Not that my work wasn’t good enough – highest mark so far, apparently – but because I handed it in four days late it therefore fell below the pass-mark threshold due to the penalty. But I can still get my MA if I do my last piece all right – not that I’ve got a damned clue of what I’m going to write.

Okay, it’s 1.35 and I’ve been blabbing long enough and it’s about time for the tennis. Plenty of Hugh Grant ‘About A Boy’-style units there! Gawd, I love the tennis. Come on Murray! You’s got to beat the Tsonga! Aiiii.