Once more down the rabbit hole…

Its time for another episode of the Slick fucked up dreams show! (applause)

So the dream opens with my dad and his brother, my uncle Robert, in a room arguing. Apparently, Uncle Robert has been having an affair with my girlfriend, who is temporarily lodging with him, and my dad is therefore upset with him- which is fair enough, as it goes. Then the dream cuts to an outdoor scene, where I am playing american football with a bunch of strange people and the girlfriend in question- not my real-life girlfriend, as it turns out, but a made-up dream girlfriend named Lisa. Now, I know nothing about American football, so my only clue to the fact that that is indeed what is happening is that we are all wearing the body armour stuff and I’m holding an american football. It is my task to throw the ball as far as possible, but I am, as in real life, a useless thrower. After several abysmal attempts to throw the ball, everyone, including the faithles Lisa, is sniggering at me- so, uncharacteristicly, I get really annoyed and stalk off. Pushing through a nearby stand of trees, I come through to a long beach, upon which lie the ruins of a civilisation- a little planet of the apes-eque. Sitting on the beach, just chatting and and generally hanging out, is everyone I have ever met. My friend G meets me at the edge of the beach and offers to guide me through, which he does, taking especial care to guide me past all the girls I have been romantically involved in at some point, with each of whom I have a brief chat. At the end of the crowd of people is a door, stanidng on the beach, unsupported and apparently leading nowhere. G opens it up for me, and indicates that I should go through…

And suddenly I am on holiday with my family in northern germany. Yeah- wierd huh? My dad isnt with us- we are supposed to check into the local hotel, and he will join us later. The town is extremely creepy- windy and rickety, with big disfigured trees and pumpkins everywhere- like some sort of halloween haunted village. On the way through town we pass a pub- the crescent moon, I think it was, and then we arrive at the hotel. Has anyone seen the tower of terror hotel is disneyland? Well, it was kinda like that. Full of trepidation, me, my mum and my brother enter. However, inside, the hotel is nice and plush- light and welcoming. The lady at the desk is very nice, but unfortunately has no record of our booking, and particularly no record of dad. While mum tries to work out was has gone wrong, I head to the pub. Again, it is a distinctly creepy place on the outside, but again the inside is very different- inside, the bar looks quite a lot like Walkabout, and it is full of angry Middlesbrough fans, who look daggers at me. One of them tells me to fuck off. Not being one to argue, I am about to comply when I notice that a bunch of my friends from uni are actually in the pub, in a corner booth. So, I buy a cider, sit down…

and wake up. Now what the fuck is going on in there subconsciousness?

Yours wierded outily

Slick

My heart feels dead inside, its cold and hard and petrified

Slick’s room, Monday the 25th May, 22:19 (approximately 11 hours until my first exam)

Evening all. Apologies for the late/infrequent post- it seems that the stress of exams is capable of breaching even my usually unflappable calm. Plus I was at a music festival in Newcastle. Yes, maybe I should be revising, but I’ve been reliably informed that the average person only has 40 or so minutes of decent concentration span on any one thing, so I’m taking a break. Also, I may well mention copious amounts of  philosophy within the course of this blog, partially as a revision aid, and partially becuase my subject tonight is very philosophical: reason and emotion. How much place should each have in our lives?

I am not an emotional person. Or, rather, I am an emotionally shallow person- I can be amused, content, happy, mildly irritated, intrigued etc just like the next person. What I have difficulty with is the big stuff- hatred, despair, fear, ecstasy, unconditional love- all that good stuff. I have, I admit, cried several times in my adult (or rather late teen) life- once when Rainbow broke up with me, and again when Freedom and I broke up (though I hope they won’t mind me saying I did not cry as much or as frequently as either of them). However, I have never cried at a film or book. More significantly, I have never cried at the death of a pet- even a well-loved one, I did not cry at the deaths of any of my grandparents- and my maternal grand-parents at least passed on relatively recently. I did not, significantly, cry when, as an 11 year old boy, I was told that my best friend Marcus (or Mucca, as I knew him), had died in a tragic and mysterious accident, only a week or so after I moved house. I saw him last at our families leaving party. Basically, I go through life without experiencing strong emotions. I have been described in terms varying from “extremely laid back” or “sanguine” to “dead inside”.  Now its possible that I simply have a diminished capacity for emotions, and it is also possible that I simply possess a thick emotional shell as it were, and that under layers of armour there is an angry, distressed emo kid just waiting to be unleashed on an unsuspecting public.

I am a very rational person. Or, rather, I like to consider myself to be very rational- every decision I make, I tend to weigh up mental lists of pros and cons, assess the problem from multiple angles and come to a well considered decision. Rarely, If ever, do I simply go on instinct. Don’t get me wrong, I have the same drives as everyone else- when I am hungry, I will eat, I won’t sit still and wiegh up the pros and cons of different foodstuff. My rationality is more likely to express itself in the big decisions: relationships, academics, friendships, maybe someday a career. I suppose you could say that I am driven on two levels: firstly by primal desires (for food, sex, companionship etc) and secondly by reason, whereas most people have a third layer of emotion. The result of all this is that I am a very indecisive, some might say passive person- given the choice betwen two things which, having wieghed up, seem like equally good decisions, I have a chronic inability to choose, and this means that, frequently, I end up doing what other people want to do, because I genuinely have no preference of my own- that is not a cue to feel sorry for me though: if I genuinely oppose a course of action I won’t go along with it, its just that generally I neither oppose nor support courses of action, and I feel like, since other people care more than me, I might as well let them choose. Now its possible that my overly developed sense of rationality is simply intrinsic to my persoanlity, and its possible that it comes as a result of my philosophical training. Its also possible that it is a deliberate affectation, and that underneath my cool, rational shell is a primal, urge driven neanderthal just waiting to be unleashed on an unsupecting public.

But enough about me personally- much as I love to talk about myself, all of that autobiography is really only useful as a kind of test case. I am frequently having debates with Freedom (who is a lot less rational and a lot more emotional than I am) about the merits of each quality, and I’d like to share some of my conclusion with you. Firstly, misogynistic though it sounds, I remain convinced that rationality comes a lot more easily to men, and a emotion a lot more readily to women. I don’t know why- I’m tempted to blame it on hormones. My friend Rebel (who is a biologist) tells me its because it was evolutionarily necessary for females to form strong emotional attachments to their offspirng and their mates in order to protect the former and acquire protection from the latter; and as a result the female hormonal cycle developed in such a way as to increase emotional attachment at the right times and situations. Men, on the other hand, have a different, less emotional cycle, and therefore are more readily able to exercise pure reason. It is a conspicuos fact that, in philosophy, all of the great rationalists have been men (like Descartes), and when women have written philosophy at all it has been of a much more continental, narrative style (e.g Simone de Beauvoir). In fact, I’m not sure on this one, but I think “feminist philosophy” as a discipline is prone to emphasising “feminine” emotion in preference to “masculine” reason. Obviously, there are exceptions- emotional men and strictly rational women- but I think the whole reaosn/emotion distincition is one of the more conspicuos sexual differences.

Now, I feel honour-bound to defend reason; and, indeed, it is a very important tool. Our ability to reason sets us apart from other, less intelligent animals. It allows us to form laws and codes of conduct to regulate the socieities which are necessary for our survival. Without reason, and reasoned argument, there is no peaceful way to settle disputes, be they social or scientific. Indeed, reason is inherently necessary for scienitific progress: we must assent to the principles of causation in order for science to operate at all, and we reap the benefits in the form of working technology. The philospher Immanuel Kant believed that reason was the only way for us to be “good”, and that only actions strictly in accordance with rational principles have nay value (see the revision coming through) . Reason, however, is a cold mistress- it demands that a mother sacrifice her baby in order to save a great number of people. It whispers to us that most marriages fail, and that the person we love today will probably betray us, or change beyond recognition. It tells us that, whatever we do, as weak mortals we will always fail to fulfill its exacting requirement. Reason is a bitch.

The philosopher David Hume said that, as much as we are rational creatures, we are also emotional and social creatures, and that we should not let one aspect of ourselves (reason) overpower the rest. Hume lived what he preached- while a great philsopher, he was also apparently a famous gourmand and great at dinner parties.  He also said that reason, in itself, is motivationally inert- it cannot make us do anything, it can only point out the likely consquences of whatever we do choose to do. To make the choice, we need emotion. Smart man,

So, somewhat predictably, my conclusion today is that reason and emotion need to coexist and harmonise. The irrational man is a beast, the emotionless man a monster. Unfortunately, I don’t really know where that leaves me.

Slick

I’m just too White and Nerdy

Slick’s room, Sunday 17th May, 18:09

Hello everyone. My name is Slick, and I am  nerd.

There, that wasn’t so hard now was it? Now, I have been a self-described nerd for as long as I can remember, but lets clarify our terms a little- “nerd” means different things to different people. The issue becomes cloudier still when you consider similar terms like “geek” and whether or not they are synonymous. For a lot of people, a “nerd” is someone who works really hard towards academic success and has no social life. This is not me. For some people, a nerd is someone who is really good at computers. This is also not me. I don’t work hard at all, and I know nothing about computers (btw, for me the term “geek” is really linked to the whole computer skill thing)- I can just about operate video games and word. When I say that I am a nerd, what I mean is that I play lots of video games, am fascinated by sci-fi/fantasy novels in a Tolkienesque or Asimovesque vein, I love Star Wars, enjoy Star Trek, and have been known to indulge in some D&D style role-playing games. I also watch way too many internet cartoons, read some webcomics and understand in depth references to aforementioned cartoons and comics which leave most people scratching their heads in puzzlement. On the other hand, I have an active social life, I love to have a drink or two, go out clubbing or go to a party, go to a heavy metal gig, or play some poker. Also, I now practice martial arts, and I have enjoyed… moderate amounts of success pursuing a number of good looking ladies. So the thing I’d like to consider today is, is it possible to be both nerdy and cool at the same time?  I like to hope so- in fact I like to consider myself a prime example of just such a fusion.

Why is it that certain activities necessarily involve a social stigma of being “nerdy” (e.g  D&D), while certain other activities (e.g drinking) are seen as cool? Who decides? Is it simply a popularity issue- things which lots of people enjoy are “cool” but more obscure hobbies/interests are “lame”? This idea has some merit, but there are some universally enjoyed activities- such as video games (and don’t tell me, if you’re a male aged between 10 and 25, that you don’t enjoy a good video game) that can be considered quite nerdy. Equally, some quite niche activities can be considered “cool”- sky diving, for example. Perhaps, then, it is the nature of the activity- its sociability or physicality- which makes something cool/nerdy? Again, this idea has some merit, but there are some obvious exceptions- fantasy roleplaying or wargaming is, by its very nature, quite a sociable activity, and yet it is considered pretty much the height of nerdiness. Live action roleplaying (dressing up in fake medieval armor and hitting each other with foam weaponry) is sociable, takes place outside (rather than in someones parent’s basement) and quite physical, and yet it is nerdier still. The only really consistent rule I can see is that competitive sports are pretty universally “cool” or, at the least, not nerdy.

So it appears that the rules for things being “nerdy”  are quite obscure, and even quite flexible- I remember in secondary school, for a term or two the card game “magic the gathering”, which is pretty damn nerdy, became quite mainstream- at least in my year. Some of the cool kids were seen engaging in it. But there are some pretty reliable rules of thumb- sci-fi and fantasy is nerdy, sports are cool, for example. As to why this might be the case, I’m going once more to take a leaf out of evolutionary biology’s book ( I know, I’m such a nerd). Sports are physical activities, which favour the strong and the fast. The alpha males, (and females) in other words. So, because we are predisposed to form our societies in a sort of heirarchical fashion, those activities which favour the people at the top of the evolutionary heap become the favoured activities of the society- the “cool” activities. Those activities favoured by the slow, the pale and the weak- the omega males (and females) become uncool- nerdy activities. Now, don’t go using this theory in a sociology essay- I’m really just guessing and cobbling together fairly scattered bits of knowledge and educated guesswork. In addition, the little scenario I’ve just laid out doesn’t really explain why non-sporty things, like drinking and clubbing, are “cool” rather than nerdy, nor why the less physically able amongst us tend to enjoy things like D&D or Star Wars.

Of course, it is also possible to look at the question from a different angle- perhaps it is not activities which are “cool” or “nerdy”, but people. Perhpas a certain type of people are inherently nerds, and they just happen, by coincidence as it were, to enjoy a particular type or types of activity, and so these activities are eventually considered “nerdy” in themselves- and the inverse is true for “cool” people and “cool” activities. However, this is sort of an awkward chicken-and-egg situation. Also, I personally don’t like to think that people are either nerdy or cool- I like to think that everyone (or at least, most people) are a little of both. And once more, there is no obvious explanation of why “nerdy” people enjoy the things they enjoy.

Now, on to the question of whether or not coolness and nerdiness can work together in perfect harmony. Does anyone watch the inbetweeners?  At school, me and my friends were basically like the guys from the inbetweeners. We were way down on the lowest rungs of the social ladder, but I like to think that, if you took the time to get to know us, we were all cool and interesting in our own, offbeat sort of way. Occasionally people would pick on us- but, because my school was a nice, reserved, middle class grammar school- a nerd school, in other words- it never went further than a little mocking banter. By contrast, my brother used to tell me that anyone in his school as nerdy as we were would have received fairly regular beatings- thank god for the grammar school system. Anyway- when we reached sixth form, girls were allowed to join the school. Suddenly  these enchanting, alien creatures provided a reason to not be social rejects. Suddenly, there was a reason to try and be cool- or, at least, not be hopelessly lame. We were forced to adapt, or die (socially speaking of course) and I, at least, adapted. I retained all of my nerdy interests, while at the same time cultivating more of an interest in music, and socialising. I starting dating Rainbow, I met her friends, and before I knew what was happening to me, I had female friends. I was going to gigs, hanging out in the park, going to house parties where people were drinking alcohol- and every now and then, staying in for a halo marathon with my old pals. Then Rainbow broke up with me, and I spent a month travelling Europe- I discovered the wonders of alcohol, met complete strangers and got drunk with them, partied on a ferry, got drunk, saw new places, got drunk,  and generally left my comforting shell further and further behind. And so it was that I arrived at uni, fully nerdy and yet fully capable of drinking, making new friends, going to clubs, and generally having an awesome time.

Of course, there’s always the chance that I am hopelessly deluded. Maybe I am still a complete nerd, despite my thin veneer of social grace. Maybe all the “cool kids” still secretly mock me, and all my friends are nerds too, or else hanging out with me in order to seem cooler by comparison. Maybe some of them wont speak to me now that I’ve admitted to playing D&D. But maybe, I am living proof that it is possible to be a nerd, but to also be cool- or at least, to have lots of friends who like you, and go out lots meeting new people and having a good time, which is the best I can ask for, really.

One final note: I have noticed an intriguing trend lately of people who are clearly not nerds themselves expressing admiration for, or a penchant for, nerds. One of my housemates (lets call her May) once claimed that she “loved nerds” ( in response to which  I was obliged to point out my extreme nerdiness), and I’ve seen a couple of girls wearing t-shirts which expressed the same sentiment. Could it be that being nerdy has, bizarrely, somehow become “cool”? Is that just a contradiction? Or is it simply some sort of ironic fad? My gut feeling is that if I went up to a girl in a bar who wore a t-shirt bearing the “I love nerds” slogan, and explained to her how much I loved Star Wars, it would not end in me getting her phone number.

Live long, and prosper,

Slick. (can you tell I’m going to see the new Star Trek movie later?)

A tale of two Slicks

Slick’s room, Monday the 11th of May, 19:18

Word up, homeboys and homegirls.

Today I want to talk to you about the wonders of alcohol. Ah, alcohol, my closest friend and deadliest nemesis. You buoy me up when my spirits are down, and then you make me act like a twat. You bring people together, and then you make them vomit on one another. You are society’s bane, and yet also its favourite past time. Yes, its true- for those of you who know me, it will be no surprise that, of a night out, or over a meal, or because is my birthday (or someone else’s birthday, for that matter), or because its Friday and I’m celebrating the end of the week, or because its Sunday and I’m mourning the death of the weekend, I am partial to a drink. Or two. Or three. Many of my friends and contemporaries drink a lot less than me- but then, many of them drink a lot more. By student standards, I would say I am… averagely alcoholic. But why? Why do I persist in spending half of my own hard-earned (via an exhausting student loan application process) money on a substance which kills my brain cells and, if consumed in copious enough amounts, makes me act a tool? Much as I hate to sound too Telegraphesque, I think part of the reason is that alcohol, for better or worse, has become deeply ingrained in our national culture. More than that- binge drinking has become a part of our culture. We brits seem incapable, in large part, for simply enjoying a single drink with dinner and then calling it a night- and I am as guilty of this trait as anyone else. I couldn’t tell you how many times the phrase  “whats the point in having a drink if you’re not going to get drunk” have crossed my lips. And I don’t know about anyone else, but I always feel socially awkward if I am not holding a drink at a  bar or a party- its as if I’ve come to view the drinking as part and parcel of the socialising, and I suspect that I am not alone in this feeling. My hope is that, in this respect, I am getting better. Last night for example, I went into a bar, drank a single cider, and then left. Now, some might say that the reason I left is that the bar was devolving into a free-for-all brawl just as I was paying for my single beverage, and I would agree- but my point, that I am capable of drinking without getting drunk- remains valid. Possibly.

For me, the really interesting/regrettable aspect of alcohol is what happens when I (or anyone for that matter) gets really drunk. And by this I mean incapable of walking/talking/remembering anything drunk, and those stages one passes through from about 3 drinks before this point. I have been this drunk… several times in my life (for me, “really” drunk is memory loss drunk). And on each occasion, when a sympathetic friend is filling me in on my deranged antics of the night before, what often strikes me is my own sense of disassociation from the “me” of the night before. When this drunk, I say, do, and think things which, sober, would never cross my mind- and, because I don’t remember them, I cannot help but characterise “really drunk Slick” as a different persona- a kind of alcohol fuelled Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll. And I know that the same is true of other people too- stern, emotionally stoic guys burst into tears, normal guys become violent, respectable girls become slags and gentlemen become lecherous goats. It happens to the best of us. I remember one particularly illuminating example- I was in Newcastle with my friend H-bomb (who, incidentally, suggested this topic of discourse to me) and his friends, who I met for the first time that night. We all went on a bit of a bar crawl, and wound up at a club- a club which sold fake wkds for 1.50 each. I believe I drank about 10 of them, but I honestly couldn’t tell you exactly. Now, amongst our number was a girl, who I thought was pretty (lets call her Rosie), so I asked H-bomb if she was single, and he said that unfortunately she was not, so I was the perfect gentlemen, and didn’t press the point any further. Or so I thought. H-bomb tells me that my own perception of event is extremely skewed and that, in reality, as I got more and more drunk, I hit on this poor girl more and more boorishly, until she had to tell me quite firmly to fuck off. By the end of the night, I was incapable of walking a straight line, and tried to convince people that I was not swaying, but merely walking with my usual swagger- and I remembered none of this the next day. I also, incidentally, lost my coat- I put it down in the club and was incapable of remembering/articulating to everyone else where it was. Now, the reason I’m sharing this somewhat humiliating tale with you is that, when talking of me subsequently, Rosie has been heard to say “and he seemed so nice”. Now, my intuition here is that, in fact, I was, and, indeed, am nice, and the “real me” , who seemed so nice, was the person I was before I got out-of-control drunk. The dilemma is this- does alcohol make us a different person, or, is the old saying true- is there truth in wine? Am I Doctor Jekyll, under the spell of some malicious, personality changing poison, or, am I, deep down, a lecherous buffoon, and alcohol merely releases my “true self”. I’m really hoping for the former, but its difficult to judge.

To end on a more high brow note, the philosopher Locke believed that personal identity- what really makes you “you”- is tied into our memories. If you can remember something happening to you, then you are the same person as experienced that memory- I am the same Slick who woke up in my bed this afternoon because I remember doing so, and the same Slick who went on holiday to France as a young child because I remember that holiday. Problems with false/suppressed memories aside, the relevance of this “identity is memory” concept is that, if I was too drunk to remember a particular event, it was not, in fact me, who did it, but a different “person” inhabiting the same body, who, presumably, ceased to exist from the moment my short term memory resumes. In other words, don’t blame me, blame it on the alcohol.

The Importance of Being Idle

Slick’s room (Durham), Thursday the 7th of May, 01:07

Good morning viewers- and in this case I use the phrase with scrupulous accuracy, it being past midnight and all.

So, in continuity with my last blog (other than the dream one) which concerned Durham students in particular, I’m going to move on to consider a subject which again concerns (mostly) my fellow students, and also incidentally which has been probably the biggest problem in my life so far; yes, i’m talking about that most ubiquitous of personal flaws: procrastination.

In just a few short weeks I will sit exams which will determine roughly 40% of my overall degree and, by extension, have a huge impact on my life from this point onwards. I should, by rights, be terrified. All of my colleagues are busily revising, but here I am writing an ultimately meaningless blog (I cannot, at this point, see an easy/profitable way to turn blogging into a career). Today I have, thankfully, done some revision. But for every sheaf of lecture notes I browse, or practice exam question I answer, I watch several episodes of (totally legally streamed) tv, or read several chapters of my new book, or play on video games, or facebook obsessively (doing inane quizzes is my new thing), and constantly I must gather all of my willpower in order to force myself, as if at mental gunpoint, back to the grindstone. I am locked in a constant battle of wills against myself, and there is no more devious oppoent. “Just take a break for five minutes” the voice in my head whispers. “You’re not even taking it in properly anymore; no one can revise indefinitely”.  The voice is reasonable; it is calm, authoritive and seductive (it is my voice, after all), but the moment I heed its siren call, I am lost, and simply must watch another episode of House or go get a snack before I can possibly think of revising.  Why is it so hard to learn about a subject that is interesting to me, for an examination which is important to me? Why am I so utterly devoid of that crucial fear of failure?

Partially, I consider it part of my nature: I am a relaxed, calm, stable guy. I do not panic, worry or stress easily. Intellectually, I am aware that, at this point, a little stress, just enough to spur me on to do more work, would be a good thing, but it is simply not within me to feel it. Occasionally I worry that this indicates some sort of emotional retardation, but that is a blog for another day. Partially, I consider it a result of my natural ability and past success: no matter how much I tell myself to stop being an arrogant arse and get stuck into some work, the little inner voice reminds me of all the success I’ve had in the past, all the As and 2.1s and firsts which I achieved with comparatively little effort, all the times in my life where things just seem to have come together for me and handed me victory out of thin air. I am, tragically, a victim of my own success.

Partially, however, I think the desire to procrastinate is a natural human instinct, which we all share, and that it is intrinsically tied into our concept of freedom. Allow me to elaborate. I love philosophy- as a subject, it intrigues me, drives me, motivates me. I could sit in a bar, or at a restaurant table, and hold court for hours on end, posing and deconstructing arguments, deploying rhetoric, probing peoples intuitions- in other words, applying all the skills relevant in a philosophy essay. I even, sad though this is for me to admit, occassionally write little bits of formal philosophy, unprompted, in my own time, without being asked to (I consider this blog to be kind of an example). But the real point of it all is the freedom- I do philosophy when I want, how I want, because I feel like it. The moment someone tells me what specifically I have to write, do or think, it becomes a chore, and one which all of my selfish instincts cry out in protest of. And I’m sure many of you feel the same- all of you english students who genuinely love literature, but balk at being asked to write an essay about victorian prose, all you scientists who are fascinated by the intricate workings of the universe, but loathe having to write endless lab reports on some experiment you did. You are all my brothers and sisters in procrastination: we are all in a position of both loving our chosen subject, and hating having to actually do it. And because we hate doing it, we seek out every little excuse and opportunity to avoid it- we become more conscientious with our housework, we catch up on old friends who we’d never normally talk to, we install new video games, buy new (non academic) books, start new relationships even. We are all in rebellion against ourselves, and the only way to “win” is to marshall enough self control to squash the smug little voice that tells you you’ve done enough work for one day, and besides its late and you haven’t updated your blog for a while- you should do that. Maybe you’ll get up early tommorrow and thus leave extra time for morning revision. Or maybe you’ll sleep in late, go get a coffee with a friend, go to martial arts training, have a few drinks afterwards, and come home too late to start doing any work. Or maybe thats just me.

Oh, and if anyone figures out a way to shut the little voice  up, let me know. And don’t say alcohol- i tred that already once.

Slick

I’m channeling Philip Pullman, apparently

Just a short post today: a had a dream the other night which was particularly… disturbing/poignant, so I thought I’d share it with my viewers.

I’ve you’ve read “his Dark Materials”, remember the bit where Will and Lyra go to the world of the dead, and everyone on the “living” side of the river has their “Death” with them their whole lives, and, when the time comes the death leads them into the land of the dead? Well, this was the basic premise of my dream.

I was alone, somewhere dark and cold, when, out of nowhere, some hideous crone appears and introduces herself as my Death, and tells me that it is time for me to go with her. She comes up close behind me, but, panicking, I use Shorinji Kempo (the martial art I practise) to try and fight her off- unfortunately, as a Death, she’s a lot faster than me, and can move from place to place in the blink of an eye, so I can’t even touch her. Eventually, exhuasted, I surrender, and I follow the old hag through a darkened doorway, which is just standing nearby in the room. We emerge into some sort of giant white place- remember the Matrix, before they load up any programs and its just blank? Kind of like that, only filled with other people and their deaths. In the dream, peoples Death’s are kind of an inversion of themselves- as a young and handsome male, my death is a hideous old woman- all the Deaths are different gender from their hosts. Children are in the room, hand in hand with shrunken old Deaths, more ancient even than my own , and older people are being supported by their strong, young Deaths. Tired, homely middle aged men are hand in hand with gorgeous, sultry 30 something deaths. The whole thing has a very sinsister air: as if the deaths start their existence old and weak with a newborn baby human, and as time goes by they sap the life from thier hosts, becoming younger and stronger. In the dream, I wonder what will happen to my Death once i do… whatever it is I’m supposed to do.  It turns out the white room is some sort of antechamber or limbo, because in the middle of the seemingly infinite space is another doorway- white this time, virtually indistinguishable from the blinding whiteness all around- which, my Death tells me, leads further into the afterlife. So, hand in hand with my ugly Death crone, I open the door- and wake up.

I know, frustrating right? I couldn’t make it up if I tried. Well, maybe I could, but why bother when my subconscious fucks with enough all by itself?

Sweet dreams,

Slick

It’s a small world after all

Slick’s room, Durham,  Friday the 1st of May, 23:21

Evening eager viewers. My little blog stat thingy tells me my daily hits have doubled to the majestic heights of 80 or so, so  a special welcome to any new readers. Today’s blog may come off as a little… parochial, but its my blog and i’ll cry if I want to.

My subject this evening is one which my fellow Durham students will understand on a visceral level, but which everyone else will probably not care about: the “Durham bubble” effect. For those of you not familiar with Durham, firstly, you have my sympathies (in the words of our esteemed chancellor, Bill Bryson: “if you’ve never been to Durham, go there now. Take my car”). Secondly, you may have heard that Durham is a city. This is a lie- it is a charming, old, medium sized town which just happens to have a giant Cathedral. And, much as I love it here, the combination of small town and proportionally massive student population can get a little frustrating. You end up hanging out with the same people, going to the same places and doing the same things night after night, simply because there is no other option. Newcastle is 10 minutes away, and provides a nice relief, but personally I can’t really afford to go to Newcastle every weekend, and so for the most part I am obliged to accept the comforting/claustrophobic embrace of the bubble. And it is indeed a seductive thing to live in a place where you know everyone and everyone knows you- a friend is alwasy near by, and you get to know all the good bars and drinks deals. But familiarity is a double-edged sword; its almost impossible to go away somewhere where no-one knows you and experience totally new things which, lets be honest, we all like to do every now and then. Clubs and societies are helpful for providing a new group of friends and epxeriences, but, as with all things, the novelty soon wears off, and your new friends swiftly become the same guys you hang out with all the time. Its enough to make a man insane.

Additionally, if, like me, you go to one of the smaller colleges, the problem is greater- there are roughly 200 people in my college in my year, and I imagine i’ve met nearly all of them at least once in my time here- it seems like everyone in Durham is a friend of a friend. The way gossip spreads and reputations develop, being in college sometimes is like being in a particularly bitchy, melodramatic american high school straight out of one of those early 90s teenage angst sitcom dramas. Only with more sex (that other people are having, obviously)- which you can hear through your walls and floors even though you got an early night because you have a 9 o’clock tommorrow.  And for me, things are even worse because seemingly half the people from my secondary school are also in Durham. Seriously- its like they all followed me here. Amongst them are some great friends, so I don’t begrudge their presence (at least, not often), but i mean, come on- can \i not get a little space from my past? It’s said that there are 6 degress of seperation between any 2 human being on the planet. In Durham it feels more like 2- or even just one.

And, of course, the problem becomes vastly greater when it comes to women. Now, I’m no cassanova reincarnated (although I am devestatingly handsome and witty), but I’ve been a single guy about town in Durham for a little over a year now, and in that time i’ve pulled… half a dozen or so girls, and gone further with a couple- names and details withheld (I an a gentleman, after all), and it seems to me that everywhere I go, i bump into at least one of my former flames. With some of them, this is not really a problem- their cool with it, I’m cool with it, we still talk- but with some of them its extremely awkward- stupid things have been said/done, regrets experienced, whatever- the point being, can you imagine regularly bumping into all of your exes? And not even exes, but just girls you drunkenly made out with one time? Well, if you can, then your putting yourself in my shoes. I swear, once I was in a bar and at least 3 girls showed up, independantly, who I had at some point in the past year swapped spit with.  It’s like that scene from Four Weddings and a Funeral (thanks Ben) where Hugh Grant (who represents me, obviously) ends up at a table with all the girls hes dated. Only it happens every weekend, or so it seems. The problem is that there are only 5 clubs and a handful of decent bars for people to go to, so obviously you end up going to the same places- its just stastics, after all. And if the person in question is similar to you (as they might well be, given that you have been romantically involved) then the odds of them frequenting the same places are even greater- give me a break!

However, much as I complain, as usual, I am (mostly) empty bluster. Yes, Durham is small, claustrophobic, and every knows everyone elses business like a small village (I partially blame facebook actually- no one needs that much information about everyone else). But it is also home, and I love it- I love that I know all the bars, and that I can walk down any street in the city and bump into a couple of poeple I know, from my course, or college, or home in Kent- and I know that they will frequently know each other, or know someone who knows each other. I love that, when I have the cash, I can escape to Newcastle, which is an awesome city, and crash on a mates floor (because, surprise surprise, a couple of my friends from home are in Newcastle), and I love that I can come home again to a house full of my friends in a city full of my friends, and their friends, and their friend’s friends. It really is like one big happy family. A really maladjusted, alcoholic, incestuous family.

Slick

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