Blind Blog #1

 Usually I write these posts with a degree of forethought, planning and structure in order to create an architecturally interesting as well as generally health and safety law abiding literary construction. However today I don't have the energy nor the motivation to attempt this degree of creative pondering hence I shall write everything as it occurs to me though in reality, I suppose that very few people will ever see this post and of those few people, only about a cubed root of them will actually be interested enough to attempt to comprehend the chunk of text. Hence what I write here is pretty irrelevant all things considered and for all anyone cares I could write my deepest darkest secrets but remain comfortable in the knowledge that it will probably remain a complete secret to the world.

 Much as many philosophers have pondered over the question, "when a tree falls in the woods but nobody hears it, does it actually make a sound?" I often ponder, "If a blog writer writes a blog but nobody reads it, has he actually wrote the blog." The answer to which is yes but for a completely depressingly futile cause. Though when all things are considered life its self is generally futile since the main aim of any organism is to leave off springs upon the planet in order to ensure the continued existence of the species and human beings are overpopulated as it is, meaning nothing that I might choose to do with my life matters in the slightest when thought of in a longer time frame.

 The only thing that could make life meaningful would be a situation when the survival of humanity is genuinely at stake such as an apocalypse. Though if such an instance were to occur, I doubt I will survive since I have very few survival skills and am not very high in terms of physical fitness. My only possible advantage would be my incessant paranoia concerning a potentially immanent zombie apocalypse. Which, I occasionally consider, might be a manifestation of my lack of trust in those around me since it is that sort of fundamental fear of familiar people ebing turned into enemies that fuels the concept of the undead.

 Now, that sounded quite deep. About 2000 leagues deeper than the sort of thing I usually write on this blog which is a little problematic since when somebody who is usually callous and shallow suddenly makes deep statements it tends to give the impression that they are somehow depressed. I assure you, if you are considering my mental well being at the moment (not in the sense that I might be a psychopath on the verge of going on a killing spree but in the sense that I might be suicidal) that I not in the slightest bit depressed. Though if I do become suicidal, I shall blame it on genetics, though that may be quite pseudo-scientific, since my country of origin, Japan, has one of the highest suicide rates in the developed world. So much so that, when people jump in front of trains in Japan, there is barely any delay, only a polite mildly regretful announcement alerting people to a "human accident", sounding like it is more concerned with the delay caused than the loss of life, and an assurance normal services will be resumed in a short while.

 Which, in one sense, is quite enviable efficiency since here in Britain, the unfortunate demise of a leaf on the rail tracks can shock Transport For London on such a deep emotional scale that they halt the entire network for a day or so, presumably in mourning. The same comparison of humanity versus efficiency can be made in other aspects as well when comparing the two countries, Britain and Japan. For example Japanese shops are staffed by extremely well mannered staff who will all greet the customer in synchronization upon entry and work at a fast near automatic mechanical pace whereas British institutions tend to employ individuals who prioritize the social relations with their fellow employee than the many customers waiting irritatedly in an ever accumulating queue.

 In the end however, I would take the humanity over efficiency since it does give a sensation of actual person to person interaction. The feeling that you are living in a world composed of individual people all leading their own individual lives towards an ultimate demise but are nonetheless giving it their best shot. The feeling that there are a multitude of potentially interesting stories and melodramas mingling, bumping into each other, walking past each other throughout the packed human test tube we refer to as a city.

 Although presently even this happiness is slowly being eroded by machinery. For example the automatic self checkout machines which have replaced person manned counters in some shops. They are, though they originally broke down more frequently than a depressed pubescent teenage girl with attention issues,  now quite efficient and not only they prevent the human interaction that used to take place in shops but they also make the buyers into nothing more than mere mindless machines. Mechanically moving arms full of desired purchases in time to the monotonous music of the electronic beeps.

 Furthermore the mass creation and release of high quality headphones and portable music players, allowing, as the adverts often quip, the user to immerse themselves in their own bubble like world, cuts off individual people. Where everyone used to travel in the bus, hearing the conversation of others, listening to snippets of other people's lives; they now have their own little musical worlds in which they hear nothing but the music they've chosen. Maybe the two people next to you are discussing methods to counter the immanently approaching zombie revolution because they are secretly a member of an underground mystical organization of zombie fighters. The story should start with you, the protagonist, hearing their conversation and being sucked into their world to be thrust into a hugely exciting adventure of epic world saving zombie decapitating proportions. But instead you're listening to Lady Gaga or One Direction or whatever is popular so you don't hear the conversation and the gates to the potentially interesting future of fiction is forever closed, the opportunity missed.

 In the end this became just a strange slightly deep rant with the atmosphere of an old person ranting about the good old days. Or in a word, conservative. So to wrap it all up, I might as well end on a highly snobbish posh note by saying the moral of the story is the well worn phrase of Carpe Diem.

Fashion

  On this day, after many years of slow reduction through various camp speech mannerisms, actions and choice of clothing, the last crumbling vestige of what could roughly be referred to as my masculinity departed from my outstretched arms. Gently floating away out of my desperate reach, like my prettiest laced hat in the lukewarm summer breeze (due to my current depletion of masculinity I am unable to fashion a more manly simile).

 The final straw that broke the camel's back was probably less akin to a straw and, metaphorically speaking, closer to a brick aggressively hurled downwards onto the animal's unprotected spine.Today I sat myself down before a table mirror and used purple eyeliner while a cheesy pop song, whose lyrics basically consisted of reiterating the singer's desire to become a glamorous super star, played loudly in the background. In my defense, the latter had been orchestrated by four females who had decided to aid me in my make over and the mirror, or in fact the bedroom I was in, did not in fact belong to me. Furthermore the eyeliner was being applied in order to allow me to look like a certain anime character (Kaiki Deishu from Nisemonogatari) since I will be attending a convention in cosplay tomorrow.

 Nonetheless, I admit that this was another large step towards the crucial wavering borderline of opposing genders, the all important division which I suspect I may be dangerously close to slipping over. Before the eyeliner incident, to regain an average amount of masculinity after all the other tremendously camp things I'd done I would have probably had to spend many months in the gym (the balance system being roughly about one bench press per camp hand movement) plus several mandatory hours of laddish sexism. However taking this new eventuality into mind, it may only be a matter of time, perhaps the point has already been reached, where it is just far easier to make a visit to the sexual organ swap shop than the alternative years of gym attendance.

 Hence the issue of the purple eyeliner, potentially the tipping point, is a key matter that must be settled by a higher authority. As I stand in the defendants block of the metaphorical courtroom of gender division, standing trial for excess femininity, all seems lost. I cannot deny that I knowingly and willingly allowed the use of purple eyeliner on my person, attempting to deceive the judge and jury will only result in a heavier sentence. Such an act may result in me being given sixty years in the gym or perhaps even sent to the operating table. However there is one argument, one defense that could turn this case around for me.

 It has always been believed and upheld that the pinnacle of manliness, the height of macho, is courage and the ability to stand firm in the face of those you fear. This has been true for as long as men have existed from the days of the cavemen facing rampaging mammoths, to the much chronicled image of knights battling dragons and even to today, where the actions of soldiers heading into war are commended and celebrated. Furthermore, one commonly experienced phobia, one terror that many people share, is the discomforting sensation of something pointed and sharp approaching the naked eye. In that sense, the use of eyeliner is the ultimate triumph over terror, the supreme display of courage that surely demonstrates the sheer overwhelming butch powers of whoever undertakes the act.

 I appeal to the court that I am merely a forerunner of this new brand of masculinity which will permeate popular culture in a matter of years. If anything my overwhelming masculinity as a pioneer against terror and crusader of courage should be recognized and celebrated. The sheer amount of macho involved in the act of applying eye liner should be enough to annul all of my previous debts of femininity, leaving me a free most definitely man.

Musical Musings

 Last night at my school there was a small charity musical festival of sorts titled TILT where several bands composed of students of the school stood on stage to sing and play various instruments. A festival I did not attend due to several reasons. Firstly the tickets cost five pounds, with five pounds I could buy myself a decent meal at KFC or Subway or maybe even a medium portion of fries at Caffe Rouge. Secondly I was quite convinced that if I were to buy some fries to sit silently crying and eating, all alone in a dark corner of Caffe Rouge, I would still have a better Friday night out than those attending TILT due to the fact that the latter had been organized by a certain member of staff called Miss Peel.

 In order to get an accurate mental image of Miss Peel, first imagine an ordinary woman. Then throw her into a cave in which dwells a horrendous dragon. The dragon then hungrily devours the woman's face, scarring her both physically and psychologically thus creating a pitiful twisted miserable human being. Miss Peel is that dragon. She can often be seen hungrily patrolling the school grounds, blond hair flowing behind her like beer regurgitated out of a car. Her features covered by a bullet proof layer of fake tan which nonetheless fails to conceal the crater like frown lines on her face, bearing greater resemblance to battle scars than wrinkles.

 Because TILT had been coordinated by this monstrosity, I had been under the illusion that it would inevitably be horrendous seeing as the only thing remotely close to a party Miss Peel had ever been present at was, in all probability, her own summoning where she stood in the middle of a five pointed star as the Satanists who had brought her forth from the deepest depths of hell chanted and danced around her. However contrary to my expectations, Facebook news feed has been reliably informing me that TILT was a resounding success (as well as reliably informing me that if I Facebook like a particular photo of Jesus I will more than definitely go to heaven whereas if I were to ignore it, eternal damnation awaits) with accompanying photographs.

 I have never been a musical type of human being. My taste in music does not range much beyond anime opening music (beyond this geeky borderline lies the terrifying vastness of popular culture, a place in which many a strange and horrifying beings dwell, giving out numbers and getting down on Fridays) and my only instrumental experience is the six months worth of utterly futile and fruitless violin lessons I took at the age of ten. Nonetheless even I had to concede that the photographs of people with guitars strapped across their chest, standing heroically on stage, smoke swirling around them and the flame like orange light to their back, were impressive.

 Thus, for the first time in more than six years, I have begun to consider learning an instrument. However though I am blessed with the natural ability to annoy or torment, as well as the talent to ably articulate or compose aimless articles abound with artistic alliteration and draw decidedly disturbing doodles, I was not born with a single musically able bone in my body. So unmusical am I that if I were, having been killed by some ancient slightly arts-and-crafts type tribe, made into drums I would still create a horrible non rhythmic cacophony, unpleasant to listen to (which in this case, I suppose, would be some sort of petty revenge).

 Tone is to me what ghosts are to most people. Something to be vaguely believed in and feared but never actually detected by the senses. I can keep rhythm in the same way football players can keep out of the paper. I am, also, by my own admission an extremely lazy individual, such a picture perfect representation of Sloth that I would volunteer myself for a portrait if a new illustrated bible were to be printed in future. Hence its surprising I've kept up this blog so far, let alone start to learn a musical instrument. Thus, when all these factors have been considered I am left with only a number of options: a)The triangle b)The rectangle c)The pentagon d)The hexagon e)The heptagon f)The octagon g)The nonagon and h)The decagon.

 Though it does occur to me that (like the protagonist of some moralistic novel in which, for example, the main character starts off motivated by good will and attempting to gain money with which to hep the poor starts a lucrative business manufacturing carpets. Then over time is seduced by the allure of money its self and having run out of good carpet making material begins to round up and skin the poor to create cheap rugs to sell. Finally, having seen some suitably moving scene, the protagonist realizes that he, in compromising and pursuing alternative goals, had lost the main purpose of his deep moral journey.) I have wandered off some way from the original purpose of learning a musical instrument which was to look impressive in photographs. And while polygonic instruments are great in their own special way, one thing they are not is impressive when on stage.

 A triangle simply cannot compare to the sheer magnitude of having a large guitar hung casually across your front like some large artistic shoulder bag packed full of awesome. Perhaps size is the issue here? Perhaps if there were some instrument, like a triangle but thicker and a meter in length, it would have the same gravitas as a guitar whilst maintaining the easy playability of a polygonic instrument. Sadly, at this moment in time, no such instrument exists. So until the day such a contraption arrives to revolutionize the musical scene, I shall regrettably be forced to postpone taking up an instrument.

Mental Health

 I'm sure you have walked down the street one wind swept evening, shoes squelching wetly in the light drizzle, to see the ghostly pale form of a plastic bag, mutilated by some hungry urban fox somewhere, half drifting half rolling miserably across the road. Perhaps you, upon seeing it, put aside such environmental concerns as the biodegradability of plastic and stopped to look at the bag in order to briefly wonder what an apt metaphor for a tired and downcast state of mind the plastic bag could be. In which case I take this opportunity to humbly apologize to you for stealing your metaphor.
 However recently I had been feeling a little empty, lacking in confidence and an absence of general happiness, in short, I felt like a torn plastic bag. Of course I still had a certain amount of class and dignity in so far as being a torn plastic bag from Waitrose, not from Sainsbury's or Tesco's but my days of being a bag from Fortnum and Mason felt well and truly behind me.
 I'd been assaulted by a sudden torrent of doubts, I got the feeling that I wasn't as full of offensive witticism or snide remarks as I used to be, that I had become generally less amusing. Where was that verbose abusive flare with which I used to articulate statements designed only to irritate and upset? Where was the mind with which I had taken every opportunity to weave the most inappropriate and emotionally scarring of jokes into the conversation? Is this a mid-life crisis? In which case does that mean I only have sixteen more years to live? To put plainly, I felt like some spark that had burnt stubbornly in me for the last ten years or so had quite suddenly given up and vanished with a tired sigh, leaving behind only a fast dispersing smoke-like remnant of vaguely amusing cynicism.
 Even in the darkest of times however, there is light. On the very hour I was feeling least confident about myself, almost as if by fate, my school held a lunch time assembly on "Mental Health". An assembly there to cover lack of confidence, depression and other symptoms of teenage pubescent angst. With as much hope as someone mildly dejected can muster, I was, along with everyone else in my year group, shepherded into the assembly. Perhaps, just perhaps the talk would improve my mental health.
 As the chatter dies down, I wait in anticipation as the talk begins. The two women in charge walk onto the stage, armed with an optimistically colored power point behind them and a presumably helpful speech in their grasp. They open their mouths in preparation, I assume, of great enlightening words that will open my mind to the wonders of psychiatric treatment.
 "Hello," the first woman, let us call her Messiah One, announces while the second woman, Messiah Two, fiddles with the power point presentation, "We're here to talk to you about mental health. Do you know," a healthy pause as the power point changes slides, "That we all have different personality types."
 By which she of course means human beings are all, believe it or not, different and individual... my eyes are opened, not to new and enlightening facts about psychiatry as I had hoped but to the now painfully apparent fact that this talk is an irritatingly patronizing game of State the Obvious. With that comes the realization that I might as well replace the two women, Messiah one and two, with some suitably wizened looking bearded homeless man off the streets and he would fulfill the role of Messiah far better than the two on stage both in terms of appearance and genuine ability to enlighten.
 At that moment, fueled by vexation, my motivational spark rekindled and roared into a full blaze. And like the fallen warrior rising from amongst the corpse littered battle field to face the oncoming enemy or the limp fighter rising from amongst the graying bushes with the aid of Viagra to face the on coming...... I slowly raised my hand high into the air to make a contribution: an intelligent, malicious, needless, spiteful, cynical, provocative, irritating, misanthropic contribution to be articulated confidently and verbosely with a facetious grin across my lips.