Memories and Fears

Before I crack on with this post, another in my long line of Observations, I would like to give a follow up to my Anxiety post. To all those who may be concerned, please be assured that I am past the worst of it and feel much better now.
(Never underestimate the curative powers of a hug, and words of comfort, from the one you love.)

~ * ~



And now, our regular scheduled programming:

An interesting thought occurred, just the other week. I was lounging in bed, more than likely reading further into The Dark Tower, when I decided I wanted to return to a very specific slice of childhood.
Those of you of a similar age, who grew up with the PlayStation 1 console, you may remember demo discs. They usually came free with gaming magazines and contained about...ten/fifteen minutes, tops, of existing games or videos of game play. I don't recall when/where/how we acquired ours, but I certainly remember playing it. Squatting in our dusty pile of PS1 games is such a demo disc.
It contains:
Demo play from PaRappa the Rapper, Kurushi and Nightmare Creatures.
Video play from Final Fantasy VII and....some surfing or boating game, I can't remember. The videos never entertained me: why watch someone else play a game, when you can just play another yourself? It didn't interest me as a child and still fails to interest me now! It, like the 90's, are little more than a fading memory.

Anyway, during that 30est. minutes of youthful nostalgia, I discovered that since childhood I had improved at Kurushi, entirely not improved at PaRappa the Rapper, and - The Point Of This Post - I was still scared by Nightmare Creatures.
Now, anyone of today's generation would read such a statement, see the game in question, then point and laugh in my face. Compared to today's titles, Nightmare Creatures is not scary. In the fifteen minute demo, you play a very pixelated character, armed with an almighty fighting staff, who is attacked by several equally pixelated monsters. These include zombies, werewolves and gargoyles. Their mechanics work like a lot of old games; their movements aren't smooth, during attacks they switch between swinging their arms or standing still, and they come equipped with three sound effects at best.
Compare that with recent horror game Alien: Isolation. The Xenomorph looks, sounds and moves like its film counterpart, and it is so cleverly programmed, it never does the exact same thing per game. It doesn't follow a set route or set of instructions - in short, you can't cheat your way around it.
Now, Alien Isolation also scared me, I won't deny that for a second. But what Alien didn't do, which Nightmare Creatures did, was have me playing in a heightened state of uncomfortable tension. The only way I can really describe it is like a full-body itch, or my skin crawling; despite the fact I was over a decade older, had played/seen/read tonnes of other scary texts, I was uncomfortable and didn't like that I was playing it again.

And I wonder if this is an example of fear linked to memory. I've seen a video around this, theorising that "if you take a memory, attach it to an emotion, it burns in your memory and you remember it forever." This is why I can remember countless joy-inducing Christmases, devastating losses in the family, and every nightmare I've ever had - whereas boring, day-to-day activities like school and college might as well be in someone else's head.
As a child, I was terrified of Nightmare Creatures - regardless that our "copy" of it only lasted twenty minutes maximum. If my brother was ever playing it, I had to leave the room. Because, to my 7/8/9/10 year old self, it wasn't just a clump of cloudy pixels fighting a different cloudy clump. It was a man, left abandoned and alone, armed with a stick and fighting off a terrifying werewolf, with claws and teeth bigger than his head. When you're a kid, you don't care about shoddy special effects or less-than-impressive graphics. Between the game dynamics and your imagination, you create the fear.

(Sometimes it's not just kids. Thanks to Jaws, a lot of people got scared by a big rubber shark............including me!)

Had I played Nightmare for the first time recently, I was have immediately dismissed it, switched onto something "actually" scary like Evil Within, Resident Evil or BioShock.
But because I had that childhood fear of it built into the base level of my brain, Nightmare Creatures created in me a level of tension and discomfort that the above titles never quite achieved.

So if you're ever in the mood for a proper fear-fest this Halloween, root around in your childhood memories and dig out what used to put you on edge in your infant years. Just imagine it:
October 31st. Everyone's out watching IT or Insidious or The Human Centipede.
And then there's me.
All the lights off.
Wrapped up in blankets.
About to watch The Black Cauldron.
Cos let's be honest here, no child was fully prepared for that film!

Have a good one

=]

~ * ~

 

It's just occurred to me I "sort of" covered this topic over four years ago, back in January 2013. With a different spin on it, however. To anyone interested, have a link!

Anxiety

My mind has gone to a dark place.
You probably wouldn't notice.
Why would you?
It's a skill I've unwittingly mastered.
To look calm when I'm not.
Like...a quiet ocean which hides the depths below.
Inviting you in.
To drown.
Again.
It came out of nowhere.
I didn't expect it.
Does anyone?
All I was doing was listening to music.
Something I've done a trillion times before.
Something I consider(ed) safe.
A random song.
Then.
An equally random, half-conjured memory.
That memory.
A spark.
Lighting an almighty fuse.
Leading to an "anxiety attack".
That is what people call them.
Their title.
I have others. 
Plenty.
My mind has gone to a dark place.
My mind has turned inward.
My mind has rebuilt its walls.
Whatever name we give to our pain.
It doesn't detract from its power over us.
The inside of my head writhed.
Almost like a cramp.
Though not as painful.
The sensation is the same.
Several layers crushing against one another.
A fist clenched tight.
A mouth devouring itself.
My mind has turned inward.
I am bombarded.
With emotions. 
And questions.
And thoughts.
And ideas.
And fears.
None of which are truly my own.
Unwelcome and crazed delusions my
walls
dark place
anxiety
demon
comes up with:
You will fail.
You will get this wrong. 
You will make people upset.
People will hate you.
No-one likes you anyway.
You can't compare.
They didn't read your message.
They don't care about you.
They don't love you.
They're just lying.
It's over.
You're over.
That.
Endlessly.
Relentlessly.
Mercilessly.
One
bad
wrong
dark
thought.
After another.
And another.
Until your head hurts.
Your blood runs cold.
And you feel alone.
Even in a crowded room.
Looking at others.
Envying their peace.
Hating yourself.
And when you hate yourself.
There's not a lot you can do.
You can avoid things you hate.
Except yourself.

To anyone not a fan of the layout so far, the above style of writing represents an attack - though is not nearly as vicious. Read each line in turn, one immediately after the other, quickly, firing onto the next. You might not even remember the previous one. There isn't time. You just get thrown another. Whether you like it or not.
That is your mind turning against you. Drowning you in thoughts without time to actually think, nor even breathe.

Think of it like a personal demon, squatting in the darkness, watching everything, and remembering all of it. It hoards, keeps and contains your bad memories, your dark ideas, like its own treasure. And when it so chooses, at any time, ready or not, it shall share its treasure with you. It whispers everything you never wish to hear nor even think about. 
Whispering in a familiar voice.
Your voice.

I am getting better, in recent weeks, though with relapses - I suffered one just today, in fact, hence my arrival here. I'm getting better at convincing the demon, and so myself. I'm getting stronger, which means I can come up with better arguments.
Your friends are ignoring you.
Well they're probably busy - we all are.
They hate you.
After all the times we've spent together, I doubt that.
They can't stand you.
Last time we met up, they said they had a great time.
They were lying.

^ That one is harder to fight. You can convince your demon of almost everything, but you cannot absolutely know whether or not someone else has lied.
Sorry. That's just an unfortunate fact.
The demon will insist that they did lie.
They must have done; why else would they pay attention to someone as awful, as pathetic, and as downright worthless as you. Someone undeserving of love, undeserving of everything, except loneliness, and isolation.

(Yes, these are personal examples. To those who know me, I apologise for any upset/worry caused. I am alright, though. Just read on...)

However. This is becoming less of a one-sided game. Whenever my demon plays the Lying Card, I like to play my own hand back:
They were lying.
And so are you.

I can fight back, always will, but that doesn't stop the attacks happening - like an opposing force that won't take the hint, won't stop until I'm defeated.
I lose time and concentration. While the barrage of dark thoughts comes, and while I fight back, focusing on anything becomes nigh impossible. I cannot truly see the book in front of me, and any lines I do read can't land, there's too much activity going on within. Nothing can continue until I calm down again, until I convince the demon its wrong, to shut up, and to leave me alone.
I wouldn't go quite as far to say that anxiety ruins my life. From what I understand others suffer far worse than I do - some struggle to make it out the other side, like I can - but it still makes its impact.
It can affect my job - as it has today - and it can affect my relaxation time in the evenings.
It is as unwelcome as the thoughts it creates.

On the up side, and yes there is an upside, I came to realise something just the other day. While I may think these things, I do not believe them. I have that inner strength to tell the difference between a dark thought and a personal belief.
I may think myself a bad writer, but I do not believe it.
I may think my relationship will end, but I do not believe it.
I may think I am worthless, but I do not believe it.

This made me consider the difference between childhood, and adulthood, and thus brings me to the conclusive point of this post. When we're scared as children, we get told: "the monsters aren't real." We do our best to stop believing in them.
Then, we get older, we see the world for how it truly is, and we learn something new. Something worse:

There's nothing in my cupboard.

There's nothing under the bed.

But the monsters are there.

They're just in my head.

 

The monsters aren't teeth, claws, eyes, and fright.

They're no longer what goes bumps in the night.

They're unwelcome thoughts.

My darkness defined.

They're building their walls.

Inside my mind.
 

Our monsters aren't in nightmares anymore, they're not lurking in basements or dark school corridors. They're the demons in our minds.

But remember, boys and girls, ladies and gentlemen.
No matter what age you are:
The monsters aren't real.

They may take over my head, from time to time.
But as long as I don't believe them.
They can't hurt me.

- Robert

PS. On a final note, I don't write this as a cry for help, nor plea for attention. I write this because it's my truth, and because it always helps me to write when I'm troubled.
And maybe, maybe, my doing so will help someone else.

We can conquer demons together.

Robert and Goliath

We have all suffered encounters with spiders in the past, and we have all read stories of people in Britain being bitten and having to go to hospital. It's the warm/damp mating season of the year and so all the randy arachnids invade our homes, have their ways and reduce most of us who find them into whimpering, squealing messes.
Spiders are not my biggest fear, per se, but it's harder for wax works to hide in the bath or under the

^ Frostbite Spiders

bed (although that mental image of them trying to do so is incredibly disturbing.) However, the bigger the spider, the bigger a problem I have with it. Take, for instance, the massive 'Frostbite Spiders' found in the video game Skyrim. I've played countless horror games, survival games, games of immensely high tension, but I'd play them all a thousand times again if I meant I could live the rest of my life avoiding these assholes.

Anyway. As I was saying, we have all suffered spider encounters in the past, and this is my most recent:
Robert and Goliath: A Fable of Three Nights
(Categorised in that grand box of madness "just a bit of fun" - the act of telling a small story in a big, ridiculous way. Enjoy!)

Monday 04/09/2017
A Monday evening. With it, a standard scene: me, reading in bed, concentrating hard on book four of The Dark Tower series. It contains a great deal of backstory, the main tale of the main character, so my brain needs to focus. In response, naturally, whatever part of my brain which deals in distractions is hard at work, and eventually detects something in my peripheral vision. In the far right-hand corner of my bedroom, a small brown "thing" was gliding up my wall. Glasses off for reading, seeing it mainly through its movement, I thought to myself "it's probably just a moth." I am notorious for having lights on and windows open during the warm evenings and often find myself, as Ariel would say, playing host to the entire cast of A Bug's Life. I retrieved my glasses and returned to the realm of clear vision. Upon so doing I see that it is not a moth, but a spider. Quite a large spider, at that, even from a distance. I believe the eloquent phrase that went from my mind to mouth was:
"Fuck me!"
Book down, I leapt from the bed and shot down the stairs, through the house to the back utility room, home to our handheld vacuum cleaner - AKA The Spider Smiter. Thus began the Hunt for Attachments. I wanted a quick and clean extraction from my wall/life, with minimal risk to myself, so something wide-nozzle and possibly with bristles. I continued to hunt, every room of the house in fact, for the extension attachment. This would give the vacuum's reach an extra few feet, and I wanted as much empty space between we two gladiators. My imagination convinced me that the asshole spider would, during my reaping of its life, leap over the vacuum to my hand and devour the soft flesh. (I believe to be reading too much Stephen King.)
I did not find the extension.
(Later, when she had returned home and was informed of my endeavours, the Mother informed me that the extension lived behind the utility room fridge, a fact I'd know "if you did more cleaning." Unhelpful; to me and to my story.)
I returned, Smiter in hand, to see the monster had not moved - possibly through fear, but mockery seemed more accurate.
Now, while this admittance does not compliment my bravery nor masculinity, I hesitated and wavered for several long moments, raising the nozzle "somewhat" near the spider before quickly pulling back - this motion of cowardice, I performed it perhaps too many times. All the while my head and heart yearned for the extension but I did not wish to leave the spider alone too long; time spent away from him gave chance for him to run away and hide, and when that happens, my bedroom enters a new phase of Arachnid Cold War. With that in place, at any and all moments the spider could reappear from its webbed den and resume its torment, or even make its move, the main danger was this occurring while I slept.
The bastard was there, in full view, and I was armed. The time for action was now. I suppressed - crushed, even - my trepidation and lunged forwards, determination high, handheld vacuum whirling like a captured hurricane. I hit home, I know this, the spider was lost beneath the grey plastic of the nozzle, but I could see he clung to the wall. I adjusted my grip and so the vacuum's position, but in that fraction of freedom, the spider moved. He darted downwards, behind a picture frame that hangs above my desk, and disappeared. Now, at this point, I would like to emphasise that the spider did not just disappear from view, I remain convinced the bastard disappeared or had the ability of invisibility. For when I returned mere moments later, vacuum in one hand and torch in the other, there was no trace of the monster besides the webs between desk and wall. I checked the narrow gap behind that photo, the ornaments below and the desk space behind that, to be left wanting; no sign of that eight legged freak. It was at this point the Mother returned home, to find me peering intently in the half-inch space between desk and wall, naturally questioning my choice of actions. I informed her of the spider - also add in here the comment regarding my lack of cleaning - to which she spoke her philosophy on the matter: that the spider had likely been there all long, but only know did I know of its existence, and to simply continue as normal, pretending that I didn't know. It was far too late for that, now. I could no more ignore the spider in my room than someone can I can ignore an ulcer once found in my mouth.
The bastard was somewhere in my room, an undeniable fact, suddenly making my bedroom, my beloved safe space, into a new danger zone.
Arachnid Cold War.
I slept badly, that night, my dreams full of scuttling legs, too many eyes, clicking pincers and altogether, an excessive amount of mandibles. The biggest fear was waking to find him descending towards me, lowering himself on his fresh web of hatred and loathing. I woke several times and immediately checked the ceiling, even shone a torch on the wall of his entrance to my life, all times coming up with nothing. Our stand off continued. 

Tuesday 05/09/2017
The second day of our opposition. I did not see the beast this day, but when describing the situation to Ariel, I christened the bastard as Goliath. Upon returning home from work, I checked the space above my door, the ceiling and "his" wall in three swift sweeps of gaze. No traces this time. I slept better, at the very least, but knew I could not trust him and could not rest sufficiently until Goliath had been slain. Not by stone and sling this time, but under my heel or in the deafening chasm of a vacuum cleaner. If that failed, if he chose the wall once more as his place of rest, I had a third option. I had a A4 ring-binder, one to which I had little-to-no emotional attachment. If foot or Smiter were beyond me, I would use this binder to crush Goliath to nothingness and would simply deal with the wall stains later.
Let the war end, first, then deal with the mess.  

Wednesday 06/09/2017
Today, the Arachnid Cold War ended, and at the height of irony it reached its conclusion with the clock pointing very closely to midnight. I had spent the evening in the same frame of mind I had for the previous two: at incomplete peace - reading and gaming quite happily, though with regular checks of the surrounding walls and ceiling, but Goliath did not surface. Only until later did I learn why.
At some unknown point in the proceedings, he had vacated my bedroom. This might have improved my peace of mind at least, although knowing this would have also meant I'd need to check each room, not just my own.
Anyway, Goliath was not in my bedroom. I learnt this, very quickly, when I left my bedroom to brush my teeth before bed. I opened my bedroom door onto the dark landing - Mother had gone to sleep by now - and my bedroom light cast a narrow shaft of illumination, and in that beam was Goliath. The bastard was probably trying to return to my room, perhaps make an extension of his living quarters, or wait until I slept before claiming his next victim. But me coming to him, it appeared this hadn't been expected. I opened that door, perhaps quite strongly, but my eyes fell upon Goliath immediately and he saw me. He then performed what I can only really describe as a Spider River Dance. Legs skittering across the carpet, he backed up, chose from five different directions at once, moving as he did it, and finally settled to shoot right, down the landing. I seem to remember making some comment, most likely "There you are!" I poked my head around the doorway, tracking him, and he had paused partway down the landing.
FOOLISH!
I returned to my room, equipped my trusty binder and gave chase. He hadn't moved.
EVEN MORE FOOLISH!
I raised the binder and gave it a light throw forwards.
Missed! Goliath went to escape. I tried again.
Success! Goliath was not to be seen under the blue desk accessory.
Revelling in the victory, and spare time available to me, I calmly went and collected the Smiter from my room, left beside my bed for the previous two nights, like someone sleeping with a gun under their pillow.
A new challenge lay ahead of me. Goliath was a tough opponent, a formidable foe. What was to stop him running off again, the moment I lifted the binder? He'd already escaped me once and I was fucked if I would allow it to happen again. I gave the binder a tap to disorientate him. Just a light little knock, not a full smash, for I knew it would be harder to clean spider guts out of carpet than off the wall. Then I lifted it. The bastard was still alive, I hadn't taken him down just yet; his legs twitched once he was free and everything about it screamed a taunt, "You haven't won yet!" So I took the Smiter before him, a button was pressed and Goliath disappeared, except this time on my terms.
His last moments of freedom were filled with a drowning wind and an upwards fall. Goliath was contained.
That is not the end of the story, however. Yes, he was imprisoned behind the clear plastic container, victim to the vacuum's black hole, but he was still alive. The legs were still working, his defiance of death against all my best efforts was putting me beyond fury. It is well established I did not trust Goliath. It would be so like him to crawl out of the vacuum through the night and plot his revenge.
So I did what any inconvenienced, irrational, huge-spider-fearing person would do: I drowned the son of a bitch. I set the shower running and emptied the vacuum's contents into the rush of water - mercifully it had been emptied not long before. Imagine otherwise: Goliath surviving by way of a dust-clogged plughole. That would add tension for which I was not prepared, like the ending of a horror film which reveals the main villain/monster survived the whole time.
Fortunately, t'was not the case for the one called Goliath. To give a sense of scale, our plughole consists of six small holes, each smaller than the size of a five pence piece, and it took a lot of watery persuasion for Goliath to actually go down the drain. THAT is how large this opponent was. But I watched, and waited, for his end to come in the form of a piped oblivion. This would have been the perfect opportunity to say something clever, like a Bond movie, making quips as the villain reaches a gruesome end. Instead my manic, revelling-in-victory came up with:
"You know what monsters get, Goliath? Monsters get killed."
I know, hardly dialogue worthy of next year's action blockbuster, but I was too delirious to come up with anything better.

I had won.

Robert had slain Goliath.

Doctor What

Sunday 16/07/2017:
"Introducing Jodie Whittaker as The 13th Doctor."
 
I had to sit through a lot of Wimbledon to get that little nugget of news, but it was ultimately worth it. That state of exciting intrigue, as well as watching television and knowing at the same moment many people are pleased or interested, many other people are recoiling in horror.
(One of my reactions to this news happened to be the same as my reacting to "that death" at the end of Star Wars: The Force Awakens: "Huh. Alright then. I bet a lot of fans are going to be disappointed.")
 
Obviously, as anyone checking Facebook or Twitter will already know, a lot of fans are divided by this decision and have expressed their opposing opinions. In fact, many long-standing fans appear to have turned their back on the fifty-four year old sci/fi show. 
The number of 😡 'Angry Reacts' on Facebook alone has been ridiculous. .
It's been the topic of many headlines already and The Daily Mail has no doubt been flooded.
Public snakes celebrities, likes of Hopkins and Morgan, have already had their inappropriate input.
 
And here, now, on this blog dedicated to such things, it's My Turn.
 
So.
 
My reaction, besides the one outlined above, to JW taking up the mantle was the same as it was for Tennant, Smith and Capaldi: "Huh, okay, not sure yet, but let's see what they bring to the role" - and this thought would apply for male or female.
I personally know nothing about Jodie Whittaker, I haven't seen her in anything else. It was the same with Tennant, Smith and Capaldi. I look forward to getting to know her as the Doctor.
 
I will never not watch the newest series of Doctor Who and I remain incredibly interested in what Whittaker will do. Will she continue Capaldi's cantankerous magician guise, return to the floppy bounding phase of Smith/Tennant, or will she go her own way? I hope it's the latter, and I want to know what that way is. Christmas 2017's episode is eagerly anticipated.
 
No, I don't mind that the Doctor shall be a woman and nor do I see how it matters.
To me, I think of the Doctor as more of an idea, as a concept. Regardless of age, face, accent, gender, I don't mind as long as the Doctor retains the persona of "The Doctor." The same selfless entity, the unstoppable ancient being who acts in the name of morality and restoring balance to the universe, saving innocent lives whenever and wherever possible.
"Never cruel or cowardly."
"Never give up. Never give in."
"Without hope, without witness, without reward."
These are the personal promises the Doctor has set, and the Doctor will always try hard to keep them, no matter "what type" that happens to involve. 
Whether the Doctor is male, female, neither, alien, ethereal or some kind of android, I don't care what they look like, I care about what they do.
 
I just want the Doctor to remain the hero I fell in love with in 2005 and continue to respect and idolise to this day.
 
If Miss Whittaker can achieve that, and I'm sure she can, then Doctor Who shall always have me as a loyal fan.
 
Until Christmas, my friends, keep an open mind and both hearts beating.
It's not the end of the journey.
It's just the next step.

@UntoldTimelord

Evolved

I share a special affinity with music. To a lot of people I know, and this is not a judgement on them but just an observation, music is simply something to be enjoyed. They listen to pop songs on the radio, sing along in the car and find their journey goes quicker; they fixate on new music playing in the office to ignore phone calls going on around them; some play music simply to fill silence.

For me, music is something to be experienced. I tend to avoid popular, current songs because they all sound the same to me; fun but without character. Not to mention they are played relentlessly on the radio and are worn out.
I like my music to have meaning and emotion. My favourite songs, they make me happy, they help me remember, they let me feel stronger. They have gotten me through tough times; in moments when I have felt worthless, meaningless and even unloved, unwilling to turn to others for help, it has been music that helped pull me out of the pit.
For some I build worlds and stories in my head. I own more than 650 songs. That's a lot of stories.
I can listen to the same song a hundred times and feel the same chill in my blood each time, as I mouth along - never sing along, the artist is doing just fine - and lose myself in the music. This is why I always opt for the soft, inner-ear earphones with noise cancellation, to contain the entire song in my head and drown out the outside world. Nothing but my mind and their music.

And today I have found a new one, that has affected me so much I feel the need to write about it.

Friday June 23rd 2017, release day of Imagine Dragons' new album Evolve. I am a huge fan of Imagine Dragons, ever since I downloaded their song Demons on a whim - which has since reached Spot Four in my personal list of 25 Favourite Songs. I have both their albums Night Visions and Smoke & Mirrors, and have played them - more so Night Visions - to the point of obsession. It is rare for me to own an album and enjoy all the songs on it, but Imagine Dragons are the exception. I remain convinced they cannot make a bad song and Evolve reinforces this belief.

We'd already been teased by pre-releases of singles (Believer, Thunder, Whatever It Takes) which have already reached a high point in my Times Played, and I was eager for more. By 9:05 this morning I had already downloaded the rest of the songs and was delving into the new stuff.

Track 5: Rise Up is the inspiration for this post.

While I like all their songs, there will always be one on an album - for all my chosen bands, not just Imagine Dragons - that I like the most. Demons, for Night Visions, Polaroid for Smoke & Mirrors. This is the choice for Evolve.

It caught me almost immediately, my blood ran cold within the first two lines of verse and I knew this was going to be a good one. Lead singer Dan Reynolds has an amazing voice in each and every song, but just occasionally it has that bit more power to it, a bit more spark, that you cannot hope but follow while he inspires belief. Demons has it. Monster has it. And now Rise Up has it.
It is my new fight song, the song that helps me feel stronger, the song that helps me believe in myself.
(Anyone who thinks that sounds cheesy might have the 'Enjoyment' relationship with music I outlined earlier - not to say that's a bad thing)
I listened to it trying my best not to well up, at the emotion, the empowerment, contained within the three minutes and fifty one seconds of song. Suffice to say, I listened to it again. Four more times, before moving on to the next one. I liked and enjoyed the rest, but didn't love them like I did Rise Up.

And at the end of this personal reflection, the song ended and I looked around me. My colleagues were chatting, laughing, working away and I looked at them like they were mad. How could they be so relaxed, when something so incredible, so amazing, had just occurred? What was there to chat about, when there was beauty and inspiration like this in the world?

This is my relationship with music. I love it, and I live it.

And I thank Imagine Dragons for everything they have given me. Eagerly awaiting whatever may come next.

# Want to see it all give me more (rise, rise up) #

- Robert

One Extra Effort

They don't teach you how to love somebody.

- Neil Gaiman, The Kindly Ones.

To a casual observer, this blog acts as something in which I can deposit..."things." Travel writing, game reviews, random short stories and my recent family tribute. I would like to be a bit more regular with this thing but one issue of growing older is you seem to run out of spare time very quickly - you might as well book out your weekends now, just to save time.

Not that I'm complaining of course. My social life is at its highest peak ever - including one special addition which I'm coming onto - and I've been having a lot of fun. During the week day evenings, I like to either: read one of the 30+ books waiting to be read, watch one of 20+ TV shows on my list, watch a film from the 50+ list, game, listen to music or maybe, just maybe if the mood takes me and suddenly all the above choices don't appeal, I can do some writing.

(It's still a lifetime goal to have a finished novel by the time I'm 25 years old. HAH! Optimism.)

This meandering introduction is simply to explain (but not justify) the sporadic nature of my posting on Insaniac Journal. Today though, I'm back and I'm bringing some wisdom with me. That's right ladies and gents, today's adventure is a Life Post.

I have a boyfriend. Let's let that sink in for a mo. Me, the king of reading alone, writing alone, going on walks alone, gaming alone, even eating alone, has somehow managed to meet someone for whom that kind of lifestyle is appealing?
Yes, I have a boyfriend. Who saw that coming? Certainly not me in years 2013 through to 2016, but 2017 is where all of the above changed. It's where my social life at home started to pick up and turn into the Random Days Out, Madcap Adventures, More Confident Me it is now.
It's also when I started to use Tinder in a much more...shall we say..."dedicated" way, rather than my previous approach of matching with someone and lapsing into a terrified silence. My transition into not-fully-confident-but-more-confident-than-before, it wasn't without its mishaps. Even at the end of 2016, start of 2017, there was still some emotional pain and a random night in Bournemouth I'd sooner wipe off the record, but it was a start. I was finally comfortable enough - when you've been single for the best part of a decade it's difficult to get out of that mind set - to work on meeting the Right One.

Now picture the scene. It's the day before payday, I'm low on funds and yet decide to accompany the Mother to Basingstoke for a random, eventless Sunday afternoon. Men can only browse without buying for so long, and I had already spent my last remaining pennies on some more films to add to the list. Thus I was sat on a bench somewhere, polishing off some doughnuts purchased with change I'd happened to have on me, doing my best to connect to the nearest Wi-Fi. When this ultimately failed I switched to 4G and clicked into Tinder.

My logic behind this was I'd already swiped left (Rejected, for those who don't speak Tinder) more or less everyone back home. The app works off your current location and you can set how far away you want to find matches. I kept these settings fairly low and close to home - I've already had one random encounter with a randy Scotsman. Admittedly, I tried to make matches whenever I ventured away from home. You can swipe right (Like) people at any time, but the chat doesn't start until they Like you back, so on daytrips away you can see who's in the local area, Like the ones you, well, like, and then see if anyone's messaged you when you get back home. Equally if you don't look at the app all day, others can still Like you while you're in the area and you'll find out whenever you sign in next.

On a random note, when in Cardiff a few weeks previous, I'd had minimal luck.

Anyway. To this day I'm not sure if 'The Boyf' had travelled to Basingstoke before me, was there at the time, or my/his location settings were vast enough to reach as far as Reading (location of his university). Either way he appeared in my list of choices and after a brief read through his bio - and of course a study of his chosen profile pictures - I swiped him right. Sure enough, he'd gotten there before me. An instant match was made and a conversation window opened up.

Now. The point of this little tale and what shall be the Advice of this Life Post. When presented with an empty chat window on Tinder, my best responses tended to go no further than "Hey =]" or "Hey man =]" - properly original, I know.
But this time, I made an exception. I was bored, I was poor, I had finished dusting the doughnut sugar off my fingertips and I was feeling ready to write. I clicked back into his biography and Personal Likes. It didn't take a genius to deduce he was a fan of all things Disney; specially, The Little Mermaid. (It really wouldn't take a genius, his description ends "I just like cuddles and The Little Mermaid".)

He was cute, he was sweet and I wanted to know more. He'd even said he wanted to be "swept off my feet" so something like Hey really was not going to work here. Something awoke inside my mind. My creative brain kicked in. I wanted to be his Prince Charming, a character I had never embodied before, too busy reading and writing. Suddenly the pen really was mightier than the sword.
(Yes I wasn't actually using a pen but typing on a touch-screen phone; sometimes one must suspend disbelief for the sake of poetry)
In the middle of that busy, noisy shopping centre I plugged in my earphones and loaded up Part of Your World from The Little Mermaid soundtrack. I think had I used the pretty obvious words 'Part of Your World' alone I would have received a similarly positive reaction, but when my creative side is at full power, there's no such thing as subtlety.
Using its tune, I replaced the lyrics into something personal to him. It is understandably cheesy, because that's just the kind of hopeless romantic I am, and a little bit personal to us, so to spare us both I shall refrain from repeating my woven words here. A small hint would be that the final line changed to "I want to be, part of his world."

And, success. He was rather overwhelmed, I think is an appropriate word and our conversation flowed from there. The next day, Valentine's no less, he asked to add me on WhatsApp. Less than a month later, we had our first date. A week later, our first kiss. Less than two months after I "sang" on Tinder, we became an item.
The Princess and the Timelord.

So the moral of the story? Piece what's been written so far with the title and you might be able to guess it. I had spent so long sticking to boring convention, opening a chat with "Hey" and gotten nowhere. With Ariel - as I came to name him - I made the exception and now we're very much in love. It's just goes to show what a difference being different can make. Write a fun opening line. Occasionally bring gifts. Show that you listened on the first date by surprising them with their favourite chocolate bar. One little bit of extra effort was all it took and now I've found someone who makes me happier than I considered possible.

Also - and prepare for gushing, here, some of you may wish to skip to the end - I want to tell the solo writers/gamers/walkers out there, you're not as undesirable as you might think. I went into this relationship woefully unequipped in knowledge/experience of how relationships are supposed to work and how I'm expected to act. None of that mattered. Ariel brought me past all that. He didn't mind my nervousness/anxiety and has been brilliant at making me feel better. I believe he even found it cute. Such people really do exist and I got lucky enough to find one.

That's it from me. One extra effort to find the one you love.
Be brave, be different, be creative, be brilliant.

Be yourself.

- Rob

PS: To Ariel, because I know you're reading this (possibly for the fifth time now?) - much love to you, and always remember your mission.

Show me what you can do.

x

Friday 09/06/17

See you on the dark side of the moon.

Today I paid my respects to someone special to me.

This is understandably a sad and difficult time; suitably it becomes a time for family, friends, unity. People coming together to share memories and affections for the one we have lost; to think how we knew him and how we will remember him.

Personally, I shall always remember his voice. Whenever he spoke of something about which he was passionate, he always spoke with such conviction, such enthusiasm. I would find myself enraptured, listening keenly to each syllable - and what made it special is that he was always kind. His manner was consistently calm, warm and welcoming, he spoke with passion, never needing to raise his voice to keep my attention.

He talked and I listened. That is what I shall miss the most.

In the last stages of his life, he suffered from illness. I was preparing myself to visit and say goodbye. Before I did so, I was shown a picture of him in his final days. He was so changed, so far gone. In that picture was a man I did not recognise. He was no longer who I knew him to be. It was already too late to say goodbye. That is an unfortunate circumstance I shall have to live with for the rest of my life, and I shall also have to live the rest of my life, unable to hear his voice ever again. His words that held power while being kind as well.

That is what has hurt me the most.

So on this day of family and friends, remember to cherish the ones you love. Make sure you're never too late to say goodbye. Whatever your favourite feature - their voice, their face, their smile - enjoy it whenever and while you can. 

And make as many memories as possible. In memories, we are immortal.

I'll hear your stories again, someday. And remember your voice always.

- Rob