A Series of Thoughts

At the age of twenty-nine, I have a new-found confidence in my writing (both creative and critical); an ability to articulate oneself (ya' know talk propa and all that); the courage to speak up, expressing opinion, and not feel as if I'm treading the waters of Academia Sea whilst slowly drifting closer and closer to Ignorance Island. I've found feminism, well I say this, the reality: I have discovered what feminism actually is which, by the way if any of you are wondering, is not a pack of angry women stomping naked around a camp fire, whilst aimlessly throwing their bras to the flames and regurgitating slurs of male hatred. And among discovering feminism's implications, have realised a feminist I have always been. At the age of twenty-nine, I have graduated with a BA Hons in English Studies and the three years I spent at University has changed my life. I feel I'm equipped to understand and relate to people from all walks of life; to not judge people on first impressions; to see beyond labels like: 'mental illness,' 'drug addict,' and 'bisexual.' I am now able to see that whilst some are trying to rid themselves of these given labels, others hide behind them. I am aware of gender constructs and social conditioning, binary systems and linguistics. At the age of twenty-nine, I haven't ever found it so difficult to find a job. Leaving school at the age of sixteen, ironically, feeling academia was not for me, I floated in and out of many jobs, from bars to banks, shops to schools, pubs to publishers; I applied, got invited to interview, received a job offer. In fear of being misunderstood I must state, I wasn't ever an ill-mannered teenager, I have always been reasonably articulate and haven't ever struggled finding my way around Microsoft Word, but in many ways, I was clueless. When finally deciding, three years ago, to return to the one thing I had always been certain I enjoyed, I decided to leave my job and follow English right back to the classroom, where I started my expedition to adult education. And what a wonderful place it was too. A world of grants, help, guidance and encouragement. A degree all for the small price of £9000 - priceless really. Or is it? In May 2010 we saw only the second hung parliament since World War II and the first full coalition since 1945 - well, in my opinion, Cameron and Clegg's union plays out more like head girl of the 'popular' group you saw at school and one of her minions, who fears to disagree with number one bitch would only result in being shamed in front of the entire school in having her knickers pulled down in the canteen on a Friday lunchtime. And it's this fear of exposed underwear that resulted in the 'new kids' at my university, the following year, signing up for a nice weighty sum of £9000 per year - the cost of my degree in its entirety. Since David Cameron's pink, chubby cheeks have blessed our screens, newspapers and billboards, we have heard nothing much more than his grievance with our benefits system. Cameron insists 'we should give young people a clear, positive choice: Go to school. Go to college. Do an apprenticeship. Get a job. But just choose the dole? We've got to offer them something better than that.' Well David, I went to school and I then went to college and I'm now on the dole and can't get a job, not to mention the fact you've made higher education something that only a class of people, that wouldn't ever have a need for benefits, can afford. Irony anyone? No?....Not a fan? *Ahem* One of January's headlines, unsurprisingly printed by right-wing newspaper The Telegraph, read: 'Increase in employment will bring "peace of mind" to UK, David Cameron says.' Now, I must admit there hasn't been a shortage of vacancies that I have applied for both directly and through a recruitment agency, but I still seem to have no joy. When asking this agency 'where I am going wrong?' I received the reply: 'Your cover letters are brilliant, your CV is great, but the current job market means that they can afford to be "picky," and the only thing successful candidates have over you is more recent work experience.' Okay, so what does this mean? The fact that I have studied for the last three years is now working against me (mind the pun)? Oh look, there's our faithful friend, Irony again. This then begs the question, do companies and small businesses no longer find employees educated to degree level desirable, or is it that the rate of unemployment is still so high that there will always be someone better suited to a role than you? 'Jobs are still being created but there are more people looking for them; hence unemployment is coming down more slowly,' writes Larry Elliott, economics editor for The Guardian. So, as graduates, what hope do we have? In this economic climate and under a, lets face it, Torie government, do we simply leave university with debt, unemployment and a bruised ego?

I wonder lonely as a cloud, envious of the raindrops that travel together. Jealous of thunder and lightning’s partnership, of the wind’s power and the sun’s warmth. I watch as the trees dance together Flowers grow in the sunshine and ducks languish in the rain, and skate together across the river. But wonder alone, lonely as a cloud observing the beauty that surrounds me, hoping the grey will eventually lift and let the sunshine break through.

Mundane chores are an excuse to oneself for not writing poetry. For not being proactive, for inactivity of expression, for not having the time to sit down and tap into a creative state of mind. Pointless tasks are an excuse for not writing poetry. For not being playful with words, for not thinking about how to be dark, mysterious and ‘misunderstood’. They are an excuse to oneself. And it often depends on how convincing they need to be on how busy I’ve been doing nothing.

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, you hide under the cloak of a nice idea. But this Tuesday morning you will be unveiled as it pisses down with rain and a shit load of hail. Now I’m trapped in my car which I wish was a boat, avoiding the inevitable, pissed that I don’t have my coat. I guess I could make a run for it how wet would I get? But I’m wearing suede boots which I haven’t protected yet. Why would you do this to me? Why today? I used to be so fond of you, why would you betray me this way? As I curse this season, the clouds suddenly part, the rain stops and brings joy to my heart. I make a dash for it, it wasn’t that far. And I make it to Sainsbury’s. Fuck! I’ve left the keys in the car.

I the person had problems like anybody else. Tired of never having any money, wondering where my life would take me, what kind of future will I have, will I have enough money. When will I have children, when will I get married, I wonder if he’ll have money. I the person like anybody else had problems. Am I good person, do my friends think I’m a good person. Are my friends good people? Do I have good friends, am I a good friend? Do I need to lose weight, should I look more like her? Do I like how I look, what do other people think? While I the author have different problems like, what will I write about next? Will it work, will it flow? Will it be liked and will I sound smart? Have I included enough themes and imagery, and complementary syntax and metre? What is metre again? Have I thought enough, have I thought too much? Is my writing any good, are my classmates better than me? So I the author wants to talk and silence I the person.

Shipwrecked on an isolated shore littered with emotion. Immersed in pools of vacant eyes. I hope to splash a bit of colour on a blank page and break up the darkness. Put something in the middle of nothing. I try to walk tall and breathe in life. Inhale its beauty and swallow a moment. Because smiling snapshots soothe the soul and bathe the mind. Yes the exquisite snippets freeze-frame and disappear, but on a promise to return. Wind moments around your finger, absorb their goodness and stick them in your scrap - book.

After a while you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and changing a soul and you lean that love doesn't mean leaning and company doesn't always mean security and loneliness is universal. And you learn that kisses aren't contracts and presents aren't promises. You begin to accept your defeats with your head up and your eyes open, with the grace of an adult, not the grief of a child. You learn to build your roads on today because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for your plans. After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure. You really are strong you really do have worth. So live to learn and know yourself in doing so you will learn to live.

Though small and delicate, sensitive and fragile, my hands held your's and carried you. Through trials and tribulations, through pain and through happiness, through your strength and weakness. And when you were weak they provided you with strength and support. But you crushed them. You held on so tight you cut off my blood supply and drained the colour from them.          You placed a ring on my finger, so beautiful and special. It left an indent, forever engraved. Even when I removed it, I felt it. Even when you made it lose it's meaning, it clung onto my hand, searching for a new one or desperately trying to bring back the old          I used to hate the way you ran your fingernails underneath mine, until your mother explained the childlike connection; then I stopped asking you to stop; I stopped pulling my hand from yours, as the overwhelming feeling of endearment replaced the irritation.          When you left, I started painting my nails bright colours; colours that clashed with one another; colours which alternated from nail to nail. I tattooed my index finger with a brash, bold statement - it made me feel empowered, somewhat, to do something I wanted to do despite it being impractical.          I wouldn't be honest if I said I no longer missed holding your hand. Although, perhaps it's fairer to say: I miss you holding mine.

I eventually tore my head from my pillow and attempted to place my feet on the unstable ground beneath me. I reached for my phone to dial his number, but thought better of it. Was there any point? What was there to say? What can I say? I was tired of it all; of the dead weight I had been carrying around. Anxiety constantly festered in the pit of my stomach, waiting to erupt, causing my heart to leap into my mouth. Before I even knew what I was doing, the phone was ringing in my ear whilst I waited to hear his voice on the other end. 'Hello?' Silence. 'Are you there?' 'Yes, I’m here.' He replied, exasperatedly.

After taking respite in the comfort of home and the family, I have managed to get back into the working mind frame and decided to approach the next part of my end of year independent project for university. I decided to construct a critical essay on the works of Bob Dylan, entitled 'Politics and Poetry'. Needless to say, a lot of background research has been required of me each time I sit and attempt to analyse any of his protest songs.          Today I started to look at 'Only a Pawn in Their Game', a song Dylan wrote about  the assassination of civil rights activist Medgar Evers. I discovered that he performed this song on the 1963 March on Washington, where later Martin Luther King delivered his 'I have a dream' speech. This urged me watch the speech in it's entirety, which I'd never done before. No matter how many times I hear this it never ceases to send goose pimples all over my body and tears to my eyes. An inspirational man and epically inspirational words.

So fuck you and fuck her too.

He used to sit in that chair, every morning He'd smile at me as I walked in the room carrying our mugs of coffee I'd sit opposite him in my dressing gown. That's how we'd start out day, everyday. Everyday for thirty five years he sat in that chair every morning The chair was empty now and I sat there alone. I looked at his chair and envisioned his smile, as I continued to ignore the letter that sat on the mantelpiece, alone. I missed him. His company and his presence. His smile and his warmth. His bad jokes and idle chit-chat. I missed him. I finished my coffee and left the room. Closed the door and locked it behind me, leaving the letter inside alone. My routine had to continue, my coffee in the morning, to keep his memory alive, to carry on... But now I sat alone. Just me and the letter It sat there so smug. White and formal. It knew I had to open it, at some point and so did I. I hated it. It hated me. I wanted to get rid of it and it seemed like it wanted to get rid of the comfort in my denial. I wanted to get rid of it! I walked back to the room unlocked the door. I stared at it, it stared back at me. It's bold, black print stamped on the front. I ripped it apart and pulled out it's contents. "We're sorry to hear of your loss"  It said. "We can confirm Mr Harvey's account has now been closed. Yours Sincerely, Barclay's."

These stats are nothing short of impressive and, alongside my generation's memories of a great and pertinent decade of music, Oasis certainly left their mark on Britain. 

you think too much.

Mirrors our vulnerability