...Rambles Random

So this weeks ramble has been inspired by my trip to the black hair shop in Thornton Heath. I haven't been in one for years but the giant tub of coconut oil I had been using had whittled itself down to the dredgs that no one wants to use. You know the dirty end bits that have somehow contracted an unholy amount of hair and dust and you have to run you finger around the rim to scrape out the last few hairy morsels. However I digress.

What shocked me about this shop wasn't how spankingly clean it was (there was a man with a feather duster ala Kim and Aggie, making sure all the tubs/bottles/jars were as clean and shiny as they can be) - clearly I have been visting the wrong type of hair shops... No what shocked me was the amount of fake hair they had. Everywhere. Obviously in it's packets, not lounging around the shop, turning itself into strange tumbleweeds and roaming the streets of South London.

Now I don't use fake hair. I'm lucky enough to have hair that grows ridiculously fast, thanks to my Indian mother but it doesn't stop me from wondering where they hell they get all that hair from? Is it necessary? It wasn't your bog standard fake hair that my older sisters used to use. You know the synthetic hair, the one you had to burn the ends of and it somehow glued itself together. The new generation of hair is human hair. Not 10%, not 50% but 100% human hair.

From what I remember of my big sis doing her hair it took at least 2 and a half packets of hair to complete her whole hair do. So if 60 women came into the shop buying 3 packets of real human hair each thats what, 180 packets of human hair every day being sold. (I'm not that great at maths don't worry, this here laptop has a calculator). I'm not judging people that use fake hair, it's their prerogative. What I don't understand is where it all comes from! And this my friends is a dangerous topic for my already overactive imagination.

As soon as I saw all the hair all I could think of was hundreds of "real hair farms". Where thousands of people are hooked up to machines pumping chemicals into their bodies to make their hair grow super fast, super glossy and most of all tangle free. Creepy...

I know it's not true and it is my over active imagination and as the teacher I work with informed me, it's all probably Eastern European or Indian hair anyway so not to worry. But that in itself is a bleak, bleak concept.

Anyway, I feel like I have rambled (get it, rambled?) on about my obsession with real human hair for far too long and may have made a few of you tune out and wonder why you're reading about one girls obsession with "real hair farms" (the longer you think about it the more real and dystopian it gets by the minute). So I'll leave you with my final point and no it's not about hair (enough already!)

My social experiment has ended. I hear a collective sigh and no it is all that bad and yes most of the men on these websites are fucking creepy and no the 2nd date didn't end well. Sods law really. However I have met someone the "natural" way. You know the way mother nature intended. If you can call it that and so far things are looking good. Ironically he has taught me to like myself again and this my friends is a hard thing to do, especially as the mean reds (no I'm not talking periods, I'm talking "Breakfast at Tiffanys" and if you've seen it you'll know what I mean and if you haven't then bloody well watch it) keep popping their heads around my metaphorical living room door every 2 hours to question me on what I think is happening is actually really happening or if it's a made up image of an already twisted mind. Thankfully he hasn't sussed out how crazy I am. I may leak it within a couple of weeks and see the reaction. Hopefully he won't run.

Heres hoping.

...Nameless a Lipogram.

Nameless

Come softly,
Treading in my sleep.
Looking into the window,
Follow me.

Nights like this one are grand,
Revel in it.
See the wonder of it.

Enjoy the moments we steal together,
Breathe me in.

Charge the air with the feel of it,
Taste it,
Let it linger awhile. 

...Random Ramblings

This weeks ramblings are prompted by my walk to work. Yes I am lucky enough to walk to work. It takes 20 mins there and 20 mins back. The walk down is a lot easier then the walk back. Why? I hear you cry, because it's all up hill on the way back. Bloody sucks. At least my thighs are getting a jolly good work out.

Anyway, on my way to work I see the general commers and goers, the school kids, the office workers and the ones who are coming back from the night before (how I miss those days!). What gives me endless entertainment are the ones who are running late and are "running". I call it "running" because it is hilarious. They are blatantly late and obviously panicking but yet they decide to do some sort of strange half run half slide along the pavement at an attractive yet completely pointless pace and then, dear friends, after a few yards of this, I don't know shall we call it a "slun" (better amalgamations of the word are welcome) they stop!! As if that little slun got them any closer to catching the train! It's beautifully pointless and it makes my morning. I don't know about you but if I'm running late I bloody well run! Fuck looking attractive I need to catch my train! Right well enough of the apostrophes, I'll go back to my usual mellow state in a minute.

So back to my walk to work. Once I reach the station and pass all the non slunners. I have to enter the underpass. Yes it is as sinister and as deadly as every other underpass in London, nay Britain. Especially Bristol. Or so I've heard. Ok it's not that sinister, but it does have a pretty sinister smell to it everyday and everyday it smells different. Now I have quite a keen sense of smell and my poor little nostrils cannot take this violation everyday. I could walk round but then that adds on another 10 mins to my lovely 20 minute jaunt. Where am I going with this? I don't know, but you started reading this and I know your hoping for an end point or at least an exit cluase coming up soon. Alas you're not in luck, I will just keep going and like the title suggests this is a ramble and unlike the musings there probably won't be much deep thought involved. Or willl there? (Pause for dramatic effect, think 80's drama.)

What I don't like about my walk to work are the mothers. Not all the mothers. Some are quite attractive and friendly and want to be around there kids. But then there are the others, the ones who make my skin prickle, the ones I want to hit with a bat and tell them to LISTEN! Your children are trying to communicate with you, open up to them, embraced their random conversation, enjoy it now while it lasts. One mother I passed yesterday was unfortunately part of the latter. Her young boy was trying to explain something he obviously found fascinating and she turned round to him and told him to shut up. To be quiet. She didn't want to hear what he had to say. So he stopped talking and my heart broke. That poor child. Yeah ok she may be at her wits end and the little blighter may not stop talking. But he's YOUR child, you CHOSE to have him so bloody well listen to him. There will come a time where he won't want to talk to you because of incidents like this and God forbid he's in actually trouble and needs someone to turn to coz mate it won't be you! And people wonder why there are hoardes of unruly children roaming the streets, screaming out for someone to listen to them. Unable to express themselves vocally they instead turn to destruction. I'm hoping that the future holds a lot more for the younger ones coming up behind us. Lets make it a little brighter for them.

For now I will retreat into the shell that is my room and continue to write about the underpass and try to forget the troubled little souls of today. Well at least for a couple of hours.

Heres hoping.

...Museful Mindings

So chaps sometime has past since I last spouted my mind splurges all over this here blog and I think it's safe to say not much more development has happened. Or has it? (This is where I pause for dramatic effect.)

This time my musings have been prompted by a song. A very good song by a very good artist. Emeli Sande. (Sorry Ems haven't got one of those accent things on my laptop so the normal "e" will just have to suffice.) Her song "Daddy" reminds me of all the shitty men I've had the unfortunate pleasure of knowing. Made me think about love all over again. But I won't start, otherwise we'd be here for years. 

On a happier note my social exprementation is going well. Apart from the fact I seem to attract the strange older man, who is in fact old enough to be my dad, winking at me. Yes thats right, winking. It's an absurd idea that said dating site feels is exactly the right way to go about "breaking the ice". It doesn't break the ice and in fact is rather creepy, especially if they "wink" at you everyday. I do feel like I've got enough "material" to write a whole series of books - but that was the point wasn't it? I may add a few characters into the new story I'm writing. Well I say writing, it's knocking around up here somewhere, it just won't let me write it down - yet.

I am getting itchy feet though. Not from my social experimentation, that would be a weird side effect wouldn't it? Doubt it would deter the weirdos though... No I think it's the change of season. I need a little bit of excitement, need to get the cobwebs out and start the old engine again. Go on holiday, in fact just go away, somewhere - anywhere!! My trip to Cambodia is on the horizon, so for now the thought of that will keep me going. In the meantime I may just go get another tattoo.

Oh and the date went very well.

For now chaps adios, hopefully the sun will come out and my mood will perk up.

Heres hoping.

...Joe - Chapter 8 pt 2

Chapter 8 pt 2

 

Enough.

This had gone on too long and I'm sick of it. It's been three weeks and all I've done is sit in the fucking dark, drinking myself sick and smoking till my eyes roll back. Thank God Sainsburys and my new dealer delivers. Otherwise I'd be fucked, more so then I am already.

I've got to get up. I've got to shower, I need to eat properly and I need to get out of this fucking house. So what if Jonie doesn't want me. So what if she hasn't bothered to call me in three fucking weeks. So what if my life is completely and utterly fucked. I don't need Jonie, I can make new friends, in fact I can make my old friends. 

 

I look around the camp I made myself in the living room and I wonder where I left my phone. I stand up (well not without a little trouble), scattering three weeks worth of crumbs and knocking over the mini “Beer Mahal” I made myself. I sigh, that took a whole day. At least the mini “Beerful Tower” and “Beerkinham Palace” are still standing erect. Ha erect. I search through the debris that is my living room and I find my phone nestled in between the armchair cushions and the underwear I remembered to change. It's dead and I'm not surprised. I look for the charger and notice that the cable is hanging out of my laptop so I plug it in and sit down. I wait a few minutes and turn it on. It gives a satisfactory beep and I lean back on the sofa, squishing a mountain of empty orange juice cartons. I grab my rizla, tobacco, weed and grinder and start the rolling process. I've gotten so good it takes only a matter of minutes before I'm lighting the sucker and retreating into my own happy world again.

A few hours later I emerge, fuzzy headed and hungry. I scan the floor for something edible but my eyes bring me nothing back. Fuck. I guess I have to rejoin the natural world. I get up and I feel like I'm on a boat, I honestly don't think I'll make it to my bedroom to shower. I get up one flight of stairs and call it a day. I head towards the bedroom on the left and I freeze. Hand reaching out but not quite touching the handle. I haven't been in this room since I moved in six years ago. It was my dads room and all his stuff is still in there. The same as he left it all those years ago when him and his new family stopped coming to London for holidays. Apparently it wasn't exotic enough for his thorough bred clan. I take a deep breath and turn the handle, pushing open the door in one swift gesture. The door sighs at the effort its has to make after all these years. It hits the dresser behind the door with a thud sending dusty costume jewellery scattering to the floor. I look around the room from the doorway. Dust particles are dancing in the light and I'm hit with an overwhelming smell of musk. In my current state it's all too much and I feel the bile rising in my throat. I'm gonna be sick. I lurch into the room, groping at the pieces of furniture that aren't moving and yank open the bathroom door. I make it to the toilet just in time. Everything that I've eaten in the past three weeks comes back up and trust me it's not a lot.

My body heaves, forcing my back to arch and my stomach to cramp, throwing up another load into the waiting porcelain bowl. After fifteen minutes I sit back, wiping my mouth on my soiled shirt and drying my running eyes with the back of my hand. I lean against the cold bathtub and muse at how warm the floor feels. Must be under floor heating, shame it's not in the rest of the house.

I stare at the empty room through the open door and I feel numb. The only thing I can think is that this room is so much nicer then mine, seeing as mine looks like the aftermath of a third world bombing. I didn't get round to cleaning up after that day and instead closed the door on it. I'll deal with it eventually. Maybe I'll hire a cleaner.

I heave my body onto the side of the bath and push the plug into the hole and turn the hot water on. The bath is a bit dusty so I have to switch the tap to the hose and rinse it down. The dirty water builds up coz I forgot to take the plug out so I have to attend to that, then wash the bath down again and put the plug in and finally turn the hot fucking water on. Man, that was a lot more work then I bargained for. I stand and flush the toilet, watching the sick swirl down gives me a weird nostalgic feeling. I take a deep breath and turn towards the room. I have to face it sometime.

It's been decorated in “neutral colours” meaning it looks like a stripy cappuccino monster threw up everywhere then passed out in the corner and someone mistook it for a bed. Apart from that the room isn't too bad. It's so bright, the tall bay windows filling the room from floor to ceiling with its brilliant glow. Compared to the shit hole upstairs this feels like a palace. I wish the rest of the house felt this way. I may have to move down here.

The sound of running water jolts me out of my daydream and I turn back into the bathroom. The water in the tub is only half filled and I have a desperate urge to fill it with bubbles. Lots and lots of bubbles. I dive towards the cupboard under the sink and yank the door open with all the stealth of a ninja. I rummage around the shelves, the smell of lavender and strawberry filling my nose. I find a bottle of strawberry bubble bath that hasn't been opened, so I crack the lid and take a deep breath. I'm instantly reminded of my mum and I feel a pang of guilt coz I've been ignoring her recently. I pledge to be a better son and ninja roll towards the bath tub dumping half the bottle into it. Within a few minutes the scent of my mum feels the room. 

I ninja crawl back to the cupboard and rummage around a bit more. I find expired aspirin, ibuprofen and half empty deodorants. A packet of razors, a pair of scissors, an expired packet of condoms and a half used packet of Viagra. I instantly throw the Viagra into the corner of the room and feel vile. Dirty old sod. 

 

I grab the razors and the scissors and look at myself in the mirror. My hair has grown outrageously wild and I’ve got a hobo beard. It's time for a haircut. I shoot a quick glance at the rapidly filling tub and judge that I've got at least five minutes till I have to turn the water off. So I pick up the scissors and poise it over my beard. Here goes nothing.

I start cutting, slowly at first, my heart pounding with every strand that falls. I'm half way through and my face looks so much better. I finish my beard off with gusto and I turn my attention to my hair.

I notice that the sound of running water is getting deeper and I turn the taps off just in time.

I look in the mirror and run a hand through my hair. Bye hair. You hold so many fucked up memories. It's time for a fresh start. I pick the scissors back up again and I hesitate, just for a minute, hands poised in position and I take in a deep breath. I breathe in light and positivity and I breath out all the shit.

“It's one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready so here I go.”

...mindful musings.

These are just gentle ramblings from the thoughts that have been spinning around my head these last couple of weeks. Lately I've been thinking about love. Or what love should be like and like all my musings it all started with a book. A good book but a book that explored the depths that one would go to secure their love and never, ever let it go. Sounds a bit deep right? Well it was. And it's got me thinking.
How did it start?
It started with a kiss right?
Or with a look?
An attraction, something indefinable but acute nonetheless.

Do we all know what we want or are we latching onto a love that we think we need because of all the films that are out at the moment. Think about it, the last lot of films that came out of Hollywood last year were about fuck buddies. Fuck buddies who then fall into love. Or should I say "love". About vampires and humans falling madly in love and that possessive-ness that comes from an all consuming love. But that's what it's all about right? That's what I want, right? I want to be consumed, to be needed. That comfort you feel from another person. But then is it the need for love of comfort?  Are the two interchangeable? Do I just need to be comforted? Should I just get another cat?!

But will that stop the feeling of desire, the feeling to be wanted, loved?

As a social experiment (or so I keep telling myself) I joined a dating website, you know to gain a few new character perspectives etc and I'm mortified. I never thought I'd be one of  those people. You know, that kind of person who can't interact normally with other human beings so they decide to go online instead were they can hide behind a computer screen. Alas I was wrong, well only a little bit wrong. Some of them do seem like jumped up weirdos who are looking for a Thai bride. But some are not. Apparently after 3 days I have been deemed one of the normals and I have scored myself a date with a seemingly normal human being. Fingers crossed.

It doesn't distract from my previous point however. A point that I'm not sure where the end arguement lies or where I'm exactly going with it. It's a question that I do feel needs an answer. Whether or not I'll get one is another question entirely. More "social experimentation" methinks.

I did need to get this off my chest, or should I say my mind so I can sleep a dreamless sleep tonight.

Heres hoping.

...Joe - Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Days go by and I feel empty. She doesn't call me, no one calls me. I keep thinking I hear her coming through the door and I wait, here in my room, in my bed, but she doesn't come. So I lie here, in my dirty sheets and wait. I won't move till Jonie comes back. I refuse to think about what happened, about what I did. My brain however wants the opposite, and keeps replaying that night over and over again and every time the shame buries itself a little deeper and I'm afraid that this time I won't be able to recover.

I don't eat, shower or shave. My hair keeps getting longer and I only get up when I need to piss or you know, shit. I don't know how long I can go on like this. I watch the clock, the clock watches me and I listen to the sounds of my house and reacquaint myself with my loneliness. We may as well get used to each others company.

It's now been seven days since Jonie left and my stomach finally forces me out of my bed and into my barren kitchen. The breads mouldy and the milks gone sour. The only thing within sell by date is a block of mouldy mature cheddar or beer, so I grab the beer. After a few gulps I feel a bit better but I know to have to eat something – man cannot survive on beer alone. I contemplate going down to the corner shop in my seven day stink clothes and my stomach lurches. I can't go to the corner shop, I can't face “Phillip” or Leon or whatever the fuck his name was. I can't go where I used to go or do the things I used to do because in every corner of my life Jonies there. Her ghost lingering. Reminding me of my loss.

I down the beer and grab another one from the fridge. I slam the door and slam my head against it's cool exterior. I'm so fucking tired. I should go shopping, fuck I probably should shower. I sniff under my arms and I think I smell okay. Maybe the shower can wait.

 

I slowly walk back to my room, every surface of my house reminds me of her. I don't know what to do about this feeling, the memories of our relationship follow me around and I so desperately want to speak to her. I miss her so much. We haven't gone this long before without speaking to each other. We went everywhere together, holidays, shopping, drinking. We even went to Universities within train distance of each other. We were never to far away. Ever.

I wander into my room and look around. I should get dressed, it'll probably make me feel better. I pick up the first T-shirt I see off the floor. It's that fucking green Fred Perry polo shirt from that day. I scrunch it in my fist, I feel angry, so irrationally angry. I blame the polo shirt for bringing me such bad luck, in fact I curse you Fred Perry your clothes brought along my downfall. May all your profits burn. I am so angry I'm shaking. I throw the polo shirt as hard as I can and it hits the wall with a thud and springs back off. My beer spills a little from the force of my previous outburst and it makes me even more angry – hulk angry, so I throw that as well, it hits the floor and fizzes everywhere. I start throwing anything I can get my hands on. Cups, clothes, books, shoes, newspapers, plates. I drag the duvet off my bed and I hurl it across the room, the pillows follow and I upend the mattress and rip the curtains from the poles. 

 

I accidentally smash a picture of Jonie and my anger instantly dies. I pick up the frame and shake the picture free. It's an old picture, taken on the last day of Secondary school. We look so young, so fucking happy together and then that night comes flooding back and I'm crying again, so hard it's making my body shake and I can't breathe, I can't get a grip on what’s happened. It seems so unreal. I clutch the picture to my chest and curl up in the mess I made. Seems fitting doesn't it?