In the dark of the evening, as everything turns into greys and blues, everything seems to dance. When I stopped walking to take stock, the sound wrapped around me. Tiny titters of birds, bleating lambs far away, owls some closer. But closer, there were the snaps of twigs, the rustle of leaves, the shifting undergrowth and mulch. Footsteps not mine. Movement all around.

And me in the middle, vaguely terrified, and unable to tell what movement was my eyes playing tricks, and what was the forest itself.

It was incredible. Not least when I understood, as my sense reached their limits, that this was all playing around me, but I was nowhere near the centre. All around me was life that cared not for me. I was barely a part of it, even as I felt connected to it. This swirl of noise, the clatter of life, slowly going it’s own way.

I was not in the middle. The world was. I was just a tiny thought, drifting across the surface.

—

—

This was the evening after Uncivilisation 2011, the second ‘festival’ of the Dark Mountain Project. It was the first time it started to feel really uncivilised, and was an incredibly intense experience. Not quite has scary as returning to the city, and feeling some of those sensations again, only related to the thing I’m supposed to be used to. The swirl of noise and the clatter of life, amplified and drowned out all at once, but I’ll get to that. Maybe.

Basically, it was a weekend for creative types interested in the manifesto of the Dark Mountain, to get together and talk. There was a lot of great talk. There was a lot of fascinating stories and people. There was so much going on in a very small space, often seemingly rushing towards you like the ground as you fall.

My brain is genuinely aching. Though my heart is swollen.

I didn’t really expect it to be like this. I was expecting to hear politics and get fired up. I was hoping to learn and grow and solidify.

Instead, I just feel like I have been put in contact with a part of me that has been missing.

This is also good.

I’m not going to talk too much about the speakers and the talks, or even the bands. I’m sure other people will post much more eloquent responses and critiques of what was said. I don’t remember many huge bombshells in the actual programme. Nobody has many answers about what to do next apart from look after yourself, pay attention, listen to stories, tell your stories, and learn how to live with less.

Possibly the simplest and most obviously true statement of the weekend was something along the lines of  ’get better at enjoying non-material things, because if you want to be happy, those are going to be the only things you can rely on’.

In shorter, if everything runs out, make sure you’ve got something that can’t run out to make your heart sing.

That wasn’t actually shorter, was it.

I’m not good at brevity right now, maybe. I’ve got a lot of listening to try and take in and and process. At some point I think a lot of things in my brain are going to pop, in various different ways.

The weekend clicked for me about five times, after initially seeming like something utterly contradictory and so somewhat failed. When people who are talking about the end of the world get angry and self righteous about a cafe only having jacket potatoes left, it makes you wonder. Dougald, one of the organisers, noted that someone on twitter had described the festival as ‘luddites with iPhones’, he was aware of the irony. Smari pointed out earlier (quite probably joking, but still quite probably right), the people who were prepared were probably somewhere else, being prepared. This was not a place to learn how to prepare for the apocalypse. This was a place to talk.

Which seemed kind of pointless.

Until. Well. Until it started to feel right. Until I realised that this wasn’t necessarily about building bunkers, it was about building soul, heart, spirit or something like it. There are many sorts of preparedness.

The ‘What next’ talk helped, particularly when Paul Kingsnorth (the other founder) noted that the festival had kind of started out as a place to get writers together.

Once you start thinking of it as a writer’s workshop at the end of the universe, it kind of made sense.

But before that, it really clicked, as I got in touch with exactly the sort of hippy I am.

People call me a hippy all the time, and sometimes I get annoyed, but mostly because I don’t know what it means. I acknowledge that I don’t help myself by wearing skirts and long hair and liking flowers, but, well, it still seems like a derogatory term. Something ineffectual. I guess this could be historiographical. During one conversation, Vinay noted that the cultural revolution died because all the clever people died in the first years of battle, leaving nobody to lead that side in the war.

So; failed and idealistic revolutionary? Possibly not that far off. But there are other trappings.

This weekend, for me, was actually a deeply spiritual experience. Despite me not having any clear definition of what that is. The biggest learnings were not about people (though the campfire was one of the most supportive singsongs I’ve ever taken part in. I’ve never sung solo acappella in front of strangers before, and I felt happy to do it and to fail. Thanks to that fire. If you’re reading this, you know who you are.)

Really, the awesome ritualistic theatre of Liminal, was what bought my heart into action. A small prologue, a procession through a series of unneverving dreamlike vignettes, and a  final ritual, of noise and movement in the depths of a candlelit forest. Through that, I felt centred and connected to all of life, all of the world. Like had taken part in some kind of bonding ceremony. My centre suddenly felt further away from me than usual, but in the right way.

I celebrated by getting drunk, which was almost as stupid as some of the decisions on my cycle out from Petersfield to the campsite, which took five hours instead of one, and almost as fun. (Though it was the cycle that nearly killed me, if it hadn’t been for a spanner and a nice old lady called Anne, I’d probably be dead. Or at least very, very ill.)

The next day I was less engaged, but still picking up fragments, and maybe the odd braingrenade from Vinay. My mind was struggling to keep up with some of the learnings of the night before. Not least a weighty discussion in the almost sacredly intimate space of the hexayurt (which I stumbled drunkenly into at four in the morning).

I think spaces need to be small for real weight to be talked about. A conference or lecture is not a supportive or communal environment, it is a space for hierarchy and showing off. There were problems with some of the spaces, that bought out some odd things in people, and made me shut up and feel alienated. But when things worked, they worked.

And actually, shutting up and listening was what I needed. It wasn’t until everyone one faded back to their real lives and I was left in a quite countryside that I really appreciated that. And that I finally got to listen to what I really needed.

I made a new friend, who fed and nourished me in a number of ways, not least with actual physical real food. I need to get the micro infrastructure for cookery into my camping bike loadout pretty sharpish.

After absorbing some silence sunshine and beauty, we talked about sheep, unicorns and ancestors. Myths and futures and spirits.

The thing is, when you have the space to look at the noisiness of the quieter, less verbal world, you realise that these spirits, while metaphors, are utterly, utterly real.

Our myths and stories are wrapped up together, and they can still be shared around a campfire, and nothing will make you new friends like laughing and sharing them.

We are going to be ancestors. Even if we don’t have children, those around us will. We will tell them stories, and they will tell stories about us. Eventually, that is all we will be. Stories.

After my final commune with nature, the final fire of the weekend was shared with total but beautiful strangers. The chance to bounce around some chatter, to hear our thoughts and stories of the weekend shared and stretched and played with. Repeated and explained from different angles.

With the owls for company.

We were not the centre, we were just part of a stream through eternity. We looked backwards, and we looked forwards, and we saw everything stretching out beyond us.

—

—

I think we are tiny. I think we make tiny marks. As a civilisation, we have wreaked huge damage, but still, where it is, life persists. We will, eventually, wash away (barring the definitely real possibility of biotech, nanotech or nuclear catastrophe), and leave a world that will move on without us.

But civilisation is not actually us. Not the deep us, at our core.

Politically, we must make sure we demand the world the world deserves. We must learn how to change our civilisation so it does not destroy everything. This will probably not happen until it’s all gone horribly wrong. This is a tragedy for us.

The world will pick itself up and carry on without us.

We need to do something about this. This weekend was not about finding out what. It was about finding out why.

It was about seeing alternatives and feeling them.

It was restorative to something in my heart. Like a tree was growing there that hasn’t been watered in forever. Finally it is growing again, maybe even bearing fruit.

I still don’t know what to do about civilisation. But I do know I need to distance myself from it. My path seems clearer. Move, slowly and safely away from the horror of it all. Find somewhere I can live a simpler life.

The route will not be simple. I don’t have the wisdom and skills and power of my ancestors. I don’t know how to live off land, and I don’t have land to live off.

But. Well. I need to be out there.

Where the real world is. Living and bustling in it’s own way. I must visit it more regularly and learn how to work with it.

These are musts now, not just idle dreams.

I’m not going to stop talking about the problems. I’m going to continue to try and make the world change. But I am also going to make a tent on a darker mountain.

My spirit belongs with the others. In the darkness.

It’s not easy to see in the dark. This weekend, I practiced opening my eyes wider.

With time. I will work on my eyes.

And my heart.

And my soul.

So I can see deeper into the darkness, and maybe even live there.

—

This is a first response. It is tired and slightly crazy, for that is where I’m at right this moment.I’m going to use Unstruck this week to explore a few questions that came up over the weekend. This is technically breaking the rules, but that’s what they’re for, right?

That’s me cuddling a snake. My glasses are always that wonky. #FACT

I realise that I’m probably just going through a weird state of mind, but it occurred to me last night that I might be alone forever, and that it might not really be so bad.

We’re talking romance loneliness here. Someone to settle down with and be with long enough to grow into each other solidly enough to be the roots of some children. Someone to share centres with. Someone to build orgasms with.

As a genderqueer, hairy, smelly man, I am pretty far outside the realm of what is attractive. For quite a while now, I’ve been searching for people who understand the me of me, who might want to become serious about being with me.

This weird entitlement of thinking ‘I’m grown up now, I kinda understand my weaknesses and issues, I’m pretty sure I could be good now, so why aren’t I with someone?’

It’s a privileged and problematic assumption. I try to steer clear. But I’m still left with this longing. A desire for someone to come along and fill in the gaps on a quirky indie romcom with an awesome leftfield soundtrack.

But why?

Why do I feel the need to buy into this assumed tying in with others? Why do I purport to reject the gender binary, whilst still craving the ultimate expression of it’s lunacy? What is it about the happy ending that makes it so right?

It occurred to me, that underneath all of my craving and whinging and moping and moaning, maybe I’m actually learning something much more useful.

I think the last few years of my life have been about learning to be myself, and then also to be with myself. Facing up to some of my darknesses and taking responsibility for my own behaviour, has given me something resembling an ability to be myself. Comfortably. I am stronger than I have ever been. I am more understanding of my instabilities. I am more determined than ever to not be a dick.

It’s awareness. Self awareness.

And self discovery.

And being with my self.

Not to mention self love (in the more euphemistic sense of the phrase).

It all adds up to actually (at least for now) feeling, in a very surprising way, ready to acknowledge that my future might be one in which I am, from that narrow point of view, all alone.

It might even be okay.

I don’t expect to ever be totally alone. I just need to rest on the support of the friends and loved ones I already have. To work on these relationships and be strong in myself. I am part of a community, I can always reach out and grow that. There is no requirement to bond with someone who has to deal with my self and all it’s weirdnesses. It’s only fair to ostracise myself from love if that’s what it takes to be the me I am.

It’s not so bad. I think I can live with it.

No hope in the boat.

I’m just going to try and be me, be happy, look out for those around me. I’m going to be aware and open and forward facing.

And hopefully, I won’t moan so much.

Being alone might just bring me closer in touch with myself, mentally, sexually and maybe even spiritually. It’s possible.

I’m going to stop trying to build a future around imagined ideals. I’m just going to work with myself, and my behaviour.

(At least until the next overwhelming crush (and the inevitable crash and burn).)

We’ll see.

Illustration by Adam.

Today I posted my 200th post on the Unstruck blog. It’s not quite the 200 x 500=100,000 words that that should be, as there are five odd posts without any text at all (and the 500 is a limit, many are dead on, but some are under).

Anyway, for those who don’t know, unstruck is my newer (almost a year old) collaborative and restrictive project. It’s kept me writing all year, and with less self indulgent moping than usual, which is pretty cool. (Don’t worry mope fans, there is a bit of it).

Basically, each day, somebody asks a question, I answer in 500 words, and someone illustrates it in half an hour.

It’s simple, and it’s a way to get me writing, and other people arting, and hopefully even more people thinking.

I love it. Most of the time. It makes me feel like I’m part of a collective. It gives me an opportunity to feel like I had a part in something beautiful.

And occasionally, it means that I write things I like. More often than I’d like to think.

To celebrate, I posted on twitter a selection of my favourites. There’s no system here, just a random pick of things I remembered being good. I re-read them as I did it, and I surprise myself.

I’m reposting those tweets here (including some typoes), for the sake of posterity. It’s not really a best bits. Just a ‘bits that move me or something’.

Enjoy.

Dip into the past here.

First. How deep is your love? http://bit.ly/bkgyv8 This one hurt a lot, but kinda helped too.—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

How does it feel when things change and shift in life? http://bit.ly/gZi0Ra A whole lot like being alive. This rant available live on demand—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

But is it art? http://bit.ly/94mDm8 AK cheated on the illustration here, whilst we were on a train. #FACT She suits those glasses. #DUALFACT—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

'Love is as strong as dead.' [Song of Solomon 8:6] Discuss. http://bit.ly/d6bZeZ Beautiful image. The conclusion just moved me hard too.—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

Where is my libido? [snip] http://bit.ly/aAaOtH Picture of me wanking in a bath (sfw, probably). I made myself laugh out loud with this one.—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

Why do people say things like 25 mins to 9 instead of just giving the time? http://bit.ly/cYrKa9 As close to being Jack Bauer as I'll get.—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

What's under the blanket? http://bit.ly/hxyKSU Definitely one of my favourite illustrations.And under the text is something beautiful, maybe—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

If the world was ending tomorrow and you were asked to make a speech, what would you say? http://bit.ly/hXoLuk I surprised myself with this.—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

Bean or the Sprout? http://bit.ly/hvizP6 When I do an unstruck at two in the morning, after a shit party, this happens.—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

Future? http://bit.ly/g1d9lt I love how I write when I'm hungry.—
Alabaster Crippens (@AlabasterC) January 12, 2011

I’m not very good at this kind of thing, and it’s all a little shadowy, mumbled and lispy.

But it remains my favourite poem. No matter how many times I read it, it still makes me want to declaim it out loud and perform, and no matter how many times I read it aloud, I can still find new rhythms and meanings and emphases. To get a version even that dreadful, I did about fifteen takes, each one had a different best bit, different tones and variations.

Different meanings.

‘It is impossible to say just what I mean!’

That line stood out for me on the last reading. I wonder what it was the the 19 year old Eliot couldn’t quite get out. What was it he danced around, unable to face?

Mystery.

Beautiful.

That’s great poetry right there.

Even if he was a miserable anti-semitic fascist. At least he did this.

Full text here.

It’s a little weird.

Hard to get used to how far you can get on the kindness of strangers, with only the tiniest bit of language ability. It’s also terrifying.

I have been weirdly isolated at times, but it’s pretty much all in my mind.

Currently the biggest problem is that this keyboard has a ä in the ‘ place. That kind of brain programming isn’t easy.

Also the z and y is all muddled.

But zou probablz didnät come here to hear me talk about german kezboards.

That was on purpose by the way.

So where to begin.

Now.

I’m in the beautiful Stadtbucherei (town library?) of Münster. This is a beautiful town, full of cyclists and students and oldness and newness. It’s strange and laid back, but in what I assume is a very German way.

I spend my entire time saying please and thank you, and occasionally the more unwieldy sorry (bitte, danke und es tut mir leid, for the curious). I still feel I’m being really rude, except the locals seem even ruder and it just seems to work out fine for them.

Oddly my brain is switching to German in loads of tiny ways.

Like I keep on being about to type zu, instead of to.

The weirdest thing about it is that I’m not speaking much German. There’s a weird crisis of confidence. I keep on thinking about the grammar too much so that I can’t formulate the phrases before the conversation has moved on or become awkward.

But I’m putting off getting to the good stuff.

Basically, hitching across Europe is crazy. Boring. Exhilarating. Amazing. Unreal. Terrifying and satisfying.

All in random orders.

The main emotion that stays with me though is that feeling of progress whenever there is even a tiny bit of moment.

And amazement.

I’ve not done the maths in miles, but we’ve crossed countries in days. We set off at 6ish on Wednesday morning and were in France by lunchtime, and in Belgium by the evening.

For free. Nothing but asking strangers for a little kindness.

There’s lots of rejection to.

After getting two thirds fo the way across Belgium, we found ourselves stuck in a small service station near Liege (60 miles from the Belgium German border). We camped for a night, and then got up early the next day. And we put our thumbs out.

And we put our thumbs out.

And we wrote signs. With destinations creeping slowly closer and more general.

And we put our thumbs out.

And we danced. With our thumbs out.

And we talked to a million people. (well, mostly Josh and Skozl).

They found out a hundred ways of being told no, sorry.

But that afternoon, about three or so, after what felt like a lifetime of baking, baking sun and smelly toilets and the sound of the motorway. Someone picked us up.

We went forwards. The guy was buying a car nearby.

For a while we went backwards. And ended up on a slightly nicer service station just outside liege.

But this was a better one.

And before too long, the loveliest lady in Belgium (a certified Iron Woman Triathlete) took us up to the German border.

That feeling of satisfaction. That feeling that people will help you. Is amazing. Laurie was on her own, there were three of us. pretty much her first words were ‘I hope I’m not being stupid, and that you won’t aggress, violence or murder me.’

You understand why people don’t pick you up, even as it frustrates when an empty SUV drives by.

But it just makes it better when you get somewhere new.

Bivouaccing in Germany. Meeting geologists, Navy officers and ex army doctors. Awkward joking between kind people with no language shared with us.

Fear on our part. A lack of control.

But then you’re closer. Someone offers another hand and you’re in heaven again. Floating on air as you realise how amazing life can be. How far you can get with nothing.

With the help of friends and strangers.

It’s been a week of miracles, to my mind, but just the simple miracle of community and trust.

Josh used hospitality club to find us someone to stay with in Munster, and Chris has been the kindest most generous host you could imagine. Just for the opportunity to meet with new people, she has put us up and given us a bed and delightful food.

It makes you want to be more generous with everything.

It proves the notion of karma.

If you do kind things, then miracles like this can happen.

The more kind things people do. The more everyone can feel happier and trust to chance and the wind to carry us forward.

It’s hard not to get carried away. I feel the negativity in my spine and my eyes. Even at Chris’ lovely house, I’ve found it hard to sleep (too hot? too quiet? too comfy? too amazing?).

But when I think for even a moment about what I’ve already achieved. About what I’ve seen and learnt. And what I can now imagine in the future. It’s amazing. The support of Josh and Jo and the strangers that have got us here is the best birthday present I could ever have. (And thanks to Mum for helping pay for the passport and the preparation).

And I think I want to learn German and maybe one day move to Münster for a while. It feels like Brighton without the sea (but with a beautiful canal, not like an English Canal). The cycling is incredible. Literally seas of bicycles in every direction. And if Chris and Hermanne are anything to go by das Münsterisch are the loveliest people in the world. It’s another half tourist half student town. And there’s lots going on here, judging from the things this weekend. From exploding scaffolding ships, fireworks, harbour festivals, markets and just the most beautiful countryside.

And a cycle network that actually works.

It’s , miraculous.

I’m running out of time, so there’ll be more detail to come. And photos when I get home. Perhaps that’s an entirely different story in itself.

Final thoughts?

Thank you. Thank you to everyone who has helped me get here, where I am today. And that’s not just in Münster, but in my life. Thank  you to my mother for giving birth to me exactly 26 years ago, and everyone who has made me who I am, to get here today.

I think there’s an argument that you’re always hitch hiking. Relying on the support of the people around you. The kindness and patience of your family and the strangers you meet who may become your friends, but really, whoever they are, you may never see them again.

But they all moved you somewhere, and in some way.

So thanks to the strangers.

Thanks to the kind.

And I hope I never forget that I am constantly, permanently in debt to the strangers and friends and loved ones around me. And I hope I never stop paying them back with kindnesses like these.

Tschuß,

Vielen Dank,

Alabaster Auf Allemands.

(Some assonant creole there? Optimistically.

But I wanted my thoughts recorded, even though they’ve been chosen as not good enough for the main site.

Not that this place is now my second favourite (though with the excitement of the new, it blatantly is) and so only worthy of unwanted trash.

I still love you guys.

I’m just excited by the new project a lot. It’s pretty exciting. It’s great to feel creative again, and to not just feel like I’m waffling inanely to myself. Which is what I do here. Mostly.

Anyway, here’s the original draft, for the sake of posterity:

q: Is it sometimes good to lie?

I’m severely in danger of sounding like Polonius here.

Though marginally less poetic, no doubt.

I’m a quite thorough devotee of honesty. Particularly in the big things. Having done the wrong thing many times, I made a promise to myself to be honest.

Honesty can hurt, but it normally means the pain is justified. If the truth hurts, at least it’s the right hurt. The one that should be. When a lie hurts, it’s doubly wrong, and cannot be justified.

But obviously there are times where honesty hurts heedlessly. These are the times I feel conflicted.

When I discuss this with people, I’m always under attack from talk of the little white lies. The flattery that is called for and must be given. Of course your bum doesn’t look big in that.

(I might ask, what is wrong with a bottom looking large? And not just because I like big bottoms, but simply because it seems somewhat unimportant, what someone else might think of your bottom. Someone who judges you inadequate on the basis of incorrect posterior volume is someone not worth knowing. Of course, at the same time, I am hopelessly vain and concerned with what other people think of what I look like, but also have a spectacularly pretty bottom. So perhaps that stance is in itself dishonest.)

So is it okay to boost someone’s ego? Or are you still misleading, taking astray?

I don’t entirely have an answer.

In my case, I am often helped by the fact that I don’t really think before I speak. My brain has a thought and before I know it the thought is in the air, vibrating towards other ears.

I often don’t have time to consider lying.

This gets me in trouble.

Honesty is sometimes noticed. It allows you to be trusted, if not always liked. It helps if you honestly hold positive opinions. The best of both worlds.

In fact, being able to hold two contrary opinions simultaneously makes virtually anything possible.

How about internally?

For me, lying equates to a pain in the gut and a fear in the chest. I know I am doing something I shouldn’t. This is shared with a certain glee when I’m pulling a prank of some sort. Misleading to entertain. But I almost always confess immediately.

But there’s the rub.

There is a time when it is good to lie. Great to lie. Great lies can be wonderful.

Because they are stories.

As the man with a letter for a name said: ‘Artists use lies to tell the truth.’

And that’s what we are doing here.

These answers are fabrications. The illustrations more so. They are beliefs. They are ways of expressing ideas. And I think I am still being honest here. But  not necessarily by speaking bare truth.

But that method of building something. It is built on lies. It is built on artifice.

And there’s certainly nothing wrong with that.

So sometimes it is good. Yes.

Lie for the truth.

Just a note that if you miss my words I’ve got a new project going on at http://unstruck.wordpress.com/.

I’m remaining enigmatic about it for now. But basically we’re running a two week experiment that may continue or change after a while. Will be updated about once a day, as I can manage it, and possibly not all weekend days.

And don’t worry, I’ll still maintain this place, and will update, but it is likely to remain quite sporadic.

Illustration by Lucy.

This is a rant from the train journey back to Brighton. I wouldn’t read it if I were you. It’s self indulgent, self obsessed post Christmas malaise. The feeling is lingering longer than it should. I’m hoping this is just a preamble to a much more positive and forward facing New Years post. But then, I think I got my new years excitement on the solstice, in true pagan style, and may have run out far too early. Anyway, consider yourself warned.

Essentially just bored and trying to convince myself back into starting writing again. It’s been a funny year. I think I’ve succeeded in doing the majority of things I set out to do this year, but they have not exactly turned out to be what I expected. The best example of this was of course Nanowrimo, where I set out to write a slightly shallower novel than previous years, which led to me overcoming various blocks by just settling for rubbish, and so suceeding in finishing a 50,000 word story, that’s absolutely rubbish. I’m quite happy with some of the writing. To be honest I think my prose fiction style is improving (my prose non-fiction remains self indulgent, rambling, obscure and impenetrable) but I seem to be running out of ideas. Or depth. Or a willingness to treat things with the importance they deserve. I’m not getting that across. What I think I’m saying is that this has been a shallow year for me. I’ve done things, many of which have been reversions to earlier forms of existence (work being another example) and so I’ve not really progressed much. I think my personal growth is even in recession. Not entirely. Meeting Lucifer (the illustrator, not the Morningstar) has triggered a series of changes that have made me more thoughtful and better at engaging with others. I’ve finally grown up enough to acknowledge and hopefully start to deal with the way I have treated some of my former partners. I am finally taking responsibility. But I’ve stopped doing Tai Chi, I’ve started smoking. I stopped drinking for a while, but it didn’t make the usual impact on my mood swings. Instead I’ve spent plenty of time moping around, unable to sleep and suffering from headaches. My dedication to everything this year apart from NaNo has been pathetic. I’ve made plans, for example my theoretical plan to go into teaching from a science angle (which means doing A-levels) has just wallowed in my brain. I plan I am proud of having come up with, but am too scared to actually start enacting. I guess this is what new years are for. Christmas has been wonderful, but it hasn’t stopped me tearing apart the threads of my identity and questioning everything about myself. Hence this ramble. Last night as I lay awake in the darkened silence I found myself circling around a few different themes. Firstly feeling let down by my mother, something I’ve never felt before. It’s a tiny thing, but basically I made a self deprecating comment about the fact I was putting off these A-levels because I was scared it wouldn’t work. I’m pretty sure she meant to be reassuring but it wasn’t the feeling I got. She said maybe it shows it isn’t the right idea for me. I felt that like a kick in a gut. I haven’t realised until now, writing this, how much I’ve relied on my mother’s unconditional support of my choices. Mum is good. She is incredibly stoic and has never put any pressure on me. She wants me to be happy, and she wants me to do what I’m good at. That is all. In fact, that is all she is doing here, telling me to find the right path in the most relaxed way possible. Anyway, the other theme is more personal. I think if I scour through my dangerously unreliable and self serving memory I realise I have this crisis of conscious this time every year. Essentially, I doubt the solidity and substance of my genderqueer politics. I dress as a traditional boy (tiny nods to femininity, but all discreet and measured) for a few days because I’m scared of coming out to my parents (even though mum at least would be stoic and supportive no matter what). It doesn’t bother me, but I feel like it should. I start to think about how it would be if I entered into a more conventional job/life structure, and whether I’d just abandon this whole thing to a youthful rebellion thing. I mean, I’m getting a little old for that sort of thing (though I’m not far enough along for it to be a mid-life crisis), but I just don’t know. Add to that the loneliness of being single at Christmas, a time when I feel it more intensely despite being surrounded by loved friends and family. I just wish I had someone to share this with. To introduce to my family and my surrogate families and all the tumbling mess of connections that surround me. I want to pull someone into this and throw myself into someone else as well. And I wonder, ‘would it be easier if I wasn’t wearing skirts?’ What sort of barrier am I putting up? I think I still look good most of the time, but attractive? That’s a different question. I don’t know what people are looking for. Obviously, you’re all yelling what I know I should be thinking. It doesn’t matter. Someone who doesn’t see you as you are and love you for that is irrelevant and useless. There’s no point in not being yourself. But I just don’t know who I am sometimes. I spend so much time thinking about it, and telling people stories about it, and trying to present my most appropriate facets, that I really don’t know. Like I’m a swirling mass of ideas around this hollow core of emptiness. I am the calm at the eye of the storm. I am meaningless. Which is, despite all my usual clichéd platitudes, the truth. Or at least a truth. The centre cannot hold, and all that jazz.
The train is getting closer to home. Back to Brighton. Where enough people are weird enough that I can fit in. Where I can wear what I want and only get heckled, and not abused.  I love it. But the bubble scares me. What do I look like to people on the outside? And is it enough to pretend they aren’t there? Or that they don’t matter? I mean. It doesn’t matter what they think of me. Sticks and stones and all that. If I can be happy being me, then that’s what matters. If I can strive to be a good me, by my own standards, then that’s what matters. But it doesn’t get me closer to knowing who to be. I take cues from others. Who my friends expect me to be, who strangers scare me into pretending to be. And it’s only when I am alone, agonising over every thought and moment, deconstructing and destroying my identity, that I have these worries. Put me in the situations I’m talking about, and unless I’m REALLY depressed, I’m fine. This is all just thoughts, painful thoughts. Words, words, words.
And I can’t help it. I solliloquise my misery and thus make it so. I’m like a boring Hamlet. Too clever to take action. Too thoughtful to just be. Too lonely to speak truth to anyone but myself. Too pretentious to bother with.
Ah well. These things happen. I’m home. And I’ll be fine soon. Very fine.

So, I’ve recently been feeling a little out of myself. Or rather, quite in myself, but unable to reach out of myself. Trouble communicating. Even though I’ve been writing a shed load for nano (still barely ahead of schedule, but I don’t feel like I can write tonight…we’ll see).
Anyway, there’s a secondary problem exacerbating this. It’s the reason I feel in myself (present within my body, in a kinda Tai Chi kinda way as opposed to just introverted and angsty, which is what all of this may seem like…partly because that is actually my mood this evening). But it’s also creating distance between my self and others. And one of the expressions of this I’m about to talk about.

So what’s the thing exacerbating this.

I’ve stopped drinking, at least for a while. I’ve been undrunk a month now, and realistically, it’s great for me. Like I say, in and of myself I am more physically present, more feeling, and more awake.

This is all great.

Sure, it means my social life has taken a bit of a dent (culturally, we English, and particularly we Brightonians, and particularly the majority of my friends, and particularly me, associate socialisation with boozing, we do it in pubs, we get wasted at parties to meet new people etc etc etc), and that’ s making me lonelier, but it’s not that bad. If I’m in the mood I can still party, I can still talk, I can still be nuts. To be honest, if anything I’m more outgoing than when drunk, and without the added self centredness and obnoxiousness.

Well, okay, maybe I’m still self centred and obnoxious, but it’s not quite as noxious when I’ve got some level of control over it.

But yeah. Essentially, without the depressant effect of alcohol I seem to be more manic, more fast paced, and constantly trying to chase after my thoughts. This roughly equates (though not quite) to me being just as capable of being sociable as always. Occasionally I’m even interesting (or at least I hope I am).

So where’s the big problem?

Essentially, it boils down to having to explain to people.

I’m at the pub, I’m not drinking. I feel like I have to explain to some extent. Even just an ‘I’m not drinking at the moment’ should be enough to stop people offering, and then I can just kind of get on with being my weirdass self.

But I have to explain. People always ask why.

I don’t want to over-egg the situation and start calling myself an alcoholic (though at times, it’s certainly appeared that way), especially as that effectively amounts to an attack on the drinking habits of quite a lot of my friends (many of whom drink much more than I have for a few years now).

But I have to say something. The best I can boil it down to though, is just ‘when I’m drunk, I act like a dick, and often do things I regret later. Then when I sober up, the hangover and the regret usually leave me miserable  for a few days afterwards’. This can then continue onto the obvious result of ping ponging back and forth, without ever feeling myself. But people normally lose interest by then (perhaps mostly because of that aforementioned implied criticism).

It makes me feel like an outcast, even engaging with them about how I feel in that way (‘boys mustn’t say things like that’…nobody says that, obv, but perhaps some do feel uncomfortable), is enough, but actually acknowledging that it’s enough of a problem to stop me from drinking, and thus it’s a big problem (because I enjoy booze alot, even on an aesthetic level, I’m into my bourbon, and I’m in to my ale, and not just for the deleterious effects). It’s a huge thing.

Only mostly nobody does mind, but I don’t see that. Mostly people except the explanation, it makes sense, maybe a lot of people feel like that.

But I feel like I’m wearing this huge millstone around my neck. Dragging it’s weight behind me. And on it is written a thousand discouraging phrases ‘I’m an alcoholic’, ‘I can’t handle my drink’, ‘I’m not a real man,’ or whatever.

I’ve dislodged the monkey from my back and replaced it with a giant rock.

At least monkey’s are cute.

And it’s absured, because I take no insult from any of those comments. Alcoholics are just people who need help. People who can’t handle drink are just people who can’t handle drink. If they enjoy getting drunk, then they get drunk cheaper, if they don’t, then they usually learn quite quickly to be sensible (a learning process that has taken me years, apparently).

As for not being a real man. Don’t make me laugh. My mobile phone is defiantly pink (and I love it) and my skirts are short and my dresses flowery. I have no love of masculine ideals (though, if I’m honest, in certain company I attempt to at least fit in with the macho people that surround me. This is often tricky).

Okay, I contradicted myself a lot. But this is the problem. I know it’s not a problem, but I make it one anyway. I don’t care if people think less of me, and I don’t think they really do.

But I’ve been using the crutch of booze to make new friends for so long (and now I appear to have swung for the crutch of being ‘weird’ and ‘quirky’ and often ‘a bit over the top’ instead) that I find it hard to live behind.

But you know what. I’ve been dependent on all this stuff for so long, that part of me is just glad to acknowledge it.

All my life seems to be built around dependencies. I don’t know how to walk without crutches.

But maybe now I’m just trying to walk. And maybe one day I’ll run.

The above painting was done by me (and poorly photographed also by me) whilst in the midst of an incredibly low time recently.

Many people who have seen commented that it’s very bloody dark and depressing.

As is often the case with me and depressing things, the message I take (today at least) is actually closer to uplifting.

That figure, with the weight of the world bearing down of him, Is walking away from the hole that’s trapped him for so long.

Putting away childish things and what not (I hate quoting scripture, for fairly obvious reasons, but that is definitely a great line).

There is always a forward.

Let’s hope I can learn that for realz.

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