A Writer Who Won’t Write

A writer who won’t write

Watching a show about

A writer who won’t write,

 

Written by a writer who did write,

But not truly. Not like it was

Written by a writer who did write

 

Truly of his character,

Out of a love to write,

Truly of his character.

Exercise Of The Body And Mind? Or Just One At The Expense Of The Other?

I don’t have a TV. I don’t watch live TV on my laptop. And yet I am still bullied by the TV licensing organisation (read: mafia) to buy a TV licence for the exorbitant fee of £145. They threaten that if I’m caught watching TV without a licence I’ll have to pay over a £1000 in legal fees. They say things like, “We know students watch TV on their laptops.” “We know the laptop is the new TV. But did you know…” And on and on with the menacing language, the posters everywhere, the constant mail.

At first I was worried; I thought it might include things like iPlayer – recorded shows. But I looked at the fine print on the posters and letters and though they do their best to hide it, it’s obvious that you only need a licence if you’re watching live TV. I’ve heard people say it’s actually only BBC that matters, but I don’t know about that. Regardless, I wasn’t watching live TV so I followed the instructions in the letter for how to tell them through their website that I don’t need one. I filled out the form and they said they might be sending people around to check (because bla% of people who think they don’t need a licence actually do), and I said, pssshhh. Right. They’re gonna come around checking dorm rooms, and what? Look at my internet browsing history? That would certainly be an infringement of some kind, and it wouldn’t help them – the same sites offers live and playback.

What’s more is they said they’d stop sending (black)mail around but I’ve received two more letters since then, and more than a few weeks after I filled out the form, too. True, the letters were dated from before I said I didn’t need a licence so it could be the fault of the cleaning lady (who for some reason delivers only these letters when we have proper mailboxes downstairs – well, semi-proper if you read my story about that – must be getting subsidised by the evil company itself). But this is definitely overkill. They’re arrogant, mean-spirited, and greedy (the company, not the cleaning ladies. They’re just..mm, yeah).

I mentioned to a German friend that the thought of suing the company for harassment had crossed my mind. I could sure use the cash for tuition. He replied, “This isn’t America.” Oh…right. Have I really been that influenced?

But I actually didn’t start this post to whine about pestering media mobs. I haven’t heard from them for a while so perhaps it’s blown over. No, I actually started this to tell you about my sports centre. It’s just a few steps up the hill from my halls so going in the morning is easy-peasy (fun to say, not so fun to be heard saying) and their equipment is ace. Yes, I probably paid for it with the sizeable membership fee, but I think it’s worth it. I’m making it worth it.

My favourite pieces are the treadmills. Not only do they have headphone and iPod jacks and FM radio, they’ve also got TV (and I don’t have to pay for the licence, that’s what reminded me of that and got me off on that preliminary tangent). I plug in my earbuds, start the belt, and turn on Friends. Used to be Friends. They recently changed it to a lame comedy so I haven’t been as motivated to go exercise.

But the change of show is probably a good thing because I’m more likely to instead choose to watch the news. And that’s where the point of this entry really comes into focus, because lately I’ve been quite busy writing a politics essay. I don’t know much at all about politics. Or I didn’t, before my copious reading.

It’s about UK politics and I just moved here; I didn’t have a clue. But even if it were about Japan or America I wouldn’t have been much more clued in, and oddly enough now I know British politics far better than any other country’s (it’ll be interesting to see how that shapes my interaction with the subject for the rest of my life). But my knowledge is largely theoretical, so I would benefit from the practical aspect of watching David Cameron do the Question Time in the House of Commons, for example.

So I amused myself with the thought that perhaps I should go work out to study for my politics essay.

There, that’s basically all I’m trying to say with this. I probably won’t even do it, I’ll just trade exercise time for reading time. But in a few days I’ll be done with these two essays (the other one being on the Chilean coup of 1973 and a bit more interesting, though equally involved with a subject completely foreign to me – economics. My brain is literally expanding with all the knowledge I’m taking in, guys) and be off to see Emma Watson and the Deathly Hallows Part 1.

Quite excited, yeah.

Metaphor Isn’t My Strong Suit Yet, Nor Is My Real One

Well guys, it’s been too long. That’s a standard greeting in conditions of long absences, but it makes absolutely no sense in this particular context seeing as I created the absence and nothing whatsoever forced me to do so. It is completely my fault that I’ve so totally neglected this corner of my galaxy and chased after petty things.

But tonight, I came home from work and didn’t turn on the TV (though it is on now at the hand of my father…thanks, dad). Not that I often turn on the TV. More to the point, I didn’t come home and start downloading another episode of Scrubs or The Big Bang Theory, or worse yet, start watching it instantly on Megavideo (yes, I can tell you where to get access to every show and movie ever created, for free, and no, I won’t be held accountable for the damage to your mind and soul. I’ve already suffered enough at the hands of myself).

That Hulu commercial was absolutely right when it said that TV turns your mind to mush, and Hulu will do an even quicker job of it. Well, I’ve got something far better than Hulu. Online TV archives are quite possibly the most insidious attack on the intellect yet.

But tonight I did not go straight to that. I may yet later, but most likely there won’t be time, because when I get started writing, I can go for hours. Maybe even days. It would be interesting to see how long I could continue writing without breaks of any significant length. A few nights ago I did a power-writing session, starting with five minutes (no rest allowed, you must continue typing for the duration – needless to say, content is secondary) and increasing. Actually at about the third time I just let loose and went for about thirty minutes. I’m not sure about other people, but for me, writing is as easy as secreting enzymes (yes, I admit the first bodily analogy to come to mind was a bit grosser than that).

That’s no boast, because like I said, quality is not the issue here. What is the issue is blatantly laying in front of your all-too-forgiving eyes the ridiculosity (should be a word) with which I’ve conducted myself these past few months.

Here I have the means to express myself in any way I please, with just as little censorship as I please, and not even proofread the entries, for crying out loud! What could be an easier set of requirements? All I had to do was write, and write I could not. The term writer’s block comes to mind, but that actually sounds legit so it does not apply here. What I had was a seriously illegitimate case of laziness and distraction.

I’ll cut to the chase. I lost sight of my goal. That’s why my quality of life in virtually every arena plummeted. I set out on this year determined to make enough money to go to university in England in September, get better acquainted with Japanese culture (yeah, I heard you in the back say otaku. That’s why you’re in the back), practically apply what I learned last year, and learn how to handle myself out of formal education. That’s a long list, but the first one is the one that counts. The one that matters. The one I lost sight of.

I was so excited about this year because I was excited about next year. When I step off that plane in Heathrow (maybe) [actually it turned out to be Leeds-Bradford. 3/11/10] in just a few months, my life course will shift. My life won’t change that instant, but the direction of things will; that’s where everything will start. So I need to bring my present self to a closure of sorts, and prepare. I was so excited.

But I got a wonderful job that was nevertheless fairly demanding, and I lost sight of the reason I got the job. Teaching English, despite being a chance to meet interesting people and have interesting, albeit stunted, conversations, is not something I could do for a living. Far from it. On its own, it would drive me crazy. It already is. How can a poet be expected to teach English communication? I don’t operate on that plane, and I say that not out of arrogance, but desperation. Any of you, even if this is the first article of mine you’ve ever read, can see that. Right or wrong, and most likely wrong, I make people come to me, I don’t go to them.

But going to them is exactly what I’ve been doing since November, because that’s what teaching takes. That’s a fact, a necessity, and not an evil – as long as I had an ulterior release. But I succumbed to things of temporal pleasure – visual entertainment, social activity (including solo excursions based on the premeditatedly-known-to-be-false premise that something good might actually come of them), what have you. I gave up the higher things, the things that take time and effort to reap the fruit of, such as reading, research, meditation, and expression. And these cheap trivialities that came at such a high cost for collateral damages failed to replenish the energy I needed to pour into a different me, a professional me.

Because if you’re going to fake it in any area of your life, you need the authentic areas to work double hard to supply the self-affirmation and determination necessary to pull the dead weight along. In other words, a double life is not an impossibility, but only if one can keep his balance hopping along on one foot.

My authentic areas were very energizing, particularly Hi-B.A., but they didn’t occupy enough of my time or I didn’t pour myself into them enough to keep the engine running. And I was lazy with my me-time. That’s where the consequences hit the hardest. What do I do when I have no external pressures placed on me? Not much, it has become clear.

So did I come crashing down, tripping over myself and my gimp leg? Actually, no. I switched hopping legs. It was a physical relief at first, but inevitably felt unnatural. I ignored the feeling, resolving to keep on, but it wasn’t meant to be.

I’ve lost track of what I’m talking about – the metaphor has worn out its welcome; outlived its usefulness. I got carried away from the meaning. Sorry about that. A proper writer would delete the refuse and rewrite, but it’s late and I’m determined to at least post something to turn the tide of block/silence. For your sake, I’ll wind down.

Make no mistake, I fully believe that the idea is to run with two legs. There’s meant to be a consistency, a fullness in all proper areas of life, and my job is a proper area, for I was blessed in a time when I needed precisely all that it had to offer – good pay and a flexible schedule, to name but a few. However my poor choices and shortsighted, narrow-mindedness set the two at odds.

That’s where I’ll end for tonight. Remember, the author is not responsible for any views or experiences expressed herein, nor any interpretations, conclusions, assumptions, bloodlust, or taking to the streets by alleged readers that may commence as a result of passing by or ingesting these contents.

-Brad, and it’s good to be back, empty room. This post totally didn’t go where I thought it would or meant it to, but…whatever.