Sickness, Life, TLA's, Dichotomy, Death and Taxes

I just extended the list of Inevitable Things in the world. It's not just Death and Taxes.

HMRC suck, and not in the good way. I registered as self-employed and part of the CIS at the beginning of October, damnit, and they still haven't sent me my (apparently all-important) personal magic number. Which, long story short, means that because they won't give it out over the phone, I can't give it to my employer until next month (if I'm lucky and they get their act together). Therefore I get charged extra tax on my paycheque in the interim, so the Taxman gets over a grand from my wages this month. Not impressed. Sure, I'll get it back at the end of the year, but that's beside the point. I have bills to pay now.

Hmph. Not to mention all the blasted acronyms. I'm fairly certain they deliberately reuse the same letters, just to ensure you lose track of things and get confused. HMRC, HSE, CIS, SIC, CSCS, FFS...arrrrgh!

My brain is half-way functioning for the first time in four days, courtesy of the flu. It has not been a good week. And I have been pondering our penchant for dichotomy; our habit, as humans, to want to put everything into little boxes, classified into two opposing groups. Black or white, alive or dead, right or wrong, good or evil, male or female, gay or straight, easy or difficult....

So simple, so rigid, so restrictive and so wrong. Why do people (myself included) tend to define what is around them using a choice of two mutually exclusive labels?

One major difference between man and God? In my opinion, God probably knows it's a foolish practice to judge in this way; can see that what is right is also wrong; someone can be dead whilst alive; neither male nor female.

Here's to the infinite tones and shades that lie between black and white, and our persistent ability to ignore them at will.

Hugs!

Hugs. It is my official, pseudo-professional opinion that there's not enough of them in the world. (Fortunately not such a problem in the gay community, 'cos hugging's "gay", right?)

It is an interesting but sad predicament in which we find ourselves; outdated social stigma and taboos, "proper" ways of behaving, prevent us from indulging in the physical contact so many of us desire. In some circles, holding hands or hugging seems to imply a sexual relationship. Since when does hugging have to mean you are (or want to be) shagging?

So where do we end up? Some seek physical contact purely in the form of sex, some starve themselves of all contact to avoid offending or misleading people. I say society should get stuffed; go hug someone!

Certain cultures greet with kisses, on the cheeks or on the lips. Others think nothing of two men walking down the street hand in hand, or arm in arm. Physical expressions of affection can be perfectly innocent and platonic!

I only wish more people in this country would realise that.

Ignore at Will =)

Well, it's been a while since I've written anything, so an update is perhaps in order.

The main reason for my lack of blogging has been work. Which is a good thing, I suppose. At short notice, I was asked to do a job in Felixstowe (in Essex), which involved living in Harwich. With no internet =/

What was initially supposed to be a five-day-a-week seabed survey job, quickly turned into six days, with some demolition/burning thrown in. Meant I was away from my new home a lot, but also meant lots of overtime pay. 12-13 hours a day, six days a week, pays the bills quite nicely. Most beneficial when one's bank account is fast approaching the overdraft and there's only £100 left on the credit card. Now I just have to wait until mid December to get my pay cheque...

Last Thursday, the contractors at Felixstowe decided they didn't want a dive team until Monday, mostly because the dredging company stuffed up and there was nothing for us to do. That was all good, meant we got a long weekend at home. I then got half an hours' notice to pack my gear and bring it all back to London, as I would be starting on jobs down here.

Mixed feelings initially about that one. That's a lot of stuff to pack and transport. But now I'm happy to be back in London, going home each day, not living with my workmates.

This week I'm on safety boat duties for the workmen on the DLR line near South Quay, Canary Wharf. All alone again on that cold little boat on the Thames for the entire time; quite an abrupt change from living and working 24/6 with a team of 4 other people. Day shift, 0800 'till 1800, which are reasonable hours to work, and I'm basically being paid to sit around doing whatever the heck I want for 8 or 9 out of the 10 hours.

I win.

In other news, it was great to go to the QYN meet on Sunday and make new friends. Everyone thought I was 4 or 5 years older than I actually am, but I'm used to that =P It was a privelage, also, to be able to attend the TGDOR with some of the gang. I dont think there's much I could say about it, but I was very glad to have attended. The organisers did a good job.

Huzzah!

Well, I have several blog topics running around in my head, but for now I shan't be addressing any of them. Just for the moment, I want to celebrate my first bit of paid work in almost 17 months, and the end of my 6 week "holiday" since arriving in London =)


Thursday morning, I got a phone call from the contractors I've been hounding for this past month, offering me work Friday night. Ironically, I had decided that morning to switch my sleeping pattern back to being awake during the day; this meant I was actually awake for the 0730 phone call, but also that I had to switch straight back to being awake at night.

I've just gotten back from a 13.5 hour shift, 1800-0730, with over an hours' travel time each way. The shower felt great, and now I'm slowly winding down to get some sleep, because this morning I agreed to work tonight as well.

So, this evening I shall once again be sitting alone on a boat in West India docks, gazing up at Canary Wharf and wishing one of the blokes working on the DLR bridge would fall into the water already, so I will have something to do (besides freeze my balls off).

Therefore, in conclusion, yay! I will be able to pay the rent, and am quickly establishing myself as a "yes" man with the local contractors.

Oh, and if anyone is in Canary Wharf and fancies keeping me company, you're more than welcome ;-)

Trepidation and Self-Loathing

When I draw and write, it is a bitter-sweet ordeal. It is good to get thoughts out of my head, to express emotions and occasionally communicate to others where I am at in life. But what you make black and white; take from the realm of internal thought and fantasy into the solid world around you, will, in all likelihood, be seen by others. It could come back to haunt you. Whether you advertise it or not.

It isn't embarrassment or shame that sours the experience; it's fear. Fear of hurting, offending, shocking, ridiculing. Fear of revealing ignorance, weakness, faults, mistakes. Fear of judgement, losing friends, gaining foes, creating tensions. Fear of expressing the truth.

And yet, does the Truth not purportedly set us free?

Is it cowardice to opt against being nakedly honest around others? To wear a "mask", or to prefer the cushioning barrier of paper (or pixels...)? Are the intricate social dances and dramas a necessity, or a hindrance towards communication and relationships? Am I truly the person others perceive me to be, or am I the pompous, callous, bungling arsehole I see inside me? What if they see the person I see? Will they feel the same way?

Beyond the "filter" that most develop, to avoid every half-baked whim and fleeting fancy being blurted out to the world at large, where do we draw the line? Do I really look good in this, or does it make my arse look like it should beep when I back up? Are you saying that to merely please and reassure me, or are you being honest? Am I not expressing something, out of legitimate concern, or groundless fear? Are lies and pretence more beneficial than the truth? Always? Never? Sometimes?

Our personal revelations are entwined with that curious thing, trust. I trust someone, therefore they get to see a different mask, perhaps more revealing. Because I feel it is less likely to be turned against me. So sometimes it's easier to trust a stranger.

"Coming Out"; that interesting phenomenon that is for many the shedding of a mask, the revealing of the "real you" to those around you, usually starting with those you trust...an experience often associated with fear and anxiety beforehand, followed by relief and surprise and liberation afterwards. Even if every reaction isn't positive.

Is sexuality the only thing we should be "coming out" over, and is it only gay people who need apply?

I tried being normal once...

...didn't work out so well.

So, Saturday night and I'm in bed, blogging to the sound of Dire Straits. Even if I did feel like going out into the rain, where would I go? Who would I go with? So stuff it, I'm going to be boring. Perhaps later I'll have something from one of the bottles sitting on my shelf.

Horace just sits there, grinning away at me, as usual. Death must be bliss eventually; I've never seen a skull without a grin on its face.

Last night was, of course, Halloween. Too lazy and cheap to invest in a dazzling costume, I decided to go as a Seemingly Perfectly Ordinary Person. It's easy: dress respectably, pick several outrageously different personae, each with different accents, and switch randomly between them all night. Caricatures or stereotypes work especially well.

Drives people up the wall. From drunken obscene Scotsman, to red-neck cowboy, to uptight English gentleman, to New York gangster, to Igor, to ditsy cheerleader, to Hell-fire and brimstone preacher....

"Personae": from Latin, "mask", the personality that a person adopts and presents to other people.

It's too easy to put on masks, isn't it?

The Way to a Man's Heart...

...is through his sternum.

Ever experience one of those moods wherein the tension inside seems unbearable? The surface is like glass, but beneath is a maelstrom of emotion; something in the back of your brain is certain that if anyone tries anything, shards of their teeth will have to be dug out of your knuckles. Little things are blown way out of proportion in your mind? Something feels like it wants to explode, but instead just chews up your insides.

For me, this state is usually either brought on, or greatly enhanced, by large groups of unwanted strangers in close proximity. Meeting too many new people. I become anxious, just want to get away and be by myself. Finding ways to relieve the stress; kicking something; listening to music; drawing; writing. Not directly talking, though; at least, not to another person.

I guess that ties into one major allure of being under water...there's just you, the task at hand, and bubbles. And legitimate swinging of hammers with great vigour.

Random tangent. I want work.

Soon.

Who Am I?

The eternal question. So easy to answer, on the surface of it; "Me". As the Judeo-Christian God said in reply to the question, "I AM WHO I AM".

But beyond that? Who am I? The product of my circumstances? My thoughts? My actions? My opinions? My parents? My desires? My beliefs? Others' perceptions? Most likely all of that and a bit more.

I don't know why I'm going all existential, (I swear, I haven't touched a drop, gov...). Sometimes you've just got to go with it.

The question poses all sorts of philosophical possibilities. Are we always the same person? Are we unique? Is uniqueness equal with originality, or does it merely mean we are made up of all the same attributes, but in different proportions? Can you adequately describe a person, or must they be experienced? Or do we merely select and describe facets of people? As more things are revealed about someone, do they become a different person (at least in your mind)?

I daresay one could ponder such things for an eternity and still get nowhere. Philosophy and theology are like that, IMHO.

Why should I be describable? Categorical? Why should people fit into a box? Why define ourselves through our labels?

That last question hit something that has bothered me for a while, especially with regards to sexuality and "coming out". What does it matter if someone doesn't know my romantic inclinations?

I make no secret of my sexuality, nor do I advertise it. In certain necessary situations, I admit to being strategically vague. But I fail to comprehend the viewpoint recently expressed to me, that it's wrong to not actively tell people, because I am denying them knowledge of who I am.

It's as much a part of me as my love for Hobnobs and ginger biscuits, my dislike of hot climates, my critical observances, my fierce stubbornness and integrity, etc. But somehow, "gay" has become so much more in our society, to the point of taking us over almost entirely. The label defines us in peoples' eyes.

Why bring that judgement upon myself, at times when the subject is irrelevant? When the stereotype and baggage that so frequently comes with the "gay" label would cause nothing but strife?

That awkward stage between Birth and Death...

Recent weeks have seen a heightened amount of introspection on my part. Usually, I am merely hypercritical and self-doubting; that aspect is still there, however I have been making a conscious effort to move beyond it. Which is good, I suppose. Otherwise I would just be depressed again.

(I'm not entirely sure where this post is going, so it may ramble a bit.)

As a person, I find myself confusing, and I have it on good authority that others also perceive me in this way. On the one hand (exempli gratia) I am naturally expressive of emotion and a poor liar. My face is apparently an open book. And yet, on the other hand, I frustrate those around me by giving nothing away. Thoughts, feelings, opinions, if present, rarely get externalised. I am extremely skilled at being vague. I find probing questions discomforting and, frankly, often offensive. If I do ever speak out, it's usually in writing. There have been few things of sufficient importance to make me speak openly.

Part of it, I feel, is that all too frequently I don't have an opinion when others expect me to. Events that seem to enrapture most people, slide right by me, barely registering. I just don't care for major holidays, or celebrations, or celebrities, et al. It isn't dislike; they merely elicit little or no emotion. They don't excite me, I don't ponder over them, I have no view to express. Why should I? It's all just "meh".

Another aspect could be that I am very much a "here and now" person. Dwelling on the past just leads to beating myself up, living in the future is a futile endeavour. I don't talk about myself or my past very often in conversation; I prefer to ask questions and let other people do the talking.

Unavoidable, also, is what might be deemed insecurity. I am introverted and very private.

A friend once made some remarks that stuck with me. To paraphrase, she said "I know almost nothing about you. You rarely say anything, but I know that when you do say something, it will be important to you. I trust you and can tell you things; I'm not sure why, but I suppose it's because you've never given me any reason not to. You don't buy into all the bullshit gossip, judging, back-biting that so many people deal in..."

I was flattered, of course, but some interesting questions were raised in my mind. Would she still want to be around me if she knew more about me? Things I've done? Who I am? What I am? Why do so many people freely open up to me, and why can I not do the same with others? Do I need to? Should I?

Mater Tua!

Well, I've been finding myself with too much time on my hands and too few constructive outputs. Perhaps merely a side-effect of moving to a new area, but then again, I've never been a vibrant social butterfly. Hence I shall venture once again into the dubious realm of blogging, for better or for worse.

Perhaps this time I'll manage to keep it going.

This shall likely become a collection of overly verbose, random rants and musings, as that's what my writing frequently tends towards.

You have been warned =)