Quite common

Is it just me or is everyone watching the big bang theory now? It's like Sheldon Cooper's become a household name practically overnight.

I have been assaulted by a viral upper respiratory tract infection in the form of acute viral rhinopharyngitis, otherwise known as the common cold. There is no cure. And symptoms may last from 7 to 10 days according to wikipedia. This seemingly minor illness has caused me to take half the day off yesterday and stay inside today after waking up to what felt like the AGM for purulent naso-pharyngeal mucoid secretions, being held very claustrophobically in my general sinus region. Consequently I have spent an entire day inside, well most of the day, doing not much else than watch the big bang theory and tinker about on my guitar. After much deliberation I have come to the conclusion that making nice sounds come out of guitar effects equipment involves hours of turning knobs and pressing buttons all the while thinking "oh ok, I didn't know I could do that...... ok wow there are a lot of these....... so if I try this with this then it should...... sound like crap.....hmmmm..." etc etc. That's only my hypothesis in any case.

I'm sorry, perhaps you were expecting something more substantial from a blog post. I could rant about my distaste for obs & gynae which inevitably every fourth year medical student is moaning about at the moment, or express my joy at the fact that I'm off to London in 9 days, but nay, I shall delay these. Let's be on to something a bit more insightful.



Thought. Perhaps in all the relentless motion of the day one does not consider just how much time is spent immersed in it. Standing still, as if waist deep in a pool, though not of water but of notions, ideas, perceptions and wonder. Instead of the sensation of the wetness of the water, or it's cooling effect against the skin, there is the warmth and complicated emotional tango of subjecting the mind's eye to the number of situations the self is being projected into. Some as real and relevant as what kind of schedule the morning will bring, others as pointless as imagining all kinds of strange and wondrous events and trying to decide what course of action would be taken should it actually occur. These both represent parts of active thinking, anticipation, planning, imagination and deduction. However they are not the most peacable form of thought. For it is those moments when all falls quiet and your sight fixes absent-mindedly upon some large item of furniture opposite, or perhaps a print on the wall, and the world around you narrates to you some secrets of life. The still, small voice that breathes into you as you are conscious of everything and yet of nothing. The small fragments of flint and material, lighter than air, floating and twinkling in the light of the lamp, dancing before you like faeries in the night. The room rests in itself as all the items sprawled around it cease to seem as clutter for the night; for all intents and purposes those are their rightful places. The warmth of the bedsheets melts through skin, as if you were butter in a giant cotton baked potato. This place is still. And safe. Say not a word, but listen to the voice of life.

Out.

Little End Room

Last week I had a conversation with a friend about poems and influences and all that jazz. Anyways, I ended up going through some old stuff I had written back in sixth form. I'd forgotten how much stuff I actually got down to writing, from poems to essays to streams of consciousness. It's amusing to see a more teen angsty take on many things, but it reminded me how much you can do if you put your mind to it. Here's one of the entries; it was written in October of 2005.

____________

Shelter

Blue. It was all blue. The aching, the uneasiness, the loneliness, and worst of all, the fear. All gone, somewhere far away. She was beside herself, no longer part of this world, no longer wearing the shackles that tied her down every moment of every day. Even so, the marks were there, scars from the cycle, remnants that hope is a distant memory. It was all gone, it was all blue.
The dust was dry and cool beneath her feet, and as the fields rustled in the breeze, a golden shimmer of corn shifting lazily, a few solitary rays of dim light shone through the cover overhead. It was overcast, the sky beyond the clouds not showing at all, and everything adopted that dark blue tinge as things do before heavy rainfall. Everything was still, nothing except for the persistent but gentle breeze and the girl’s soft breathing could be heard. You couldn’t really see anything in front of her, the path continued over the small hill and all around were fields. They seemed endless.
She stood there, alone in the clean, light air. Her arms crossed at the waist, she let out a gentle sigh which resounded among the entire area into eternity. It was warm, not the type of warm that comes from a sunny day, the kind that comes when everything is calm, the warm before the war, the warm after the end, the warm of that special person’s embrace. How long had she been here? She didn’t know. Time didn’t really apply here.
They say people envision things in their minds, a place they go to when things get too much to bear, a place where they feel safe. Sometimes a person needs somewhere where they can be alone, somewhere where everything is an extension of themselves. Was she alone? No. He was here. He was always here, and the reason she comes here is to feel his presence. He was the only thing that could take her burden, that would carry her through, he was what gave her life. And in this place, this precious haven, he was everywhere, the whisper in the air, the falling leaf, the smallest stone.
She let out another soft sigh and rubbed her sore wrists, the skin on her cheeks wrinkling into the faintest smile. She didn’t want to go back, it was hard back, and here she was truly free. But it didn’t matter. She had to, and she would. Being here again, it took everything away, even the fear. It was always still here, always warm, always blue. It would rain one day, when she was ready.

Out.

We built the Pyramids

This week, thanks to the efforts of Simon, (who is very anal about his macbook and won't let me wear my watch while typing. I don't blame him really. It does scratch), I have discovered The Big Bang Theory. Not the actual theory, the series.

I now have a perpetual Sheldon living inside my head making witty remarks about everything. I have to say, it's very amusing.

Out.