There’s a reason for that.

Oh yeah, so I’ve been in England since Saturday. Yeah, I’m an international, cross-channel lying little biatch ūüėÄ Because I’m never really one to deny myself a dramatic entrance, this was sort of, maybe, kept secret from most of MADSoc until I snuck in on Tuesday. What came next was something I could not even begin to comprehend. An entire evening at the workshop filled with hugs, laughter and a healthy helping of innuendo. Oh yeah, there had also been a bar crawl set up in secret for the day of my return. I am actually that much of a spectacle-obsessed knobend.

It’s been a great, great time. Living in a dehumidified basement with the Rambunctious Robert, Wonderful William, Ridiculous Rosie and Jubilant Jennifer. Already I seem to have spent more money in the past couple of days than I did in an entire month in Germany. I miss the cheap, cheap alcohol. Please return to me! Been to see Sherlock Holmes 2 with the¬†sharp blonde haired beauty that is Rosie,¬†a film which is¬†of course nothing to do with Sherlock Holmes at all, but rather a 19th Century James¬†Bond,¬†trading plot for spectacle and doing it wonderfully. Indulged into a late night trip to the Student’s Union, having previously been in bed by midnight, I was entering the club shortly before 1am, where it was a time of spilt drinks and random accostings of so many people I’ve missed these past few months. The new MADSocians are a scarily talented, fantastically hilarious and deeply kindhearted group of weirdos, it’s¬†moving to see the society continue on from strength¬†to strength.

This post is sort of a temporary goodbye for now.¬†The blog is aimed to follow two main things, the progression of writing, and the day-to-day experience of living abroad, with all thoughts and queries that enter my head as a result. It’s meant to be a “study” if you will, of what happens, what changes and who reads it. Whereas now, I’m back in England, the writing is largely finished, I’ve got a lot of work to¬†commit to¬†and not to mention the¬†four 20 page essays I need to complete by sometime in March. There will be the occassional one, such as the fact I’m levelling up and gaining a new age point on Saturday, but otherwise, yeah. It’s been a fun few months, but I think there’s some thinking to be done on my part and some definite decisions to be made. So until then, auf wiedersehen people, thanks to the 6,000 readers so far, I have no clue what on earth possessed you to start reading this, but it’s appreciated all the same.

Time for a nap, I think.

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Fizz, Buzz, Boing.

Speaking of being poked and prodded (as in, my previous, very long, blog all you non-committers) the only time I will allows this will be when you are wearing a long coat and rubber gloves…

Let me rephrase that.

Went into the Doctor’s surgery yesterday, which was fun. This Doctor did not invite me to venture through all of space and time, nor did he walk with a cane and fake American accent giving sarcastic quips. An old scar I’ve had for years decided to remind me that it was still around, becoming ruptured at the end into a blood blister something-or-other. Not sure what it was, and not enjoying that my anatomy was altering through no fault of my own, I popped in for a checkup. When asked to lie down on the bed, perhaps it would’ve been better to avoid accidentally lying in a seductive pose. All is well thankfully, though the Doctor could not provide me with a reason as to how this happened, nor any remedy. I’m good friends with the scar, what with its tendency to split open in the past, so this is just another attempt at seeking my attention, just in case I risked spending too much time on my hair.

Today is going to be an interesting day. An exceedingly awesome, secret-keeping day of wicked magnitude. To the people of that place which isn’t here nor there, keep your eyes peeled. ūüėČ

A leash fit for a Queen

Whether it’s being asked to help with shopping, pretending to be a boyfriend, assuring a guy he’s good looking but not in a gay way, homosexual males have a fair amount of responsibility. This call to action is instigated by not only a desire for the masses’ acceptance but for indulgence of the differences. I rarely comment on my sexuality, as I’m of the variety of gays who find it no more relevant than hair or eye colour. But as history has shown, even those can be held important to some breeds of people. Whether I’m being told that I’m OK as I don’t “act gay”, or being told that I’m such a Queen because I “act so¬†gay”, the inconsistencies of everyone’s expectations seem to ride on the idea that there must be some definition of a homosexual, outside of the, y’know, sexual part. Even on whether I drink beer or not.

One thing being gay does provide, is the freedom to be whatever you want, one moment it can be a raging, flambouyant squeal and the next a deep rumbling belch. Because you’ve had to go through the identity adventure of introverted sexual discovery, you know much more who you are and, so long as your environment is welcoming, are capable of expressing this. This is not obviously unique to homosexuals, but due to the fact that it’s socially known that “gays can be straight or gay”, I’m safe to use a hairdryer and straighteners because I’m gay, and thus any observations or accusations would never be considered insulting. If you’re a sexually secure and mature human being, whatever false allegations fall before you shouldn’t be a bother, but for every person so resolute in their self-belief, there’s a dozen still trying to find themselves, and though they may shake off allegations that their un-gender-specific habits confuse their sexuality, it can still have affect. There are also those who then indulge in “acting gay” when they’re straight, either a testament to their security, an overcompensation or just because they’re odd.

One thing I cannot abide, however, is the possessive nature certain breeds of people have over someone who’s gay. This isn’t a finger point at any specific genders, but there is this belief that because a guy is gay, he’s free game. I’ve been commended on my openness, in that I never shy from hugging on first meeting, that there’s never a front or an act and my inconsistencies are there upon first meeting, but what happens when this state of mind meets one that isn’t like this, is there’s a sudden shift in status. The one who’s open is suddenly forced into a submissive position, not wanting to appear standoffish or rude, they accept that who they’ve just met think it’s fine to drape themselves over them, to poke them, to invade their personal space. It’s common in specific breeds of the “alternative” who view themselves as different from the majority but rarely actually act on it. For example, if someone pokes me, I may make a funny noise or squeak, because it makes them laugh. But this creates a lack of respect, in which the poker suddenly believes they can do this again, and again, and again, that their new “toy” will continue to entertain them as that’s the only thing he’s shown interest in that evening. However, being a stable 21 year old human being, my interest in being prodded, groped and grabbed wears off extremely quickly. But one can’t suddenly shift from kind and funny and silly to rude. A simple “Alright, stop it now” or any gentle request is met with more¬†fervent¬†poking, as now it’s a game. Poke the queen until she handbags you around the face. This is why the desire to be a “faghag” is so disgustingly worrying, as not only is it a comment on the requester, who wishes to be seen as a purse, but by doing this, the gay becomes the “gay boyfriend” and is slave to the “hags” wishes. It’s foreplay to a bizarre sex game, the end of which has no climax in sight.

Also, wish to be my faghag, rather than my friend, and I’ll staple a hag’s wart to your face.

Write here, write now.

If the lifespan of the universe was condensed into a 24 hour period, earth would appear around 11am, the dinosaurs would be killed by 9pm and the entire human history would be in the final 3 seconds. So really, when you look at it like that, who gives a fuck about essays? Much like a tube of toothpaste, you use time copiously until you’re at the last few drop left which you then stretch out for all their worth. It’s bizarre the little nuances writers find themselves to avoid doing the actual work. Where I’m concerned, writing is 99% formulating, and idealising and then in the final scratch of time left, you actually write it down. The timespan from conception to the words hitting the paper is ages, I never actively write over a long period of time, but rather cram into two days. I’m now waiting for that opportunity, I want to sit down for hours, with an army of Red Bull, Coffee Beans and Jelly Babies lined up behind me, ready for battle. This is the test of my previous statement, I could be bricklaying right now, but rather I’m waiting like the lazy bastard I am.

What’s really taking ages is getting into the mood. The piece I’m writing is a conceptual horror, trying to rely on social and technological conventions to push the fear and unnerving nature forward. However, I find it so hard to detach myself from the writing, I remember last year during a massive splurge of squelchy writing, it came time to kill a character. When I’d finished, I actually felt numb for a while, it wasn’t attachment to the character but rather the mindset needed to do the scene, character and ideals justice was such a mind fuck that I ended up drained, exchanging my brain for candy floss. The same is for this, except for the whole piece, I want to build up characters to then completely obliterate them, but it’s a bit difficult to maintain the ominous mood consistently for so long, especially when I keep writing dialogue like this…

Jessica: Can’t say I’m all that surprised, but still, Rugby team. Not bad.

Michaela: I thought so. Certainly had a goal in mind.

Jessica: But what was the morning-after conversation like?

Michaela: I don’t think we did much talking in the morning.

Jessica: You have that much energy for a Rugby player?

Michaela: Player? Oh Jessica, I said team.

That is horror. But on a whole different kind of level…

Long coat to hide the love stains.

There are those times when you just think, if only I had a cape, then all the world’s issues would be solved. Well, donning my long Doctor Who coat of old may not have saved any lives, but damn was it fabulous. To round off one of the best weeks I’ve had in a long, long time, it came time to perform the public reading of the recently published; “Spectacular, Spectacular!” and who can spell spectacular without really-long-doctor-who-coat? Well, literate people I would assume.

A brilliant experience as all those involved in the editing, writing and publishing of the book came to the event as did many great audience members who all contributed the perfect standard of laughter, cries of shock and applause without the use of cue cards. It was a great way to round off and say Auf Wiedereshen to many of the members, as with the passing end of the semester, many of us are leaving, departing and otherwise getting the hell outta there.

Following this event was the third night out in a row of increasing epic proportions. And evidently increasing prices too. 12.50 for a southern comfort and coke. Fuck. Right. Off. If I ever find Mr O’Reilly… someone’s going to be shaken upside down until all that stolen change gets returned to the rightful people. Of course, this was but a small price to pay for a brilliant night out, and well worth everything that followed.

It’s been a funny old month, returning from England to a Germany that seemed to have grown even more cold in my absence, with penis-shrivelling -12oC mornings and counteracted with ridiculous levels of sunshine that refuse to do anything about the cold but rather mock you, reminding you of the beautiful weather you could be experiencing, only to step out your door and realise you will be incapable of children-making for a long, long time.

Ich bin eine neuenheimer felder!!

Oh yeah, so yesterday, I like totally moved into my new room. I moved into that room so damn good, its mama felt it! All the way to its foundations. Twice the size of my old room, and with actual CURTAINS, by the time I’d completely unpacked, my new Neuenheimer Feld apartment feels more like home than my SRH room ever did. One surprise is both packing and unpacking gave me a bizarre sense of nostalgia and sentimentality. Packing up SRH for some reason took me back to when I packed up my room at the end of first year at Surrey. Taking apart memories that have been strategically placed along your living space, deconstructing your home is a bizarre feeling, it felt somehow wrong. I felt like I was leaving Heidelberg. Unpacking again in Neuenheimer created a second bout of this, though more punctuated with a sense of “where the fuck am I going to put all this shit?”

Seminares have now officially ended, my last one being on the eve of the Wednesday. On reflection, it’s been an exceedingly educational experience studying at a German university for the past 5 months. The style of teaching is intricately different; formalities are abound, there’s no first-name-basis. The experience of literature studies is the alternative route to how it is in England. In England, I found we learned analysis first, even from a young age, we were encouraged to break down literature and critique it. Interpretation was key. This is then furthered on to create an understanding of academic research; to be able to draw a more enlightened view, one must then research. This makes the research then agenda’d as with years of analytical experience, we know or believe we know, what to seek out in research skills. For Germany, it would appear that research comes first. By final year of university, their level of application and analysis mirrors A-Levels, but, as to be expected of Heidelberg, their secondary reading is extaordinary. There’s a grey area of convergence which is where we lie, meeting in the middle, and as someone who detests secondary reading and does everything in his power to avoid research, this should hopefully be a ball-growing experience in the field of Literature academia.

You must Waheed my warning.

Like a sesame seed through the digestive system, we all live but a transitory existence. And so on this Frabjous Day with a kaloo kallay, I wish parting fancy to one, Tanya Waheed. We knew her well, for she was a girl of culture (she knew what Ravioli was), a daring child of the dancefloor and a multilingual extraordinaire. But, like grains of sand, the days have moved and with no more Shawarma Wraps to keep us warm nor any woolly hats to stay trendy with, this Sutton-raised, London-based, crazy beauty is off to bigger, better and more Italian things! One of the first people I ever met in Germany, I’ve been lucky enough to garner some fantastic memories with this specific creature, from barcrawls, to Oktoberfests, Birthdays and mutual bloggings, it’s been an absolute pleasure. Viel Gl√ľck in der Zukunft! Avere una volta incredibile!

 

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