Wibbly Wednesday Bits


Just spent the past ten minutes walking behind a man in continuous attempt to whistle. Evidently he’d never been taught to just put his lips together and blow. And blow today did, the wind of Heidelberg causing a wonderful moment where an old lady’s umbrella decided it was done with eternal slavery and made a run for it. Instigating the sight that will haunt me to my grave of an elderly German lady hitching up that polkadot dress and running like a motherbitch after her bouncing brolly.

Wednesday’s are an odd one here in Heidelberg, with very little to do, I am in continuous shock as to how far into this week we are, and yet how much more of it there is to go. To combat this, I spend my time of higher education wisely and doodle imaginary people sitting in front of me at the Mensa. After a quick hop in the car with Dave where we walked down the river, going past what he swears in as much genuine honesty an American is capable of, was a monastery of naked, beer-drinking monks, who (I might add) are just the best dinner partners, I returned to the Mensa to then doodle away. Drawing is one of those therapeutic thingamajigs that is capable of obliterating the outside world into a carved mosaic of scratched outlines and flood-filled colour pans. If I was ever capable of drawing consistently, I might take it up as an actual hobby.

Last night was another one of many in which I decided to give up writing for ever and ever and ever, only to then pick up the hobby again this morning. Scripts are fine, like many a thing, I can bang them out in one sunny evening. Prose is a freaking bitch. The patience, self-belief and genuine, consistent mindset required to write a whole book is enough to almost make me respect Twilight. Almost. When I was a stoic little teen who hid away in his room, writing would pour from my fingertips, now the ideas have run from my reach and no words I write down will ever justify the concepts. Still, brick-lay I do, word after word, in the hope that any of it is worthwhile. Though, perhaps discovering I’m writing the one genre I’m actually sick of has been a slight buzzkill. Ferociously tired of dystopian future novels, I miss the shiny, Apple-styled futures with shiny cars and sliding doors, rather than yet another world where our political and social mindsets that have existed all of 2,000 years have somehow driven us into a hellish future within the space of a couple of years.

Hopefully the fact mine is mostly a comedy makes up for that. If it were funny…


Write and Left


I am as much an English Literature student, as a Fundamentalist is a Christian; I may call myself one, but I sure as hell don’t read the bloody book. Thank God (whichever God you have) that there exists Creative Writing, the ability to apply literature progression into my own creativity is the driving force for why I study a whole hour a week. Though I may mock my course at times, I will defend to the death its importance as a degree. Subjective courses are prone to criticism on behalf of the objective, literal class of degree. It does appear to the outside that something that can be done for leisure, ie. reading, could be kept as thus. Such a view however, is counterproductive to the exact nature of what a degree is.

Thankfully, I’ve never come upon much contention against my degree, especially when people see the standard to which work must be done not to mention the final quantity. The ability to think for oneself and yet, almost conversely, think for oneself correctly is such an intangible concept that it is not only difficult to understand, but near impossible to obtain. The same goes for all language or cultural studies I find. Provide the cushion of culture that makes a house into a home, or a land into a country, humans into people. The balance of subjunctive objectivism matching historical subjectivism to reach a conclusion that can then itself be analysed is an invisible ideal, which is why it always feels out of reach.

Something very much within reach, however, is my dissertation proposal. Due in for tomorrow, I’ve had the same blasé response to everything else to my degree; the last minute is plenty of time. Choosing the creative writing option, I am hoping to… Somehow, combine the historical narrative of religious enlightenment, from blindly following faith down to the unnecessarily contentious militant atheism… Told from the perspective of a character in a video game. You know the drill; an unseen ruler, directing the character through their life, putting them through tests and flippantly doing away with their lives as they have “more to spare”. The character will of course start to question the logic and kindness of his creator, and through allegorically following the historical narrative of religion, begin to revolt. The only question being, is this an act of freedom, or just doomed determinism? The question of one’s place in his universe, is all just part of the programming, he is doomed to autonomously question his free will. Throw in some video game references and a couple of German innuendo and hopefully that’ll be that. I’ll be using Kubrickian cinema as my main thesis of exploration, alongside maybe something easier… Like portal.

Dastardly Disney

One day, I would like to earn money. And given flaunting myself on street corners got funny looks from a passing nunnery, I am hoping that I could get food in exchange for written words. One thing I am terrified writing are children’s films, because I cannot think of a more difficult writing job. Not only do you have an incredibly discerning audience, harshest of censors, the most critical of producers, but also the most explosively responsive parental grading. For this reason I find someone my age or older say that a kid’s film is; “ok because there was still stuff for adults to enjoy”, referencing the occassional adult joke or overhead homage, to be one of the most depressing attitudes to take.

There’s no need to pander to the audience with jokes as an apology for the rest of what they’re being subjected to, if you doubt the enjoyability if your writing, don’t write it. It can feel that if it’s a kid’s film, it is somehow less of a film. If something’s genuinely good, then anyone can draw from it, this is why Pixar, Ghibli, early Disney and multigenerational medias such as Doctor Who, Sherlock, Simpsons and Sitcoms have audiences of all ages, because the multiverse quality of the writing, performance and overall production can appeal to all. I never stopped watching kid’s films, I just started watching more adult mediums as I grew up. We have age restrictions to stop audiences looking forward, avoiding potentially traumatising porn scenes, not to prevent looking back. A “U” should never be a deterrent, if a film is bad, it’s because it’s bad, the target demographic is irrelevant.

Haven’t seen you ’round these parts.

Far be it from me not to watch videos of young men playing with their swords, I have to admit that unfortunately I have been somewhat… limp in regards to my role as impromptu-sword-choreographer. However, with the latest video they’ve sent me of their… blades crossing, it’s clear that it’s been…. a long and hard process, but nevertheless they’ve… come up tops and their progress is most of a most… firm hand.

And that is why I need sleep. Nevertheless, major yay to Jonas and Martin!

It seemed that now was the time to post something, just so that March has something to say for itself. Work’s been hectic, essays have been wordy and friends have been fantastic. Cheap rhythms can become easy to get lost in, that’s why Gaga is so popular, and as such, I’ve become absorbed in the simplicity of at-hand social networking. Which has resulted in many important social notes falling through the gaps, which I regret. This coming week looks to be a shining balance of “zomg activities” and hausarbeiten madness. In the final few days of London I plan to see as many as possible.

Having put my blog to a short nap after the first MADSoc workshop, and now having attended my final MADSoc workshop for the next 7 months, it seems a good time to pick the bum fluff out and start up again. These past 8 weeks have proven that it’s possible to write, direct and perform an entire production within 24 hours, that being awake for 39 hours is of no detriment to essay writing *at all*, it’s always a good idea to wear a bear whilst going with the fro, and that becoming a colloquial slag is completely acceptable. But more on that later. Also, there was a 22nd birthday somewhere but given I remember none of it, it didn’t happen and thus I am still 21.

Because science.

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.

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 Glück in der Zukunft! Avere una volta incredibile!


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