Why I Write

I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life.

Outside a powerful rain storm is washing away the stain of filth from the streets. It is a bank holiday and nobody appears to be doing anything exciting. Flo asked me last night in the kitchen if I wanted to go to Africa Day in Trafalgar Square. She has been lovely so far and I think what I resented about that odious prick is the underhand way he tried to poison my views. Luckily he will be gone by the end of next week. The rebuilding process continues today and while I have lots of issues, I know that I must construct a platform to improve myself upon. It is still raining and yesterday I watched Joy Division at the Prince Charles. It's still my favourite cinema and the documentary is very much a secondary text for those who watched Control last year.

Ian Curtis struck me very much as being a loner in his own band and apart from Annik Honoré I don't think those around him understood him at all. This feeling must have heightened his sense of loneliness in the bleakest of all industrial cities. They really were a daft bunch of lads and you could feel the uneasiness of the audience when they spoke about his suicide. What is important is that Joy Division have great integrity and a poetic sensibility which contrasts heavily with the Top Shop sponsored b(r)ands advertising themselves online today.

Limbo

I'm nervous about receving a handwritten letter. I received an email from my Mother asking what address she should use now. I think tomorrow I will watch some films and speak to a few people. I might even go to a gig. I'm not reading enough and even when I do I don't seem to improve. I hate being half-good, half-talented because that's not good enough. I seem to keep everything and moving is interesting because I never throw anything away. Albums date so quickly and I'm almost glad most of them are in storage. Things are ebbing in the right direction despite my neurotic lack of confidence. I just wish that prick would turn off his radio. I'm about to stand up and rattle three thuds against his door.

***

He yelped in an aggravated manner when I banged on his door. An aggressive three tap thump. His opera music died almost immediately. I considered this to be a moral victory and went to sleep.

Arrogance

It is the weekend and I have just met the most loathsome character in the kitchen. He spilt blood all over the cabinet and offered me a glass. I accepted and received an implicit warning that I should be grateful because he does not consider himself to be a generous man. He is someone who immediately came across as being elitist, smug, arrogant and imperialist. Neither of these adjectives have been used lightly and nor have they been used for dramatic effect. Liam is going to become a criminal lawyer and the mature Oxbridge graduate is leaving the flat in a few days time. He is going back to Essex (and I assume by this he means his parents) and on doing so he will be preparing to become an intellectual martyr defending mentally ill people who commit violent crimes. He could apparently earn more doing commercial law and instinctively appeared dismissive of this subject's popularity and lucrative earning potential. What he is going to practice is purely intellectual and has scant earning power.

What I discovered about myself is that I kept on assuming law students trained purely for mercenary reasons. There is also the carrot of power, influence and status that comes with such a position and these underlying assumptions formed the basis of my questions. He appeared dismissive about any suggestion of working for money. Don't you want to earn money when you graduate? What about buying a house or living a comfortable lifestyle? He is not in it for the money though and considers himself a libertarian. He referred to himself as a purist in that respect. It would appear however that it doesn't really matter what Liam earns because Daddy will always pay. My questions meanwhile came from a lower or middle-class background obsessing about getting on the ladder and funding a future lifestyle. They betrayed a materialistic anxiety and my insecurities manifested themselves in a fumbling naivety.

The elitist arrogance meanwhile kept on brewing with every sip of blood and he warned me about my new flatmate Flo. According to Liam she is a Nazi and extremely untrustworthy. What about I asked? He never gave a clear answer and just said I would see. On further prompting I was told I should get a legal contract regarding my deposit because Flo is not to be trusted. Liam also bizarrely warned me that she and another flatmate were 'creationists' but I couldn't care less about their religious views. I just won't ask them if they've read the God Delusion and there will be no stupid arguments.

Whether Liam's deeply calculated views are true or deeply prejudiced remains to be seen. He did however fuel my anxiety about renting with strangers and the lack of respect I will inevitably garner from those with greater earning power. Our conversation thankfully reached a saturation point when I reached the bottom of my glass. His deeply engrained arrogance spoke volumes for his education and it was the impenetrable aura of smugness that I found most off- putting about the man. He probably has no idea how scornful I can be on paper and I guess in that respect I’m not a particularly generous man either.

Girl Interrupted

After meeting a series of freaks, misfits and miscreants from across Europe and being rejected by all of them. I finally managed to secure a deal with a friendly 23-year-old guy who will be moving in this week. Chris is a spectacled bohemian lad from New Zealand and has been room-sharing until now. He expressed some reservations about the area and while I’ve never been threatened or attacked in Whitechapel. I did conveniently forget to talk about the shrill screams and wailing sirens I heard from my bedroom window last week.

Before he accepted my room I felt exasperated at the constant stream of rejection and how nobody else seemed to care who moved into the house. In that respect I feel incredibly guilty inviting Chris to take my place, especially after I had this ridiculous argument with Sophie last night. If you think I’m self-centred and arrogant then you really should meet this girl. After asking Sophie an innocuous question about a light switch and not getting a clear answer, I found myself a minute later being aggressively lectured at how it was ‘rude of me to walk out mid-conversation’. Apart from the fact I didn’t walk out mid-conversation and I frequently make the effort to talk to a girl who frequently replies in monosyllable grunts and often refuses to even make eye contact. I found myself aghast at how she had the gall to get worked up over such a trivial incident.

She then tried to play the martyr card about being ‘straight’ with people but I responded by saying she was completely arrogant and came from another planet. My caustic suggestion that Sophie did not fully inhabit this world didn’t go down particularly well and I think our heated discussion will represent our last words on this universe. Until last night I’ve never fully taken part in a flat implosion and while I do wish her all the best, I do worry what will happen to her if she maintains such a highly-strung attitude at university. Students in halls will be considerably more cruel, dismissive and less forgiving than me.

It is probably unfair to launch into a one-sided diatribe against someone younger and unable to defend herself but I don’t have the patience anymore. Chris wrote in his email that he’s laid back and having met a few times I couldn’t agree more. He appears totally dead on and a perfect flatmate judging by his behaviour so far. Everyone claims to be laid back though and I can’t help but feel I’ve duped the poor lad. Hopefully he won't mind the flat's gaping flaws and his peaceful and unprovocative nature will provide an oasis of calm for Sophie’s wildly insecure ego.

Illness as a Metaphor

I read a brilliant article last night by Susan Sontag's son about his mother's refusal to accept she was dying of cancer. She made him collaborate in her denial until the last two weeks of her death. Sontag wrote 'Illness as a Metaphor' in 1978 and it's a brilliant polemical essay about how we should not use military and sexual references to deal with illness. The 19th Century Romantic Movement made virtue of consumption and the notion of being consumed with decadence. Dying of consumption led to a mythology that you lived a life of romance and physical passion.

The remnants of this culture still persist today with skinny emaciated rock stars promoting sexuality with their cheekbones and exposed white ribs. Cancer meanwhile has come to resonate physical inhibition or a lack of passion and that through personal weakness you have allowed your body to be invaded by a poisonous growth. Sontag's main issue was the usage of aggressive masculine words such as 'invaded' in describing what is essentially the luck of the genetic draw. The saddest irony is that Sontag was herself incapable of accepting her own mortality and emotionally forced her son to collaborate in the biggest lie of all.

Impasse

After an extended kip in bed, I woke up and faced a blanket pretending to be a curtain. It really does a remarkable job blocking out sunlight. Church bells then began to reveberate around my room and I love listening to them on a Sunday morning. On leaving the flat however I found myself to be no different than the majority of Godless heathens on this wet miserable island and went to Sainsbury's instead of Church. When I arrived in the supermarket, I casually placed a chicken pasta dish into my basket and sent Markus a text offering him the room. An hour later he called back to say he had been offered a contract somewhere else. I can only blame myself because he made a firm verbal offer and I hesitated on the behalf of people I'm very unlikely to see again. In light of my flatmates muted apathy, I no longer care less about the gender or morals of the individual taking my place. If I have to invite a crack dealer, murderer or a terrorist to get my money back then I will do so.

The Kids Don't Stand A Chance

At half past twelve, I walked downstairs grasping my phone and met two Italian girls standing outside. They were both carrying umbrellas to protect themselves from the rain. It has been unrelentingly dreich since the mini-heatwave last week. I delayed approaching the door and examined their frosted shadows through the squared window.

What had the low graphite skies brought me today?

Laura is from Milan and has travelled to the UK for an internship and will be here until the end of July. This is not ideal because I do morally have an obligation to get someone who will stay long enough to pay at least one bill. Her continental friend Francesca meanwhile exposed a male weakness for a pretty face. I'm shamefully vacuous in that respect and her olive cheekbones and black arty glasses were the undoubted highlight of my afternoon. Laura will text me tomorrow but since she wants to move in with her friend I can already predict her answer. There are no grudges on my part and I wish her all the best. I just wish I didn't have to be psychologically tortured meeting a girl like Francesa!

A thirty minute break then took place until I met Markus from Germany. He's only here on a short-term contract and doesn't have many possessions; my room is therefore perfect for him and he accepted without delay. Markus has a very good chance and my decision will be made tomorrow. The only issue surrounding Markus is his gender because Wei stated he would prefer a girl to take my place. Zsuzsanna from Budapest duly arrived early this evening to see the room and needs to find a new place very soon. She turned out to be an experienced Capoeira fanatic and this is right up Wei's street and she had even been in the flat last November for a party.

If she does say yes then I have a serious decision to make and right now I'm tempted to invite Markus because I think he has the money and will be more straightforward in that respect. I've been rejected for loads of flats on the basis that I'm a guy and everyone on Gumtree requests a clean, professional female in their stupid adverts. In that respect he has my sympathy and while Wei is a really funny guy, I feel a greater responsibility towards Sophie since she will be living next door to the new person. She wants a guy for the sake of balance and I personally don't think Sophie will have anything in common with a Hungarian girl who works in catering and practices Capoeira every evening. Markus wrote in his email that he likes music, art and films and while my relationship with Sophie has been rather prickly at times, I do want to leave her something before I go.

For Sale

A girl from Quebec arrived at the flat today to view my room. She couldn't leave quick enough and practically ran down the stairs to escape! I personally don't blame the girl because this flat is horrible. It's an unavoidable fact. I even spent all morning cleaning up other people's mess in a vain attempt to make it presentable. I really can't be bothered having people around. It's hard not to take rejection personally. In fifteen minutes I have a young Italian girl coming to visit, who will definitely reject this place, and then some 29 year old architect from Cologne. I think in order to want to live here you either have to be,

a. young

b. stupid

or

c. desperate

Even then it is preferable that you are all three because even desperate people have some pride and ideas above their station.

Someone cried they sang along

Another day tiring myself out in Oxford Street and it is amazing what lengths I will go to avoid being in my room. I tried to fall back in favour with music by walking through several aisles of plastic. Record shops were my first love but they no longer hold any mystery anymore. The downloading culture has killed off people's imaginations. I realise that your average teenage music fan won't give a fuck about what some nostalgic guy in his twenties thinks. I just happen to believe that something has been lost. I'm past it when it comes to new music though and I accept that my time has gone. It is something that has been lingering in my mind for months.

Back in the day I used to love going to monthly record fairs in Aberdeen's Market Street in search of unavailable singles and albums. I could never afford to buy anything but every month I would go just to look at specialist artwork or dusty bootleg videos. During the raw wintry months, I would stumble in with a red football scarf and make friends with Clash fans from London in vintage punk jackets, which were moshed to death and covered in snotty white typex. I always knew I didn't have the stupid money to feed my habit but obbession drove me back everytime.

What I ask myself is would this happen now? Sure you have vinyl obbessives and niche dance guys looking for old records to pillage, sample and plunder. Otherwise all you have to do is type in a few words into Google and every lost interview, demo tape and muffled remark is available free online. Digital Maoism has ensured you can find out anything you want at the touch of a button and the sad thing is you don't even have to care.

High Street of Madness

Until today I never realised how much I hated buying shoes. In a war of attrition with the high street, I eventually caved in after three days and bought a pair of blue fender trainers. They seem pretty cool to me but it doesn't matter what I buy really. Nobody is ever going to fall in love with me for my clothes. These shoes will certainly get their money's worth if I decide to move to Bow next week. I don't know why I feel like such a traitor for wanting to move out. This lingering taste of guilt is completely irrational because my flat is a complete dump and nobody will care if I leave anyway. Most people don't stay here any longer than five or six months. What I feel guilty about is that I can't afford to move out but I seem determined to do so anyway. It is a manifestation of suburban snobbery if I'm being completely honest with you. Who are you though? What is the right decision? I don't know you see. It is like buying new shoes. I sometimes get fed up having to make all these decisions by myself.