Log in

No account? Create an account
November 2008   01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30


Posted on 2008.11.20 at 21:21
"lovers should be tied together" - Bright eyes reference from "A perfect sonet", which was actually the inspiration for the "story"
"love will tear me apart" - Twist of a Joy Division title that seems pretty apt.

who knows.
i'll probably think of some more soon anyway, just to make it worse and confuse me further.

I was to begin my confinement in education at Rituale Boarding School in Scotland, a prestigious institution deemed acceptable for a boy such as myself. I remember waking on that September morning eager with anticipation, ready to begin a new adventure. This would be a chance for me to prove myself, prove myself worthy of the family name, worthy of my father’s affections which had now become so fleeting. I arose early from a disjointed sleep to button up my new uniform with trembling fingers, taking the utmost care to look presentable. It wouldn’t do to shame the family now would it? My hair that once flowed so freely around my face was now slicked back. To give an impression of strength, apparently. Authority. That sort of thing is important to an eleven year old.

The train that was to deport my fellow inmates and I was due to arrive at 9am sharp. We, of course, arrived a quarter of an hour early. it wouldn’t do for me to be late. So I stood there. I stood there watching the melee of children around me, laughing, smiling, tentatively greeting others in the first bloom of friendship. Mother, father and I stood in strict formation watching, just watching. We must have looked rather imposing, intimidating for the other families. There was no affection or warmth between us, just a cool familiarity. The ties of tradition bound us, not the ties of love. Maybe this was apparent to the other children, maybe it’s why, even on first meeting, they were always wary, always uncertain, always nervous around me.

After an eternity of frozen formality the train was prepared to depart and after a swift kiss on the cheek from mother (more in keeping with social convention than any maternal feelings I’m sure) and curt nod from my father I set out on my journey. I quickly found myself a cabin and settled down for what I knew would be a long ride. A few others occasionally peeked into the cabin, timidly opening the door before hastily releasing it. It seemed my family’s reputation had preceded me, once again; I was in the shadow of relatives, a shadow I wasn’t confident I would ever be able to emerge from.

            The trip passed in relative peace, aside from boisterous shouts from neighbouring cabins and the thundering of excited feet down the aisle I was entirely alone. That was until I felt the shuddering jolt signalling the end of my journey. I marked my place in the novel I was currently indulging in (I cannot recall what it was, time makes such details hazy), placed it in my satchel and made for the door, hesitantly gripping the handle and, after much deliberation (oh how nice it would have been to have simply remained curled up in that cabin!) making the movement which would open the door and end my blessed isolation.

             Oh reader, you cannot imagine the anticipation I felt, how excited I was! I was to make my first friend! The feeling was almost tangible, for surely I would not be alone for long with so many people around! With eager eyes I surveyed the surroundings, the people. There just seemed to be such an amiable atmosphere that I couldn’t help but be filled with childish hope, the air was thick with the beginning of new friendships.

Then I saw you. Back then you were just a scruffy little lad; unruly dark hair and oversized blue eyes, I always wondered why you were able to keep the blue while I wasn’t.

            When I saw you, I knew, I just knew we would be friends. You just had this aura. You seemed so innocent, so full of wonder, so different to myself. Reflected in your baby blues I saw the future clearly, you would be my foil and I yours, we could compliment each other, complete each other. But how each hero must have his flaw, I had mine. You see, I have this demeanour, this particular way of walking, this particular way of talking that just announces arrogance, superiority without my consent. Don’t blame the child, blame the parents! I approached you with all the quivering fallibility of childhood,

“Hello” (nerves, thankfully hidden)

You turned and bestowed your attention on me,

“Oh, Hi”

At this point I faltered. What to say? How to say it? How to appear interesting and exciting? Oh capricious interactions!

I fear this delay cost me greatly; your attention was soon diverted. A boy I knew vaguely engaged you in conversation; he was the son of a low ranking government official, a very low ranking government official. The type I was bred to despise. Nevertheless, in the true spirit of altruism (well, because he was obviously familiar with the boy I so desperately wanted to be friends with) I attempted to engage him in conversation also,


He turned, the slight narrowing of his eyes indicating his recognition of me.

“You’re a Horn-well “ The suspicion and dislike was evident,oh you cannot blame me for my reaction, my pride, my ego, my family!

“What of it?” (Haughty, aggressive) “Horn-well is a respected name and you’d do well show proper courtesy if you know what’s good for you!!”

Surprisingly, this sort of behaviour does not endear you to people.

I was about to retaliate, about to make some comment or possibly throw a punch or two but then you interfered, you stilled him with a firm hand,

“Don’t, he’s not worth it."

Then you just walked away. You walked away.



Posted on 2008.11.09 at 22:44

the interpretation eliminates the objective.
don't you think ,sometimes,
some things don't need words?

a beginning-just a rough thingggg.

Posted on 2008.11.09 at 21:48
just a rough beginning of a story i've had in my head for a whileee (:

I suppose some might think me cruel. I suppose some may think me unkind. I, personally, think myself a nietzschean paragon, a lone hero in search of universal truth. A voyager. An artist. I don’t believe many realise is that art can be in any form, it’s life is not confined to pictures on dead paper. Art is fluid, flexible and addictive. It can be seen anywhere, from a Picasso painting to the arrangement of coats on a banister rail. From a view over a summer time lake to the beauty of death. Oh, I know I’m not the first to profess a love of art, I know I’m not the first to use it as a line of defence but do not call me Humbert. I know my actions were reprehensible, I know most of you would willingly condemn me without a second thought, nevertheless I implore you to listen. To keep an open mind and save your judgement until you hear my tale.

Once upon a time, there was a young lad called Matthew Horn-well, born into an affluent family he never wanted for material possessions. His father, Remus Horn-well, was a political bureaucrat of high standing within the government; His mother, Bella Horn-well nee Cromford, was the daughter of a wealthy aristocrat who specialised in socialising. Fairy tale beginning right? Money, Family and you turned out like you did? Tutt-tutt. Ah but dear reader, things are not always as they seem.

As a child I was always told I resembled an angel, soft flaxen locks, big blue eyes. The blue has gone now. With age they darkened into a steel grey. I’m sure you think that’s representative of something, the loss of innocence perhaps, the onset of insanity possibly. Don’t be naïve. Sometimes things don’t need to be read into, sometimes things just are. Besides, none of us can maintain the innocence of youth, no matter how hard we may try.

I lived in a country manor in the south of Yorkshire, I won’t bore you with details of setting as I find that kind of thing rather tedious myself. You just need to know that it was grand, opulent. I’d very much like to visit it again but I’m afraid of the memories. I know, I know to be afraid of something as tenuous and subjective as the past does appear to be pathetic. But I’m an artist you see. The soul of a poet, it makes me rather sensitive.

Anyway, back to the narrative. Nice and chronological. Reader-friendly. Who said I wasn’t accommodating? The first few years of my development progressed nicely, not that I can really remember anything but I believe that itself is indicative of a stable upbringing. I was brought up by the family nanny. What a shame you must think, oh how he must have been deprived of maternal love and warmth. Well, to be perfectly honest, it was of no bother to me, my mother was always somewhat cold. She’s always been like that as far as I’m aware. Distant. Not an ideal mother by any means and I don’t have any delusions that she harboured any maternal feelings towards me. Not the maternal type. No, not at all. And the nanny was nice enough I suppose.

I never had many friends growing up, being high-born I was never allowed to associate with the children of the town and, after being regaled with tales of their absolute vulgarity, I never much wished to. I was home-schooled up to the age of 11 by a governess. I know, I know, how terribly old-fashioned, but that’s how it is when you’re from an aristocratic family, tradition, tradition, tradition. It was effective enough, giving me a grounding in humanities, languages, sciences and the arts.

In my free time I read. Feasting on Milton, devouring Dante and gorging myself on Shakespeare. I seldom left my retreat and, as a result became fairly thin and pale; features that are still with me at the grand old age of 22. Twenty-Two and trapped by Catch-22, well, I’ll leave that for you to decide. As a result of excessive reading I became all the more detached from my peers and began viewing them from afar, scrutinising them and looking for symbolism, searching for meaning and analysing their little lives. This did not prove to be beneficial to my transition into secondary education.



The seven days of Peter Crumb - Jonny Glynn

Posted on 2008.09.02 at 22:10

"Peter Crumb is a man whose life has been overturned by a single, devastating act of violence in his past. Now, in what he intends to be his last week on Earth, he is determined to leave his mark upon humanity - randomly, unjustly, with infinite attention to detail. And Monday means murder..."

I bought the debut novel of author Johnny Glynn without any previous knowledge of the book, without recommendations or reviews and, if I'm perfectly honest, the reason why I purchased this particular book was mainly because it was in the cult section of Waterstones and the blurb caught my interest. This could have been a spectacular waste of money, time and effort. Luckily, it wasn't.

Using a linear narrative, Johnny Glynn tracks protagonist Peter Crumb through a week of hedonistic decadence and ultra violence encouraged by his schizophrenic alter ego. Potentially, this book could have just been nothing more than gore and tasteless violence as it involves near necrophilia, acts of mutilation and disembowelment and torture, yet Glynn tackles the issue sensitively and gives the reader an original and, somewhat sympathetic, insight into the mind of a person society would deem as psychotic.

Crumb is detached from many of his more abhorrent acts by the way in which his schizophrenia is presented. He often refers to his more confident, arrogant persona as 'him' rather than 'me', giving two separate personalities and creating, in his mind, two separate people. Therefore, Crumb writes as if he is not responsible for these acts of violence, although he is clearly aware that he is. This helps to disassociate the violent acts in this book from Crumb in the readers mind and allows the audience to empathise with Crumb. In this respect, ‘The seven days of Peter Crumb’ is similar to novels such as ‘A clockwork Orange’ and ‘Lolita’ as they contain protagonists that the reader knows they should despise but instead are able to understand and even pity.
Pathos is evoked with the revelation of Crumb’s past. Peter Crumb used to be an ordinary man. Happily married with a loving daughter named Emma and the fact that Crumb used to be so regular, so ordinary allows the reader to be able to connect with his on some level. It humanises him, he is no longer just a murdering psychotic monster capable of only evil but at one point he was capable of love, care and affection. However, one day, his daughter was brutally murdered and disembowelled on her way to a nearby shop. It was at this point that Crumb’s emotional well being begun to suffer. Unable to cope with this tragedy, Crumb’s mind fragments and creates a new identity as a coping mechanism. It is this new identity that seems to instigate and encourage all the sadistic; despicable acts central to the novel (“He was watching me”, “He was following me”), removing a degree of responsibility from Crumb for his actions.
One thing I found particularly poignant about Glynn’s novel was the issue of isolation, loneliness and being forgotten. Crumb obviously feels lonely. He has retreated from the world, with only his schizophrenic self for company and in an attempt to leave his mark, in an attempt to make his life less transient, to give it a purpose he sets out on his last brutal fling. Yet, for all his efforts, by the end of the novel his efforts have proved futile. When Crumb believes his acts have come into fruition and he is about to be imprisoned for his deviance, he realises that no one has even discovered the bodies of Beth and Adrian; his actions have affected no one. He is lost in a sea of anonymity. It is this realisation that leads him to phone Johnnie in a desperate attempt to gain the recognition he so seriously craves and makes a frenzied confession. Even this doesn’t earn him any acknowledgment, which is possibly the most tragic issue in the novel, not the murder, not the mutilation but the desperate struggle of one man for the recognition he never receives.