Monday, 28 December 2009

2009; an epilogue.

Where to start? The beginning of the year? Not for me, far too post-modern. I understand that this time of year does this to people, what with resolutions and all that, but I have found myself forced into a lot of reflection recently. When trying to take stock of a period of time, eternal during and fleeting ever since, it is fucking impossible to take an objective stance, weigh things up on either side and come to a rather diplomatic and utilitarian conclusion on whether you have achieved a single sodding thing, retained a scrap of knowledge or developed any further understanding of this near adult life that has been thrust upon you with little warning, just a few knowing smiles and a couple of patronising lectures. I may have lost some things and gained others, but these facts have very little relevance to how I feel this year has been for me.

February I returned to Haslemere, shortly afterwards I went to work at a hotel in the New Forest, it shall remain unnamed and unmentioned in this blog, I had fun but kicked myself in the balls shortly afterward.

Maybe I should just bring up some memories, like walking through Taunton late at night with Tom and doing an acapella rendition of Holy Roller Novocaine. Or maybe gigs in Leicester, memories of which are satisfyingly doused in beer and broken strings. Or maybe that bollockingly hot day that I decided to hitch-hike round the M25, nearly just to prove a point. Perhaps late night/early morning sessions at the 24 hour pool club, maybe the days spent camping in the summer after being kicked out. Possibly waking up on a cold sofa, breath steaming and the sounds of screaming from next door filling my slowly gathering consciousness. Countless mornings waking up in the double bed on Kings Road. Being more worried about A-level results day than I was the year my own came out. Pasta pesto. The den. The beautiful differences between Guildford's and Leicester's Job Centres, Vivaldi's Spring as the hold tone for the Department for Work and Pensions. Drinking red from the bottle on Southsea beach, drinking red from the bottle in Chiddingfold, drinking red from the bottle up Marley, drinking red from the bottle whilst watching the England game in Ross' room, for some reason I remember nothing about the match, something else big happened that day. That week just after my birthday in which I had the house to myself.

Change has been a big thing. There have been a few big alterations, maybe improvements, maybe damages, some left alone and some repaired. Being asked to leave the house was incredible, it brought out a trusty old defence mechanism, indifference. Indifference bordering on mania, perhaps. Indeed I felt alone, shit scared and foolish, but ultimately it felt like another episode in some teen drama that I found mildly engaging. It took only a short while in Leicester for me to realise that home would be the best place to be and that staying home was as important. Not that Leicester wasn't fun, it was fucking mental, but I don't do well cold and hungry.

There has been another change, I fear that if I dwell on it then I will have some rather cross sounding facebook status disguisedly addressed to me, so I won't even begin to vent any feelings on it. All I will say is that it was the first change of this sort I've ever had to go through, I may not have handled myself particularly well, during or shortly after the event, but ultimately, that is if it has reached an ultimatum, I feel that on this side of everything I have developed a much stronger sense of what I need and what I should do to get it, what I have and what I should do to keep it and what I've lost and what I should do to commemorate it.

The year has ended with a form of revolution, I try my best not to get involved with mainstream media politics and phone-in vote democracies, but the fact that Rage Against The Machine's Killing The Name ended up as Christmas number one in the charts is probably the most poetic form of counter attack to this relentless barrage of synthetic, over-produced, soulless tat to which we have been subjected over the past ten years that anybody could have ever dreamed of. I just hope that people realise why this has happened and don't try and turn one of the most politically tuned-in bands ever known into some gimmick for apathetic, lazy dislike for some bloke who has his trousers too high, a bad haircut and man boobs. Oh, and a shitload of cash.

This has been my year. I hope you enjoyed it and can work out if I did for me.