14.08.13- Endorphins, Getting Inked & "Modern Art"

My mood, fortunately, has continued to improve massively with the help of having such lovely friends, long phonecalls, plenty of writing and a pile of books. Energy levels are back up, running shoes are back on and I no longer view fit men with as much passion as viewing an egg-and-cress sandwich. I haven't even felt angry at anything the past two days.

"Phwoar, check out that BLT baguette."

Except the fact I wanted one courgette in Asda and they only came in packs of three, but that's understandable.

The past few days have been spent organising everything ready for Freshers' Fayre in September and meeting with the committee to plan plenty of events which have excited me a lot. I like events. They look exciting in my phone planner and I get to put really exciting little symbols next to them to give the impression that I am a very busy and important person, even though most things in my planner are along the lines of "haircut- Weds 10am", "get drunk- Sat 9pm" and "remember to put in prescription-Mon 2pm". 

"Yay, endorphins."

Yesterday was the first 6-mile run I have done in a long while. Yes, it's a long way from my usual 10-12 milers, but just getting in after 55 minutes, sprawling across the floor and lying out flat in the manner of a squashed swiss roll and heavy-breathing into the carpet like a sweaty pervert was beautiful. Not to look at, obviously-- I looked "hangin'" for lack of a better word-- but the endorphins were amazing after lazing about without energy for so long.

I absolutely can't wait to go for my morning run tomorrow. I guess running is my way of clearing my head. Laze about too long and I just get angry and explode like the unpierced contents of a microwave meal at 850 watts.

Anger: a microwaveable metaphor

Yesterday I also booked my next tattoo at Swansea Tattoo Co. Yes, it will be expensive. Yes, I will probably have to fund the next month through selling the entire contents of my bedroom and possibly my own family on eBay. But I know I want something to mark not only how much poetry has helped me with so much over the last few years, but with a line from one of my favourite poems from one of my favourite writers from my own hometown. It will inspire me to always keep going with following my literary ambitions and I suppose it's something to read on the bus, innit?

It's going to be a line from 'Do Not Go Gentle' by Dylan Thomas. I like that line. It makes me feel like I can be fierce and assertive, even when my idea of asserting authority is shouting "bullshit" at the TV if something crap gets valued at £10000000000000 on Flog It.

"I don't bloody belieeeeve it."

It wouldn't be right if I had a blog post that was without at least one little bit of ranting however. Doesn't everyone find pleasure in complaining? Isn't it a British thing? Or is this why my mother refers to me as "Victor bloody Meldrew"?

Earlier myself and two of my best friends were at the pub discussing the ridiculousness of some things that will pass as "modern art". Don't get me wrong, I love art. I bloody adore art. 

But seriously.

How do some things pass as "art"? Apparently one of my friends had viewed a tipped flowerpot that was worth thousands. Are you telling me I can go out into my back garden, boot my Nan's begonias (...why does that sound so dirty?) and suddenly I'm an award-winning artist if I give you some bullshit explanation on how it represents the fragility of life or the state of the tormented soul?

It's a flowerpot that fell over.

I remember once going to an art gallery in primary school whilst the guide was raving about some "amazing" painting. It was not amazing. It was a blue circle next to a bigger blue circle which had a dent in it. 

Blobs. Deep.

But I'll leave you with my all-time favourite piece of "modern art". Ladies and gentlemen, cats and kittens, I give you Tracy Emin's "My Bed". It is covered in underwear and condoms. It is a messy bed. It attracted over 2,000 visitors a day:

It's a bed.

This is why I can't always tolerate humanity.