Back to Bad. Minton.

I've been back playing badminton now for about two months. Before that, it had been about seven years since I'd played, back in the days of doing my BA at Ole Edge Hill. It was great to get back to playing, like an existential homecoming. Not only is badminton one of the only competitive sports I've ever played with any regularity - and therefore become reasonably good at - but also it used to get me out the house and socialising in a meaningful way, and all these feelings and memories ran back to me, arms open wide. I'm incredibly lucky to have been introduced to the group I'm going to, which itself is lucky that the EU has funded it, and thankful. As the memories mill around my mind like lazy gas molecules, I got to thinking about the badminton-based writing I used to do on this very blog, so went back and had a read.

Faintly amusing I find those posts. Generally they comprise of me evaluating my performance, or moaning about some perceived social injustice wrought against me, alongside thrilling thoughts on Liverpool FC's latest match. I remember how it was, though, going pushing myself as hard as I could for a couple of hours, having plenty of laughs, then walking out into the cold, dark air, feeling also the chill of loneliness as I walked home, past the wooden fencing around the hospital that made a zoetrope of the wall behind, and in through the front door. I'd go from joking and exercising with everybody, to being by myself. Then I'd usually have a bit to eat, a shower, and a blog, and felt purposeful again.

Occasionally I would attempt to uncover - poetics-like - some nugget of wisdom about my badminton practise (how to play better, what makes a good player, etc), and I'm pleased with myself on that front. But anyway, whatever I think of having written it all, it doesn't matter. It's there. The most interesting thing to note was how I used to react to my performance. I'm a lot less celebratory after a win these days, rarely even opting for a fist-pump (does that suggest that there's less to fist-pump about?). I could be very puerile, as I let myself get carried away in the genuine elation, but this had been perceived to be trying to rub it in people's faces, which I don't, and never have, agreed with.

My reactions to losing are pretty similar. I'm still not bothered if I lose games, and still find dropping points with poor play disappointing, i.e. where I know I should've done better. However, I'm nowhere near as aggressive with myself as I used to be (there'd be an inner dialogue going on that would make a telepathic sailor blush), and in general now I look forward to the next shot, rather than dwelling on the one I've missed. Good advice for life, methinks. Indeed, some of these tools help interpersonally, too. There are a few people at the place I go to now that like to laugh at you when you miss a shot. I find this annoying, because I'm a stupid man-child with a hugely over-sensitive disposition, and an unfortunately robust ego, even after all this time and effort. That being said, when people do laugh, I take it on the chin, and by breathing and contextualising it better, the knot of annoyance is gone in a moment. Part of the contextualising can be thinking about how, objectively, a complete air-shot might look funny - like physical comedy, as it were - to others. Also, there's the fact that all you can control is trying to hit that shot, and your reaction. You missed, so what? Try and hit the next one. You can't control how other people take anything, so don't try. Let it be.

Anyway, I didn't expect this all to go on quite so long, and then turn into a weird Buddhist sermon at the end... So goodbye for now! Hope you feel inspired to dust off an old hobby, or even start a new one, after reading this :)

Bye!

Over Half Way

Ticking off the days.

You say you want a revolution we-ell you know, this link isn't going to help you achieve one. It will give you the chance to do some good, though: https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Martin-Palmer5

Wellity wellity wellity [stop that], I'm over half way through the Sober For October challenge. Apart from a lot of complaining, some persistent withdrawal symptoms and a boredom issue, it's gone alright so far. I would almost say I'm enjoying it, but not quite.

I'm in a weird situation with my daily blogging ritual. There's a tension between trying to update you with things that [I think] are noteworthy about my personal experience of the month and also trying to make it not about me with more general musings on the concept of it, then even more removed information about alcohol and the culture of drinking. I find it hard to avoid making reference to such a milestone, though, and I'd like the chance to gather some thoughts [such as they are].

I was about to be downbeat, because donations reached such a sudden standstill. Since this is the first time I've done an online donation thing, I don't know what's 'normal', really, though this slackening of pace definitely doesn't feel promising. Anyway, as I said, that was before. Yesterday I had a couple of mateys of mine who wanted to make offline donations [which I've added to my JustGiving page already], and one of them gave me a really nice card to say well done and keep strong, so now this is a happy post.

I know in some ways what I'm doing isn't a massive thing, you know. It's not doing an ultra-marathon in a hot air balloon bunjee jump over a shark infested pond [or whatever the kids are into these days], but I can't deny that it means something to many people, and will do some good when Macmillan get the moolah. In that sense, it means a lot to me too. I've got the memory of my mum, the strength of my friends and family and the knowledge of a charity receiving help to drag me out of my usual cynicism surrounding the efficacy of things and into a positive frame of mind.

I was also talking the other day about how the mind reacts to sums of money in these instances. When £250 was all but reached in a few days, I was amazed. It's more than my weekly wage, and raised in much less time. After upping the target, though, it raised the anxiety that I wouldn't reach it. It became less about the reality of what the money 'means' and more about the process of pushing to reach the goal. I don't know if I'm explaining it very well, but there was a shift between the early overwhelming gratitude toward a sort of voracious attitude. I suppose it's more understandable considering I'm not going to see any of the money myself, so therefore I feel like it's a more qualitative attachment.

Well that's about as much sense as I'm going to make, I suppose...

Wine's what I've really been craving lately but, as always, you guys keep me ploughing the sober furrow. Thank you!

Peace, love and light x

The Days Amble Away Like Tame Sheep Down the Street

"Donating is like art, you know. It requires supreme efforts, and then the audience, y'know, completes the circuit... makes it whole." https://www.justgiving.com/fundraising/Martin-Palmer5

Photo take waaay before Sober for October started, dear readers.

The past few months have sped by, but I always suspected that this month would drag. I'm not blaming this phenomenon on lack of beer. It probably has more to do with the fact I'm dissecting everything on this blog :P If einmal ist keinmal, then blogging [perhaps all writing?] is surely everything, having been re-lived and [further] re-formed. Anyway, that's enough of that. What I originally wanted to talk about was the pace of life this October. It seems very slow. Not quite at the interminable point - yet - but worryingly draggy.

I remember how it often used to be. Drink sort of lubricated time. I don't want you to think I'm wishing my life away or anything, but at work, for example, the day used to go quicker after a couple of drinks the night before. Well, in general. Sometimes, if in pain, it could feel even longer, but that's mainly down to how busy you are. There's a chance I'm completely wrong, of course, but I feel it's true.

Without this liquid change of pace, the days feel like squares, rather than irregular chunks stretched this way and that by your perception. I'm sure for most people the squares are a good thing. And I'm not saying I think it's a bad thing for me, I'm just saying it's different. I can tell you that I'd like it a lot more if I had certain of my ducks in certain other rows [apologies for the ambiguity, but I'll leave it in]. I think this frustration I have is at the root of all of this introspection and, occasionally, the urge to crack open a great-tasting, momentarily refreshing beverage and feel its warming proof help release me a little. Ah what the hell am I on about... This amount of sobriety just feels a bit weird, is all.

I realise that some of the allure of alcohol's [perceived] time-bending powers is down to the lack of control I have in life. I don't mean that in a whiny, 'I Me Mine' way. As humans, none of us have that much control, and if we think we do, we're probably deluded. It's best to embrace this, but as a weak person, I still sometimes fall for cheap tricks. I used to think that my choice, and the results, were all factored in and fine, but didn't realise that a) wanting control is always going to lead to suffering [indeed, wanting to avoid the inevitable or change the impossible in general], especially since, as I pointed out before, this 'method' didn't always work for me, b) there are other effects to regular consumption [the risk of cancer, the general time and work it takes to get rid of toxins from the body, the money blah blah] and c) you can be more powerful if you use yourself, rather than a crutch, to get where you want. It's in this spirit that I've actually wondered if I ever might give up booze altogether.

I doubt it. You never know though. All things must pass, after all...

September-time Blues

The thing that really triggers it for me is the adverts. Sure, there are those on TV, but it's the ones that pop up when I'm on my laptop, when I'm on my own and feeling more vulnerable. Young folk talking about 'your next big step', standing in front of some big, beautiful building as students mill about, smiling, chatting and buzzing silently with knowledge, promise and Jagerbombs. God I miss university...

Last year was the first year in my life, since I was three, that I've not gone into an 'academic year'. It wasn't too tough, though, because I had just recently finished my MA dissertation and had yet to graduate. This year was more like cold turkey. It's not the ideal time to get nostalgia-based blues of any kind, not when there's such sorrowful suffering in the family and the rest of the world at the moment. But I felt like putting this out there. I don't want to make others feel bad, but maybe it'll encourage others to think about education or their life or whatever.

I still remember first moving into halls, how I had three plastic litre bottles of spirits I'd brought back from Salou that September and how I tried to make new friends by sharing some of it with people in the same halls as me. I remember my first lessons, the feelings of awe at tutors, the attraction to those in your class who 'got it' in their way and made you look up to them because of it. I still remember the sometime loneliness, but also the fantastically oddball days and nights with friends I still love today and the freedom to be your own person in a way you couldn't imagine, even just a few months ago in sixth form. I remember losing my virginity [ish...]. I remember the greenery on campus. I remember the uni shops, the bar, the computer rooms, the odd spaces they'd try and shelve us writers during our lessons... I remember pride, fear and disappointment during/after assignments.

I remember so much. It's not really gone. It's made me who I am now and, crucially, who I will be. I'm not sad because it's over, I'm happy it's happened. I'm appreciative of all the luck, love and hard work that got me there, too, and I know it's silly of me to feel down about not being as young as I was.

Would still like to re-live it though...