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!

NaNoWriMoWeUp5

Day Twenty-Nine: 1,969. Did better managing my distractions on a more 'micro' level.
   Have been stirring up some foul s&&t with all this reminiscing...

Day Thirty: 579. More terrible time management led to a weak performance. I'm afraid that I'm making the classic poor judgement that I normally do when I'm depressed.
   On the plus side, I'm formulating greater awareness of where the 'plot' will need to go or, rather, what words I'll need to imply plot and convey arcs.

Day Thirty-One: 832. Thirty-one? THIRTY-ONE!?! 'But there are only thirty days in November,' I hear you cry.
   Well, I didn't get my fifty-k done in November. I took an extra day to cross the line. I don't see that as failure, though. I see it as, at times, laziness, lack of discipline and, how can I put this without it sounding like I'm trying to make excuses... 'life'.
   But it doesn't matter if I am making excuses. The fact is that, unless you're a rigid stickler, it's not reaching fifty thou words, or in what time, that's important: it's what you get out of it.
   I have words.
   I have had an experience.
   I have more work to do.
   Maybe I'll struggle with momentum but
   I have plans to plan more,
   then get writing again.
   And of course editing.

Thank you all for following and supporting me as I picked my way through my first NaNoWriMo. Peace, love and light! 

And please don't stop! Or, if you didn't start but want to, then start when you can! Just because the arbitrary period known as NaNoWriMo has ended, your expression doesn't need to. All it should be is a generative exercise, but you can do them any day you like. Apologies if this seems patronising, but it's all ahead of us, of everyone, and all we can do is try our best in the present.

Ceeelebrate good NaNoWrimes, come on!

Loop

The other night I went to Edge Hill again. Monday heralded the beginning of my MA course in Creative Writing there, and though I know there's a lot of hard work ahead of me, it was great to be back. There were a few 'old faces' there from my time on the BA in English and Creative Writing, and it was a pleasure to see them, but it was also an invigorating experience to meet the 'new faces' too (all of whose faces were actually older than the 'old faces', what with them being more mature students). After some initial introductions and feet-finding, we got onto talking about methodologies, which is a very cerebral topic and the harbinger of tough (but no doubt enjoyable) times ahead.

When the seminar was over though, and I had chatted a bit to a good friend and fellow blogger (check out his 'Utterances of a Heathen'), I walked back through Edge Hill's lovely 160-acre campus and it brought back to mind the day I first moved there three years ago. I was pretty hungover, thanks to nice night of farewell drinks with my Lancaster pals, and was sleeping a fair bit during the journey down. I was wearing my Liverpool shirt (I thought it important to let people know my football standing and probably have some banter over it) and some classic sensitive-eye sunnies and I remember actually that I wasn't clean shaven (I was a bit annoyed I wasn't because I had to have a picture taken for my new unicard and looked a bit scruffy).

I'm not going to go into the whole day, suffice to say that being back in education at Edge Hill transported me all but bodily into the past. I swam in the - probably compromised - memories: sharing drinks with new hall mates, mum crying as she said goodbye to her smelly son for a while and, something which continued for a long time, not unpacking.

So I'm back where I began. Or am I? The shirt's different, though it still bears the same badge. I've put on a bit of weight. I guess the core of me is very similar, but here I go again into the unfamiliar.