Dear My Sixteen Year Old Self

Dear (the) Billy (of 26/11/06),

I’m only three years older than you at the moment, but your life has changed in myriad ways. This letter will be the most important letter you will never read, as each explicit and insinuated word is the pure and unadulterated truth. Right now I am the only person that could possibly know how you’re feeling and I’m afraid to tell you that these will be the hardest three years you will have faced.

If it is a Thursday in 2006 you’ll be sitting in the hallway No. 36 and you’ll be interested in two people. You know what the right decision is and I implore you to man-up and carry it through; it’s a million times easier than you think. You’ll experience love for the first time in the following four months and you will have never been happier, you will never have felt more wanted and for the first time in what seems years, someone will love you too. Billy! Remember this! Savour every second, if you can sincerely conjure these four months from the depths of your, frankly overwhelming, memory you will make one less mistake which might make you happier in the long run. Do everything you can to make this relationship work and you’ll be a lot happier than you are this time in 2009. Unfortunately, you and W* ended your relationship at a very awkward time and on very unfortunate terms. This pain will seem unbearable but you’ll have fought in harder battles before this. I implore you to cry, it’s not a sign of weakness and no one needs to see; mourn sooner than later. Before I finish about this major part of your life remember: he’s more fucked up than you and sympathy will work ten times better than anger.

You’re now wondering how this has managed to happen? I don’t blame you, but you won’t be surprised to hear that in March 2007 (for the 1, 000, 000^th time) you’ll be kicked out and you’ll be taken in by the right person at the right time and you’ll have nothing to fear. You were kicked out because your Mum (who you’ll never really live with again) couldn’t deal with who you are; she’ll come around and you’ll move back in . . . but not for long: two or three months perhaps, until you’re booted out once more and you’ll live with your Dad. You’ll realise that the only thing you can truly rely on are your books, and although you’ll be virtually a tramp, literature will keep you sane (on this note do not, I repeat, DO NOT read The Outsider, in fact ANYTHING by Camus, there’ll be a time for him but it’s not now!). Two great things will come out of this chaos, firstly you’ll have learned more about life and the people you thought loved you, than any one could teach you. Secondly, you’ll understand and love the Smiths instead of just pretending that you liked them to be cool. My advice here is to not trust anyone, especially those from whom you have thought their trust inevitable.

Education, education, education. I’m angry with you. You were one of the most intelligent students in your year-group and already you’ve let your standards slip. If you carry on you’re going to fuck up this year, thus, fuck up you’re second year leave with average A-Levels and end-up (by chance) in a good university studying English Lit; you will regret this. I implore you to quit your part-time time job and spend every spare minute studying. In January 2007 you’re going to quit chemistry, biology and physics – DON’T! Stay with them and do not leave Havant until you’ve got all As, your biggest regret to date will be missing the chance to get into Oxbridge, like everyone thought you would. You have probably noticed that you can write well. Harness this talent even if you do (hopefully) pursue the aforementioned disciplines, it has and will always provides you with some fantastic opportunities.

Presently (i.e. 2009) you’re unhappy. You’re best mate is Calum Green, don’t ever forget about Calum, you’ll go through a lot of these times together and you’ll realise that your lives scarily echo one another. You’re commuting to university in London for reasons that are too garish to mention. You also fancy someone but the chase is not like it used to be and it’s unclear whether you are wasting your time or not. You have decided that your favourite poem is by Auden. You find some music very difficult to listen to, not because it is bad, but because of the emotional baggage. You’ve found out it’s easier to pretend that you’re happy than to explain why you’re upset. To prevent yourself from getting into this state I’m going to give you some more general advice:

· Start thinking about death, you won’t understand how great it is to live until you have thoroughly explored this.

· Embrace your infatuation with nature, it will provide more comfort to you than any human has or will. You know where to go!

· You have already started to do something really harmful when you feel depressed. Stop doing it now as the longer you leave it the worse it becomes. You haven’t stopped in 2009.

· Stop correcting and intimidating people. You are particularly clever, but don’t let this turn into arrogance.

· Stop lying.

· There are worse crimes in the world than misplaced apostrophes and split infinitives.

Yours retrospectively,

(The future/present) Billy Ansell (in 26/11/09)

P.S. Michael Jackson died, make some novelty T-Shirts and capitalise on it when the time’s right.

Iambic Pentameter

I've realised lately that most of my work is written in free verse. To encourage myself to write more broadly I've set myself a task of writing to a different poetic form each week. I understand that this may sound contrived, and in a way I agree. But I also think that it may improve my skill to be able to alter my language in way that'll fit with a prescribed form. This week I've chosen rhymed iambic pentameter, loved by the renaissance poets and dramatists. If anyone has a suggestion for the title I'd be more than happy to hear it.

 

 

Why is it so that dreams mislead the heart?

Pretends to us that fiction happened true.

And so we're left with conscious torn apart,

as foundless doubts grasp seeds of hope anew.

 

Forbidding them to plant their gentle roots;

Restricting growth which suffocates their hope;

Removing happiness that fed the shoots;

Strangling rational thought with doubtful rope.

 

Or is it so that heart misleads our dreams?

Encouraging the want we most desire.

On waking thought: We've yielded what it seems

we lacked, but in reality just ire.

Don’t Throw Stones

Isn't it strange how a dream can affect your mood for an entire day? I'm a rational, over-logical person, yet I've let a subconscious image of a situation, that I am consciously aware did not (and more-than-likely will not) ever happen, ruin my Sunday. What makes this worse is if the said dream did realise itself, I wouldn't care at all. Our good friend Freud dubbed dreams to be "the royal road to your unconscious" and that interpretation of them can unearth our repressed sexual desires. I've spent a disproportionate amount of my time today looking for any clues which, alas, are yet to been found. Luckily a psychologist reminded that Freud is widely discredited, so I've left it for now and will make an effort to drink less before going to sleep.

    The actually reason I'm writing today is to have a small rant about hypocrisy whilst exposing a certain 'Lady' who lives in the penthouse of the house that I live in. Her name is Lady Pilkington, an heiress to the eponymous multinational glass manufacturer. Do not be fooled, although coming from aristocratic stock she is not a real Lady. Well, she is biologically a lady (I think) but her peerage is bought and not hers by inheritance. Pilkington was evicted from her last residency on numerous counts of harassment, specifically against her neighbours. She allegedly held orgies at her place and was convicted for an incident including a Jacuzzi at the rear of her garden.

    I shan't judge her and as old-fashioned as it sounds what she chooses to do in the privacy of her home is no concern of mine, especially if she is enjoying herself and isn't harassing the rest of our building. However, my complaint starts here. Those that know where I live (South Parade) will know that we have full view of the infamous Southsea Rock Gardens: By day a floral sanctuary for pensioners, but by night a cruising area for gay men. Lady Pilkington has written to the local press complaining how she has to "put up with watching men having sex with one another" adding that she finds it "morally disgusting". This same woman dealt with a very public trial and the national press reported of her crimes and misdemeanours (http://tinyurl.com/nur5od
).Many of her convictions included acts of public indecency and crimes which positions her in a similar place on the moral compass as these men.

    Although I sympathise with the cruisers I am in no way condoning their behaviour. What makes me angry is that if anyone could sympathise with these men it is her. She did not and has not made a discrete complaint to the local authorities but instead has written a very bigoted and frankly embarrassing letter to the News (local press) which they have published. If you ever get to read this, Julia Pilkington, may I ask if you've ever heard the advice given to those who live in houses made of glass?

    If anything I feel sorry for the men that are cruising, on more than one occasion have I see our Lady procreating on the balcony of our building – those poor men have to watch that whilst bumming in the rock gardens. I implore them to write a complaint.

Urns and Nightingales

Your whiteness sits

absorbing pigments.

Pages like light wings

perch,

anticipating my quill

(plucked from your dryadic plume)

in your high tree of inspirations.

 

I reach, but my efforts crack

the clay of your leaf-fringed intricacy.

My page,

a bride unravished,

makes contact with the pen:

ever, ever kissing.