Grass: A Eulogy

"The grass is always greener on the other side."

An obnoxious cliché that infuriates and inspires in equal measures. It's one of those last resort phrases people use when they've ran out of ways to justify actions - when deliberation has broken down and all you have left is a list of over-used sentiments. So here's what I propose: bugger the grass. Not litterally. That's absurd. Instead of the grass I want to look at what's between your own little patch of spotty-grass and the apparently gleaming meadows over yonder. I want to consider the fence inbetween. We'll call it the Fence of Obscurity.

Dripping with Level 9 malintent

Now I realise that the very idea of a white-picket fence may nauseate most but it's a fantastic symbol in this instance. Because it's shiny. And white. And pickety. But mostly it represents something idyllic (bear with me) and almost like the metaphorical pinnacle of our territorial pursuits. Think: "This is my land, I've built me a precious lil fence around my land and now it done look purty as well." Except it's the integrity of our relationships and stability of our lives I'm referring to. Not the residence for your amassing garden gnome collection. Which is starting to look worryingly like an army and youshouldprobablytakeoffthatuniformooerrmatron.

So in my way of thinking that fence is there as a boundary. You put that fence up because it represents security and a willingness to accept that this is your life and what you've made of it, and you're content with it to boot.

And where would this bring in where I started off? Well, it doesn't. You no longer give a shit about the grass on the other side. Why would you - you've got this sparkly, new, white-picket fence to look at now! To explain where this thought-process came about I'll elaborate a little. I accept that people quite often get themselves into a rut and more often than not they're all too aware of what's caused it. Reasoning this, it's then entirely up to themselves whether they resolve that situation or not. But I also accept that people will get themselves into a rut and not even realise it.

The difference being in the first circumstance, there's been no new fence erected (teehee). You aren't distracted by the gleaming whitewash and you can see that lush, tastey grass on the other side and you think - gonna git me some o' that eventually. If you manage that, congratulations. If not, this next bit is probably going to happen.

The second circumstance has that fence. You've been in your little hovel long enough that you've decided yeah-sure, might as well make something out of this. And you've chucked up your fence and slapped on that coat of paint, at which point making the rest of the world redundant. Because who doesn't like a bit of comfort and security? Nought wrong with that, and hell, you might like your hovel enough just to love it and be happy with it. Maybe you couldn't give a shit about what's beyond the white-picket fence regardless.

Which is where the name Fence of Obscurity comes into it. And where my thoughts as per usual get horribly convoluted and without any consistency. You're allowed to be happy. There's a reason some people will want to climb the prospective job-opportunity ladder and others are more than content to work as a servitor. We all get our happiness from different directions. We'd be a bunch of boring cutthroats otherwise.

See how boring this guy is? Really boring, right?
So boring I...Damnit, where's my pegleg.

SEE! THAT FENCE! It's a manipulative bastard. It's obscuring the point I'm attempting to make. By not making it even remotely visible. The opportunity to look beyond the fence is there only if we choose to peek over the top and past that fantastic brush-stroke technique. Choice is a fantastically human notion. But one of two things lies on the other side and if I were to hazard a guess, I'd say that's why people are hesitant about considering it. You wont see either of those two things initially because that feckin' fence is obscuring it. But once you hop over it'll come to light which of the two outcomes it will be: a better life or a worse one.

The revelation will either heartily pat you on the back with a "Well done, old bean" and present you with a stein of Awesome-Ale. Also a multi-pack of temporary transfer tattoos. Who doesn't love those? Or it'll upper-cut you in the proverbial jewels then drag you away by your ankle as you try to claw your way back to your beautiful, adoring white-picket fence. How dare you cheat on your white picket fence, you son-of-a-bitch. It provided for you and kept you safe and secure. Now it's folded it's arms and glaring at you with admonishment as you are pulled away to a new, unfenced destiny all at your own behest.

'Scuse me while I copyright that idea before Universal catch wind of it. ("Honey, I Married the Premises." meets "Mortal Unholy-Pirate-Awesome-Kombat")

"Did-someone-say-pay-cheque?"

How did I end up talking about pirates? There should be a new version of Godwin's Law involving pirates. We'll call it Pinkbeard's Law. Because that also sounds hilariously like a particularly nasty STI. But yeah: fences. You'll end up with one of two outcomes and I think because the second one is so devastating we quite often come to the conclusion that, nah, it's not worth the risk - I reckon I'll keep holding onto what I'm pretty damn comfy with, say thankee-sai.

So I'd conclude that many of us miss out on the opportunity for greatness and a more...ah...exuberant? Exuberant happiness. And I'd also conclude that many of us don't give a fuck. Because happiness is relative.

The great thing about me writing these is I've always completely lost the point I was initially making and find I just had too much fun doing the actual writing itself. I started writing this with a sort of vehemence and absoluteness that people are blinded by comforts and fail to grasp at opportunity because they straight up choose not to see it and so end up totally unphased because they're ignorant of the fact it's there in the first place. Because that fence is being an obscuring-distraction. So wait...are we to blame or are actual embodiments of fences to blame for implanting the psychological notion?

I'll need a wood-axe and a lot of lighter fuel.

Also could someone kindly write and ask if they'll let me out for a couple of days?

To finalise, a clip from Return of the King. Because I think it's fantastically irrelevant and metaphorically insignificant. And I couldn't find a fitting Eastwood clip. Mainly the last reason.

 Because some people's white picket fences get a bit...extreme.

Splurge over. Ta-ta.

Early morning sensibility and yourself. Or early morning, sensibility and yourself.

Welp. Turns out I'm capable of insurmountable amounts of DIY related chaos. This is how the last 20 minutes just played out.

>Inbetween watching movies about 04:15am
>Go for pee break
>Having pee >Notice sealant on the bath could probably do with redoing
>Decide now is as good a time as any
>Finishing pee
>Search first kitchen cupboard - no sign of sealant gun
>Know have seen it somewhere
>Check livingroom cupboard
>Success
>Somewhere in the back of mind have vague recollection of time of day.
>Too excited to care
>Take a moment to combat roll around living room with sealant gun re-enacting Vietnam era battlefield
>Single-handedly take Hill 881
>Return to bathroom
>Make several false starts
>Realise need to take cap off the nozzle
>Go to work.
>Note that sealant smells like salt and vinegar crisps. Temptation to taste almost overwhelming.
>Dab dab, dab dab, dab dab
>Step back and view handiwork
>Messy. But niggling itch satisfied
>Hands covered in sealant
>Try to wash off. Remember why it's called sealant
>Still trying to wash off
>Still washing
>Hands now red
>Washing
>Singing Flight of the Valkyries
>Washing
>Bathroom reeks of salt and vinegar crisps. Now starving
>Washing
>Peel off as much as possible
>Give up and dry hands
>Feel as though have justified two days off work with successful manly points
>Still singing Flight of the Valkyries
>Hands still covered in rubbery sealant
>Cat has sealant on him. Both cat and human confused as to how this occurred
>Assume cat was too stupid to notice it wasn't, infact, salt and vinegar crisps
>Ponder how best to dramatise this in status update/tweet form
>Wash hands some more
>Return to computer
>This
>Still covered in sealant
>No alcohol involved :|

Shoot from the hip.

June 11th 2012.

Still standing.

Calmed down an awful lot these past few months, my thoughts aren't quite so scattered as they used to be. Felt inclined to write something - wasn't sure what though. I feel as though the needle on my compass is starting to ease off it's wild whizzing and starting to point more poignantly to somewhere actually on the chart. Don't get me wrong, it's still bouncing around and doing loop-the-loops but every once in a while it does nestle. Just occured to me where that metaphor came from: Jack Sparra'. No matter, shall keep it anyways.

To put it another way, I'm facing the sun. It's at that point where it's tip-toeing between rooftops. You know - when you can't see shit on your screen because you can't afford an LCD or curtains. For the record I'm still speaking metaphorically. I'd be rather concerned if that was the issue at 22:34. So this is the analogy I'm going with. The sun is flinging death-stars of GRAAGHSHITICANTSEE at me. Because i'm facing the sun. And it's tip-toeing across the rooftops. You follow? My point being in that mire of pointlessness is that it might as well be a rising sun. I can't see a damn thing but I reckon I've got a bloody good chance I'm looking at the start of a new day.

Metaphorically speaking.

So to speak.

It's been a long and arduous weekend of working - give me a break. I'll forgive myself at a later date.

Was watching The Outlaw Josey Wales yesterday. Fancying myself a gunslinger. Call me Andrew Deschain. Sun might be in my eyes now but I can always shoot from the hip. If you get what I mean.

Fuck this convoluted nonsense.

Let's draw.

Dilations

March 2011.

I'm a month late.

My apologies to past me. I'll try ensure that this version of me is less expectant of future me's time-keeping abilities.

My good man were it you knew then what you would find yourself facing mere months after writing. The adversity you would discover as you turned that corner and made-real the vast swathes of thorny thickets strewn before you. There is no advice I could give you now to make the journey easier spare this: do not lose yourself along the way. Because I promise you there are times where you will question everything you have ever believed in and everything you stand for. By the end, you will barely serve as a reminder to the person you used to be. But so long as you still have that silouhette - that outline; that shadow of what you were, you will carry on.

There will be tremendous lows, my old friend. So low you will feel as though you're sipping from the Styx itself. As though you're keeping a penny in your back pocket just incase the Boatman will come a-visiting this day. But somehow you'll get through each day. Quite often it'll be thrashing and wailing; howling and tearing. Every night you will shackle yourself to the last of your sanity in the most paternal of hopes that you won't lose it. You will become the Shawshank that surrounds you but you won't be Andy.

I wish I could say to you now that things will improve ten-fold one year on. They will improve, you will always have that speck of light, but they won't be...resolved? Yes, that's possibly the best word to use. Know now that I still struggle with the same spectres you will shortly allbeit I've found a little more rigor along the way. My eyes are sunken and my cheeks are hollow but God knows I haven't forgotten what determination tastes like. You think you have a few gray hairs now? Give it time.

I'm writing now in a way I know you'll appreciate. You and I, we've always been the same. Trying hard to convince ourselves each and every step that we have the confidence and bearing to overcome all odds, to thwart all adversity and to slay all menial working-class dragons. But you'll also know I'm a dreadful cynic and horrible satirist. You and I, my friend, we are in a nutshell, Fucked. With a capital F. But who didn't ever get back up from a good fucking? Bandy legged and dizzy as hell, we'll make our way to the bathroom, sit down on that chilly seat and smile stupidly to ourselves, pondering "Was it real?"

I think importantly you want to know why I'm writing to you anyways. It's all well and good in that the style i'm writing to you in is a familiar one, but why am I even bothering in the first place? Because right now I am giving you the heads-up and the strength and fortitude that I could seriously do with at this point in the old continuum. People will always sit there in the background with their own agendas - preoccupied with their own feelings and happenstance. We can't blame them because we simply aren't allowed to. It's the joy of being human. Everyone has their own little garden to tend to. Why should they give up their one and only rake because you need it for a couple of weeks? And yea your grasp of metaphors hasn't transpired to anything fantastical over the past 13 months either.

Be strong my little brother. You are going to suffer like nothing else, but you be strong and you don't forget that I'll be here waiting for you in the end, arms stretched. We'll find a way through this together. Stay safe.

Love

Andrew