I seem to live the eternal dilemma of never being content when I have things that need doing, and being utterly restless when I’m actually free of any pressure. So, as you might guess, during term time all I want is a break, and during breaks all I want is to go back to school again. It’s a problem, and sadly it’s quite typical of my nature; I’m never happy with what I have, and always seem to hang onto some kind of prospect in the distant future.

I deliberately planned nothing for this summer, because I wanted a complete rest after what was, essentially, the most difficult yet most exhilarating year of my life. And now all I’m doing is mooching around, getting depressed over the usuals: life being meaningless, lack of motivation, my impending doom… the worst thing that could happen is for this to continue until September. I need some way out of this funk, and fast.

It doesn’t help that I absolutely cannot sleep recently. I’m exercising and eating reasonably well, and although I’m only seeing friends sporadically I’m not out of touch with the outside world particularly.

One thing that often lifts me out of these apathetic phases is clearing out a wardrobe or organising a pile of crap – think of it what you will, but my OCD streak makes de-cluttering somewhat theraputic to me. I’ve been procrastinating this for a while, but I think my room is due for a bit of a tidy tomorrow, so here’s hoping I’ll be out of this mess soon enough. If not, I don’t really know what else to do!

On Friday I went to Edinburgh by train for the university’s open day, and the following Saturday I made a similar trip to Manchester. I’ve got to say, it made me think a lot, scared me a lot, and sort of brought me back down to earth regarding university and generally moving away from home.

It’s so cliché, and I know it sounds like a load of bollocks, but I regardless of the actual facts and figures, the thing that made the most impression on me this past weekend was the feel of the places. Edinburgh was beautiful (especially as it was such an uncharacteristically clear day), and it’s obviously a well-respected university. However – and I couldn’t exactly place my finger on it – but something wasn’t right. I just didn’t feel like I connected with the professors, the campus, the courses, and so on.

Manchester, the next day, I had small hopes for after this. I took the constant rain as a bad sign as well. But as soon as my mum nudged me and said the campus was in sight, you know, I must’ve looked like such an idiot. It was exactly what I’d expected from a university in how it looked and everything; I just sat in the passenger seat with my head practically on the dashboard, eyes wide open.

Now, the two schools I’ve been at before haven’t been exactly elaborately furnished, usually due to financial issues (for those reading that know the first was a private school, allow me to dispel any preconceptions in another post!). So I’m easily impressed when it comes to hallways, lecture halls, and classrooms that aren’t falling apart. Needless to say, the stone and wooden interior of the language department charmed me almost as much as the genuine enthusiasm of everyone there.

I’m planning on taking a degree in French & Japanese (which are often considered totally separate subjects by universities), so I found out as much as I could about the two language areas while I was at the open days. And the Japanese department at Edinburgh was a little depressing. Everything was held in classrooms with textbooks and exercises, and the subject seemed to be approached from a practical angle rather than a linguistic one.

At Manchester, French, German, Russian, Chinese, you name it; they’re all put under one header – and granted, this is quite rare for a British university. And the department really felt like a much more key element of the place, where languages are actually appreciated rather than shoved to a rather dank corner of the campus. I just felt at home there, like I’d enjoy my degree and not feel like I’m compromising myself.

This is by no means the end of my university hunt – it’s only just begun! – but I have to say Manchester has left such an impression on me. I think the reason I say this is that, as previously mentioned, it’s one of the few institutes in the UK where East Asian and European languages are actually classed together. Sadly even Oxbridge takes the “Modern European Languages”/”East Asian Studies” route. Spoilsports!

Yesterday I did a day of work experience at Boots, the chemist’s. I do a full week at the beginning of July, but I did an extra day this weekend since I need the Friday off – long story, will get to it someday. I stuck labels on things, filed prescriptions, printed off lists and instructions for nursing homes, sorted returned medicine for being thrown out, and so on.

The woman I was working with said she felt sorry for me. I asked why. “Because you’re not learning anything, are you? It’s meant to be work experience, but all you’re doing is mind-numbing jobs that you could do anywhere.” I nodded and said that’s how it is, but honestly? I do think I was learning yesterday. I think I was learning a hell of a lot.

Perhaps not while dealing with the SUN-SAT stickers on the empty nursing home pill packs, but certainly everything else that involved shiny patient details. They were quite interesting to glance over (and also probably quite confidential – but if I was 105 years old I don’t think I’d mind a curious kid on work experience seeing my date of birth or allergies). Most were female and born 1910-1930. I couldn’t help working out how old they were during each World War, imagining what their lives were like. And then I thought of them in their care homes. And I couldn’t fathom that they were still alive. Relics of a generation so distant from my own, in time but more importantly in culture…

One patient had seven pages of medication and dressings, and she was either in her eighties or nineties. She was epileptic, and although I can’t remember the rest of her ailments, I can say she had the works. I exclaimed, “Seven pages!”, and this other lady was even surprised. I asked her if she thought it was all really worth it. This woman was only living in body, not in mind. She sighed and said that if these patients were pets, they’d have been put down long ago.

On top of this, another job I had to take care of was dealing with returns. These were unfinished or unopened packs of drugs that patients had refused either in part or wholly. The thought of these sick, old people not wanting to be medicated seemed so sad to me. I’m not sure I’ll ever want to get to that stage in my life. What was perhaps even more shocking was the amount of wastage pharmacies deal with. I almost felt like saying I couldn’t do this task, because it sickened me. Whole, unused sheets of pills, bottles of syrups, boxes of inhalers, syringes, dressings – all to be thrown away. I remarked how ridiculous it all was, and I was told that it was the only way, since no-one can know how the care homes have stored them.

All to keep dead people alive. Or not, as it is, since these guys don’t even want to be treated.

I’m not going to get started on the methadone prescriptions. You know, I think Medicine is a field too real for me. Although it was never really an option I’d considered, at least this work experience will have shown me that going into Arts & Humanities was the right choice; you don’t often have to deal with gritty reality, and when you do, it’s from such a distance that you can view it all as a sort-of study. Long live escapism!

Big Brother 2008 is now up and running, The Times told me this morning. Sorry, but since when? I’m not one of those closet BB-watchers who prances about claiming to detest the show; I have tuned in to the first episode of each and every series with genuine interest for the past five or so runs. Sadly in recent years that interest has waned after the first few weeks, and so, it seems, has everyone else’s.

Regardless, Big Brother has been a difficult show to avoid. How, then, did I manage to miss it this year round? Granted, I watch far less TV than I used to (thank you, surfthechannel.com), but I haven’t seen any marketing whatsoever for it this time.

I thought last year was overkill – BB was a show best left when 2006’s effort was decidedly average (eg. knowing Mr Tourette’s would win after the first episode). Continuing it this year as well seems mindless. For me, it’s unlikely that any set of housemates thrown into the house – either this year or in (wince) years to come – will be able to top 2004’s, with Nadia Almada as the winner. I think a good proportion of the British public would recognise the “bunny boiler” headlines Michelle and Stuart caused back then, four years ago. Yet I can’t remember any of last year’s contestants. Even their names don’t ring a bell. Maybe I’ve just grown out of reality TV, but Big Brother really seems like it should be a thing of the past now.

I had a dream last night, and there were references to someone I know through LiveJournal. Or knew. I’m not sure. It got me thinking though, since I haven’t checked that place for a few weeks now. I do feel a little guilty for just dropping these people out of my life, but although I do miss them, I don’t think I want to be dragged back into being so obligated to a community.

One thing I wanted to do this year is ’sever’ my ties to the internet. So that I can come back from a week’s holiday and not have to spend a whole day sorting out the crap I’ve missed and so on. I think dropping LiveJournal has essentially done that in one swoop; no more time-sensitive entries to keep up with.

Blogs are different, because you can read them whenever you like. You’re not expected to leave a comment as a reader, and there isn’t this elitist ‘friends-only’ structure. All of the other things I use the internet for are either impersonal or relatively real-time, so I don’t feel any pressure.

Like I said, I do miss some people, but not enough to want to throw myself back into the routine of having to be involved 24/7 with what other people write about their lives. I love to read it, but if I have to make a meaningless comment to prove that, and write an equally meaningless entry myself, it’s not for me any more.

So, I’m back from a weekend visit to Filey. Because I’ve been there countless times now, and there’s essentially nothing to do (especially when it’s dull and wet), I spent most of the two days reading and watching TV shows. Which I could’ve done at home. Can you tell I wasn’t there by choice?

I read through a book on music theory, continuing my ‘aim’ of sussing it all out, and it’s definitely helped with some of the more obvious bits I missed out on so far (such as realising that every major and minor scale follows the same patterns on guitar)! I also finished the second book in Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight trilogy, New Moon. Now shut up. I know they’re terrible books, mostly because the main character is ridiculously pathetic, but I really want to finish them before the first film comes out. And maybe I do like them a little bit. But I never said that.

I watched the first season of South of Nowhere (Christ, I just realised, this post makes me sound like a 12 year-old) and the sixth of Scrubs. And that was it really. Now that I’m back home, I’ve just been learning more basslines and catching up with a few people that I’ve not spoken to much recently. I’ve got another week’s study leave before I head back to school and into Year 13, which I’m strangely looking forward to. Well, that’s it for catch-up; regular, pointless, irrelevant posts will follow shortly.

It occurred to me a few months ago that, despite playing musical instruments for a good portion of my life, I wasn’t so clued up on music theory. That is, I wouldn’t have known where to start if I was composing a song, or what, say, Esus4 was at all. Having said that, on the piano at least I could play quite a lot, but only on a note-by-note basis – I had no idea about what key I was playing in and so on.

So, ever since I’ve been trying to learn the theory behind what I’m playing. It’s not easy to get your head around sometimes! What I’ve also been doing is applying what I know on piano to guitar and vice versa. For instance, today I made it my task to learn my scales on bass guitar (easily transferable to standard guitar). Yesterday I tried out chord picking patterns on the piano. It’s interesting because I never linked the two instruments before. Until now I never really knew which notes I was playing on guitar either, just which shapes ‘looked right’.

I’m hoping to continue this over the summer, then come September – fingers crossed – I’ll have a good deal of this malarkey sorted! I’m excited to see what reading pieces will be like once I can see the inner workings behind the notes.

Yesterday I was walking through town and this guy randomly came up to me and started talking. It was a little out of the blue, but I’m not complaining! It was quite interesting really. A perhaps strange thing to take from the situation is that one of the first questions he asked was where I was from, since my accent sounded “Australian I think, definitely not from around here”.

I get this a lot. Despite having lived in the same town all my life, people often ask me if I’m – usually – Canadian or Australian. English people. It’s so strange! Once or twice I’ve taken advantage of this and played along with it too.

This got me thinking: technically, I could manufacture my past, make myself out to be someone I’m not. In fact, my past could be made up. Who can prove it? There are early parts of my life that I’m not so sure I remember, as opposed to having created them based on what I’ve been told and photos I’ve seen. My earliest ‘memories’ are entirely in third-person, for instance.

I don’t mean all this in a sinister, conspiratorial manner, it’s just a weird thought. I guess the cliché moral behind it all that the present is all you can be sure of. (…Or is it? Dun dun duuun!)

I was thinking today about how I want to experience absolutely everything. It’s a weird realisation that I won’t be able to. I seem to have this comfort in the back of my head that everything is just a rehearsal or something – it never sets in that this is really the only life I’ll have a shot at.

It stemmed this time from finishing Russell Brand’s Booky Wook (I know, not exactly Shakespeare). I’d read all but the last chapter, in typical me-fashion, and left it sitting on my shelf never to be read again. A change of fate hit this little book today though, as I managed to knock a glass of grape juice over my laptop, rendering it useless for a while. Seeking a non-electrical form of entertainment I turned to my bookshelf, et voilà.

And a part of me wants to have experienced the drug-fuelled haze Mr Brand stumbled through for a good majority of his life. I don’t mean to say he made it seem glamorous in any way, but it’s a way of living. And I seem to believe that somewhere down the line I’ll experience that path.

I’ll live as a junkie and I’ll live straight-edge. I’ll live as a devout Christian and I’ll live as a fervent Atheist. I’ll live eternally depressed and I’ll live infinitely happy. For some reason I seem to have this subconscious belief that I will go through everything. Maybe it’s my way of fighting a fear of mortality, of not being able to change things or get another shot… I don’t know, but it’s a little worrying that it could be what holds me back sometimes.