an ode to scratching

There’s an itch on the inside of my skull that only my brain can reach by morphing itself into the form of a finger. Not to worry! I can assure you it’s not cancerous. It is, however, terminal. It’s a writing itch that I intend to give a slow, deep scratch via this medium – a blog.

Why now? In honesty, I have been harbouring an uncharacteristic neglect towards written expression recently. Writing is, after all, something I’ve always wanted to do, at least in some capacity.

Let me explain.

In September last year I began a degree in Computer Science at the University of Kent – the third degree I’ve started since I was 18 – and old habits died hard about two months in when I realised that mathematics and machine logic are not my forte. Yes, I like to fool myself into thinking that it’s not because I’m incapable or mal-adapted to the sciences, rather because it’s not my niche. It’s a great thing that disillusionment and alienation followed, as they often tend to in such situations. Filthy optimism! The sexy kind of filthy, that is. Being a disillusioned alien always leads to something greater; clarity, a little revolution in your mind. I learned in the least roundabout of ways what it is I wanted to do. More on that later.

So, ascending from my youngest age to my current age, my desired career has changed thus:

• author
• journalist
• author/journalist
• indeterminate writer of words
• perpetual gruntwork-level employee who sustains self until existential crisis occurs
• programmer of sorts who after some years gets bored and starts writing on the side
• ???
• profit

In some ways, I have fulfilled that sixth career path to the fullest and can give myself an honourable discharge* from it. I have done some programming and I have started writing on the side (although it’s taken me until now to find the motivation) … Hurrah! Let’s pretend it’s all okay!

Now, I can make a safe turn on the rat race motorway and move onto a greener pasture. One that looks like this. Where I can rear some sociological cows, before drinking their Weberian milk, eating their Simmelian beef and making Marxist Doc Martin rip-offs from their leather hides. I couldn’t make philosophy and/or english work for me beyond A Level at Leeds and/or Bath Spa, in spite of the feeling of grandeur being on the Leeds campus gave me or how happy Chenglin Deng looks on the Bath Spa homepage (that is pretty much all Bath Spa has going for it). On the other hand, with sociology I’ve had recurring hunger pangs for a dish of the aforementioned Simmelian beef ever since I became, erm, a sociology vegetarian. Marxist boots are in fashion, too. I’ve taken a sneaky seat in sociology lectures at Kent and envied those sitting there, bored, reluctantly going about doing their wild module in the subject, perhaps, whereas I’ve listened, enthralled, wanting to know more; wishing to be studying it and contributing to it at a proper, academic level. There’s no need now to write an eloquent poem about why I think sociology is where I belong; it’s a wee bit intangible anywho. Misguided decisions are habitual for me, but even when I’ve faltered in the past with education choices, I come away with knowledge and experience which turns out to be priceless, in spite of nagging feelings of failure. So, even if all my sociological cows do die – which I’m sure they won’t! – I will be happy to feast on their germ-infested corpses. Or maybe make lots of dodgy knock-off Doc Martins and sell them to hipsters.

The cut and thrust of it is this: I’ll do my computer science exams which begin in less than a month, get 50%, then get on my giddy way to the second year of sociology come September. Failing 50%: go into first year. Simple instructions, hard to execute.

Apologies, you, for a meandering article ascertaining to personal circumstances, especially for a first entry. If you’re a vicarious reader, or less hard-going on me than I am, you might have enjoyed this. I hope so! Come back one day! It will get better. I fear the itch inside my skull may actually be a rash; oh well. Here’s to scratching.

*Has anyone ever come up with a joke about honourable discharge, respectable semen, and respectable seamen?