Although against general stereotyping and propogating urban myths, I feel compelled to share with you the idea that Women from Warrington are fucking mental.
Denial, delusion, abuse, violence, paranoia, alcoholism, emotional manipulation and borderline autism. These are some or all of the traits I have observed and endured in my endeavours to enter their knickers.
This may seem a little harsh but let me share some of my experiences with you that might give my statement some substance.
The most depressing part of the rejection attached to dating appears in the ‘test of reality’ which shows me that the potential love interest has ceased to exist. In this ‘the interest’ is neither dead nor far away.
It is I who decides that my construction of the love interest’s image must die. As long as this strange mourning lasts, i will have to undergo two conflicting miseries: that ‘the interest’ continues to exist and to suffer from the fact that ‘the interest’ is dead.
Thus I am wretched over a text message which does not come, reminding myself in the process that this silence is insignificant as I have decided to get over any such concern.
The interest is gone and the phone, whether it vibrates or not, resumes its trivial existence.
XX sits down in front of a blank screen and types these words out on his keyboard. It was. It will never be again.
XX stops typing and gazes out of the window at the tree at the end of the yard. Here and there some leaves still remain on its branches and XX sits deep in thought staring at the leaves.
XX contemplates a leaf and attaches a hope to it. A gust blows hard and the branch sways to and fro. The wind makes the leaf flutter frantically and XX becomes anxious, because if it should fall then XX’s hope will fall with it.
XX gets up walks to the kitchen to make a coffee. XX then walks back to the empty chair at the desk by the window and sits down. XX lights a cigarette and sips his coffee.
As my friend and I travelled Europe, we noticed a creeping oddness on the Autobahns of Germany. It was then that we both began to document these surreal observations.
Now don’t get me wrong, some of my best friends are Germans. In fact i’ve even nailed a couple of panto Germans in my time (a Swiss German and Austrian girl, although unfortunately not at the same time). Its just in some areas of Deustchland some people there exude and display ‘oddness’.
Monsieur Von Rompuy, mesdames, mesieurs. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got nothing against Europe or the people who live there. We share a common culture. Most of you speak English. You watch many of our fine television programmes, such as Homeland, Dad’s Army, Xfactor and some premiership games.
Samsara is a Sanskrit word that means “the ever turning wheel of life” and is the point of departure for the filmmakers as they search for the elusive current of interconnection that runs through our lives. Filmed over a period of almost 5 years and in 25 countries, Samara transports us to sacred grounds, disaster zones, industrial sites, and natural wonders. By dispensing with dialogue and descriptive text, Samsara subverts our expectations of a traditional documentary, instead encouraging our own inner interpretations inspired by images and music that infuses the ancient with the modern.