Seafaring Facial Hair Arrangement

When I sit and read, drowning in beautiful solitude, both the warm standard lamp and the cold main light bathe the room in yellow. The broken blinds are closed most often; the single plant on my bookshelf is weary in the winter months. My carpet is rarely hoovered because I rarely feel the need. Behind my bed is my expensive eighteenth-birthday-present stereo, the albums I need to listen to and my current book and a distinct and beautiful lack of right angles. For all my obsessions with the metadata on the black anodized aluminium iPod that sits in the black plywood and plastic Sony Hi-Fi and the alphebetization of my most prized material possession, my music collection, my room is somewhat chaotic. Shapes that are too large for the space contained between these four walls fight for room, twisting into a naturally skewed equilibrium.

My bedroom is slowly sorting itself out. The sheets are changed, crumpled, dirtied to a point somewhere the right side of disgusting and changed again, in a neverending cycle. Posters adorn all the walls but the last space I look before I sleep is reserved for two photos of my girlfriend. The same photos of the same face, every evening. But it is comfort I find there, not monotony. I have come to adore this space into which I moved just over a year ago. It is much cosier than my previous dwelling, unwelcoming, unnecessary wooden floor space. Cold and big, a girl’s room, it is now just that: my sister sleeps there, with enough room to host a sleepover, complaining about the bad TV reception. She wants her old room back. I can see why.

Why I feel so secure here, I’ve never really known. But whether sleeping in the spare room (where my auntie lived her teenage crises), in the double bed covered in sheet after sheet of bedding and an extravagance of pillows, next to an infinity of recipe books (written not just in English); or sat on the floor at the living room coffee table eating a spectacularly-delicious home-cooked dinner; or afterwards, watching a film as the cat (who used to be mine) strides in with such feline nonchalance as you might think he was the owner of this house, not my Granddad: I am completely safe.
As the evening progresses, intelligent conversation fills the room. I curl up on the red leather sofas that add colour to a tastefully decorated living room, filled with the art of both of my grandparents (My Granddad’s canvases are professional paintings of logs, rivers, the seaside; my Nan’s amateurish but fun escapades into Photoshop).
Even just walking through the door, the smell of (today, anyway) Moroccan spices fills the air. Though it could just as easily be Italian, Indian, Chinese or French that my Granddad is preparing. Be it a simple pasta dish or a rare 9-course banquet, everyone who comes here is well-fed - and well-watered.
Upstairs, between my bedroom and theirs, another room is adorned with book-binding materials and computers. My Nanny is a creative type, a novelist, and the room is as scatty and cluttered as her spidery consciousness: sheets of paper are strewn on desks that bear the weight of an expensive Apple Mac, a Linux computer and an industrial-sized printer. Knives, paintbrushes and paper treated with Japanese Konnyaku paste form a hodgepodge of half-finished notebooks on the table where my Nan indulges her hobby. It is here I sit, having woken up at half past five (not as early as my restless Nan, who arose two hours earlier) with a cup of tea and a piece of leftover Arab bread, writing this at the Mac. There is so much to say in this house, without having said anything in particular. It is the indescribable atmosphere of home that inspired me upon opening my eyes today.
My grandparents have been married for over forty years: they are the sort of older couple who, whilst being by no means ancient, bring a smile to your face when they hold each other’s hands in public. My Granddad’s sense of humour is dry, often sarcastic and scathing; my Nan is an eccentric. They are enthusiastic and young, 1960’s minds. He was a graphic designer, she an English teacher then a charity fundraiser. They are two sides of a coin; links in a chain. We all share a taste in music, and some of the songs I love so much conjure atmospheres from this very house. Gram Parsons, the Beach Boys and Fleetwood Mac all bring back nights where, slightly drunk at the dinner table, three generations have sung along together. Words being mixed, my Nan out of tune, my Mum and Granddad (the two sweetest voices I have ever heard) forming a perfect harmony.

Fat kids bounce around
on front-garden trampolines
on a school day.

Little tykes
on scooters and bikes
race around the council estate.

Under yellow lights
They cuss and swear.
It’s a late, late evening.

Little boys
making too much noise
don’t know who they’re pleasing.

With monosyllabic chants
and lack of ‘baccy rants
Insignificant as ants
What do the neighbours say?
Nothing. Same ruckus every day.
Night times are far too cold
and these little boys are far too bold
Some scabby skinhead chucks chips to a gull.
Streets are filled with broken glass
‘No Ball Games’ signs amongst the grass.

As I crawl out of the hot bath, a swamp monster ascending from a pit of slime, I stare at my indistinct reflection in a completely steamed mirror. Looking closely forward as I absent-mindedly clean my ears, I can just about make out a face and a tussle of dirty blonde hair, darkened by the water it holds. This image; seeing my face in utter obscurity, a featureless-anti-countenance, is all it takes to spark inspiration inside me. Pulling on some underwear, I rush down the dark stairs – everyone sleeps and rises early in this house – to fetch my pen and paper. Still giving off steam, I plant myself on my bed, writing without my hand having stopped for respite. Soundtracked by ambient art-pop, undaunted by the length of the so-far unbroken paragraph and my everpresent fear of tomorrow, I am myself in the purest sense for a few precious minutes. Until the tide rolls out again. Until a shower dowses the fire or a hammer smashes the television screen in my heart, my identity is secure: around me. Within me. For these few trivial seconds, I am neither my clothes nor my music; my hair nor my face; my attitude nor my religion. I am the words on the page, and the cleansed purity of my snow-white soul.

As good as it feels, I know it won’t last forever. I feel the eternal pull, just like everybody else does. I become a deserted beach, populated by driftwood and dead sea creatures now. Perhaps a wrinkled fisherman in weathered attire looks out over the bay. Not even he knows if the tide will come in again.

These record were the onces that I heard as a young ‘un, before I was really into music - but they shaped my taste forever. I like to think I was given a pretty good education!

Dolly Parton - Greatest Hits

What a sweet voice this woman has - my grandparents and parents are really in to their country and Dolly is the best of the best. ‘Jolene’ and ‘Islands In The Stream’ are two songs that will always remind me of happily singing along with my mum as a youngster :)

Big & Rich - Horse Of A Different Colour

Big & Rich are a country rock duo with some PHAT tunes - this album is still an incredible sing-a-long today (but more than that…). Big & Rich deserved more praise than they got this side of the Atlantic - check out ‘Rollin”

Alison Krauss - Now That I’ve Found You

There are few things that can be said about this album other than how perfect it is. Her sweet, young voice lays down some incredible country / bluegrass songs. Everyone should own this, in my opinion.

Lou Reed - Transformer

Possibly the MOST hipster ‘first record I owned’. I’ve got my old man to thank for this one. Lou Reed’s songs are great: ‘Satellite of Love’ and ‘Perfect Day’ will never get old.

Santana - Supernatural

Such wide-ranging influences can be heard here - this record is a beautiful, curated hodgepodge of styles - with Santana’s legato guitar sliding all over it. Incredible. Check ‘Do You Like The Way’ to see hear how I knew about Cee-lo years before Gnarls Barkley.

Beach Boys - Pet Sounds

Such melancholy and such unbridled joy. Such complete genius and such perfectly-crafted pop songs. Pet Sounds will NEVER be beaten; it’s still my favourite record.

Red Hot Chili Peppers - Live In Hyde Park

This was my introduction into having my own personal music taste. The Chilis were mine and no-one else’s - and it still feels this way when I listen to this album. It’s incredible beyond belief: another must for your record collection.

trivialpersonalitiesdecomposing asked: The Brock college newspaper. Me and my friend take it over next year and we're looking for quality writers, and you fall into that category, to be blunt!

As long as it’s stuff that I’m interested in, yes of course.