Author: Flynn

Oh Denmark, Denmark, Denmark. 

You’re everything the UK should be but isn’t. 

Sorry Germany, you’ll get your blog post sooner or later. Denmark just has me inspired right now, sorry. 

Just… Wonderful? It sounds really silly to say, but things just seem to make sense here. 

I may, or may not, be getting ahead of myself. I’ve barely been here even 24 hours yet, but what little I’ve seen seems to line up perfectly with everything I’ve heard Denmark would be. I feel like everyone got the “life” memo here. 

As I write this I’m sat in a cafe eating breakfast. Coffee, OJ, and a croissant – hardly Danish – but anyway, it’s coming up to 10am. The day is just getting started. The sun isn’t shining, and the trees aren’t swaying gently in the breeze. It’s raining, it’s a nondescript shade of grey, it’s homely, dare I say. (I’m proof reading and I just realised it rhymed, HA!) Now maybe I’m biased, maybe I see Scandinavia as a whole through rose tinted glasses, maybe it’s because I’m technically on holiday – even if I don’t view it as one. But it doesn’t feel the same. Those all too familiar grey clouds, aren’t filled with a sense of impending doom. The imminent downpour isn’t going to wash away my hope of having a positive day. While the facts might be the same, it’s grey and raining. The outlook is intrinsically different. I feel as though, in England, we’re somehow still surprised that we live in a country riddled with newly forming puddles. We’re somehow shocked to find out that we don’t live aside the Mediterranean. Somehow we’re underprepared for, what is realistically, the inevitable. It rains and heads drop, the mood dampens as quickly as the pavement. We’re caught blissfully unawares without an umbrella or a coat. Why’s it raining? This is England! It shouldn’t be raining. It’s ONLY mid October – OF COURSE IT WAS GOING TO RAIN. Yet, here. Denmark. Denmark aren’t playing games. Denmark aren’t dressing up the issue. It’s going to rain, it’s always going to rain. Might as well be prepared for it. Accept it. Bring a raincoat, get on with life. Smile.

This sounds really stupid to write. Really fucking stupid and minor. I’m literally writing about the differences in rain. Fucking Rain. But as cliched as it might be, the little things go a long way. But the little things done right are really evident here. From road layouts and storefronts to customer service and appropriate weather attire. It just makes sense. In the combined 4~ hours I’ve wandered the streets of Copenhagen I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve stopped outside a shop window and marvelled at their displays. I couldn’t imagine doing that in Britain if it was raining, the weight of the droplets would be too much for my neck to bear to even consider raising my gaze. 

People. Ugh. The people. Copenhagen is a Pitt stop on the way to visiting my friend, Mai. She’s Danish, and lives in a city called Aarhus. We met while working in Spain around 4 years ago. We’ve been friends ever since. (Isn’t travelling amazing?! I wouldn’t have made Danish friends on the Wirral!) She’s a loser, objectively mean, but nonetheless I love her very much and I’m excited to see her for the first time in almost 2 years. Since being in Denmark I’ve been met with nothing but positive vibes. The openness and warmth I’d previously only read about. This is going to sound really silly, but it made me overwhelmingly happy. Across the cafe is a group of elderly gentlemen. I would guess that they’re all around 60~ years old. Between the 4 of them I have so far heard them talk in 4 languages simultaneously. English, French, German, and what I can only assume is Danish. They ordered their coffee, whilst whimsically flitting between English and Danish. To which the barista replied in a perfect yet distinctively British accent – Think Kiera Knightly. A friend walked through the door, and was quickly greeted with a kiss on each cheek and a “ça va?” Whilst eating breakfast a phone rang and a the language switched again! German! He chuckled heartily before passing on the conversation to his friends. Meanwhile, I’m sitting hidden behind my bilingual version of “Le petit prince” trying to keep my brain matter from flying out of my ears while watching this linguistic masterclass unfold. 

I could go on, and in the coming days I probably will, but right now I actually want to get back outside in the cold and get lost in the city. In short. Denmark, I think I’m falling for you and this is only the beginning. 

Love,

Flynn! x

Hey, 

I haven’t written anything in like 2 months. It’s been real.

I haven’t written anything for a bunch of reasons. The first; I was waaaaay too busy. Essays upon essays, power points upon power points. Work, work, work, work. The second, rest. What followed those busy weeks of work, was a week of nothing but sleep and sunbath. What I wouldn’t give to have those days back. Next, Feria arrived! Sleep was replaced with partying… Sunbathing remained. 

I had to leave Córdoba on 10 hours notice, my mum called me after a night at Feria. “Your Grandad is in hospital.” Taxi’s, trains, planes. Booked. Life; packed away into my suitcase. Go. Within a week of being home my Grandad passed away. I was devastated. I’m still dealing with it, so excuse my lack of any real eloquence. 

But I don’t want to talk about that now, positive vibes. I’m honestly thrilled to be home, honestly. Honestly. How many times do I need to say honestly to make it sound believable? More? More. Okay you got me… I’m less than happy to be home. I had the best year of my life in Córdoba, honestly. No sarcasm in that use of honestly. Not an ounce. 

I adored my time in Córdoba. I loved every little cobblestones street, every little crack and crevice. The oranges hanging off the trees, the blooming flowers in spring, the melding of centuries worth of cultures and religions. Everything about Córdoba.  I loved my job, I loved teaching my students, I (mostly) loved the teachers I worked with. I loved the friends I made along the way, from every corner of the globe. I especially loved my flatmates. I have nothing but love for Sara & Matteo.​ 

I lay in bed last night, laughing at this for about 30 minutes. One of us is a university teacher, the other a masters student. Both aged 24. You’d never have guessed. What I’d give to have this time back. 

​ I couldn’t have dreamt of a better experience in Córdoba. I was, literally, living the dream.

There’s a common notion that when you return from travelling anywhere for an extended period of time you return a changed person. You’re intrinsically different from the person that left. Now I don’t know how much I agree I with that. The experience of travelling will of course change you. But I think the same is to be said of any experience. It’s not that fact that you left the country. It’s the fact that you exposed yourself to something new. Something you probably wouldn’t have, if you had the choice when you were in the comfort of your hometown. It’s the experience that matters, not the destination. 

Yes, I’ve changed since going to Córdoba. Undoubtedly. But your home is your home. You can’t change that. Liverpool(Bebington) will forever be my home whether I like it or not. Like a tree, I will forever be rooted here. But with every new adventure, and every new destination. With every effort to branch out, and explore, I feel like I leave a part of me in each new home. So, in that sense the tree I left rooted here in Liverpool really isn’t the same as when I left. It’s more bare, there are pieces missing, marks etched into the bark that don’t quite make sense to everyone else. Hearts with names inside. Bits of string tied around the trunk. I return to a tree that’s more complete, but much less all together.  

If anyone likes, or can even make sense of that piss poor analogy, I’ll be amazed.

But, here I am. Living the dream. Or the nightmare. I’m not sure. It’s something you do when you sleep anyway… 

Being back home leaves me with this sense of longing… It’s almost a gauge of how far I’ve come, and how far I’m still yet to go. The goal marker has been pushed significantly further than it was the last time I was here. What I’m about to say isn’t meant in a negative way. Not at all. What people choose to do with there lives is 1000% up to them and nothing I or anyone else says should have any baring on what they should do. But that being said, I left Liverpool in January 2016. Since then I’ve probably spent a little over a month in the country. Now I’m back. To see people doing the exact same things they were doing when I left. Same job, same mates, same hobbies, and most worryingly the same mindset. Which is cool, if that’s what you want, you do you. But it’s not what I want. Being surrounded by that makes me feel uncomfortable, it puts me on edge. Stagnation makes me uncomfortable. You’re running on a treadmill whilst looking at the track… Get on the track! 

I don’t believe in much. But I do believe in energy. I believe that you get back whatever you put in. If you work hard, you’ll get a better grade. If you try, you’ll improve. If you put out positive energy, it’ll be reciprocated. But most importantly, the universe conspires with you, not against you. If you truly want something, and you put all your efforts into achieving it, you’ll get it. The world isn’t against you as it may seem. Positive vibes, positive energy, all that hippy bullyshit is legit… You just have to look past the moonshaped glasses and flares. 

The point I’m trying to get at, in a long winded sort of way, is this; I’m home. I’m not necessarily happy. But I am positive. Follow the Omens, they’re everywhere. You hold the answers. Happiness is in your hands. Create it.

Flynn!

X

(Totally going to reread The Alchemist – again.)

“Please. Please. Please…”

I’ve cried every night before bed for the past 7 days. I’ve cried at every sad tv series moment I’ve seen since December. Prior to this year I’d only cried at 1 song, I can’t tell you how many I’ve cried at since Christmas. I’m crying right now.

I’m scared. Scratch that. I’m terrified. The word “death” chills me to the core lately.

I go home in 5 days. My only hope is that you’re there. These nights I sit alone in my room, laying in my bed, clinging to the covers. The darkness echoes the anxiety I feel inside. The silence speaks volumes. I find myself praying to a God I don’t believe in. A God I haven’t believed in since I was about 10. Hypocritical I know. Begging, pleading that I’ll see you at least one more time.

There hasn’t been a day you haven’t crossed my mind. I’ve had this feeling in my chest for months. Every breath lingers on. I feel it. I hear my mum’s voice playing on repeat “Get it all out, you’ll feel better. Don’t keep it bottled up.” But every push is seemingly more difficult than the last. Day by day this feeling works its way lower into my abdomen. The pit of my stomach has been lined by fear for the last 6 months. Each day it grows a little bigger as I fill up with worries. Every time the name “Mum” pops up on my iPhone I have this moment. This moment of immeasurable panic. This sense of impending doom, that today’s the day she tells me the news I’ll never be ready to hear. My eyes lose focus, time seems to stop, I tune out of the world for a split second. I’d be weightless if it wasn’t for the lump in my throat, and the cartoon sized anvil in my stomach. One day that anvil will drop, and I’m not sure if I’ll be able to lift it back off of the ground.

I’ve reminisced. The good times. The bad times. The really bad times. All the things I would’ve done differently, the words I said that should never have left my lips. I’m sorry. The missed opportunities to tell you “I loved you.” We talk on Skype every other day. I’m grateful. I’m grateful for the few words we get to exchange. I’m grateful for the smiles we share, even if they are fleeting. I’m grateful just to hear your voice again, although it’s bittersweet. With every passing phone call there’s a change. A little thinner, a little more tired, a little less chatty. I know you’re struggling. I know you’re in pain. I know you’re trying to put on a front for me. Nobody has to tell me these things, I can see it in your eyes. I wish it could be different. Seeing the man I grew up with disappear in front of my eyes is crushing every last part of me. You’re like a second Dad, I don’t think I’ve ever told you that – I should.

As the date gets nearer, the fear grows. The closer I am to going home, the more moments like this I have. The more I dream up the inevitable, and what it will be like. How I’ll cope, how my Mum will cope, my Nan. So far I haven’t came up with any answers. “Don’t suffer in silence.” my Mum always says… But who do you turn to when you’re faced with the inevitable? What words can anyone say to ease this racing mind? There are none. Zero.

My head hurts. My tear ducts have run dry. It’s 4:10am.

5 days, please Grump. Please be there when I get home.

x

Un día en septiembre estaba en un cafetería. Me senté al lado de la ventana. No me acostumbraba al clima. Hacía sol. En septiembre – Que raro! La gente andaba relajada por la calle. Me encanta mirar a la gente. Un chico corría, sudaba profundamente – Pobrecito! Que mala decisión, correr al mediodía. Una pareja estaba discutiendo en su mesa. Le regañaba como si fuera su hijo. ¿Que ha hecho?  ¿El había sido infiel? ¿O sólo un idiota? Siempre juego a este juego. Creaba historias sobre todo el mundo. En qué trabajaba, dónde vivía, si tenía familia – todo. Seguí bebiendo mi cafecito. El olor me abrazó mis sentidos como la brisa fresca de primavera. Me sentí en casa. Elevé mi vista, la luz del sol me deslumbró. Ví una silueta que salía de la obscuridad. Era ella. En aquel momento no pensé en su historia. Si tenía faltas, si le gustaba los artes, si roncaba. Nada. Sus ojos como las hojas avellanas y nítidas del otoño, y  me colé por ella. Sólo pensé en su futuro.

Nuestro Futuro.

I wrote this about a week ago. It’s the first “creative” thing I’ve ever written in Spanish. I’m pretty pleased with it to be honest.
(It was literally just to practice using the past tenses, then it got kinda fun to write)
I’m certain it’s riddled with mistakes, but one Spanish person told me they liked it and that meant the world to me. If you’re Spanish, or can speak Spanish, and you have anyyyyyyy comments at all, please share them. Correct my grammar, god knows I need it.

It’s valentines day, I guess it’s vaguely topical. Hope y’all had a nice day.

-Flynn.

I don’t like writing stories. A list of events. “Hey, this is my day, here’s how it went, this it what I did” It always ends up with me getting half way through, becoming bored, reading it back thinking “This is shit.” and deleting everything.

I wrote this post yesterday, in a completely different format. ^ that first paragraph is why you didn’t see it. ^ version 2. 

Life.

Life is pretty weird, but funny in it’s own little way. Yesterday I had a mild existential crisis in the middle of the day, by nightfall everything had shifted to the opposite end of the spectrum. I was happy as fuck with life.

I guess rather than looking forward and cowering at the unknown, I looked back at how far I’ve came and got excited thinking of how far I’m still yet to go. It kind of pushed me to propel myself forward in a strange way.

The things I once wanted for myself, the things that were my dreams– in the loosest sense of the word– are now things that have no bearing on how I live my life. Do I want a mansion? Not really. A Rolls Royce? Naah.

I look at the menial things I’ve experience, and how they’ve had possibly the biggest effect on me. Maybe at the time they didn’t but looking back on them they absolutely did.

My maths teacher taught me much more than maths. You can be accepted, and loved, just as you are. You can be strange, and sarcastic, and overly blunt, and generally a bit weird, and people will still hold you in high regard. Possibly higher regard. Be yourself. Do things your way. Take pride in that, and never change yourself for others. Fuck conformity, fuck the norm. He taught me from age 13 to 18, I realised all of this after I left sixth form. Shout out to Mr Gatrell, a legend if ever there was one. “Build a bridge, and get over it.” “Winner winner, chicken dinner.” Legend.

Fear of being shouted at as a 17 year old showed me that success means more when you struggle and give everything to get it. It’s worth that much more. I didn’t realise this until after I turned 20. To this day, that C in A-Level Spanish means more than any grade or qualification I’ve ever gotten.

Talking to strangers online in broken Spanish, more or less, planted the seed that dropping out of university was maybe the right thing to do. Regardless of what anyone else said. Step out of the lab and into the world, there’s more for you out there than there is in here. Go. This realisation came a year later than it should’ve. 

An Australian bloke I spoke to for 2 days in Barcelona taught me more about myself and living my life in general than anything I’d done in the 4 years beforehand. Create your own worldview. Create your own scale of success. There is no universal measure of a good life, it’s what you make it. Don’t strive for a career, a wife, kids and a white picket fence if they’re the last things you want. 

Retail taught me that the little things really do matter. One comment can ruin your entire day if you let it. Similarly that a smile is infectious if you let it catch you. Don’t let yourself get sucked into the bullshit that life throws at you. People thrive off of gossip and negativity, join in if you must, but you don’t have to be like that. Stay true to you.

Kids taught me to be selfless. What might mean very little to you, could mean the world to them. Give your time, give your energy. The feeling they’ll leave you with is worth its weight in gold. Ten year olds I’d known for a week couldn’t reduce me to tears at saying goodbye… Could they? I’ve had more fun at kids camps with the kids, than with a lot of my friends. No offence.

Failed relationships taught me to be selfish. You can’t please everyone, Flynn. More to the point, you have to please yourself over everyone else. You’re going to hurt people along the way, and they’re going to hurt you. Nobody wants it to happen. Nobody means any real harm by it. They’re just looking out for number 1, which is exactly what they should be doing – try not to harbour any hate because of this. Don’t mope in what you can’t control. 

Failed relationships taught me that my heart isn’t actually made of stone as I thought for 20~ years it was. You care about people. Not many, but you have cared about some. You’re capable of love. You’re capable of being in a relationship. Those years you dreamt of isolation. Working from home, behind a laptop. No relationships, no drama, just you. Solo. “Chillin’ ” That’s not you, and it doesn’t need to be you. Sometimes, and only sometimes, you’re not so antisocial. Experiences are better shared. Dinner for 1 isn’t as fun as dinner for 2. The view from the top of the mountain is to be shared. Sitting on the beach isn’t so fun when you’re alone. 

I guess, where I’m trying to go with this is that: There isn’t one Big Bang moment where my life goals become crystal clear and everything becomes simple all at once. Life is a learning curve, and you’ll figure it out in pieces. You’re growing with every breath you take, every new experience. Every new encounter, every new conversation. You’re not the same person you were before. It’s just that, You won’t realise it in the moment, you’ll be too busy living it. Only when you sit down, and reflect on all the small steps you’ve taken will you realise just how far you’ve travelled. 

You’ve experienced so much over the years, learn from it. 

Maybe you don’t know where you want to be in a year, in 5 years, 10, in 50 god forbid you’re still alive and kicking. But mate, that’s just fine. Are you happy now? Yeah? Then what else matters?

Love, Flynn x

Numb. Apathetic. Bored. Reaaallllyy fucking bored.

Get. Me. Back. To. Spain. Pronto.

I feel like I’m living a really weird existence lately. Like this self imposed, self contained, bubble. Except, I’m not in the bubble. My body is, but my conscious is very much elsewhere. Like, as if I’m a Sim. I’m controlling me. But I’m also not me. This is very airy fairy, I’m aware that it makes absolutely no sense whatsoever.

So, like… Shut the fuck up Flynn, this makes literally no sense to read. You’ve just read it back and it sounds nothing like it feels. It’s like I’ve put my life on autopilot, while I sit at the control centre, eating popcorn, watching me live my life, waiting to feel the need to take back control. Does that make sense? Fuck it if it doesn’t.

 

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New day. Hello. Today is the first day since… – Christmas day? Christmas day. I’ve woken up before noon. My head feels fuzzy. The 7 to 10 days or so followed as above. Today I woke up needing to get out of the house, regardless of how I felt. I got ready in Spanish mode, without looking outside. I threw on a shirt, some black jeans and in my Zombie-like state I pulled open the front door which immediately slammed itself shut again as if to say “Do you know where you are!? Get your coat on!” Thanks Mother Nature, I forgot I was back in England.

 

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I’ve been writing a lot lately. A lot in my various diaries/journals, the notes section of my iPhone,  a lot of “poetry” – I still don’t know if I’m ok with calling it that – on napkins, anywhere and everywhere. But in the last few days I’ve hit a creative dry spell. I can’t come up with anythhingggggg new. Anything worthwhile. I guess I hit beginners luck, the universe showed me that I can do it. I was inspired. Now, not so much. Brainstorm, brainstorm, brainstorm. Get out there, experience something new. Make the menial mean something. Take trivial to the next level. You got this, Flynn. Believe.

 

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Why am I writing in this new layout? I have absolutely no idea. I kinda like it though.

 

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Track 3. Doorways + Trust issues

Anyone can say anything, I’d rather show you.

I feel very indecisive. Very indecisive. Which, really just isn’t me. I’m painfully decisive. Stubborn to my very core. It’s one of the best/worst things about me, depending on the day. If I don’t want to do something, you’re not going to change my mind – ever. Peer pressure really isn’t peer pressure, it’s a lack of conviction. At the moment, I can’t even decide on the most basic of things. What do you want to do? In any sense. Grand scheme, or just this afternoon. I don’t know. What do you want? For tea? In life? I DON’T KNOW.

Obviously, I don’t know why I feel like this. Obvious is obvious.

I’m struggling to write anything conducive to anything in this blog, you may have noticed that. But, if in some strange turn of events you’re still here… Hi. Congratulations?  I’ve just been vaguely inspired by a memory from 2012. Only 3 days after starting this blog post…

Trust.

Who do you trust? Everyone? Nobody?

What do you trust?

I would say it takes a lot for me to trust people or situations/events in any sense. People confide in me a lot more than I confide in them. I’m open with new people, and honest for the most part. I’m open to trying to trust them. It’s not like I go into the situation expecting the worst, but I’m definitely not diving in headfirst.  I’ve been told I’m good with people, please understand that this is completely unintentional. For some reason people seem to feel comfortable telling me intimate details about themselves. But I rarely tell them anything meaningful about myself. Verrryyyy rarely.

Group projects: I’m not trusting you with my grades. Plane to catch: I’m not trusting you with my punctuality. Errand to run: You guessed it, Nope. Anything that means something, that’s reserved for a select few.

“Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me” Wrong. Words. Words will fucking destroy me. Words will imbed themselves in my stomach lining, words will echo around my room in the depths of the night, my fingerprints leave behind the shards of broken promises.

I’ve learnt that I can’t trust people with their own words, so why in Gods name would I trust them with mine. I’d rather my words fall on deaf ears, than on minds that can’t comprehend their gravity. I’ve given my faith to people who absolutely did not deserve it. I learnt early on that words without actions aren’t to be valued, thanks mum. One of the worst things you can do in life is to say something and not back it up.

I’d say I’m a forgiving person. For the most part I can’t hold a grudge.  I wish I could in some circumstances, but I know I can’t. I’m petty, but not spiteful. Hate or disrepute take too much energy, and frankly I can’t be fucked to give someone that. People do things for their own benefit, there’s nothing wrong with that. Be empathetic, put yourself in their shoes… You might just find yourself understanding. However, trust is very much a one way street. I will forgive you for the very worst of your actions, but I absolutely will not trust you with my words again. This isn’t best out of 3, you’re one and done. Maybe that’s harsh, maybe that’s unfair. Maybe you’re right. But then again, I’m painfully stubborn.

I can count the people I really trust on one hand and have digits leftover.
I can’t see that changing anytime soon.

Flynn x

Well, it’s the third of January. I was planning to write an end of year post on the twenty third of December – That went well!  I was planning to write a new year post on the thirty first of December – Also a raving success! At least I’m the same horribly underprepared person I’ve always been. New year, new… New? Nothing? New nothing. That works. Same old Flynn. I like that.

So what am I going to write about?

Year long reflection is impossible. My memories of the last year skew depending on my mood and who I’m talking to. Last year was amazing, but also terrible. I both grew and regressed as a person. I made some decisions I’m proud of, and some I hope to never make again. I met people I hope to keep in my life forever, and some I’ll happily leave in 2016. I guess what I’m getting at is, 2016 wasn’t the horrible year the media – and memes – would have you believe. For me at least.

Set goals for this year? HA! I couldn’t stick to objectives if I set them for tomorrow. Nope. No “news years resolutions.” There are some things I want to do this year, of course, but they’re not really resolutions? I want to visit Portugal, Italy and Denmark. Will I get to any of these places? Who knows, hardly monumental resolutions either way.

Lets just ramble.

 

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Since I’ve been at home I’ve felt pretty alone. Scratch that. Alone. Last year was so hectic, that I rarely felt alone in the way I feel it now. A few days ago I was clearing out my room, and I found my moleskin diary that has 12 months worth of drama sporadically scribbled  in Sharpie. I sat and read it for a while. Wow. Clusterfuck. A lot of the entries had similar themes. January,  March, May, and December were all pretty similar.  I’m a cyclic kind of person. I understand that’s not a word (is it? In this sense? I don’t know.) I guess I’m kinda “mood swing-y” Again, not a word. But I feel like you get the gist. Before I continue, lets clear something up. I like to be alone, I actively enjoy being by myself. That isn’t a problem whatsoever. I don’t like to feel alone. There’s a huge difference. Right now I’m both. I am by myself, and I feel like I’m by myself. Alone and with little to do is a dangerous combination. It leads to me overthinking, wasting time, and wasting money. I don’t know which of the 3 is worse to be honest.

 

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My friend pointed something out to me a few days ago which I hadn’t realised before. We were talking about life and dealing with certain scenarios. At this point in time, she knows me better than anyone. She knows the most honest version of the last 12 months. I’m not adversed to bending the truth a little bit – Don’t judge me, you ALL do it. I said the phrase “I’m literally over it, it’s handled. Everything is ok.” To which she started laughing. Now, I know I’m mildly funny sometimes. But this wasn’t one of those occasions. Apparently, every time I’ve ever used the word “literally” in this context I’ve absolutely never meant it. I’m, literally, absolutely not over it. Example after example, she cited off the times I’ve said this in the last 12 months and not even slightly meant it. She was 100% right. This was news to me.

Maybe I’m not “literally” over it. Maybe I’m just trying to convince myself that I am.

 

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I’m undeniably a different person than the guy who started 2016. A better person? I don’t know to be honest. Professionally? Exponentially better. Absolutely more confident. Absolutely better prepared. More qualified. More experienced. Great. But personally? Am I better now than I was? I don’t know. 2016 has definitely taken me in a direction I never thought I’d go in. My character has been sculpted in ways I didn’t expect. Some things have been added that I definitely want to chisel away at in 2017.

Experience is the greatest teacher. Things I said I believed at the start of 2016 were merely ideas. They sounded nice. They sounded like things I should believe. Now, I don’t think you can truly believe something until that thing has been tested to some effect. Jeez have I been tested these past 12 months. My belief system has definitely changed. Maybe my moral compass was off-axis, maybe I’ve corrected it. Maybe it was dead on point, maybe I’ve taken it off track. I don’t know. Whatever has happened, my reality has shaped my new beliefs whether that’s for better or worse it’s no longer an ideological shaped belief system, it’s based on personal experience. That’s an improvement, right?

I’ve been challenged, and I’ve came out the other side alive. Overall I’m better for having gone through it all, I think.

 

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I guess, if this year has taught me anything at all. It’s something incredibly simple something I’ve pretty much known all along.

Just go for it.

Yeah, sometimes you’ll lose. Hell, more times than not you’ll probably lose – or it’ll seem that way in hindsight. But what you gain along the way is worth it. That’s life. Maybe you’ll get hurt, a lot. But you’ll get back up. You always do. What other choice do you have?

Sure, you’ll have days where you lie in bed wishing the sun wouldn’t rise again tomorrow. You’ll gaze at Netflix until you forget what day it is. You’ll bathe in self loathing until your skin resembles that of a raisin. But one day, you’ll snap out of it. The gravity in your room will be great enough to lift that lead balloon lump in your throat… And you’ll fly. It won’t be easy, but the winds of change are all around you, don’t fight the breeze.

You’ll never be happy all of the time. Never. Embrace the times when you are. Embrace the joy, embrace the simplicity of life. You’ve got to climb the mountain to see the view from the top. You may as well make the most of it once you get there.

The times I’ve been happiest this year have been followed by a very real sadness. That’s always going to be the case. The bad has to keep the good in check, the opposite is also true. You can’t truly know one without the other.

I don’t regret any of the experiences I’ve had this year, maybe I’d do things differently if I had another chance. The days and nights I’ve spent in tears were both preceded and followed by very real elation. The outbursts of anger, the sentiments of betrayal, the loneliness, all worth it for the serenity, the peace of mind and the pure joy I’ve experienced in the last 12 months.

Life’s a wild ride. Don’t brace yourself for the shock, let it hit you. Absorb every moment. Don’t shy away from your emotions. Feel the purity of what you feel, even if others don’t feel the same.

If it’s real to you, it’s real.
Just fucking go for it.

Love,
Flynn. x

Note. This blog has been sitting in an open tab for the last week, uneditted and unfinished. It’s time to just hit post, and start a new one. Love. Flynn x

This blog is simply because I feel like writing. I have no idea what it will turn into, but I have the urge to bash on the keyboard. So here we go; a vague, not exactly thought provoking, probably uninspiring, blog post. Enjoy.

What’s going on with me lately? Well, things have been a little hectic. I’ve had an alarming amount of work, and a record low amount of free time. Thankfully the tides of change are upon us and I may actually get to have some free time soon. La liberté. While I only work 5 days a week, evenings and weekends are my own. Lately they haven’t been. I won’t complain too much because I’ve done some amazing things, visited family, friends, new cities, saw my favourite Poet perform. But having work and deadlines looming over you as you try and enjoy yourself somewhat taints the experience jusssst a little. A weekend of lying on the sofa is soon to begin.

These last few weeks have reignited a few things for me.

Firstly, I’m back to loving Spanish, Spain and everything in between. I’ll admit, prior to going back home I was getting a little bit down on my overall progression in Spain. I love my job. I genuinely feel like I’m pretty good at it too. Not amazing, obviously, but definitely good. I love speaking Spanish, but being overly conscious of the errors I was making was really starting to get me down a bit. When I got off the plane on my return to Malaga I realised that in just 31 hours at home my brain had switched back to default English. I felt confused all over again, I felt that Spanish had slipped through my fingers without me noticing. Of course, it hadn’t completely. But that feeling caused me to reassess how I’m learning. It’s not enough to just talk Spanish everyday and accept my mistakes, I need to make an effort. I need to study. So I am. I’m back to loving the atmosphere. Trains are noisy, Cafes are noisy, people are noisy. I noticed that when I’m here and I hear people shouting on a train I don’t react. When I’m home, I react instantly. Here it’s just people talking, laughing and joking. At home, someone’s going to have a fight. Thanks for making that evident, Merseyrail. You were a joy as ever. I’ll never get used to the mayhem of the “queue” – I use that in the loosest possible sense – in the cafeteria. Ever. JUST MAKE AN ORDERLY QUEUE, PLEAAAAAAAASE.

Secondly, my love for Liverpool has never been bigger. Since sum-. Well, my sense of patriotism towards England has never been particularly strong. It’s been dramatically diminishing since summer and it continues to on a daily basis. However, my love for Liverpool is at an all-time high. I know, I’m not from Liverpool. Plastic Scouse. Wool. Yeah yeah yeah. That doesn’t change the fact that Liverpool is my home, even if logistically it isn’t. Being away from it for almost the entire year makes you miss all of the little things that make it special. In my classes I try and give students some kind of a cultural sentiment as well as the obvious linguistic element. Whether that be England’s approach to education, to law, to manners, humour. Anything. This week we were talking about journalism. Tabloids vs Quality Press. So obviously, the S*n came up. It pains me that on the two occasions I delivered this class, The S*n was the first newspaper students named. When I was preparing the class I toyed with the idea of talking about Hillsborough, and the aftermath. I thought about it for a few hours, I decided I couldn’t not. No matter how difficult it would be. I can’t read or watch anything about Hillsborough without the hairs on the back of my neck standing up, I get goosebumps. I feel like this is a natural reaction for anyone from the region. I prepared 1 slide. The only images on screen were the Liverpool badge, the original front page, and the “Don’t buy The S*n” sticker. What was I going to say? I had no idea. It was the last thing I was going to talk about, however much time I had left was as long as I’d talk for. It worked out around 4-5 minutes. Recounting any part of the story without getting emotional is difficult. Trying to tell it from start to finish… Jesus Christ.

I didn’t cry – so that was a bonus. I was very much on the verge of it though… Considering I only had 4 minutes, I feel like I covered most of the bases. Even if I told it with a quivering voice, and noticeably shaking limbs. After the classes finished, I had 4 students on different occasions thank me for telling a story that was clearly so important to me. It felt weird to be thanked, but I really appreciated it. I’m glad they connected to it in someway. Anytime a student tells you they liked your class, or even a part of it, it means something. But hearing it about this specific topic really meant a lot.

Third. I don’t really have a third? 

Love.

Flynn! x

This past weekend I experienced something I never thought I would. When I was (a lot) younger, I vividly remember saying “I don’t believe in the idea of heroes or role models. I don’t have any.” I quickly realised I was a moron, and that my mum was my biggest and potentially only real role model. As I got older, I think I started to look up to people more and more. People I aspired to be like in one way or another.

Now, I’ll preface this with why this guy means so much to me. I think in a very simple way. It’s confusing to explain, but I’ll try. Imagine a beach. Right now. In your mind. What can you see? White sand, clear water, blue skies – not a cloud in sight? Tranquility. Now, if I try and imagine a beach here’s what I see. Black. Darkness. A void. Nothingness. I can’t see anything at all. I could sit here all day trying to picture a scenario, a landscape, anything and I wouldn’t see a thing. This is partly the reason why I have a hard time reading books. I can’t picture the scenes, I can’t imagine the characters. Now, what I can imagine are feelings. If I think of a beach I can imagine feeling relaxed, I can imagine feeling happy. I can mentally go back to a time when I felt those things. Feelings and also words. If you imagine this blackness I can see. It’s kind of like a mental chalkboard. When I’m thinking and trying to work things out, it’s like I’m writing out ideas mentally with a white piece of chalk and I can clearly see the letters. I physically draw the connections between ideas like a mental spider diagram. So, I can’t see in pictures but I can see words and feelings.

When I heard Rudy Francisco’s poetry for the first time it was like the foundations of my brain were rocked to their core. I could see his words clearly, but my chalkboard was no longer two dimensional. My imagination had exploded as if in virtual reality into another dimension, these words were oozing feelings out of their pores and onto a canvas. These metaphors seemed so simple yet so profound. The thing about feelings is that you can’t decide how or when you feel them. Sometimes they just are. As I’m mentally writing these words as I hear them, the feelings they give me are erupting uncontrollably off of the board in clouds of smoke. This subconscious overload of emotion. No words had ever given me this outburst. The connections were obvious, but I’d somehow never considered them a fit. The only thing I can compare this to in reality is the first time I saw a double decker train in Amsterdam. I had seen double decker buses, planes even. But I’d never, not even once, considered a double decker train. I was shell shocked. Dumbfounded. This 3 dimensional mental picture I’d never had before. Incredible. This happened during the first poem I listened to, and then during the next, and the next. Soon enough I’d listened to everything that was online. I went down the rabbit hole, and I haven’t came back out since.

In the last, year? 2 years? I haven’t gone a week without listening to his poems. Watching his performances on Youtube. With every listen those same feelings remain. I still get this 3D mental image that combines words and emotions that I just don’t get anywhere else. He literally opens my mind.

This weekend I saw him perform in person. This magician of my mental state. I saw him. He’s not just this series of performances on Youtube, he’s an actual physical being. Rory and I walked into the Indie Lounge in Birmingham and I spotted him immediately. It’s a strange sensation seeing someone you admire, but have only ever seen online. Meeting footballers is different, I’ve met a bunch. You know they’re real, you see other people watching them, you see people post pictures when they meet them in the street. They’re celebrities, but they’re very much within reach. They’re accessible. Rudy though, I don’t know anyone who’s met him. I’ve never seen him in pictures with other people, I’ve only ever seen him perform on a stage and that’s it. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, it was surreal. As if by magic a painting had come to life, and was casually ordering drinks at a bar.

The show started, it was magical. Really. I don’t think I blinked, or sat back in my seat until the first break about an hour in. Mesmerizing. I watched 5 or 6 poets perform before Rudy, ALL amazing in their own way. Their work was at a level I can only dream of getting to in the future. Then it was Rudy’s turn. I was maybe 4 rows from the front. Dead centre. It felt as if the whole room had became a tunnel with only 2 people inside. There was only 1 light. The light at the end of the tunnel, directly behind Rudy. I felt alone. Alone yet full. Not full like that impending sense of doom after you eat too many plates at a buffet. Perfectly full, Nan’s Sunday roast full. Curl up on the sofa and doze off to a movie full. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so immediately inspired. I couldn’t tell you how long he performed for. I can’t even tell you how many poems, or what poems. But what I can tell you is that my world stopped. Time wasn’t present anymore. I didn’t think of yesterday, tomorrow, 30 seconds from then. Nothing. I was hooked on his every word and it was fucking brilliant.

I’m not great at expressing happiness or joy in my writing, but I’m trying. I gained a lot from that night. A lot of words are over used and consequently diluted. But that night was truly, truly, breathtaking.

So thanks to everyone who had any vague involvement in making it possible. Thanks to Rudy Francisco, to Jasmine Mans, to allll of the other poets who performed. To Ryanair for dirt cheap flights, to Rory and the fuel efficient Fred.

I’ll never forget that night for as long as I live. I can taste the energy in the room as I sit here in my living room, hundreds of miles away.

Flynn! x