The Amateur: Auto-biographer

OK, so this is a piece of writing I did for a college assignment, it is semi-autobiographical. I wanted to attempt to convey feelings through writing and so chose to write about some experiences I had had.



As I sit here in my cold, dimly lit, melancholy, somewhat untidy room, I can't help but feel a sense of disappointment at where I find myself. I am twenty-two, single and living with my grandparents and a ghastly creature that they call Brian (my grandmother's brother).

Brian, aged 70 at least, lives most of his life in his room, a relative hermit, that is except for early every Wednesday morning. It is at this time he springs to life and cleans the entire house, being sure to pause outside my room with the vacuum cleaner just long enough to wake me from my rare and well earned slumber. Apart from this intrusion, he remains relatively disconnected from me, with only the odd grunt to reaffirm his presence.

My eyes wander around the dreary room I currently call home, searching for a stimulus to take my mind far from this reality. Facing me is a small window which peers down on the street below and down the street facing it. From here I grasp that life does indeed continue without me. On one side of the room stands a large, rather imposing wooden wardrobe; on the other looms my massive collection of movies, piled high from to ceiling. This is escapism at its best, from the mindless violence of 'Rambo' to the soft, yet powerfully poignant 'A Beautiful Mind'. As I survey the astronomical number of titles in my collection I conclude that they must number at least 600. And so there stand two relative towers that seem to suffocate the room and press down upon its inhabitant, rather like a blanket would suffocate an asthma victim.

This is my world, trapped in a non-sensical atmosphere, anticipating and longing for something, anything better, something to break the monotony. My eye finds and peruses a section of my DVD collection. Michael Palin - 'Around the World In 80 Days' in which he follows the fictional route of Phineas Fogg as he toured the world in Jules Verne's classic tale. Bruce Parry - 'Tribe' in which ex-marine Bruce Parry travels the world meeting and living with different indigenous tribes, learning about their respective cultures and more importantly how to appreciate them. Ewan McGregor + Charley Boorman - 'Long Way Round' in which the boys travel the world on their trusty, and may I add, beautiful motorbikes, meeting hundreds of fascinating people. Each of these men has had adventures that have taken their breath away and then considerately notified the rest of us that life is to be lived and not spent. How I admire and envy every one of them.

My mind wanders through the back-alleys of my past to recover some memory that will affirm to me that I too have experienced moments of sheer beauty that have taken my breath away. Is there a fragment of memory, perchance, that confirms that I have contributed towards something worthwhile? Pleasingly, my mind is suddenly alive with reconstructed memories of happy times that were, not too long ago, realities.

Yes, I remember, aged 12 or so, both me and my dear Father taking part in a raft race, organised by the local church. The men constituted one team, us boys the other. The task at hand, to build a raft out of any materials we could find and then hope our craftsmanship was sufficient enough to last the duration of the race. As far as memory serves, neither craft managed to reach the finish line and everyone, man and boy, ended up swimming to the riverbank to the rapturous applause and laughter of everyone watching and taking part.

Yes I remember, aged 15 or so, experiencing what I then considered to be the greatest moment of my life, watching my beloved football team Manchester United win the European Cup. Now before you judge me too harshly, you must realise what a huge percentage of a 15 year old boys life is dedicated to football, then add to this the unforgettable series of events conspired to hand us victory. Oh yes, I remember well, defeat was imminent and but for two heroic and breath-taking moments of sporting lore, the dream would have been shattered. The regulation 90 minute period over and with just added time to go, we trailed by a goal to nil. With 92 minutes on the clock, David Beckham, the maestro, swings in a beautiful corner which is met by a United head and after a scuffed shot by Welsh wing wizard Ryan Giggs, finds the veteran Teddy Sheringham who scores to equalise. Then with 94 minutes on the clock, sporting history is made as young Norwegian Ole Gunnar Solskjaer scores from yet another delicious David Beckham corner. Euphoria!

Yes, of course, I remember, aged 19, going off to serve my Lord God on a mission for two whole years. I met people who changed my life; I believe I may have even changed the lives of some of those I met. I learned the beautiful French language and conversed fluently with people on topics as diverse as the after-life, the meaning of our existence and my overwhelming belief in a restoration of Christ's ancient church in these latter-days. For two years I devoted my entire life to what I considered to be the Lord's work. It was more than important to me, it was everything.

But wait, yes, I remember, aged 21, returning from France, a hero in my father's eyes. I remember well the moment, walking through the door of the arrivals lounge waiting to be greeted by a proud father and an ecstatic mother, only to find my dear father was too ill to stand and embrace me. Riddled with cancer, he was confined to a chair as my mother tearfully and excitedly squeezed me while making me promise never to leave again. Yes, I remember, watching for six long, but all too short months as my father steadily succumbed to his evil illness and moved closer and closer to his last days. Each day was like a dagger in my back and heart. This dagger didn't draw blood; it drew faith, love and belief. This dagger didn't cut flesh; it cut testimony, self-belief and my love for the gospel I had recently been so eager to share. On September 29th 2006, my father passed away, and in retrospect, I suppose a large part of me did too.

So the back-alleys of my past have lead me to the present and have reminded me as to why I find myself in the situation in which I do. I have been taught that yes, I have had adventures, I have met people that have fascinated me and experienced moments of sheer joy that have left me breathless, but these have been suffocated by recent tragedy and bereavement. These memories now serve only to stir my soul to regret and guilt. Guilt so palpable it looms over me and presses down upon me. Guilt that cries to me that I should have experienced more, yet currently restricts me from doing so. Regret that I didn't love more, or more accurately, didn't share my love more.

As for the future, if indeed there is forced to be a future, I await, in the hope that life does deal us a winning hand every so often, and that life will see fit to do so and leave me to enjoy it.

THE END