I’ve resisted this for so long. By God, I’ve resisted it. What do I know
about writing a blog? I don’t even keep a diary. Well, if I am honest, I keep a
small black organiser on my bedside cabinet in which I write important dates
such as birthdays, medical appointments and meeting reminders, but that book is
just a memory prompt and not the self-indulgent catalogue of daily thoughts and
reflections that would constitute a diary in the strictest sense of the word.
You see, I have never been a diary keeper for three reasons.
First, I am far too easily frustrated
to the point of belligerent childishness when engaging in any form of routine
activity that must be strictly adhered to. Although I like to pretend that this
is the product of a rebellious nature, if truth be told it owes more to
idleness than deliberate defiance.
Second, as the British
politician Enoch Powell once famously stated, ‘to write a diary every day is
like returning to one's own vomit’. I sympathise with these words entirely because
the human desire to document heartaches, tragedies and misfortunes never fails
to mystify me. Surely some painful memories are best buried deep within the
subconscious and forgotten over time rather than revisited time and time again
like a sadomasochistic teenager scratching at a weeping sore? I was once
reliably informed by a freshly divorced and exceptionally emotionally unstable
friend that, on the contrary, keeping a diary is a safe and effective method
for venting deep-seated frustrations and coping with troublesome emotions and
she assured me that both psychiatrists and white witches alike recommend this form
of emotional exorcism. Other diary-keepers tell me that the rationale behind
their habit is not an intention to banish unpleasant memories but to preserve
happy memories that would otherwise be forgotten over time so that they can relate
these stories to their children or reminisce over past events with old friends
in future years. I can appreciate this nostalgic sentiment, but who honestly wants
to hear the self-loathing, adolescent ramblings of their now middle-aged friends?
And who wants to know the name of the random boy that their mother slept with
on her 18th birthday?
Third and finally, I am not a writer but a musician and while the
articulation of emotion through musical performance comes fairly intuitively to
me, I often struggle to portray the same emotions when expressing myself using the
written word. For instance, if I feel sad then I can play a piece of music that
will allow you to share directly in my sadness. If I am elated, then I can play
a piece that will lift your spirits. The expression of sentiment is a fairly straightforward
process when I am presented with a piano keyboard, but I have discovered, to my
horror and to the horror of my former English teachers, that it is not so
simple when I am presented with a computer keyboard.
Given my profound aversion to the self-indulgent inclinations of the
diarist and my own shortcomings when articulating my emotions in prose, it is
embarrassing to admit that I have been forced to swallow my pride recently and
start keeping a diary or, more precisely, an online blog. This decision has
been prompted by a series of extraordinary events that have taken place over
the last couple of months and, since I have a terrible memory and I suspect
that there will be many more surprises to follow, I intend to record every
detail of these incidents in the true spirit of the diary keeper over the next
few months, or however long it takes for me to get bored with this. And I have
chosen to write in the form of a public blog rather than a personal diary
because I believe that my posts may prove interesting to others who, like me,
have an appetite for mysterious secrets and arcane knowledge and they may find my
ramblings to be enlightening and informative.
Perhaps I should begin by introducing myself. I am Helen, a
third-year undergraduate student studying for a BA in Theology and Religion at
the University of Birmingham. I do not consider myself to be a religious
individual by any means but I have an academic interest in religious matters
and I play the pipe organ for church services - weddings, funerals and the
occasional Eucharist mass - in order to fund my studies at the university. It may
not be the trendiest or most exhilarating job in the world but it certainly beats
working in some of the pubs and bars around here, that’s if you can stomach the
creepy coffins and gushing brides…
