A Trollope in the Making

So aside from being published, migrating 160 miles to a slum in London, moving into a new house, getting a 1st for my second year at university and bankrupting myself, it's been a relatively uneventful few months.

I've been frantically searching for work, filling in online job applications and posting CVs at 2 in the morning and after weeks of near constant frustration, I finally get a response that isn't

'Sorry, Mr Hogue but you are unfortunately overqualified for this particular position'.

I was awoken by a phone call this morning announcing that as of a week today I start paid training for a new restaurant opening in Lincoln, which means for the first time in weeks I won't have to travel home every few days to work 1 eight hour shift and practically beg for tips.

More importantly, I can finally relax. I've been beating myself up relentlessly about not being good enough, not being dedicated enough, having no work ethic, but finally something has gelled and I have something to focus on other than the pressing need to start my dissertation.

So now I can sit downstairs, in my new house on Trollope Street and read through my first of many professionally published pieces in the August issue of Gay Times magazine without an indeterminate urge to check the University Jobshop yet again.

I suppose I should really be more proud of myself for these last few months. I went out on a limb, proved myself a capable writer and journalist, as well as taking radical control of my finances and drastically re-thinking my priorities.

The result?

My first double page spread, on pages 106-7.

My second double-page spread, pages 160-1. The GT 'Vault'

Seeing words I crafted sat physically in front of me, in all their glossy glory in the UK's longest running gay magazine (or 'fag rag' as it's endearingly termed) does seem to reaffirm my childhood desire to be a journalist and my constant craving to prove myself a big fish in an equally big pond. More importantly, it shows that university is paving the way for a rewarding future and not just a series of agonizing hangovers.

As GT's Editor, Darren Scott, tweeted earlier this month:

Yes I'm biased but the upcoming issue of Gay Times is really bloody good. Everyone who worked on it equally as bloody good.

Mind you, my favourite printed page is still Suzy's coy cover of 'The Daily Strumpet': a treasured birthday present that sits proudly on my noticeboard.

Cover courtesy of print guru Suzy Aldridge

With the support of friends like Suzy, I'm happy knowing that I can easily be everything that I want to be: a journalist, a waiter and a veritable trollope in the making.

________________________________________________________

Gay Times indeed

The last few weeks have been more surreal than Godga's recent conversion to all things teal, but, much like the change, they've been a refreshing alternative to the otherwise increasingly mundane. (Nothing against gaga, of course, I just have an attention span shorter than my respective legs.)

Just under a month ago I was sat in my living room casually tweeting opinionated nonsense, as you do, when I posted something about Gay Times magazine, just in passing (but secretly hoping to be included in the 'Inbox' page as a nod to their latest issue).

@GayTimesMag How am I meant to read your articles when each page is practically erotica? Even as a journalist I'm left drooling at the pics! - May 20th 2011

A few moments later I receive a reply from the Mag's Acting Editor, who asks if I'd be interested in work experience. Two things immediately sprung to mind:
a) 'You had me at Porn Issue' and
b) "Shit, where why have I lost signal?!"

About 15 minutes and 6 attempts to furiously press 'send' later and I reclined in my cheap plastic chair, mind agog with rose-tinted montages of me traveling on the tube in a suit and brandishing an indomitable grin.

Fast forward a month and my off-the-cuff comment has landed me an extra accolade for the CV, a new circle of friends and a few features coming out in upcoming issues. Excitement is not the word.

The latest issue of GT: See my tweet on page 8 :)

As I write this I'm under the influence of caffeine and suppressing the urge to dance to Heavy Metal Lover, so I'm sure a strangely insistent glee will permeate all I do today and I'm utterly thrilled by it.

I've met some lovely people in London, had the privilege of meeting some talented and dedicated journalists (Danny, Jamie and Darren among them) and FINALLY transformed my perception of the Tube from a cryptic labyrinth a la Poe, into a viable and efficient mode of transport.

I'm itching to leave London now, I admit, as I've endured as much distance from Adam as I can tolerate without being cryogenically frozen, I miss my customary lie-ins and my socks are wet, which is enough to put dampener on anyone's day. (Sorry).

But having to function in a genuine newsroom environment and work in a set time-frame, something as yet virtually alien in the land of university where a late night and a few off-the-cuff quotes can land you a 1st, has made me proud to be part of this line of work. I thoroughly enjoy journalism and I like people; writing to, writing about, speaking to... people.

One more day of work and I will have finished my 2 weeks work experience here, and I couldn't utter a bad word about Gay Times if I wanted to; it's hard not to be content in an office littered with life-size cut outs of porn stars and Ugly Betty characters!
But Eee By Gum - it'll be nice to be back up North.
___________________________

Sexuality: a feral incursion

I've spent the last hour reading through my old booklet of poems I created back in 2003, searching for a pleasant yet suitably shocking quote to turn into a tattoo for my 20th birthday.

And reading through them, I notice they're rife with sexual imagery that, at the time, I can only assume was subconscious.

For example, this is a small stanza from a poem I wrote called 'The Unholy Siege of Heaven':

"The fiendish dome does dilate so,

Bulging forth with monstrous force; to Heaven's virtue impede,

Quaking in discordant shrieks,

And ruptures. To overbrim, its loathesome contents freed."

Taken out of context, you might assume this is a poem about rape or 'unholy' sexual conduct, and you'd probably be right. Originally, it was on the subject of demons invading the Kingdom of Heaven and I distinctly remember being proud of how I'd made it so blood-curdling and violent, but reading back through it, it strikes me how very easy it is for my inner-feelings to seep into my 'art', without my knowledge or understanding.

At the time I wrote this, I imagine I would have been in Year 10 or so at Secondary School, and it was a confusing time when my sexuality seemed to be going through changes I vehemently ignored, choosing to work tirelessly instead. Well, to steal another line of the poem's seemingly ambiguous imagery, this was "straining the now weakened veil." Or 'pushing it a bit', as you less anally-retentive folks probably say.

I'm just a little shocked that at a time when I remember being so very focused on learning and so very determined to block out urges of any kind, they appear to have invaded my subconscious with an almost feral incursion.

For those of you who enjoy melodrama, read the full 33 verse poem below...

_______________________________________________________________

The Unholy Siege of Heaven

By Jamie Hogue (2003)

Infused with rapturous serenity;

Truly so is such a place of hallowed tone.

Entrancing sweeps of burnished cloud

Emanating light in lustrous streams of Sun's own.

Lofty turrets of dear glimmering mist,

Wondrous in their crystalline purity,

To take to yonder boundless skies

And be by mystic airs so kissed.

A space amassed in empyrean forms,

Each buoyant of their own accord,

In chiselled semblance of our peerless God,

And such blissful rapport on all adorned.

Unity here embraces His world,

Every being so bathed in collective affection,

Cultured radiance does this equal, assured,

And acts to enhance the known righteous connection.

Yet, on this day, a strange sensation does present,

Unease to taint such divine scene,

Ill grown distress does ail these skies

To compel His loved domain unclean.

From tarnished air arouses grave dismay,

Doctrines lost in pained revolt,

Seraphs mill about in troubled gloom

As prayers do come to unknown halt.

With this, dear minds are spoilt in time,

Dreaming visions of such frightful death,

To search the scene for signs of breach,

Seeking so in waning breath.

Attend, what afar is promptly spied?

Once winsome cloud pulsates with deathly haste,

Stained a vile vermilion vein,

To exude leaden fumes (in foul distaste).

Heralds now do dash apace,

Urgency widespread so swift,

Highest order to proclaim aloud

The peril posed by inverse right.

They sanctify fermented ground,

But all to no avail,

Curdling clouds repel their ventured charms,

Straining their now weakened veil.

The fiendish dome does dilate so,

Bulging forth with monstrous force; to Heaven's virtue impede,

Quaking in discordant shrieks,

And ruptures. To overbrim, its loathsome contents freed.

Such horror! The sacred threshold is crossed anon,

Wry winged silhouettes surge ahead, do spew into view,

To circle wickedly above

And besmear this darling sky anew.

Rigid cobalt eyes impale,

The prospect that before them lies,

Their sullied gaze corruption spawns,

To set alight the angels nigh.

Alarm so stems, does escalate in grievous wails,

Throughout the realm a shrill bell peals:

A cacophony to forewarn all

As, in the ever-mounting heat, saintly ashen flesh congeals.

Scorching flames of lifeblood climb,

Charring those of the Lord's abode,

Angel's flail in suffering; such other-worldly anguish,

Seen to perish... soiled charcoal torsos about so sown.

The steely demons overhead do strike,

Storming downwards in grim tiding flows,

Barbed jagged limbs do claw at forms below,

Stilling their now jaded foes.

But for all this ruinous demise,

Few heedless angels stand aloft (in valour fierce),

To call in noble, richened key

"Come force, dear Lord; Malign shade pierce!"

Yet nil transpires to liberate the flock,

In truth their lives are jeopardised,

Such tumult does betray their place

Of hiding in anarchic skies.

The cold aggressors thus enclose,

Prowling forth in ghostly strides,

Judging their intrepid prey...

And draw nearer. To surely collide.

But scowling onwards without fright

Seraphs holds their so blessed site,

To glare fervently through honoured orps

And rebel against unearthly night.

"Your efforts are in vain," they utter so

True to faith, utterly austere,

"We trust the Lord without reserve,

He shall deliver us from fear."

Wheeling skywards, arms outstretched,

The central figure takes to air,

Surfacing unscathed from coral blaze

And does the Lord embrace with flair.

Eerie silence follows so,

Does enfold mack'rel sky entire

Until an epic strength is sensed

To fortify this wronged empire.

Fearsome thunderclaps resound,

Reverberating with exalted life,

To clamour so in ancient lore

And purge His children of this strife.

"Oh, Satan's flighted heartless beasts,

Hear me, I declare!

Forswear thus futile strike at once

And vacate this cherished plain

Or else be slain...

Dispute if though dare!"

Though this savage throng does not adhere

To the Father's thus pressing command

In bred contempt they do so sneer

At those erect my His right hand.

Gaunt frames themselves propel 'to air,

Airborne in feral swirls

To screech in hollow mortal cries

And bodily disdain unfurl.

Trumpets blare at once, in tune,

To make known demons' lives forfeit,

Announcing Heaven's vital deeds...

"You've made your choice, then so be it!"

A howling gale of blistered chill

Assails such sinful souls,

Lashing at the spectral horde

And fragment them in callous blows.

Splintered segments litter all,

To spiral earthwards in honed zephyr's wake,

Thus carried by God's potent breath

And expel such black shattered flakes.

The beasts are liquefied to naught,

Cast back from whence they came,

Hence cleansed are yonder boundless skies,

Dousing remnants of Hell's flames.

Saints arise from such nightmarish haze,

Gleaming as they do ascend,

Born afresh in silken self, so pure,

Thankful for sour bedlam's end.

Cloud-banks lighten in faith's growth,

Golden hues free nether gore,

Soft tender aura does return

To Heaven's majesty restore.

In the past, in the closet.

The vision of a freer, unalienated sexual world powerfully survives as an antidote and alternative to the restrictions and oppressions of the present. We have the chance to regain control of our bodies, to recognise their potentialities to the full, to take ourselves beyond the boundaries of sexuality as we know it. All we need is political commitment, imagination and vision. The future now, as ever, is in our hands.

- Jeffrey Weeks, Sexuality and its discontents (1985)

I always feel strangely upset reading accounts of closeted life, before society deemed it socially acceptable to be gay. The inherent hardship, the need for discretion, suppression, regression beneath your own skin.

Somewhere in the contents of my reading list for my latest essay I grabbed a few choice titles that was meant to shed a little light on the Gay Liberation Front, and instead it's thrown me back into decades of denial, despair and disappointment.

It's just strange for me. Granted, I'm not known for my objectivity when it comes to LGBT issues - I'm about as neutral as a vat of hydrochloric acid - but whenever I read about something so poignant, I'm always left with my heart on my sleeve and a tear on my cheek.

I wonder if I'd have had the courage to come out of the closet if I lived in different times - in a society where it's OK not to be the poste- boy for white heterosexual male supremacy. And before you get ahead of yourself, no. I wasn't always as queer as a bag of kittens. Once upon a time my most prominent quality was my intellect, not my neckline.

I personally see two possible outcomes, and given my propensity to immerse myself in the 'all or nothing' ethos', they're two VERY different scenarios...

1) I would have closed myself off from my sexuality entirely (I did it for 18 years, why not longer?) and dedicated my life to become an angry but occasionally brilliant journalist/teacher/lecturer with severe alcoholic tendencies. I'd have thrown myself into my work in much the same way as I did as a child (for example: I remember reading 72 books in Year 7 of school and continuing to edit my English GCSE coursework even when it had been given 100% - purely because I felt it wasn't quite... 'there' yet).

So, I would have been unhappy, but intellectually occupied.

or

2) I would have become a vocal gay rights activist, and probably have been brutally beaten by some narrow-minded predecessor to the 'chav' movement due to my size.

Anyway, before I suffocate under the weight of my own narcissism, I'll get to the point: I can imagine myself being part of that world, that underground realm of meeting in park toilets and leaving my wife and the baby for hours whilst 'working late'... and I can imagine how incomplete I'd feel.

I'm not saying being gay is who I am (uh-uh, gurrrrlfreyyynd!), but it is an intrinsic part of my identity. I can't begin to fathom the depths of my unhappiness in a world where every day was a constant battle to look and act 'normal'.

I have an immense respect for any gay or bisexual person who was unfortunate enough to exist in a society as intolerant as the past.

___________________________________________________

Recent articles I've written on LGBT issues for Bullet Magazine:

Gay blood ban creates "false economy"

Students petition against gay blood ban

It has been a pleasure to watch you grow up and develop such a talent for language. You have so many talents - you should have a richly rewarding life.

A short note of encouragement from my primary school teacher, Miss Jewsbury, to my 10 year-old self . She started it all. She made me realise I wasn’t worthless.

Thinly-veiled Vanity

I realised something today.

Something I haven’t been able to pin down for years.

Sitting on Hazel’s bed as her avatar journeyed around the pixelated realm of Fable III, she commented how strange it was how I like to watch people play videogames. And she’s right; I do enjoy it.Watching - never playing.

I like the sense of detachment, the inherent feeling of safety, somehow comforting, whilst still getting the ‘thrill’ of watching the plot develop. (I have a point, other than proving that I’m a loner, I swear.)

Now, I’m not a gamer by any measure. This isn’t the ’90s and any lingering dexterity that defined a childhood avidly clutching a PS1 controller and screaming at Tekken 3 has long since faded.

Well, apparently it’s unusual to enjoy simply watching, rather than playing games… I suppose the process is passive enough to begin with.

And Hazel’s casual comment just made something click, something that, to be perfectly honestly, I haven’t had a fucking clue about for years.

I’ve always wanted to be a journalist. Always. Kids on the playground would always entertain absurd fantasies about becoming a pilot or some other deluded bollocks, but I always found myself saying the same thing.

“I want to be a journalist.”

And you know what, I won’t lie; before university, I hadn’t the faintest idea what it involved. All my thoughts revolved around the feeling of seeing your name in print and that insufferable pride that surfaces as it stares back at you with a steely resolve. But I finally get it - it is more than just thinly-veiled vanity.

I always assumed that I was a ‘doer’ but I enjoy nothing more than watching things develop, from a controlled closeness. For once I actually believe my own UCAS statement.

I finally realise why I wanted, why I still want, to become a journalist. It’s that feeling - the strangely erotic thrill of forming a sentence, as though the words fall from your fingers like a line of semen running down your hand; the only visible, the only lasting remnants of the creative process.

And (now be honest) how many of you ever REALLY read the name of the writer sat atop an article? Exactly. That’s it. It’s the appeal of the enduring word-smith, the invisible author and the silent critic.

I finally remember why I want to spend my life typing away - because from the youngest age, words have been my closest and most valued friends.

__________________________________________

I know have a Tumblr too

Follow me at http://intrinsicideologies.tumblr.com/

Underfoot Fireworks

Ignoring the biting chill of the cold as my fingers lose all sensation and snot runs freely down my numb face, a part of me does love winter.

Partially because of the abrupt transformation from humid autumn nights to brutal, frosty mornings that make Lincoln look positively incandescent...

But mainly because I get to wear my long black mac without looking like a pervert who just got back from the park.

And, yes, as much as I detest the icy conditions and the fact that every movement is torture in my fake converse that have less grip than an OAP with acute arthritis, I love the feeling of fresh snow under the tread of my trainers.

That sound as it crunches underfoot - like a tiny firework sparking in and out of life at the human touch. God, I love that sound.

Mind you, it's only that one day I like. The first appearance of snow that renders all teenagers and children alike into mindless, crooning morons - that's it. The day after, when the entire world becomes a living homage to Total Wipeout pisses me off more than Jonathan on one of his utterly pointless rants which are more reliable than the fucking transport system, or when I see so called 'friends' who have NO concept of how to apply foundation. You know who you are.

Still, that first day, where the snow (and the innate fascination with anything new) is fresh and novel, fills me with a certain glee.

But that was Friday, and when you see me dragging myself out of my warm bed to battle the elements and arrive snotty-nosed and blue-faced for my law lecture later today, don't be surprised if my whimsical fascination with the snow has turned into white hot hatred for the cold.

Plus, the ice made my Hazel fall and cut her knee on her way back from the Vintage Fayre! You're dead to me, Winter. Cold, dead and unnecessarily stylish.

________________________________________