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The decadence of it all. I'm not writing today. I don't think I can. I woke up at midday with my ever-expanding hangover from Little One's flat-leaving party last night to watch the sunlight streak through my window. Summer's here, young and a little fragile, but you can't deny the scent in the air. Things are already happening. There's suddenly so much potential, all around, to live a fulfilling and happy life. I'm so excited! It's time to abandon pain, to just paint over scars and forget how much they itch. In the midst of death we are in life.
Wow. What a weekend. I'll miss Little One's Belgo's flat. Last night The Original Trio stayed out till 5am drinking, dancing and scoffing Moussakas before cuddling up in bed like The Three Bears. Like we
History, of course, is a seamless garment, cross-stitched with invisible thread. A song that reminded me of the end of one relationship and the beginning of another prompted the writing of an unsent letter, when a Very Important EmailÃƒâ€šÃ¢â€žÂ¢ arrived to the song 'Unsent'. The worst thing one can do in life is ignore its profoundly holistic opportunities, because they rarely come again.
Mahogony desk. Flowers - red and white tulips or white roses. Pot of fresh coffee veiling steam through the open bay windows, white linen curtains dancing in the summer breeze. Papers atop the desk, yellowed and scrawled through and through with deep black ink. A pocket watch open, not for its time, but as a fiddlething for naturally nervous hands. Postcards crowded onto the noticeboard like commuters on a Monday morning bus - ambassadors and well wishes from all over the world. Maybe even a tinkling piano in the next apartment. These foolish things remind me of where I want to be.
I need peace. I need to learn to meditate properly. Or have a cigarette. Or a joint. Or get drunk. Drunk drunk drunk. I'm right back where I started aren't I?
Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole.
The idealistic paint I daub you in won't stick. So why am I still here? Is it because you look so much like something I once thought I saw? I'm not calling you for my sake. Are you not calling me for your sake? Rant rant rant. Butterflies in my stomach. Anger? Love? Despair?
When at last it didn't ring, I knew it wasn't you.
Why don't people I'm attracted to find me attractive? Beautiful people only sleep with beautiful people. Does this mean I'm not? Am I really attracted to them? Did I just decide to be? Am I desperate to believe I'm still attractive, or worse, that I can still be attracted? What does it mean if I'm not truly attracted to anyone anymore, beautiful or otherwise? I never really thought about this before, just sort of glibly accepted it. If I'm not, then that's a huge part of my life, gone. He's right. I'm scarred. I'm so ugly with all these scars.
1) I've started drinking coffee again.
2) I make no excuses for smoking.
3) I don't talk to god enough. At all.
4) It's been ages since I did my Tarot.
5) I want to make big changes.
6) I need Little One.
7) Little One does not need me.
8) I want a cat.
9) A black one ideally.
10) Whatever happened to Italian?
11) Whatever happened to Vancouver?
12) What the hell happened to all my money?
13) I have too short a fuse.
14) I'm bored of Japanese food.
15) I didn't miss out 4 this time.
I must be on heat. Work's becoming sexy. I keep staring at the auditor whenever he passes. I like his nose, his grin, the way he talks when he's nervous, or rubs his eyes when he's pretending he's not still hungover. And then there's the boy who delivered our letterheads. The one who made me doubletake. Not just gorgeous but friendly. In my punchdrunk-by-prettiness state I chose to think of this as flirtation. If others weren't around I'd probably have summoned the courage to offer him a coffee. But no. "Have a good weekend," he beamed, and that was that.
I can't remember the last time I saw Saturday so early. A secret freshness clung to the world, absent of people, bringing out the quiet scent of trees, clouds and pavement. I walked home in last night's clothes to finish a report for work, stocking up on extra holiday like some kind of proof-reading squirrel. I've felt oddly alone since. I'm not sure where my life's going. Even yesterday I felt I had a place that I could somehow sense with my eyes closed. But today, again, I feel estranged. It must be the coat. I need a new coat.
A time for letters. Janatan and Romana both wrote to me recently, and today I got an email from Peake. I've missed Peake. Like Mr B he writes beautifully, yet unknowingly, someone who could describe a cheese sandwich as a perfect yet seemingly effortless life metaphor. Most people just vex me. They can be very transparent; so boring or disappointing. Such people who exasperate me so I doubt write many letters. Fill a tiny cup and that cup is full. Cups don't get arrogant when their capacity is reached. Why do people? Write a letter to someone. It drains arrogance.
In office early in case report spent all
weekend on didn't format properly.
Discover report hasn't formatted
Explain to boss why I'm still working
Finish report. Again.
Devise intricate method of torturing
Bill Gates for his two bit software that
reformats documents for printing
Stop crying. Again.
Abandon all hope of finishing report.
Doodle on arm with red biro. Wonder
how many pens needed to cover all of
self in red ink.
Make banana and Emmental cheese
I was halfway through the bottle when you appeared. I felt nothing, and that didn't feel bad. You're caked in your own filth, not who you where. It sickens me a little, frankly. Were you always like this, and I too childish to see? I've always gone for courtisans, always waded through the muck looking for purity, never realising the mud I saw sparkling in the sunlight was still mud. I spilt wine and it stained. By bedtime, the wet white towel had soaked it from the carpet like a bloody bandage, leaving no trace nor scar on its fibres.
Get out of my head. Festering wound. Why are you there? Why are you still there? What do you want? What more can you take? What lesson have I not learned? Why this fixation? Why this constant merciless relentless torture? Why is it that pain's the only thing that feels real now? Why could I never trust happiness again? I made your legacy pain, not love. What do you want from me? How many more times can I say that I miss you? Please, please, leave me in peace. In the midst of so much life, I remain in death.
His emails have rescinded to mere brief apologies, weeks apart. This always happens. The light that burns twice as bright burns half as long. Last night I had a very frank conversation with mother, particularly regarding the people we miss, and how we're expected to carry on. I realise I'm very different to most people. No, not better. I said
I think this is why I feel so lonely. What purpose did it serve either of us to lose those we talked to so freely, with so few words? People are always disappointing. If they're not disappearing, they're dying.
Was that all it was? All those dreams, nightmares and wide-eyed waking thoughts? All for that brief non-encounter? All for something that didn't even happen? Now, why does that sound familiar? And then there was the moon, a pure white full stop splitting the emptiness in half, or a blob of Tippex, blotting out the past. Maybe even a brilliant white smear of bird-poo from the dove of peace. You can change. You can grow. You don't need to stand still in the bustling crowds, always waiting for something you know will never happen, someone you know will never come.
This skeleton exhausts me. Sometimes the femur isn't right, sometimes the tibia is too long or the clavicle is too wide. Some of the bones, both tiny and great, don't even have names yet. Elsewhere, muscle has already started to swaddle joints now firmly set. Sinew and tendons creep across bare bone, meshing together into flesh and skin. One lifeless eye gazes out from its cold socket, unmoving as yet and entirely self unaware. This body is taking form. Soon blood will sluice into the avenues and pathways I've made, and my creation will live.
Yes, I do like metaphors.
It's important to have a view. It's important to have something to look at, an image to lose yourself in, something that draws you out of yourself and your life - its complex or simple frustrations, to let you breath air unpolluted by your own neuroses. Something in the distance to aspire to, wondering what's around that valley or a town's orange glow from behind the top of the mountain. Somewhere where your soul can sit and regard the lilies. Sometimes coffee or wine and a cigarette are the only companions you need to sit and look at a view.
Brandy makes my hands shake. At least the amount my dad and I drank last night did. Cigars make my lungs feel as if they've been frotted by a cheese grater. At least the two I smoked did, including the one I accidentally inhaled through habit. I like the hangover pain. I know, I'm odd, just like how I like hospitals, don't fear vomiting and don't like eating from the same fork as someone else. But I like the queasiness and pounding headache of a hangover. It's a direct debit for last night. It's a friendly reminder you're still alive.
I'm fasting, haven't decided why yet. I'll try lasting till payday without eating any solid food. I do have food at home, but this is largely financially motivated. And for the hell of it. Yes, no solid food. Just green tea and miso soup. Till payday. Yes...
Oh who am I kidding? I'm thinking about roast lamb even now. No, I'm not. I'm
over rosemary and garlic stuffed into tender flesh, oozing juices. I can even smell the meat crisping, rich fat seeping, drip-drip-dripping into thick buttery pools.
Just bought crisps.
What? The average day here has me
What on Earth does that mean?
I'm going to
You're an ass.
I hope I don't make you soil yourself.
Wouldn't it be nice to
who never had their heart broken?
Everything's just... BLUHR.
I can get lost in my head sometimes.
He's a bit of a plonker sometimes, but I'm quite jealous of him.
Yes, like fabric softener.
Not many people
would carry on a
a homeless man.
, that would probably look downright offensive.
Not only have I been paid today but I've finally been given a credit card. But money and security comes at a price. I still can't write. I'm mentally exhausted. Even writing this is an effort. I burnt myself out recently and need to let my mind rest, to bathe it and treat it to a proverbial five star meal at a restaurant of its choice to recover. Days alternate between being dizzy with ideas and parched of free thought. The biggest frustration is that you can't force ideas, because there is so little time to let them come naturally.
I spent all day spending money: new pants and shoes, turning into a late twenty-something homosexual. I want to have youth's trappings about me. I want to spend money on myself again. I want to feel attractive. The full stop of the full moon released me from a long dark patch, myself half lit by pure white light in the dim reflection of that busy train. Just me, against the darkness. I want to take a pinch of the beauty I've collected from the world and powder myself in it for a while, like the sensualistic airheads of my tribe.
My compassion seems to be coming back, the deep empathy I'd always possessed since childhood and yet thought I'd lost forever. I've been pondering my quick and violent temper, reading up on the longterm effects of fluoxetine, and talking much to friends about people who bumble, who never consider others. My friends are people I can't predict, people who surprise me, whether it's with their tireless generosity, compassion or thought for others, or their insight. I don't collect cud-chewing cattle. Old friends are still returning. Everyone seems to be going back to their origins as these endless days grow shorter.
Walking through the fresh rain-scented park. Pub. Beer. A manic debate on Life's purpose. A flurry of agreement on God's nature and the universe, exchanging attitudes to life and its end without clumsy mawkish human baggage. More beer. A discussion of love: what it is, where it comes from and why it's overwhelming. More beer. Silence as we realise we're beyond such bliss now. More beer. A happy moment as we see the greater picture. I guess your heroes, you guess mine. Home, drunk, roasting chicken and potatoes just before midnight. Rioja. It tasted great. The whole weekend tasted great.
I hate my job. I hate, my job. I. Hate. My. Job. I hate. My job. Ihatemyjob. My job: my, I hate my job. I hate job. I.H.A.T.E.M.Y.J.O.B. I hate=my job. I hate ijob. Job=my Hate. I? I hate my job.
I don't know how you did it. Drink beer, drive cars, watch TV without colour or laughter... but always
go to work.
That's what adults did. Even when I understood what you did there, I still sort of dismissed it. It was "work."
How did you do it, father? Forty
I've only done two and I'm cracking up.
Meetings. I hate meetings. Lugging boxes. I hate lugging boxes. Friends who don't answer phonecalls. I hate it when friends don't answer phonecalls. Sexy conference organisers with blue eyes and good teeth. I love sexy conference organisers with blue eyes and good teeth. Helping out friends. I love helping out friends. Japanese beer. I love Japanese beer. Old men who sit too close, scowling at you both while you cackle, smoke and talk loudly about things perhaps best discussed quietly. Well, I'm not so mad on that. An all-you-can-eat Chinese vegetarian buffet for Ãƒâ€šÃ‚Â£6. Christ. My stomach. It still hurts.
Where's this venom coming from? This intolerance, impatience, this vile bitter hatred of anyone that frustrates me? From where's this seething Fury screeched? Is this the real me, wicked, rarely interested in other's problems, impatient with their progression to understanding? I'm becoming fascist, I must be. Sometimes I think the weak must perish simply because they don't try to not be weak. I know these are not my words, but what else could they be? A tumour? A demon? A misfiring synapse? Or is this really me: the me I'm becoming, the hardened solitary pragmatist who'll survive the coming storm?
A dead mouse lay discarded like rubbish for someone else to remove. I wondered how it died. Suddenly I remembered the crying homeless girl I saw last night, everyone staring because she wasn't going to stare back. I touched her hand and gave her some money. She took it silently, still crying, holding another coin, perhaps also handed to her silently, without a touch or word. I felt awkward, powerless, stupid even and selfish. It would've cost nothing to ask, but all I offered was a dirty coin. We all just walked past something for someone else to deal with.
I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today. I have nothing interesting to say today.
I can feel my brain thickening from the boredom.
I should be writing, but been talking to boys all day. I can't write right now. My brain's thick and stodgy. I'm forgetting things. It was Heenie's birthday yesterday. I forgot. It's Jess's birthday today too. Or was it on Thursday? I can't remember. Maybe excessive alcohol consumption
addle one's brain, as my boss chastised me for recently. That caused quite a rush of anger, I can tell you. Anger and forgetfulness, I must be an alcoholic. I hate going to work but don't want to go home afterwards either, so I often just go straight to a pub.
There are fewer more laudable pleasures in life than making a mix-tape (cd) for friends. Every one should be as unique as that friendship, each track a pinch of sugar or salt giving a taste of something greater overall. Odd how I always use music or cooking as metaphors for writing, particularly novels. Each and every scene's a carefully considered individual piece, pretty and ornate in itself but part of the overall whole, a scent that adds to a taste or a touch that creates the sense in my mind of meaning there. Shame I don't bloody well write anymore.
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