sleeping off the last five years takes another five.

mic says:
 i feel the need, after a few drinks, to explain my affinity for yellow axes...
 in 1999, when I set sail for the USA for the first time....
 I was given a work visa by a geological company
 who took me on a field trip from Oklahoma to Arkansas
 (such romance)
 and in Arkansas I had to dig a trench
 with a pick axe
 when I first started, I was so clueless that it made everyone laugh
 the pick axe was yellow and was named 'old yeller'
 it was later hung as a trophy in the garage of the owner of the company

The homely smell of cooking from the kitchen is often nothing more than the smell of burning flesh, somewhat seasoned. That, of course, is not just a metaphor. The truth often lies just below the surface. I vomit into my mouth and spit it out, then walk into the night to see the moon cast a mourning tear. Its light guides me sufficiently over the earth and reminds me of an excitement I felt before I had to relinquish youth and love. The silhouette cast upon the glistening grass is a parody of my existence… my social status. Silent, solitary and in search of something I no longer even realise that I am searching for. I start to feel sorry for being a bad friend… to everyone. I feel pity for myself for not being good enough for the one I love. Back inside I can’t discard the card that you gave to me containing words which made me feel almost human again. My mind refracts a single thought like a complex prism taking one white thought and creating a billion colourful ones… but the colours are dark and disturbing, like a billion tiny shards of shattered glass, and each tiny piece germinates to form a question… a question of self-doubt. Thus, I no longer care to venture out into this bohemian tragedy of a world where humans devolve a little more each day. We hunt and conquer, we humiliate for power, success and sex. And so I read a book that simultaneously saves my life and destroys a little bit of me. Stories, throughout time, record pain, the same pain, the same longing. The physically weak attempting to convince themselves that the pen is mightier than the sword. Those who live in the mind, those of intellectual pursuits, will always be social victims. Social joy is reserved for the young, beautiful and wealthy. And so I delve into delicious memories of eyes I have kissed in the night and then become pale with pain as I realise this shall never happen again, It’s too rare and too beautiful.

Tomorrow morning I leave to go to work... and from work I go to the airport to fly to South Africa. I will be there for just over two weeks.

Thank you and goodnight.

In just over two weeks I go to South Africa. As well as enjoy the ocean, I think I am going to be a whore.

 

An evening spent writing… thousands of words in and I realise that the narrative is wrong. Writing in the third person doesn’t work for this particular story, it has to be in the first person. Where do I begin? The task of changing an entire narrative is a daunting one. So the story must be saved and re-written (never deleted and re-written – there is nothing worse than re-writing only to discover that the original draft was better than the final one).

It has positives and negatives, but the modern world, much like that of the fin de siècle, is obsessed with degeneration, decline, despair, isolation, loneliness, fear and emptiness… and this usually describes my writing relatively well. Coming to terms with death (physical and metaphysical) within a world of urban decay is a surprisingly appealing subject at the end of the new millennium’s first decade.  

                However, the heat of the clammy night stifles the creative juices and results in a desert-like dryness of the mind. Motorcycles fly by and cars rush to their destinations… it is 9:30pm of a Sunday night, is the world designed to torment? Teenagers drive their scooters in perpetual circles in desolate superstore car parks and this symbolises modern England. As a nation we cannot sleep, for there is too much noise. But it matters not, none of us work, unemployment rates are high and increasing. Economic cycles, as worthless as the teenage scooters, repeat predictably but become worse with each cycle because our idea of escaping economic downturn is to charge more for all products.
Yes, modern man truly is an idiot.   

Blooming black flower wine.
Slashed arms and new cut smiles.
Taller for the falling down.
Stronger now without you around.
The prophecies were realized when we gave them proper time.
All truths come to light after lies have had their night.
And it's hard without you,
but it's harder not to doubt you when you're so polite.
I'm too uptight.
You've grown more beautiful since you took off.
What can I do?
I'm in love with you and it won't stop.
You're the one I want.
Cookie crumbs and alcohol.
Crooked hands, the band's on hold
'cause your shoulders make me old and your concerns...
they leave me cold.
And it's hard to leave you, but it's harder to believe you.
Harder to believe you when you smile crooked style.
You've grown more beautiful since you took off.
What can I do?
I'm in love with you and I can't stop.
What's best for everyone is bound to hurt somebody.
What's best for everyone is killing me.
Let me down. Set me down. Let me down easy.
Blood crushed from a clock.
I'm in love but we just talk and your teeth make me weak
and you're keeping them from me.

You're the one I want - Jets to Brazil.

Park the car at the side of the road
You should know
Time's tide will smother you
And I will too
When you laugh about people who feel so
Very lonely
Their only desire is to die
Well, I'm afraid
It doesn't make me smile
I wish I could laugh

 

( Read more... )

The road tonight is cold with ice and no cars pass by.
Thank god for no phone calls
Just snow and a fire.
December endings and since you sent me things, I just feel further north.
This year took ten years to tell me that I'm alone again.
Everything here's about to break.
I'm one inch from all that I can take,
And it's beautiful and sad, but it's all that I have.
So tonight, let's stay inside.
I'll be the husband with a book for a bride.
Tonight, let's stay inside.
I could play guitar.
I've got so many songs that you never heard,
And they weren't about you.
I won't change a word just because you're gone.
The trees creak with arthritic arms.
Brittle in their powdered bark.
Blue moon light, I can't cry right, but I miss you tonight.
Everything here's about to break.
I'm one inch from more than I can take,
And it's beautiful and sad, but it's all that I have.
So tonight, I'll stay inside.
There are things that I'd like to try with you, but I stay inside.
Tonight, I'll stay inside.
I could play guitar.

Further North - Jets to Brazil

It was another one of those afternoons upon which we started to drink early. I opened my first drink at approximately 2pm, knowing that the concert we were going to watch was only to begin at 9:40pm. Never the less, it was punk rock…. And the sun was shining, it seemed essential that drinks be had to celebrate life and the occasion. Colin arrived shortly after 3pm and, of course, we continued to drink steadily. We eventually caught the train into central London – I felt terribly guilty because our friend, Craig, has been in London most of the afternoon and was expecting us to arrive around 4pm, we hadn’t even left the house at 4pm. Once we reached London, whilst travelling on the underground tube to Shepherd’s Bush, Colin came up with the idea of ‘drunk-driver’s licenses’ which should be obtainable based on a test of driving competence whilst under the influence of alcohol. I thought that it was a brilliant idea and thought that it could potentially make for a great PhD thesis, considering the abstract thesis titles I had heard the day before at my graduation ceremony at the Barbican Centre. The graduation ceremony followed by the NOFX concert certainly made for a diverse and interesting weekend.

                Upon arrival in Shepherds Bush, we discovered that Craig was sitting forlornly in the centre of a gloomy and scruffy park just outside of the Shepherd’s Bush Empire, where the concert was taking place. We walked towards him amidst drunken, excited revellers who were energised by the fact that they were out in the open, drinking, awaiting a show from one of America’s biggest punk bands. It brought back the old idea of ‘The New Punk Manifesto’, which I have promised to one day write, a manifesto which shall attempt to dispel, once and for all, the idea that, to be punk, one has to drop out of school, take drugs and act idiotically in public. We stood in a lengthy queue so that Colin could withdraw some cash, all the while stupefied by the sights we were witness to. A man in a red Hawaii shirt and red camouflage trousers walked past; people were exchanging money for drugs; others were drinking on the pavement; some were trying to sell tickets for the concert. We walked into an Australian bar called ‘Outback’, next door to the Empire, for a few drinks prior to the concert. Walking through the door was like stepping through a portal which transported all those unfortunate enough to cross its threshold back into the 1980s. Inside, the bar was filled with Afrikaans people watching rugby on the televisions and such clothing as that adorned by them has not been seen or worn in public since 1989 at the very latest – the place was a sea of vests and three-quarter, tight, jeans. Events in the rugby game sent excited viewers propelling towards the TV screens at a ferocious velocity, shouting in Afrikaans. One of these selectively interested fans had a pair of Oakley sunglasses on the back of his head, upside down, even though the pub was enveloped in darkness.

                A few Heinekens and Jager-Bombs later, we set off for the Empire to watch ‘Snuff’ prior to the arrival of NOFX. Craig and I were not particularly interested in watching Snuff but Colin was quite keen for some reason. They turned out to be relatively interesting because the drummer was their vocalist and I had never seen a band do that live before. However, I spent the majority of their set standing in a queue to get to the bar. In the queue I made friends with a Frenchman who had come over to England just to see NOFX - as you can imagine, he was less than impressed with the queue. He eventually threw his money on the counter in front of me and ran off to watch the rest of the show, leaving me behind to hand over the money… he did apologise and say that it is ‘the French way.’ There were two German women in the queue in front of me, both exceptionally beautiful. One of them turned around a number of times to look at me, smiling each time. I started to feel nervous. When the beers she had ordered were placed before her, she lifted one up and sniffed at it as if to check its quality through the sense of smell.

                ‘Does it smell okay?’ I asked.

                ‘Yes’ she replied with a giggle.

That was the extent of our conversation. I saw her a few moments later hugging and holding hands with her boyfriend.

                After the NOFX show, we walked back to the tube station and, in the station, spotted a man wearing a Suicidal Tendencies cap. I was amazed by this because, back in high school, my friends and I had been fans of Suicidal Tendencies and I had been obsessed with the idea of obtaining one of these caps. Eventually, admitting defeat to the impossibility of finding one, I opted to make my own by taking a cap and using tipex to write ‘SUICIDAL’ under the peak. When we boarded the tube, this Suicidal fan asked me if I had just seen the show. I told him that I loved his hat and he immediately produced a Heineken – which I handed to Colin in the knowledge that it is strictly illegal to drink on the underground now and knowing that Colin would not care, he opened it and started to drink it immediately.

                ‘Suicidal Tendencies are playing here in June’ said the suicidal army member’s girlfriend.

                ‘I’M NOT CRAZY’ was the lyric that Suicidal guy suddenly shouted

‘YOU’RE THE ONE THAT’S CRAZY’ I followed him by singing the next line of the infamous song.

Then came our stop, Oxford Circus, and we departed the tube with appreciative handshakes.

 

At 2am, after a walk through Guildford – a Guildford alive with drunken youth and police in pursuit – we ate some shameful food and went home to sleep.

 

 

In my dream I had just become the new vocalist for No Use For a Name, after Tony Sly had suddenly left. Don’t ask me how. The first live show was that weekend and it was Wednesday… the opening song was to be Apparition. Somehow I thought that I just had to make sure I knew the lyrics to this song. It was a fierce panic as I asked the band to play only old material and they, obviously, declined.

Then, as per usual, it descended into chaos. Apocalyptic nymphs entwined in disorderly forms intending mass-destruction, starting by tearing out the very heart of man. Scientific creations of nightmarish proportions reigned down fire and fury upon the homes and cities across the globe and Sainsburys in Guildford was ransacked by desperate, and rich, shoppers fearing that the store may close for a day or two (or that could have just been any given Saturday).

The concert never arrived because I ascended back into the physical world feeling a sense of relief that Armageddon was upon us and that the acid rain had washed away the nymphs. Then I realised it was nothing more than Artemis pressing heavily against my chest and demanding attention. Demeter, like a faithful and silent servant lay at the corner of the bed, awaiting my regaining of consciousness, whilst fighting off potential invaders.

Suddenly she appeared like a summer flower blossoming unexpectedly in a dead, winter garden; a flower seemingly indigenous to a more beautiful part of the world. Or, perhaps, one that is blossoming in the wrong season. So surprised was I to find this summer flower of exquisite beauty thriving in this wintry garden that I snatched it up from the earth and held it close to my breast like the last thing that I could ever hope, or ever want, to hold.
However, an uprooted flower has no hope of flourishing in a foreign environment and had to eventually be returned to the warmer pastures of its own genotype – the garden of winter left behind to wither in its freezing solitude and desolation. For desolation is not beautiful but essential. A once fertile forest lies barren and broken. Leaves fall like tears from the trees of sorrow until the cracked and frozen earth is no longer capable of feeling.
One day, once more, the sun shall shine and break through this ice… but the ages come and go.

 

If writing unlocks the mind and the heart, it can also destroy the very foundations upon which our lives are based. I wonder, if one has a partner, can it ever be safe to write openly about one’s thoughts, feelings, dislikes, desires, loves? It’s just a thought, an open question. Are you completely free from thoughts and actions which would be harmful to your beloved?

It amazes me how much beauty and pain there is in harmony in the world. There are wonderful, kind and caring people… and there is such suffering too. At the age of ten years old, I thought that the world was full of happiness and joy; if you got sick there was a caring person to remedy you; if you felt sad, your family and friends were there to cheer you; if you wanted to work as a fireman, you simply walked along to the local village’s fire station and you joined them. At the age of 25, I thought that travel was the solution to all the restlessness in the world; I thought that it would offer the answers to all questions in life. All travel has done is separate me from family and, due to the waves caused by motions in family drama, has caused a great deal of guilt, sorrow, pain and loneliness. And, yet, it has shaped me and taught me and strengthened me.

Life is a bitter-sweet concoction of joy and suffering; the only problem is that any form of joy is usually dulled by pain shortly before or shortly afterwards. It sickens me to see everyone grow old. It sickens me to grow old. It saddens me to see people become ill and die… and to see the pain that that causes.

O Michael, O gentleman of joy

Trudging through fog, a fog in the mind, and my clock is 49 minutes slow as I head to the slaughterhouse. Then out of the Abattoir and into the fire. It’s all brimstone and stupidity, there is no originality. Propelled through the day with the engine light on, a faulty human system, towards a reunion with those by whom I felt no longer wanted. Scratch beneath the surface and find a few layers of disinterest bordering on dislike… this is just human beings… we generally don’t like each other very much. Never the less, it is good to see those who are very close friends and always shall be, those very few who truly care.                    
The week is long and difficult, but on Saturday morning I am greeted by an audience of bills… they are scattered all over the floor awaiting my grand entrance. They’ve been late in arriving but they expect instant fulfilment. The cats yawn, ignorant of the struggles of daily life, a scratch of the head and all is well in their purring world of food and sleep. The sunshine waits until I am safely back inside before bursting through the rain clouds to begin the drying process, the driving rain lost its ambition once I was under cover. The sunshine can’t see the debris inside of the home, inside of the mind, the mess of unkind years unravelling within like a catastrophic play performed behind a closed curtain during which there is crowd violence caused by sheer disappointment. The script writers have lost their humour, they write only tragedy now. It is the age of tragedy. It is the final age.

It was good to talk to you again. It made me laugh when we spoke of ‘your Henry’. Two anti-social hermits relating across continents via the medium of online chat. We are of different generations, different cultures, different nationalities but we share a love of all things Henry Miller and Jawbreaker.  The conversation actually exhumed me from the murky depths of despondency. I had committed to an alcohol-free Saturday and, after deep reflection, I was feeling quite lonely. It is the first time in a long time that I have felt that way – alcohol or not. Speaking of alcohol, I think that it is giving me terrible nightmares. The dreams that I have lately are bad always but when I have consumed alcohol, they are nightmarish of Elm street proportions. Last night I dreamt that I was sleeping in the street; literally in the street where the cars were driving by… then I got into my car to try to drive away from it all only to be hit by another car from behind.

My dreams seem to represent the chaos in my life at present. My dreams are naught but chaos; chaos ranging from war to murder to vicious accusations to homelessness to car wreckage. My life is a geographical, financial, emotional wreck. 

Initially we drifted south from the north… we actually crossed hemispheres and traded the January snow and ice for January sun of a violent disposition. Even the wind of the southern hemisphere was heated and seemed almost to launch an attack upon our British skins as we descended the steps of the aeroplane and placed our ill-prepared feet onto the melting tarmac of the runway. As we exited the airport I could feel the muscles throughout my body relaxing, my lungs felt as if they were expanding to allow an increased capacity for breathing… suddenly there was space and warmth and peace and calm. Just under two decades later I made the reverse trip and set off in search of perpetual winter. This time I did something that no members of my family had previously done – once I was in the Northern Hemisphere, back in Britain – I ventured West, across the Atlantic Ocean, and set foot on American soil. Once more (and even more powerfully) I felt the freedom which comes with overwhelming space and warmth. It’s a cliché but America, and everything in America, is so spacious and large. It is a country designed with convenience in mind (although I realised later, as I commuted through the slums of Chicago, that this privilege is not extended to all). Ultimately, I think that the only way I could be completely satisfied with where I live would be to split the year into three periods – one spent in England, one spent in South Africa and one spent in North America. I am happy to be living in England but I do miss space and warmth. I miss wearing shorts and flip flops. I miss being able to shop without having to stand in a queue for ten minutes.

I find it somewhat astonishing that, at the end of the first decade of the twenty first century, people still hold their faith in a God so dearly. Have we not progressed beyond that? Effectively, it is the equivalent of me praying to Darth Vader and being absolutely convinced that Star Wars is a physical reality. Countries such as America and England actually base their national anthem on religious dogma and the American government still holds God above man, law and science. Fortunately, their legal system is mostly above religion but I would bet that many Christian ideals cloud the judgement of many lawyers and judges. ‘You are hereby sentenced to death for violating the law of Darth Vader, the dark father of our dark empire who art above and below.’
                   I grew up with people who took more drugs than I have had meals, they screwed around with more women/men than I have physically spoken to, and now they write slogans such as ‘God is Great and Great is God’ in their facebook status windows. It makes me want to laugh and vomit at the same time. I have reached a point (call it narrow mindedness if you will) where I simply cannot read Christian literature (or literature written by Christians) nor can I listen to music made by Christians… it simply deals too much with unempirical notions rather than facts and often results in an attitude of ‘what can I do to save or change the world? I will leave it in the hands of god and all will be well in the end.’ Ironic considering that these are the people most likely to want to have children. What about the future on Earth for your children? God will collect all of you and give you a luxury mansion in heaven? Yes, and Darth Vader is going to give me a massive and powerful Light Sabre when I reach the Death Star of eternal rest. I used to be tolerant, but I am not any more. You try to force your belief on all people but you’re wrong.