Ah, but you know what? This could be the perfect job for me because – there are busy times, and times when I do interesting things, but there also seem to be plenty of times – and I’m talking hours - when there’s nothing to do, and no-one around to give me anything to do, and no possibility of me finding anything to do. Do-be-do – and then it’s twiddle-your-thumbs time.
Or, as it is these days, surf-the-net...
But, of course, I’m supposed to be writing a book – so I have four days off (two in the week; no girlfriend) and then all these hours here to fine tune and fiddle and…it all reminds me of reading of some author who actually did all her writing at work and never really got anything else done, I suppose. But God bless the public sector for that! Lord knows, there’s no better place for getting away with being paid to do absolutely nothing!
Thursday 27 April 2006
Tuesday 25 April 2006
Fifteen
Expunge. Right click. Stream of consciousness. Keep doing this till you reach the end – then you’ll feel better. Than you can go on. Until the next time. Click. Stream of consciousness, right anchor, click. Keep doing this until you feel better. Expunge. Click.
This morning I woke up singing – later, singing – Celine Dion: “When you touch me like this/and I hold like that/I can barely recall/but it’s all coming back to me/There were nights of endless pleasure/It was more than any love could stand.” I don’t know if they’re the right lyrics – click – but they’ll do. Signs? Wonders? Expunge? Click.
There were nights of endless pleasure – click –but was it more than any love could stand? God, this screen is bright. I just ate custard; usually that hurts my brain. Sugar. Sugar hurts my brain – but I eat lots of it. Chocolate – almost every day. Large amounts. Beyond sickness. Not good for you – don’t care (click). It was more than any love could stand.
We get up – I get knocked down, then I get up again…no, you’re never gonna keep me down. Down. A little down today. But why? Sex? Sex sucks. Boring, crap at it, been there done that, borne the t-shirt. Next! Gossip, talk, I’m not who I once was. I’ve changed a lot; what am I doing here? Maybe I…
I think back often, to when I lived in Wakefield, to just before I stopped being so spaced – to people asking me, “do you go to Bretton [nearby college/university]?” – to me meeting a recent creative writing graduate from there – wondering…where these signs? One year later I’m swept into uni; two years later I’ve transferred to creative writing, and it feels like I’m doing what I should have been doing all along – but did I mess my chance? Did I throw my timing all of the loop? If so, then what am I doing here? I should have been finished with this two years ago; I should never have heard of Canterbury. I feel no attachment to this place – I could leave tomorrow and think nothing more of it. There’s nothing much here for me, even if I like it all the same. I felt more for Guelph.
I’m lost, I’m lost. I know not what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be here; I’m not who I was; I’m not sure where I’m going. I can’t be bothered with anything – I thought I’d do a PGCE, but that doesn’t seem like the way; I thought I’d write a book – I’m rubbish at that, at getting it done. People said, “oh, you should write a book” – but why? Writing a book is hard – and I’ve got nothing to say. Now I’m cursed, now I’ve got this millstone around my neck, that won’t ever leave me alone, snapping at my heels, stalking me like a tentacle of doom, like: the Count de Monty Crisco (yes, that was an intentionally bad sentence). It won’t let me go; it’ll either happen, and lead to nothing (or something) or it won’t happen and I’ll be doomed to knowing that I never did it, never did what I said I would, what I dreamed of, that I was…the ultimate failure. Talking and talking and talking the talk – but refusing to make the effort to even put my shoes on. Oh, bugger! Oh, drat! Oh zut alors mein Fuhrer! Donner und blitzen! Raisin crackers and biscuit butties on toast in a nutshell down the side of the bin last Friday!
You see? You see? I’m smiling now. Curse this life and its ups and downs! Curse the ups that invariably follow the downs! Curse the never-ending wheel of dharma karma justice life and death blood cycle love danger voodoo magic lust!
I’m going. Bye Bye.
This morning I woke up singing – later, singing – Celine Dion: “When you touch me like this/and I hold like that/I can barely recall/but it’s all coming back to me/There were nights of endless pleasure/It was more than any love could stand.” I don’t know if they’re the right lyrics – click – but they’ll do. Signs? Wonders? Expunge? Click.
There were nights of endless pleasure – click –but was it more than any love could stand? God, this screen is bright. I just ate custard; usually that hurts my brain. Sugar. Sugar hurts my brain – but I eat lots of it. Chocolate – almost every day. Large amounts. Beyond sickness. Not good for you – don’t care (click). It was more than any love could stand.
We get up – I get knocked down, then I get up again…no, you’re never gonna keep me down. Down. A little down today. But why? Sex? Sex sucks. Boring, crap at it, been there done that, borne the t-shirt. Next! Gossip, talk, I’m not who I once was. I’ve changed a lot; what am I doing here? Maybe I…
I think back often, to when I lived in Wakefield, to just before I stopped being so spaced – to people asking me, “do you go to Bretton [nearby college/university]?” – to me meeting a recent creative writing graduate from there – wondering…where these signs? One year later I’m swept into uni; two years later I’ve transferred to creative writing, and it feels like I’m doing what I should have been doing all along – but did I mess my chance? Did I throw my timing all of the loop? If so, then what am I doing here? I should have been finished with this two years ago; I should never have heard of Canterbury. I feel no attachment to this place – I could leave tomorrow and think nothing more of it. There’s nothing much here for me, even if I like it all the same. I felt more for Guelph.
I’m lost, I’m lost. I know not what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be here; I’m not who I was; I’m not sure where I’m going. I can’t be bothered with anything – I thought I’d do a PGCE, but that doesn’t seem like the way; I thought I’d write a book – I’m rubbish at that, at getting it done. People said, “oh, you should write a book” – but why? Writing a book is hard – and I’ve got nothing to say. Now I’m cursed, now I’ve got this millstone around my neck, that won’t ever leave me alone, snapping at my heels, stalking me like a tentacle of doom, like: the Count de Monty Crisco (yes, that was an intentionally bad sentence). It won’t let me go; it’ll either happen, and lead to nothing (or something) or it won’t happen and I’ll be doomed to knowing that I never did it, never did what I said I would, what I dreamed of, that I was…the ultimate failure. Talking and talking and talking the talk – but refusing to make the effort to even put my shoes on. Oh, bugger! Oh, drat! Oh zut alors mein Fuhrer! Donner und blitzen! Raisin crackers and biscuit butties on toast in a nutshell down the side of the bin last Friday!
You see? You see? I’m smiling now. Curse this life and its ups and downs! Curse the ups that invariably follow the downs! Curse the never-ending wheel of dharma karma justice life and death blood cycle love danger voodoo magic lust!
I’m going. Bye Bye.
Wednesday 19 April 2006
Fourteen
Well here I am in my new, altogether strange job. Got it through a mate at … and he’s the one that’s supposed to be giving me things to do. Except, the thing is, I haven’t seen him for two days, and haven’t a clue where he is. I’ve done everything I can think of to do, and now I’m stuck, sitting in a mostly deserted office, with time on my hands and a computer on which I could keep them occupied. It would be the perfect writing environment – apart from the sense that I’ve always got one eye looking over my left shoulder just in case someone should appear…
But writing: well, that’s been a bit of a no-go this last month, since I got embroiled in essays and then finding-a-job (spurred by oh-my-I’ve-got-debt). It’s kinda sliding away again – but, as ever, I’m hopeful that it’ll come back. I guess I’m not really in any kind of rush – and what I’ve come to realise is, I’m not one of these people that have a burning desire to write, to get something out of me, and to express. Even in my songs, which I went hardcore for a couple of years ago, there’s nothing new, nothing waiting to be said. I just feel like I’ve done with it all, made my peace with the world and myself; I just feel like everything’s okay, and if I ever need to say something, it doesn’t have to be in a song, or a journal (or a blog, as I’m begrudgingly realising that’s what this is, like the guy who’s finally given up trying to call Marathon Snickers), I can say it to my girlfriend, to a pal, to someone in the real world. It’s not that difficult – and, in all honesty, it doesn’t happen that often anyway. I guess I’m getting calm.
Also, I guess I’m getting old. I’ve turned thirty now – and that’s all well and good – and something about me has changed. Even looking back to who I was when I started uni, not even four years ago, I seem so young. Twenty-six – it even sounds young. Don’t even get me started on 23 or 24 – that’s like being a baby. And that’s the me that I so often think about – and want to write about – the me that hitched and travelled and slept by the road and just wandered wandered wandered every way where thing. And that’s the me that I would probably be hard-pressed to ever live again. Those things just don’t really appeal – well, they do, until I start thinking about the reality of it all – ‘cos I genuinely am more into safe things these days, staying at home, getting the shopping in, watching a bit of comedy…very normal, average, everyday stuff. Boring? I dunno – that would be quite judgmental. But definitely different. And maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to go.
There’s a big field full of sheep just down the road from our house – I pass it everyday – and just now the new lambs are in there, running about and suckling on their mummies, and being kind of wild and funny and cute and all stupid, all at the same time. They look like they’re having fun – they’re adorable – and then you get to thinking about human babies and children, and puppies and kittens, and even baby tigers and horses and chicks, and you think, man, all things at that age are just great, just having a laugh, just being cute and crazy and not caring about bills and blah blah and the trials and vicissitudes of life – and what happens to us all as we get older, as get more boring, less adventurous, stop doing fun things, stop being wild and crazy...? You can get depressed thinking about that – thinking about the passing of your youth (at least, I imagine some people do) – but watching those sheep, and thinking about how this is spread throughout the natural world, I just think, that’s the way it goes. It tickles me and I feel okay with it, and with the way things go. I feel okay that my belly is growing and I’d rather sit at home and play spider solitaire than go sleep in a field in Norway, just for the hell of it. The old sheep chew the grass and get on with it. Lambs are cute but mad; they bounce all over the shop; they get frightened by any little thing. I guess that’s what your youth is supposed to be – a time of discovery, of adventure, of tasting the world, in all it’s sweet and bitter flavours – and then it ends, and you take what you’ve learned and kick back somewhat, and devote yourself to bringing up the next crop of lambs (or something). In any case, it’s all okay by me...
But writing: well, that’s been a bit of a no-go this last month, since I got embroiled in essays and then finding-a-job (spurred by oh-my-I’ve-got-debt). It’s kinda sliding away again – but, as ever, I’m hopeful that it’ll come back. I guess I’m not really in any kind of rush – and what I’ve come to realise is, I’m not one of these people that have a burning desire to write, to get something out of me, and to express. Even in my songs, which I went hardcore for a couple of years ago, there’s nothing new, nothing waiting to be said. I just feel like I’ve done with it all, made my peace with the world and myself; I just feel like everything’s okay, and if I ever need to say something, it doesn’t have to be in a song, or a journal (or a blog, as I’m begrudgingly realising that’s what this is, like the guy who’s finally given up trying to call Marathon Snickers), I can say it to my girlfriend, to a pal, to someone in the real world. It’s not that difficult – and, in all honesty, it doesn’t happen that often anyway. I guess I’m getting calm.
Also, I guess I’m getting old. I’ve turned thirty now – and that’s all well and good – and something about me has changed. Even looking back to who I was when I started uni, not even four years ago, I seem so young. Twenty-six – it even sounds young. Don’t even get me started on 23 or 24 – that’s like being a baby. And that’s the me that I so often think about – and want to write about – the me that hitched and travelled and slept by the road and just wandered wandered wandered every way where thing. And that’s the me that I would probably be hard-pressed to ever live again. Those things just don’t really appeal – well, they do, until I start thinking about the reality of it all – ‘cos I genuinely am more into safe things these days, staying at home, getting the shopping in, watching a bit of comedy…very normal, average, everyday stuff. Boring? I dunno – that would be quite judgmental. But definitely different. And maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to go.
There’s a big field full of sheep just down the road from our house – I pass it everyday – and just now the new lambs are in there, running about and suckling on their mummies, and being kind of wild and funny and cute and all stupid, all at the same time. They look like they’re having fun – they’re adorable – and then you get to thinking about human babies and children, and puppies and kittens, and even baby tigers and horses and chicks, and you think, man, all things at that age are just great, just having a laugh, just being cute and crazy and not caring about bills and blah blah and the trials and vicissitudes of life – and what happens to us all as we get older, as get more boring, less adventurous, stop doing fun things, stop being wild and crazy...? You can get depressed thinking about that – thinking about the passing of your youth (at least, I imagine some people do) – but watching those sheep, and thinking about how this is spread throughout the natural world, I just think, that’s the way it goes. It tickles me and I feel okay with it, and with the way things go. I feel okay that my belly is growing and I’d rather sit at home and play spider solitaire than go sleep in a field in Norway, just for the hell of it. The old sheep chew the grass and get on with it. Lambs are cute but mad; they bounce all over the shop; they get frightened by any little thing. I guess that’s what your youth is supposed to be – a time of discovery, of adventure, of tasting the world, in all it’s sweet and bitter flavours – and then it ends, and you take what you’ve learned and kick back somewhat, and devote yourself to bringing up the next crop of lambs (or something). In any case, it’s all okay by me...
Friday 17 February 2006
Twelve
Let me give you an example of a typical week in my life:
Monday to Friday I wake up between 5.30 and 7.30 and start to write, which I generally do till around lunchtime. Except on Thursdays and Fridays, when I have classes at 9 and ten respectively. The classes are two hours long. The Thursday class I go to about fifty percent of the time. In the afternoon I do various tasks. These will include: errands and shopping; napping; watching comedy DVDs; working at Oxfam, one or two days a week; having a two or three hour session of Risk, one or two days a week; sorting out email; and various other online procrastinations. On Thursdays I play football at noon in a 5-a-side competition. On Mondays I have a game of squash with my friend Matt, and then we usually have a sauna, come home and eat lots, and play (and record) music together. My girlfriend is home around six. Sometimes I cook for her. Sometimes we hang out. Saturday morning is football morning - two full games fill my time between 9.30 and 1. Then I'm gloriously knackered and don't do much else. Sunday I'll probably write some, or occasionally get together with some people for food. Among all that there might be one or two movies, and a walk (though probably not a walk, as of late), and perhaps one or two episodes of sex. I sometimes do some work for uni too, but not very often.
And that's about it. Not very exciting, I suppose. And not a very socially-full calendar - certainly, these past few months I've come to spend more and more time alone, and I'm starting to get a liking for it. I'm even getting a liking for spending time apart from my girlfriend. This book thing is coming to possess me - it's in my head all the time, always being written and tinkered with, whether I'm on a computer or not. The only time it's not there is when I'm on a football field (or on the computer playing some ridiculous game of Risk). I long for the day when it will be done, and the monkey will be off my back. It's hard to imagine how I'll feel then. Free, I suppose. Free and happy and light, in the way that I feel free and happy and light - and ecstatic, even - when I get an essay done, only times a million. That's something to look forward to.
Thursday 16 February 2006
Eleven
I've been revisiting Charlottesville these past few weeks, concentrating on part one of my writing project/dream. It seems like it's going well, but it's hard for me to tell. I feel like I'm down in the engine room, messing about with the nuts and bolts, and it's impossible for me to get an outside perspective of the thing as a whole. I'm gonna need some help in that regard sometime soon.
I'd really like to feel that this thing is publishable. I can't tell whether it's great, and will be good for people, or whether it's just a monumental waste of time, one great big so-what. I do know, however, that there's no letting go of this, that I'll never forgive myself if I don't do it, and that I will somehow be stuck here at this place forever, unless I get it over and done with.
I wonder, too, whether it just might be my 'Divine Duty', as Shawn's angel once told me. In that case, I really shouldn't worry about quality or presentation, because it's not mine, and it's out of my hands. That's kind of freeing in a way. And if it is my 'Divine Duty', it would also explain why I can't let it go, and don't seem to have progressed in my growth of late (aside from getting back down to Earth). I guess, like Jonah, there really is no escape, and no way past but through.
I find writing about Charlottesville, and thinking again about my less than glorious past, on the whole, quite a titillating experience. I'm amused by what I was and what I did in my youth - and it seems so far removed from what I am, and what I have been for some time, that it's hard to believe it was me. Even reading Gus's less than flattering opinions of the old Rory doesn't really bother me - even when they're not even based on truth - but rather, in most cases, makes me laugh. Sometimes, though, I must admit I'm a bit disturbed.
I read today an entry I don't think I've come across before - and a piece of information that I definitely haven't. Basically, it said that Tyler, my old housemate, was offered money by the owner of the restaurant where we both worked to evict me from the house we shared. Two days after Gus reported this, I was evicted. I'd always wondered why Tyler had done this, and why he hadn't talked to me about it, or given me any warning, and now I guess I know. It seems to have disturbed me somewhat, and I'm not sure why, but I guess I'm hurt.
Strange that, to be so affected by something that happened so long ago.
I've been thinking for a while that, whatever stage I've been at in life, it always seems I can look back on myself and feel I'm looking back at idiot. Realising that, and taking it to the next logical step, I must conclude that not only am I being an idiot right now, I must forever be doomed to be one - at least to some future version of myself. Even the me that is looking back at a long line of idiotic former mes and feeling pretty okay and happy to have learned and grown somewhat since his predecessor's time will be an idiot. And I guess there's no escape from this.
I can't work out whether that should be a depressing or a liberating thought. A part of me thinks it should be liberating, because no matter how hard I try to be perfect and do the right thing, and no matter if I feel that I've actually succeeded, I'll still look back one day in the not-too-distant future and think, "I was being an idiot." A part of me does find that funny - but the bigger part, right now, today, thinks it's just plain depressing - especially considering that I'm currently in a stage where some of the biggest and least reversible decisions of my life will be taking place (e.g. buying a house, making a baby, finding a career, etc).
But what if they're just idiotic whims? What if I'm mistaken in my choices? Lord knows, I've wanted all those things before - and, likewise, Lord knows I was being stupid then. The question is, am I being stupid now?
I miss God. I still feel sometimes I wish I could leave it all behind and head for somewhere, and discover something wonderful again. I'm not really sure I like any of the people around me, to any real or great extent, and I'm not sure I like the life I lead. Sure, I've got a great girlfriend, and a sweet place to live, and I'm not really wanting for anything, but…I don't really know if it's me. I don't really care for possessions - definitely, they get you down - and I don't really care for the world I live in - meaning the world of busyness and jobs and running around here and there trying to fill it with things. Sometimes I feel that I'd much rather be out in the trees, with a tent on my back, and no noise and other such botheration-type things of the modern world. I don't even know if I like the charity job I do.
There's not much to keep me on this planet. Maybe I'll die when this book is finished, job done, your time is up Rory, now have a nice new body in some nice new country where God is more important than wearing the right shoes and your spirit can grow some more, unburdened by the wearisome memories of all that you did wrong in the youth of your current life. I'm not sure what else there is for me from this world.
I'd really like to feel that this thing is publishable. I can't tell whether it's great, and will be good for people, or whether it's just a monumental waste of time, one great big so-what. I do know, however, that there's no letting go of this, that I'll never forgive myself if I don't do it, and that I will somehow be stuck here at this place forever, unless I get it over and done with.
I wonder, too, whether it just might be my 'Divine Duty', as Shawn's angel once told me. In that case, I really shouldn't worry about quality or presentation, because it's not mine, and it's out of my hands. That's kind of freeing in a way. And if it is my 'Divine Duty', it would also explain why I can't let it go, and don't seem to have progressed in my growth of late (aside from getting back down to Earth). I guess, like Jonah, there really is no escape, and no way past but through.
I find writing about Charlottesville, and thinking again about my less than glorious past, on the whole, quite a titillating experience. I'm amused by what I was and what I did in my youth - and it seems so far removed from what I am, and what I have been for some time, that it's hard to believe it was me. Even reading Gus's less than flattering opinions of the old Rory doesn't really bother me - even when they're not even based on truth - but rather, in most cases, makes me laugh. Sometimes, though, I must admit I'm a bit disturbed.
I read today an entry I don't think I've come across before - and a piece of information that I definitely haven't. Basically, it said that Tyler, my old housemate, was offered money by the owner of the restaurant where we both worked to evict me from the house we shared. Two days after Gus reported this, I was evicted. I'd always wondered why Tyler had done this, and why he hadn't talked to me about it, or given me any warning, and now I guess I know. It seems to have disturbed me somewhat, and I'm not sure why, but I guess I'm hurt.
Strange that, to be so affected by something that happened so long ago.
I've been thinking for a while that, whatever stage I've been at in life, it always seems I can look back on myself and feel I'm looking back at idiot. Realising that, and taking it to the next logical step, I must conclude that not only am I being an idiot right now, I must forever be doomed to be one - at least to some future version of myself. Even the me that is looking back at a long line of idiotic former mes and feeling pretty okay and happy to have learned and grown somewhat since his predecessor's time will be an idiot. And I guess there's no escape from this.
I can't work out whether that should be a depressing or a liberating thought. A part of me thinks it should be liberating, because no matter how hard I try to be perfect and do the right thing, and no matter if I feel that I've actually succeeded, I'll still look back one day in the not-too-distant future and think, "I was being an idiot." A part of me does find that funny - but the bigger part, right now, today, thinks it's just plain depressing - especially considering that I'm currently in a stage where some of the biggest and least reversible decisions of my life will be taking place (e.g. buying a house, making a baby, finding a career, etc).
But what if they're just idiotic whims? What if I'm mistaken in my choices? Lord knows, I've wanted all those things before - and, likewise, Lord knows I was being stupid then. The question is, am I being stupid now?
I miss God. I still feel sometimes I wish I could leave it all behind and head for somewhere, and discover something wonderful again. I'm not really sure I like any of the people around me, to any real or great extent, and I'm not sure I like the life I lead. Sure, I've got a great girlfriend, and a sweet place to live, and I'm not really wanting for anything, but…I don't really know if it's me. I don't really care for possessions - definitely, they get you down - and I don't really care for the world I live in - meaning the world of busyness and jobs and running around here and there trying to fill it with things. Sometimes I feel that I'd much rather be out in the trees, with a tent on my back, and no noise and other such botheration-type things of the modern world. I don't even know if I like the charity job I do.
There's not much to keep me on this planet. Maybe I'll die when this book is finished, job done, your time is up Rory, now have a nice new body in some nice new country where God is more important than wearing the right shoes and your spirit can grow some more, unburdened by the wearisome memories of all that you did wrong in the youth of your current life. I'm not sure what else there is for me from this world.
Sunday 5 February 2006
Ten
Well the writing's been going good and not so good. I've pretty much completed a short memoir-style piece for a class, and I'm happy with that (though not sure if it's any good), but the book project has floundered again, lost in the struggle to find the right format, the right voice, and the right place to start. I've rewritten some old journal entries, and like the diary style, but I'm having a hard time getting the beginning the way I want it. And the beginning is important...
Originally I had the beginning as a chapter describing my arrival in New York. I thought that was okay, if a little pedestrian. Now I'm thinking maybe I should just plunge straight into the action, and start it at some point in the weeks before I left Charlottesville to begin my hitch-hiking odyssey, in the middle of my mad little depression. It was a good time for thinking, and revisiting the past, and I did do a lot of writing then, which would help the authenticity of it...but actually getting down to it, and getting it all straight in my head is where I flounder. I just don't know. This is starting to feel like a very difficult thing.
In other news, though, I turned thirty with the minimum of fuss, and it hasn't really made any difference to my life, or to the way I feel. Maybe because I don't have any regrets about things I didn't do or feel any particular sorrow at saying goodbye to my youth (I mean, it was interesting and all, but not exactly easy, or happy, or settled). No, the only thing I've noticed is a slightly odd sensation inside when someone asks how old I am and the number comes out, and I realise that I can never be twenty-something again. So many things you get a second chance at, but that has gone, gone, gone.
Originally I had the beginning as a chapter describing my arrival in New York. I thought that was okay, if a little pedestrian. Now I'm thinking maybe I should just plunge straight into the action, and start it at some point in the weeks before I left Charlottesville to begin my hitch-hiking odyssey, in the middle of my mad little depression. It was a good time for thinking, and revisiting the past, and I did do a lot of writing then, which would help the authenticity of it...but actually getting down to it, and getting it all straight in my head is where I flounder. I just don't know. This is starting to feel like a very difficult thing.
In other news, though, I turned thirty with the minimum of fuss, and it hasn't really made any difference to my life, or to the way I feel. Maybe because I don't have any regrets about things I didn't do or feel any particular sorrow at saying goodbye to my youth (I mean, it was interesting and all, but not exactly easy, or happy, or settled). No, the only thing I've noticed is a slightly odd sensation inside when someone asks how old I am and the number comes out, and I realise that I can never be twenty-something again. So many things you get a second chance at, but that has gone, gone, gone.
Monday 23 January 2006
Nine
Mood: Having done nothing today and then played 90 minutes of Risk, I could cry
Location: Computer room, UKC (the one with the noisy fan)
About to: Go home and make music with my friend Matt
A good weekend! Feel like I made something of a breakthrough, after all my pondering about how to proceed. But what I've realised is, I like the journal format. For one, I think it makes it easier to be more conversational and personal, and, for another, it really solves the problem of bringing a present-tense feel to a past-tense project. Basically I can re-write the whole thing as though it were my diary, as though I had an audience (which helps me) and as though it were actually happening. I'm quite excited to get on with it - though unmotivated and distracted as ever. Still, I have got another 1500 words in the bag. We'll get there one day!
Location: Computer room, UKC (the one with the noisy fan)
About to: Go home and make music with my friend Matt
A good weekend! Feel like I made something of a breakthrough, after all my pondering about how to proceed. But what I've realised is, I like the journal format. For one, I think it makes it easier to be more conversational and personal, and, for another, it really solves the problem of bringing a present-tense feel to a past-tense project. Basically I can re-write the whole thing as though it were my diary, as though I had an audience (which helps me) and as though it were actually happening. I'm quite excited to get on with it - though unmotivated and distracted as ever. Still, I have got another 1500 words in the bag. We'll get there one day!
Friday 20 January 2006
Eight
Friday January 20th, 2006 13:08
Well I had my class – made an effort to be nice to the tutor, though more argumentative/contrary later on – and then home for fried egg sandwiches yum yum. Supposed to think about what could be interesting about my life. Well, here goes…
Kicked out of home aged 17, live above a guitar shop, fly to America on a whim aged 20, when the holiday ends, I decide to stay, become an illegal alien, spend a night in a New York jail, buy a car with every penny I own (well, all but six dollars) and then total it two weeks later, work for a Jewish furniture-moving company, live rough on roofs and in squats, buy another car, drive to Arizona (crashing it in Mississippi on the way) where it dies, sell it for ten dollars, hitch-hike to Las Vegas, move to Virginia (after winter in California), buy another car and crash it while drunk, spend another three nights in jail, skip bail and hitch-hike to Arizona (in winter), live on a ranch and train to be a stunt cowboy, win a donkey in a bet (and then sell it), hitch-hike through Utah, Wyoming, Colorado and Montana, steal a grain-truck, ride a freight-train across the Rockies, get arrested on another train and deported, fly back to America, hitch-hike down the Pacific Coast to Mexico, camp in a mountain canyon for six and a half weeks, meet a spiritual teacher, have some mystical experiences and do a vision quest, stop drinking and doing drugs, hitch back to Virginia then back to New Mexico, meet a Yogi, meet a female Indian saint, do a 28-day vision quest, spend time with a healer/exorcist/psychic, die on a mountain, go back to England, live in a meditation center, go to India in search of a guru, go to Germany to meet one, fly back to America again and get deported, live in Paris and almost get married and have children, split up after I discover her infidelity, follow dreams, signs and feelings to a meeting with a soul-mate (four years ago now), and that’s about it.
Except…
I’ve never tried a cigarette, never seen E.T. (The Extra Terrestrial) or The Sound of Music, and once shook hands with Prince Charles (and had some sexual fumblings with a girl who had sat on Bill Clinton’s knee) (and vomited on Dave Mathews’s floor and hid it under his couch), I’m distantly related to Nick Faldo, Geoff Capes and the Sheriff of Nottingham (but not the Sheriff of Nottingham), my girlfriend’s Canadian and we share the same last name (purely a coincidence), and myself and my three grandmothers (who were all living until two years ago) are all Aquarius, and two of us shared a birthday. Also, I once tried to eat a 4½ LB steak in one hour and only ended up three or four ounces short, but I did succeed in eating a pound of dry rice for a bet. I haven’t been drunk or taken any intoxicants for nearly seven years.
And that is it. Although…
I like to write, and have had one story published (as well as some poems in the university magazine) which is mildly interesting. Also, I play guitar and sing, and can do this juggling thing with ‘devil sticks’. I can balance rocks, too, but you’d have to see some pictures to know what I mean by that. (People find it interesting.) Oh, and I’m very good at riding a bike non-handed, and have done it for miles on end, and travelling really quickly down really steep hills. I’ve had frostbite on one of my toes, and nearly trod on a rattlesnake once. I also got lost in an underground cave, have been charged at by buffaloes, and played music and sang in front of several hundred people on more than one occasion (more than two, in fact). I once owned over 150 vinyl records by Jimi Hendrix. I once lost over two thousand dollars (U.S.) in cash. I’ve crossed the Grand Canyon by foot.
And that really really really is it.
Except…(I’m not meaning to do this)
I’ve spent more than ten straight hours playing online computer games like Risk and Scrabble on several occasions in the last few years (not stopping to think about food or water), I’ve stolen quite a few things (in my youth), I’ve kissed three men, but never gone further (I once kissed three women – and a man – in one night), I’ve taken naked pictures of myself and once put one or two (tasteful) ones on the internet, I’ve punched one man (since my teenage years – but plenty of boys and one girl before), I’ve had sexual fantasies about my mother (though not for the last two or three years). I still have wet dreams.
Enough?
Enough
...
Phew! Well I didn’t know what was going to happen. It started out, of course, thinking that, wow, I really have had an interesting life – especially in comparison to the nineteen/twenty year-olds I share my class with – but then…well, I guess you can’t do that mush bragging without having it bounce back at you; without the memories of the occasions that you were less than glorious welling up to the surface. The only question then is, do I push those down, or do I acknowledge them and let them out? I guess I’m one for truth – and since I know the content of my mind, and since I know when I’m running and hiding, then I also know when I can go beyond those impulses. So I type, even if ‘I’ don’t want to, even if it’s stuff I’d rather keep to myself – and some of it I did. Stuff like…having my drink spiked and coming round in some gay black guy’s bed, or punching my girlfriend (in the stomach) one drunk and messy New Year’s Eve about ten years ago. Not so glorious there. (She’d punched me before that – but that doesn’t seem to excuse it, this indoctrination that violence against men is okay, but not oh no definitely not against women.) Is there worse? Curiosity about sex and children – don’t even want to know where thinking about that might lead (but I am curious; like, how is that even possible?) – and then obviously the specific naughtiness of my various crimes – especially the one where I nicked that band’s musical equipment. Damn. See how hard it is to just indulge in a little bragging! I don’t feel elated at all, I feel bummed out and keen to get off these computer, having been reminded of my past transgressions (even though so many of them were committed by the Rory that I hope and believe has long since vanished from the face of this Earth). But I guess you can’t escape your past – or, at least, your memory of it. Children, don’t do bad things – not because of any Divine punishment, or even the punishment of man should you get caught – thank God, I never really got caught – but because one day, if you make it through the storm, and if you’re honest with yourself and don’t hide behind a mask (of intoxicants, of distractions, of falsehood, or hypocrisy, or intellectualism) then one day you’re going to have to sit and face it all over again, in the mirror of your own conscience, from which there is now escape, and even if you mend your errant ways, and become the embodiment of goodness itself, you will never, ever forget what a crooked and deceitful shit you have been in your youth. I mean, oh God look at me, I’m not a bad guy, and I don’t really do bad things, but here I stand, on the verge of adulthood, and still I suffer for the knowledge of what I did in my younger, stupider, drunkener days. I am not those things any more – and yet, here they remain. Maybe because I never made amends – maybe that would help – but maybe simply because that is yet another of the consequences that we must face when our actions are not only wrong, and bad, and unholy, and not-good, but when they just plain suck.
Ow. [Rubs forehead with right hand, closes eyes and moves head from side to side.] I mean, he says, Mamma Mia!
1401 words, 67 minutes, including break. 21 wpm.
Must have been a longer break than I realised!
And then I had this enormous nap. Wowee!
Well I had my class – made an effort to be nice to the tutor, though more argumentative/contrary later on – and then home for fried egg sandwiches yum yum. Supposed to think about what could be interesting about my life. Well, here goes…
Kicked out of home aged 17, live above a guitar shop, fly to America on a whim aged 20, when the holiday ends, I decide to stay, become an illegal alien, spend a night in a New York jail, buy a car with every penny I own (well, all but six dollars) and then total it two weeks later, work for a Jewish furniture-moving company, live rough on roofs and in squats, buy another car, drive to Arizona (crashing it in Mississippi on the way) where it dies, sell it for ten dollars, hitch-hike to Las Vegas, move to Virginia (after winter in California), buy another car and crash it while drunk, spend another three nights in jail, skip bail and hitch-hike to Arizona (in winter), live on a ranch and train to be a stunt cowboy, win a donkey in a bet (and then sell it), hitch-hike through Utah, Wyoming, Colorado and Montana, steal a grain-truck, ride a freight-train across the Rockies, get arrested on another train and deported, fly back to America, hitch-hike down the Pacific Coast to Mexico, camp in a mountain canyon for six and a half weeks, meet a spiritual teacher, have some mystical experiences and do a vision quest, stop drinking and doing drugs, hitch back to Virginia then back to New Mexico, meet a Yogi, meet a female Indian saint, do a 28-day vision quest, spend time with a healer/exorcist/psychic, die on a mountain, go back to England, live in a meditation center, go to India in search of a guru, go to Germany to meet one, fly back to America again and get deported, live in Paris and almost get married and have children, split up after I discover her infidelity, follow dreams, signs and feelings to a meeting with a soul-mate (four years ago now), and that’s about it.
Except…
I’ve never tried a cigarette, never seen E.T. (The Extra Terrestrial) or The Sound of Music, and once shook hands with Prince Charles (and had some sexual fumblings with a girl who had sat on Bill Clinton’s knee) (and vomited on Dave Mathews’s floor and hid it under his couch), I’m distantly related to Nick Faldo, Geoff Capes and the Sheriff of Nottingham (but not the Sheriff of Nottingham), my girlfriend’s Canadian and we share the same last name (purely a coincidence), and myself and my three grandmothers (who were all living until two years ago) are all Aquarius, and two of us shared a birthday. Also, I once tried to eat a 4½ LB steak in one hour and only ended up three or four ounces short, but I did succeed in eating a pound of dry rice for a bet. I haven’t been drunk or taken any intoxicants for nearly seven years.
And that is it. Although…
I like to write, and have had one story published (as well as some poems in the university magazine) which is mildly interesting. Also, I play guitar and sing, and can do this juggling thing with ‘devil sticks’. I can balance rocks, too, but you’d have to see some pictures to know what I mean by that. (People find it interesting.) Oh, and I’m very good at riding a bike non-handed, and have done it for miles on end, and travelling really quickly down really steep hills. I’ve had frostbite on one of my toes, and nearly trod on a rattlesnake once. I also got lost in an underground cave, have been charged at by buffaloes, and played music and sang in front of several hundred people on more than one occasion (more than two, in fact). I once owned over 150 vinyl records by Jimi Hendrix. I once lost over two thousand dollars (U.S.) in cash. I’ve crossed the Grand Canyon by foot.
And that really really really is it.
Except…(I’m not meaning to do this)
I’ve spent more than ten straight hours playing online computer games like Risk and Scrabble on several occasions in the last few years (not stopping to think about food or water), I’ve stolen quite a few things (in my youth), I’ve kissed three men, but never gone further (I once kissed three women – and a man – in one night), I’ve taken naked pictures of myself and once put one or two (tasteful) ones on the internet, I’ve punched one man (since my teenage years – but plenty of boys and one girl before), I’ve had sexual fantasies about my mother (though not for the last two or three years). I still have wet dreams.
Enough?
Enough
Phew! Well I didn’t know what was going to happen. It started out, of course, thinking that, wow, I really have had an interesting life – especially in comparison to the nineteen/twenty year-olds I share my class with – but then…well, I guess you can’t do that mush bragging without having it bounce back at you; without the memories of the occasions that you were less than glorious welling up to the surface. The only question then is, do I push those down, or do I acknowledge them and let them out? I guess I’m one for truth – and since I know the content of my mind, and since I know when I’m running and hiding, then I also know when I can go beyond those impulses. So I type, even if ‘I’ don’t want to, even if it’s stuff I’d rather keep to myself – and some of it I did. Stuff like…having my drink spiked and coming round in some gay black guy’s bed, or punching my girlfriend (in the stomach) one drunk and messy New Year’s Eve about ten years ago. Not so glorious there. (She’d punched me before that – but that doesn’t seem to excuse it, this indoctrination that violence against men is okay, but not oh no definitely not against women.) Is there worse? Curiosity about sex and children – don’t even want to know where thinking about that might lead (but I am curious; like, how is that even possible?) – and then obviously the specific naughtiness of my various crimes – especially the one where I nicked that band’s musical equipment. Damn. See how hard it is to just indulge in a little bragging! I don’t feel elated at all, I feel bummed out and keen to get off these computer, having been reminded of my past transgressions (even though so many of them were committed by the Rory that I hope and believe has long since vanished from the face of this Earth). But I guess you can’t escape your past – or, at least, your memory of it. Children, don’t do bad things – not because of any Divine punishment, or even the punishment of man should you get caught – thank God, I never really got caught – but because one day, if you make it through the storm, and if you’re honest with yourself and don’t hide behind a mask (of intoxicants, of distractions, of falsehood, or hypocrisy, or intellectualism) then one day you’re going to have to sit and face it all over again, in the mirror of your own conscience, from which there is now escape, and even if you mend your errant ways, and become the embodiment of goodness itself, you will never, ever forget what a crooked and deceitful shit you have been in your youth. I mean, oh God look at me, I’m not a bad guy, and I don’t really do bad things, but here I stand, on the verge of adulthood, and still I suffer for the knowledge of what I did in my younger, stupider, drunkener days. I am not those things any more – and yet, here they remain. Maybe because I never made amends – maybe that would help – but maybe simply because that is yet another of the consequences that we must face when our actions are not only wrong, and bad, and unholy, and not-good, but when they just plain suck.
Ow. [Rubs forehead with right hand, closes eyes and moves head from side to side.] I mean, he says, Mamma Mia!
Must have been a longer break than I realised!
And then I had this enormous nap. Wowee!
Seven
The twentieth of the first, which means, in ten days I shall turn thirty years of age. Hmmm…20+1+10+30=61=7 meaning…well, obviously the symbolism of the numbers aren’t lost on me, as I’m sure you’ll understand. Interesting – very interesting…
But, of course, I jest. Thirty, though, is supposed to mean something, and I might make that meaning something to do with writing, with reflection, and with purging and preparing for the future. I was reading some of my stuff from years back this morning – looking for a certain paragraph, which was a bit like looking for a weasel in a gaystack, and just as successful – and, man did I used to write a lot! And, man did I used to think a lot too! It seems like these days I hardly have any thoughts at all…
So I’m supposed to be writing this book – and yet every time I contemplate it, the size of the project overwhelms me and I go nowhere. It’s a month since I wrote anything – another reason I’m here, in the hope of kickstarting the old grey matter – and it’s seeming quite impossible. I know, I know, if I just take one step at a time, and if I just start, and see what comes, and take it from there, understanding that first drafts can be improved on, it doesn’t have to be perfect, it’s better to have something than nothing, but…it’s not just the sheer size, but also how to capture some of that spirit I once possessed: the one that thought, the one that pondered and contemplated and sought out the meaning behind things…now, I’m afraid to say, there’s little of that; my mind seems to have become nothing more than a conveyor belt for random and useless trivia, furnishing me with nothing of meaning, just leaving me wishing I could turn the damn thing off. Another reason I’m writing here today: to see if there’s anything left in there, and whether expression, and written expression, isn’t perhaps what I need to put it to work again. The mind is a workshop, not a warehouse…
I will be thirty in ten days time. How do I feel about that? I feel…I don’t really care. It doesn’t mean much to me – and maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe because I don’t have any real regrets; maybe because I did all the things I wanted to do, saw the world, denied myself very little, and found my God (and then lost It again); maybe that’s why I don’t regret things and dread this ‘getting older’ and going beyond my youth. In a lot of ways I’m ready for it. And in a lot of ways I’m not. Which is as clear as fud.
Well I’ve lived a good life. Man, I did some incredible things! And it’s funny, it all seems to have ground to a halt when I started uni, and when I got a girlfriend. Yeah, things haven’t progressed very much in the last three years – other than in the sense than I’m a little less mad, have a little less light, and feel a little less interesting. I sometimes think that uni has damaged me – all that thinking, all that emphasis on the intellectual mind, on academia, on the surface of things and not the heart, the substance, the truth of the matter – but…what the hell, it’ll be over soon (three months; I can hardly believe it!) and then it’ll be on to…on to what? A career? Teaching? (Hey, that could be cool – I like kids, they’re fun, alive, youthful and interesting…) Or maybe the old writing lark, who knows where that might lead? And, in reality, who cares? The most important thing is just to do it – whatever follows doesn’t matter even a hundredth as much.
So in thirty minutes I have another class. My tutor is a published young novelist, Scarlett Thomas, who I read about on the web yesterday. Seems like we have some shared interests – Britpop, video game addictions – and maybe we’d get on if I wasn’t so anti-authoritarian and didn’t treat all my lecturers with disdain. A bit silly, really, but I just can’t help it, I really seem to have this “us and them” mentality with this, even when I like them. I wonder what that’s all about?
Seventeen minutes, 717 words. 42 wpm. Not bad.
Well I guess I don’t really have anything to say. Too conscious of time – but maybe I’ll be back later. Reading my words this morning inspired me – inspired me that I did have something inside, and that it’s probably still there, if I just take the time to have a look around – and I think it’s worth a nosey. Just to celebrate the passing of my second decade, and the ending of my youth, and my unavoidable slide into adulthood and stuff. Etcetera, etcetera. Amen.
But, of course, I jest. Thirty, though, is supposed to mean something, and I might make that meaning something to do with writing, with reflection, and with purging and preparing for the future. I was reading some of my stuff from years back this morning – looking for a certain paragraph, which was a bit like looking for a weasel in a gaystack, and just as successful – and, man did I used to write a lot! And, man did I used to think a lot too! It seems like these days I hardly have any thoughts at all…
So I’m supposed to be writing this book – and yet every time I contemplate it, the size of the project overwhelms me and I go nowhere. It’s a month since I wrote anything – another reason I’m here, in the hope of kickstarting the old grey matter – and it’s seeming quite impossible. I know, I know, if I just take one step at a time, and if I just start, and see what comes, and take it from there, understanding that first drafts can be improved on, it doesn’t have to be perfect, it’s better to have something than nothing, but…it’s not just the sheer size, but also how to capture some of that spirit I once possessed: the one that thought, the one that pondered and contemplated and sought out the meaning behind things…now, I’m afraid to say, there’s little of that; my mind seems to have become nothing more than a conveyor belt for random and useless trivia, furnishing me with nothing of meaning, just leaving me wishing I could turn the damn thing off. Another reason I’m writing here today: to see if there’s anything left in there, and whether expression, and written expression, isn’t perhaps what I need to put it to work again. The mind is a workshop, not a warehouse…
I will be thirty in ten days time. How do I feel about that? I feel…I don’t really care. It doesn’t mean much to me – and maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe because I don’t have any real regrets; maybe because I did all the things I wanted to do, saw the world, denied myself very little, and found my God (and then lost It again); maybe that’s why I don’t regret things and dread this ‘getting older’ and going beyond my youth. In a lot of ways I’m ready for it. And in a lot of ways I’m not. Which is as clear as fud.
Well I’ve lived a good life. Man, I did some incredible things! And it’s funny, it all seems to have ground to a halt when I started uni, and when I got a girlfriend. Yeah, things haven’t progressed very much in the last three years – other than in the sense than I’m a little less mad, have a little less light, and feel a little less interesting. I sometimes think that uni has damaged me – all that thinking, all that emphasis on the intellectual mind, on academia, on the surface of things and not the heart, the substance, the truth of the matter – but…what the hell, it’ll be over soon (three months; I can hardly believe it!) and then it’ll be on to…on to what? A career? Teaching? (Hey, that could be cool – I like kids, they’re fun, alive, youthful and interesting…) Or maybe the old writing lark, who knows where that might lead? And, in reality, who cares? The most important thing is just to do it – whatever follows doesn’t matter even a hundredth as much.
So in thirty minutes I have another class. My tutor is a published young novelist, Scarlett Thomas, who I read about on the web yesterday. Seems like we have some shared interests – Britpop, video game addictions – and maybe we’d get on if I wasn’t so anti-authoritarian and didn’t treat all my lecturers with disdain. A bit silly, really, but I just can’t help it, I really seem to have this “us and them” mentality with this, even when I like them. I wonder what that’s all about?
Well I guess I don’t really have anything to say. Too conscious of time – but maybe I’ll be back later. Reading my words this morning inspired me – inspired me that I did have something inside, and that it’s probably still there, if I just take the time to have a look around – and I think it’s worth a nosey. Just to celebrate the passing of my second decade, and the ending of my youth, and my unavoidable slide into adulthood and stuff. Etcetera, etcetera. Amen.
Sunday 15 January 2006
Six
Well the holidays are over, and I'm back in 'school'. Got my essays back - and got some mighty high marks, sixty-eight and seventy-four. Wahey! Much higher than I was expecting. Also got away with not reading Ulysses and had a good old rant about the whole thing. Started another Creative Writing class too.
This one might be interesting. Have to do things like "conceive of and carry out a gonzo journalism project." That could be fun! But really, it's the book thing that I'm thinking about again, and I'm a little lost as to where to go next, as I'm not even sure about how to tell the story. Should it be present tense or past? Journal style, or straight novel? Or maybe even a mixture of all of the above? I feel a little bit crippled right now.
This one might be interesting. Have to do things like "conceive of and carry out a gonzo journalism project." That could be fun! But really, it's the book thing that I'm thinking about again, and I'm a little lost as to where to go next, as I'm not even sure about how to tell the story. Should it be present tense or past? Journal style, or straight novel? Or maybe even a mixture of all of the above? I feel a little bit crippled right now.
Wednesday 11 January 2006
Five
Location: The ‘office’, at home
Mood: Singy, and bemusedly amused
Days since eating a Twix: One
So what I’ve noticed since restarting my journal is a process of stating what I need, and then saying in the next entry that I got it. It's happened with my essays, and it's happened with our finding house. It also happened when I wrote last year in Canada, when I was bored, and it was often like that in the old days too. It’s like a little ‘wish jar’. To me, there’s a definite correlation between the expression of one’s needs, wants and dissatisfactions, and the situations and solutions which invariably follow.
Next thing on the agenda, I suppose, is writing. I want to be in the position fairly soon of being able to send some sample material to a literary agent. That's the goal. Question is, will I be able to do it? Especially given the amount of online Risk I've been playing!
Mood: Singy, and bemusedly amused
Days since eating a Twix: One
So what I’ve noticed since restarting my journal is a process of stating what I need, and then saying in the next entry that I got it. It's happened with my essays, and it's happened with our finding house. It also happened when I wrote last year in Canada, when I was bored, and it was often like that in the old days too. It’s like a little ‘wish jar’. To me, there’s a definite correlation between the expression of one’s needs, wants and dissatisfactions, and the situations and solutions which invariably follow.
Next thing on the agenda, I suppose, is writing. I want to be in the position fairly soon of being able to send some sample material to a literary agent. That's the goal. Question is, will I be able to do it? Especially given the amount of online Risk I've been playing!
Thursday 5 January 2006
Four
Back from Yorkshire, and Christmas with the family. Jolly good, it was. Now it's a few days killing time before we move into our new place on Saturday. And jolly nice that should be too. Was supposed to read Ulysses over the holidays, but fifty pages in decided it was crap, so shan't be bothering. Oh well.
In other news, the car has died. That's six I've had now. Here's a picture of the girlfriend having a dance while we're waiting to be rescued. Loud music is playing at the time.
In other news, the car has died. That's six I've had now. Here's a picture of the girlfriend having a dance while we're waiting to be rescued. Loud music is playing at the time.
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