Sixteen

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!

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.

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...