Bye bye Myspace...

Ok, so I got to thinking that a good thing to do would be to delete all my blog entries, as well as my pictures, and start again from scratch, what with the book coming out an' all. Then I discovered it would be a complete drag to do that, since it looks like it's gotta be done one-at-a-time, so I guess I'll actually have to close the account and maybe re-open it. So...

1. This is my email address: rorymiller2@gmail.com. Feel free to make a note of that and drop me a line, if you'd like to keep in touch.

2. This will be my book's website: www.discoveringbeautiful.com. That's where I'll have links to my new blog, and also everything else.

3. I am on facebook. I use that quite a lot. I think it's better than myspace for most things, other than the blog. If you want to find me there, the above email address should do it.

4. Do please become a friend of The Toddlanders, my sort of make-believe band that's really just me and some shoddily-recorded demos. I'll probably write barely intelligible blogs there from time to time too.

5. Thanks everyone for reading everything these past couple of years, and giving encouragement, and being so lovely and supportive. If you write a blog I'm sure you know how useful that is.

6. Don't panic! I have all these blog entries on my computer. I deleted my entire journal once. I won't make that mistake again.

7. This isn't goodbye, it's just a new beginning.

8. Yes, I probably will blog again in the very near future, and quite possibly here, on myspace.

9. The title of the book is 'Discovering Beautiful: On The Road To Somewhere'. I think it'll be a pretty good read. It should be available to buy worldwide through sites like Amazon, WH Smith and Barnes and Noble in time for Christmas.

10. Thanks especially to Leah and Shawn and Patti and Janette, who have been unbelievably encouraging with my writing for a long, long time. But, of course, to all the others: you know who you are.

See you soon!

Lots of love,
Rory

Back to Oxford...

Well, here we are, back to Oxford, back to the uncertainty of my living situation, and back to wonderful gigs playing mad frenetic guitar while my girlfriend sings 'Lady Marmalade' and 'Blame It On The Boogie' and, my, aren't we good? Getting them dancing in the aisles at Freud's, tight as, and me loving it, and shredding my hand up on the strings so into it, and actually earning money – which is good, since I have literally not a bean to my name. This time last year I had four grand in the bank: well holidays to India and Spain (twice) and Morocco and no work and a low-paid job before that and various purchases and giving about a quarter of it away have put paids to that and, you know what? It's actually quite refreshing to be beanless again. It gives life a certain edge, minimalises the options, puts me more in a state of trust and flow and openness and desperation and newness: I'm book-free and homeless and broke, practically naked and new-born in the world - and you can't beat that. Now I want to reclaim some of my light - tsk! imagine me writing a book about discovering God and being practically enlightened, and now being nothing of the sort! - and I wonder wither I shall wander to get a slice of that. Or shall I wander at all? Life will give me something, I suppose, now that I've finally done what I was supposed to have done all those years ago, before getting lost and losing the path that had been so clearly laid out in front of me by getting lost in thoughts and ideas and being too spiritually high and wanting things other than what life was trying to feed me, for my goodness and my benefit. Oh, what I'd give to get it back on track! And maybe we're always 'on track' anyhoo...

Done

In Morocco. Book in; finished (in a way); and desperately sad. Thought I'd be ecstatic - that university essay handing in feeling - and all the way I was reliving everything and thinking, God, I wish I was doing that again! All of it: Charlottesville, hitch-hiking, time in nature, the canyon, Mexico, spirituality - and then it suddenly ended, at Mount Shasta, and I felt confused and empty: I wanted that too. And that was God. And God is long gone. Six, seven, eight years...of what? Of wanting this. And now it's done...now, I don't know. Like I say: desperately sad and empty. And like I feel it's not as good as I would've wanted. Too rushed, I guess. But done.

I'm done.

And I don't know what comes next...

Sorry for the sadness. Life begins afresh. I could cry. But a certain excitement: it's been a long, long time since I had a blank canvas of a future...

Oh my.

Saturday

Well as you may or may not know, sometime ago Perlilly and I had booked a holiday to Spain and Morocco, leaving this Sunday for a week with our chums in Alicante, and then a spot of freeform touring pinned only to a return flight from Marrakech on November 6th. It was sort of a spontaneous booking, not at all thought out or planned, which I’d somehow come to wonder about over the weeks – especially when the command to write came through! Suddenly the plans were thrown into jeopardy and Perlilly was not a happy girl at having her holiday messed up. I said I’d probably have to come home after the Spain week – or not even do that – and she said she really, really wanted to go to Morocco and that she’d go alone then.

            I was a bit worried about that: I’ve been to Morocco and I know it’s a getting hassled sort of place, even if you’re a guy. I told her and she thought I just didn’t want her to go and have a good time without me. I said, no, I’m just worried, I don’t want anything bad to happen to you or you to be unhappy there, I just want you to know what you’re getting into. In the meantime, despite needing to focus my energies elsewhere, I tried to do what I could to rescue the holiday. I said we could go but I’d have to spend eight hours each day in the hotel room, at least until the end of the month. Or I said maybe we could stay in Spain. None of this was agreeable. And I must say, I didn’t feel very supported given that I’m working on my life’s dream.

            In the end, though, I thought a solution had come: a Spanish friend of mine has offered a beach house where I can be alone and just write and write and write. I got so thoroughly excited at the prospect I can barely tell you. And I don’t know why, but it felt like there was some magic in the air, possibly a Mother Meera connection. Suddenly it all seemed possible: I could write my book, and when done I could go to Morocco and meet Perlilly and we could still have something of her holiday. She’d have to amuse herself for ten days but – well, that’s what she wanted to do anyway, right? Wrong. She wasn’t pleased at all.

            Seems like in the meantime she’s been reading up about Morocco and now doesn’t want to go on her own. Also, she couldn’t stand the thought of me having “a good time” in this “amazing place” all on my own while she’s out there being miserable. Jesus, I thought, how selfish can you get! Oh, for a woman that would say, Christ, Rory, this is the opportunity of a lifetime, you just get to work and don’t you worry about the cooking or the shopping or any of it, I’ll do whatever I can to support you. Is that too much to ask? But instead I get hassled because her holiday’s gone down the pan and even interrupted right there in the middle of a sentence to be told things like, “you’ve left the glass door open again.” I know she’s upset about the holiday but…Jesus.

            Now what? She keeps telling me this and that and I keep doing my best to fix it. I know, theoretically, that I’m not supposed to fix it, that I’m just supposed to listen and acknowledge, but I just can’t help it. It’s almost impossible for me to not start working on a solution when a woman starts telling me her problems. Self-help books would say that’s for me to work on, to just listen and not offer fixes – and I’ve tried that lots, and seen that it works, but I still don’t seem to be able to get it into my head that that’s what I should do. And, in a way, should I? By doing that I’m denying my inherent nature. And what the hell’s wrong with solutions anyway?! lol No, I’m not sure about this but I think there’s a better way: a way where men can be men and women can be women, and we don’t have to always be second guessing and suppressing and trying to be something we’re not. So how about this?

            Woman, you’ve got something on your mind, some feelings you want to express: go tell another woman. Get together with your circle of friends and yack and yack and yack until you can come home and feel better. Get it off your chest. Have a laugh. Do it in a place where you know you’ll get all the empathy and sympathy and validation you need. But know that if you try this with a guy, you’ll get solutions. And if that’s what you want then fine. But if not, go to your woman’s group. That’s probably how it was done traditionally and I don’t see why it shouldn’t work. Except this girlfriend of mine doesn’t have a woman’s group, so I get it all instead.

            And man…? Well, man, I don’t even know. That’s probably horribly chauvinistic, isn’t it? Oh well. S’just my solution to what I see as a problem – and I don’t give a flying monkey’s arse what that wet blanket of a lettuce, Dr John Gray says. Be a man, for fuck’s sake! Provide solutions! Hit things and chase balls and build muscles and be a strong and comforting shoulder for your woman in the time of need – but don’t be a woman.

            I do have a feminine side: it’s just that my masculine one is winning the battle right now.

            So who knows what’s gonna happen? Probably, ironically, she’ll be the one coming home early and I’ll be out there on my own, needing to make a bee-line for Marrakech on November the sixth. A big part of me thinks that she should do a spot of solo travel, whether in Spain or Morocco – especially now that I’m actually writing about my own solo adventures, and remembering and loving it. There’s a magic out there when you do it on your own: things come to you, that wouldn’t otherwise in any other way. But will she, won’t she? That’s up to her to decide; I think I’ve done all I can. It’s just a shame that the excitement I was feeling for this time of solitude of mine in Spain has been soured by her jealousy and selfishness. And probably that’s a bit harsh – but that’s what I feel.

            I get the feeling I’m going to have to do some serious thinking about this relationship once this book thing is over and out there. My life, after all, will not be the same – the thing that has been in my head for six or seven years to do, and which has tied me to one thing or another, will be gone. I will be, almost literally, a new man. And I have no idea how it will effect me. I may even want to go back to the road, back to travelling, in pastures and adventures new. I may want some more material. I may, God willing, even make a career out of this. We just don’t know. We just don’t know.

Thursday

Okay, that’s Parts Two and Three been through and edited, to a fairly satisfactory standard, and felt like a good productive day yesterday. Not sure how I’m doing on the timescale though: 22 days to go, and three parts and maybe sixty thousand words still to write and polish; s’gonna be tight. But on I go in any case.

            Do feel, though, that I need to write a little something about Charlottesville, to sort of clear it and my thoughts about it from my head, since that’s what I’ve been immersed in this last four or five days. Man, it made me miss it, all that remembering and memory-jogging. And reading The Musings of The Gus; that boy sure could write – and funny with it too. In fact, I sort of feel in the shade a little by him, having soaked up so much of his bygone words, wishing I could capture the moments the way he did. But what can you do? On and on, and what will be, will be, etcetera.

            I’ve reconnected with some old Charlottesville friends and acquaintances in the past week, via facebook and myspace. Such lovely people! And that makes me pine so for that American life, that openness and spirit of adventure, the wildness and the community, the socialisation. I don’t know whether I’m just older or whether it’s England – I tend towards the latter – but I don’t find that here. I knew so many people back then. And even though it was a fucked up and mental and severely inebriated life, and I was a bad, bad boy who acted atrociously to so many good people, it makes me want it again. In these moments of reliving, I miss them: Leah, Matthew, Gus, the driving, the freedom, the madness. I didn’t make even a small percentage of it that I should have done: in so many ways, I blew it. Imagine, a small boy like me from some arse-end of the world place like South Elmsall being granted the opportunity to live a good life in what has regularly been voted “America’s best place to live” and making such a cock-up of it that I was basically chased from town. It doesn’t bear thinking about.

            Needless to say, for about the first time in years America is featuring most prominently and most favourably in my thoughts. I would love to go back there. I would love to see Charlottesville again. And I would love to have a chance just once more to find old friends and shoot the shit, and maybe recreate a few of those good times in a more sober and adult and less damaging way. I must go see about getting me a visa one of these days…

            And closer to home, Perlilly and I played a gig last night in Oxford – getting on well again – down at The Cape of Good Hope. It was nice to see these new friends I’m making down there – one of whom has offered to fund a drivin’ ‘cross America trip next year, after having read of my exploits – but the set was a bit wank, to be honest. Not that we didn’t play well, but the people didn’t listen. And I generally can’t be arsed when people don’t listen – when they just talk amongst themselves and you have to fight to be heard. I’d rather be at home doing something useful. Or anywhere else, for that matter, doing anything else. Perlilly’s too good for that crap. We must be more selective in the places we play. Last weekend, at the gig in Thame, was too rocking and too amazing to go back to crap like last night.

            Cheers!

            Rory

Wednesday

Went to London yesterday for my monthly check-up following the laser eye surgery, and all is well. Have been a bit worried, since my vision’s been somewhat blurred at times but they say all is normal and I’m healing well. It’s apparently blurred ‘cos there’s still some astigmatism in my left eye (at 0.75, from 3.00) and they say it might require further treatment if it hasn’t settled in three or four months. That’s okay by me; I’d be quite happy to give it another go. Next time, though, I want a video. Everybody got to see what was going on except me!

            Then I came home and worked – and made some half-decent progress on Part Two (while becoming at the same time aware of how much better I could make things if I just had more time) – and after that Perlilly and I went out for dinner. I said, “where do you want to go?” and she said, “wherever you want.” I said, “okay, then, let’s walk up into Headington” – and with that she threw a strop. She didn’t want to walk; she’d already cycled ten miles and had a game of squash. Not that she couldn’t, though (I ascertained), just that she didn’t want to. And she got in a bad mood and off we went then not really talking.

            That was about the final straw for me.

            Fifty metres or so out the door I stopped and asked her if she was going to cheer up.

            She said something about not wanting to walk, and made it clear that she wasn’t (going to cheer up).

            “Fine,” I said, throwing my hands up in frustration, “but I don’t want to spend my time and money on sitting there with you like this. I’ve had enough. You’re behaving like a child.” And I made to go back home – and then I thought better of it, remembering that storming off isn’t really a very sensible thing to do. And then it all came out.

            I told her I thought she was being selfish, and I was tired of her being so cross with me. I told her I thought she was narcissistic – and not that I knew what that meant, I’d have to read up more – but that’s what I thought. I told her all this not expressing her feelings, and being so cold and mean all the time wasn’t working for me. I told her all – and when I say, “all,” I mean, a condensed, boiled down version – of the things that I’ve written about in this journal of late. And then, when I’d got it all out there, I felt better, and clearer, and actually quite fond of her. She was visibly upset, and all quiet and internal, and I put my arm on her back and tried to be consoling. But, at the same time, unbending in my assertions.

            We ate dinner. The food was good. And we talked.

            She cried a bit. She talked about how hard it was for her to express herself. She told me things that I’d done wrong too (nothing wrong with a bit of attack being the strongest form of defence in this kind of situation). And we sort of got closer. She surprised me with how well she took things. And I felt nothing but affection and sympathy for her.

            I listened. She cried. We ate. And we even made some jokes.

            Later, I said maybe I could help her, thinking back to Shane and his Mexico, “how do you feel?” technique that had done so much for me, and I wondered if I could pull it off, never having been that keen on it in the years since. She wants to, though; she knows it’s real. Even her singing teacher has said something about it. And she wonders if that’s where all the lyrics she’s unable to write are hiding. The heart of the onion. It may be time, soon, to have a go at peeling back the layers…

            Is life always this continuous process of expressing and getting out? Or is there a better way, given how momentarily messy and uncomfortable it can be? Or perhaps this is just normal. I do know, though, that her parents don’t express either – and I see where that led, her dad leaving without ever saying why, except in a letter afterwards detailing all the things he perceived her mum had done wrong over the years – like ironing too much – so it’s no surprise she’s like this. At the same time though, I do believe that one of our jobs in life is to take what our parents have given us and to improve on it. And to then pass it on to our children so that they may improve on it further still. So it’ll be good if she can crack this. And if I can somehow help her, that’ll be good for me too.

            We were in good spirits then; the best for some time. We went home and watched an episode of Max and Paddy, and laughed. We fell asleep, and then woke up an hour or so later, and had some good hot lovin’. I felt wonderfully fond of her. She’s a great girl. And all thoughts of “narcissism” and “selfishness” are, for now, put to one side and forgotten. The world is anew and who’s to say what the future brings. She sleeps now and I don’t know who she’ll be when she wakes up. A person can change in a moment. And so I’ll see what comes later.

            Tschus!

Tuesday

I’m not sure what’s going on with my girlfriend; she seems to have been so unhappy with me, for so long, nothing I do or say is right. She doesn’t want to break up with me – but maybe I do with her. She just seems depressed – but says she isn’t, and expresses it more in getting at me, rather than talking about being unhappy – staying in bed all day and watching youtube, not really getting out and doing anything (and then claiming to others that she’s been so busy), moaning about her singing career but then making no efforts to practise or write songs, or tick things off on the repeated lists of things to do we keep making, such as record a CD, get some gigs. I’ve helped her loads in this, at the expense of my own stuff at times, and it grates that she then lazes around and does nothing herself. And does less than nothing, if I’m honest, because she’s so selfish.

She knows I have to write this book – but what has she done to help me? Does she desist in coming in my room and interrupting me, to say something about music? Has she ever made or offered to make me anything to eat? Has she relieved any of the burdens on me? Been extra-nice? Supportive? Encouraging? The answer to all those questions is, “no.” Right at the beginning of our relationship I perceived that she was the sort of person who only thinks of themselves. Now, it seems, I’m being proved right.

I’m wondering if she’s something of a narcissist. She is incredibly demanding when it comes to her singing and looks, and has told me off many times because I do not flatter her or encourage her in the right way. I am, apparently, supposed to tell her that she looks great every day, and that this is obvious, common knowledge, something even the stupidest of men should now. And I am also supposed to tell her that her every performance is amazing, and that she’s the best singer in Oxford, and that she’s much better than anyone that might be appearing on the same bill. She says it’s important that the people who love her feel this way, that it’s obvious that they would think that she’s the best. But it’s hard for me to see it this way.

What if she gives a bad performance? What if we see someone – as happened on Sunday night, much to her obvious distress – that is a better singer, who writes better songs? What do I say then? I’m a man who has been steeped in honesty, who loves that and finds it difficult to be anything but (although I’m learning to temper that and refine it all the time). So what I can honestly say is that she is great, and very, very good, and that I think she has the potential to be one of the best, if she works at at it – which she doesn’t – but that’s about as far as I can go. She gets mad at me and then deflated and sad. She has such a fragile ego. And so much talent, but so little effort to go with it, which is really the main ingredient in becoming a success. I don’t see how trying to bolster this fragile ego with untrue platitudes is going to help her to see that she has a lot of work to be done. My own belief is that, yes, you give encouragement and praise, but it is by pointing to ways to improve, and making it clear that there is much space to improve in, that people work themselves to greatness. If you think you’re already great, why would you work any harder?

She’s been emotionally spoiled, I think. Her mum thinks the sun shines out of her arse, that everything she does is amazing, will give up whatever she’s doing to listen to her at the drop of a hat, and never, ever says anything that approaches criticism, even as she’s later confessed to me that she didn’t think something was very good. This is the emotional response that she’s used to, and she has come now to demand it of everybody: she tells me that one of the things she liked most about her ex-boyfriend was that he always told her she was the best. She has also told me that he was a philandering dickhead who probably the said the same things to everybody, knowing that they worked. But this she prefers to anything of honesty that I have to offer. I just don’t work like that.

I must read up more on narcissism. But this idea of her as a selfish and self-centred narcissist is starting to dominate my impression of her – and the problem is, it’s not the kind of thing (I imagine) you can share with a person. Why do I think this? Well, there’s the aforementioned desire and demand for all a person’s attention and adoration; there’s the way she swans about the house leaving a mess everywhere but never tidying up, being cooked for and cleaned up for afterwards, and not even noticing; demanding chores of me, when I’m in the midst of my busiest and most crucial time of my life, after all the weeks and months that I’ve picked up after her, not thinking, “oh, I could just do this, that would be nice”; thinking, in short, only of herself. She knows that I have to write, and that this has thrown a spanner in the works as far as our upcoming holiday to Morocco and Spain is concerned, but what has been her response? To encourage, to put me and my life-long dream first? Or to complain about how much she wants to go to Morocco? I don’t think I need to tell you what the answer is.

The question then, for me, is what to do about this. On the whole, she’s a lovely girl, with so much to offer: smart, funny, emotionally intelligent, sexy, gorgeous, talented and creative and, possibly, loving. She’s fun to be around, she digs me a lot, doesn’t nag me too much, doesn’t get drunk, and we get on really well. I’d like to get out more, do more things, more fun things, but that seems hard at times, and I’m probably as much to blame in that as it seems hard for me to know what fun things there are to do in this modern-day England, most of my ideas for fun being wrapped up in mad adventures and sport. It does seem, though, a challenge to get her out of the house – or even out of bed at the moment. Which is not something that’s going to endear a person to me (thinking my mum and Eve). But what’s the answer? What’s the explanation? Well, I’m wont to understand in the following ways:

1. She’s young. She’s twenty-three, and maybe there’s still a lot of the teenager left in her, and maybe – I don’t know – teenagers are selfish and only think of themselves, and expect to be/are used to having others fawn over them, clean up after them, not having to give anything in return.
2. She’s fresh from university. She’s finished her degree without any real plan, other than to get into singing, and suddenly she’s found herself in the gulf, the void of post-child, pre-adult life. It’s so long since I’ve lived like that – since I was seventeen, fifteen years ago – that I don’t really know how to relate to it. But on several occasions she’s said that she feels like she’s on summer holidays, which makes sense, and the fact of the matter is, she’s never had to live a ‘real life’, going from high school to gap year to university to this. And all the while supported by a loving, non-pressurising, and fairly well-off family, so that she’s never had to deal with the issues of money or jobs that us normal people have to take into account. Once again, spoiled (in comparison to my own upbringing, at least). And just typing that makes me embarrassingly feel that I’ve gotten myself into a relationship with a child! lol
3. She’s been spoiled. She’s a self-centred narcissist who thinks only of number one, who demands of others and gives nothing back, and who will throw her rattle at you if you don’t satisfy those demands. She’s unreasonable, and needs to realise that she’s acting horribly. She needs someone to tell her that she’s behaving like a baby – or, perhaps more fittingly, a diva – and that unless she wants this particular boyfriend to walk, she’d better do something to change her ways. Like grow up. And make him the occasional meal. And give something in return.
4. It could all be my fault. I could be missing something very obvious about how you treat a woman, and maybe you’re supposed to flatter them everyday, and tell them they look great – even when you think they look stupid, smeared and plastered in excessive make-up and fake lashes, etcetera – and pander to their whims. Maybe you’re supposed to pick up after them, and never mutter anything that could be construed as a criticism, and remain happy and cheerful in the face of their endless dissatisfactions and telling-offs and sexual withholdings. It could be all me. Other men do all that stuff, I suppose. And it’s not like I have a great track record. And she does seem a lot more stable and normal than I ever was at that age. Maybe I just don’t know what I’m doing. Maybe I don’t even know what it means to love someone, because perhaps when you love someone you do see them as the best at everything – even when they’re lazy and horrible and inferior – and maybe love is something that, when it exists, makes objectively necessarily disappear. Or maybe I do know how to love but I just don’t love her. But what is love anyway? That’s always the question I end up asking.
5. She’s going through a bad patch. She’s waking up to the realities of life. She’s struggling to come to terms with that, the way the caterpillar struggles to work its way out of the cocoon. Reality and other people – other real people, as opposed to the excessive adoration of her mother – are providing a painful and shocking awakening, the shedding of her childish clothes – her ego – not exactly to her liking. She’ll struggle and moan and complain – and then one day she’ll say, “boy, have I been selfish, I really ought to stop that,” and she does. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Maybe she’s just a genuine, star-quality diva, and that’s what she was born with and that’s what she’ll be, a la all those other stars who demand and require and who people laugh at in newspapers and pity (yet envy) because of the way they fly in their hair stylists at enormous expense and explode into fits of rage because it’s the wrong type of mineral water or the carpet’s the wrong colour. Maybe that’s what she is – and good luck to her. But it’s not the sort of thing that I want to be around.

And now I have to go catch a bus to London to go get my less-than-perfect though recently-lasered eyes checked out again.

Adios!

Monday

Yass yass! Oops, I forgot to update. Oh well. Been writing lots; got through Part One Friday and Saturday, started on Part Two yesterday but only a quarter of the way through, so already a day behind schedule. Also, so much computing is making my heart sick. And I’m beginning to doubt my ability to make something good in such a short span of time; I keep suddenly seeing how I can make it so much better. Oh well again: I’ll persevere, and there’ll always be another opportunity to edit.

            In other news, Perlilly and I played the most awesome gig ever on Saturday night, over at the Old Nag’s Head in Thame, totally rocked the place. And then, last night – well, until about 4.30 this morning – she finally got around to expressing some of the things that have been bothering her, and that was good. I hope. It’s a challenge being with a woman who finds it difficult to get her feelings out – and most blokes would complain about the opposite! But, yet again, ah well.

            Now ought to get stuck back in; this could be getting daunting soon. And I’ve only got to go to London tomorrow, and play a gig on Wednesday, and go to Spain and/or Morocco next week, and juggle a million billion other things – which are in reality, only three. But, you know how it feels…

            Cheers!

Friday

Well I went to work again yesterday, faced the music, and they were pretty nice about it, just said I’d have to pay the excess – not sure about that – and asked me if I thought I could actually drive it, that big beast of a van. Despite overnight reconciling with myself that it was okay to just admit that I was a shit driver – especially knowing that I needed to extricate myself from the position, what with all this writing I need to do – something in my testosterone wouldn’t let me do it and I said, “sure.” So off I was then to Brighton, Portsmouth and Southampton – after a little driving test from the boss, which I passed with fairly flying colours – and once more into sleep- and headache- inducing motorwayness, and wanting it to end right there. Didn’t crash, though – and only had maybe two moments where it might have been a possibility, which isn’t bad for me. I am shit, though, I’ve got to admit it. And it’s silly for me to even think about continuing, given next week’s holiday, and the book I now have twenty-eight days to write…

            So this morning I sent him an email saying sorry, I’ve reflected, no, I don’t think I’m good enough. I hope he’s not too put out.

            After work I went to see Perlilly sing some jazz at a restaurant in Oxford; she was pretty good. We don’t seem to be getting on very well at the minute though, so that always makes it a strain. She always seems to be cross with me, not interested. And only interested in herself. It makes me mad, this apparent narcissism and selfishness, and how she’s always wanting things from me, and I’m always thinking about saying something to her. But if I’ve learned anything recently it’s that criticising the very make-up of others is rarely helpful. Also, if it makes me mad, why don’t I just detach myself from it? It makes me mad ‘cos it interferes with my own desires, of needing to write, and I get waywarded with it. But, rather than telling her she’s got to change, why don’t I just change myself, and not get waywarded, and just do what I think she’s preventing me from doing anyway? So that’s the plan.

            The other plan is to write. Twenty-eight days. Four weeks. Five parts. Maybe a hundred thousand words. Written and edited. Formatted. Proofread. Submitted. Plus a cover. Yikes!

            But I have the faith. I believe I can do it.

            I can do it – the only question is, will I?

            Effort. Resolve. Determination. Perseverance. Check.

            Okay, let’s get it on…

00.26

Day done, almost made it through the whole of Part One, which is cool; hope to get that finished off and get through Part Two by the end of the weekend and then get cracking on new material, which’ll be the hard bit. Good to get stuck in and knuckle down and achieve – and wasn’t actually too hard to do (turning off the wireless button on my laptop seemed to be a tonic for focus). Also had a dream about Dave, who has offered to do the cover for me; he’d done some really cool pics. Hope he can come up with something.

            After that Perlilly and I had a bit of a practice for our gig tomorrow night, learned Lady Marmalade and one or two others, and then I went off to my first game of football in over three weeks, down at Brookes. Was worried that I’d be out of shape but ran and hussled as much as ever, scored one and laid on the other in a disappointing 4-2 defeat, a couple of sloppy late goals putting paid to some good efforts. Oh well, I never seem to be on the winning team with these guys.

            I was thinking about Perlilly on the way home, thinking about how it’s been weeks and weeks since she’s been nice to me for any length of time. That’s a bit disappointing, and my first instinct is to want to know why, to want her to express herself to me, or to think about leaving, think she’s not right for me. Shamefully, that’s probably the direction I go in most of the time – but tonight I contemplated a bit deeper and got myself to realise that she probably wasn’t happy – she’s in limbo, after finishing university – and also that if I wanted her to be nice to me punishing her wasn’t really the right way to go about it, that I ought to do something nice for her. So I stopped in at the super and bought her not one but two bunches of flowers – and they weren’t on special either – and three little bars of chocolate. She was so happy when she saw them she gave me my first proper kisses in ages.

            We learned some more songs after that: Cat Stevens’ Wild World; Push The Button by The Sugababes; Don’t Stop The Music by Rihanna. Sounding pretty good.

            Here’s to another productive day tomorrow! Cheers!

Wednesday

I’m up at 8 and off to get a ride to work, and after much deliberation I’ve decided to tell them that when I got home yesterday I’d suddenly got an email asking me to write a book by the end of the month and, gee, I just don’t know what to do. I think I can work one day; or two weeks; or possibly the whole time and do both of them – but then what about the holiday? – but the guy (my hirer) is cool, and he says just work till the end of the week and then see what you think, I’m sure we’ll find someone else.

            So I’m happy with that.

            I get there and me and this other chap spend a few hours piling old computer monitors onto pallets; they’ve got this new business recycling computers, and they’ve got this warehouse there that is chockerblock full of computers and monitors and projectors and photocopiers and printers, some of them not that old but all of them just tossed aside and discarded, by businesses, by schools, by universities. There’s some awesome kit, and if I was into awesome kit I’d be sick to my stomach with desire. But I’m not, so that’s okay.

            Then it comes time to drive, and off I go to Croydon/Bromley, and it’s all rather nice, and I get some thinking time about my writing, and I’m feeling good about getting stuck in when I get home. I pick up a load of equipment from a special school, and get a decent sweat on carting it up stairs and loading it in, and then it’s back to Abingdon and done.

            Except…

            Except I think, I don’t like the route the satnav brought me on, I think I’ll see if there’s a better one. And there is – it’s only five minutes longer, but ten miles shorter, and avoids those narrow country roads that scare me so, and make me think I’m going to crash, which I am almost always am. And off I go.

            Except…

            Except that the traffic is horrid and what the hell have I done taking a route through Putney and Hammersmith and Richmond at this time of day when the schools are emptying and people are leaving work and isn’t London always like this anyway? Why didn’t I just take the country roads and get on the M25 and back. Slowly, my ETA creeps up from 5 o’clock, to 5.30, to 6, and it’s taking me half an hour to go five miles, and it’s all getting rather frustrating. Two hours to make the motorway. Two hours to go thirty miles when it should be less than two hours all the way. And now I’m getting a headache, and that just won’t do for later, not when I’ve got thirty-one days to write a book, and not when I’ve just decided to start the whole thing from scratch, mad as I am, but I’m sure I can do it. And at least I’ve made the motorway now…

            Except…

            Except I then clip a van and lose a bit of my wing mirror with a bang. Except I then drive into a pole in the parking lot of the service station where I’ve stopped to pee and lose the bumper and severely dent the side. Except I then do the same to the other side of the van, and all I can do is laugh and laugh because it’s just so ridiculous that I’ve only been in it four hours, and how he said, “look after it, it’s his baby,” and look what I’ve done. And sure I want to cry too. But mostly it’s just ridiculous.

            And back on the road again, wondering what I’ll say, and wondering if I’ll tell Perlilly, who’s waiting for me at home, after five days up in Leeds, and thinking how much it’ll cost me. Luckily, I don’t have to face the music until tomorrow, seeing as I was so late getting back. But what will I say? Sorry, I guess. I’m such a schmuck. And such a bad driver. I can barely believe how bad I am. And I’m sure you can’t too.

            And now I’m home and frazzled and headachey and nothing’s been done and that’s one less day I have to write a hundred thousand word book. And go on holiday. And sort out my life. I feel like I have too much going on, but really I don’t at all, I just lack the ability to focus. Ah well, it’s only your lifelong dream, eh?

            On a brighter note, Mrs H is recovered from her illness. She was sick in the stomach and had a migraine coming but I gave her a spot of ‘reiki’ this morning and she said she fell asleep for a couple of hours immediately after and then woke up feeling right as rain. Smashing! Although it could have just been a coincidence.

Tuesday

So I wake up thinking, let’s get this month’s short story out the way and then I can start tomorrow – the 1st, and there’s a nice feeling about that, given that I have until the 31st to get it done – on the book. Except, 9.46 arrives and, lo and behold, a call comes in from this place I went to last week for an interview driving a van. Poo. I don’t even know, to be honest, why I’d applied – it’s miles away for a start; I thought it was in Oxford – and I must have pushed out of my mind the fact I’ve got a holiday booked for pretty much the whole of October; I don’t know, I was just up late one night scanning gumtree – probably feeling like I needed to change something in my life – and saw it there and sent off the old email, there you go. So they call me yesterday, and ask if I can go in and do a job to Staines, and I’m kind of thinking, sure, and I’m kind of thinking, that’s probably a bad idea given all I’ve got on, and so I say, sure, and then toss a coin to confirm, and the coin says yes and soon enough I’m on an hour long bike ride in the rain to get to Abingdon.

And I get there, and me and this chap get in the van – and we drive straight back to Oxford, right past my house – d’oh! – and then fifty miles to Staines, to pick up some old computers, and then fifty miles and straight past my house – d’oh! – again, to drop me off in Abingdon so I can ride another hour back. And out the window goes the writing, and I spend the evening reading Derren Brown in the bath and then contacting old Charlottesville associates and bed.

Mrs H. is sick and I tend to her a little too.

September 29th

Well that was sort of an extraordinary day – although it didn’t begin so well, my newly-established resolve to be normal and productive pretty much ruined from the off by staying up till 5am (again!) on the old computer. So naturally, I felt dreadful ‘pon waking some five hours later, and didn’t do very much at all (well, I learned some songs, tidied my room, thought a lot about this and that).

Then, at some point in the middle of all that not-very-much, this email comes in saying, “we want to publish your book; have it to us by the end of October and it’ll be available to buy in time for Christmas.” Now I wasn’t too excited, because it wasn’t like a real book deal with Penguin or whatever, and I still don’t quite understand it, but it’s like some Arts Council drive to publish unpublished writers, and it all seems above board. Basically, I send them my book, they publish it, and I get 60% of the royalties for every copy sold. Seems a bit too good to be true. But also seems true.

So that was sort of weird.

First thoughts: damn, I got some work to do; what about the holiday to Morocco? Perlilly won’t be pleased; is this for real? I was sort of dull inside really; later I got happier.

I tried a bit after that for a nap, but got caught up in various things, looking up old ‘associates’ from Charlottesville and saying, “is it okay if I write about you? Would you like to choose your own pseudonym?” and having a look back at the rough draft of Part Two, which I sort of enjoyed. Later on, I thought I’d get out of the house and go for a game of touch rugby – but just as I was heading out the door I had this thought pop into my head about the newly-discovered floatation tank place down on Cowley Road and I thought I’d give that a go. I gave them a call and booked in a session, and did that instead.

Ah, and was it wonderful! I lay there in that floating, gloopy water, all just breathing and having my thoughts, and it seemed pretty normal, no flashing lights or visions or voices from above, no regressions through evolution to becoming monkey man. But then I got out and realised I felt wonderful: totally mellow; happy; peaced. I hadn’t been too happy before that – what with being bothered about the impasse and falling out with Perlilly’s mum, and the funk of staying up too late – but now I felt great. I went and chatted with the attractive and lovely receptionist there for a while, and we talked about Colorado and how people there are so outdoorsy and healthy, and have so much good things going on – and it made me sad for the dreary Oxford business of cars and damp grey pavements and materialism – and I felt like there was a part of the world I’d like to be involved with more. I told her about my vision quests and my healing gift; I was hoping she might want to get me involved with something. I left feeling wonderful and floating and chill.

After that I went over the road to see if an acquaintance – Perlilly’s rival singer in town – was in (a nice girl; we’ve chatted and got on, but I feel like I haven’t really been ‘allowed’ to see her, which is daft) but she wasn’t answering the doorbell, even though the lights were on. I texted someone (Perlilly’s ex Lee, who plays guitar with this girl) to get her number and he said they were all playing a gig and meeting up just around the corner pretty soon, I should come. So, I thought, I will. I need to make some friends, and they’re all pretty nice. I need to have something of my own life, and to get out more, and associate.

I went to the pub where they were meeting, though, and I could barely stand it. There were a few guys in there that I recognised from open mic nights and, nice though they are, I suppose, I think they’re basically alkies and junkies, and they sort of make me shudder when they talk to me with their sweaty palms and glassy stares so I was hoping they wouldn’t talk to me. And the noise and vibe of the pub was rubbing up against my fragile and delicate floatingness vibe to such an extent that I almost wanted to cry. I felt like this delicate flower, this small child in a harsh and caustic world. I couldn’t have stayed if I’d wanted to. I wrote a little something on a scrap of paper –

Floated – felt okay during; felt awesome and mellow after. Everyone in there looked so healthy and good. Outside: good, but the music in the food place [I had a falafel before the pub] affecting me somewhat; saw Nikki; in the pub: less great. Dudley and that chap, looking so rough, makes me want to go home. Once again, feel like there’s nothing in this ‘place’ for me. England, eh? So dirty, so different to those green blue skies and healthy roads of Colorado’s smiling youth, on their bicycles, their skis, their hikes. The outdoor world; while we, in England, dwell in pubs.

– and left.

I wondered what to do then and tossed a coin. I could have waited a while longer and gone straight to the gig – I did want to still do that – or I could have gone home (I was tired). It said go home and I did.

Krystina was there. We chatted for a bit and then she started to say how badly I’d hurt her during our last conversation. She said that she’d felt mortally wounded; that no one had hurt her like that since her husband had left; that I’d made her feel mad. A part of me felt she being totally unreasonable, saying I’d said things that I hadn’t, being overly dramatic – but a bigger part – the part of me that had thought about our conversation all weekend, and realised that I’d made a mistake in thinking I could express myself so freely with her and be accepted and understood – felt terrible. I felt like I’d done her a great wrong. I felt like I’d really messed things up with her, and with my being here, and, as a result, with Perlilly. I couldn’t see a way to put it right. She was so upset, and crying, and suddenly I felt so worthless and wretched, and that I didn’t have a clue how to live, or how to talk, or how to be with other people in the world. I found it all so bewildering and confusing, and really felt like I had no experience at all in interacting with others, that I was stupid, and that all I did was make a mess. I broke down and cried myself, and said how wretched and worthless I felt – and then she was so utterly nice to me, and wiped my tears, and we sat like that on the floor for ages, just talking and crying – mostly me crying by now – and realising stuff; mostly parent stuff. I realised that I really have no idea at all, because I really had no parenting, and no interaction with my parents, and it’s all so foreign to me, this being part of a family, dealing with the ups and down – I don’t deal with the ups and downs: I just dig the ups and then leave when the downs arrive – but she was utterly nice and made me feel so much better, and accepted, and loved, and I didn’t feel so naughty after all. But I did make a resolve to be more careful with my words, because my words can hurt, no matter how well intentioned and ‘honest’ they are. I feel like I have so much to learn. And I feel like, how can I possibly write a book? Because what the hell have I got to show or teach the world? I mean, would I lead anyone to where I am today? Would I want them to emulate me? In a word: no.

Once we’d finished crying – it was about 10.30 by now – we decided to go out, her to her thing and me to mine, both being in basically the same place. I went, and chatted with Nikki – who I like a lot, based on the few small conversations we’ve had (but only in a friendship way, just in case I needed to make that clear) – and then watched her and Lee do their thing. They’re basically doing exactly the same thing that Perlilly and I do, which is pretty hilarious: a guy on a guitar and a girl on the mic; the same thousand pound busking amp; the same songs; the same kind of vibe. Except Lee’s a really good singer, so he does harmonies and stuff, and he’s nowhere near as sloppy on the guitar as I am. Nor does he seem to forget his chords. And Perlilly's a better singer than Nikki – even though Nikki’s really good – but then I’d say Nikki’s probably got more of a presence on stage, is more free and up for it than Perlilly, who takes a while to loosen up and is sort of hard work sometimes. The thing is, though, those three are really into their music, and they seem to sort of live for it, and I don’t. I think music’s all right, and I’ll listen to it every now and then, but it doesn’t really do that much for me. Except for Jimi and Blur and Pulp and Gong and Radiohead and Alanis I’m probably not that bothered; honestly, I only listen to music about once a week or less. And that’s probably why I’ll never be any good at it, and why I’ll probably continue to make loads of mistakes when I play with Perlilly and not really get that much out of it, it’s just a chore. Though I do enjoy playing my own stuff, on occasion.

And I digress: the point here is to try and relate what actually happened in my day, which I seem to rarely do, and which I believe will be good for me, and for this journal, given posterity and all. You read me and you know my feelings and expressions – but can you really get a sense of what I’ve been up to on a day-to-day basis? How I’ve filled my time? Where I’ve shopped? No. So let’s give this a try.

An extraordinary day. Given a month to write a book, and have it published by Christmas. Floated in a groovy New Age tank, and felt great. Cried my goddamn eyes out, and got humbled, and felt rotten. Saw some people play guitar, and met a man called Pete. And then, when I could have been asleep by midnight, or could have written this, or could have done something worthwhile, I stayed up and watched humorous moments from quiz shows past on youtube: things like the turkey guy from Family Fortunes. Until Krystina came in at 1 am to say goodnight, and to be loving and nice and reassuring and said, “come on, lights out!” in her jolly gay and smiling way, and gave me a peck on the cheek and, na-night. I wanted to say, “I love you,” but I thought I’d better not. I think I want to keep more things inside. I only said the things I did ‘cos I saw some things she did made her unhappy and I thought that by pointing them out, and suggesting another way, she could be less unhappy. But, I guess, the way I said it was rubbish, and just made her feel like I was saying she was mad and wrong, and that’s why I hate it that I have this stupid part of me that thinks it needs to teach everybody something, and why I wish it wasn’t there, and that I could be more normal, and just be nice and not piss people off, and I guess that’s something I’m going to need to practise. It’s all ego, isn’t it? Not love?

Na-night.

PS: A mad email I wrote today --

Hi Goran, I'm a huge fan of yours although I've never seen you play live. Must come to one of the Blackrock events if I get a chance!

My question is about Wimbledon in 2001. I remember seeing you at the beginning of the tournament on one of the outside courts and I was so happy to see you were still going (I'd followed you back in the early days, but been off travelling and lost touch with tennis). They were talking about how you hadn't won a match for ages and had lost to some nobody at Queens, but it was weird 'cos I just had this special feeling about it, and I thought you'd do well. I followed all your matches like I was compelled to. I even turned down a job so I could stay home and watch Wimbledon!

Anyway, the point here is that you had this belief back then that God wanted you to win, that it was destiny, and given all the things that happened, what an outsider you were, the rain in the Henman match and all, it so seemed like it was true. I was well into God at the time, having been living a really spiritual life (when I say I was travelling, what I mean is that I was off living like a monk, having mystical experiences and getting in touch with spiritual realities, etc) and I had this healing gift which I'd used to help people with various illnesses and things, and which always worked really well, as well as doing a lot of meditation. I used to pray for you while you played, and when it looked like you were losing your temper I'd meditate and get all calm, and try and send you that calmness, try to take away your anxieties. I'd do that and then I'd watch you and think, holy crap, it's worked! (Sure, I could have just imagined it, wishful thinking, etc) My question is, I suppose, did you feel anything? Did you feel that something magical was going on, that was a bigger force at work helping you? And did you do anything to try and tap into that, to get a little 'help from above'? I really do believe there was an aspect of destiny about that whole thing, and in my silly little world I like to think that I lent a hand. The energy at the final was unbelievable; I've got the climax on video and, I swear, everytime I watch it I burst into tears when you hit the deck after finally winning. There really was something very, very special about that day, and about the whole tournament (not least of all the weather during the semis!)

And if that's not one of the most interesting and bizarre questions you'll receive during this I'll be very surprised. Hope to see some sort of answer! :-)

All the best,

Rory

Agony Aunt

I wish I could understand myself; I have two bad days and I think the world’s gonna end. I feel like there’s so little to tie me to anything – to a place, to people, to the past or the future – that when something comes to cut those strings, I just go floating off into space. Listen: I’ve no job, no desire for a job, few friends in my immediate vicinity, barely any possessions or memories, no real hobbies or things I do on a regular basis, and I live in the house of my girlfriend’s mum, and when my girlfriend and/or her mum act like they don’t like me, I realise just how unbounded I am, and I feel like the loneliest and most unloved person alive. Imagine if they were to say, we don’t want you here anymore. Suddenly I’d be a bloke alone with a bad full of things and nowhere to go; that would pretty much be that. Strange, innit?

Still, things could be worse. What about this guy here…

Dear Rory,

My lovely sexy girlfriend has suddenly stopped giving me blow jobs, I don’t know why. She used to be all for it, and made me feel so good, but it’s been months now and I just feel so unloved. I do loads for her, and she’s forever sticking my hands down her knickers, but I hardly get anything in return. What am I doing wrong? Has she gone off me? Or is she seeing someone else? I feel so desperately unhappy!

Yours, desperately unhappy,

Desperately Unhappy

Dear Desperately Unhappy,

Hm, that’s a tricky one, ‘cos usually I’d say that one’s girl goes off sex because of some problems in her own life, maybe stress at work, self-esteem issues – but if she’s still liking sex, just not doing things for you, then it must be something else. Are you clean? Do you take regular showers? If it’s not that, maybe she’s just selfish? Maybe she doesn’t really understand about give and take, just wants and doesn’t want to give. Or maybe now that she’s got you hooked she feels like she doesn’t have to do anything, and if she can get away with it, why not? Or perhaps she doesn’t really love you – I mean, if she did, surely she’d want to please you as much as you want to please her? Of course, I could be totally wrong about all of it…

Dear Rory,

I’ve been feeling lately that I’d like a new lover, and I’ve drawn up a list of things that I want. Please note, they’re not necessarily needs, just qualities that I prefer. Do have a read through and let me know if you feel you might be able to do a job for me; I’ve been reading your words and I sort of think you’re hot. Here’s what I’m after: someone who derives joy when someone else succeeds; someone who doesn’t play dirty when engaged in competition; someone who has a big intellectual capacity but knows that it alone does not equate wisdom; someone who sees everything as an illusion but enjoys it even though they are not of it; someone who is both masculine and feminine; someone who is politically aware; someone who doesn’t believe in capital punishment; someone who derives joy from diving in and seeing that loving someone can actually feel like freedom; someone funny, self-deprecating and adventurous, with many formed opinions; someone uninhibited in bed, who wants it more than three times a week, and up for being experimental; someone athletic; someone thriving in a job that helps their brother; someone not addicted, curious and communicative.

Do let me know.

Yours sincerely,

A.M., Toronto

Dear Alanis,

Many thanks for your flattering note. It is with great pleasure that I can confirm that I am able to fulfil – on a good day – seventeen of these twenty-one preferences, which I hope will more than suffice for your purpose. I should let you know, however, that on a bad day this figure drops to about eight or nine (and three of those are about sex). A more realistic number might therefore be somewhere in between, somewhere around the 60% mark. Will that do for you?

Regards,

Rory

Dear Rory,

I feel so all alone sometimes: I feel like I could just float away and nobody would care or give a damn, and I’d just be this bearded wandering tramp, and maybe that’s how all tramps started. Other times, though, I feel really trapped, that I can’t get away from the people or situation I’m in, and that I should but just don’t know how too; maybe I’m scared that I’ll lose them or they won’t want me back, so I just stick around even though I’m crying out for some breathing space, and even though I know that it’s making it worse by being here. Other times again I feel quite happy, like I’m the king of the goddamned world, one of the greatest people there ever was – though I’ve then got to wonder why nobody wants to be my friend. Sometimes I feel like the world is such a strange and scary and confusing place, and when I look around me I see others who don’t seem as nice or together or whatever, but who seem to be prospering, who have mates, who have the things that I don’t have and want. Other times I wish I was away from it all, because it seems like I’ll never ever make it work trying to be normal, trying to be materialistic and sociable and whatever. Sometimes I can’t think of a damned thing to say – and sometimes I can’t shut up. Sometimes I can be funny and happy and child-like. And sometimes I can be so serious and dour and dull and it bothers me so much I can barely stand myself. Sometimes I’m so lazy, and just can’t be arsed, and sometimes I just feel like crying all the time, but the tears don’t come and eventually I get better, and then I’m back to laughing and larking about again. Sometimes I’m such a disappointment to myself and I can’t stand the way I am, so critical and judgmental and scheming and bitter, and so inadequate when compared to the others I see around me. And then sometimes, like I said, I just think I’m totally awesome. I’m confused.

Can you shed some light?

Yours, bewilderingingly,

Jonty

Well Jonty, all I can say is: join the club. And, sheesh, I know just how you feel.

Dear Rory,

When I poo - and I do good, easy poos - I seem to have to wipe loads more than other people. Not that I really know how many wipes other people do. But I seem to do lots, and I don't think it's normal. Can you tell me what is normal? It usually takes me about twenty.

Frustratingly,

Shitty Arse

Dear Shitty Arse,

I do believe there's no such thing as normal. However, in your case, I'd recommend going to see a doctor.

Love,

Rory

Dear Rory,

I seem to have problems getting jealous over my girlfriend, who it turns out is a really trustworthy and decent type. Sure, she likes a flirt, and has her own 'father issues' that sort of keep her wanting stuff from guys, and maintains friendships with her exes, but having investigated all that she's come up roses - you know, reading her texts, spying on her emails, etc - so there's no real reason why it should bother me - but it still does. I'd love for it not to: it just seems to make me less pleasant and fun to be around, plus less happy than usual. Any advice?

Hand wringingingly yours,

Cecil

Dear Cecil - if that is your real name,

Do you have any history of being cheated on? If your girlfriend really is as honest and trustworthy as you've said then it's probably just your own fear and insecurity playing on your mind. You can tell her when you need reassurance, if it's that bad - but this might soon get old for her, and won't really take you anywhere. I'd recommend shutting up and trying to ignore the part of your mind that wants you to believe there's something to worry about. Plus, have some therapy or something.

Fondest regards,

Rory

Dear Rory, I'm bored.

Get a job.

Dear Rory, I'm putting on weight.

Do some exercise, play some sports - and stop eating things that are bad for you. Plus, don't sit around on your arse so much, ya lazy.

Dear Rory, I don't have any friends.

Join a club, do some volunteering, make an effort. Invite people to stuff. Tell people to invite you to stuff. Smile and listen and make them think you're a nice girl/guy. Have some fun. Also, adapting yourself so that you can easily fit in with and become one of the lowest common denominators is a really great way of ensuring that you'll never be alone for very long.

Dear Rory, I'm ugly.

Wait for your next birth.

Dear Rory, I'm well good looking.

Wait for your next birth.

Dear Rory, I don't have any money.

Yes you do.

Dear Rory, I think I'm addicted to tapping on a computer keyboard and staring at a screen; it's almost become a compulsion. It's strange but, in many ways it seems preferable to real life, to actual interaction with other humans. Is this a problem? Am I normal? And should I do something about it?

Yes, yes, and yes.

Nine Things

Just finished Lynne Truss’s “Talk To The Hand”; she’s actually very funny. And makes some good points too. Here’s what it made me think:

1. I use too much internet and computer.
2. I ought to get out more, and interact with the real world, to see what it’s actually like.
3. Various things about Perlilly’s mum, who’s well keen on manners, and perhaps too much so.
4. That I shouldn’t tolerate companies that treat you like crap and make you jump through hoops after you’ve given them money. I’m mainly thinking The Carphone Warehouse.
5. That I don’t suffer from the traditional English inability to be direct. Actually, I’m very direct. I think I learned this in America (though being a Yorkshireman probably helped as well).
6. Maybe I should try things like telling rude people they ought to be ashamed of themselves, and ticking off other people’s children; you know, a bit of collective social responsibility.
7. I could perhaps try to be more respectful to others. Although I suppose I am quite respectful.
8. Really, I seem to be doing all right; probably most others are too. I wonder if the world is really getting worse or not? Maybe I should go and have a look and find out.
9. I really, really do need to spend less time on a computer. It’s driving me mad. Literally!

How to be just like me

Play football – lots of football. Run madly and chase everything and never stop. Tackle people, but stay on your feet and don’t dive in. Get in good positions. Shoot with your left foot. Pass the ball and try not to waste it doing silly things – and if you can’t go forwards, don’t worry about going back or to the side: better that than losing it. Celebrate all your team’s goals – but especially your own. Shout, “come on boys!” and, “nice ball”, things like that. Play for two or three or even four hours non-stop, and when your body says, “I can’t take it any more” say, “sure you can” and carry on. Get stuck in. Get cut and bruised. Score lots of goals and talk about them later. And have sore legs in the morning.

Don’t drive or walk – and certainly don’t take the bus – cycle everywhere (unless you’re going more than twenty miles or it’s pissing it down). Bike as quickly as you can, hardly ever change gear, and try and race people. Go through red lights. Weave in and out of cars. Do it non-handed for miles on end. And get grease all over your legs. Also, ignore all traffic signals (especially those that say “No Entry” or “One-Way”).

Play squash. Play for two hours at a time, and dive full length on the floor, and run, run, run. Wham it as hard as you can. Angle it off the walls. Laugh lots and occasionally squeak one out in the corner, and then giggle to yourself when you and your opponent change sides. Get into really long rallies and then crack up in hysterics so that you’re barely able to hit the ball. Slam into walls with your shoulder. Play with your top off. Sweat.

Make people think that you’ve got a beard – but what you’ve really got is forgetfulness. Hardly ever look in the mirror so that you don’t know what’s going on on your face. Have food on it sometimes, like Mr Twit. Every 4 to 6 weeks, just as your moustache hairs are starting to tickle in your mouth, buzz it all off and start again.

Eat egg on toast like this: two eggs, two slices of toast, generously buttered – with real butter – and one with marmite on it. Then add some salt and pepper. It should be delicious and well eggy. One egg just isn’t enough.

Also, enjoy fish and chips more than anything – but only ever eat them when you’re in Yorkshire, and baulk at the idea of buying them in The South, or for more than four quid (£2.30 is about ideal). Eat them sometimes just before you play squash or football (an hour is about right) and then play really well and credit it to the grease. Have them with bread and butter (or margarine/spread is fine in this case) and tomato sauce if you’re having them at home. Salt, of course – but never, ever vinegar. Unless you’re sharing with someone who swears by it, in which case it’s fine. Think often about the fish and chips you used to eat with your gran in South Elmsall.

Drink herbal tea, or green – but no caffeine, no coffee, no black tea. Shun fizzy pop and alcohol, but occasionally have a ginger beer or some shandy if you need to get in the party mood. Get slightly tipsy on about three sips of very weak shandy, much to the disbelief of the people you are with (they will think you’re putting it on).and limit yourself to three pints. Feel a bit sick later.

Do the washing up, sure – but always leave a little bit at the end. You won’t know why you do this, but you will feel compelled.

Wear your sports socks over and over, only washing them when they’re in dire need. What’s the point in making them clean when they’re only going to get dirty again in an hour’s time? The same applies to shorts and t-shirts. And only buy clothes when you really, really need them. Ensure that at least 80% of your wardrobe is blue. Try not to own a big coat.

Limit your possessions to the bare minimum – ideally what you can carry, but if you’re quite stable then what you can fit in the boot and back seat of a car is fine. Never keep paperwork, unless it’s receipts for things that might break, and try and have a clear out every few months. Owning a computer is useful, because then you can keep all your pictures, CDs, movies and writing on it. Give stuff away or sell it if you don’t need it. In this way, you’ll keep a very clear mind. Possessions weigh you down.

Make everything a competition. Get jealous about your partner’s exes and sexual history – but not so much that it makes you unpleasant. Sing lots, but never well. Start things, and have grand ideas, and be way better than average at almost everything, but never great. Admire your muscles in the mirror, and feel grateful that you don’t look or act your age. Lay naked in the sun when the opportunity arises. Enjoy your penis, but often forget it’s there. Walk barefoot. Have lovely fingernails. Mostly ignore your parents and never, ever telephone anybody, even though you have loads of free minutes on your mobile. Spend too much time on the computer, and make sure part of that time is spent just clicking things that don’t need to be clicked. When you hear something interesting or new to you, think to yourself, “I’ll look that up on Wikipedia/Google when I get home” – but only achieve this 12% of the time. Draw like a nine year-old. Throw rocks in the sea. Pretend nothing ever hurts you, unless you want some attention. Have no reflexes and tell people it’s because you’re one of the undead. In fact, make up lots of stories, even when people ask you simple questions, and then become puzzled when they say they don’t know where they stand with you. Smile lots, but don’t get too excited: it’s better to maintain a sort of equilibrium because what goes up must come down and all that. Feel sorry for the plight of your fellow man, and often think you should do something good for the world. Tell people you’ve never seen E.T. The Extraterrestrial. Tell people The Rocky Horror Picture Show is your favourite film. Enjoy carrying really heavy things, and also falling over (if you fall over while carrying something really heavy, and it falls on top of you, laugh lots and then think about it for years to come. Have a history for crashing cars. Rarely worry about things. Feel slightly uncertain in all your relationships, and wonder if it’s something to do with your upbringing, and just do the best you can. Talk about your feelings, and don’t keep things inside, because even though it’s difficult and challenging at times it’s probably much better in the long run. Type lots: just whatever comes into your head. Enjoy hammers, and tools of any kind. Feel more and more like a man all the time. Be overly critical of poor grammar and spelling (even though you make mistakes at times). Take terrible photographs (anybody can take good ones). Make sure that at least 50% of what you say is said with your tongue firmly in your cheek. Have really long baths, and watch movies in the bath, and always have a cup of tea with you when you’re in there. Believe that you can do anything you want.

Be sort of lazy. Have loads of potential but never fulfil even a tiny bit of it. Sort of drift through life without achieving very much. Make happiness in the moment your priority – but occasionally feel a pang of jealousy when your younger friends buy houses and land amazing jobs. Have loads of time of your hands, and sort of fritter it away.

Make love about four times a week. Take the dominant role and try and put your partner first. Pay really close attention to how stimulated you are, and try and put orgasm off for as long as possible – and always wish it was longer. Have a good time, and be quite dirty. Be faithful, and loyal, and true, and hardly ever flirt knowingly. Be very kissy and cuddly and affectionate. Grab boobs, and love them. Try and get your partner to make love in public places, even though you know they won’t do it. Watch all the porn under the sun and then lose interest in it. Be vocal; people seem to love that. Never feel anything but total adoration for your partner’s body and what they can do with it.

Eat cheese. Eat fish. Avoid meat, except for one frivolous time every two or three years. Know that you should be eating lots of vegetables and fruit, and do to some degree, but mostly live on toast and cereal. Dig samosas. Go out for Indian and All-You-Can-Eat Chinese (and eat pretty much all you can eat). Grab bargains when you go to the supermarket (half price, but one get one free, reduced at the end of the day). Eat salad and bananas in the summer; eat root vegetable soup in the winter. Every now and then buy a 500g bag of dates and eat the whole lot in one sitting; do the same with Bombay Mix also. Mostly avoid sugar, milk, processed foods, cheap shit, desserts, etc – but not in an obsessive way. Be a bit of a supermarket snob, only going into Asda, Morrison’s, Somerfield or the Co-op for small things or in moments of desperation (don’t even think about Netto); Tesco, Sainsbury’s and Waitrose is fine, and M&S for the occasional little thing (always be shocked about the price of food in there). Give up eating McDonald’s when you’re about 23. Prefer bananas that have just started to get black bits on them. If you want a treat, get 200g of Medjool dates. Mostly buy fizzy water, and also smoothies. Dig Marmite, and giggle when you give it to foreign friends and they start to be sick. Don’t waste food; that’s a sin. Eat loads and loads and loads.

Watch movies. Watch comedies too – preferably British comedies, although have a soft spot for My Name Is Earl. Don’t have a TV though; download stuff off the internet. Hero-worship Derren Brown and fantasise about becoming his apprentice, or at least flirting with him if you should ever meet. Adore The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. Feel a pang of disappointment and distaste whenever you think about the third series of The Mighty Boosh. Tell as many people as you can about Snuff Box (but be careful when acting out the restaurant, “I know: you raped me!” scene at parties). Enjoy horrors and rom-coms. Generally, though, think most movies are cheesy and stupid and shite.

Often have your hands down your pants. And also down somebody else’s, if you are able.

Drink the spring water when you go to Glastonbury, and get blissed out, or peaced out, or giggly, or high, and believe in all that stuff. Believe in God, too, and occasionally talk to Him/Her/It, as though He/She/It is like your best friend (try to void conversations of that nature, though, unless you really feel it). Meditate way too infrequently, even though you know it’s good for you. See signs, and have occasionally visions; things like that. Visit saints, and when you do get all swept along and think, “what am I doing with my life? This is awesome. I should be doing more of this God-stuff” – and eventually learn to just let that feeling be, and then go back to your normal, wasting the day and not doing very much of import at all life. Believe in reincarnation, synchronicities, manifestation/the power of the mind, ghosts and angels, psychic powers, faith healing, miracles, fate and destiny. Mostly act as though none of that matters.

Use loads and loads of toilet paper to wipe your arse. Have about three shits a day, for some reason. Good ones, though.

Look down on people, and always find a reason to think yourself better than them. Don’t feel particularly good about this, and always try and be nice. In real life, at least.

Abhor smokers, and think them the scum of the earth. Tell them off when they do it places that they shouldn’t (unless they look mental and/or psychotic). Tut when you see people throwing litter too – and occasionally pick it up for them, because you remember how much you threw when you were a child. Hardly ever feel negatively towards anybody, though, and feel bemused at the amount of anger some people carry inside themselves. Try not to associate with people you don’t really like. Be bemused also at people that do, and then go away and complain about those people, and get upset by them. Believe that friendship is defined by the quality of your relationship with another, not merely because you happen to know them, or are too lonely to be without them. Be grateful and content if you have at least one person in your life at any given moment that you can express yourself to, and have fun with. Mostly, though, just have people you play sports with, but hardly know. And feel satisfied with that.

Apply for jobs, suddenly feeling that you'd like to do this particular thing. Love the interview. Don't care if you get it, just believe if it's meant to be it'll happen. Get a job, do it for a little bit, and then get bored. Quit after a while, or get fired, or manufacture something that leads to the same end product, it's all the same really. And then start the process all over again.

Believe that the things you endlessly type will be interesting to at least seven people, and that they will read them and understand them, and maybe take something from it. Never ever stop to think that this might not be the case. Or, even if you do stop to think that, just carry on anyway.

Marvel at your own genius. Why not?

25

London, eh? Four a.m. I’m biking through that city, Camden down to Marble Arch, and just as the time I was desperately hunting Twixes in downtown LA all I can think is, this world is doomed. Oh, the poor people! What happened to them? What are they doing out here when they should be tucked up warm in bed sleeping soundly and smiling in their dreams? And why do they look like zombies, or retards, or retarded zombie retards? There’s something just not right about this. Once upon a time they were bright-eyed babes in their mothers’ arms, crouching in dirt and curiously nudging beetles and worms…and now this. Sadness is the word that springs to mind.

Elsewhere, however, I win another three Mercy matches – two mighty tussles that took all I had – and I’m starting to think my self-appointed unofficial world champion title isn’t entirely unjustified. I mean, who is there to challenge my might? You? Well, come on then. Oh, what’s that? You can’t – you’ve hurt your little finger, maybe next week, when it’s better? Well what about you then? You fancy it? You do? You’re gonna do what? Let’s get it on then. Ah, didn’t think so. And you? No? And you? And you?

12

My girlfriend, she sure can be a moody so-and-so – and I find myself really hating it; if there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s a woman being miserable, snide, emotionally blank, saying she’s fine when she’s obviously not, withdrawing her love. It really, really gets to me. Wish I was one of those blokes who was just all into themselves, and left their partners crying out for attention and affection, and did his own things, telly and sport and pub, etc. That might make things easier.

She’s young, my girl; maybe that explains it. I dunno, I can’t remember what it was like to be young – but aren’t people just all into themselves at that age, and all up and down, remnants of teenage hormones, no real awareness of others and the needs of others. She can be pretty selfish at times too, and that bothers me as well. I watch her mum do everything for her, and she does nothing in return, and I’ve seen the way that I’ve given and given, and how she’s given so little in return. Is it youth? Or is it her? And does it really matter? ‘Cos aside from these unsaid things here – which I don’t feel I should or could say out loud (maybe if I had some real live friends), I do really like her – I’ve chosen to be with her, and things are going really well, and I can see myself being with her for a long time, should they continue in this vein. Just that certain things bother me, and I want to write them down.

One of them is blowjobs: maybe that seems daft but, man, when we first got together she was all over it, sucking and swallowing with gusto, loving it, making me feel great. Now, it hardly ever happens at all, and what I once got in a week is stretched over a two or three month period. Maybe that’s the female equivalent of the guy who buys you flowers and dinner and stuff, and then once he’s got you he stops. In any case, it makes me sad.

Another thing that bugs me is how lazy she is, how she can sit around all day doing nothing, reading trashy books that she doesn’t even like, watching trashy TV on youtube, reading magazines. She’s got so much talent, and she says this and that about using it, but to really get anywhere with talent you need to make an effort, put some work in, and I don’t see her doing that. She could be such a good singer, and such a good songwriter – but at the minute she seems content with playing crummy little gigs to friends and family, singing almost karaoke versions of other people’s songs, and being a superstar to a very small circle of drunks and nobodies. She wants to make something of herself, I know she does – but how can I support her in this? I think she’d better than that, but at present she refuses to get off her sometimes-growing arse. Meanwhile her mum runs around like a blue-arsed fly doing everything for her, after working twelve hour shifts, and that just bothers me more.

Her mum’s like this saint, and she’s done a really good job with raising her three daughters, giving them everything, giving overwhelming support and encouragement, even when she herself might be deflated and tired. But at the same time I think Perlilly’s been spoiled, got so used to having things done for her, and got so used to being loved and adored at the drop of a hat, that she finds it difficult when that doesn’t happen, when that doesn’t come from me. And so she gets mad when I don’t fawn over her every little thing, when I don’t drop everything I’d doing to pay compliment her on her performance or her latest haircut. She knows she’s been spoiled too, but that doesn’t make it much easier. But do you think I give a monkeys about hair? It’s just the thing that sits on top of your head! Sure, you go to a woman (when she’s just had it done) “that looks great,” and they’re happy with that, and you move on. But to be obsessed with it, to primp and preen – to be looking at me lovingly, and then to realise, oh, no, she’s not looking at me, she’s looking past me, at the mirror, at herself – that’s not of any interest to me. Yeah, I guess she’s pissing me off a bit at the minute. I guess I should explain.

She went to Leeds last week to get her hair done; the three weeks before that had been bliss, practically honeymoon-like, non-stop lovey-dovey and cuddles and happinesses. Then she went up there, for some God unknown reason, and had a Mohawk done, and had it died extreme blonde – which I’m not keen on – and I feel like she’s come back a different person. Nothing. No affection. No lovey dovey. No cuddles. Did something go on for her up there? No, I don’t think that. Did she get mad because I didn’t immediately ask her how her hair went, when she called me up in the middle of the only decent writing I’ve done in ages? Well, yes – but surely not for, what, four days now? But something’s gone on, and I don’t like it one bit. I wish the old her was back, mad hair and all; I wish I just got to see her how she actually is, beneath all the dye; I feel like I don’t recognise the person that’s lying two feet to the right of me. And that’s a shame.

But let’s talk about the good things. She’s a lovely girl. She’s bright, she’s funny, she’s got bags of potential. And just maybe, if the things I don’t like in her are as a result of her youth – well then, I’ve bagged a totally awesome human being ‘ahead of time’ (a bit like, what’s that thing called they do on internet chat rooms? That’s it: grooming). She’s got so much going for her – emotional intelligence, calmness, smarts, beauty, humour, talent, creativity, sex, and more – that, really, I shouldn’t complain, and should feel lucky. And I do. Just some days…things bother me – her foibles, her sniffing-round ex, her pettiness and moods – and then it makes me wonder. Makes me wonder what the point is. Makes me wonder if I shouldn’t be better off elsewhere. Makes me wonder if I love her.

And that gets me on to to a whole different subject: love.

I wonder about love; I always do. I wonder sometimes, do I love Perlilly as much as I loved Sara, my ex? It doesn’t often feel that I do – but what I have with each of them was different. Is it love just because it is passionate and tempestuous, and up and down and characterised by needs and wants? It certainly feels that way at times – and it certainly feels that that’s the kind of love we’re supposed to hanker after, if we believe what we see in our media, which is our primary teacher. I think that’s what I had with Sara – and, correspondingly, it was probably the love I had with my mum. Wanting. Never getting enough. And being criticised and told off. That’s what my mum was like, and that’s kind of what Sara was like, and maybe that’s why I think that was love. But know I’ve broken that and found someone that doesn’t make me feel like a bad person, who doesn’t criticise or nag, and I’m wondering what that is exactly. Perlilly is probably just what a person would be on paper if you had to jot down a list of traits in an ideal partner – save the absence of blow jobs and moods – and I do have to say to myself, in my moments of doubt, that I’d be mad to let her go. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with her; what’s the problem? The problem is, I guess, that I don’t feel that wanting, that needing, that desiring that somewhere I’ve been taught to want – except, of course, that I do when we’ve been broken up. But then is love something else? Is this constancy and harmony, respect and admiration and loyalty, something altogether more subdued and tranquil than the grand passions we see and hear about in our movies and TV programmes and books? Is love still wanting to hold hands after fifty years of marriage? Is love wanting to rush your partner into bed the moment you see them? Or is it somewhere in between? And how would you know anyway? I mean, does it even matter? What if love was just choosing someone of good character, that you enjoy spending time with, share a few common interests, and commit to? And watching it grow and grow over the years? Can you even see love in the beginning, or is it something that comes with time? It’s a sort of complicated matter! And one that I don’t know the answer to.

This, however, I do know: that most of our times are good; that she’s a darling person, trustable and honest, fun and intelligent and nice; and that I wouldn’t want to be without her, that I feel we have a future, that I like her lots and do, indeed, love her too. And sure, well, there are things that I don’t like to – no doubt, there are many things about me that she doesn’t like also – but the question doesn’t really seem to be: how can I iron those out? Or where can I find someone who doesn’t do those things? But how can I tolerate them, and accept them while still maintaining my happiness, and how can I get it into my thick head that people really are different, that no one’s perfect – certainly, I’m not – and that’s just the way it is? That, really, is the question that I need to answer – and the one I’ve probably been looking to answer for a very long time.

Maybe when I do that I’ll have understood a little bit more about this mystery called love.

And then, later that night, we meet in town and she tells me all about it. She tells me what’s been bothering her, why she can’t express it, and we talk about ways to manage the situation more easily in the future. Suddenly, connection is restored, and in an instant I’m thinking what a wonderful woman she is, and smiling, and everything is better again. The next day we make love – for the first time in about a week – and that seems to cement the whole process; we’re back together; we laugh. Hopefully she can remember next time, just to say me, “I need some time alone, I need to work a few things out, I’m not feeling great but it’s not you, I hope you’ll understand. I’ll be back to see you when I’m feeling better, and I’ll talk with you about it then, when I’m ready, but in the meantime I just can’t. But, please, it’s not you, I love you, I’m sure it’ll be all fine soon” – and then I won’t be left dangling.

And may I be able to find the presence of mind to do the same the next time I’m in a nark. But she really is a wonderful woman.

Cheers!

Rory