29

Went to Spain for a few weeks just now; will write about that maybe later. In the meantime: a list...

All the things I own

•   Dell Inspiron 6400 laptop
•   Kent classical guitar
•   Squier/Marlin Strat copy
•   Some old computer speakers (to get rid of)
•   A sleeping bag (trade for smaller)
•   Three pairs of jeans
•   Three pairs of shorts
•   A load of socks, either black - or blackish - or white, for sport
•   Fifteen shirts
•   Two jumpers
•   Two jackets
•   A straw 'cowboy' hat
•   Three pairs of Umbro 5V5's
•   A pair of black shoes
•   Four ties
•   Two pairs of football boots
•   Some hair clippers
•   Two tennis rackets, and four tennis balls
•   A badminton racket
•   One squash racket (broken)
•   Nokia mobile phone (with 1GB memory card)
•   Pentax digital camera (shoots underwater)
•   Some boardgames (Risk, chess, Scrabble, Downfall)
•   Two books (Scrabble dictionary and one I'm in)
•   About 75 burned DVDs
•   London A-Z
•   Two backpacks
•   Set of devil sticks (homemade)
•   Some broken spectacles
•   Degree and birth certificates
•   A magazine I was in
•   Some headphones
•   A USB keyboard
•   A yellow Adidas football
•   Two towels
•   A duvet and four pillows, with covers
•   A bed and mattress (loaned to a friend/ex)
•   That's about it

But also...

• A folder full of love letters
• Three cuddly toys
• A video cassette of Goran Ivanisevic winning Wimbledon
• A tea strainer
• Three tubes of toothpaste, and three toothbrushes
• A passport (expires in three months)
• A heavy wool Moroccan Djellaba
• An orange and cream belt
• A broken MP4 player
• Some cotton buds
• An Oyster Card
• A battery recharger (and batteries)
• A Sanyo television (though not for long)
• A clothes horse (ditto)
• A £400 diamond/sapphire ring
• And that really is about it

Things I don't own

• CDs
• A bicycle or car
• A pair of smart trousers
• Contact lenses (even though I need them to see most things)
• A guitar amplifier
• A national insurance card (lost about twelve years ago)
• A warm coat
• Literature
• Photographs or pictures

Things I'd like to own but don't

• An old racing bike
• A fat convertible (if I didn't have to pay for it)
• A house (ditto)

Tuesday July 1^st

And on that subject…a list of things I have owned in the past, but no longer do:

• Two Mazda MX-5s
• A 1962 Fender Stratocaster
• Several 60’s Jaguars and Jazzmasters
• A Sony Playstation
• An Amstrad CPC464
• Over 150 Jimi Hendrix records and 200 bootleg cassettes
• Another sixty or so guitars
• Alan Hansen’s signature (as well as John Wark’s)
• A piece of The Chrysler Building (ok, I nicked it)
• A 1972 Ford LTD
• A flick-knife
• The Paris Hilton and Imogen ‘off Big Brother’ sextapes
• A ‘BrainTeaser’ mug

Plus! Some things I forgot I own:

• Some sex toys
• Half a dozen Roman coins
• A wok
• A screwdriver, some wrenches and a spanner
• Boggle and Connect 4

Spain

So, June 12^th-25^th, I was in Spain – and was it a marvellous time? Indeed it was. And was it the best holiday ever? You betcha!

I started off in Valladolid, hometown of my roommates Carmen and Diego, and nearest airport to those legendary scenes from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, courtesy of my £1.21 (all in!) ryanair flight from Stansted. A spot of hitching from the airport, a bus and a train and another bus later, and I was in the tiny little tourist picturesque town of Covvarubbias and ready for a walk. Well, cut a long story short, I did a fifteen mile hike, checked out a ruined monastery, saw some haunted barrels, got hot and thirsty, eventually found Sad Hill Cemetery – awesome! – and then slept in a shed in Santo Domingo los Silos under a random duvet cover I’d brought from England – as you do! – while dogs tried to eat me. Next day I went tooling around in the desert some more; next day I went to Segovia – what an aqueduct! – and then stayed with a really nice guy in Madrid who picked me up hitching; and then I was off on the train to meet Perlilly in Alicante for a holiday proper – beach, sun, no mad stuff, etc – and I guess that’s where it really began.

We’d got these tentative plans to meet by a bus stop near the train station somewhere around 10/10.30; pretty lax, I suppose. Well, on enquiry, the bus she was on from the airport didn’t actually go there, and so off I was hunting the late night streets in Alicante thinking, oh, this is a good start, and, oh, I hope she’s not pissed. Up and down Spanish streets I go, sweating now, and as midnight comes and no sign it’s back to the train station to get my head down and just see if she materialises, and if worst comes to worst I’ll just have to email in the morning and hope she does the same. But – lo! – she’s there at the train station – been there five minutes – and happy as a sandboy and I guess seeing as we found each other quite easily in the end that was a bit of a non-story but there you go. Hotel, food, bed, sex, dark Spanish shutters and before you know it it’s midday and on to the old traveller’s favourite of backpacks through hot streets and eyes out for something appealing just wondering where you’re going and…

We found the most delightful Pension (that’s Spanish for ‘cheap hotel’) and – boom – we were in for two nights, no messing about. Pension San Nicolas – on Calle San Nicolas – get the room in the middle, sin baño, forty rupees, bueno balcony, really quiet and lovely and clean and smashing people to boot; marvellous. And then it was on to the beach, buy a volleyball, slapping on the sunscreen – got to be careful – and marvellous that was too. Two days of that, dinners and croissants and a little wander to the market here and there, and then, wondering what comes next, I spy with my little eye a brochure beginning with “Scooter Hire” and in it pops in my little head while sleeping that third night and in the morning, while nervous, we say, why not? And before we know it we’re wobbling around in the traffic, silly egg-like helmets on our heads, plans for a nudey beach a few k south and who knows what? Beach sucks, though – must be wrong place – so we ask an elderly nudey couple if there’s a better spot and they give us all the info and chat for a bit and then off we go for a picnic in the shade of some sweet smelling pines. Well, just as we’re packing up elderly nudey couple swing by and ask us where we’re bound, and I crack a joke about not being able to get Perlilly to camp out in the trees and after a few minutes they say, hey, you seem like a nice couple, and we’re just on our own up in our villa in the mountains, why don’t you come for dinner and stay the night? And me and Perlilly, equally thinking, funny, that’s kinda just what we were wanting to happen go, Yes!

So we stopped off at the nice nudey beach, got our kit off, swam in the sun and laid in the sea, and laughed at the funny nudey guys and their hands of hips standing there, doing God knows what but kind of saying, hey, look at me! I’m a nudey! And then via a little burn up Alicante’s castle for photo opportunities we hit the road to Busot and – boom! – suddenly we’re at this mad nice villa with swimming pool and outdoor pool table and four bedrooms and a fully stocked actual bar – and Chic’s got the dinner on and drinks are being pressed on us – I concede, and have a shandy; yum – and, wow, this is pretty amazing. Later on we go to karaoke and the locals seem to think we’re some sort of superstars, and Chic and Barbara are lovely, and isn’t it marvellous where the day can take you?

And the next day he was like: do you want to stay another night? And so it goes – four nights we stayed, and there we are getting fed and watered – I don’t mind admitting, I got a little tipsy (first time in 9½ years) – and they were such nice and lovely people, taking us around, showing us some caves and a trip to mighty beautiful Guadalest – a view to die for! – and wouldn’t take a penny from us till we insisted that we buy them dinner – four course meal, half a bottle of wine each, fantastic restaurant; only fifteen rupees a head – and even then they said, no; oh, you shouldn’t have; oh, that’s very generous of you. I swear, by the end of it we were like family and it was sad to say goodbye. But say goodbye we must. Must we? We must.

So back to Alicante, back to fiesta San Juan/Hogueraras/who knows (who cares) and – what the hell! – let’s get a bottle of wine to swill in the streets and whoop it up mad style at every single thing that comes past in this whole mad parade and just be mad. And whoop we did! Even the old granddads just changing places, and the ushers, and the randoms, got whistles and cheers and arms waving madly, and despite a few dirty looks from a guy in a checked shirt and his daughter – who obviously took their fiesta very seriously – the locals were loving us, and warmed to us, and when the break in the parade came and out we dashed to madly dance in front of the hundreds, clapping away were our newfound friends and loving us when we went back with pats and smiles and those that spoke English saying how fantastic we were (but sadly no pictures; at least none that I know of). And then when it was over catching up and dancing around the clarinet player in front of the VIP stand and Brazilian drummers and sweaty, barefoot dancing and crowds and crowds and into the night – but we were spent and conscious of our day – our last day – due to be had in Europe’s biggest water theme park up the coast in Benidorm – Benidorm! – wobbling off to bed and, ugh, this room is spinning a bit but, sure, good times were had by all; ah, the memories…

Aqualandia. Mad. Insane. Dangerous. Shouldn’t be allowed. The blue one! The yellow one! (The blue one’s worse). The insanity of it: oh my God, I’m in freefall; I’m in space; this can’t be right. Fears. And overcoming. Water. Lovely. The Rapidos: better than it looks. A grand day out! And then off to the world’s finest bus station – yes, in Benidorm – and a picnic, and the ride to Valencia, and a plan to sleep in the airport for an early morning flight – but no public transport, and not enough rupees for a taxi, so after unsuccessful busking – yes, I had my devil sticks with me – and now 2 in the am and narks approaching the female half of our party, a group of hostellers and an auction for possessions; sunscreen sold, shoes offered; the rest donated: a cab ride there, a sleep, a breakfast; and back on the plane for a mad hysterical greasy spoon fry up in some £2.59 pub in Liverpool loving it and laughing and finally the horrible bus home to collapse in bed and, I swear, I never want to take the National Express again and – boy, did I write that fast and – well, it really was a marvellous time. I got some tan; I made some friends; I swam in a pool at midnight in a villa in the mountains; I rode a scooter and looked at the craters in the moon. The sky was blue everyday. It was hot, and lovely, and the Spanish sure know how to live, it seems (back in England, the usual English thing of arriving back here: everybody looks so haggard and tired and rough, oh Lord). Yes, Spain; awesome. A lovely time. Yes.

And feelings? Feelings of this: initial stress – initial not wanting to go, thinking it daft, not wanting to make the effort, all that way, for what? And then – the unwinding, the cessation of the struggle, the opening up again, the slowing down of time. The liking it. The walk in the desert: the openness and the space that comes; the way ideas are flowing – ideas for writing, for my book – as they haven’t done in ages; the sudden realisation that all I’m doing is walking – in beauty and peace and magnificence – and a smile has come on my face – a now I’m laughing. And now, my God, I’m enjoying myself, doing nothing – just moving my legs – and thinking nothing – just feeling good. I feel better than I have in ages. I’m doing exactly what I want to – as I always did – and I wonder why I ever stopped. More precisely, I wonder why the hell I’m working a job that makes me miserable; to what hellacious duty I’m blindly and unthinkingly subscribing? I’m out there again as I was in my youth, my path, my impulses and desires and ideas, and I’m feeling good. Well-being. Inner-peace. Loving it.

More feelings, in the city – my God, cities suck – or, at least, they’re not for me. I could sit there all day in the desert, needing nothing to excite me, just content – but such boredom and restlessness in a city – I mean, what are they except bricks and buildings and noise? Even in Segovia, with its magnificent and frankly unbelievable 2000 year-old Roman aqueduct I’m done within an hour – and then all a city is – especially to a backpacker (and my pack was tiny) is a hot and tiresome trek into finding somewhere that doesn’t suck. The desert for example. A beach. A lake. No, the cities aren’t for me; if I never visit another one, I’ll be more than happy – unless it’s to go see someone I know. But to see them for what they are? Beats me why anyone would want to. And yet still, I do. A reminder to stop.

And what more? Que mas? Holidays – unless it’s the solo desert trek for inspiration and peace and beauty – are probably best done in the company of others. I thought that in India; I realised – I made it real – here. In so many ways I’m done with going out there alone; I’ve done all that, there’s nothing there for me now. And although I did enjoy my hitching and my Spanish…yeah, I’ve just done it before. But what joy to share those times with your nearest and dearest! And what joy to spend practically every minute of every day in the company of another and have it be almost nothing but fun! What joy indeed!

And sadness at saying goodbye to Spain. And admiration for the pace with which they still live their lives, and the sense of community, and family values, and things that England is so obviously lacking – the weather, for instance. Oh yes, I could have stayed out there in those blue skies and sunshine, and only one of those villas had needed a pool boy, or a sweeping man, or something menial that would have given me bed and shelter, and a place to plug in and type away from all these trials of jobs and England busy life and, boy oh boy, I really got to do something about that; I haven’t been back to work yet and the way I feel, I wonder if I ever will (I will). But, yes, Spain was marvellous, and I feel that it’s given me something back, and I loved it, and the people, and the food – but mostly the vibe – and, if you want to see one or two pics from it then, here they are.

Cheers!

Rory

9

Girlfriend got her degree result this morning; she got a first. I mean, obviously I gotta be happy for her for that but - at the same time I'm thinking (being as she scraped it by .25 of a mark) that it was me that was decisive in that, having put in a few hundred hours to help her record some songs, and there I go again giving my all so that others can succeed while I'm just languishing and not fulfilling and lost and confused and unhappy. Why couldn't I be just a little bit more selfish? Why can't I make sure that I'm okay too, and not just others? Because it's easier, I suppose. But maybe I'd better start.

Not that I have to stop helping other people, of course - but if I gave as much to myself as I give to them then maybe I could succeed too, and maybe I wouldn't have this hollow sort of feeling that I have just now, when I should just be celebrating the triumph of another. (And not that I can talk to her about any of this; that wouldn't be fair either).

Mostly it's just, ho hum, there's a lesson to be learned in this, try and be better in the future; try and be more selfish; try and do your own things with the same level of commitment and perfection as you do others. Something like that. In other news, just testing the water the other night during my depressed mood, I stuck my room on gumtree to see if there was any interest. There was. Six people have emailed me wanting to come and have a look - and the first came round yesterday. I couldn't get him out of there fast enough though; I just kept thinking, this is my room, my house, what the hell are you doing here anyway? I don't really want to leave my house, this city - at least, I don't think I do - but having a little taste of what that would mean was probably good for me; I know now I'd miss it. My job, on the other hand...

But things have been better since I let off some steam Saturday night; I guess I needed that. Why does it seem so hard to be me sometimes?

7

Number one: It’s so fucking hot.

Number two: I haven’t really been outside today.

Number three: I’m in danger of the wheels coming off again.

Number four: don’t nobody touch me!

Number five…

Dear World,

I am a 32 year-old man who lives in the fine city of Leeds, in West Yorkshire, and I’m sort of wondering what I should do with my life. I work at a job that I don’t really like and I often struggle to fill my time with things that make me happy. I’m not sure that I really fit in; other people I know seem to like to do this thing called ‘drinking’ and ‘going out’ – but I’ve tried that and it doesn’t really appeal (it’s sort of noisy and gives me a headache). I’m not sure what else there is. I like to write and whenever I sit down and think about what I should be doing this is what I come to; mostly, though, I don’t do much about it, partly out of laziness and a well-developed talent in procrastination, and partly out of frustration and stresses afforded to me by other things, both real and imagined. I often dream of running away – ie, leaving my house and job – and it’s a real struggle at times not to do this. My dream is to write a book about these travel adventures I had a number of years back – a growing number of years back – and I think it could be a success, but for some reason I haven’t done it. Meanwhile, people around me seem to be progressing and succeeding in their chosen fields – sometimes with lots of my help – and that’s starting to make me feel bitter and angry. I feel stuck in a loop and I’m not having much luck getting out. Also, I’m almost hopelessly addicted to my laptop – which I bought to write on – and although it does a good job of filling my time and helping me to avoid looking at the problems in my life, I’m not sure that this is a good thing. I have a sense that I’m getting older, that I can’t go on like this forever, and that I’m really going to be miserable if I don’t do something about fulfilling the potential that I have. Money and things and status and popularity don’t interest me much, and so I don’t really have many options for happiness other than to be creative and follow my dreams. But it’s harder than I thought. There are things inside me that I don’t know how to master; avenues through life that appear closed off to me, that I don’t know how to find, let alone navigate. And yet other people do it – people far less burdened than me – and I’d like to know how. Also, the thought of having a family and children grows more and more in my mind, but with the way the world is with money, and with the way I am with money – I earn about a hundred and thirty pounds a week, and have about a thousand pounds in the bank – I just don’t see how that’s possible. It’s all quite terrifying really. And more than a little upsetting. I guess what I want to know is: how do I find my way to where I want to be? What are the steps I need to take? And how do I get myself to a place called ‘Happiness’?

Number, I hear you ask: why do I work in a job that stresses me out, makes me miserable, and fills my mind so completely, even out of work hours, that I’m rendered incapable of doing other things? Why don’t I just quit? And that’s a good question: why don’t I? Well…number one to your number one: I sort of went to see this psychic a while back who I sort of respected (at the time), and he told me that I’d probably be doing that for two years; I dug it then and resolved to stick to it – number two: I have a real strong habit of quitting everything when it gets unpleasant, and that’s probably not a good thing – and I haven’t quite been able to shake that from my mind. Even when other things he told me didn’t transpire or ring true. And even after I’ve become obsessed with this amazing English hypnotist/mentalist/wizard called Derren Brown, who has made me doubt all things psychic and miraculous and amazing, including the saints and healers and my own mystic visions and experiences. Also Mother Meera, this Indian woman that I see is sort of there in my head, ‘cos she likes people with jobs, and not quitters, and I thought that was some good advice for me way back when, and I’ve been trying to stick to that. But now I have to wonder, why? Why, when it could all be hogwash? And, why? When I always used to do random and strange things and they all turned out brilliant, and ever since I’ve tried to be normal and stick at things – the last six years, for example, ever since I went to university – I just feel like I haven’t really lived. I get bored and annoyed with this modern English world and so many of the people in it, and I long for something different – but I just don’t know what.

So let me tell you about my job: no, let me not. Let me just say: my boss is an ass; I work 18 hours a week – but have about 60 or 70 on my brain; I earn next to nothing; I’m smart and young and intelligent and talented, and I spend half my working week taking old and dirty clothes from one bag and putting them in another and telling old ladies how much useless pieces of tat should be priced up at; I generally feel bad whenever I get there (except on the days when I’m ecstatic and love it); I’m not sure why I’m even doing it in the first place (okay, I thought it would be good to do something good; I’m not sure I’m doing that though…); also, I have a really bad attitude about it (though I’m generally pleasant and liked) and that’s not a good thing. I’ve thought of quitting many times but have stuck at it, for reasons outlined above.

Truth is, I’m horrible at working; always have been. Since I was very young I used to say I could never really work for someone else, and it’s proved true my whole life. I’m crap with authority. I can’t take orders or even directions. And I’m quite lazy too. Before this I was a trainee teacher – but I dropped out of that. Before that I worked in admin – which I quite liked – but that again was a real struggle to stick at. Other things I did just bored me – like selling cheese and cakes – or I did them for hardly any time. Ten years ago I was a waiter, and I was good at that – I liked serving people; I didn’t get bored; I drank a lot – and I’ve wondered if I could go back to that, something less stressful, something I wouldn’t take home, something with people more my own age. I’ve also wondered (seriously) about being a policeman or a hypnotherapist. Or maybe if I shouldn’t go back into teaching – which I did love, in parts, but couldn’t handle the triple-headed stress of the paperwork, the kids, and the training-on-the-job – as well as teaching a subject I didn’t really like. Always, though, I come back to writing: writing, for me, is like the next thing, this barrier or wall that will always be there, always waiting for me, no matter how many times I shuffle sideways along it, never really going anywhere, and that unknown something on the other side. The other side, I suppose, is where I want to be. But the question is: will I make it? And how?

I have a girlfriend; she’s lovely, and young, and comes from a really privileged background. Hanging out with her makes me even more aware of where I lack, and the way opportunities seem to have passed me by, or not been taken up, or not been chased. I suppose there should be hope in that – her sister’s a writer and has found some success by hounding and chasing – but mostly it’s frustration, and makes me angry that I don’t seem able to do it. It bothers me that my mind and what I have inside are what are holding me back. It bothers me that I’m in this limbo of having transcended where I came from and what I once was – I grew up in a Yorkshire mining village where drunkenness and TV and arguments were what we were taught adult life was all about – but that I can’t quite grasp the me that I imagine I should be. Obviously I need to make changes – and it appears that it’s almost a self-defeating superstition – ie, reliance on what I imagine saints and psychics and ‘God’ want me to do (ie, <i>my duty</i>) – that is what is stopping me. Plus also the remembrance that I have a reckless and impulsive streak that invariably leads me to practically dropping off the map and sleeping in cemeteries penniless and busking in the street. Which doesn’t seem right either. Except it was kind of marvellous <i>at the time</i>. Anyway, my girlfriend’s leaving Leeds at the end of this month and a big part of me wants to go with her; the contract’s up on my room – though it’s easily extended – but me being me I can’t help but think about moving on, pastures new and all that; especially with the constant job-quitting vibe a-knocking at my head (ha! that’d show my boss!) And then what would I do?

And then I’d better dedicate myself to writing; it really would be the last chance saloon: if I didn’t follow it up then, I’d really have no excuse. At present I’m supposed to be doing some short stories for a book – lagging behind a bit in that, even though that could be amazing – and then there’s trying to get someone interested in my ubiquitous road-trippin’ novel. Really, really, really, it should be as simple as that – so why isn’t it? Why isn’t it just, quit your job, dedicate yourself to your dream, follow your heart and your happiness and do what you want to do, to hell with the rest? Why? Because of voices and ideas in my head, that’s why. Because of voices and words of others, ideas that I should be following some other path of not quitting, of doing some penance, of following some duty – I mean, it’s so easy to quit! it’s so easy to bottle out! – and I can’t quite shake the thought that there might be some wisdom in that. Two years, the guy said, and I just can’t let it go. Don’t quit, the saint said, and I just don’t seem able to ignore it (actually, get another job first is what she said – in her book; not to me – and I’ve been trying to do that, thus far to no avail). A part of me is scared, too, that this habit of quitting and jettisoning everything – because, for sure, you can bet my plan for the future doesn’t go much beyond, let everything go, get rid of all possessions, just be free and out there and see what happens – and that’s a bit frightening now because I’m not twenty-two, I’m thirty-two, and I don’t want to be dirty and in the street and forty- and fifty-two with a dribbling beard and no kids or jobs or money or CV and wondering just why I didn’t do the normal thing and insisted on being such a mad-head, even though I don’t think that’s what would really happen but I guess you have to be careful, don’t you?

Except: dreams. And following them. And living for what you really want instead of settling for what you don’t want at all, in the name of safety and security and minimising risk. It’s tricky, huh?

Plus, the fact that my mind isn’t really that good; that I’m not Paul McKenna or Derren Brown, or anyone at all who doesn’t procrastinate their life away, who go-gets, and does stuff, and always finds a way, no matter what, I’m me and I spend far too much time on Wikipedia and bittorrent, and God only knows what else, and that’s a really, really disappointing thing. If only the internet had never been invented! Then I’m sure this blog would be full of positivity and good news!

(And yes, I know that…etcetera, etcetera…)

So what’s my plan? What’s my dream? What’s my mad, sure-to-backfire, pie-in-the-sky scheme? To rent out my room; to pack up my shit and find a place to put it; to be a man with a backpack and a laptop, and to go wondering around here and there, just typing and dedicating myself, visiting chums and being of no fixed abode and no bills to pay and sort of seeing if I couldn’t do that for a year and make it all somehow work? To take that mad foolish, arms-flailing leap into the sort-of unknown, so as to avoid my headaches and responsibilities and just pursue this desire of mine? Well why not? And to fall short, and to end up stupid, and to just wish I’d played it safe in the first place? Well probably. These are the thoughts that are in my brain and now on this screen; it’s been good to write because it has been a long time now hasn’t it (to quote a famous dead rock star who lived penniless and wild for many years before he made it big and then died). But please don’t tell me what to do; I know full well what you’ll say; you’re as mad and impetuous as I am. *smile*

This has been Rory Miller reporting from a nice attic bedroom in Burley Park/Kirkstall on a hot June night. I’m wearing a lady’s purple nightgown. And I need a wee. Goodnight!

PS It’s twenty minutes later; I just got back from going downstairs where I sang a song with two of my housemates and chatted and stuff, and noticed that I strangely felt better and more sociable than I have in days; I guess I must have got something off my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve written a real blog. It’s good to let stuff out.