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deal with Penguin or whatever, and I still don’t quite understand it, but it’s like some Arts Council drive to publish unpublished writers, and it all seems above board.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!