It's vomit Jim, but not as we know it

Went yesterday to this big massive barbecue down in Dorset with some old friends of mine. They was about two hunder' people there. I says them's friends but I felt so out of place an' lonesome - or at leas' I woulda done if I hadnae been filled with the resolve to make this the last time. Don't know sometimes how I wind up with certain people: certain people ain't good for my self-esteem. You fall into things and the feeling niggles and soon enough the feeling's grown and you either gotta become like them an' sell your soul or else get the hell out. None o' this woulda ever been happened if I'd bin true to myself: I trace a long crooked line back some seven years and it's all because of some party I went to that I knew I didn't even want to go to, but I got excited 'cos of a girl I met and the promises she seemed to offer. I knew I wouldn't like the party, that I'd rather be home in bed with a good book - but that girl had allure, and even though I knew she'd be no good for me neither I thought I'd give it a try, got stuck on the hook of the way she smelled, the swell of them soft mounds of flesh that are just udders really, will one day sag and hold no allure at all, are owned so gorgeously by hundreds of millions, boobs on foul-mouthed, pig-faced heffers to rival anything the porn world or Hollywood or anywhere can offer - and I don't want those - but stupid me got drawn in and couldn't but walk down that road till I gots me a little suckle and by the time I got that suckle it was too late. She had me, her friends had me, and I thought it would all come to something good and great. It was new; that's all. And I was new to them - a novelty. And now the novelty's worn off and our always-there differences are too awfully apparent to ignore. Of course, I may be wrong in all this: and they may just be better than me, the me I coulda bin if I wasn't so caught up in myself, in my melodramas, in my stupid ol' mad ol' head - but that's the thing I can't see. So I resolved to make my escape. I was tied to that barbecue: 'twas a christening, an' I felt the pressure - but I swore it would be the last time. It showed me everything. Grown-ups are so dull, all they do is drink and talk and ask you, so what do you do? as though that means anything. I swear I'll scream the next time someone asks me what I do: for I really don't know. And I don't know what that means. Or why they want to know. What do you do? is what they say - but what they mean is, so how do you earn your money? And what they really mean is, tell me something so I can formulate an instant opinion of you and put you in a box. And what they really, really mean is: I can't think of anything else to say, but I know I have to say something, and this seems to do the trick. But what's wrong with a bit of silence? Talking talking talking - and never really saying anything. I can't remember the last time I met someone who told me something interesting, it's all old, I heard it all before. Certain people - the kinda people I really don't need to be bothering with - seem obsessed with this whole notion of 'meeting new people' - but why? Hell, I ain't found no new people in a long time: it's just the same ol' person over and over again in a different body. Same ol' bullshit. That's why I say grownups are boring. So me, I jus' play with the kids and roll aroun' in the garden an' throw a cricket ball an' that's me done. Outta there and I ain't never goin' back. I thought I wanted some o' that middle class, middle o' the road niceness. I don't. More an' more I think I wanna be a bum, a recluse, a weird-ass hermit livin' all wrong and stupid and die me in a ditch before I gets too old to wipe me own arse. I ain't got nothin' I wanna do, nowhere I wanna be, nothin' that grabs me in this world of ours, 'cept maybe trees an' a bitta quiet in the skies. One o' these days I'm gonna set me loose. Loose like a goose. In the meantime...is it possible for a man to cut his strings? To pretend that a thing never happened? To make as though I never went to that party them seven years ago and let all the things that came from that just float away? To make it like some tree that's grown and grown an' just hack it down at the roots, leave it some dead stump merely to trip up over every now and then and stumble an' curse an' say, damn, I shoulda nipped that sumbitch in the bud when I had the chance? But, ah, you know what? I never had the chance - 'cos I din't even know 'bout nippin' somethin' in the bud till I learned 'bout how big them buds could go. Still: goodnight bud! I's a gonna nip you now.

In other news:

I bought a tent: an' a tent is nice. And my iboga's here, and I just gotta go pick it up from the delivery office. Then I should find a time and a place. Though lately I'm jus' a-thinkin' I might just get in my room and swallow it there, lay me down an' see what happens. Don' need no nursemaid. Want a clean mind, a clean slate. Hopeful. An' I'm back in the house in London and it feels alright. Home again; s'alright to have a home. Not having a home can be tiresome; same as having a home, I suppose. All is tiresome an' it's jus' a case of what tiresome you pick. All is limbo till Ali gets here and the new life begins. But what new life? What have I to offer her? Wishin' I was free of that a little - not 'cos I don' like her, don' want to be with her, don' think she's awesome and want a woman and want a bairn or two, jus' 'cos I'm afeard: afraid I ain't got nothin' to give to her, afraid I ain't good enough - and, probably, I ain't. So much promise, so little delivery. World swallow me up. Or world disappear. It's the world or me, I fear: there just ain't room for the both of us.

We'll say goodnight sweethearts. I thank you for the lessons and the memories. If the root should claim me, somepin like Jimi-style, then I want it known there ain't no blame on nobody 'cept me - or maybe even not even me, if all is meant to be. I wandered lonely as a cloud: I don't even know what that means. But clouds dissolve, don't they? Or, at the very least, they come rainin' down, and drown and freshen the earth. They ain't never gone nowhere: jus' change.

PS This ain't no suicide note; I just type my fingers and these are the words that appear. I don' care if they mean anythin', I's a jus' typin'. Shall we delete it now? Or leave it for the one or two to read? But then we don' wanna scare nobody, don' wanna put concern in their hearts - nor draw attention to ourselves, receive messages and comments. There ain't nothin' to say except, look at this man express himself. Now he presses 'publish'; now he gets up to make a cup of tea; now he's smilin' and forgotten everythin' he jus' wrote; now he's moved on to the next thing, done a little jig, strummed his guitar, put some washin' in the machine, thought about his empty belly. Looked out the window and felt grateful for the sun. Got on his bike an' said, woohoo! and rode too fast and felt glad. Now he's wonderin' why he was ever born. Now he's chasin' a ball and praisin' the miracle of life. Now he's mad at the voices in his head. Now he's at peace and resting and there are no voices. Now he's typin' jus' to see what comes. Now he's getting up and forgetting it all...

Ten years ago today I first went to America. Been thinkin' a lot about California lately. Seems like I dug it out there. Somepin different I ain't found in England. Englanders ain't got time to listen, to sit and truly feel where a man is at. Too much busyness. Too much rush rush and too much inability. Ain't no one never taught 'em, it ain't their fault. And too much love of the sauce: it keeps them from going deeper. We'll all float on the surface and be happy with that. We'll all gather ourselves together in big groups and say, 'scuse me, I ain't whole - but I notice you ain't whole neither - and this is my frien', and I see you gots some frien's, and I reckon if we stick ourselves together...well, you could be a leg and I could be an arm and this chap here's gots mebbe a quarter've a brain, and ifs we gets enough of us I think arm in arm an' walk singing down the street we might jus' make a whole one an' feel right, take some magic juice I'll bets we don' even remember. But please, pray Lord, don' never leave me alone - don' make it so it's jus' me - 'cos I don' think I could stand the feelin' of knowing I ain't got nobody 'cept jus' the tiny piece I am. A man's gotta be more than an arm, gotta belong to somethin'. Le's belong to each other and we won't never feel bad. Magic juice. And chitter chatter. And run around and if we can jus' stay busy and dizzy and noisy enough we'll never notice the vast and gaping silent chasm that's always there, always a-threatenin' to swallow us up. People! In a child's eyes, in a tree, in the freedom of my legs movin' beneath me, in the peace of my mind and heart; in the weary dullness of my worn-out soul; in the lostness, in the madness, in the frustration of the hungry nature of this brain...I lay me down to sleep. I pray to go to a better place. I write nonsense. I don' care 'bout nothin' no more. Just live. Just breath an' feed the beast an' make it through the day, to the night, to blesséd sleep, and one day notice, oh, I'm shriveling up, I'm old, I'm dead. Start afresh then: better next time around. Yes, things get better on the second time around. We'll see you then, then, on the other side, and I swear I'll make it up to you, if I can, one day, somehow.

He smiles. The sun outside on his big fancy roof terrace. All a man needs is a big fancy roof terrace, a nice expensive house - and then a nicer one, and a more expensive one - always always always - for happiness to descend like a dove from above. Yes, that's what I need. And a car that makes envy drip from passing eyes - a car with a removable roof - and a stunning woman hanging from this arm - ageless, never changing, to match my own ageless, never changing beauty. We'll never get sick, we'll never shrivel up and die: we'll just buy bigger houses, better cars - all with the roofs that pop off, somethin' Clarkson would approve of - and then it'll come, that big magic dove. But - oh! - to be in a tent with six children, all crawling over one another an' livin' hand to mouth, out in the back of beyond somewhere, mebbe drinkin' from a stream, away from the world, surrounded by woods - what kind of a life would that be? Everythin's romanticised; I don' know nothin' about nothin' - 'cept that somethin's gotta change. And change is constant. And therefore it's all good. Onward Christian soldiers eh? But not marchin' as to war - for war is over, if you want it. Jus' gotta want it good enough. Jus' gotta stop the good fight and admit: hey, there ain't nothin' worth fighting over, how's about we jus' be happy an' dig - dig a little down inside ourselves and see what we turn up. We might get a little dirt on our paws - but dirt is life, the fertiliser of life - and anyways, how long we been lying with pigs and gots ourselves all muddy in the first place? You lie with pigs, you come home dirty: there ain't no greater truth than that. I went an' I rolled with 'em. I thought, that mud looks good, looks like fun, we could have a bit of that. I came home stinkin' an' I hated the stink. An' then: on'y two options: head on back for more of the same, where the stink ain't noticeable no more, or take some time to scrub it off, an' come up rosy an' naked an' pink and face the world once more, like a stupid cryin' bairn.

Hello world! Are you pleased to see me? You are? Well then that's nice. I do love certain aspects of you. I gotta learn not to go wanderin' in the places that I don't. It don't make me feel good - an' it's nobody's fault but my own. Seek out the bits that make you feel better: and let the rest come to you. Harmony is the key - and there ain't nothin' wrong with wanting to feel good. Feeling good is the souls way o' tellin' you you're on the right path. So foller that and cling tight to your harmony, your peace, and the path of it. If it don' sit right in yer belly, there ain't no sense in eating it. Have a taste, if you must, but there's no law says you gotta come back for more. And - ah, yes - there's sometimes you's gonna make yourself sick from the tasting of it - but that's life, you's jus' a nappy-headed baby, what do you expect? When you're as old as the hills you'll have seen it all - and you'll know what you like, what you don' like: what makes you sick and what preserves your peace. But until then...well it's all just a life lesson learning curve journey bullshit thing, right? And the whole thing is but putty in your hands. You don' like it? Well give it a smush and make somepin new. And - what? You didn't know you were the creator? But you are! What? Nobody never told you? Are you sure? Oh, they did but you didn't believe them? But believe it my boy! I mean, look around you and tell me what seems to be true? It's all you, isn't it? The whole darn thing. All you. Now take ye and eat. And go make yerself somepin nice. Or not. T'choice is yours.

An improvement to an old classic and other stuff

I've mentioned a lot lately about how I'm hopelessly addicted to lame-ass online chess: but I think I've found a solution. Basically, what I've come up with is an instant form of the game. Here's how you play:

1. Ask your opponent if they're better or worse than you.

2. If they say "better", you lose. If they say "worse", you win.

3. If they say they're about the same, ask them if they're prone to daft mistakes. If they say "yes", you win. If they say "no", toss a coin. If it lands heads, you win; tales, you lose.

Da-da! So much simpler and quicker than actually having to play a game. And better still, if you play on a website that actually uses ratings - gained over a few real games - you can just compare your rating against that of your opponent and you won't even have to bother with the questions.

...
Another amazing invention-type thing I've come up with lately is something I think we can all have a bit of fun with: namely, scaring our nearest and dearest with a message "from beyond the grave". Stumbled upon this one while investigating every last function of my £9.95 mobile phone (it has a flashlight? does yours?). Here's what you do:

1. Write a text message saying something about how you're sorry that you've died, how it's horrible on the other side, that hell is real (or something) and you're going to come back and haunt and terrify them (the recipient).

2. Address it to some people you think it would be fun to send this to. I'm thinking friends, lovers, wives, children, parents, etc.

3. Now here's the important bit: DON'T SEND IT. What you should have on your phone - I've got it on mine and that's powered by mice - is the ability to "send text later". That's what you want. Simply pick a time a day or two in the future and sit back, relax, and anticipate the fun.

4. If you don't die, change the time of the text to a few days hence. Keep doing this until you do die.

5. When you do die, in the midst of all the weeping and moaning, a load of people will receive your text "from beyond the grave" and YOU WILL FREAK THEM OUT!!!

...

Only one bad thing about the destruction of my facebook account: I maybe missed out on the chance of a bit of notoriety/legal action by my naming of Ryan Giggs in the Imogen Thomas/super-injunction affair several weeks before the whole thing blew up on Twitter. Why didn't I do it there! Always the bridegroom, never the bride...

...
Probably a good place to mention a couple of my other awesome inventions...

1. The pee kettle. It's a kettle you can pee in. Why? Several reasons. Number one, it saves you having to leave the place where the kettle is to go to the toilet. Number two, it saves the water you would use to flush the chain. Number three, it saves the water you would use to fill the kettle. How's it work? Well, it's sort of like a water-purifier-filter-boiler all in one. Simply pop the lid, pee in it, flip the switch and - ta-da! - within minutes lovely fresh pure and clean almost boiling water, all ready for another pot of tea and to start the cycle again. It's a winner all round.

2. The exercise blanket. I think I came up with this one while I was lying on the couch watching telly and thinking how cool it would be to have a hot body yet knowing I could never, ever be arsed to try and achieve it. Anyway, that was when I had my masterstroke: a blanket that made your muscles big! Simply lay it over yourself while you watch TV, eat pizza, etc and after 60-90 minutes your muscles will be big and hard and all your fat will have simply melted away. In the time it took to watch a semi-dreadful Hollywood movie you could have gained what took some people several months and many hundreds of dollars in the gym. Imagine that six-pack! Dig those lats! All from lying on the couch under a blanket for just one hour per week.

Now all I need is some science guy to make my visions real. Anybody wanna play brainiac to my creative ideas-making genius?

My love is so so wonderful...

New little song I been a-workin' on...

Lyrics:

Summer's here and the air is getting horny

I think I see a girl I like

I try my lines and even though they're kinda corny

She says she's gonna give me a try

So I took her for a picnic by the swings on Tooting Bec

And in the sun she took her jumper off

I felt the beat of my heart

Caught a glimpse of her bra

And with the nod of an angel

Touched my lips to her neck

She said, you can have me if you want me

Anyway you like

I said, well please don't think I'm dirty

But I'd love to get in you and hold you tight

Then she rolled me over on my back

And looked real deep in my eyes

She said, I like a man who knows what he wants

Let's get it on down

Let's get it on up

Let's get it on in

Let's get freaky!

My love is so so wonderful girl

It's like a rocket taking off for the sun

My love is big and it's beautiful

I swear there's enough for everyone

And your love is like the ocean, it's deep and it's wet

Your love's so good, it's as good as it gets

My love is like an old-fashioned record machine

Pumpin' rockin' seven inches

You know what I mean

(Well, uh, wait, stop)

She said, what about children?

I said, yeah, I'd like two or three

She said, no, I mean what happens if we make one?

I said, well that's fine with me

Well I swear I never felt this way before

But everything about this feels right

So I threw my worries in a pile on the floor

And I let it all out

And I let it all in

And I let it all go

And we got juicy

My love is so so wonderful girl

It's like a rocket taking off for the sun

My love is big and it's beautiful

I swear there's enough for everyone

And your love is like the ocean, it's deep and it's wet

Your love's so good, it's as good as it gets

Our love is like an old log cabin deep in the snow

My arms around you, fire burning, and nowhere to go

You can be what you want in my company

You can get drunk, you can shit yourself in front of me

I'll never beat you, never make you my enemy

I will live for you, die for you

Take off all my clothes and do a dance for you

I will hold you till we're all fools

And give you all the lovin' you need

My love is so so wonderful girl

It's like a rocket taking off for the sun

My love is big and it's beautiful

I swear there's enough for everyone

My love is deep, like the ocean is blue

It's comin' hard, it's comin' for you

My love is like the fire in a hot air balloon

Rising slowly it'll take you up as high as the moon

This love this love this love this love

This love was cooked up for us by the angels above

They served it on a platter for you and me

Said, take ye and eat, we know what that means

My love is all you'll ever need and want and what's more

My love is the whole reason that God made the world

There you go: them's the words. It's obviously a mostly very silly song - need to work on getting some jollity into the delivery - which I originally wanted to be much dirtier, inspired by the realisation that all these songs about "spending the night together" and "lovin' you all night long" were actually really sleazy demands by guys to bang chicks and didn't really have anything to do with love. But we all like a bit of sex so why not just say it? Well, I tried and I realised: beating around the bush, as it were, and innuendos are just a hell of a lot more palatable. Still, it doesn't take much imagination to gather that the word "love" in various parts of this song can quite happily be substituted with the words "cock" or "sperm" or "pussy" - which I suppose is kinda gross. Also, what I wanted was something ridiculous, hence ideas like rockets to the sun, hot air balloons to the moon, etc. Really struggled with the words for a long time - mostly just had vague ideas and the middle eight for about a year - but then one night I decided to sing whatever came into my head to my roommate Tom, about him, and from there I got a first verse which helped the rest of it just flow. And, funnily enough, the first verse was the last thing I changed. Originally it went:

I remember the first time that I saw you

I thought you were really small

But that was in a picture

And you were just standing next to someone tall

Still think it's a good verse. But something about the new one sits better with me. And takes me back to whole idea I had for the song last summer, which was how it goes in an English city when the sun comes out and the days start to get warm and everybody starts showing some skin and we all get a little bit hot under the collar. Sex is everywhere baby!

Anyways, maybe a little more work on the very end, perhaps a couple of new last lines. And on singing it better. And then realising that I can't actually sing that well and finding someone who can. Other than that, pretty happy.

Cheers!

PS Thanks to Lizzie Hibbert for the line "you can shit yourself in front of me" - she'll go quite literally mental if I don't credit her! :-)

Back from the woods...

Back from the woods and once more in South Elmsall. Awesome, lovely time, sitting in and living in my bell tent, fire burning, paraffin lamp if I wanted to stay up past dark (rarely did) and such simplicity of life. No reason to leave the campsite, no thoughts of the outside world. Nothing out there, nothing I missed. Just the trees and the fires and the birds and the wind and people being nice and enjoying themselves too. We all love nature: we all feel good in it and wish we did it more. We all say how we could just stare into the fire all night and how much better it is than TV.

And then we go back to our TVs.

I came back here, in amongst the four walls, suddenly aware of a mild restlessness, a need to eat things I didn't need to eat, to switch on the gogglebox. Nothing on but we'll watch it anyway. I take a walk down the high street in search of fish and chips - the same high street a week ago that I thought I was in love with - and I'm struck by how intensely hideous and grey everything is. I realise: the TV screen of my mind has been ninety-percent filled the last week or so with trees, with greenery, with good stuff - and now everything I see is ugly, man-made, just the road, the sidewalk, the buildings and the shop signs and such. Everything is dirty and dull. And this is what we look at - us urbanites - almost all day long. No wonder we look for distractions. No wonder we feel weird and wrong. The world is a mirror and the mirror we're staring into is filthy.

I worked in the woods: they were putting up some new posh tents and they needed lots of furniture building. It was IKEA flatpack stuff, on the whole: and once again, I thought I'd found my life's work. I loved it. I coulda done it all day. I did. It's just like playing with Meccano again.

Alas, on the first day in the woods I got word that my sublettee was moving out: so it looks like it's back to London for me come the end of this month. I sort of accepted it, figured it was meant to be: and resolved to make more of it, for a man makes his own life, no? There's no one else to blame. But after the goodness of that simple bell tent life - and the bursts of creativity and productivity I witnessed in myself -and after the realisation of the South Elmsall dirty TV screen mind thing, I shudder. Must make the most of the park. Must be strong and good and not give in to addictions and unhealthy tendencies. Three months. I think I can make it. And there's always the football team - good old boys have got Rory's Heroes off to a hundred percent start the first two games of this season...

As mentioned, I got creative in the woods: I finished the words to a song that has frustrated me for almost a year now. And mostly did the words to two songs I started back in 2008. Very happy to see that: it's been a long time since I've come up with anything new musically. Also, I fleshed out the plots for several Wayne Mercedes stories, came up with characters, dialogue, ideas, even the book jacket quotes. Could be fun. Wrote a thousand and odd words for the first one of those first thing this morning, by hand. And by that I mean, with pen and paper: if I can carry on like that, I can live and write anywhere.

One strange thing: my face swelled up in the woods, this time on my forehead (previously it had been my chin, and then a session of my eyes). It was the last night and I was worried that I'd done something wrong, didn't sleep very well - the lump was there in the morning. It amazes me - if this is indeed caused by 'anxiety' - that such minuscule amounts of stress can have such dramatic effects in my body. But then - he says parodyingly - I am a most sensitive boy. Really: I can barely do even the slightest thing wrong these days without feeling it quite acutely. Ho hum: keeps me on the straight 'n' narrow.

I think that's all I have to say. Haven't missed the computer or anything at all - but now I'm on it...of course I'm tempted. One day I hope the woods will become something a little more permanent for me: and Nicola's up for it too. Could be a beautiful thing. If only I had money! lol (If only I wanted to work...)

Iboga's not arrived. Maybe next week (delay my fault).

I seem to feel better about everything. More calm. What wonders a bit of doing the thing you long to do does for you.

Cheers!

Issue

I guess another mostly lazy, procrastinating day, achieving only twenty percent of the things on my to-do list. That’s the problem with having all the time in the world: there’s always tomorrow. And tomorrow never comes. I’m sure I’ll get there sooner or later though.

Here is what I did do:

Went to the Sainsbury’s Local to buy some raisins. Two of the four women in there I recognised from school - but, as ever, they didn’t recognise me. They were all having some raucous conversation about something or other that involved shouting across the aisles - okay, talking extremely loudly, as these Elmsall people always seem to do - and joking and insulting and swapping stories about annoying mad customers. Ain’t never been in a Sainsbury’s like that before! Then some lady comes and joins in, and says something to me, and laughs and puts her hand on my arm, and they’re all five of them gonna open up a box of cream cakes and have a cup of tea. It’s all some big party, I swear. Only in Yorkshire. And I leave there smiling and digging this weird Elmsall vibe once more.

Then, on the way back, I thought, fuck it, I’m gonna get me some fish ‘n’ chips. Three pound eighty it was (that’s cheap). And ridiculously massive. In Canada, when I’ve fancied fish ‘n’ chips, I’ve had to buy two portions to bring it anywhere near up to scratch as far as quantity goes: here, I was wishing I had an extra person to share them with. I gamely struggled on and made it to the end - but by then I was exhausted, and sort of slipped into a coma. That was pretty much the afternoon taken care of.

Burgen’s Soya and Linseed bread, by the way, is my bread of choice. Amazing stuff.

Later on I finally bought the iboga, which is hopefully soon to be on its way from Holland. Fifty quid for twenty five grams. Not cheap, but I’ve got high hopes. Everybody raves about it, says it’s life-changing, sorts out addictions, gives you major spiritual insights. Some of those people are mad. But, from what I can make out, most of them aren’t. I dig pretty much everything I’ve heard about it - even the vomiting and ataxia don’t really feel like a drag - and it could be just what I need. But why do I feel like I might need it? Well if that’s the question you’re looking for me to answer you’re in luck - for that’s exactly why I’ve come here this morning.

I first came across iboga when I stopped by some friend’s one morning and overheard Bruce Parry talking about it on the radio. My ears pricked: he was describing experiences which I’d previously believed were part of the afterlife process: looking back and evaluating your life (the so-called ‘day of judgement‘); seeing and feeling the results of your actions from the other person’s perspective; that sort of thing. Plus therapeutic experiences like revisiting and reliving traumatic events from the past - often long-forgotten - and coming to a mature understanding of them, healing them. He’d been pretty moved and changed by the whole thing: it sounded awesome. And I immediately thought, wow, I want to do that, and started researching about going to Gabon and getting into it. That was about four years ago, I think - and then I promptly forgot all about it. Until recently, when…actually, I can’t remember what resparked my interest. But I’ve done a lot of reading, and found a few reputable places where I can buy it - save me going all that way - and here I am…

Iboga apparently has a really high success rate when used to treat drug addicts: many people, even after one session - it seems to be a ‘one time thing’ - simply lose all trace of desire for their heroin or whatever they were on. Not all, but I’ve read statistics like 30% here and there, and that seems ridiculously high for something that is largely ignored by the powers that be. It makes me think of things like…well, Alcoholics Anonymous is at its essence seeking to use the spiritual to overcome an addiction - and, a little closer to home, it makes me think of my own ‘giving up’ of alcohol, which occurred after - or during - my first vision quest. Truly, for six or seven years I’d been a massive and out of control pisshead - and then, after that deep and emotionally purifying six days alone on the beach, I never had the desire for another drop. Indeed, whenever I tried even a sip after that I couldn’t really do it, didn’t like it, the taste or the effects. It was a total and utter transformation. I’d always put it down to the sheer power of the emotional cleanse I’d gone through: that I’d looked at and let go of all the emotional problems that were causing me to drink in the first place. But I suppose it must have been more than that: a bringing about of a sacred awareness or something, I’m not really sure. That’s the thing about something like that: it’s not really a conscious process in the sense that perhaps psychotherapy is - and yet it’s maybe a great deal more effective, in that it actually deals with those residual and stuck emotions at a deep and experiential level rather than just bringing them to the awareness of the conscious mind. I think iboga probably works in the same way.

Of course, it’s not just about curing addictions and traumas: for me, the iboga experience is a spiritual one, and most people seem to relate tales of being shown and understanding the deeper ways in which life works; the interconnectedness of all things; a realisation of oneself as something more than a body or a mind. Obviously that’s something I’m extremely interested in - which is where I’ll begin my story…

Going back many years - as anyone whose been reading me for a time will know - I was heavily into ‘the God path’. Call it what you will: spirituality; the seeking of the divine/enlightenment; following the example of Buddha/Jesus. I wanted it. I wanted ‘the It’. I’d tried a load of other things and then one day in Mexico I’d had a taste of the mystical - of something far above and beyond the everyday reality - and I threw my lot in with that. Nothing else mattered: I’d met my soul and I wanted more of it. This was back in’99, and it was pretty much all I did for two years, caring nothing for the material, for money or food or shelter: the soul was all that mattered. During that time I realised and learned a great many things; felt like I had some gifts; found, after a fairly intense search, a woman who fulfilled my desire for a guru; and radiated a peace and a light and a joy that was evident to so many of the people I met in normal life, even walking into shops or playing football. I thought I’d got it - or, if not, that I was well on my way and that it was sure to happen some day soon (the enlightenment, the grand final realisation of my oneness with God). And then it pretty much stopped. And it’s been, what I perhaps mistakenly see, as a long downward slope ever since.

I say that but, of course, I know that’s not strictly true: obviously me thinking I was Jesus/a potential Buddha shows that I was more than a little bit mad, and what I just called my downward slope has also been, in a big part, the working through of this madness. I was happy and I was high and there was a lot of genuine spirituality in there, I’m sure - but there was also plenty of delusion, of youthful exuberance, of intoxication and misunderstanding and simply getting carried away. I was what they call ‘a bliss ninny’. I had some harsh lessons to learn. And so, these past ten years or so have involved a lot of that: at uni I learned to include my intellect in my understanding, rather than seeing it as the enemy, and to look at spiritual experience from a more mature and rational perspective. I learned that this ‘getting high’ was a real common experience and that it was actually a fairly treacherous stage on the path. I realised, in a nutshell, that I was ungrounded, unbalanced, and lost to some fairly extravagant and odd beliefs. I needed to look deeper into my mind - and I still do. Getting grounded’s taken at least as long to accomplish as finding spirit did in the first place - and I have no doubts I’m still not there, that I still harbour many silly little fantasies and delusions somewhere deep inside. It’s an ongoing process. One might even say battle - though I suppose I learned to take my madness a little less seriously after a time.

That’s not really what I wanted to talk about though: what I think of a lot is that I’d really like it back. And that there’s something within me that prevents that deepening of my connection with spirit, that has sent me rushing as quickly as I can in the opposite direction. I think I know some of what it is: that it’s something to do with my relationship with my mother - our relationship with God often relfecting our relationship with our parents and all. In fact, I suppose I’ve believed this for maybe ten years or so, ever since I first started to sense that something was blocking me, that I simply couldn’t go any further, and an angel-channelling friend said it was to do with my mother. I’ve looked at it ever since - detected the truth in that - seen how it’s affected me, in my behaviour and in my relationships - and perhaps even had minor breakthroughs and certainly observed an ever deepening intellectual understanding of the issue - and yet the major breakthrough that would change my perception of the divine from something aloof, unreachable - and myself from something inherently flawed and unlovable - simply hasn’t happened. That’s where iboga comes in. But first…a flurry of memories and ideas and sentences in my head that don’t seem to want to shape themselves into nice sensible paragraphs…

Sara, my ex, with whom I was in love and pursuing when Shawn first did his reading. Confusion back then. Wanting a woman who didn’t want me. The pursuer - always the pursuer. And achieving the catch, as ever - but then perhaps not really wanting what I found. Or, rather, catching something that wasn’t right for me. An attraction to women that didn’t want me - love understood not as love is, but as the behaviour as those who were supposed to demonstrate it. Some people’s parents are abusive and they grow up thinking that’s what love is. Mine was critical, absent, didn’t give attention, unreliable. Didn’t really want me. Didn’t know what love was - wasn’t able to give it - never received it herself (no blame here: these are my issues). Is this how I came to see God? But then…

This was after Eve - after the debacle of my time in France. I trusted her - though always those ‘exclusion issues’ arising. She cheated on me. She broke my heart. (I was too high, I needed it.) But, again, mother issues - that time talking in bed, something comes up, it gets heated and she walks out - and I bawl and bawl and bawl - perhaps even the words “please don’t leave me” - and I feel some real deep-seated mother connection there. Maybe I could have gone somewhere with that - lots of ancient issues surfacing and being healed at the time - but the infidelity broke me. Destroyed me, really. A necessary kick up the arse into grounding - but far-reaching effects that I really think I could have done without. Don’t trust women. More insecure. Turned my back on spirituality, to a certain extent (quite a large one). But not understanding that that was just her. And, once again, choosing the wrong person. No terrible pattern of continually choosing the wrong person - chosen lots of very nice people - but…then again, I’m alone, having wanted a relationship for a long time. And though there’s been growth in that time and in those relationships…well, who knows?

Nicola. The new one. Away for four months, till July, which I suppose is good in the sense that I get to look at all these issues and perhaps try and sort them out before she comes back. Feel very serious about her - not serious serious, but committed, thoughts of babies, of being with her for a long time. Nice person. Good person. Though I suppose I don’t really know her all that well. Seems very solid though: should probably get to know her better. The doubt and caution of the older man, the one who has been around the block a few times, who no longer rushes into love with wild abandon having seen where that’s taken him in the past. That’s okay though. Back to the issues…

I’m afraid. Afraid of what? Afraid that I’m not good enough. Moments of rejection when I’ve cried and felt that no one will ever want me. Do I want myself? What does that even mean? Ditto do I love myself? Moments when I’ve felt I have loved myself - a van in Mexico in 1999 - and certainly very comfortable and happy in my own company. Ah, but what about in the company of others? Ever feel completely comfortable then? Ever totally absent from paranoia, a worry that people maybe don’t really like you? No, I suppose not - so does that mean I don’t like myself, don’t believe myself likeable? The mother neither likes nor loves - the child sees himself through the mother’s eyes - the child thinks it’s him. And when the child discovers God, a certain depth is reached, but ultimately the child sees the whole of creation - other people - life - the universe - as something untrustable, something that doesn’t like him, and that’s as far as it goes. Women too - therefore perhaps easier to always choose the wrong one. Or simply unconscious habit - this is what he thinks love is. When true love comes - from God, from another - there’s fear, uncertainty, the issue of feeling oneself unlovable brought right to the surface, right into the light. The issue faced and truly felt - vanishes. Face and truly feel - but, alas, my mind is clever, is complex, is an expert in evasion, in justification. Another memory…

Eve, who I’ve considered again over the last few years - she pursuing me - mainly because of the sense that she does seem to really, deeply love me. Mad though too. And French. And obviously the previous betrayal…it would never work (I’m not sure I even like her that much, and one thing I’ve come to believe lately is that it’s probably wise to pick someone on their personality, rather than a feeling, their body, lust). But doesn’t mean there’s not things to learn there - like, last year, when she came to Kent, and insisted on buying me a nice jacket, a nice top. Spent a load of money on me: the clothes were far in excess, quality-wise, of anything I’ve ever had. It was hard. I didn’t want her to do it. I found it kind of emotional. Receiving. Couldn’t handle it: mother issues again. I felt it. Too nice. One has to open up to receive, to feel deserving. Same thing happened in 2000, when we were together, her ex giving me the money for a train ticket to Germany to see Mother Meera. Felt too nice, that I wasn’t worthy. Gifts from God: that’s how I used to see it then. But even that…too nice of God, me undeserving, unworthy. Why? Are we not children of the one God, loved and adored? Ask and ye shall receive? God the loving parent aching to give and give and give. Infinite abundance. But only as you are able to accept, according to your faith. Who believes? Who can accept? Not me, I guess. As Neale Donald Walsch says, it’s a pie in the sky promise. And as God answers, well what other kind of promise would you have God make? Trust. How much trust have you got? Putting your faith in another - even if the other is your self. God. Love. It’s hard. Love is hard because it is the light that illuminates all fears and pains. And fears and pains are uncomfortable, are difficult to look at. They hurt! They drive you crazy! Like six days alone on a beach will drive you crazy - and yet, purified and new and ready to start all over again. Problem being: six days alone now for me is nothing: I can quite happily spend that in the company of my mind. My mind is strong. Meditation is just me and my mind, chattering away. Nice conversation - but it’s not spirit, it’s not the breakthrough. Iboga is supposed to be able to break you through. Also send you crazy. Also take you beyond the mind. And also leave you purified and ready and new. They call it the reset drug: takes you back to before all this stuff got started. That’s what I need: I need something. And the feeling that I can’t do it alone…

A sense that it’s ‘wrong’. The word drug. My old teacher John’s words about not needing/using ‘plant helpers’. But has John been there when I’ve needed him? Doesn’t even answer my emails. Another divine letdown. He was good for me - but only to a point. Still, a slight shame and guilt - though that’s perhaps all just ego stuff, this image I have of myself of being pure and drug- and alcohol-free. Whatever! Just pride. Eat the blesséd plant and see what happens. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thing. Enjoy. Maybe nothing good will come of it and you’ll be where you are right now: nothing ventured, nothing gained. Except the fulfilment of a desire that’s forever bubbling away in your brain, which is always something to be gained. At the very least: no more bubbling. Not that all desires should be fulfilled just to get rid of them: some hurt other people or cause you long-term trouble - just those without negative aspects/side effects. After all, isn’t that how so much of this began? Eve troubled by desires for another man, thinking them resolved one way or another by sleeping with him? So she tells it. Maybe it’s true. No blame in that. But still, like with my mother’s criticism and neglect, the effects continue to remain, and are there to be dealt with, regardless of issues of fault. No, never any blame: simply cause and effect and what you’re going to do with it.

Desire. Teenage desire for sex, for cock, for orgasm is what brought me here in the first place. A shag in a darkened doorway. Right? Wrong? Exist otherwise? Matter? Bigger questions than I can answer: I mean does it matter that I have no sister? She doesn’t exist in the way that perhaps, rationally speaking, I shouldn’t exist - and yet the world still turns and everything is as it is, maybe as it should be. Unimportant speculation, musings. Like what’s outside the universe, how does infinity work - that sort of thing.

Issues. Those are my issues. Some of them. The ones I’m conscious of. The ones related to mothers and women and those women-in-God. To get over them…wow, I can barely even comprehend. Sometimes it feels like…not even possible, that I have to wait till the next lifetime, wait till my body and brain are born anew. But maybe not. Like I say, high hopes. If not this iboga trip then some other way. The poison must come out one way or the other, sooner or later. Maybe the love of a good women? Tears and realisations and arms holding me in the midst of my catharsis? Who’s up for that job? Nicky, are you up for it? Among all the laughter and loving and hot sex and giggles and adventure and fun, of course: I don’t wanna give the impression that a relationship with me is even a tenth as mad as the madness of my writing [wink].

Cheers!

Rory

PS Final thought, after a read-through and a pee: is this recent ‘love affair’ with South Elmsall a coming back to, a reacquainting with a long ignored part of myself? When I first came back, I hated it. I looked down on it and saw only ugliness, dirt, deformities, stupidity. Then it mellowed. Then I started to see the good. Then I wrote that line “this is where I’m from” and it sort of felt like a sigh, a release. Now I just feel normal. I don’t see the trash or the dogshit. I don’t feel afraid of the kids. I don’t even notice the disabilities, the scowling faces that were at first so striking. I marvel, true, at the women in the supermarkets - at the strangers that say “ayup” in the street - and the accents - but even that’s fading. I’m starting to wonder if I’ve ever been away, if there’s anywhere better than this. Obviously I’ve only been here a week! But, you know what I mean, I guess it’s just sort of cool to go from that place of looking down on where you grew up to accepting it, feeling fond of it. Both my parents hated South Elmsall and couldn‘t wait to get out - and I have to wonder if I wasn’t merely influenced by them, never truly saw it as it actually is. There’s good and bad everywhere, right? And wherever you go, there you are - plus a million other clichés besides: I’m sure you’re getting what I’m saying.

Not that I spend anywhere near as much time actually ‘in’ South Elmsall as I do on this computer! lol

Canada

So I wrote all that stuff on Friday and, whaddya know, I instantly felt like ten million dollars, head clear and happy and high, not a thought in my brain. Writing! Ah! The power of it. Not that I knew what I wanted to do, necessarily - but at least I’d put it out there. Now I feel the need to crack it once and for all…

Canada. That’s what’s in my head. The problem is, every time I go online, there’s an advert for Canadian Affair, who have the best, most flexible prices out there - and, even bigger problem than that, their prices and availability are exactly what I want them to be right now. And when I look ‘em up, and when I’m in that right sort of reckless, hearkening back to my youth kind of mood, I just think, why not? Why not fly to Canada on a whim? Why not sneak across the border into the US and have some adventures? I mean, it sounds a lot better than two months in England not really doing anything, maybe some job that I don’t like, maybe just internet procrastination and the frustration of not being able to write…

Why not? Well here’s “why not” - though, me being me, I have to tell you the whole dang story from start to finish…

January 2010. I’m in Canada. A friend of mine gives me a ride from Vancouver part of the way to Calgary for my flight back to the UK. We skirt the border - that highway goes so close! - and I think how easy it would be to hop across. Already I’ve google earthed and streetviewed it and it looks ridiculous. I start getting excited. And then the truck driver who takes me all through the night and drops me right by the airport - he’s not allowed in the States - says he’s done it many times, hiking through the woods, even carrying a mountain bike to just pick up and start pedalling when he gets to the other side. It’s doable. It’s a damn sight easier than coming in through Mexico. I think, when summer comes, I’ll do it. Life is short: you gotta live! And you gotta have adventures and accomplish all the things you desire, no matter how hare-brained, forgetting fear…

I don’t do it: instead, I work, and summer 2010 in London is okay, it’s not in my mind. The year passes, and the following January I go to Israel, and when I’m done there with what I needed to do - with what’s been on my ‘subconscious to-do list’ for a very long time, I think, wow, what next? And the answer is: America. Yes, I say, I’ll do it: when summer comes. I start making plans. I email friends who might know stuff. I’ve got it all worked out. It’s exciting. It feels right. Everybody’s up for it. And then…

Back in 2001 I’d had a go at going in. I’d hitched on down to the border, presented my passport - and was then reminded, in no uncertain terms, that I’d been previously deported and banned and that I was lucky I wasn’t going to be thrown in jail and that my ban was now going to be doubled to twenty years. It was pretty horrible - and quite possibly incredibly foolish. I’d got myself believing faith would take me through there - the miracle of ‘98 and ‘99 that saw me enter the country three times, despite the ban, when it was obviously right. But 2001 was obviously wrong. And when I got back safe and sound and grateful to Canada I asked the I Ching “what would you have told me had I come to you beforehand?” and the I Ching screamed at me “no!” I can’t remember the reading: but it was bad. And I made another vow that day: that all important, potentially life-changing decisions had to go through the I Ching first. I’ve stuck to that, and it’s been great: really worked out well, even when it’s been against what I thought would be best. Like…

My main example is the time I wanted to switch unis after my first year at Kent. I really hated it, and thought the teaching was shoddy, and was being driven mad by the course (was doing Religious Studies at the time). So I got myself lined up with two infinitely better possibilities: either switching to a degree in Steiner Education, which would see me a qualified Steiner school teacher, or moving to Canterbury Christchurch, and continually Religious Studies, but at an apparently much better establishment. I remember the reading well: sitting up on the third floor of the Templeman Library, in the quiet time during the summer holidays, all set to leave Kent but thinking, well I might as well get it confirmed. I tossed the coins: I felt so groovy during it, that it was so obvious it was the right thing to do and that the I Ching was gonna back me up - and, of course, it said some pretty straight-to-the-point things like “stay where you are” and “now is not the time to change course” and I slumped deflated knowing that I had to follow its advice.

A few days passed. I went to sign up for my second year courses. And signing up next to me was a young guy inquiring about creative writing. Creative writing? My ears pricked. I didn’t know they did that here. All summer I’d been thinking, what do I really want to do? And writing was always the answer. I asked if I could do those courses. They said I could. And I did, and it was great.

An addition to that story: at some point later on in the year, I received a summons to see the head of the English department: he couldn’t understand what I, a second year Religious Studies student, was doing on courses strictly designated for third year Creative Writing students. I said I don’t know, I just signed up for them. He was well furrowed: he couldn’t get it into his head. He huffed and he puffed and he eventually came to the conclusion that the only solution - luckily I’d been doing really rather well in those classes - would be for me to abandon Religious Studies and switch to English and Creative Writing - if I was agreeable. You bet I was. He continued to shake his head and mutter about how I’d “sneaked in through the back door” but that was pretty much that. And no repetition either. I pretty much skipped out of that office, and after about eighteen months of sort of hating uni and really struggling to not run away from it I was overwhelmed with this feeling that everything was exactly as it should be and that I was in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. And it was all thanks to the I Ching. And ever since then…

Obviously doing something as potentially disastrous as sneaking into America would require a reading, despite the enthusiasm of my friends and my feelings. I tossed the coins. And the chapter I got was the seemingly encouraging “Abundance”. But the content of the reading was anything but.

Chapter 55, changing lines 3, 5 and 6. Key points:

"Laws are applied and enforced"

"Impossible to undertake anything"

"Because of his arrogance attains the opposite of what he strives for. For three years he sees nothing and finds himself completely isolated"

Pretty gloomy huh? If I didn’t know better I’d think that was a picture of a potential arrest and some rather severe jail time. And so that was pretty much that. Except I can’t stop thinking about it. And even though I accept the reading, and even though the question was pretty specific and still valid - “What would be the outcome of me going to Canada and America this summer?” - a part of me thinks maybe things have changed and another reading might be in order. After all, it feels right, and sort of makes sense - do what you wanna do - feel the fear and do it anyway - but then going there in 2001 felt pretty right too. As did switching universities…

Also, there’s no accompanying signs. When I flew to Canada in 2000 and in 2002 to try and woo Sara there were signs galore. I won’t go into them but, trust me, it was obvious and ridiculous; even the way the money appeared for the flights. But not this time. In fact, the only signs I’m getting lately are about iboga - pictures of bark everywhere, the words “root healing” a couple of times somewhere or other, and also a dream - so if I was following that…

Agh! It’s hard to let go of adventures that sound awesome in my head and would obviously provide great stories and make me the envy of others and be something to look back on and…but that’s all ego stuff, isn’t it? And a far cry from the quiet and stable life I’m trying to cultivate. Perhaps, simply, my youth has passed: I’m not even sure I like America that much anymore. But - oh! - I would seriously love love love to do it! I weep with excitement at the thought…

I suppose another reading would sort it out, one way or the other. But you’re not supposed to go back to the I Ching once you’ve had your answer…

In other news, I’m still in South Elmsall. Not been doing much - the urge to change things and marvel at people has left me. Things are different now: I’m not noticing the garbage, the smell, the weirdness of the people. In fact, it seems quite normal and actually quite pretty. I went to visit an old school friend on Saturday and hung out with him and his mum and his kids: it was great. Very nice and solid and smart and respectable chap. Great dad too: they do exist round these parts. The village was so green and attractive and small: the fields and woods are always there on the horizon surrounding town. I went for a brief run on Sunday and, I swear, within three minutes of being in the heart of everything manmade and concrete I was out in the nature. It’s tiny! So lovely to have that after the neverending density of London. Well-being. Which I then destroyed by signing back in to facebook and staying up till 5am playing chess. But the next day I obliterated my account - deleted every friend, photo, video, bit of writing - and then assigned it to an email address I no longer use and have now terminated and shut it down. Done and dusted, one might say.

Why do I hate facebook? Oh man, I hate facebook! I hate what it’s done to my brain and my head. I hate that I’ve been such a loser and become so addicted to something so lame. There’s nothing on it! It’s just a glorified email address book. And I have no interest in looking at pictures of people I never see, perhaps barely knew and maybe even didn’t like. And yet, there I am, sometimes at hours when sane people are sleeping clicking robotically on nothing. I made a list of all the good things that had come to me through facebook - genuinely good things - and I really couldn’t think of more than one. In fact, even if I was more relaxed in my criteria I bet I couldn’t find three. It’s a poor return for such an investment of time and brainstuff. It’s a load of shite, really. Here’s hoping I can keep off it for good.

Iboga, by the way, apparently helps with internet addictions too!

(I thought I was finished there but, lol, thirty seconds later in comes a text from a friend saying - with regards to South Elmsall - “You’re getting back to your roots!” Heehee: I think I’d better get some of that wild and mysterious plant ordered…)

Expression

So what I woke up thinking this morning was: you know, I really must write about eight thousand words all about all the myriad things that are buzzing around my head and see if I can’t just get them sorted; plus do one or two things in the real world. And so I got up, flicked on the computer - and then played about four hours of online chess and had an enjoyable little time on arty-erotic websites like Beautiful Agony and I Feel Myself. In a word: notproductive. But, unlike usual, I’m not going to beat myself up about it; instead, I’m going to do it now. Yay! So where do we begin?

Yup, yup: so I had me a little weird time in London not really doing anything and hating it and thinking, why am I here in London AGAIN? Answer: a screening for a volunteer drug study - failed: heart too awesome - and a daft attachment and commitment to my lovely seven-a-side Monday night East Dulwich football team, Rory’s Heroes, aka the only thing in this town I like. And - well wouldn’t you just know it? - after all those days of hanging around purely for that they only went and cancelled the match. Ho hum: it really is a blast sometimes, non? So that was that, and nearly two pizzas later I was off once more on a train/bus to the north, and to escape that damn city and try and get some air. Plan: go to York, wander about, maybe stumble on some weird job and start living there, maybe just go off walking in the woods, or go to South Elmsall, or Leeds, or -

Wow, I’ve been all over the place since I let out my room in February - dig this:

Israel - Sussex - Kent - London - Norfolk - Yorkshire - London - Kent - Oxford - Yorkshire - London - Norfolk - Chippenham - Gloucester (monastery) - Yorkshire - Sussex - London - Yorkshire

And now here I am. Phew! Been all o’er shop, an’t a?

Anyways, I rolled on up to York about 6ish on Tuesday evening and had a wander. Coupla jobs here and there: but couldn’t really see myself living in York (nice enough - but no heart-pulls for me) and so I think, well, I could either head on back to Elmsall (inviting text from Laura) or go up into the woods. And then I wander over to the National Railway Museum- though shut - and see that it’s free entry! Wowzers. So I can’t miss that: went that plenty times as a boy and I ain’t got no shame in admitting that I does love them choo-choos. So all we need is a place to sleep and to cradle our excitement. Walk, then. Walk a lot. Walk about four miles in a vaguely northerly direction until I come to the end of civilisation: the fields and the cessation of cars and a little village and a church. And in the churchyard there is the most perfect, low-slung tree. And under that tree is where I’ll sleep. And so I do. Some trepidation as getting into sleeping bag - it’s cold, I’m old - too old for this - but once in, cosy and snug and even quite comfy and loving it I laugh. Ah yes, I’m sure I could get used to this again. And I sleep not bad, in amongst them gravestones with the low enveloping branches just inches above my head. Happiness.

Happiness

To be out of London

Even homeless

Directionless

Out here in the fields

With some quiet

Is better than being surrounded

By all those modern comforts

But sad

Next day I make that museum - my, museums are dull aren’t they? But not this one. Awesome. Awesome awesome awesome. Choo-choo trains! Six foot high wheels. Pistons and beauty. Oh yes. And the Evening Star’s still there - my boyhood favourite - and a Japanese bullet train, and this unbelievable art deco streamlined maroon and gold vision of beauty, The Duchess of Hamilton. Wow! They don’t make ‘em like they used to. Great and happy experience: I even donated a fiver, which is not like me at all, I loved it so. And after a couple of hours in there: on back to South Elmsall - only semi-dodging the fare (I’m not paying nine-pound-odd! I’ll give you four quid and ride with a ticket two stations short and if there’s trouble we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it (there wasn’t)) - and then a pleasant couple of hours sitting by the old bowling greens where I won my third-placed trophy back as a boy reading Scarlett Thomas’s PopCo - really enjoyable - in the sun with the shoes off and the weird/lovely South Elmsall folk going on around me. Enquiries about renting an allotment. Wondering…

Some words:

If you’ve a problem

You know

You can come to me

They all do

It’s fine

But

Where do I go

When the problem’s mine?

To whom do I turn?

I go to one best friend and say

Sometimes I just feel

Like nobody likes me

Don’t be stupid

He says

Gruffly

That’s all he says

Another

When I say I’m bored of living

And could quite happily

Die

Tells me

Man up

Suggests a hobby’s

All I need

Advice!

I can’t understand

How people

Can be so bad

At simply

Listening

There’s truth in that. And people wonder why I’m so aloof: I’ve been disappointed by people too many times at the foolishness that comes out of their mouths when I open up to them. I gots stuff going on inside: but I guess in the absence of a good true friend - one who can actually pay attention for more than five minutes - I suppose I’ll satisfy myself with you, my beautiful lovely blog. Oh, kiss kiss kiss - I do love you; come on, let me give you a hug…

The biggest problem with the internet

Is this:

Although far less healthy

It’s just a damn sight more interesting

Than most

Other people

Oh, people! You do so tire me (lol). I wonder when someone’s next going to say something interesting - really does seem like it’s been a long time. Or maybe now I’ve been around for a while I’ve run out of options; I know, I know, there’s plenty out there - but you know what I mean: only so much of it will appeal to my particular sensitivity and mindframeset. Now I mostly just find it dull, and frustrating - the company of others - so unless it’s doing something - sports, board games, adventures - I suppose I’m mostly happy alone. People do talk, don’t they! But most of it’s just nothing. And yet I remember those long and wonderful and into-the-night conversations of my youth when it was all so new and exciting and it seemed like we were breaking through into something. Our souls! The mysteries of this world! Now…well, maybe there are more mysteries - but I’m not sure I’ll find them through words. Not that certain things aren’t interesting…pop-psychology, that sort of thing - me - but other people…? No, I’d rather play chess. I guess we all would. That’s why we sit alone in our rooms on laptops (our house was about a billion times more lovely to live in for the three months we didn’t have internet) instead of having to deal with all the nuances and madnesses and sheer tiresomeosity of real humans. Or I guess I’m just at an age when I want something different…

For social creatures

We sure do like our own space

I

For one

One a train

Need at least four seats

To feel unimpinged on

And woe betide the man

Fool enough

To attempt

Conversation

Stuff I’ve read/contemplated lately…yes, a quiet life, going nowhere except where needs to be gone - work, the weekly shop, a healthy walk in the fields/woods - and…family. I see myself being a family man: the partner, the child. Maybe one good friend for a game of squash. But, mostly, that unit thing. And I have met someone that I think might want that/that it might work with too. Only problem is, she’s off travelling for four months. Ho hum! One week of bliss and the building of future dreams - and now four months of limbo, waiting, not knowing quite what to do. Visiting friends. Being free. Blargh. Who needs freedom? Freedom’s within (or something). Rory needs something more. Rory needs…a job?

Rory signs on. Goes into the job centre. The tired lady looks at him and needs to put three things that he wants to do in some boxes. Three: no more, no less. Otherwise it won’t work. Otherwise, you won’t get your money. None of this, by the way, has happened - yet. Or, at least, not this time: sure, I’ve been there before. The dole eh? It’s the solution to everything! Then I don’t need to worry about my roof or my basics - hell, you can even generate savings on that baby! - and all I need to think about is fobbing off there dole clerks. It’s tempting. But first we need to fill in these imaginary three boxes. And that’s not easy…

Do you know

How many jobs I’ve had?

Thirty-nine

Something like that

But not a one

In the last four months

And the two before that

I had to leave

‘Cos my soul got sad

And my face

Swelled up

Some days I worry

Will I ever find anything

I can stick with?

How will I pay my way

Support a child

Buy a house?

The list is getting shorter

Of things I could possibly do

Maybe fireman?

That could work

And I liked admin

And working with wood

Being physical

But I’m not even qualified for anything

Beyond McDonald’s

Or office temping

Deadend jobs

That I know I’ll soon tire of

Of course

What I’d really like

Is to earn my crust

Writing

But I’m probably not good enough

And certainly not

Hard working enough

Maybe I should train in something

Carpentry?

Massage?

Psychotherapy?

Seems I have the time

Money money, job job: s’a lot of what I think about these days. Ought to be doing something. Ought to be thinking about my future - that potential MA; the woman and the imaginary house and the kid. But nothing occurs or appeals or leaps out at me the way it usually does: the way it did when I worked as a postman or student mentor or sports betting trader or moving man or gardener or waiter; the jobs just fall in my lap. But, lately, I really don’t fancy anything. And I’ve got plenty of money in the bank - still over fifteen hundred quid - which is more than enough to take care of my near future. But - ah, the woman: yes, I’m putting pressure on myself there. And that damn forty-two hundred quid MA rearing its ugly head. Thoughts turn to future: to how, to musts and shoulds - yet it’s never really worked that way for me. Another voice says:

Fuck it!

We’ve already got money in the bank

We’ll worry about all this

When the money runs out

It’s never been a problem before

And if the woman don’t like it

- she honestly won’t care -

She can find some other bloke

Someone sane

Reliable

Someone whose face don’t swell up

When his soul gets sad

My soul, my soul! Ah, you’ve got a lot to answer for, you bugger! I quit those jobs for you: I really felt you were sad doing them. But what have you led me to instead? Nothing except the ocean of freedom that I’ve always craved and long promised that I would fill up with wonderful words and stories and books, books, books. Oh yeah…

I always say I’m going to write something, don’t I? I’ve always got some idea and - ha! usually when I don’t have a place - and I strain and strive to shake off everything that gets in the way of getting on with it and - then when I find my freedom, my space, all I do is…procrastinate. What my life online. Worry about other things and future money and think I really ought to be doing something else. What is it that separates those who will give everything for their craft, and go hungry and poor, and those like me who long for it, and then when on the verge of finding it, turn back and say, no, I gotta be normal, this is daft, I’m not good enough, I won’t even start, there’s no point doing anything? All these ideas! And I don’t even start. But why don’t I just do them, even though they may be pointless and shite? You don’t get better at something by not being rubbish in the first place. But even being rubbish is several steps further along the path than I am now. And, yes, it’s pointless - but I still want to do it, and in that I suppose it has point enough. Oh world! Oh woe! Oh gnashings and flailings and tossings of pillow and fists and tears and wwwwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy!!!? Oh why didst thou curse me so, with this foolish brain, this mad eye, this tongue of retarded silver? Where solution thither art thou, doggéd foe?! Isn’t it though? Just a bit.

So that’s what it always comes down to: that desire to write something. That desire to begin work on the dozens of ideas that I have in my head (that I shan’t write here: apparently that’s a bad thing to do). But, like this piece here, wouldn’t it just be awesomely awesome to start them? Starting something’s great: it’s the bit just before the first word that’s the hardest (at least, I find). And the funny thing is - that bit, that moment can go on for years.

Oh, Wayne Mercedes, won’t you burst in through my door and make yourself known to me!? Aren’t you desperate to be born? Do not you legs ache to kick themselves free from this womb? Where are you? A whole life, waiting to be lived, up there bubbling around in space like all the billions of unborn foetal personalities - and me here keeping my seed firmly in my sack and depriving the universe of your shining Lancastrian (though unorthodox) brilliance. You know what? It’s a bit of a shame.

Things: we need to sort out our things.

A list:

1. We’re here in South Elmsall; I’m down with that.

2. It’s not my house. I’ve an invite to move in here. But that’ll mean rent. I could pay it out of my ‘savings’ (for ‘savings’ read ‘left over money’) or I could get a job or I could sign on.

3. I’ve still got that damn room in London! Oh man, I’m so over London! I wish I didn’t have to go back. But, probably, the guy that I’ve sublet it to will move out at the end of June and that’ll mean two more months until the lease runs out. I suppose I’ve always thought that I’d go back there for then - to work, to get some money together, to live there with Nicky - which could be awesome - but right now it just feels like an ointmented fly hanging around my millstone-covered neck that I need as much as a barrel of monkeys needs a bicycle shaped liked a fish. If it wasn’t for leases…I’d’ve never looked back. But maybe it’ll all turn out for the best. At least - lesson learned: don’t sign long leases.

4. I’ve a whole host of mad plans. Yesterday I was looking at plane tickets to Canada - the perfect one left today, just missed out on that - and you know what that means too: America. Six to eight weeks there could be nice. Could also be boring or life-changing or awesome beyond words or the most foolish and stupid thing I’ve ever done. So it’s a bit of a toss-up. And then there’s always thoughts about going to join Nicky in South/Central America (she’s on her way down overland from Mexicoto Venezuela). Flights a bit pricey for that, though - perhaps. I’m also really into the idea of taking a fairly healthy dose of iboga and seeing if I can’t have one last crack at making some sort of spiritual/creative/emotional breakthrough - and maybe even curing my internet addiction.

5. Then there’s the future:

1. I’ve been accepted to an MA course in Leeds, starting in September. Could be amazing. But it’s forty-two hundred quid and I don’t have forty-two hundred quid. ‘Cept they’ve sent me an application form to put forward for a full-fee bursary. So who knows what will happen there? Certainly, if I got it, it’d be ‘a sign’ too enormous to ignore. And if not…well then it’s a question of money. September. Future. Number one thing that’s got me thinking of the future.

2. Although, before that, I hit Nicky with this idea I had to go and live a whole six months in the hot springscanyon in Mexico- and she was down with that. That would be from September too.

3. Some friends of mine are getting married at the end of this month. At least, I think they’re friends; sometimes I’m not sure. It’s a two-day music festival way back down south - so much travel! - and what I’ve been thinking is, oh yeah, I don’t really like music festivals do I? All that noise and pissing and drunkenness: I pretty much spent the whole time I was at Glastonbury looking for somewhere quiet and wishing they could turn it all down a bit. But, ho hum, I suppose you’ve got to do these things. Future. A major spanner in any mad going-to-Canada works.

4. Eve, my ex, whose name I weirdly see everywhere - there it is again - which sort of makes me think that I need to see her to sort something out. Certainly, when I came to that conclusion - after several mad years of being driven mad by it (‘specially car license plates) - and voiced some things to her, it - the reaction/response I’d have to seeing it - died down, as though I’d somewhat tackled it (I know it sounds mad - but I’ve had other similar things and it’s generally borne out to mean something or other). Anyways, lately it’s started up again. She’s back from India and in France once more. Another friend has invited me to France- and maybe even hooked me up with a lift. More signs. But it’s certainly not about getting back with her or anything like that: probably just about healing something from the past. Truth is, she fucked me up more than any other person in my life - barring my mum - and I still, sadly, feel the consequences of it only too clearly. So would be nice to get that sorted - if that’s what it is - especially before Nicky comes back. So that’s France. More future. Possibly June.

5. And in the midst of all this, there’s jobs, which changes everything - but which when I actually look at - ie, look at these thoughts that I’ve typed out of my head and see them here in plain old, easier to understand black and white - I don’t seem to really want, or, even, need. Jobs. Shrugs. Jobs are for money and I’ve got money and I’ve got enough money. Enough is enough, right? I suppose I only really think about it because of:

a) The Masters’

b) Duty/obligation

c) Because I’m massively bored and have a space for a it (the writing notwithstanding)

d) Because I think of the future and worry that I won’t be able to provide for myself or Nicky or afford a place to live - though always have - and am getting concerned that I’m 35 and have no viable qualifications (degree in English Literature and Creative Writing?) and wonder if I’ll ever crack it or get it right or find something I can stomach for more than a few months and also because I’m jealous of those that do and can’t can’t CAN’T for the life of me figure out how they’ve done it when I’m smart and able and good and clever. But there’s almost literally nothing that appeals to me - and pretty much literally nothing that anyone would hire me for anyway

e) I always think of it, it’s a habit. And maybe a bad habit at that.

Well, in any case, this is what happens when:

a) You don’t do anything for four months

b) You make yourself homeless

c) You live your life for something more than the norm

d) You don’t feel desperate or unhappy

e) You have people to stay with

f) You have money in the bank

g) You know that the world is your oyster

h) You sit down and try to figure it all out

i) You don’t really figure it all out

The world is my oyster

Damn!

I suppose that means

I’ve got no excuse

To groan

Or complain

About anything

If I don’t like it

I can change it

It’s my oyster

I put it there

There are options. I could toss a dice. I could just do whatever I want. Or what I think is best. Or what someone else wants. Or I could just play internet chess (shall I just pop that gun against my temple and pull the trigger right now and get it over with?) I could also…

Conclusion I’ve come to through all of this is this:

What I should do is stay in South Elmsall, sign the fuck on - why the hell not let the government pay my way while I struggle as an arseole/artist? - and then knuckle down and write several books and see what else happens in the meantime.

Although, instead of that, I could fly to Canada, break into America, gad about a bit and go “woohoo” and see old friends and laugh and chuckle and hopefully not get arrested and then break back into Canada and then come back here, broke and fulfilled and probably wanting to do it all over again, which, all in all, is dangerous (the voice that says, fuck it, live your life, have adventures, do mad things like those in days of old did mad things, stop trying to be so fucking normal is strong, I tell ya).

And then…as for jobs - well, I have this lovely motto: apply for everything and take what comes; always works out. And I guess if I did that - ie, was actually looking for work - I wouldn’t feel so bad about skanking some dole - the tight fucker (me). I mean, that is actually what you’re supposed to do.

Ah, I’m a laugh: I do actually seem to have got all this figured out. Now the key is to bring it into reality and stop such a bona fide total proper loser. Meanwhile…

“Burnt pizza Rory!” comes the cry from downstairs - and I suppose that means it’s time to come to an end. Heehee: perfect timing, as always, despite what Derren Brown might say, the lovely bald-headed quite small gorgeous little fellow. One last poem, and then I’m done:

A man one day

Says something

And another man

Hears it

Half forgets it

Puts his own spin on it

Then decades later

Translates it

For another man

Who

After many years

Writes it down

In a manuscript

Which is

Lost

Translated again

Reproduced

Added to and edited

Then

One arbitrary day

Decided

By a thick-headed warlord

To be

“The Word of God”

Seventeen centuries

And many translations later

I read it

And agree with him

And spit death on

Anyone

Who doesn’t

Aha! Yet more anti-Christian bilge/bile. I wonder what’s got into me? Pizza time!