Fifteen

Expunge. Right click. Stream of consciousness. Keep doing this till you reach the end – then you’ll feel better. Than you can go on. Until the next time. Click. Stream of consciousness, right anchor, click. Keep doing this until you feel better. Expunge. Click.

This morning I woke up singing – later, singing – Celine Dion: “When you touch me like this/and I hold like that/I can barely recall/but it’s all coming back to me/There were nights of endless pleasure/It was more than any love could stand.” I don’t know if they’re the right lyrics – click – but they’ll do. Signs? Wonders? Expunge? Click.

There were nights of endless pleasure – click –but was it more than any love could stand? God, this screen is bright. I just ate custard; usually that hurts my brain. Sugar. Sugar hurts my brain – but I eat lots of it. Chocolate – almost every day. Large amounts. Beyond sickness. Not good for you – don’t care (click). It was more than any love could stand.

We get up – I get knocked down, then I get up again…no, you’re never gonna keep me down. Down. A little down today. But why? Sex? Sex sucks. Boring, crap at it, been there done that, borne the t-shirt. Next! Gossip, talk, I’m not who I once was. I’ve changed a lot; what am I doing here? Maybe I…

I think back often, to when I lived in Wakefield, to just before I stopped being so spaced – to people asking me, “do you go to Bretton [nearby college/university]?” – to me meeting a recent creative writing graduate from there – wondering…where these signs? One year later I’m swept into uni; two years later I’ve transferred to creative writing, and it feels like I’m doing what I should have been doing all along – but did I mess my chance? Did I throw my timing all of the loop? If so, then what am I doing here? I should have been finished with this two years ago; I should never have heard of Canterbury. I feel no attachment to this place – I could leave tomorrow and think nothing more of it. There’s nothing much here for me, even if I like it all the same. I felt more for Guelph.

I’m lost, I’m lost. I know not what I’m doing. I shouldn’t be here; I’m not who I was; I’m not sure where I’m going. I can’t be bothered with anything – I thought I’d do a PGCE, but that doesn’t seem like the way; I thought I’d write a book – I’m rubbish at that, at getting it done. People said, “oh, you should write a book” – but why? Writing a book is hard – and I’ve got nothing to say. Now I’m cursed, now I’ve got this millstone around my neck, that won’t ever leave me alone, snapping at my heels, stalking me like a tentacle of doom, like: the Count de Monty Crisco (yes, that was an intentionally bad sentence). It won’t let me go; it’ll either happen, and lead to nothing (or something) or it won’t happen and I’ll be doomed to knowing that I never did it, never did what I said I would, what I dreamed of, that I was…the ultimate failure. Talking and talking and talking the talk – but refusing to make the effort to even put my shoes on. Oh, bugger! Oh, drat! Oh zut alors mein Fuhrer! Donner und blitzen! Raisin crackers and biscuit butties on toast in a nutshell down the side of the bin last Friday!

You see? You see? I’m smiling now. Curse this life and its ups and downs! Curse the ups that invariably follow the downs! Curse the never-ending wheel of dharma karma justice life and death blood cycle love danger voodoo magic lust!

I’m going. Bye Bye.