I felt a little better today, a little less insistence from that Countdown bug that's been stuck in my ear since Tuesday. It's not as loud in telling me I've ruined my life – and, come to think of it, it's not as loud as the bug that made me relive some dodgy cricket shot a few years ago, just as I was getting' me eye in, just as I was thinking about 50's and 100's, a fine swing off the middle of the bat, just caught high on the boundary ropes and what could have been 15 not out and match winning innings here we come was 9 and gone, and trudges back to the pavilion and several weeks of replaying and self-recriminations. Madness, isn't it? And so, so silly. But it is my head and I got to acknowledge – failing a way to shut the damn thing off…
The thing is – this is what I've been pondering – I guess I just don't like hiccups; I guess my life has just been running too damn smooth the last few years, and now any little thing just kinda sets me off balance. I got used to everyday being wonderful and perfect. I got used to everything sort of slotting into place, having all I wanted – having all I needed - and not having to worry about a thing. It's still pretty much like that – but one little headache and then I go off on one – ie, I can't let it go, I have to dwell, replay, analyse, castigate. I've been doing that a lot lately. It must be a sign of something.
I had a bit of a bad run of it on eBay the last few months – getting sold dodgy things, getting in with shady characters – and I think that started it; it got me plotting revenges, thinking of how I could get even; thinking of any way I could make it right. But, again, that's just silliness: revenges wouldn't make anything right. And I never did them anyway. But, like I said, it must be a sign of something.
I had this idea a while back that if I ever came into anything, money-wise, or ever owned anything kinda nice, materially-wise, it would be taken away from me, to pay for all the bad karma I done back in the day. That's kinda happened too, and I wonder if that's what it is – because, for sure, I ripped some people off when I was young, and that wasn't a very nice thing for me to do, and I guess I have to pay. I guess I thought maybe because I'd changed my ways, or perhaps suffered in other ways, that that would be enough. But then I think...well maybe not. I suppose I still have to ask myself, "what am I doing to bring these things into my life?" I ripped people off – I cost them money – and, even though I don't do that now, I still have to pay, to suffer the consequences, to reap what I sowed. That's life. And I guess I should just take it, and suffer with it, and forget all my revenges and plots and ting. Yeah, I guess that's what I should do – but it ain't necessarily so easy...
(Now don't get me wrong! I ain't been plotting anything evil – and plotting's just plotting – I'm just having to acknowledge the truth of my head and let it be, if you know what I mean…)
In other news…I don't know what comes next. Something about…Countdown; about this idea I had: dissolution of the ego by public humiliation – because that's something I struggle with – again, too used to having it all run smooth, too used to keeping myself to myself and not showing enough of anything to let anybody think anything much at all – and…well, could that be true? Yes, it sure as hell could be! Like…I could never appear on Big Brother because I just couldn't live with myself if people – thinking here, my mum – were to see my like that, in all my glory, in my weaknesses and sillinesses and swearings and anger – and maybe that's saying something deep there, in my clumsy sort of way. I guess I'm grasping. But is something rising to the surface here – or am I just ever-so-slightly losing my mind, and sailing into unsafe waters? The waters of internet-spouting-gibberish, where it's not really real, where it's safe to be nonsense-head mad, because it gives you a thrill? Is that a release of something, an avenue into a different aspect of mind, of being, of communication and expression? Or is it Barney Bonackles, silly silly, feeding into only myself in ever-decreasing circles like some warped acid-head clown? Ha! I can type anything here and it's all okay. Ha! I can wurp-yop-snip-burp-thumb, and nobody's gonna tell me otherwise. But what does it all mean? Who cares. Next paragraph.
Carol Vorderman: I can't tell whether she's nice or not. She looks like she's got a cracking body – but wears enough make-up for at least a dozen ladies. Very professional – and super-nice to the old age pensioners that obviously adore her. And, goes without saying, smart as a whole bunch of pins – but something not quite right. My ladies at work think she's mutton dressed as lamb, got too big for her boots, and I'm liable to agree: surely her whole charm was that she was surprisingly attractive, that she crept up on you when you looked at her from a certain angle and played that whole PlainJaneSuperBrain card, the dowdy secretary who takes off her glasses and shakes her hair and, wow Momma, you really got me goin' baby! But now that she knows it, it just ain't the same. And something devious goin' on in that head of hers…unlike the lovely Susie Susie Susie Dent - who Mikey asked to marry. (Another perfect Countdown moment: when somebody made some joke about "Bristols" (being cockney rhyming slang for "breasts") and me at the moment absent-mindedly staring at the monitor and Carol's boobs being right there in my face looking mighty fine, and everyone chortling about the unintended gag except Des who didn't quite get it, but maybe somebody explained it to him later.)
Another thing: what? I don't know! Why didn't you tell me? Because you never asked. And because I didn't think you'd like it. And because I thought you'd want to stop. But is that what you really think? Yes, it is – I do. And, come on, it's as plain as the milk on a blackman's ear, that's all this is. Look at us; look at what we do – I mean, if we're not doing that, we're not talking, we're not digging each other like a couple in love do, we're watching a movie or eating, or, really, just waiting until that moment comes – and haven't you ever noticed that we just descend into argument if we delay/avoid/don't recognise that moment. We get at each other when we're not getting at each other, don't you see that? It's obvious to me – but I didn't want to say in case you wanted it to stop. Do you want it to stop?
"Yes," she said, "you're the only man I've ever cared about. I thought there was more to it than this; I thought we got on. I thought we were going somewhere."
"The thing is, though," I said, "people don't really talk how you just talked – in books, I mean; in literature. That's ridiculous. Where's all the pauses? Where's all the stumbling and stuttering, and striving for the right thing to say? Where's all the talking over and interrupting, and misunderstanding? That's how it is in the real world – and that's why I hate dialogue in writing. It's all a lie because it couldn't be anything else. It's all a lie before you even start – I mean, who could ever even remember anything anyone said, nevermind recreate it? It should be more like this: 'I was like, yeah, and then she was going on about something or other but I wasn't really listening, I was thinking about twelve other things at the same time and all I really wanted was for her to make the tea and stop banging on about her day so I could play my game and pretend the world didn't exist, and maybe be adored a bit later' or something. Actually, that wasn't really very good; actually, I'm not really sure what to think." I tied myself in a knot so that my feet were wedged behind my ears and my nose nestled nicely in the crack of my arse-brush. I tried to make a funny face through the gap in my knees but she wasn't having any of it.
"You've done it again," she said, "changed the subject. You're such a jerk."
And then I decided to have her walk out the room and disappear from existence, so I could get on with my typing.
"Am I writing more and more nonsensical everyday?" I whispered. "There's something going on here – something a little bizarre. I'm not entirely sure it's healthy."
"Put the pen down then," she said (the new one, the one who had snuck in unawares), "and I'll teach you something. I'll climb in your bed when you're in that in-between stage; I'll flip you on your front and stick it in the back of your neck, and when you scream and cry out, begging to know whether this is for good or for evil, I'll just hold you there, paralysed under my invisible weight until you give in muttering the prayers that you hope will save you, still never knowing, hoping only, and then you'll fall asleep with me still there and I'll have you as my thing." She stopped and waited, letting it sink in. "The question is: do you trust? How far are you willing to go? Do you believe that you are what you say you are, or is there something else going on here? Because everything that hides in the dark must be brought out into the light – and everything down there in the deeps must be brought up to the surface. You've got bottom-feeders, my boy – you've got monsters swimming down there. You haven't seen them yet, but that's because you were only skimming the surface, the superficial, your awareness wasn't quite there – now I'll show you there's much more to you than you ever imagined, but it ain't gonna be pretty. It'll be like squeezing a spot. It'll be a bloody mess. Maybe you should turn back now – or maybe you should hang on for the ride. Or maybe – just maybe – this is all nonsense, and you can forget about those night-time visits and say it was just your imagination, watch some TV, live out your life, raise some kids and die looking back and wondering what might have been." I was fidgeting now. "So," she said, "whatcha wanna do?"
My lips and jaw held tight. "You already know," I said, "what I want to do. I want to put the TV on and watch Big Brother." The words came out slowly. I was afraid. I didn't know what came next.
"You can do that," she said, her voice softening, her head tilting to one side and a warm smile beginning to shine forth from her eyes, "and that will be okay. I think you've had enough for tonight; I think I know what you really want."
"Yes," I said, "I want it, but I'm afraid. I want it – but I can only take so much at a time. Two steps forward, one step back." I sighed and slumped down in my chair a little. Something let go in my shoulders and my chest. I was off the hook, for now. "Be gentle with me, please," I said. I meant it – and I knew she would be.
"You're my son," she said, smiling deep into the infinite reflected mirrors we held between us, "how could I be anything else?"
"You stretch me," I said.
"But not beyond your limit."
"You scare me," I said.
"But not beyond your wit's end," she said. "You feel fear – and then your fear goes. It's part of the process. It's the step into the unknown. Your fear doesn't stay – it's not real."
"False evidence appearing real," I said.
"Right," she said.
"There's just one more thing," I said, "if I do watch Big Brother will you still be here?"
"Put the pen down," she said, "and relax. I'll be coming for you soon. I'll be coming inside you, and then you'll see. But not just yet. Not just now. But soon."
The top of my head is tingling now. My mind is strangely silent and peaceful, intrigued, amused, hopeful and excited. Fingers are moving easily and automatically, keys pressed in a clean and steady flow. I think I'd better stop now. I think I'd better let go.
But before I do that...let's see how I'm doing with that "to do list" of mine. (By the way, a few days after I posted that I was reading Cosmo and it said there in an article on de-stressing "don't make "to do" lists, they'll only make you feel like a failure - but if you must, limit it to five things a day." Ha! Who the hell can think of five things a day!)
1. 75% done, 55% undone (but mostly just clean clothes lying around, as opposed to dirty ones, so that doesn't really count as mess; some sex-toys, DVDs and humous tubs that I really ought to clear up though...)
2. Did good till the rains came - and until I discovered facebook, youtube and got sucked more into this myspace malarkey - but I will get it back!
3. Done
4. Tried, but they don't accept the format my camera shoots in...
5. Investigated, back-burnered, satisfied
6. On it like a dog on bitch
7. A little patience there, I think. It just ain't time
8. Done
9. Hm...forgot all about that
10. Nope
11. Yes! Only three games in three weeks - and no real urge at all
12. Nope
13. Gettin' closer...
14. Ha!
15. Nope. (Why not? No bloody idea! And I love squash!)
16. Sort of - but not really...
17. Oh yes, I think we can say I succeeded there
18. LOL! Never did, really - and it showed!
19. Better
So I think we can call that a resounding success! In addition...
20. Look into getting my brother sectioned
21. Write a list of my regrets (1. Not seeing the signs that said "go to Bretton Hall College" in 2001; 2. Not kissing a certain girl when I was 14, and then 16; 3. Can't think of anymore, apart from doing all the bad things I did, obviously, except I learned lots from that and probably couldn't have avoided it anyway, having been born the way I was...)
22. Find some flooded street and go floating down it, like I've long wanted to do
23. Put up a video of me playing devil sticks wickedly
And I'm sure there was more - but honestly, who can bothered with all that crap! Goodnight!
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