I really want to be on Big Brother I'm definitely gonna apply next year I had a dream about it this week that I was on there and it was really long and then when I woke up I was quite disappointed (even though it wasn't the real big brother house, it was my nan's old bungalow from about fifteen years back) but it made me even more determined to go on there and I'm DEFINITELY gonna apply for it, even though it's stupid and people hate it (and I hate it sometimes) hey, you gotta do what you wanna do, right? And maybe I won't get on – but I will – and definitely that I won't win – and probably that I'll go totally nuts – but I'm going on and that's that.
X came up this weekend; obviously I can't say too much about that – or anything really – but it was good and nice and – yeah, that's all I can say about that. Also I've applied for a job in Glastonbury, managing the Oxfam shop there, and I hope I get it – and, if it's the right thing, then I will get it. X lives quite close to there and it's just gorgeous and beautiful and special and – who knows? That's one for the future. I like applying for jobs; it's a win-win thing: you get it, cool, you don't get it, also cool, because it wasn't meant to be and you don't even have to think about it, just know it wasn't the door for you, some other one will be appearing shortly – or not (ie, the path that you're currently on is the right one, you just can't see it yet, only when you look back will you realise, oh yeah, now that all makes perfect sense). And I'll tell you another dream I had this week: I dreamed I had an accidental baby – you know, getting someone pregnant because of some fling and, wow, your whole life changes because of time of the month, or lack of contraception, or just leaving it that split second too long before pulling out and – man, that's gotta be my worst fear, the accidental baby, the baby with the woman who's not the one for you, 'cos then your whole life's gone/changed irrevocably and there's no going back from that, it's a biggy – and so easily avoidable, and so absolutely final – except in my dream the baby was only the size of a fingernail and cute though it was, I lost it (like a contact lens in a pond) and then there was this feeling of relief because then I could get back on track and I wasn't tied to this thing that wasn't meant to have happened but did happen because I hadn't been quite careful enough. And I'm sure that means something – but obviously I can't talk about it here.
You're enjoying this, I guess; that's good, I'm glad for you; I'm playing The Cockpit in Leeds on Wednesday I hope that goes well. I probably think it won't but then I always do, visions of having to tell people to sh and making snide comments my anger and frustration getting the better of me so hopefully pleasantly surprised. Better think of some songs – or maybe just my instrumental improvised lullabies that are always the best things I play but can never bring myself to do on stage but how lovely it is to be able to relax people and even put them to sleep with fingers and tunes and nylon strings and gentle wave of sound lip-lapping over toes and thighs, putting you in slippers and letting you slide down into the seat like that lady I met randomly at the train station and for twenty minutes I just strummed sat down beside her and then after she said how relaxed she was (like they always do) and how she could've fallen asleep (like they always do) and I guess that really is the best thing I have, more so than words and tunes and whatever trying to play a song but just being spontaneous and letting that feeling flow – but probably I won't do it. Unless the audience are really bad, in which case I won't care and then I'll be free to make whatever bloody racket I fancy – which might be lots of fun! (The people at The Grove, by the way, in Leeds, are a stunning crowd, very attentive and appreciative and, man, definitely the nearest thing I've had to a standing ovation in there, they just love it – but then everyone does love the "girlfriend's nice" song – except the girlfriend, that is :-)
I wonder, does that last bracket – the smiley's smile – count as a last bracket, or should there be another one after it? Obviously there should be – but then aesthetics and all that…)
I scored lots of goals at football this week; my team won 14-4 and I like to think it was my old head that inspired those young legs to play with a bit more nous, their eager beavers so often so keen on shunning defence and passing and things for the doubtful glory of taking on their man and shooting from afar. It's nice to see how old heads triumph so easily over the speed and skill of youth, it really is no match. We do everything in slow motion 'cos we live in The Matrix and nothing ruffles these feathers, the illusion has no hold, we're tired but we're able also, to go on, to survive. You know what I mean; you were there also, in the beginning – unless you've forgotten, that is…
I also played way too much Risk one day this week – and I'd been doing so well the last two months! It makes me feel like dying, makes me want to quit this life and as though there's nothing worth living for; it's worse than death because at least in death something happens, there's some movement – even in sleep, or in rest, there's some movement, and motion is all, as I've said before, long ago, still holds true – but in Risk, in computer shenanigans, there is very little motion, very little movement, no room for emotional growth or learning or revelation (other than this one, which is revealed enough times already) and I think, what if that is all you do, from age 12, do you just stay 12 forever, 'cos there's nothing there. It's my drug, I suppose – my thing to take me from the boredom and frustration of this world – of this civilisation/society/situation, I should say – of myself – because the planet is nice, it's just 'the world', if you know what I mean – thing is, though, even though I don't drink or do drugs, it seems like in that there's at least the possibility of movement and motion and revelation – so maybe what I'm doing is worse. That really sucks; lower than Pete Doherty. Wow.
But speaking of the planet…Madonna; Live Earth; Phil Collins; Ha! What a load of nonsense! What a silly, silly thing! As if a pop concert – a pop concert that has God-knows-what environmental impact (all that trash, all that fuel, all that electricity, etc) – is gonna do anything to stop climate change and all that. Raising awareness? Man, that's the biggest joke I know: raising awareness my arse! It just seems like an excuse for not doing anything – "oh yeah, huh, we're raising awareness about this problem, we're telling people what's going on" (in a Chris Martin voice) "so that, well, so that something can be done." Something can be done my arse – the only thing that's gonna be done is more awareness raised – and I guess that can feel like something bu…oh hell, just leave that to students please, not in the grown-up world, surely no-one can believe that stuff: yeah, right, Madonna sang a few songs, she's such an ambassador, that's really gonna help as she swans off in her helicopter/limo and forgets all about it: sing/sing along/clap your hands in the air/like you just don't care/'cos you just don't care…
Planet Schmanet! (Janet) Use less petrol? Use more petrol! Using less petrol will only postpone the day when it runs out – and the day, therefore, when electric powered hover-cars/chip shop methane grease takes its place. I mean, it's gotta go some point, so why not now? I wanna see the end! I wanna see some change! Use it up, man, get your SUVs and leave that engine running and – burn, baby, burn! (Disco Inferno) Get it done with – you know what I mean. Likewise, oh what a laugh all this lightbulb and turn your tellies off and why not ride a bike and all that – when Canadians are busy destroying an area of what was pristine nature beauty probably the size of Wales in trucks as big as houses to dig out oil and polluting all the rivers and, that's okay – but you my boy, don't you dare leave your teevee on stand-by now – and make sure you buy an energy efficient lightbulb, and don't drive, and how about some more tax on plane travel 'cos that'll save the planet (except it won't, 'cos we can all afford to fly these days) and then is it true that mining the stuff they put in catalytic converters totally destroyed some country-sized area of Siberia too? And that loads of our recycling ends up in dumps anyway, after maybe being shipped to some other country? I think it might be. It's a big joke, eh? Like the boy who pulled the wool over the emperor's clothes' eyes. Hey, as long as we feel like we're doing something (like pots and pans for the war effort) then that's all that matters, right? No, fool! Burn more petrol! Buy a bigger car! Take more holidays! And only cycle/turn the teevee off/buy organic 'cos it's cheaper or better for you, no other reason. Save the planet my arse! Save your self – planet goes on forever, and so do you – not worth worrying about really (apart from the smell) (and the noise) (and I'm not talking about Madonna there really).
Roger Federer won Wimbledon; a stunning match, quality-wise – though not up to the emotional standard of the Ivanisevic-Rafter final in 2001 – but then could it ever be, that was something else, definitely the greatest sporting event I've ever seen and I really can't think of anything else like that in the world, makes me cry every single time I've seen it (and I've seen it probably like twenty times now) so…what was I saying? Oh yes, I haven't barely cooked a single thing in like five months; I really ought to sort that out. Probably ending a relationship has thrown me through a loop, some sort of mild depression; there's not much in the world that means anything to me and – I think I've said that before; I think I've maybe said enough for tonight. I should say, though, that there are many things I love – that I love dearly – and I love loving them too. Those things make me smile and make my eyes come alive and give me glowing red hot energy right here in my heart strings. Try a little experiment for me: point to yourself. Now, where did your finger go to? To your heart, right? Isn't that strange! Not to your head, or to your stomach, or to your leg, but to your heart – the place where those lovely spiritual yoga guru enlightened types always tell you your true self is. Try it again; say "this is me" and point to your heart/chest – and feel how that feels. Now point to your head and say "this is me" – and feel how that feels; now point to your stomach – you can't do it. You say "this is me" but really you're thinking "no it's not, it's my head" or "no it's not, it's my stomach, my leg, my face" – but yet when you point to your chest there's no conflict, no argument – why is that? Is that you? And if so, what is you? What is the me that this is? Who is the thing that the head, the leg, the stomach belongs to, that resides there in that chest, away from the brain, away from the so-called centre of personality. This is me; I'm here – but what am I doing there? Who knows? Answers on a postcard please!
With love,
Rory
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