7

Number one: It’s so fucking hot.

Number two: I haven’t really been outside today.

Number three: I’m in danger of the wheels coming off again.

Number four: don’t nobody touch me!

Number five…

Dear World,

I am a 32 year-old man who lives in the fine city of Leeds, in West Yorkshire, and I’m sort of wondering what I should do with my life. I work at a job that I don’t really like and I often struggle to fill my time with things that make me happy. I’m not sure that I really fit in; other people I know seem to like to do this thing called ‘drinking’ and ‘going out’ – but I’ve tried that and it doesn’t really appeal (it’s sort of noisy and gives me a headache). I’m not sure what else there is. I like to write and whenever I sit down and think about what I should be doing this is what I come to; mostly, though, I don’t do much about it, partly out of laziness and a well-developed talent in procrastination, and partly out of frustration and stresses afforded to me by other things, both real and imagined. I often dream of running away – ie, leaving my house and job – and it’s a real struggle at times not to do this. My dream is to write a book about these travel adventures I had a number of years back – a growing number of years back – and I think it could be a success, but for some reason I haven’t done it. Meanwhile, people around me seem to be progressing and succeeding in their chosen fields – sometimes with lots of my help – and that’s starting to make me feel bitter and angry. I feel stuck in a loop and I’m not having much luck getting out. Also, I’m almost hopelessly addicted to my laptop – which I bought to write on – and although it does a good job of filling my time and helping me to avoid looking at the problems in my life, I’m not sure that this is a good thing. I have a sense that I’m getting older, that I can’t go on like this forever, and that I’m really going to be miserable if I don’t do something about fulfilling the potential that I have. Money and things and status and popularity don’t interest me much, and so I don’t really have many options for happiness other than to be creative and follow my dreams. But it’s harder than I thought. There are things inside me that I don’t know how to master; avenues through life that appear closed off to me, that I don’t know how to find, let alone navigate. And yet other people do it – people far less burdened than me – and I’d like to know how. Also, the thought of having a family and children grows more and more in my mind, but with the way the world is with money, and with the way I am with money – I earn about a hundred and thirty pounds a week, and have about a thousand pounds in the bank – I just don’t see how that’s possible. It’s all quite terrifying really. And more than a little upsetting. I guess what I want to know is: how do I find my way to where I want to be? What are the steps I need to take? And how do I get myself to a place called ‘Happiness’?

Number, I hear you ask: why do I work in a job that stresses me out, makes me miserable, and fills my mind so completely, even out of work hours, that I’m rendered incapable of doing other things? Why don’t I just quit? And that’s a good question: why don’t I? Well…number one to your number one: I sort of went to see this psychic a while back who I sort of respected (at the time), and he told me that I’d probably be doing that for two years; I dug it then and resolved to stick to it – number two: I have a real strong habit of quitting everything when it gets unpleasant, and that’s probably not a good thing – and I haven’t quite been able to shake that from my mind. Even when other things he told me didn’t transpire or ring true. And even after I’ve become obsessed with this amazing English hypnotist/mentalist/wizard called Derren Brown, who has made me doubt all things psychic and miraculous and amazing, including the saints and healers and my own mystic visions and experiences. Also Mother Meera, this Indian woman that I see is sort of there in my head, ‘cos she likes people with jobs, and not quitters, and I thought that was some good advice for me way back when, and I’ve been trying to stick to that. But now I have to wonder, why? Why, when it could all be hogwash? And, why? When I always used to do random and strange things and they all turned out brilliant, and ever since I’ve tried to be normal and stick at things – the last six years, for example, ever since I went to university – I just feel like I haven’t really lived. I get bored and annoyed with this modern English world and so many of the people in it, and I long for something different – but I just don’t know what.

So let me tell you about my job: no, let me not. Let me just say: my boss is an ass; I work 18 hours a week – but have about 60 or 70 on my brain; I earn next to nothing; I’m smart and young and intelligent and talented, and I spend half my working week taking old and dirty clothes from one bag and putting them in another and telling old ladies how much useless pieces of tat should be priced up at; I generally feel bad whenever I get there (except on the days when I’m ecstatic and love it); I’m not sure why I’m even doing it in the first place (okay, I thought it would be good to do something good; I’m not sure I’m doing that though…); also, I have a really bad attitude about it (though I’m generally pleasant and liked) and that’s not a good thing. I’ve thought of quitting many times but have stuck at it, for reasons outlined above.

Truth is, I’m horrible at working; always have been. Since I was very young I used to say I could never really work for someone else, and it’s proved true my whole life. I’m crap with authority. I can’t take orders or even directions. And I’m quite lazy too. Before this I was a trainee teacher – but I dropped out of that. Before that I worked in admin – which I quite liked – but that again was a real struggle to stick at. Other things I did just bored me – like selling cheese and cakes – or I did them for hardly any time. Ten years ago I was a waiter, and I was good at that – I liked serving people; I didn’t get bored; I drank a lot – and I’ve wondered if I could go back to that, something less stressful, something I wouldn’t take home, something with people more my own age. I’ve also wondered (seriously) about being a policeman or a hypnotherapist. Or maybe if I shouldn’t go back into teaching – which I did love, in parts, but couldn’t handle the triple-headed stress of the paperwork, the kids, and the training-on-the-job – as well as teaching a subject I didn’t really like. Always, though, I come back to writing: writing, for me, is like the next thing, this barrier or wall that will always be there, always waiting for me, no matter how many times I shuffle sideways along it, never really going anywhere, and that unknown something on the other side. The other side, I suppose, is where I want to be. But the question is: will I make it? And how?

I have a girlfriend; she’s lovely, and young, and comes from a really privileged background. Hanging out with her makes me even more aware of where I lack, and the way opportunities seem to have passed me by, or not been taken up, or not been chased. I suppose there should be hope in that – her sister’s a writer and has found some success by hounding and chasing – but mostly it’s frustration, and makes me angry that I don’t seem able to do it. It bothers me that my mind and what I have inside are what are holding me back. It bothers me that I’m in this limbo of having transcended where I came from and what I once was – I grew up in a Yorkshire mining village where drunkenness and TV and arguments were what we were taught adult life was all about – but that I can’t quite grasp the me that I imagine I should be. Obviously I need to make changes – and it appears that it’s almost a self-defeating superstition – ie, reliance on what I imagine saints and psychics and ‘God’ want me to do (ie, <i>my duty</i>) – that is what is stopping me. Plus also the remembrance that I have a reckless and impulsive streak that invariably leads me to practically dropping off the map and sleeping in cemeteries penniless and busking in the street. Which doesn’t seem right either. Except it was kind of marvellous <i>at the time</i>. Anyway, my girlfriend’s leaving Leeds at the end of this month and a big part of me wants to go with her; the contract’s up on my room – though it’s easily extended – but me being me I can’t help but think about moving on, pastures new and all that; especially with the constant job-quitting vibe a-knocking at my head (ha! that’d show my boss!) And then what would I do?

And then I’d better dedicate myself to writing; it really would be the last chance saloon: if I didn’t follow it up then, I’d really have no excuse. At present I’m supposed to be doing some short stories for a book – lagging behind a bit in that, even though that could be amazing – and then there’s trying to get someone interested in my ubiquitous road-trippin’ novel. Really, really, really, it should be as simple as that – so why isn’t it? Why isn’t it just, quit your job, dedicate yourself to your dream, follow your heart and your happiness and do what you want to do, to hell with the rest? Why? Because of voices and ideas in my head, that’s why. Because of voices and words of others, ideas that I should be following some other path of not quitting, of doing some penance, of following some duty – I mean, it’s so easy to quit! it’s so easy to bottle out! – and I can’t quite shake the thought that there might be some wisdom in that. Two years, the guy said, and I just can’t let it go. Don’t quit, the saint said, and I just don’t seem able to ignore it (actually, get another job first is what she said – in her book; not to me – and I’ve been trying to do that, thus far to no avail). A part of me is scared, too, that this habit of quitting and jettisoning everything – because, for sure, you can bet my plan for the future doesn’t go much beyond, let everything go, get rid of all possessions, just be free and out there and see what happens – and that’s a bit frightening now because I’m not twenty-two, I’m thirty-two, and I don’t want to be dirty and in the street and forty- and fifty-two with a dribbling beard and no kids or jobs or money or CV and wondering just why I didn’t do the normal thing and insisted on being such a mad-head, even though I don’t think that’s what would really happen but I guess you have to be careful, don’t you?

Except: dreams. And following them. And living for what you really want instead of settling for what you don’t want at all, in the name of safety and security and minimising risk. It’s tricky, huh?

Plus, the fact that my mind isn’t really that good; that I’m not Paul McKenna or Derren Brown, or anyone at all who doesn’t procrastinate their life away, who go-gets, and does stuff, and always finds a way, no matter what, I’m me and I spend far too much time on Wikipedia and bittorrent, and God only knows what else, and that’s a really, really disappointing thing. If only the internet had never been invented! Then I’m sure this blog would be full of positivity and good news!

(And yes, I know that…etcetera, etcetera…)

So what’s my plan? What’s my dream? What’s my mad, sure-to-backfire, pie-in-the-sky scheme? To rent out my room; to pack up my shit and find a place to put it; to be a man with a backpack and a laptop, and to go wondering around here and there, just typing and dedicating myself, visiting chums and being of no fixed abode and no bills to pay and sort of seeing if I couldn’t do that for a year and make it all somehow work? To take that mad foolish, arms-flailing leap into the sort-of unknown, so as to avoid my headaches and responsibilities and just pursue this desire of mine? Well why not? And to fall short, and to end up stupid, and to just wish I’d played it safe in the first place? Well probably. These are the thoughts that are in my brain and now on this screen; it’s been good to write because it has been a long time now hasn’t it (to quote a famous dead rock star who lived penniless and wild for many years before he made it big and then died). But please don’t tell me what to do; I know full well what you’ll say; you’re as mad and impetuous as I am. *smile*

This has been Rory Miller reporting from a nice attic bedroom in Burley Park/Kirkstall on a hot June night. I’m wearing a lady’s purple nightgown. And I need a wee. Goodnight!

PS It’s twenty minutes later; I just got back from going downstairs where I sang a song with two of my housemates and chatted and stuff, and noticed that I strangely felt better and more sociable than I have in days; I guess I must have got something off my chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve written a real blog. It’s good to let stuff out.