Of course, there are good things too - and I'd do well to remind myself of those before I start seriously thinking about ditching all this in for a life back on the road or in Leeds or some other such place: things like the literary connections that I've already started to make, plenty of writers' groups and actual published authors and people with connections who seem keen to help me out; people at the nearby university where I got my degree. So one of my old tutor put me on to a guy who worked in publishing and we're going to have a meet. And she and I are due for a talk in a few weeks too, which will be nice. She's very helpful and seems to believe in me, to a certain extent; she's still got one of my poems on her filing cabinet - from five years ago; the only poem that's on there - and, I tells ya, that fairly made my day. I was up in the air after our chat - it's just such a shame that I forget everything so quickly and get back down to being glum. It seems like if there's nothing amazing in this moment I just think that the entirety of life is shit. I have no concept of living with discomfort.
I went to the jobcentre yesterday to start a spell claiming unemployment and housing benefit; it's been in my head to do this for a while and though I fought it off I've been convinced by others that I should (and then read that Derren Brown was claiming for several years before he made his name, so that sort of made it all right). I dunno, I sort of think it's wrong to be given money like that, and I've avoided it for a long time, even when I haven't been working. But...needs must: I'm totally skint (have, like, twenty pounds) and will be until I sell this car.
I bought a car. I needed to get from Leeds to Kent and had promised a couple of people down Oxford and Bristol way a visit, and though bus or train would've sufficed, I was loaded down with four boxes of my book. So, I did the sensible thing, and spent pretty much all my money on a semi-working Renault Clio, and hit the road, uninsured and still just as terrible driver as ever. Man, I don't know how I didn't hit something the first day or two! And, man, how I really, really don't like driving, and don't want to do it, and hate having this car noosed around my neck with a passion. Bloody thing won't sell. And turns out the problem with it might be more serious than I was led to believe. So all the money that I'd hoped to save by buying it and making a small profit will be lost. Although to that I really ought to say, "oh well." Because losing money's what happens when you buy a car.
It is quite pretty, though, and sort of growing on me...
So, to this house: to my friends' monstrous mansion that needs so much work it's scary. Matt says that normally it's best to buy the least expensive property in the most exclusive location but that they've done the opposite: it was half a million squid! And it's totally knackered. And the previous owner only paid £337,000 for it six years ago (I don't know if they know that). And I don't really have my own room, despite the plethora of them. I feel a bit out of place. I feel reclusive and unable to talk. I feel like they're all so middle-class (there's another guy living here) with their talk about food and wine and fancy meals and I really don't have anything to say to that. And suddenly everyone's decided to start smoking - in the house, even - and it's all just a bit bizarre. I don't want to interact with the kids. I don't really, want to do anything apart from spend time with my computer. That's a bit sad, really isn't it? Although - it is winter, and the season for hibernation, and it's perhaps okay to not want to do too much. Still...a little bit sad.
I went walking through the woods the other day - that made me feel happy and good.
I played squash yesterday: absolutely excellent.
I went to a spiritualist church on Tuesday night - the energy was nice, and the people interesting and nice - though the medium/channeller laughably deluded. She actually came to me - first time that's ever happened - and was a million miles out in 90 percent of what she said. She was rubbish. And the ten percent of what she got right - which, I'll have to admit, did get my mind a-wondering' - was still totally vague and applicable to all. It was cool to see all this, and to see my inner-response to it, now that I've been all Derren Brown-ified. Poor woman.
And what else have I done? Well, I've thought lots about writing, and what I'm supposed to be doing, and done none of it. And I've been down the farmers' market in Canterbury and asked if I could sell my book there on Sunday and they've said, "yes" (yet another of those things that I think will be a good idea, and then put into motion, and then instantly try and toss out and not do). Another one: making contact with Neal Cassady's widow, Carolyn, and asking if we could have a meet-up; she said yes. And I've lined up my old game of football for this Saturday. And that, probably, is about it.
On the face of it, it's not so bad, and I'm sure other people wouldn't mind at all. They go out and have their bacon sandwiches and make daft jokes, watch a bit of telly and everything's groovy. Why can't I be satisfied with something like that? Or maybe I do need to do something more than I'm doing to earn 'satisfaction' - something like 'being productive'. I could write. I could get on with editing Mikey's pilgrimage and preparing that for publication (likewie George W.M. Reynolds' 'The Mysteries of London' - he used to live in this house; outsold Dickens in his day; now no one knows who he is - though that's probably another one of my 'good ideas that's actually a bad idea' ideas).
Productivity - perhaps - yes. But I'm just so bad at it! And so very, very good at avoiding it, at procrastination, at doing every other thing under the sun in order to never get around to the things that I've told myself I want to do. Damn these lists and ideas! lol If only I didn't keep thinking of awesome things to do!
To do:
- Find some sort of work. Or income. Or be happy on the dole, in the meantime writing and stuff.
- Finish off 'Mikey's Pilgrimage'. And do 'The Mysteries of London.' And publish them and at least see where they go; it won't even take that long.
- Play sports! I love love love that.
- Stop moping about so much and at least try and make an attempt at being a normal modern human being - eg, remember to eat and wash; go outside; don't give too much pointless time to a computer.
- Get a bike (if you have money, get a good bike).
- Remember the woods.
Well at least I've blogged; that always make me feel better. Hopefully I can continue to do that and have my private place to moan while pretending to the world that everything's okay. The problem with other people - with the people around me right now - is that they mostly want to make silly jokes. And I'm just not in the mood/not able. Still, if Eddie Izzard can demonstrate 'the importance of being earnest' then maybe I can too. Who says one has to laugh all the time? I know it's 'the English way' but it also masks so many problems. Best to get it out; we all have stuff inside. And honesty's the best policy. A man's not supposed to admit to being bad at driving - but I am shit. And having said it, relief: it is what it is. Acceptance. Likewise, a soul like me...is supposed to have it all together. But I'm not happy. And I want to accept that. It's not, however, defeatist, for life is not without hope - indeed, I feel certain that I will move through this and into something altogether better. In the meantime, though, I need to express, to get myself in order, to work things out. Modern life is mostly beyond me: I don't even own a towel! I really do wonder if I'll ever get that...
- Follow up all the writerly leads you can, even if it sucks. As if it was meant to be easy!
- Sell this goddamn car - and if you lose a hundred quid or so: tough.
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