So what I woke up thinking this morning was: you know, I really must write about eight thousand words all about all the myriad things that are buzzing around my head and see if I can’t just get them sorted; plus do one or two things in the real world. And so I got up, flicked on the computer - and then played about four hours of online chess and had an enjoyable little time on arty-erotic websites like Beautiful Agony and I Feel Myself. In a word: notproductive. But, unlike usual, I’m not going to beat myself up about it; instead, I’m going to do it now. Yay! So where do we begin?
Yup, yup: so I had me a little weird time in London not really doing anything and hating it and thinking, why am I here in London AGAIN? Answer: a screening for a volunteer drug study - failed: heart too awesome - and a daft attachment and commitment to my lovely seven-a-side Monday night East Dulwich football team, Rory’s Heroes, aka the only thing in this town I like. And - well wouldn’t you just know it? - after all those days of hanging around purely for that they only went and cancelled the match. Ho hum: it really is a blast sometimes, non? So that was that, and nearly two pizzas later I was off once more on a train/bus to the north, and to escape that damn city and try and get some air. Plan: go to York, wander about, maybe stumble on some weird job and start living there, maybe just go off walking in the woods, or go to South Elmsall, or Leeds, or -
Wow, I’ve been all over the place since I let out my room in February - dig this:
Israel - Sussex - Kent - London - Norfolk - Yorkshire - London - Kent - Oxford - Yorkshire - London - Norfolk - Chippenham - Gloucester (monastery) - Yorkshire - Sussex - London - Yorkshire
And now here I am. Phew! Been all o’er shop, an’t a?
Anyways, I rolled on up to York about 6ish on Tuesday evening and had a wander. Coupla jobs here and there: but couldn’t really see myself living in York (nice enough - but no heart-pulls for me) and so I think, well, I could either head on back to Elmsall (inviting text from Laura) or go up into the woods. And then I wander over to the National Railway Museum
Happiness
To be out of London
Even homeless
Directionless
Out here in the fields
With some quiet
Is better than being surrounded
By all those modern comforts
But sad
Next day I make that museum - my, museums are dull aren’t they? But not this one. Awesome. Awesome awesome awesome. Choo-choo trains! Six foot high wheels. Pistons and beauty. Oh yes. And the Evening Star’s still there - my boyhood favourite - and a Japanese bullet train, and this unbelievable art deco streamlined maroon and gold vision of beauty, The Duchess of Hamilton. Wow! They don’t make ‘em like they used to. Great and happy experience: I even donated a fiver, which is not like me at all, I loved it so. And after a couple of hours in there: on back to South Elmsall - only semi-dodging the fare (I’m not paying nine-pound-odd! I’ll give you four quid and ride with a ticket two stations short and if there’s trouble we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it (there wasn’t)) - and then a pleasant couple of hours sitting by the old bowling greens where I won my third-placed trophy back as a boy reading Scarlett Thomas’s PopCo - really enjoyable - in the sun with the shoes off and the weird/lovely South Elmsall folk going on around me. Enquiries about renting an allotment. Wondering…
Some words:
If you’ve a problem
You know
You can come to me
They all do
It’s fine
But
Where do I go
When the problem’s mine?
To whom do I turn?
I go to one best friend and say
Sometimes I just feel
Like nobody likes me
Don’t be stupid
He says
Gruffly
That’s all he says
Another
When I say I’m bored of living
And could quite happily
Die
Tells me
Man up
Suggests a hobby’s
All I need
Advice!
I can’t understand
How people
Can be so bad
At simply
Listening
There’s truth in that. And people wonder why I’m so aloof: I’ve been disappointed by people too many times at the foolishness that comes out of their mouths when I open up to them. I gots stuff going on inside: but I guess in the absence of a good true friend - one who can actually pay attention for more than five minutes - I suppose I’ll satisfy myself with you, my beautiful lovely blog. Oh, kiss kiss kiss - I do love you; come on, let me give you a hug…
The biggest problem with the internet
Is this:
Although far less healthy
It’s just a damn sight more interesting
Than most
Other people
Oh, people! You do so tire me (lol). I wonder when someone’s next going to say something interesting - really does seem like it’s been a long time. Or maybe now I’ve been around for a while I’ve run out of options; I know, I know, there’s plenty out there - but you know what I mean: only so much of it will appeal to my particular sensitivity and mindframeset. Now I mostly just find it dull, and frustrating - the company of others - so unless it’s doing something - sports, board games, adventures - I suppose I’m mostly happy alone. People do talk, don’t they! But most of it’s just nothing. And yet I remember those long and wonderful and into-the-night conversations of my youth when it was all so new and exciting and it seemed like we were breaking through into something. Our souls! The mysteries of this world! Now…well, maybe there are more mysteries - but I’m not sure I’ll find them through words. Not that certain things aren’t interesting…pop-psychology, that sort of thing - me - but other people…? No, I’d rather play chess. I guess we all would. That’s why we sit alone in our rooms on laptops (our house was about a billion times more lovely to live in for the three months we didn’t have internet) instead of having to deal with all the nuances and madnesses and sheer tiresomeosity of real humans. Or I guess I’m just at an age when I want something different…
For social creatures
We sure do like our own space
I
For one
One a train
Need at least four seats
To feel unimpinged on
And woe betide the man
Fool enough
To attempt
Conversation
Stuff I’ve read/contemplated lately…yes, a quiet life, going nowhere except where needs to be gone - work, the weekly shop, a healthy walk in the fields/woods - and…family. I see myself being a family man: the partner, the child. Maybe one good friend for a game of squash. But, mostly, that unit thing. And I have met someone that I think might want that/that it might work with too. Only problem is, she’s off travelling for four months. Ho hum! One week of bliss and the building of future dreams - and now four months of limbo, waiting, not knowing quite what to do. Visiting friends. Being free. Blargh. Who needs freedom? Freedom’s within (or something). Rory needs something more. Rory needs…a job?
Rory signs on. Goes into the job centre. The tired lady looks at him and needs to put three things that he wants to do in some boxes. Three: no more, no less. Otherwise it won’t work. Otherwise, you won’t get your money. None of this, by the way, has happened - yet. Or, at least, not this time: sure, I’ve been there before. The dole eh? It’s the solution to everything! Then I don’t need to worry about my roof or my basics - hell, you can even generate savings on that baby! - and all I need to think about is fobbing off there dole clerks. It’s tempting. But first we need to fill in these imaginary three boxes. And that’s not easy…
Do you know
How many jobs I’ve had?
Thirty-nine
Something like that
But not a one
In the last four months
And the two before that
I had to leave
‘Cos my soul got sad
And my face
Swelled up
Some days I worry
Will I ever find anything
I can stick with?
How will I pay my way
Support a child
Buy a house?
The list is getting shorter
Of things I could possibly do
Maybe fireman?
That could work
And I liked admin
And working with wood
Being physical
But I’m not even qualified for anything
Beyond McDonald’s
Or office temping
Deadend jobs
That I know I’ll soon tire of
Of course
What I’d really like
Is to earn my crust
Writing
But I’m probably not good enough
And certainly not
Hard working enough
Maybe I should train in something
Carpentry?
Massage?
Psychotherapy?
Seems I have the time
Money money, job job: s’a lot of what I think about these days. Ought to be doing something. Ought to be thinking about my future - that potential MA; the woman and the imaginary house and the kid. But nothing occurs or appeals or leaps out at me the way it usually does: the way it did when I worked as a postman or student mentor or sports betting trader or moving man or gardener or waiter; the jobs just fall in my lap. But, lately, I really don’t fancy anything. And I’ve got plenty of money in the bank - still over fifteen hundred quid - which is more than enough to take care of my near future. But - ah, the woman: yes, I’m putting pressure on myself there. And that damn forty-two hundred quid MA rearing its ugly head. Thoughts turn to future: to how, to musts and shoulds - yet it’s never really worked that way for me. Another voice says:
Fuck it!
We’ve already got money in the bank
We’ll worry about all this
When the money runs out
It’s never been a problem before
And if the woman don’t like it
- she honestly won’t care -
She can find some other bloke
Someone sane
Reliable
Someone whose face don’t swell up
When his soul gets sad
My soul, my soul! Ah, you’ve got a lot to answer for, you bugger! I quit those jobs for you: I really felt you were sad doing them. But what have you led me to instead? Nothing except the ocean of freedom that I’ve always craved and long promised that I would fill up with wonderful words and stories and books, books, books. Oh yeah…
I always say I’m going to write something, don’t I? I’ve always got some idea and - ha! usually when I don’t have a place - and I strain and strive to shake off everything that gets in the way of getting on with it and - then when I find my freedom, my space, all I do is…procrastinate. What my life online. Worry about other things and future money and think I really ought to be doing something else. What is it that separates those who will give everything for their craft, and go hungry and poor, and those like me who long for it, and then when on the verge of finding it, turn back and say, no, I gotta be normal, this is daft, I’m not good enough, I won’t even start, there’s no point doing anything? All these ideas! And I don’t even start. But why don’t I just do them, even though they may be pointless and shite? You don’t get better at something by not being rubbish in the first place. But even being rubbish is several steps further along the path than I am now. And, yes, it’s pointless - but I still want to do it, and in that I suppose it has point enough. Oh world! Oh woe! Oh gnashings and flailings and tossings of pillow and fists and tears and wwwwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhyyyyyyyy!!!? Oh why didst thou curse me so, with this foolish brain, this mad eye, this tongue of retarded silver? Where solution thither art thou, doggéd foe?! Isn’t it though? Just a bit.
So that’s what it always comes down to: that desire to write something. That desire to begin work on the dozens of ideas that I have in my head (that I shan’t write here: apparently that’s a bad thing to do). But, like this piece here, wouldn’t it just be awesomely awesome to start them? Starting something’s great: it’s the bit just before the first word that’s the hardest (at least, I find). And the funny thing is - that bit, that moment can go on for years.
Oh, Wayne Mercedes, won’t you burst in through my door and make yourself known to me!? Aren’t you desperate to be born? Do not you legs ache to kick themselves free from this womb? Where are you? A whole life, waiting to be lived, up there bubbling around in space like all the billions of unborn foetal personalities - and me here keeping my seed firmly in my sack and depriving the universe of your shining Lancastrian (though unorthodox) brilliance. You know what? It’s a bit of a shame.
Things: we need to sort out our things.
A list:
1. We’re here in South Elmsall ; I’m down with that.
2. It’s not my house. I’ve an invite to move in here. But that’ll mean rent. I could pay it out of my ‘savings’ (for ‘savings’ read ‘left over money’) or I could get a job or I could sign on.
3. I’ve still got that damn room in London ! Oh man, I’m so over London ! I wish I didn’t have to go back. But, probably, the guy that I’ve sublet it to will move out at the end of June and that’ll mean two more months until the lease runs out. I suppose I’ve always thought that I’d go back there for then - to work, to get some money together, to live there with Nicky - which could be awesome - but right now it just feels like an ointmented fly hanging around my millstone-covered neck that I need as much as a barrel of monkeys needs a bicycle shaped liked a fish. If it wasn’t for leases…I’d’ve never looked back. But maybe it’ll all turn out for the best. At least - lesson learned: don’t sign long leases.
4. I’ve a whole host of mad plans. Yesterday I was looking at plane tickets to Canada - the perfect one left today, just missed out on that - and you know what that means too: America. Six to eight weeks there could be nice. Could also be boring or life-changing or awesome beyond words or the most foolish and stupid thing I’ve ever done. So it’s a bit of a toss-up. And then there’s always thoughts about going to join Nicky in South/Central America (she’s on her way down overland from Mexico to Venezuela ). Flights a bit pricey for that, though - perhaps. I’m also really into the idea of taking a fairly healthy dose of iboga and seeing if I can’t have one last crack at making some sort of spiritual/creative/emotional breakthrough - and maybe even curing my internet addiction.
5. Then there’s the future:
1. I’ve been accepted to an MA course in Leeds , starting in September. Could be amazing. But it’s forty-two hundred quid and I don’t have forty-two hundred quid. ‘Cept they’ve sent me an application form to put forward for a full-fee bursary. So who knows what will happen there? Certainly, if I got it, it’d be ‘a sign’ too enormous to ignore. And if not…well then it’s a question of money. September. Future. Number one thing that’s got me thinking of the future.
2. Although, before that, I hit Nicky with this idea I had to go and live a whole six months in the hot springs canyon in Mexico - and she was down with that. That would be from September too.
3. Some friends of mine are getting married at the end of this month. At least, I think they’re friends; sometimes I’m not sure. It’s a two-day music festival way back down south - so much travel! - and what I’ve been thinking is, oh yeah, I don’t really like music festivals do I? All that noise and pissing and drunkenness: I pretty much spent the whole time I was at Glastonbury looking for somewhere quiet and wishing they could turn it all down a bit. But, ho hum, I suppose you’ve got to do these things. Future. A major spanner in any mad going-to-Canada works.
4. Eve, my ex, whose name I weirdly see everywhere - there it is again - which sort of makes me think that I need to see her to sort something out. Certainly, when I came to that conclusion - after several mad years of being driven mad by it (‘specially car license plates) - and voiced some things to her, it - the reaction/response I’d have to seeing it - died down, as though I’d somewhat tackled it (I know it sounds mad - but I’ve had other similar things and it’s generally borne out to mean something or other). Anyways, lately it’s started up again. She’s back from India and in France once more. Another friend has invited me to France - and maybe even hooked me up with a lift. More signs. But it’s certainly not about getting back with her or anything like that: probably just about healing something from the past. Truth is, she fucked me up more than any other person in my life - barring my mum - and I still, sadly, feel the consequences of it only too clearly. So would be nice to get that sorted - if that’s what it is - especially before Nicky comes back. So that’s France . More future. Possibly June.
5. And in the midst of all this, there’s jobs, which changes everything - but which when I actually look at - ie, look at these thoughts that I’ve typed out of my head and see them here in plain old, easier to understand black and white - I don’t seem to really want, or, even, need. Jobs. Shrugs. Jobs are for money and I’ve got money and I’ve got enough money. Enough is enough, right? I suppose I only really think about it because of:
a) The Masters’
b) Duty/obligation
c) Because I’m massively bored and have a space for a it (the writing notwithstanding)
d) Because I think of the future and worry that I won’t be able to provide for myself or Nicky or afford a place to live - though always have - and am getting concerned that I’m 35 and have no viable qualifications (degree in English Literature and Creative Writing?) and wonder if I’ll ever crack it or get it right or find something I can stomach for more than a few months and also because I’m jealous of those that do and can’t can’t CAN’T for the life of me figure out how they’ve done it when I’m smart and able and good and clever. But there’s almost literally nothing that appeals to me - and pretty much literally nothing that anyone would hire me for anyway
e) I always think of it, it’s a habit. And maybe a bad habit at that.
Well, in any case, this is what happens when:
a) You don’t do anything for four months
b) You make yourself homeless
c) You live your life for something more than the norm
d) You don’t feel desperate or unhappy
e) You have people to stay with
f) You have money in the bank
g) You know that the world is your oyster
h) You sit down and try to figure it all out
i) You don’t really figure it all out
The world is my oyster
Damn!
I suppose that means
I’ve got no excuse
To groan
Or complain
About anything
If I don’t like it
I can change it
It’s my oyster
I put it there
There are options. I could toss a dice. I could just do whatever I want. Or what I think is best. Or what someone else wants. Or I could just play internet chess (shall I just pop that gun against my temple and pull the trigger right now and get it over with?) I could also…
Conclusion I’ve come to through all of this is this:
What I should do is stay in South Elmsall , sign the fuck on - why the hell not let the government pay my way while I struggle as an arseole/artist? - and then knuckle down and write several books and see what else happens in the meantime.
Although, instead of that, I could fly to Canada, break into America, gad about a bit and go “woohoo” and see old friends and laugh and chuckle and hopefully not get arrested and then break back into Canada and then come back here, broke and fulfilled and probably wanting to do it all over again, which, all in all, is dangerous (the voice that says, fuck it, live your life, have adventures, do mad things like those in days of old did mad things, stop trying to be so fucking normal is strong, I tell ya).
And then…as for jobs - well, I have this lovely motto: apply for everything and take what comes; always works out. And I guess if I did that - ie, was actually looking for work - I wouldn’t feel so bad about skanking some dole - the tight fucker (me). I mean, that is actually what you’re supposed to do.
Ah, I’m a laugh: I do actually seem to have got all this figured out. Now the key is to bring it into reality and stop such a bona fide total proper loser. Meanwhile…
“Burnt pizza Rory!” comes the cry from downstairs - and I suppose that means it’s time to come to an end. Heehee: perfect timing, as always, despite what Derren Brown might say, the lovely bald-headed quite small gorgeous little fellow. One last poem, and then I’m done:
A man one day
Says something
And another man
Hears it
Half forgets it
Puts his own spin on it
Then decades later
Translates it
For another man
Who
After many years
Writes it down
In a manuscript
Which is
Lost
Translated again
Reproduced
Added to and edited
Then
One arbitrary day
Decided
By a thick-headed warlord
To be
“The Word of God”
Seventeen centuries
And many translations later
I read it
And agree with him
And spit death on
Anyone
Who doesn’t
Aha! Yet more anti-Christian bilge/bile. I wonder what’s got into me? Pizza time!
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