It's vomit Jim, but not as we know it

Went yesterday to this big massive barbecue down in Dorset with some old friends of mine. They was about two hunder' people there. I says them's friends but I felt so out of place an' lonesome - or at leas' I woulda done if I hadnae been filled with the resolve to make this the last time. Don't know sometimes how I wind up with certain people: certain people ain't good for my self-esteem. You fall into things and the feeling niggles and soon enough the feeling's grown and you either gotta become like them an' sell your soul or else get the hell out. None o' this woulda ever been happened if I'd bin true to myself: I trace a long crooked line back some seven years and it's all because of some party I went to that I knew I didn't even want to go to, but I got excited 'cos of a girl I met and the promises she seemed to offer. I knew I wouldn't like the party, that I'd rather be home in bed with a good book - but that girl had allure, and even though I knew she'd be no good for me neither I thought I'd give it a try, got stuck on the hook of the way she smelled, the swell of them soft mounds of flesh that are just udders really, will one day sag and hold no allure at all, are owned so gorgeously by hundreds of millions, boobs on foul-mouthed, pig-faced heffers to rival anything the porn world or Hollywood or anywhere can offer - and I don't want those - but stupid me got drawn in and couldn't but walk down that road till I gots me a little suckle and by the time I got that suckle it was too late. She had me, her friends had me, and I thought it would all come to something good and great. It was new; that's all. And I was new to them - a novelty. And now the novelty's worn off and our always-there differences are too awfully apparent to ignore. Of course, I may be wrong in all this: and they may just be better than me, the me I coulda bin if I wasn't so caught up in myself, in my melodramas, in my stupid ol' mad ol' head - but that's the thing I can't see. So I resolved to make my escape. I was tied to that barbecue: 'twas a christening, an' I felt the pressure - but I swore it would be the last time. It showed me everything. Grown-ups are so dull, all they do is drink and talk and ask you, so what do you do? as though that means anything. I swear I'll scream the next time someone asks me what I do: for I really don't know. And I don't know what that means. Or why they want to know. What do you do? is what they say - but what they mean is, so how do you earn your money? And what they really mean is, tell me something so I can formulate an instant opinion of you and put you in a box. And what they really, really mean is: I can't think of anything else to say, but I know I have to say something, and this seems to do the trick. But what's wrong with a bit of silence? Talking talking talking - and never really saying anything. I can't remember the last time I met someone who told me something interesting, it's all old, I heard it all before. Certain people - the kinda people I really don't need to be bothering with - seem obsessed with this whole notion of 'meeting new people' - but why? Hell, I ain't found no new people in a long time: it's just the same ol' person over and over again in a different body. Same ol' bullshit. That's why I say grownups are boring. So me, I jus' play with the kids and roll aroun' in the garden an' throw a cricket ball an' that's me done. Outta there and I ain't never goin' back. I thought I wanted some o' that middle class, middle o' the road niceness. I don't. More an' more I think I wanna be a bum, a recluse, a weird-ass hermit livin' all wrong and stupid and die me in a ditch before I gets too old to wipe me own arse. I ain't got nothin' I wanna do, nowhere I wanna be, nothin' that grabs me in this world of ours, 'cept maybe trees an' a bitta quiet in the skies. One o' these days I'm gonna set me loose. Loose like a goose. In the meantime...is it possible for a man to cut his strings? To pretend that a thing never happened? To make as though I never went to that party them seven years ago and let all the things that came from that just float away? To make it like some tree that's grown and grown an' just hack it down at the roots, leave it some dead stump merely to trip up over every now and then and stumble an' curse an' say, damn, I shoulda nipped that sumbitch in the bud when I had the chance? But, ah, you know what? I never had the chance - 'cos I din't even know 'bout nippin' somethin' in the bud till I learned 'bout how big them buds could go. Still: goodnight bud! I's a gonna nip you now.

In other news:

I bought a tent: an' a tent is nice. And my iboga's here, and I just gotta go pick it up from the delivery office. Then I should find a time and a place. Though lately I'm jus' a-thinkin' I might just get in my room and swallow it there, lay me down an' see what happens. Don' need no nursemaid. Want a clean mind, a clean slate. Hopeful. An' I'm back in the house in London and it feels alright. Home again; s'alright to have a home. Not having a home can be tiresome; same as having a home, I suppose. All is tiresome an' it's jus' a case of what tiresome you pick. All is limbo till Ali gets here and the new life begins. But what new life? What have I to offer her? Wishin' I was free of that a little - not 'cos I don' like her, don' want to be with her, don' think she's awesome and want a woman and want a bairn or two, jus' 'cos I'm afeard: afraid I ain't got nothin' to give to her, afraid I ain't good enough - and, probably, I ain't. So much promise, so little delivery. World swallow me up. Or world disappear. It's the world or me, I fear: there just ain't room for the both of us.

We'll say goodnight sweethearts. I thank you for the lessons and the memories. If the root should claim me, somepin like Jimi-style, then I want it known there ain't no blame on nobody 'cept me - or maybe even not even me, if all is meant to be. I wandered lonely as a cloud: I don't even know what that means. But clouds dissolve, don't they? Or, at the very least, they come rainin' down, and drown and freshen the earth. They ain't never gone nowhere: jus' change.

PS This ain't no suicide note; I just type my fingers and these are the words that appear. I don' care if they mean anythin', I's a jus' typin'. Shall we delete it now? Or leave it for the one or two to read? But then we don' wanna scare nobody, don' wanna put concern in their hearts - nor draw attention to ourselves, receive messages and comments. There ain't nothin' to say except, look at this man express himself. Now he presses 'publish'; now he gets up to make a cup of tea; now he's smilin' and forgotten everythin' he jus' wrote; now he's moved on to the next thing, done a little jig, strummed his guitar, put some washin' in the machine, thought about his empty belly. Looked out the window and felt grateful for the sun. Got on his bike an' said, woohoo! and rode too fast and felt glad. Now he's wonderin' why he was ever born. Now he's chasin' a ball and praisin' the miracle of life. Now he's mad at the voices in his head. Now he's at peace and resting and there are no voices. Now he's typin' jus' to see what comes. Now he's getting up and forgetting it all...

Ten years ago today I first went to America. Been thinkin' a lot about California lately. Seems like I dug it out there. Somepin different I ain't found in England. Englanders ain't got time to listen, to sit and truly feel where a man is at. Too much busyness. Too much rush rush and too much inability. Ain't no one never taught 'em, it ain't their fault. And too much love of the sauce: it keeps them from going deeper. We'll all float on the surface and be happy with that. We'll all gather ourselves together in big groups and say, 'scuse me, I ain't whole - but I notice you ain't whole neither - and this is my frien', and I see you gots some frien's, and I reckon if we stick ourselves together...well, you could be a leg and I could be an arm and this chap here's gots mebbe a quarter've a brain, and ifs we gets enough of us I think arm in arm an' walk singing down the street we might jus' make a whole one an' feel right, take some magic juice I'll bets we don' even remember. But please, pray Lord, don' never leave me alone - don' make it so it's jus' me - 'cos I don' think I could stand the feelin' of knowing I ain't got nobody 'cept jus' the tiny piece I am. A man's gotta be more than an arm, gotta belong to somethin'. Le's belong to each other and we won't never feel bad. Magic juice. And chitter chatter. And run around and if we can jus' stay busy and dizzy and noisy enough we'll never notice the vast and gaping silent chasm that's always there, always a-threatenin' to swallow us up. People! In a child's eyes, in a tree, in the freedom of my legs movin' beneath me, in the peace of my mind and heart; in the weary dullness of my worn-out soul; in the lostness, in the madness, in the frustration of the hungry nature of this brain...I lay me down to sleep. I pray to go to a better place. I write nonsense. I don' care 'bout nothin' no more. Just live. Just breath an' feed the beast an' make it through the day, to the night, to blesséd sleep, and one day notice, oh, I'm shriveling up, I'm old, I'm dead. Start afresh then: better next time around. Yes, things get better on the second time around. We'll see you then, then, on the other side, and I swear I'll make it up to you, if I can, one day, somehow.

He smiles. The sun outside on his big fancy roof terrace. All a man needs is a big fancy roof terrace, a nice expensive house - and then a nicer one, and a more expensive one - always always always - for happiness to descend like a dove from above. Yes, that's what I need. And a car that makes envy drip from passing eyes - a car with a removable roof - and a stunning woman hanging from this arm - ageless, never changing, to match my own ageless, never changing beauty. We'll never get sick, we'll never shrivel up and die: we'll just buy bigger houses, better cars - all with the roofs that pop off, somethin' Clarkson would approve of - and then it'll come, that big magic dove. But - oh! - to be in a tent with six children, all crawling over one another an' livin' hand to mouth, out in the back of beyond somewhere, mebbe drinkin' from a stream, away from the world, surrounded by woods - what kind of a life would that be? Everythin's romanticised; I don' know nothin' about nothin' - 'cept that somethin's gotta change. And change is constant. And therefore it's all good. Onward Christian soldiers eh? But not marchin' as to war - for war is over, if you want it. Jus' gotta want it good enough. Jus' gotta stop the good fight and admit: hey, there ain't nothin' worth fighting over, how's about we jus' be happy an' dig - dig a little down inside ourselves and see what we turn up. We might get a little dirt on our paws - but dirt is life, the fertiliser of life - and anyways, how long we been lying with pigs and gots ourselves all muddy in the first place? You lie with pigs, you come home dirty: there ain't no greater truth than that. I went an' I rolled with 'em. I thought, that mud looks good, looks like fun, we could have a bit of that. I came home stinkin' an' I hated the stink. An' then: on'y two options: head on back for more of the same, where the stink ain't noticeable no more, or take some time to scrub it off, an' come up rosy an' naked an' pink and face the world once more, like a stupid cryin' bairn.

Hello world! Are you pleased to see me? You are? Well then that's nice. I do love certain aspects of you. I gotta learn not to go wanderin' in the places that I don't. It don't make me feel good - an' it's nobody's fault but my own. Seek out the bits that make you feel better: and let the rest come to you. Harmony is the key - and there ain't nothin' wrong with wanting to feel good. Feeling good is the souls way o' tellin' you you're on the right path. So foller that and cling tight to your harmony, your peace, and the path of it. If it don' sit right in yer belly, there ain't no sense in eating it. Have a taste, if you must, but there's no law says you gotta come back for more. And - ah, yes - there's sometimes you's gonna make yourself sick from the tasting of it - but that's life, you's jus' a nappy-headed baby, what do you expect? When you're as old as the hills you'll have seen it all - and you'll know what you like, what you don' like: what makes you sick and what preserves your peace. But until then...well it's all just a life lesson learning curve journey bullshit thing, right? And the whole thing is but putty in your hands. You don' like it? Well give it a smush and make somepin new. And - what? You didn't know you were the creator? But you are! What? Nobody never told you? Are you sure? Oh, they did but you didn't believe them? But believe it my boy! I mean, look around you and tell me what seems to be true? It's all you, isn't it? The whole darn thing. All you. Now take ye and eat. And go make yerself somepin nice. Or not. T'choice is yours.