Anxious to talk to you

The nerves fire off warning shots, listen. Yes?
Oh, well, in mine eyes the camera jitters quite violently, blurring the spectacle of life.

If you miss much I miss it all, or most, not to curse this momentary lull with interjections of mine suffering but; no one’s listening.

Samuel Beckett says the essence is beneath and behind you, I, the unfortunate inessential, cannot see his meaning. Perhaps..?
Oh, well, all is a-float on strings of space and time, drifting far and wide.

Advertisements

Meta-log

He cut himself up into two disassociations.

His favourite was filled with rage and never let up, she was sharp of tongue and blade, made a bloody mess with her ideas, and took no prisoners

The other created colourful daydreams where he reimagined himself as many protagonists in many worlds

He tried to be himself but it never worked, never felt comfortable or natural, as if he didn’t have a, “Himself”, he could actually “Be”.

Never has he written more prolifically since he started these disassociations

When he rereads the fiction he wrote as “them”, the prose flows more naturally, with great assuredness, a little more depth, greater detachment of the here and now and more intimacy with the fictionality of the work

This voice speaking right now – the second disassociation – is more of a blank mask.
Projecting while observing.
Like an android in control of a camera which hovers around the body.
Or a book writing about the author…

He spits on the time-honoured advice to “Be Yourself”
He has never felt more artistically liberated, being something altogether alien from himself, Disassociative.

Microwave This and That.

Microwave died two days before the new year

Haven’t gotten ’round to replacing it yet

There’s something about using the stove so often which makes eating feel like reaping the rewards of much greater (and more regular since MW died) labour.

I do so much more with the food no as well:

Constantly adding a different spice, making more unusual combinations,
It usually takes ten to fifteen minutes.

A new microwave will eventually sit where the old one still does, but this period has been illuminating; may I be a changed person for the better and not return to older and more lazy routines.

Bon appetite!

You Digress, I Digress, We All Destress

My room is a sidewalk away from a road, a block away from a pub(slash)bar, right next to a massive tree and (at night) a neighbour to tireless crickets.

With the window open, I can hear the foot steps of every pedestrian strolling to and from their respective night shift jobs (or perhaps a foray with a lover – maybe a spy on a mission or a criminal from a mission).

It gets terribly hot in the summer but I am left with a choice between no sleep or drenching my bed in sweat (the latter wins all the time) although it must be said the older I get the less I do anything “profusely”.

My hearing can be impeccable, particularly when the drone of daylight and day time hubbub subsides and the still of the night rises like a ghostly fog – an ethereal entity which (peculiarly) amplifies all the little noises and agitates all the discreet senses:

I clean my feet (to make them soft) so I can rub them together whilst in bed (such a lovely friction which takes me back to my childhood when I shared a bed with gran’ma and I would rub my feet against hers during the winter to warm mine (which always felt like the feet of a corpse) even to this day my feet are stubbornly cold in the winter)

Funny how the smallest things give rise to often buried memories…

But I digress.

Confessions of a Muteful Hater: Not For Under 18z

Some may describe me as quiet and as one who does not stir up manure no matter the situation or circumstance and they wouldn’t be wrong in their observations as I am for the most part a placid little fucker

But there’s a particularly dark corner of my psyche in which hate and anger glows hot with excited indignation at all things alive or inanimate

Don’t tell me it’s my grandmother’s birthday, don’t ask if “I know how to warm” certain food because the microwave is crocked (I wasn’t born yesteryear)

Don’t make assumptions; don’t tell me you’re “sticking to your own truth” (for fucks sake what the hell does that mean??? Are there two thousand truths and you’re the ring leader of this idiocracy?) – Fuck off.

At times I feel guilt about my private little explosions because their content is so vile they would leave many a anger-therapists in a coma of disbelief

(mind you all of this rage is kept inside); I curse and curse and curse and wish the most vile things would befall those around me and politicians most especially (next to pedo’s and rapists, and general thieves)

I Hate with greater passion than I Love. One could say I love not at all. But oh hate; yes, I can taste it on the tip of my tongue.

When I was cheated on; I imagined things which have burnt a picture in my head to this day about my former lover (although I am without resentment towards the cheater now)
It is, admittedly, a good thing that all of this volcanic ire remains within.

I’d be a vile creature (much like those I despise) were it anywhere else.

[All things considered. I’m a full blown Humanist] ( 😀 )

Under Solitude of Night From The Sun’s Light

There’s been a drought;
I suppose that isn’t news, but around half-past nine PM every night, after hours of staring at still branches and immobile curtains, the most lovely breeze blows as if from the stars

Sleeping with the windows open, living next to a busy road, is impossible. All the more so with my hyper-sensitive ears

But one has no choice when the stifling heat rings your neck in bed and turns nap time into drowning in sweat time

But that is not what I wish to blog about:
What strikes me about summer (more so than winter) and especially with the extravagant heat is how the mundane is turned into magical delights:
• Take the breeze for instance, cool and delicate, almost shy under these conditions. Yet when it brushes against my flesh I shiver with glee.
• Iced water tastes like the liquor of eternal vitality
• Rain fall, that precious hum of a thunder shower swoons me into a trance of reverie, (giddy).

Where in winter the sun is a dear friend, in these conditions the glorious night becomes a realm of reprieve from the iron-clad rays of sunlight which bombard every particle in sight
I do not know of too many texts which have seen a drought in such flattering terms.
But this will do.

OH NO…

Dear Muthafudgin Diary
This is really bad,
I used to be one of those people who boasted about not getting addicted to stuff but…
That has changed, apparently
I’m addicted to Coffee. Yes; how do I know?
It isn’t an itch, I’m not telling people I’ll suck them off for some beans, no
As the caffeine wears off at night, I find myself floating in a murky pool of loathing, there’s a dark sense of self, I am acutely aware of the slow pace of my existence and its blaring disgrace. And I can’t write for jack.
I wish I were dead.
My first thought was “you better not have any coffee tomorrow,”
But I needed to sort this apocalypse now and figured “see if it’s the coffee, have some now.”
And sure enough, half a cup of half a teaspoon of some good ol’ roasted beans and I’m typing away with a lit mind and a brighter disposition
It doesn’t sound all that bad, really. It’s not cocaine or meth or death
I’ve never liked depending on things though…

So I’m hooked on coffee, and for some reason out of all of these years it has only recently started to be profoundly psychoactive on my brain, what a way to usher in the new year!

P.S. To think just thirty minutes ago I was struggling to write a sentence and here I am having written quite a bit!

Cheerio! Coffeenoid out

La nuit du café noir.