Sunday, 14 June 2009

Notebook 069

I barely open the blinds anymore. The stench of adverts hangs. Traffic is the ticking of time. I never grace the AM unless it's dark, drunken and desolate. The birds conversing are signal for sleep. I don't have an alarm, just a non-functional body clock stuck on snooze. I don't have intinerary or agenda. I haven't looked in the mirror for weeks. I haven't washed for more so. The fingers through my hair are my pillows and my matted back. My kisses are the layer of slime in the corner of my mouth when I wake. Raped by an acid tongue in my sleep. It takes exactly three and a half weeks to forget the sound of your own voice. This is why crazy men mutter and poke their own fingers; to remember sound and touch. Silence is the best listener. She never argues, judges or tells you what to do and she's always there when nobody else is.

It's been three years. I think. I'm at the setting up a joint account with my right hand. Was it good for you? He never answers. Never moans. Never sighs. He always does what I tell him. I hate him, but he loves me.

Notebook 068

I contantly find myself pressing a button that I know doesn't work.

I constantly find myself saying "I don't know" when I do. Perfectly.

Notebook 067

Feminist era. We do not hate you. We resent you for showing us our weaknesses. Our growing weaknesses. In comes the 'adamist'. We have become organs. Banked and dated. Histories re-written.

Notebook 066

Art is not a statement - it's the statement. A pile of bricks is all and it is nothing. So memorably forgotten. So forgetfully memorable. Oh dear the shit has hit the fan again.

Notebook 065

People are using computer screens as their windows. Myspace has become the pubs for digital youth with the legends being the alcoholics. More often than not it's to give themself a sense of belonging they don't get in real life. 'The only gay in the village' syndrome for a patchwork sense of uniqueness applied to self. Pretending to care about people they've only glanced at once and more often than not, not at all. Ghosts feeding ghosts to not feel so bad about being dead. Give me cold, ho, wrinkled and spit anyday over your most clever arrangement of pixels because if you're making your world behind a montior screen, you're making a glass cage for yourself. You may be able to see the most wonderous of sights but surely the torment of 'you can look but can't touch, smell or hear' is too much not to not feel a sense of imprisonment?

Notebooks 064

Funny how things work out. My dad's first night out in months. The bed with no habitant isn't yet dismantled, ready for my sister stopping over. The first day I'm wearing the t-shirt she bought me for christmas.

She's dead. My grandma. Dead.

Dad's guilt ridden after a night out 'knowing' he shouldn't have got drunk. He held my hand "When I die..." in both of his "this is a bond. This." I held him when he came inside. He splintered into tears and draped himself upon my shoulders. He drowned my collarbone and I stroked the back of his exploding chest. My dad. The man I can't even remember hugging before in my life.

I can't remember the last time I saw her, but really I can. I think I hid when she came to walk the dog. Hid. Look at me now.

Notebook 063

07-02-07 00.55

We are throwaway. Generation disposable. We want want want and are not ashamed to make desire attainable, to the best we can. Then we'll better it; more realistic, bigger, faster, better wing mirrors, shape and an extra coffee holder.

Life remodelled and re-packaged but the batteries are missing. I want to go to a university interview and have it play as follows:

"Where do you see yourself in five or ten years time?"

"Ideally, running my own bookshop in a quiet un-tainted village. 2.4 children and a wife who makes the best flapjack man has known and fucks like a lithe sixteen year old. I will see strangers come into my and buy a book. I will know that they are, in some way, learning. WIdening their eyes. I will write and publish my own material that will hopefully teach the pair of eyes that I see return. But I know this will not happen. The peaceful serene village where this happens is untainted and no village is so peaceful. No place on earth is peaceful. So hence I see myself changing the world in five years time. Ten years time. My village is a metaphor for the world and the customers are the masses."

Sly smiles. "How naive."

"Let me ask you, interviewees, if you thought that the generation... well, I presume (*points) parents right?"

"Yes." (*general agreement)

"Well even if you've contemplated thinking about thinking about thinking about having kids you've been a parent. Be it in your head, with barbie dolls or the 3.45pm school run in traffic, you've all been parents at some point. Was there never a point in your life where you looked at the generation after you but before your children and thought 'Jesus. Things have got really shit these days'? Well I'm at that point and I bet just like you, you wanted to improve the deterioration of generation so that for your kids, it wouldn't actually be so bad. So. Did you collapse at the snigger like pruple sweater here just gave me? Did you leave the thought in your head? Did you throw away the permonition of children and change with the recyclable plastic you threw on the floor at the same time?
I want to change the world. I'm sorry, but I do. I'm sorry if it's naive, brash or unrealistic or if it just intimmidates you and pisses over any sense of life accomplishment you may have. I'm not sorry that I did it and will adamently profess and piss again and again. I am only sorry that you feel the need to what... call me naive? Over ambitious? Zealous? Maybe you are actually considering the possibility that this scrawny kid in front of you has half a bag of coke and speed rampaging round his body? I only hope you question your initial reaction as well, because I want my village and my bookshop and my eager returning learned eyes. I want it because it feels and seems so right to put my life towards.
So why the fuck should I not?"

[rework to have more punch?]

I want the freedom to follow my passion. My mind. If my mind writes a story I want to type it. If my mind sees a picture, I want to make it. No agendas, minutes or boardroom mettings to put a raincheck on my creativity.
I will not be paused.