don’t be afraid of midnight

I cried all the way home.

These past few weeks have been so different for me – so much stronger, so more confident. I cannot allow the “old” version of me to overtake a period of my life (personal and within work). And yet, and yet… Even after a much different version of me worked so damn hard to keep above the playground antics of those I cannot abide, it took just one silly switch, a flicker of old-me emotion, to throw away everything I have worked so hard to build. What was worse than thinking about the weight of disappointment on my shoulders from people I know? The knowledge that the weight came from the realisation that it is just me who needs to think anything of me after another centre-piece of stupidity. And all because of….All I have wanted to do is prove that I can come up with suggestions, ideas, that will be of benefit to others. Arrogrance, the squashing of potential, whatever the thing is that switches me over happened in a couple of sentences….I cried all the way home.

This house is empty, which makes everything worse. All I can hear are a mix of clock ticks, fireworks, happy screams, and my whimpers. Oh I just wish the bloody idiot within this head of mine could be carved out. All the best intentions, ruined, and for what?

Midnight is a strange beast. She dresses in velvet, but is fading, like cheap cotton. She is not to be feared. Midnight has no teeth. You have to be fearful of midday, for the heat can only build. Do not be afraid of midnight. My stomach is churning, and I cannot be confident of anything anymore. Just as the days were feeling fantastic, nothing makes much sense. Hate this, hate this, really..don’t know where this puts me.


Ah, the problems with my conventions and rules. Write here and be cut back the truth because it is accesible at work, or write at my other blog and cut back because of people I know who read it…Ah, the problems I have with putting all this down. It is a lot easier to write the diaries, but it is a lot harder to read the entries back…

I have been re-reading some of the older entries recently, and it has knocked me. Little wonder I have a reputation for certain things, given the crap I’ve written down. It’s only a fraction of what I remember. At work, the border line bullying, which starts as “jokes” then increases in subtle shuffles upto and across “the line”…ah, but what can I write about here…See….there are lines here too.

Yes…onwards, further onwards. It bores me to think about it, and it bores others to listen about it. Onwards…

nothing to worry about

This blog can be read at work, by those who wish to, thanks to the bizarre arbitary nature of the Internet access rules there. A slight awkwardness comes to me in relation to writing about office-based days now, given how jumpy companies and organisations can be with blogging. Yesterday had a great swathe of fun and games, originating from the IT dept., whose balance of good eggs and meddling knowalls is not set fairly. Those who fiddle do it because they think it is possible to undo, always with one eye on the exit out from the programmes they are playing around with. One episode involves utility prints having their colour removed for reasons unknown. Yesterday, more unexplained episodes with missing job packs and utility prints – why was there a problem? I can’t say, to be honest with you, but it’s resolved now. But I need to know where the problem was..? No, honestly, it’s fine, I can’t really say…

Elsewhere, then, and there is nothing to worry about. The house move is – I assume – all ready to go, notwithstanding my ignorance of the logistics of moving. All my worldly goods are fit within the one room, so I can avoid any week-long trek from place to place. From postcode 6LX to 7UQ.

Outside – sun, with cluttering clouds, a breeze. Inside, the carpet is lost amongst writing paper and disgarded socks. A box of Christmas cards rests, waiting, just outside my eye-line. Madonna, and Oscar Wilde, look at me from their respective CD case and book cover. All seems, I think, fine. Money to one side, all else is adequately alright. I know that is like saying “Other than the elephant in the room, I am alone,” but honestly: I am doing okay.


Took my thoughts for a walk, but the whole family came with me…Thoughts I had long placed undercover announced thier return with trumpets. I walked through Broughton, Goosnargh, Longridge, Grimsargh…the clouds formed curtains, the roads pressured my feet and stomach muscles. For all the spurts of decisions made, came a host of ghosts and spirits. And then today happened, and the ghosts just could not get enough…

This day has been….just so much proof. Evidence that I am a child of a man. That one of my best friends cannot rely on any sense to fall from my mind or mouth…That two plus two equals four. I have no real reason to feel so low, to be holding back tears, to be standing in my front room in silence, catching faint whispers through the falling dust…A knowledge retired within the wood of my intelligence…it is a passport in reverse. These thoughts are cherries in pastry.

Today should have been easy. Just another day. I turned it into a charade, a cabaret. My name is a punchbag, and a punchline. One question – do I deserve to moan given the circumstances of other people? Of course not – and this in turn reduces my nerve and confidence further.

Nothing is very much the same.

end of the world

It is strange, all of this. Blogging to an empty room. Talking through silence, like an actor with a blank piece of paper. How many revolutions could I have initiated with a couple of clicks of my pen? When my first diary entry was written, on New Year’s Eve 1999, nothing could have prepared me for the pages ahead. Pages on love, loss, hope, sadness, coursework, divorce, countless election campaign leaflet drops, coffee, work, interviews for work, interviews for agencies, MSN conversations, holidays, sicknesses, going to the pub, going to the football, watching films, having a quick wank before bed, walking to work in the rain, shopping, falling into and out of love with people I should not have performed either act, writing diary entries….

Questions, and few answers. There are pages I cannot read back easily. Quotes from friends. Brutally honest, and I know all about brutal honesty. There are pages I cannot read simply because my handwriting took on the characteristics of an epiletic spider. Questions and no answers. Silence from history. Acres of bad poetry. How many bloggers…no, actually, how many people who sit in their rooms and, like me, jot away in diaries and journals are bleeding gallons of ink down the gutter? Unless the end of the world is given a concrete date, what is the exact point?

I am very fond of blogging. Fell in love with it, and see the promise more and more. Stories broken, reactions sought…At election time, I can see the blogosphere being of vital importance, to a degree unthinkable even now. Even today, we cannot see how important this all could be…But until the end of the world, there is no ultimate test. When the Earth catches fire, then we’ll see.

From the tatty pages of my 2000 diary, I hear voices, but also silence. All the aborted plans. Daft concerns…the usual. “Giddy” is a great little word for it. And there is a problem with recognition, too. It is like going to a theatre, sitting down, and seeing someone on stage impersonating you. They are not doing it very well, the voice is too staged, the clothes not quite accurate, but you know who it is they are trying to copy. Re-reading a diary from so long ago is like hearing a dead relative whisper to you from a telephone line. Until the end of the world, there is no context for all this…

Maybe the blogosphere has it right. We will download the news, listen again to a show we’d forgotten, nostalgise cartoon programmes of dubious quality, and then place the gun to the roof of the mouth. And blow.

individual thought processes

Ah, the Internet. It is never easy just to turn up and type, I notice. My natural preference for the “hard copy” diaries remain, at least they don’t delete swathes of text on the press of a button. Had they buttons. Sorry, moving on.

Local Lib Dems contiued. For all it matters. Our Treasurer has written an email claiming there are no records of me being a member of the party. I know his thinks I am on the side of the Chair, but as Secretary I would have thought we would all get on to some degree…We’re a local party of less than 30 members, it’s not quite the Kensington and Chelsea Conservatives.

There are other issues, there always ends up being other issues, and these include arguments (within a nummber of spheres) and work…I have always got to find myself within one circle of problems. It is not as though it is a situation in which I feel comfortable. These things happen, for which I have a reputation, and until there are solutions I cannot really map out a route of escape.

As ever, more later. Actually, there should be more later. I began this blog as an alterative to you know where but it now seems to be some form of mirror site. Yeah. More later.

lost amongst the libdems

I have reached the point where I no longer care if members of the local LibDems read this. An uncharacteristic confidence consumes. All recent history has underlined how “student union” our local party has become. No wonder members bored of the farce are welcoming the new constituency boundaries – it means an escape from the petty politics of bald men fighting for combs. My geography is a problem. It means there is no legitimate way for escape.
In one corner, our chair. A very “handshakes and warm words” kind of guy. He really annoys me generally, but he has one central fault which frustrates without delay: he is dishonest. Promises come from his mouth like water; there is rarely anything from these promises. Lots of photographs with “names”. Little action. As Chair, he is all smarm without charm.
The other corner, our treasurer. A “this is what we agree on” person. Gets things done, but without much communication. It’s all very action-plan, flipcharts, management speak. It’s done with notes scribbled in the corner. Lots of rules, lots of constitutional points, lots of backs being patted, and rubbed.
Where do I fit…? It means I feel our of my depth. Don’t know who to talk to, beyond email. This is how our Party communicates now. There is supposed to be an AGM next month, but no-one knows how to organise one, and it seems before long we’re going to implode into a non-existant dead association if nothing is done in time. The deflation I feel when talking about it hides an anger that the local party is such a laughable joke. We do not communicate, it seems only a small fringe takes the Exec seriously. Frankly, the 20-odd of us who are still members are treading water. Tides coming in.No-one to save.
The local LibDems are looking pathetic, and ineffectual.

Sunday – Ian Blair, personal woes, what-not

I can never work out how to make URL links look neater –

is a interesting little story. Sir Ian Blair saying to the Reform Club Media Group that “the British people should brace themselves for a truly appalling act of terror” which could cause people to talk “quite openly” about internment.

Away from that, though, I have my own personal woes. Bah, it is Sunday, which means there is nothing to distract me from thinking about things, things said, words mentioned, all the usual. After a week away from work I hoped I’d be relaxed about going back, but then…well, stuff happens. It is all childish crap, frankly, and it is all me, but, yeah, maybe I need to chill. It’s all vague because this is the Internet and it’s enough for me to be typing this…Ugh, more later.

This Is Saturday

Strange things on the walk from my friend’s house to here this morning. Two middle aged Polish men, standing 200 metres from each other, having a very animated argument. I could not here many words similiar to English, and to be fair the language could have been Russian or Czech or somesuch, but with a barely noticable breeze, I could hear one of the determined gentlemen as I turned around the University library.
Money issues sit around, like some form of daemon. This week away from work has been much needed, although now I sit wondering if I can afford the next three weeks with any ease. Tentatively rough sketch plans for every weekend from today to payday, but now I must consider the possibility of a housemove. Never yet have I calculated quite beyond the short-term decisions, as my diaries prove. So, maybe, football and gigs to come, whilst the alternative plan may be getting moderately pickled rather than spending more than I could possibly afford under new circumstances.
The most bizarre series of dreams – maps, floating (I do a lot of flying and floating, I notice), my family and friends, cups of tea and demolishing buildings and…a coach station. Yes, a coach station and somewhere called….Pwlltwyn or Pwlltwyd, which I am sure does not exist. I woke with an uneasy sense of concern, like hearing a message whispered in my ear in French.
Anyway, yes, there are plates to be spun. Onwards, and if plans happen, you will no doubt be told

pregnant pause

It is raining, and blustery. Is this Isaac fresh from Newfi?

I am trying to put things in my head, but they don’t make sense. Where and what-not. No financial responsibility. No clear vision for the future. Nothing like a straightforward narrative. Too many times have I started out like this. No conclusions. Always moving but unlike most of my friends not approaching destinations.

Silly thoughts. Silly days. All old emotions. They are leaf-mulch. Quite where I plaace myself now, is an unanswered question: it is certainly an echo. Always this and never clarity.