Troubled sleep. Dreams of life, love, and death. I think the final images of the day had mingled with the memory, and turned my dreams sour. Of course I smile, now, showered and clean, but I carry a concern. Determined to have a good time of it, but so…occupied.
My 2007 diary rests, awaiting the first words of another year. I am quite downtrodden, pessimistic, lonely, and fearful.
Not the same, but different. That’s an in-joke for those who follow me from the other blog expecting the same head-line/title to introduce the same text. Overlap, often, but not today.
This is the new year, then, and there is time for re-evaluation. Not quite ready for the Ribble, I assure you. Waking up in a cold, quiet bed still frustrates (oh, aye…) and whilst the morning is brisk my intentions for the day are distractions rather than constructive events. Such is life, or at least such is mine. My money siutation is in need of urgent help. Having (a bit) in ISAs and ShareSave schemes is not enough. Resolutions are needed, and they should be heeded, like the Commandments, or else at least the House Rules of school.
A year of change, certainly. Bored quite quickly with the repeated recorded reports from News 24, whose “main headline” playfully skipped around Bush’s sleeping statement. Walked in to town, from there to here and around, football later. Burscough in the drizzle. Of course my mind worries about other things, but until absolute closure there is nothing else for my mind to settle on. Questions, answers, you’ve heard a lot of this before. I shall try and keep you updated, although the internet booths around town are not reliable. Certain events from this year resonate still; others cause brief moments of silence. Songs from certain periods carry their own context. And still the smile wears a shine, for there is no need for me to drag everyone else down. I have never wanted to be a burden for anyone, as has been mentioned before.
The day is still churnng outside. I will update you when I can…
How brilliant is the season. Oh I did wish to be happier, more “of the spirit” but things do get me down. Silly things with no substantive evidence. Was the love of my life literally the one only chance? Is life so cruel as to show in colour now that which was monochrome before? I wake to silence in an empty bed, as I have done so often, adding new weight to old memories…
Hey, did you want jokes? Quite stupid, very strange, daft. I am tense, because all my decisions come back to haunt. It has nothing to do with recent developments, whatever they are. I sigh, and moan, because all the good times are framed within memories; you can never take them with you. In recent months, it has taken my best mate moving to Melbourne, and an increased use of skunk, to showcase the good times I thought would never leave. My writing, now requested for and published, is an achievement numbed by outside episodes.
I will not be found hanging from the wardrobe yet…All my good times are memories. It can’t be envy, surely, this heavy swirling cloud n my stomach? For years I made decisions based on what I assumed other people thought of me. All consequences from there on in are coming back to remind me that, best friends or not, I should have stook by love when it came for me. Now for all my happiness I am left unsteady by thoughts of paths not taken.
I may come back here, and realise I do not really mean any of this. Suddenly it is not clear what I really want…
Ugh this is quite daft. Thinking about other people thinking about what I may be thinking….blah de blah. It’s not how I wanted to grow old…Suddenly I am nursing my dreams back to sleep. Troubled dreams…I dunno what all this is about. Moving somewhere, in some bizarre staged direction. Possibilities all lying underneath the pull of the current.
Fate, her sister Fortune, and far-flung cousin Serendipity are all overhead, meanwhile, moving the chess pieces in spite of me. Good lessons learned. My friends are not all demons, they understand. I just wish that understanding could…would?…settle my own concerns. It’s so daft, all this. I never wanted to be a burden, but that is what I have become. When I attempt politeness I just come across rude. And so now the shaky buildings are all crumbling.
Upbeat, damn it, upbeat.
Spelling errors abound. These booths are not the best for touchtypists.
Strange day. Started with a whinge. Still shaken by a slap-in-the-face moment on Saturday. Pinned all my hopes on a brief slice of lust. Perhaps my best actions are left un-thought. Heh, is that a real word? As it goes I have had a fairly alright working day. Few queries. Lots of work across Southport. I know all this is of interest. We have all been given a booklet about customer relations, from which we must revise information for a phone based touchbutton exam. I hardly dare to consider what would happen if I fail.
So now, then. I long for escape. I mean “holiday”, not asprin-and-a-cold-river, although the thought did once cross the mind. It leaked onto my diary’s pages but that often makes truth un-true, sometimes even false. I long for London again. May go, to escape for good but still to return forever. There is “freedom to…” says Aunt Lydia. I search for “freedom from…”
No ideas and no plans. This will continue thus until the next time. As I write, excited train spotters watch agog as a newly painted Transpennine Express slugs into the station. If speaking into a dictaphone “135! 135!” whilst watching a train pull in has any basis in logic, please advise.
I do not use this blog often enough. Hints are dropped elsewhere about it but until real promotion – ? – this is a secret little space. No eyes, few comments. My own private diary.
Or else, no. So many eyes, here and elsewhere, and far beyond even time.
So I will begin with love. Or the approximation of love. I pinned so much hope, and so much will, on one particular person that their slap in the face has knocked me to the ground. I never wanted to be a burden on any of my friends. Whatever happens they will always be there. It sounds so…I wanted a glimmer of happiness and all I found was my mate’s sofa. Damn it, he’s worth his weight in gold. Or green, if you prefer. And L, too, who initally calmed me down. No, wait, verb first.
So, yeah. From there to here. If I walk home it’ll only make things less better. A storm cloud greys the sky. Maybe I should put money in my account, pay the mobile bill, if they let me, or else I could buy a book for my mate, or a DVD….Dunno, it is a weightless day. You’ll find me floating someplace.
Oh I remember something. Bikini Black Special, and the review they couldn’t take because it’s so truthful and real. No-one ever replies when the reviews are upbeat. It seems The KBC are fine with being told they’re really good, and y’r impossible had a great gig too. Those who know me are well aware that my reviews are those thoughts I tie together based on that gig alone. Honestly, BBS are a fairly drab “Lamb at half speed”, or a lumpy porridge of remixed muzak. I hope porridge carries that “d”.
Pray tell, why do I ask my fingers to chill across these characters?
Not the happiest of men, but I never seem to be. Ah for the days of joy, and beer, and assuming jigsaw pieces would fall into place upon their own accord. Last night, staring out of my window at the buffeted trees, searching for Orion, drinking nothing but fizzed-up cola, I wondered if all the best laid plans of man are best left for the mice.
Today, though, and later on…Waiting at the traffic lights to cross in town, a couple walk up beside me: he is a sensible-haircut on legs, she a smaller, all blonde kind with notable features. He says something like “Did you know the power a kangeroo needs to jump all comes from just one toe on its left foot?”, and for about a good minute or so after this, he says nothing but “Ah, you didn’t know that, though, you didn’t know that? You didn’t, did you, didn’t know that…” as a teacher (albeit a particularly cruel one) would speak to a child.
I have been charged 99p for one pomegrante. Really not pleased. The danger at this time of year, in this climate, comes from fruit rotten from the inside out. This is why Classic literature loves the pomegrante, it has such a potent message.
Now, then, is time to move on. All these changes, and me stuck in the middle, when I should be moving beyond the clouds and in search of The Hunter.
Viewed from afar the one man alone stands idle. But he is thinking and no man thinking is idle. A different turn to the circle, this. My other blog shows signs of changing, again, and it is for quite silly reasons. All done on myself, these acts. So, clarity. My new house is not worse than the last one, but my God, it is no better. Cannot do right for doing wrong. I will have to move on, again, another suitcase in another hall, as I have said repetedly before.
Why has polite society so cruelly dumped “afore” and “ruth”, and where is “longage” as the logical opposite to “shortage”?
I should use this blog more frequently. Its role is confused, and clarity demands much less vague communiction. As ever onwards