Recently in Writing: True Category

Yesterday there were 400 individual people here. Today there may be less. There might be more, but one of them might be you. Could be. You never know.

The last four months have been a blast. It's strange how everything is. The world is a different shape. It's not right; it's not how it should be. It's all wrong, but wrong can be entertaining too. I hope.

I can be walking sometimes, just walking, maybe with intent, maybe not. Walking, and looking and suddenly I become aware that I'm on fire.
It's OK, because I get better. I think that it's an undocumented feature of ADD, the mind wanders and click, the fire is gone. But sometimes… it's there. Running up and down me. Nerves burning, all hurting. I juts need to see her. I need to see her.

My mind reacts to this is a different way. I do see her often. When I'm walking down the street I often greet the ghost of a younger self with her on my arm. I raise a hat to the young lovers, smile sadly and walk on. Some days I don't see her. Some days I see her on every corner. It doesn't matter, because once the fire has started, it continues to burn. I worry that it's always going to be there, then I worry that it's not.

I ask wiser people than I about all of this: I am hardly the first person to be left by their lover, am I? How does everyone else deal with it? They must know, it's a secret and they're keeping it from me. I become enraged; I need to shed her from me. I need to get away. I need to be away, away, away.

Melodrama over, I ask them. They tell me time. That's what I need. Time. They also tell me beer, but in my experience all I find at the bottom of the bottle is me, and I like myself less than she does. So time. Yet time is such a vast thing to someone that hurts so much.

So I was thinking… how do you fix something like this, something so perfectly one sided? It's unusual for me not to be able to “feel” the right answer; I can normal follow my instincts to find a solution to everything that has happened to me before, but this time… I can't. I suspect that the ability itself is not compromised; rather it is my capability in relation to the magnitude of the situation. It is a rather large situation. I cast my mind to the classics. I am too fearful of the wrong selection for flowers, although roses do have a certain something about them. I thought of CDs, but expressing yourself in someone else's poetry is extremely risky, and at the end of the day it's all interpretation.
Sometimes you just can't express what is inside.

Hm.

Sometimes I remember that she hasn't loved me for years. Sometimes I sit and think, and the weather turns cold and grey. I flatter myself and think the world is aligning itself to me. Sometimes I remember we got back together because she was “too tired” for anything else. This might make the last couple of years a lie, but then again it might not.
Still, as I said: not good.

But I know, I know, that if I could show her how I feel, the glorious terrifying fucking beauty of it. The devastating impracticality, the meticulous intricacies of all of it. I know that she'd glow and shine and soar, and even if she didn't want me, we'd both be enriched by the sharing of the feeling.

I sigh and walk outside. I sit in the cold, the rain soothes me. English rain can be nice when it floats like mist. It's soothes you, makes you damp, lends a certain atmosphere to how you're feeling. The wind is nice too. It tickles me, but it's cold. She is cold too. Cold to the world, cold to her family, cold to her friends, colder still to me. I worry that she will never really, truly understand how much of me she owns. Or how much more I can give her…

I cry sometimes. For the years we'll not have, for the children that are not ours, for the bad times, for the good times; for all the times. For the pets, for the songs we'll not laugh at, for the houses we'll not live in, the arguments we'll not have. The jokes we'll not tell, the laughter we'll not share.

I cry for the parts of me that I'll not be able to give to anyone else, because they are hers. The damage our time together has done, and the amount of influence she has on the man I am, or am not, today.

I cry some more for all the times she'll have with someone else, but that is a dark place I cannot look at. It hurts my eyes.

This… all of this. This stuff, these words, these pictures. The fun, the good stuff and the bad stuff. It's all wrong. I need her back. I can't sleep, I can't eat. I can't smile. I'm not right.

But she is. So that's the end of that. It's over.

And just like that 7+ years of your life is just dust. Dust and something else. They might be memories, but they're more likely to something else. That special something, which is, of course, academic, as it's all blowing away. Away, away, away.

It's awkward writing this at the moment, mostly because the train will not stop moving left to right, as well as the tradition forwards (and backwards, I guess).

I'm bored. London still tries it's crazy killing me ideas. I am too powerful for such silly tricks.

Oh and while I'm thinking about it... GC, where are you! X-Men emergency lass! I need to speak to you.

[posted with ecto]

The title means nothing. The search (the real search) is everything. Divinity in a Styrofoam cup. Perfection in poison bubbling away in a padded container. White velvet almost sexually steaming. Extra hot my bitches. Extra hot. Extra hot and now. The scent wafts... it wafts and it waves and it creeps and it crawls. The delicate hint of vanilla, much like thunder to my eyes, which in turn role up in their moistening sockets to allow the smell greater access to every molecule of my being. Grainy bitterness assaults my existence. The extra shot; two to the chest, one to the head.

I like coffee.

[posted with ecto]

I wish I could write better songs but the words in my head never, ever equal the words on the page.

The thumping throbbing power of the bass
seldom translates
the electric fingers of subtle guitar
to the grinding love screech of power
just never comes across.

Don't even get me started on the
lack of seminal violence from the drums
Less Battle Royal, more Royal Prom.

One-day someone will make a CD
A CD from the songs in my head
Minds will expand, heads explode.
Noses Bleed.
It will carry a health warning.

I will smile.

So I touch down in the UK. Get a train (the Heathrow express. It's actually quite nice) into London, and wonder down to the tube with my luggage. It's very early, not that many people. A train rumbles into the station. I wearily stumble onto it, and, well.... sit down.

There I am, sat on the tube. Going from Paddington to Aldgate (the wonders of the Circle line!). I'm very comfortable here. The feel and sound of the London Underground are all wonderfully familiar. A strange part of me feels at home. I'm reading a book, which is one of my favorite things to do when I'm alone, and reclining in my seat. I shall be at work soon, and I shall see my friends and be merry and oh what larks I will have.

I turn the page.

The train stops in a tunnel.

I turn a page.

I turn a page.

I turn a page.

The little part of me that felt like it was at home gasps.

Suddenly the walls begin to close in. I swear I can smell the evil sickly smell of sulphur in the air.

The nice looking girl on the seat in front of me me speaks:
"I want to eat your soul"

Rather bloody inconvenient. She smiles at me, all pointy, needly teeth. I... hit her. Hit her with the hefty book I was reading, showing a darn sight more disrespect to the publication that I would like, but needs must. Her head lolls back, bloody spraying the window behind her, bubbling on the glass. The other passengers are looking at us. They all have long nails, pointy teeth; the daemonic horde surges towards me. I really hope the book doesn't get too battered, because it really is rather good.

The lights flicker.

The girl opposite me is, of course, normal and unbeaten... but you knew that. The book is undamaged in my hand. I am tired; however I know this... London wants to kill me.

We are still in the tunnel.

The PA coughs to life. As always you can't actually hear what the driver says, but you can get an impression of what the archaic technology is trying to convey.
There is a signal failure, we'll be terminating at the next stop. Terminated. Is this a warning?

The girl in front smiles at me, and points to my luggage.

"Just got into London?"

"Just got back, yeah."

"Ha. Welcome home."

The train deposits us, moves on. She gets off in front of me. I fancy I can see a little daemonic tail, but you can never be too sure.

Interestingly enough the station we are at is Edgware Road. One of the places that was bombed back in July. I'm on my way to Aldgate, another bomb site...

This place wants me dead. Welcome back Kris. Someone save me soon, for I hate it here, and I think here knows it, and really, really isn't happy about it.

You've heard me speak of him.

Once he was here, now he's... not. However his spirit lives on through telephones, crackberries and hotmail. The D is a dark master of hideously useful talents, far too numerous to list here.

I also must be cautious about what I say in print about this man; for he is dangerous, and has many friends.

Think of him like my big giant head, only we talk about Nintendo a lot.

He blogs here: http://fobt.blogspot.com. Enjoy.

There is a core cadre of twisted that can serve to counterbalance the usual insanity (now defiantly not a brain tumour!) that afflicts my head on most days.

I will call upon their services while in a fit of alcohol-induced malaise, whist wandering around the West End of London on a Friday night. Lost and alone in a decidedly foreign country, I sent my appeal out to the world. Thirteen invisible doves carried my message to my twisted. The call went out: "Bored. Entertain me, my witches".

You see, I like to think of these happy collectives as my Wytches (and a few as Witches themselves, but that's a personal hygiene issue). All of them have magical powers, of one form or another. All of this is true. None of it ever happened. But it’s all-true, you can see it when you look at them.

At this point I must pause to think. There is poison flowing in my wicked veins, and it's leaking into my brain stem at an alarming rate. The twin evils of Vodka and Tequila are working their way, and vying for my attention. This is going to be disjointed, like a dislocated finger... but that's OK, because it's also drink induced reality ramblings. Little pockets of fact wrapped in nuggets of lies, lies, lies.

Because as most of the Wytches will tell you, that's me.

Back to the story:
Messages Doves. Some of the Wytches ate the Doves, a few with the message still attached to it's screaming leg. A few insulted me in return. There are Wytches that like me as little as I like them, but they are still Wytches. The beautiful thing is when one drops out, another will step in to take its place. 13, always 13. Lucky for some. Me. Not them.

So I am sat with a bag full of knowledge, all of it leaking out of my (disproportionately) little ears, and a ugly grimace on my ugly face, flicking my tongue piercing with my lip whilst cradling some tequila. You whores did this to me, at some stage I started drinking tequila without my old friends lemon and salt. I assume that's because I have no taste buds left, but then I remember that I love chocolate milk, and that's surly a taste thing. So I'm abandoning the thought, and waiting for the reply to my plea.

First reply comes from someone who sits reasonably high up on the food chain. fZe tells me to feck off, which is woefully unimaginative for someone with a brain that size. It's also distressing to see that people still write the word feck. I resolve to torture her over the next few weeks for the insult of making me read the word feck, when fuck is infinitely more viable, and if you really wanted censorship, you'd use * like everyone else in the world.

The * is the greatest invention ever, because it actually draws attention to the profanity. It is a friend of mine, I consider it in service of those of us that want to corrupt the little children and see them eat their parents and steal cars.

So back to the fZe. How do I read the "feck off"? Is she 'busy'? In my depraved little mind I decide that she is, and that I'm going to wear my investigative journalism hat and track down the culprits. Then hit them with a stick. Hmmm. Maybe also take photos. I'm going back to the drink now, because that seems like a good idea. It'll force me to shut up.

Wallowing in the self-pity of someone who is drinking alone on a Friday night, I wonder if performing some incantation to summon some greater daemon to messily devour the beautiful glitterati in here would be a good idea. If we did that, I could then have a good conversation about any good books that he has read recently, because devils and daemons are very well read.

Then I realise that there would be no tiny dresses to marvel at (and I do mean marvel, rather than perve. Some of them required actual engineers to develop). So I decided that I'm going to have another drink. This time, Whisky in honour of the D.

The D is silent to my plea, but that'd be because he is un-contactable, presently being on his way to the land of the stupid. He is very much the ambassador of intelligence over there, and I pity anyone who locks horns with him. Sage advice, and random violence is what he brings to the world. That's why he is the D.

I receive another message while contemplating crisps. I was considering cheating on Prawn Cocktail by having a dalliance with Cheese and Onion, so it's just as well that GC chose to reply at that point. I'd not want that on my conscious as well.

Only GC chose to discuss the most evil thing in the cosmos. Reality TV. For this she will burn, and I have already bought the matches. All further conversation with her are now irrelevant, as her mind has gone from too much time worshipping at the temple of the celebrity. Gah.

I leave the bar. You're all evil, and will die of a hideous disease that I will be responsible for inflicting upon you. I know this, because that nice lady in the revealing costume started coughing up blood when I offered her a drink.

Wandering through Soho after midnight. Never a good idea. Um. Also never a bad one. There are a lot of very interesting people here. They look very pretty.
Then Madds messages me. Suitably filthy, top marks lass.

I find a new bar. Mr. Wooles checks in to tell me he sees strippers everywhere, and so should I.

A drink later and the foreign contingents check in, which is just ass well, because I'm about to hit an obnoxious city boy so hard that he goes blind, and possibly deaf. I'm not sure, because I've not had to hit something that soft before. That's when the Australian contingent checks in. Al and Em are winning prizes by promising me photos of their new flatmates. I have assumed naked pictures. I am happy.

I decide to return home. There is a shanty somewhere in Southwest London with my name on it. There is a bed there that is unwashed, but dammit, it's mine.

My ear hurts. I possibly have an infection. The night has not gone well. Stupid Wytches have failed to keep me entertained. Most of my entertainment tonight has come from the hideous drink that I have consumed. The Wyches will now pay with hideous exposes to come. Ha ha. Stay tuned.

At my home, the Golly gives me a blank look as I walk in. I think he has been thinking thoughts again, which is amazingly contagious. The fucker has transmitted the disease to me by breathing in my direction; he is sloping off to sleep with his girlfriend. I am sloping off to kill you all in my sleep.

The day is over. Some of the Wytches appear to have let me down. I've head-mailed them a disgusting thought. They will have trouble sleeping and having sex for the next few years. M, Red, KT and Nikki, you are in trouble, The other one, well, you don't want to talk to me anyway, so no harm no foul.

But you'll all get bad sex dreams tonight, so I am content.

This one has a soundtrack: Nice Dream, from the album Bends by Radiohead

I had a dark day yesterday. It was all stormy and cloudy, and pretty crowded in my mind. The brain worms were dormant, and I was left to think my own thoughts about life, which can be quite depressing sometimes.

Not even the pub could stir me from my self-imposed malaise. That's a concern, because I like a good tipple, now and again.

Wearily I wander home.

Home. Sleep. The melancholy embrace of something or other, look… I don't remember it, because I was pretty tired, so I just passed out. There may have been sinking into pillows. There might have been the sandman, but that's creepy. Strange men (be they anthropomorphic personifications or not) in your room after dark. It's not on.

So I slept. Considering I'm guilty of everything, and have money trouble and problems at work, and no love life… it was the sleep of the righteous and just, undisturbed. I'd like to thank my Mum for that dream catcher, because there must be a bunch of nightmares trapped in it. Do I need to take it outside and empty it? Not sure, will look into it later.

Gradually a dream came to me. This dream was weird, because I've been allowed to remember it.

It was a dream of the future. Blinding sunlight, piercing blue sky, clear of everything but the occasional bird. The Ocean, yes it was there, as was the sand. The sand was hot, but cool down where the tide was washing in. Bare feet. There were bare feet, waves washing and… CHILDREN. That's frightening. 4 of them, of varying age…as in the ages of the children kept changing as I looked at them. They grew old, then grew young. They were toddlers, and then adults with the ghost of the potential of their own children with them. Then teenagers. Then babies.

They were pretty bloody happy, the ungrateful little sods.

And then there was… you. Yeah, I saw you. Holding my hand. I know. Oh I so know the truth now. You were there, you were the “mother”.

I was home. I was with someone, and there were children and happiness. Not a spec of sadness. It was great. A dream of love. Not had one of them for years.

But ultimately still a dream, because if it was real then there would have been cut feet, and crying and fights between the kids, no to mention us, which just goes to show a dream isn't really worth anything.

Fucking dreams. Today I'm going to try harder in the pub. Who's in?

Don't fail me now, oh lucky coin of, um, luck.

Sometimes words fail me, you see. It's this block that I carry around with me. The block is about 3” x 3” x 3”, a little square of black rock that creeps into me and stops the words from making sense. Some people call it “writer's block” I call them “fucking stupid”. It's the same block on everything, of course. I'm much smarter than everyone else, so I can see mine. Ha-ha.

So the coin; I take a random coin from my pocket, and imbue it with a little of myself, then flip it. It's the best way to make decisions. If I miss the coin (as I have to catch it and place it on my hand for the toss to be valid, so to speak) then it is fated that I take no decision.

I'm very much the uncoordinated one, so this happens often.

The coin is spinning now though, taking a little of my soul with it. I don't get that bit back, but my soul is hardy, and grows back what it looses, so I don't lament the use. I don't squander this ability on just anything, on the really important “curry or chinese” or “she loves me, she loves me not” decisions.

The coin is still spinning, and oh shit, something else has caught my eye. A pair of nice legs, perhaps some cleavage... maybe just a bright car, I'm pretty fickle, and no my eye wonders, and the coin is arching down and…

I catch it anyway. I undersold myself earlier.

Heads. I always feel that heads is better than tails, more positive, regal almost. That'd be the Queen, I suspect.

Only, I can't remember what I was flipping for. Something important, about someone. Someone close.

Angrily I clench the coin, the dear, sweet coin that I'm now going to spend on a bag of chips. Take that you bastard.