A rebel without a clue.

Paul has been telling me I need more plot in my writings. Make something up. I think that to develop a plot requires us to be part of a larger action, be part of a community, be a member of a team, a religion, a political persuasion: have certain actions in reality that we can draw from and then a vivid unrestrained imagination as well? However authors who draw on their imaginations tend to imagine a similar set of worlds and plots: whether they write crime, thrillers, romance, etc and once they start writing in these genres they find it quite impossible to break free from the fetter. And it probably pays well too to change a style? Writers who write Literature may use their life as a vehicle for their voice as they usually have a fairly interesting varied lives or they are crazy enough to imagine wide reaching and complex plots. From my POV I have been gradually receding from public life since 1999(is this acrophobia) and therefore am not in this current that flows through man...

I ordered a repeat 'script' for the anti-Ds I had stopped using in January in the new job. I started on them again on Saturday. I was sick copiously on Saturday night and still nauseous both Sunday and Monday. I've started taking them as I feel a little worried the repercussions of having put so much into Millies for those 4 months is a decline in my proclivity to work: or even look for work. I told myself I will do anything on Tuesday. I will register to Temp. I don't care. I need a life. Suddenly I have no money at all and it's so incredibly frustrating to be in a flat I can't afford, with bills I can't pay, without being able to afford a weeks groceries, etc. I need a job. Maybe another more local live-in job would be available? I have twice ventured to Cornwall since Christmas in the hope of seeing Scarlett: both times she was unattainable. I think maybe I will never see her again. It's not a problem. I guess when I'm stressed I go off at tange...

On trains the opposite is true. We eat and drink everything, or most of it, once we get on board and the train rattles along we have an energy spike that I conclude leaves us bored again and makes the journey more anxious. I am subject to this same failure. But I now conclude it might be best to get on board knackered and fall into a makeshift sleep? The crisis of the job which brings me to the peak of anxiety and frustration is the fall out it leaves in my mind for a while after. It's some kind of shock wave. I suffer shock waves. I will return to bills, filth and noise and this is normal for most people. Fecking fecking fecking Fecking  Hen do at Leeds station Leaving for Scotland  Seems so much fun All cheeriness and smiles All together... Between you and me the Costa on Albion place is resident to Turks and possibly poles too? While I spent money on groceries not fill on coffee as I'm friendless. I'm in Leeds. I may stay in Leeds too. I can feel ale. I must...

Finally I got to Wakefield for 6pm. Paul finally picked me up. I clambered into the back seat over mountains of detritus for the journey back to Kexbrough. We argued about where to go to get some items of food, but then Paul missed the first exit on the motorway so we three, including Caroline, went to Morrison's. I must confess to only ever being 2 or 3 prior to this one out side Barnsley. And the only one I regularly visit is Wetherby however when we were in the store I actually had a momentary lapse of understanding as this one was identical to the one near my Mum's l felt a little like Schrödinger's cat. I for a couple or ten minutes could've been in either Wetherby or Barnsley or both at the same time and yet neither: Morrison's playing such an existential joke had me in stitches.

I chatted freely with a very attractive law student on route to Cheltenham, but the train was small and crapped for the duration of the journey to Manchester(I'd get off at Birmingham New Street) so I decided to hop onto the direct one from Plymouth to Leeds: the 12:23 is larger and I've found a forwards facing seat that's not reserved. We discussed the bell average in classroom education, pointless degrees, why red wine and coke is so popular in Madrid, whether torture is justifiable, whether she'd come and suck my cock or some such nice torture. I noticed the trees have been chopped down, in vast drifts, from Par to Looe: I think there is a disease afflicting them currently and the forestry commission are try to prevent the spread from the south west with this 'cull'. I've felt unable to speak since Wednesday and my job trial started: I was engrossed in the novel I read, but then after that was finished I found what locals I met in the Victory, etc didn...

A trail of destruction was almost complete as I set foot on threshold of the secondhand bookseller. In I walked with my Vango 70 + 10(without the 10) for to seek Orwell or Asimov, Dick, Baxter, Pratchett or Greene. When the wench spotted my weight she trembled that I was a bull made man as I swung like an elephant trunk my soiled laundry filled backpack to peruse the stacks and rows of yellowing penguin classics and Cornish tales. When I asked her where or whence the sci-fi was it appeared up a ramshackle wooded stair. 'I can't manage that with this bag' 'you old man' she exclaimed 'leave it down here' ask she desperate for sales encouraged me. I thought about the book I had already got and the time I had left before the 9:53 back towards Leeds and I realized I hadn't the time to ascend there: it wasn't heaven me thinks? So I lingered a while on the ground and saw Greene, Galsworthy and Hardy arranged left to right and as I around the central shelvin...

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Yes we are all the same Cries the plus 4 striding youth And happy we are to mimic Just to pull a few birds Before we settle into law And ways via physic That bound the lawns Of lincoln's inn and temple And rip a ripe naive beauty With simple virtuosity to be PR consultant with a mammory For jansch and still the maintain Wings of youthful graceful  Braceful triumph, both. And we're now laced with smokey layer latter day saints.

Wetherby is a camp for the dying and the dead. There are old people and dangerously ill people too everywhere on a Thursday. It's that midmorning time of day and a Thursday market day too, but it's another symbol of the death of Wetherby. In the previous allegory metaphor there were just a few atoms left circling dying and now I see the remnants of galaxies. Somewhere someone is being bombed indiscriminately and somewhere 3 media darlings are fanning another media dreadful: Fern! We're bombing the wrong people. Not sure what this means: I've been on the X98 the last couple, three days and it's half empty from Wetherby (where it was full before I moved back to Leeds). I postulate it is a sign of the times: mass unemployment reduces the footfall on public transport: this in turn will reduce the overall income of this public function and the knock on effect will be higher price, followed by still lower footfall. This ain't over yet! Even the red ...

Worth @ 11pm. If I thought living in a dismal half hearted, cold, excuse for comfort, which equals £50pw on top of working 50+ hours a week for an adhd ad-hoc chef who has a simple mind and rattles on about the ways and means of getting Cajun chicken ready like pick and pick and pick (just do and be done to a reasonable standard! Please!!) and being a  hieronymous Jew in flesh made real. Where there is a Matt who is a dull repeat of my man from Portsmouth 2008 without the dreads: oh I dread the repeat and lies and lies unless he is the actual urban guy who actually swallowed the poisonous tropical fish and spent 6 months strumming a 6 string guitar. Then there are the managers who are nice, but hooked in Cornwall hospitality and are not in this charmless slopping roofed old and smokey joint: people are so happy with my apparent nothing. I expected respect but I got The Rising Sun! Then again the feeling from the Harbour Inn was nonchalant. A commis called Smithy who...

Sunday 10th April, I disappeared on to the train on Sunday. ... I glimspsed 2 Mallards drifting on the early morning Aire and felt a little sprite in my feet.  I could actually travel for ever and never get tired(oh I'd be bone weary). Moving through Leeds City Station I pick up a cup of coffee and a Mcdonald's McMuffin and jog along the platform to await our first leg. I spy a copy of the Daily Star and am about to pounce when the guy beside me just gets there first. I don't read newspapers as I feel they bend your ear and corrode your soul, but then I haven't read any newspaper in a long time so I was ever so slightly moth like for a fleeting moment. That guy saved me an indignity and helped me recover from news melancholy. The first leg is 3 hours from Leeds to Birmingham New Street. I find the carriage with the fewest sets and get a forward facing table chair. I have a dislike of the squeeze that the rest of the seating arrangements provide on any mainline trai...