The beginning of the end

Sunday 15th.

Work is done. Work's Christmas party is done. Silly hats and dancing loonies have been boxed away for another year.

Bla Bla Car I am heading to London at seven this evening(£16) and from there... I know not what I am doing. However I do know that the last four months picking and packing in a blasted warehouse have left me more inclined to drink heavily whenever the moment allows. The twin poisons of the working and alcohol environments are something my mind and body shouldn't require ever. The warmth of both money and booze has always been a trap into which I cannot easily escape; even if I can stare at this other me from the sides and wonder why this addiction is at all.

Yesterday I was bitten by a puppy. He was playing and caught my nose. Yesterday I had a very bad cramp on my left thigh. It has to happen whenever I am about to set off.

My actions became unstuck. A large yawning took my body. Something in that mix of party frolics undid me. But I am better for having a random quiet Sunday. I cancelled the lift, but London will be there tomorrow still.

Monday 16th.

But I can't let her unnatural usual aggressions beginning this end, a day late, but leaving anyway. Fear is something of the past. Fear is expecting loops forever. Loops are not amorphous. See you later London.

David: good morning. Bon Voyage. Recommended The Ginger Man R.F. Donleavy - this is my piece of literature to forget. ACIM is shelved until the new year. 2013 has been many years waiting: yet when not looked for it all found me.

Why can't they live without media
anymore? Town Cries, newspapers, LW MW AM SW FM Digital radio, more music on repeat. A sound task to nothing. Nothing? If only.

The irony.

I had a blazing row with my mother. Usual form. I'm leaving and she's reminding me of those things that I need not (at least until they are actually upon us).

Happy Christmas mother... This is why I wish never to partake of over cooked choking frightful fodder only fit for material pigs.

Seldom do I find anything unusual in this stocking we call existence. Sharing the first off-peak of this Monday surround by those who would follow the wage slaves to say 'isn't this nice?' Must be the season of the witch.

The X99 leaves left on Market Place with 99% over biters and rotting snivellers. Wetherby is truly truncated this morning. To the sounds of The Sonics I depart again.

Midmorning

Again awaiting the departing while disapproving the clatter and piston pumping of coffee grounds. I escaped a simpler means. I don't wish to share England with anyone. Especially those who rush like headless lamas at feeding time.

Yes it is just I. To find any meaning when truthfully there appears to be none I arrive at Dyer Street feeling utter relief the 561 is En Route. Noon can't arrive any faster.

Noon.

Twisted metal railings, snotty nosed ignorant youth on top of me blowing snot while we wait late for another departure. I step out of his way move forward of the queue and put him firmly at my anal area without gratis or functions there. Oh there are plug sockets on the coach: Very modern! At what age do white(wiggers) wake up?, or do they even. Chapter 3 of The Ginger Man while mad air blows cold upon my brow. All those in black I will never look your way again. Sex is all they amount to (Kenneth and Co.); flexing hips.

Leaving vacant mill town Leeds on Motorway one and first stop Golders Green - an unnecessary evil permits the suburban hell in unparalleled lives and livid lines. And in the blink of an eye Emley Mast stands bold and green fields appear. After saying I wouldn't conform I appeal and say 'I do' just this once.

What do these grey built blocks cover in our hour of a need for truth? In that finite space are whirling and fit crazy the thoughtless hairy dark ones for whom sunlight is a blinking distant dream. Hidden they are only robots made of flesh and blood. Do they care to be reduced to a number kissing behind dry lips peeling and holding hands that crack, palms predating homo sapiens; dragged along the dusty concrete surfaces they mark their wake? In maintenance of my ego I actually imagine creatures from the Time Machine and judge them ever normal; even though I have never really met a normal person; tired gears singing 'this is nice' ad infinitum? Recalling Huxley rendered humanity a zygote game and test tube witnessed instead free in this darkening light; so otherwise free of triumph - forever.

Why do such church spires remind me of rockets and are we a Cargo Cult without knowing this? Will our experiment actually provide an answer? Who put us here and for what answer are they looking?

Hendon to Golders Green and hegemony rears its fearsome head. Snotty wigger jumps off to blow his nose back along the A502 and smears convention on his hopelessly wan wrist. We turn back southwards next stop Swiss Cottage and the paradox of London: love and hate instantly. The light changes from red to orange to green and we shuffle a few feet before finally we're at Regent's Park with it's Trump Towers, Flower Station and London Central Mosque on the obligatory Red Route.

Somethings never change. Same workers but different children. Staff glazed eyed and passing spoons ladened with much too boiled potatoes and burnt edge pizza; saved by wonderful homemade bolognaise. Feel human once more after pointless ventures to none existent hostel on Union Street and barricaded St Christopher's on Borough High Street. The Rake charming away from colossally altered market and Young's Wheat-sheaf is rebuilt. Looked for food from an Argentinian stand and briefly considered booziness. But not here and not now. Not to move without traveling. Food, straightforward thank you and bed before Deptford east before the crack of dawn. Full price but I can't expect miracles when time is a wide yawning jaw? London will still be here while I realise there is little left of me now. Jean Claude, Moe and Ramhat still here; which will always make a smile, although briefly, as I fly away once more. Londoner's would prefer to frown as they've seen it all already and have no wish to be involved in anything. Citi Bank and Canary Wharfs Number One stand as a pair of scowling palm rubbing guardians, straight jacketed sentinels, seeming to be asking 'why would you look to us in this way?'

Jean Claude called and I thanked him for the lovely grub. If he is ever in Leeds he has only to be present so I can return the favour; heart of gold that man has (voice declares 'you know what I mean?'). Tired of travel before I walk to Greenwich at first light; breakfast perhaps. All in all first day is the 'ready' of 'set - go' and good evening aeroplane presently landing at London City Airport and cars flying along a damp Salter Road, SE16.