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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