A rebel without a clue.

If only I knew how to break out of this persona I have become. I know it follows some very repetitively bland pulses and rhythms. Everyday seems to be about getting up just to get back into bed again that same day or even in a wider scope just like living each day just towards some final longed for moment. This isn’t good I can see that, but why can’t I shrug off that feeling and the demented persistent bashing of my head I currently maintain? I follow the same never ending paths that actually lead me nowhere. I will get up tomorrow walk the dog, get on the bus, get to the flat in Leeds, change clothes, take my pills, look at the mess in the living room, feel the coldness of the emptiness of the flat, smell the fetid and rank stale odours, etc. To find there aren’t any jobs but there is yet more manufactured bad news; then I'll haul back to Wetherby, along the same bus route I have been using since 1983, after no one has spoken to me all day, while trying not to spend any money w...

Gonna get me a gun The smell of oil, grease Pointed towards my head Drifts leaden to my mind Pull a trigger for release Pull a trigger for fun? Is this the saddest find The saddest dies in deed. 

Got up and about for 7:50. Ran bath, washed and brewed coffee. Spoke to mister dogg and told him he's my favourite dog. Off to Leeds for a night to try to find another job. Still not heard from Salsa Mexicana's. Boring old persons on bus. Discussing decline of magpies and cook-coos.  Yes yes: no no. Yes yes they do yes yes. Yes it is. Yes it did. Honest that's what they say! Yes they have, hmm, they have yes. Consanguinity so much to answer for. I recall ignoring DG on Sunday afternoon as he endeavoured to attach himself to me. I can't stand him for a good reason. A person who I used to look forward to seeing immensely all the way from School, through Uni and up to a few years ago. This is only my observation, but he has real issues when he drinks too much and becomes a vibrant example of a sex pest. There is a dividing line in the night between normal discussions and openly obsessive fantascism and I think I want the old Dave back. The swallows have arrived. Wh...

Panic time to panic Time to struggle alternatively With sombre reality And dreamlike hope What is this plain And grey simple man Who rubbed out is Grubby and putrid Eating and eating To play out the end In a ball so giant And corpulent sack Parts of lust Parts of fear Parts of pathless wandering.

I started with such eagerness and gusto and I worked with belief. I was organized, worked all day and had to multitask constantly. I was really very happy. Indeed it was the happiest time of my working life and it lasted 4 months. I started my working life in 1995. Just said 'Happy Christmas' to Ash from the Nation. Far out! For persons who don't care tomorrow is a day to get over the hangover of today. For those who care... Who cares? Where did it all go wrong and why does all my effort suddenly feel like it means nothing? I couldn't care less or be suddenly confused and walled in-up. Am I glimpsing insanity or something else. It certainly feels overwhelmingly depressing or like weight from a subtle increase in the earths gravity. Snoops is absolutely worn out. Is that his sudden demise too? Is he suffering with something in silence? He makes no complaints if he is. I would hope he would whimper or look different. He just looks shattered. Even talks of 'whe...

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...