A rebel without a clue.

The day after. I'm hazy. Lola was such a great girl. And I know she had a fine adventure, also now she knows where I live ... I guess. And she chose the older of the two beds - even she's not sure about the Simba. We woke up around five, initially, to take her for a wee wee and poo poo. Down eleven floors. She wouldn't go in the lift coated in vomit - some heroin affair I feel - therefore I sent it down empty and called the, somewhat cleaner, second lift. These lifts have probably witnessed some bizarre rituals, but maybe taking a dog down to the ground floor for ablutions wasn't the worst event in their history? This is my home Lola and you are the first female I've had in my flat ... The first for so long I've forgotten the date of the previous moment. Obviously this was not carnal, and the other occasions weren't much either! This event was Canine-al. It was a pretty simple walk from Otley to Ilkley, on the left bank, missing out the Moor and a sodden t...

Since the phone call last night, I have been ruminating on what difficulties I've definitely caused Neil and Emma, who I was helping over the last few months escape from 24/7 dogs, up at the doggy daycare. Without knowing I've done anything irresponsible I've gone and done something thoughtless. Something thoughtless to them but of no meaning or consequence to me. From Friday morning until Monday evening I took care of those animals, who I feel akin to, in the only way I know how: being out and about, socialising them, enjoying quality time, etc ... The door to the kitchen keeps slamming in Pret so I hastily move ... Drunk in charge of dogs? Is there such a concept? Was I drunk in charge of dogs or is that a perception seen in one person by another person? Maybe they should breathalyse dog carers now? It was Saturday afternoon and I'd walked into Wetherby, via my mum's to stir the Kombucha I'm making and change boots from the wet to the drier. Then I headed ...

If you could see the world I see maybe you would not keep looking over the fence, or to the past or the future? There is no goal to reach. Nothing to hope towards. No barrier to breach. The past you recall isn't the past as it occurred. The past was a former present. There is only ever now. When I look around me I only ever see now. The steam rising off the cup of peppermint tea, which mashes now and chills now. The tag - thoroughly minted - hangs down and will remain that way: only slowly decomposing to the atoms it is structured up from. Which in turn are only ever a moment visible as solidity: moving relentlessly. Apparently stable, but actually nothing of the sort. Impermanence. Movement. Energy flowing ceaseless. And I'm the same. My whole outer surface is utterly an illusion. But I've lost control of it by accepting myself as a limited being. Truth is we're eternal and infinite: bottled up thoughtlessly. I've reduced my being to receding hairline and rotten te...

Whither Byron B-Boy-Byron. What was your surname. Little lad so interesting. With a "pet" snail in his blazer pocket fed on grass: I should've given him lettuce. Ellie in Costa knows not either. 21 years of age he'll been - Swarecliffe, Leeds? There's a lad called Byron Denton on YouTube who's causing a stir. He's too young and he seems to have gone to school in Sheffield. Whatever. Oh, the luxury of knowing that he's turned out very well indeed regardless of the fractal nature of existence. * New mattress - Simba, excellent support, but not sure about the Tog value of the duvet ... I woke up cold. It's getting on for mid May. I shouldn't need to put on any extra layers! But I didn't anyway as I got up and had porridge and a cold brew coffee: warmed up nicely! Maybe I oriented the duvet upside down? Funny smell. The smell of very fresh polyester. Diffuses soon? * A few days have passed since I touched base here, and quite a few days hav...

Yesterday I took it upon myself to prepare for the four/five days in which to walk to and fro Ilkley and York for Robert, my cousin's, Charity fund raiser: Martin House Hospice on the Wharfedale Ton(14th June) - which he/they/them will peddle. In order to make the walk back from my flat in Leeds, to mother's abode in Wetherby, a little more interesting I went north out of Leeds along Scott Hall Road, Harrogate Road, Moortown Corner, the Jewish ghetto, Wigton Moor, Slaid Hill and the west end of Shadwell, where I joined the usual route to Wike Ridge: a stiff 15 miles in four hours plus (I really dislike walking after lunchtime). The amount of plastic litter on our streets blows my mind. A very real problem occurs everywhere: it seems people have zero care for anything that isn't directly affecting them? The damage of plastics to the planet may be quite distant to many simple folk, but this morning I could not just walk passed uncaring. From the junction of the A58, and al...

Andrew Lambert is a name I've just heard Anthony suggest he is a reincarnation of. 56 years. Anthony is 33 and he's a handsome boy. Gave him the only quid I can spare. Is it possible to be the reincarnation of someone still alive? Anthony often talks about the military, but he says a different kind of soldier. Money he is owed by the church. He's definitely entitled to PIP back payment: is it three years since he stepped ashore with Blue (beautiful Weimaraner boy long since deceased) But I think he'd still remain at large outside Costa just prior to its opening times: 8 am on a Sunday. This is the wrong book! It's in the original tongue, but my comprehension of French doesn't go as deep as this requires: "A la Recherche du Temps Perdu, 1" and I stumble at longtemps ... long ago. It's an interesting error. Perhaps I needed to pay more attention to Mr Le Bourdon, in 1MD, before unwittingly climbing on to that Coach to Berck (the cat is on the table ...

Are the customers who come to Costa everyday always so afraid of interaction? A handful of early morning building, maintenance, plumbing, plastering, types engage briefly in puerile banter then head, dusty or paint splattered, to waiting white van - littered with forgotten crisp packets, broken biscuits and mouldy socks - but the other majority look encased in the trap of their paranoia. This morning the paranoia stems from a rain which climbs down from a bright gray coverall of a sky. Whether we like it or not, the weather is simply beyond us! We, who moved away from the open Savannah and migrated into a wetter Northern Europe, queue up for a stimulant to nullify the dull ache of resentment we feel for the lack of control we have for anything in our meaningless existence. Scrambling about breaking, making, melding, tarnishing, wasting and hastening the time when we'll all be one hundred percent crazy one hundred percent of our post-placental time. Oh, why are we doing this willing...