How To Watch A Sunrise Through The Rain

7:17am: A Rush Of Love To The Head
I suppose much of my life is horribly predictable. Noticing the patterns tells you a lot about yourself; I've discovered that I find it hard to pull myself away from people who make me feel shit about myself, and that being is love is having a 3am journey around Asda as the highpoint of your week. I'm the boy who did too much. The most difficult thing is trying to take a step back and getting a realistic picture of what's going on in your life. To be trying to is a start, I suppose. I have a nearly-clean slate now; I know exactly what's important, what is required to get what I want from life, and the difficult thing is trying to imagine an alternative. I know I'm just about capable of getting on with life without the things I want to happen happening, but it's more a case of - I want to do it right; I want to do it properly. I want a real relationship, I want a real life, I want real hopes and aspirations. I want forgiveness and imperfections and, basically, to be myself, to be accepted like that. I've gone so long trying to do everything, trying to be everything I've dreamed of being, whether or not it was actually what I wanted when I was doing it.

An awesome human (flawed but brilliant; the best sort of human) wrote recently about how what you write online and what you let people see here, there, or where-ever, is almost always different. It's as if people write blogs and the like as a public daydream - here you can drop the quips that you wish you'd said after the moment had passed; here you can be as blustery and aggressive and loud as you like, and know that most people who read it won't be at all bothered. Vonnegut, in the preface to one of his collections of short stories, wrote about how the best piece of advice he was ever given about writing was to choose one person in the whole world, and write for them. If you can get through to that one person then you have succeeded; where one person can understand another, more will. This is what we call art and communications.

The problem with blogs is, most of the time you expect only one person to be reading it, or you write very specifically for one person. It's like comments on Myspace - leave a funny comment, yes, arrange your diary in full view of the world - why? People say they were here or there, and it's just showing off. Should I write about all the things I do, or the things they make me think? Really once I've done something, it stops being interesting except in review, and in review is always a mental process.

In case you haven't noticed, I've lost much of my command of the english language.

What I've lost in language, I've gained in hope. I'm fairly sure that the people I depend on for the next stage in my life to come through will. It's scary to depend on someone for something you have no control over. Unfair on them in a way - it's hard not to put people on pedestals, and sometimes they need them.

All the shit stuff that has happened in my life over the last few months has left me feeling stupid. I feel naive for trusting people so easily, but I don't want to lose that. I think I'll always be happy to trust someone, because the pleasure of being proved right must outweigh the horrible feeling of being proved wrong. I have a terrible habbit of remembering other times I've been made to feel bad when something goes wrong, it's like a smell which reminds one of a moment. Being lied to about love, it reminded me of when I was 17, and went to see my best friend of the time to ask him if he'd slept with my ex. He said no, and I didn't believe him, and still think he was lying then; I had a knife in my pocket, and before I got there I knew that if it came to it, I would kill him. But when I saw him, all I could picture was the same girl a few months before, lying on my bed, with blood underneath her. We'd been fucking like young couples do, at every available opportunity, and then that day she started bleeding. I asked her about it, she said she was hurting a bit inside, and she lay there and told me she was 6 weeks late. I'll never lose that look she had in her eyes, eyes so wide, and we both pretended that nothing bad was actually happening, but the blood kept coming. Her eyes were so wide, with fear and the knowledge that something was very wrong, and she lay there with her legs pulled up and made cute noises like it was all a bit silly. We kept pretending, but all the while we knew. She went to the doctor the next day, and he told her to get iron tablets.

I've seen that look again recently, sometimes in the mirror, but also on others, and I know what it means. It gives me a certainty; it tells me that, of all the things I did wrong this year, not trying, giving up, that was the worst of it. The very best in life is worth doing properly; it's what life is all about, and I'm sorry that I came so close to losing it recently to realise that.

So I need to get rid of the predictability of giving up; I need to make the next thing work, to be full-hearted in my efforts. I won't give up. We shall see.

9:08pm: hehe
Guess who's back, bitchez.


p.s. I'll write something proper when the chili hot chocolate stop hurting my face.

3:33pm: poem
Love Debt

I have one green glove
given by my first love
for my sixteenth birthday;
three months, one night, then pills
until my blood ran thin.
It might just be hearsay
but I've heard the ills
of first love sink a well
from which the clamourous din
of amourous want sping still.

3:50pm: lolz
'A schoolboy who was barred from an American football game because he wasn’t wearing the regulation shoes and kneepads has received an apology after officials discovered he has no legs' - The Sunday Times.

9:59pm: Go watch films
Hello! Watch these films and then have interesting conversations with me about them. I need to stop Hamletting my life up, dawg.

Kung Fu Hustle
Fear X
Palindromes

some other cool shit.. stop leaching my taste, children!

6:13pm: Dirty Haikus
Stifled by a gag,
blinded by a silken scarf;
won't know what hit her.


My tongue goes bad places,
but she doesn't really care,
laid out cold like that.


The bruises remind;
sometimes pleasure is hard work;
beauty is split lips.

3:58am: bits and bits
Watched a guy get attacked in the street while I was riding on a bus; turks and kurds, by the look. Four guys with kebab knives, long and round-ended, hitting him with them while he ran away. I think I saw some ear come off.

Read this http://www.thenation.com/doc/20051010/klein always like to read her. She's good.

Miss someone who's gone and disappeared on me, you know who you are, come back! Or at least, appear..

Alternating between the wild invite-only sort of parties that you can't imagine are real before you go to them and boring evenings alone at home.

Hit me with some comments, entertain this lonely sucker.

11:41pm: How?
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by the best minds of my generation
Dragging themselves through the dawn looking angry
Deadheaded angels burning in the night
Poverty and tatters floating across cities
Bare brains staggering illuminated
Radiant scholars of war
Crazy and obscene academies
Money through the wall
Marijuana beards
Turpentine night fire
Dreams with endless waking nightmares
Shuddering blind lightning illuminating motionless streets
Backyard blinking teahead dusks
Endless Benzedrine subways drained and battered
Submarine afternoon hydrogen doom
Seventy hours bar museum
A lost moon jumping fire
Vomiting eyeballs screaming memories
Brilliant intellects, meat for the pavement
Postcards of ambiguous nowhere
Bleak migraines suffering under sweats
Broken hearts wondering at midnight
Snow racketing toward lit cigarettes
Feet studied instinctively
Street angels seeking Idaho
Mad ecstasy gleamed supernatural
Winter midnight impulse
Hungry brilliant hopeless sex
Shadow poetry behind nothing
Sexy dark eyes passing out
Cigarette capitalism burned
Undressing sirens weeping
White skeletons crying naked
Detectives shrieked with intoxication
Manuscripts were dragged off
Themselves saintly fucked
Blown Atlantic love
Cemeteries scattering morning
Endlessly partition the angel
Three old lost shrews
Ecstatic fainting consciousness
Sweetened girls trembling naked
Whoring secret night-cars empty
Faded movies in dreams
Open night full of blood
Suicidal heads shall be crowned
Imagination ate the lamb
The streets wept
Rose under the bridge, darkness breathing
Tubercular flame coughed crowned
All night rolling in the morning gibberish
Cooked animals dreaming of the rotten kingdom
Trucks plunged
Eternity fell
Unsuccessfully growing old
Intelligent drunken suits
Forgotten ghostly unknown
Despair sang moans
Highways-solitude incarnation
Eternity drove crosscountry to find a vision
Time is lonesome for her heroes
Illuminated breasts praying hopeless
Impossible reality in their heads
Tender daisychain grave
Radio demanded insanity & hung sanity
Demanding instantaneous lobotomy with potato salad
Concrete void therapy
Symbolic catatonia
Truly visible doom
Echoes of stone and midnight
The last hallucination
You're not safe
Obsessed icy alchemy
Sensation of time & space
You stand rejected and naked
Putting down death
Reincarnate
The heart of the poem butchered

1:09pm: Back By Popular Demand
London has skidded-stumbled-collapsed into the beginnings of Autumn; I wake up regularly with an ache in my face, less a reminder of the last night's revellries than some unfortunate physiological syndrome brought on by a combination of weighty bones and a change in atmospheric pressure. Little Brother, it aches. My days are spent in quiet contemplation of all that is great and all that is bad in the world; I've developed mine own religion, worshipping the over-flowing ashtray, the empty bottle of beer, prostating myself before piles of washing up which only a divine force could keep from tumbling. Welcome to the big time, this is the big time.

Finding work proves difficult. There IS work, this fabled white beast which haunts the midnight moonlit crossroads of Upper Edmonton and Wood Green, but, I, no Hern (and that's for sure) have not spotted its majesticly crook'd neck nor heard it's bellowing whimper for neigh on six months. Offers in abundance; in two weeks I shall, all else permitting, be going on a fashion shoot for www.fluxmagazine.com with the hope (oh Little Brother, with the prayers) that I might be taken Up as a photographer in my own right; a hundred little adverts torn from newspapers discarded on the Tube adorn my monitor (held up with the Holy Solvent - Blu Tac) like half-shaked-off dandruff, turning yellow in the power-saver light.

Friends come and go; some forcefully, some through circumstance. I awake with an ache of what might have been (O how it aches) and memories of donuts, walking on the heath, offering to wait for a bus with a girl I knew from secondary school, memories of screamed telephone conversations from a year ago. Maybe the ache precipitates a change in the weather of fortune; maybe it's just me growing old.

6:26pm: Rara
What is it, to know someone? I have a friend.. a friend? A Something, a person I talk to, or rather, type at.. someone I asked for music recommendations when I was downloading from their shareaza. What a way to meet! They're distant; half the world away. We got talking, and became.. friends? And now she's ill.. and it feels like a punch in the stomach. What a thing! To miss someone and to worry after them though they're nothing more than words on a screen and will never be more than that.

6:06pm: Redeemer of the Fallen
This Self cannot be cut, burnt, wetted nor dried up. It is eternal, all-pervading, stable, ancient and immovable. He whose mind is not shaken by adversity, who does not hanker after pleasures, and who is free from attachment, fear and anger, is called a sage of steady wisdom. He who is everywhere without attachment, on meeting with anything good or bad, who neither rejoices nor hates, his wisdom is fixed. When, like the tortoise which withdraws its limbs on all sides, he withdraws his senses from the sense-objects, then his wisdom becomes steady.

Tortoise-like, retracted
from sense by circumstance,
she found her own voice,
danced her own dance.

10:44pm: For you
Dead Live On TV

Breaking the art of commentary
with funky dance moves
swift punches to the solar plexus
and your own made-up etymology
which makes sense somewhere, somehow
you've amused and vexed us,
removing the roofs,
trepanning boredom
and soaring above,
crazy sideways blonde-haired dove
cooing with capitals.

3:03pm: You Wait Hours For A Bomb And Then Four Come Along At Once
Tedium sets in after just an hour of sitting in front of the live news feeds that carpet bomb the tv stations; we have been inflicted with a "dirty war", far removed from our "surgical strikes". It's so easy to ignore the real issues and concentrate on the human issues: people have died, people have suffered, peoples lives have been ruined. This, however, is a war. A war I marched against, along with a million other people, in a march that for most of the countries in the world would be considered a revolution and here was passed off as an extended tea party. But never forget that this is political; this is as political as any vote, and any march. People will grow bored; the issues will become blame and retalliation; carefully worded speeches and a good chance to bury any other bad news. So I leave you with an email I got at 11 O'Clock AM on the 8th of July, a morning I spent recovering from eating a vast amount of mushrooms the night before and guiding the person I was with through one of those hysterical/depressive fits that people on mushrooms sometimes experience; the day some people celebrated the destruction of London's landmarks, the bus and the tube:

"Hi baby,

I'm a bit shaken this morning. I was just behind the bus that blew up.
They made us get off the 91 at Euston because the police had blocked
everything off. So everyone started walking towards Holborn as walking
was the quickest. There were hundreds of people walking straight
towards disaster! The bang was so loud. People were screaming and
running away. I saw the people on top of the double decker, after the
roof had completely disappeared. Many of them were scrambling off it.
I couldn't believe they had survived. I tried calling you but the
network was down. I've tried texting too but it doesn't work. Also, my
battery is about to die so don't call. Besides, I'll probably start
crying or something stupid like that."

4:03pm: Poemology
Tiger of Chicago

She walks softly on retracted claws
for now, gliding past office doors
the hint of thunder in every step;

Hunting on the elevated train
she leaves behind the scent of rain,
a storm ready to break.

Ridden by hunger, still softly spoken
until she pounces; fluid motion.
Her teeth flash lightning.

3:15pm: Just a rant.
STOP WITH THE FUCKING WHINING YOU MORONIC TALENTLESS IDIOTS.

I mean it.

I can't STAND this whining. ALL THE TIME.

"Hi. How are you?"

"I'm really fucking pissed off.. "

etc.

WHY DO I NEED TO KNOW THIS? Since when did TALKING about your problems ever solve anything?? NEVER the only way to fix stuff is to, y'know, do something. DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIVES, YOU WORTHLESS SCUM. I DON'T WANT TO KNOW HOW SHIT WORK WAS TODAY.

And while I'm on it, metal. As in, the music. What's with all the screaming? They sound like a bunch of queers trying to desperately beat one off after a day of looking at pictures of the Hasselhoff. It's not music. It's just ball-grabbing. It's not good. Stop it. Before it's too late.

And I don't care if your parents suck! LET THEM! THEY'VE DONE ALL THEY CAN WITH THEIR LIVES! THEY ARE DYING ALREADY! THEY KNOW THIS, HELP EASE THE PAIN! DO THE FUCKING WASHING UP ONCE IN A WHILE.

Gosh. I don't know if it's the heat but I'm in a really bad mood. I don't care if your life is rubbish. Mine is more rubbish. Why tell the world? You're just attention-seeking cunts. The world complains too much. All this whingy shouty music is all complaining. Oh gosh suicide blah blah blah.. WHO CARES? How many of them are true sons of whores, raised on stolen food, beaten and abused by anyone except themselves? I'll bet none. Unhappiness is nothing to shout about. In fact, even mentioning the fact that you're not happy is likely to make you look like a narcissistic idiot. So stop. Spare us your angsty poems, your bollocks expression of your own dismal failure as an artist.

And stop whining about politics, film, stuff that happens in the world. It's bigger than you. If you can see all the problems so well, come up with some ideas to fix them. In fact, scrap that. Don't come up with ideas. DO STUFF. GO OUTSIDE! DO SOMETHING WITH YOUR LIFE YOU PATHETIC WASTES OF BREATH.



This isn't for YOU. It's for ALL OF YOU.

Except for my mystery commenter, who I am now in love with. Whoever they are.

11:22pm: Our Time Is Running Out
On the bus, as often I am, I pondered on the reasoning of mind/body dualism; as a devout believer in Science, I accept that the brain is the fundamental controlling organ of the body, and the mind is a part of it. But I find it hard to qualify that with my own experience of the world - the thoughts and ticking and tocking of ideas in my head seems to be more than just in my head. I'm sure many people feel the same - to KNOW that Science can explain just about anything, and believe it will be able to at some point... anyway. This isn't an essay. I remembered having been woken up from dreams by alarms and whatnot; the sounds in the dream seemed seperated by a great amount of time, when in fact the sound was much briefer than I perceived. So, perception of time has something to do with conscious state. That is my reasoning; it may well have holes in it, but bear with me.
I concluded, after much scribbling into my Little Black Book (and messy it was too, as the bus was going over sleeping policemen) that the actual conscious part of the mind - the part which consists not of the Id or Ego, but just the I, that part is the thing which looks through the eyes and hears what the ears have to say. It is fundamentally the part of us which measures time and compares it to experience, and for that, it is more than just body, but also must be part of time. I don't mean telluric waves or any of that bollix, just that, to be aware of time, we must have a way of measuring it, a clock, but also a thing that reads the clock and understands what the changing position of the hands means. That is the I. The part which understands time enough to let us know change.

5:35pm: Things You Only Realise The Worth Of When They're Gone
Car Windows
House Keys
Cigarettes
Virginity
Ears
Comfortable shoes

4:04am: Aninal's Stoned Ramblings
l says:
why do women go for men who won't devote?
aninal says:
because they wanted to be treated as second class citizens
aninal says:
in every way
l says:
but why?
aninal says:
rebelling against feminism in their own stupid way
aninal says:
feminism was a lot like capitalism
aninal says:
the movement
aninal says:
good ideals
aninal says:
but
aninal says:
so easily abused that it becomes something else
l says:
so you don't think it is an innate instinct? to go for guys they know will hurt them?
aninal says:
no
l says:
interesting
aninal says:
i think it's a way of expressing freedom
aninal says:
to be free to choose a good or bad life
aninal says:
and to choose a bad life
aninal says:
it's what all religions say you shouldn't do
aninal says:
and social tradition says you shouldn't do
aninal says:
that itself makes it appealing in a way
aninal says:
it is the same in art
l says:
people want to be bad?
aninal says:
the true avant garde isn't what is happening now
aninal says:
it is the movement on from what is happening now
aninal says:
it is the movement which is important
aninal says:
the progression of ideas
aninal says:
which entertains
aninal says:
in the same way that transgression does
aninal says:
it is not enough to be tied down after a while
aninal says:
you must be tied down and whipped
aninal says:
and then whipped is not enough
aninal says:
you want to be branded
aninal says:
and it is not the branding that appeals
aninal says:
but the movement on from being whipped
aninal says:
that's how i see it anyway
l says:
and where does it stop?
aninal says:
it doesn't stop
aninal says:
but it moves both ways i think
l says:
and what is at the end?
aninal says:
there is no end
aninal says:
it is continuous
aninal says:
it is life
aninal says:
the forces that shape our mind are the same forces that shape society
aninal says:
just as society reacts to the previous generation
aninal says:
we react to our previous ideas about the world
aninal says:
which change with every new experience
aninal says:
i don't see the world the same way that i did three years ago
aninal says:
i'm sure i will change from how i am now

5:05am: Everyone else did them, so I did too.
Yes, it's an easy option with a lj, but, what the hell, i'm bored, and wanna know if anyone still reads this shite. Lemme know, foo's.

copy, paste, and stick it in a comment


******....OPINIONS....******
1. Am I hot?:
2. Am I sweet?:
3. Am I crazy?:
4. Am I lovable?:
5. Am I funny?:
6. Am I annoying?:
7. Am I psycho?:
8.Am I daring?:
9. Am I a good person?
*******......WOULD YOU......********
10. Hug me?:
11. Miss me if I was gone/leaving?:
12. Listen to my problems?:
13. Hug me if I cried?:
14. Be a good friend?:
****...WOULD YOU... (Opposite Sex Only)****
15. Ever go out with me?:
16. If you already have would u do it again?:
17. Kiss me (really)?:
18. Marry me if u could?:
19. Ever talk bad about me if we ever broke up?:
******....HOW WELL DO YOU KNOW ME....??******
20. When's my birthday?:
21. How old am I?:
22. How do u spell my first & last name?:
23. Do I have any siblings ~> names??:
24. Who is my most current ex?:
25. Who is my best friend?:
26. Who am I crushing on/dating?:
27. Favorite color?:
28. Lucky number?:
29. What is my worst subject?:
30. Best subject?:
31. Favorite animal?:
32. Favorite sport?:
33. Favorite TV show?:
34. Favorite song/songs?:
35. Favorite music group?:
******....Who Am I....******
35. What TV star do I most remind u of?:
36. What song would u dedicate to me?:
37. What famous person do I most resemble?:
******....If You Could....******
38. Give me a new name it would be? why?:
39. Hook me up with someone (real) who would it be? why?:
40. Do one thing with me it would be? why?:
41. Drop me one piece of advice it would be?:
******....Just A Few Questions....******
42. What do u love about me?:
43. What do u hate about me (seriously)?:
44. What is my best quality?:
45. IF u could change one thing about me it would be?:
46. How far would you go with me (sexually)?:
47. Would you say you could fall in love with me?:

3:38pm: Miniature Horses & Pier Donuts
Sodden Child

O! Poetry starts like this;
exclamations that That and This
have somehow detached, that
something's amiss;

Woe! And so on it goes,
poetic angst on tippytoes
reaches ever skywards,
falling when the wind blows.

So. Poetic description
and a slightly melodic diction
like a wikkidy rhyming gangsta
burns dem riddim wit friction

Yo. Anyway, to the one called V
this is a way of apology
for them things wot I said.
Forgive me.

8:09pm: ooh wee
Yeah, so life happens. Comments?
1) The Break-Up.
3 years together is a long time. Longer when you are struggling to prove to yourself when you're worthy of being with someone, no matter what they tell you. So, happiness is being satisfied with yourself.
2) Ch-ch-changes
My contact with the large company I was working for has a divorce and mid-life crisis. Therefore, I have no money and have been living off starvation rations for the last few months. Looking for new work; got an email from the editor of ubercool magazine Dazed & Confused saying I can write articles for them. Utterly cool; but no money in it until I've got something written.
3) Spring
The weather alternates between cold nights, hot days and blowy showers. This is good; the ants are back in the garden, black building a new nest, the pile of sand building day by day, the reds scouting the border of the lawn.
4) Music, non-stop
Got an email from Erin McKeown that made me glow like a dying sun. A contact I have who does A&R for a few big music labels is getting my friends in touch with Domino records. Said friends asked me to play guitar on stage next time they play live.
5) Girls girls girls
Looking for a good time?

12:26am: New Terror Alert Issued Over Alhambra
I watched a blind kid get on the bus. He had that rotund puffy half-grown-moustache look that anyone between 15 and 25 could have, but I was pretty sure he was younger than me. He wasn't sure he knew where he was going. His steps were hesitant. He had a touch to him though, like he'd been blind all his life. It had a certain tragic comedy. The worst thing for me was that he didn't seem to know his own expression; as an old lady helped him onto the bus and he stumbled along the curb, his face lept from cringe to cringe as quickly as I blink.
Halfway along by bus journey a kid got on the bus who must have been 17 or 18. He was quite smartly dressed, but carried with him his own hesitancy of contact. He carefully counted out his change onto the counter, and then sat in his seat and fell asleep with his head on his bag. He obviously had some sort of disability from the way his eyes didn't seem quite large enough, his head slightly the wrong shape. It occurred to me then that between them and people like me, which is to say the better looking, smarter, funnier, more popular kinda people, between us is the entire of humanity. Our defining feature.
No matter what shape, form or disadvantage we're given at the start of our life, none of us has any idea whatsover about what it really all means. We're all equally clueless as to the real nature of life. Knowing this is what makes us different from animals who might easily abandon or destroy such disadvantaged brethren from their own tribes with no hesitation. We recognise the same basic ignorance in each other, and that is what makes those who pretend such knowledge so billiously arrogant and pompously self-assured to me.

I hadn't slept for 34 hours.

But I still recognise that our ability to know this ignorance in ourselves is our greatest asset and unifyer.


~~~~~~~~~~SUPPOT ALHAMBRA! USE REAL CAT!~~~~~~~~~~

4:56am: reDefinition
I have discovered that to love is to like something fully right down to its smallest detail. That is what love is. I love guitars; from the sound they make to the way dust collects around the pegs. I love fresh air blasting down at dusk. I love writing, from the greatest written works of mankind to the pleasant feeling of typing faster than I can think. And so, to love is to like something not only in its entire state, but equally love each mote of its existence also.

11:47pm: Politics
I've discovered a way to finally know where my political feelings lie without any of that reading crap people seemed so keen on at uni. http://www.politicalcompass.org/
do this test and never worry about voting again!
I am Economic Left/Right: -6.63
Social Libertarian/Authoritarian: -3.74


Which makes me Ghandi.

11:10pm: A Poem What I Wrote
The Home Patient

Our minds met,
regarded each other with suspicious eyes:
her mind a perfect straight line,
all present and correct;
mine a drunken slob, filled with lies,
making intimations to stand erect.
Her plumb-line thinking balanced,
weighed, measured in an instant.
Mine belched in Latin, convoluted,
and listened to Gene Vincent.
Lazer-guided, accurate,
answers all prepared,
her mind waited by the door,
while mine stumbled down the stairs.
Unimpatient, umimpressed,
professionally calm,
hers waited for her late home patient,
who struggled with his arms
and the sleeves of his jacket,
whilst contemplating that,
no matter how you stack it,
love of life is in the act.
And, of course, she already knew it.