When I go walking – y’know, walking? – it’s in my feet. There is the shoulders, the swinging maybe pocketed arms, okay. But it really is contained within my shoes - the feet, y’know? So I was thinking, do I think more whilst walking, footdropping my way to logical revelation. Is it a train effect, cha chum cha chum cha chum, some steam roller mechanism aware and functioning, operating a physicality thus employing a greater potential?
Y’know, the reason may be the sitting, the laconic unrealised existence of it all. Is there not some bone, I might be wrong, in the lower spinal region, but I don’t think I am, which is evolutionarily suggestive of a natural opposition to that bodily position?
Maybe you define yourself in what stride you perform – more likely betray. Too aware, not enough, secure, the opposite, with drink, stoned. But more: those traits you did not grow out of, some sort of personality willing tendons, gliding joints, deciphering passageways, negotiating, abandoning, moving on, getting home – y’know, home? Is that not what each step is in payment off?
But man, I do hate walking.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
The loneliness of the long distance bus driver
Frankie grimaced from the passenger seat of the cab as he saw the express whoosh by on the other side of the street. The driver may have offered to chase after it, he wasnt sure, but he did know he couldnt afford more than taxi fare to the depot and no quarter would be given. He had utilized the services of this particular company for a few days running now, after a chance meeting one anxious and transportless lunch break earlier in the week. He had swallowed his nerve, and neglected to mention his last name.
The driver apologized, but as Frankie accepted the expence reciept and opened the door to leave he remebered himself and apologized back. "I didnt expect to get it anyway, a little cheeky of me to think it really. Anyway thanks for trying". He closed the door and felt a little better about himself, that he deserved the half hour wait due to his own temporal oversight and lack of organizational aptitude.
He instinctively lit up. Looking around him at all those unfamiliar faces, the uniformed ones skipping home from school, the students of music or art or beauty school, appropriately dressed for their respective eventual professions, the elderly clutching to ragged bus passes like they were false passports freeing them from oppression, Frankie felt a little ill. Public places always screwed with him, the element of chaos scuppering his carefully constructed security bubble, he rasied his hood and turned the music up.
An arduous twentysomething minutes later, edged off the bench by a chattering couple, the initial burst of energy he felt at leaving work, brought on no doubt by the gradual build up of caffiene as much as the melodramatic sense of freedom, started to wane in a hurry. He stepped onto the bus and found and appropriate seat, not too close to the top, not too close to the bottom, separated from the obviously anxious and the obviously mischievious. He was both but hadnt the energy. The bus driver had questioned him with raised tone and raised eyebrows when he had insisted he wasnt a student, not wanting the discount out of pride. The same driver asked the same question everyday and Frankie knew that he probably needed to, so let him and smiled.
About ten minutes of scenery gawking later and Frankie was asleep, the shuffling music shuffling his dreams with equal frequency. He had felt his eyes get weighty, as the girl in front of him muttered some inane insult to the two cackling hens sitting opposite her. They laughed in reply and he drifted.
His journey dreams always started the same. He would look out the window and see himself running along side the vehicle. Except it wasnt running exactly, his alternate self seemed weightless, boneless, blowing with the breeze and bending under the force of increased speed, yet ever present outside that window. He danced his way through trees and over road signs. Unencumbered by gravity, moving as though magical he sped along hedgerows and hard shoulders with equal grace, ever smiling, ever alive.
Frankie awoke with a start, but eyes still heavy he couldnt make out where he was. He felt a wierd sensation between his legs then looked up and focused to see the questioning bus driver, hitting him gently with his own bag. The tapping or rubbing or whatever it was stopped, if not a little too slowly, and out of a mixture of embarassment and shock he apologized to the older man. He vaguely heard what the driver had said about not knowing someone was on the bus till another passenger had pointed it out, but Frank just hung his head and darted off, feeling dirty. As he made his way out of the station, as fast as his numb legs could carry him, he glanced back to see the driver staring out at him still. That ugly look of loneliness in his weathered eyes.
The driver apologized, but as Frankie accepted the expence reciept and opened the door to leave he remebered himself and apologized back. "I didnt expect to get it anyway, a little cheeky of me to think it really. Anyway thanks for trying". He closed the door and felt a little better about himself, that he deserved the half hour wait due to his own temporal oversight and lack of organizational aptitude.
He instinctively lit up. Looking around him at all those unfamiliar faces, the uniformed ones skipping home from school, the students of music or art or beauty school, appropriately dressed for their respective eventual professions, the elderly clutching to ragged bus passes like they were false passports freeing them from oppression, Frankie felt a little ill. Public places always screwed with him, the element of chaos scuppering his carefully constructed security bubble, he rasied his hood and turned the music up.
An arduous twentysomething minutes later, edged off the bench by a chattering couple, the initial burst of energy he felt at leaving work, brought on no doubt by the gradual build up of caffiene as much as the melodramatic sense of freedom, started to wane in a hurry. He stepped onto the bus and found and appropriate seat, not too close to the top, not too close to the bottom, separated from the obviously anxious and the obviously mischievious. He was both but hadnt the energy. The bus driver had questioned him with raised tone and raised eyebrows when he had insisted he wasnt a student, not wanting the discount out of pride. The same driver asked the same question everyday and Frankie knew that he probably needed to, so let him and smiled.
About ten minutes of scenery gawking later and Frankie was asleep, the shuffling music shuffling his dreams with equal frequency. He had felt his eyes get weighty, as the girl in front of him muttered some inane insult to the two cackling hens sitting opposite her. They laughed in reply and he drifted.
His journey dreams always started the same. He would look out the window and see himself running along side the vehicle. Except it wasnt running exactly, his alternate self seemed weightless, boneless, blowing with the breeze and bending under the force of increased speed, yet ever present outside that window. He danced his way through trees and over road signs. Unencumbered by gravity, moving as though magical he sped along hedgerows and hard shoulders with equal grace, ever smiling, ever alive.
Frankie awoke with a start, but eyes still heavy he couldnt make out where he was. He felt a wierd sensation between his legs then looked up and focused to see the questioning bus driver, hitting him gently with his own bag. The tapping or rubbing or whatever it was stopped, if not a little too slowly, and out of a mixture of embarassment and shock he apologized to the older man. He vaguely heard what the driver had said about not knowing someone was on the bus till another passenger had pointed it out, but Frank just hung his head and darted off, feeling dirty. As he made his way out of the station, as fast as his numb legs could carry him, he glanced back to see the driver staring out at him still. That ugly look of loneliness in his weathered eyes.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
The Faceman
C, you called over in a bad way. I apologize if I appeared not to grasp the gravity of the situation, I do. I was attempting to feign normality for your sake, which, it appears, was horribly insensitive of me. So, by way of apology I'd like to offer up this little piece for you...... Bukowski style.
I didnt sleep. No position I could contort myself into offered any relief, so reluctantly I slipped out of the sweaty, twisted sheets and placed each foot on the floor in a little eternity. A four a.m sneak attack on the drinks cabinet in the front room, a now regular molestation of happier childhood memories, preoccupied me so I sucked it up and trudged, pained and in silence. Whisky, now watered down, my handywork. The swelling on the side of my mouth seemed to crack and burn with every second of life in me, so I skipped the formalities. Straight from the bottle.
As whisky goes this was fucking poor, glorified engine degreaser with a fabricated Scottish name. I sat dejectedly on the edge of my parents couch, familiar darkness shrouding whatever shame I still had enough energy to muster and drank to the imaginary Scotsman in his imaginary kilt. Donald Mc Fuck. In the state I was in it was the funniest I could come up with, and surprisingly passed my normal scathing self analyses to smuggle a laugh through. I caught myself halfway and remembered why I was here.
At 5 thoughts of discovery finally crept back in, but whisky gone and head a little freer I skipped the normal track covering and stuffed the bottle to the bottom of the garbage can. Conscious of the germs slowly killing me I triple washed my hands. Every splash squeezed my temples and the birthing morning fucked with my vision. I was dizzy and wanted to scream, in pain, in frustration, "My life!" "MY FUCKING FACE!". I lay down with my swimming thoughts and rose again a couple shitty hours later for the journey into town.
I needed a doctor, badly. Mouthwash was downed, rather than subject myself to possible mint/face interaction. I threw on my coat and started the trek. The thousand times I had walked this road didnt ease the burden, not this morning anyway. At least its raining I thought, I can avoid Saturday morning gardeners, car washers and children at play. Smiley happy dreamy stupid bastards. The closer I edged into the shit hole I now reluctantly called home the more I wanted to hide. Hood up/head down was the only option available, so I availed. It was scant consolation, any passing car, any fellow drownee, I felt look through me. Into my diseased soul, cruelly manifested on my battered visage.
The cream was to blame they had said. The replacement cream. The lack of availability of a working, dependable product fucked me, hard. Never had I felt more beholden to something. Never had I felt, although I had come close, like fates personal cumdumpster. This feeling swelled in me as I reached the door of my erstwhile doctors surgery with a huge "CLOSED SATURDAY" sign hanging on the door. I was too sore to cry my acid tears.
Im sorry for all the shit youre goin through man, and im here for you, for whatever good it'l do. Take your pills my friend. Wash them down and dream of happier times.
M
I didnt sleep. No position I could contort myself into offered any relief, so reluctantly I slipped out of the sweaty, twisted sheets and placed each foot on the floor in a little eternity. A four a.m sneak attack on the drinks cabinet in the front room, a now regular molestation of happier childhood memories, preoccupied me so I sucked it up and trudged, pained and in silence. Whisky, now watered down, my handywork. The swelling on the side of my mouth seemed to crack and burn with every second of life in me, so I skipped the formalities. Straight from the bottle.
As whisky goes this was fucking poor, glorified engine degreaser with a fabricated Scottish name. I sat dejectedly on the edge of my parents couch, familiar darkness shrouding whatever shame I still had enough energy to muster and drank to the imaginary Scotsman in his imaginary kilt. Donald Mc Fuck. In the state I was in it was the funniest I could come up with, and surprisingly passed my normal scathing self analyses to smuggle a laugh through. I caught myself halfway and remembered why I was here.
At 5 thoughts of discovery finally crept back in, but whisky gone and head a little freer I skipped the normal track covering and stuffed the bottle to the bottom of the garbage can. Conscious of the germs slowly killing me I triple washed my hands. Every splash squeezed my temples and the birthing morning fucked with my vision. I was dizzy and wanted to scream, in pain, in frustration, "My life!" "MY FUCKING FACE!". I lay down with my swimming thoughts and rose again a couple shitty hours later for the journey into town.
I needed a doctor, badly. Mouthwash was downed, rather than subject myself to possible mint/face interaction. I threw on my coat and started the trek. The thousand times I had walked this road didnt ease the burden, not this morning anyway. At least its raining I thought, I can avoid Saturday morning gardeners, car washers and children at play. Smiley happy dreamy stupid bastards. The closer I edged into the shit hole I now reluctantly called home the more I wanted to hide. Hood up/head down was the only option available, so I availed. It was scant consolation, any passing car, any fellow drownee, I felt look through me. Into my diseased soul, cruelly manifested on my battered visage.
The cream was to blame they had said. The replacement cream. The lack of availability of a working, dependable product fucked me, hard. Never had I felt more beholden to something. Never had I felt, although I had come close, like fates personal cumdumpster. This feeling swelled in me as I reached the door of my erstwhile doctors surgery with a huge "CLOSED SATURDAY" sign hanging on the door. I was too sore to cry my acid tears.
Im sorry for all the shit youre goin through man, and im here for you, for whatever good it'l do. Take your pills my friend. Wash them down and dream of happier times.
M
Aaaaargh, My Face!
Tsk, after all that talk about regular updates.
So I seem to have fallen prey to a malicious infection which is attempting to eat my face, i'm currently lying at home trying to prevent all my skin from falling off.
Just be thankful i can't post any pictures...
So I seem to have fallen prey to a malicious infection which is attempting to eat my face, i'm currently lying at home trying to prevent all my skin from falling off.
Just be thankful i can't post any pictures...
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Bone Deep
Words like fatigue rallied at the borders of my mind as I took the first steps inside the premesis, on the kind of morning that can only be described as a manifestation of inner woe, somebodies, anybodies. A desire to be responsible/reliable/dependable/commendable dragged me out of bed as always yet as I keyed in the four digit security code to the staff area I felt it leave me, as my soul floundered, just a little bit, enough.
My obvious drudging, whilst others around me polished their morning smiles, made me further aware of an ever growing sore thumb status. The day began, and droned on. Further infuriating instances of zero communication emboldened me, I became belligerant and brazenly dissatisfied. Angrily flopping my hair like a teenager, blowing smoke from my nostrils, pouting in unadulterated petulance. The change shook a few, used to a softer approach, a gentler tack and a wider grin. I couldnt hide how I felt today, and didnt care.
Seconds/minutes/hours came and went as they do, dissinterested in the complexities they hold for us mere mortals, slaves of Kronos still. The thunder shook to signal the beginning of an olympian rebellian once more yet the titan marched ever onward, at a pace of his chosing. I drank bad coffee, over smoked and stubbed too early, impatient and edgy as I was. Feeling the brunt of reason and a self deprecating schematic process, dipping in and hurting myself as a twisted security blanket. On my breaks I left the store, had to, listened to music, loud.
The journey home was little better, laughing ladies in the front, gelling and arranging dinner parties, I felt tired and like a freak. stepping out at the usual drop off point and wading through traffic the sense of temporary freedom welled in me just a little, enough. I made it home so tired the thought of doing anything made me wince. The door open, the cat curling at my feet, a clean kitchen, coffee and a muffin waiting. The sweetest note I have ever read. I knew then that it was all Ok, that I loved her, that it would always burrow deeper than any tiredness, any sorrow, bone deep.
My obvious drudging, whilst others around me polished their morning smiles, made me further aware of an ever growing sore thumb status. The day began, and droned on. Further infuriating instances of zero communication emboldened me, I became belligerant and brazenly dissatisfied. Angrily flopping my hair like a teenager, blowing smoke from my nostrils, pouting in unadulterated petulance. The change shook a few, used to a softer approach, a gentler tack and a wider grin. I couldnt hide how I felt today, and didnt care.
Seconds/minutes/hours came and went as they do, dissinterested in the complexities they hold for us mere mortals, slaves of Kronos still. The thunder shook to signal the beginning of an olympian rebellian once more yet the titan marched ever onward, at a pace of his chosing. I drank bad coffee, over smoked and stubbed too early, impatient and edgy as I was. Feeling the brunt of reason and a self deprecating schematic process, dipping in and hurting myself as a twisted security blanket. On my breaks I left the store, had to, listened to music, loud.
The journey home was little better, laughing ladies in the front, gelling and arranging dinner parties, I felt tired and like a freak. stepping out at the usual drop off point and wading through traffic the sense of temporary freedom welled in me just a little, enough. I made it home so tired the thought of doing anything made me wince. The door open, the cat curling at my feet, a clean kitchen, coffee and a muffin waiting. The sweetest note I have ever read. I knew then that it was all Ok, that I loved her, that it would always burrow deeper than any tiredness, any sorrow, bone deep.
Monday, May 15, 2006
Beginnings
I dont know if there is any need for a mission statement, for anything other than my own sanity and self-discipline at least, but here goes.....
I started my previous blog on a friends couch, it was late, I was alone. I needed to take stock of a few things, I ws then homeless, unemployed and pretty much without hope.
I needed to put something down and had often thought of a bog as a kind of online diary, personal, private, full of profanity and insane warblings. I quickly realized however, that I needed an audience. I was bitten by the drama bug in a silent scream for attention, so I guess I have to apologize for anything that followed.
The first writings on the xanga site were sporadic, due in part to a lack of computer access, in part to lack of alcohol. My writings were swirling tirades of self indulgence and part of me didnt want to let them go. Sed site was reinvigorated by the addition of a dear friend who, most likely whilst drunk, convinced me that I was the greatest creative mind the world had ever known. This, I have since discovered, is far from the truth, but I soldier on nonetheless.
This site is supposed to be an expansion on those first ideas, those meandering thoughts, the stream of consciousness that my earliest writings were born from. I have no extensive back catalogue, no great works. I am in the possession of a few works in progress, a few ideas. From there, with help, I hope to build.
Anyone who takes the time to read what follows, some of it old, some of it new, I thank you. I hope its the start of something, anything.
Yours
Mickalomaniac
I started my previous blog on a friends couch, it was late, I was alone. I needed to take stock of a few things, I ws then homeless, unemployed and pretty much without hope.
I needed to put something down and had often thought of a bog as a kind of online diary, personal, private, full of profanity and insane warblings. I quickly realized however, that I needed an audience. I was bitten by the drama bug in a silent scream for attention, so I guess I have to apologize for anything that followed.
The first writings on the xanga site were sporadic, due in part to a lack of computer access, in part to lack of alcohol. My writings were swirling tirades of self indulgence and part of me didnt want to let them go. Sed site was reinvigorated by the addition of a dear friend who, most likely whilst drunk, convinced me that I was the greatest creative mind the world had ever known. This, I have since discovered, is far from the truth, but I soldier on nonetheless.
This site is supposed to be an expansion on those first ideas, those meandering thoughts, the stream of consciousness that my earliest writings were born from. I have no extensive back catalogue, no great works. I am in the possession of a few works in progress, a few ideas. From there, with help, I hope to build.
Anyone who takes the time to read what follows, some of it old, some of it new, I thank you. I hope its the start of something, anything.
Yours
Mickalomaniac
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