I was 19 pushing 20. I am stabbing in the dark in terms of choosing entries, so am pinning tails on the proverbials (and ignoring novel notes). And my typing fingers will fall off much to your delight before too long.
How better I shrugged away sleepless nights three years ago. Is this the deterioration already? How pathetic this changing meat-lump can be at times! Or more likely, the coffee intake is lower than those furious days ~ or even the adrenaline... I miss the rock climbing. Staring in the spume and rain and wind at the blank wall of my 'Three Teas Please' made me young: the sense of 'mine', the combined terror and pride, and lust withal; none of this ache and dull staring at the ticking-tocking days and nights. There's something fine about the apparent impossible ~ a nick here, a crystal, a fossil, a pocket, and nothing else.
Ah this flaming is wondrous! When firmly in the saddle, galloping over stony sea and running mountains, then does man become god. I am doomed to writing. I am now in now doubt. [?!] I cannot and never will help it. These moments justify my birth and ratify my death. Oh I want a son, and will one day have one. [You've got three now, you cunt!] So much tangling of hawthorn under oaks with loamy loamsome earth and unvaulted skies. Fire and ruby flames make havoc in my veins, and my blue-clay-woad flesh ruddies and moves, fingers and feet are like hammers smashed deep into the soil and gods, I live!
Ah... it is worth it some days; I am glad of life; I smell the blood within the soil. But this strange mood of heavenly laughter never brooks communion. Love laughter is another, equally joyous thing. Life, laughter and love laughter are not the same as war and coupling are removed in their antipathy. I push away all souls in this spirit - even my beloved K---, and I know ah so well the transitory face of love. I am indifferant [sic] to all beings that walk under the heavens. This warlike urge fuels my life at the expense of all other living things. No, at all other sentient things. Plants and the sea are permitted to remain. It is impossible to love them when one wars, and both sensations are wondrous. Now they could drag me by their horses, tear me or burn me: I draw all life into me and my death means naught. These days, the thought of suicide is only present when I am at my most single - joyous warlike. There is not the single power-drive [sic sick stick fingers throat puke]. There is also the merging and destructive drive. One either blazes with the consciousness, or blazes with its deconstruction. Both ways let out flame, by channeling one's explosive heart through the lens, or by removing the lens first. Lens may be a misnomer. Let me say eyes instead. Love loves blindness, war loves sight. Both are holy, unholy too by nature, but affirming.
Well. Perhaps the secret of my happiness is this: a quick and efficient switching between the two? It is the interim that is bitter fruit, ashen and salt, billious in nature.
Hmmm. I was a wiser young man that I remembered. It probably reads like gobbledegook to you, but most makes sense to me. And fuck it! My prose style was better then (if a tad antiquated). That's really depressing. I've never learned how to write well in modern English. Let alone idiomatic modern English. Bollox [sic: bollocks] balls etc.
I know there are a couple of entries in that volume that describe exactly the same psychotic stuff I've had this year. Couldn't be arsed to find them among the 200 odd pages of closely written scrawl.
2016 - Best Books
4 weeks ago