Sunday, 31 May 2009

Here Be Dragons

On a light-hearted note, the boys asked me to draw a dragon this afternoon. I always think traditional British dragons should look something between a lion and a ramshackle donkey - which WWI quote is that from? Oh well, always best to finish a month on a prime-number. Take care all, Dx

It's a Firefighter's Life For Me

No, I'm not going to join the fire-service - there would be too many arguments in the tea hut. But I've come to the conclusion that I am what I am, and there will never be a miraculous change, so I had better well just get on with it, live my life, take advantage of my advantages, and try to ameliorate the bad-sides.

Whether the rest of society will let me or not is a different question - one to be put aside for a rainy day.

Busy weekend, and not much sleep the latter half of last week. Been a bit 'flat', so to speak, or more like a mindless revving. No thoughts - a blank brain - a white sheet of paper pinned to a fan rattling and fluttering aimlessly. Been trying to suck myself back into myself - (why does that sound vaguely lavatorial?) - been trying to sit quietly and fish for the various lumps of me that have wandered a distance off-centre. It has probably meant I haven't been rivetting company today, although I managed to give the boys what attention I could muster at times.

One of the hardest things for people around one, is the answerless nature of the question they want to put? Why are you feeling like this? What have we done? What's happened?

Nothing has happened, just a movement of the waters, a shift of the plates, a random fluctuation of the jet-stream bringing different weather. Life is too short wasting time on reasons that aren't there.

Saw lots of cousins yesterday night. Lovely to catch up with them. They really are a vibrant and positive bunch. I wish I was like that most of the time too. Ah well.

And May is almost over. I used to love May. Now I know the suicide statistics, I view the month with a guarded eye. I still love it mind, but with a certain circumspection. Heard of a friend of a friend who hanged himself the other week. I was angry with the month, and with the statistics - as if they caused it. Poor bastard. Spent Friday night feeling sad and furious by turns.

But June tomorrow, and hasn't the weather been beautiful? Maybe this summer will be a good one.

Keep safe and take care all, Dx

Saturday, 30 May 2009

Part of Me

Part of me just feels shit for having bowed under the weight. I see, hear and my heart fills with pride at all the people I know who forge on regardless. What went wrong? The damned diagnostic lifebelt? The ridiculous excuse that explains but doesn't excuse? Ah, balls to it. I'll forge on myself, soon.

(Don't you just love the sunny optimism of a May morning? Wish I'd slept though. Busy day today.)


Been overdoing it socially recently - and been paying back the ear-bending side of the equation by being a good listener for the last thirty-six hours. Sleep has been at strange times, but at least I'm getting some. Drank far too much late into the dawn last night listening to stories of sixties London Bolshevik Splitters told with festoons of fecking feck and fecking feck accompaniment - I expect the neighbours of our Cotswold village were hiding under their beds. Hilarious night.

Built part of a wall for a friend who was a waller. He has developed a psychic allergy to his old occupation. I know the feeling and sympathise.

Back home, ate bread and salad and epoisses in the last sunlight of the evening. Fell asleep briefly but intensely for half-an-hour. Now feel settled and ok, and maybe even ready for bed in an hour or so.

Tomorrow another cousin has a birthday, so a day and night of that to come. I'm sure the powers-that-be would tut and tell me to take it easy, but feck it, the weather's gorgeous, the bad old month of may is almost over, people are amazing, and I'm just enjoying it while it lasts.

Take care everyone Dx

Thursday, 28 May 2009

Impossibility of Hitting Moving Targets

Mixed states are often described as combinations of extremes. They never take into account the murky areas where one aspect moves through normality while others stay the same. See below for a tongue in cheek list of possible states, allowing for the three concepts of mood, flight-of-ideas and psychomotor scored with 1, 0, & -1. No wonder I can never exactly say where I am.

Suggestions for amusing names for substates eagerly awaited all agog and bated breath.



would be easier?

Monday, 25 May 2009

Dawn Chorus

Oh well, I'm still up. I mean, awake. I don't feel up up. I feel just alert and awake and ready to restart my life in all manner of good and sensible ways. Not bizarre and pathological dead-ends.

What's the time? Oh, fourish. Been reading lots of pottery stuff tonight. Feel the urge to throw building up again. It comes in waves.

Something I didn't bother mentioning from the last psych visit. I was prattling on about the way my occupation over the seven/eight years until I stopped probably gave me the modern equivalent of shell-shock. Dangerous to the vulnerable perhaps. He really liked that and gave me a big gold star and a lovely shiny tick in a box.

One thing is for sure. I won't be mending St Peter's nose again. I know what's good for me. Been there done that and it fucked me up good and proper. (He stuck a great big key in me, unlocked the bonds that I'd spent years polishing and perfecting, and now look at me.)

Other news.

Saturday, we took the family out for an outing, if I may be permitted to get away with a tautology at this time of night.

We went to the Forest of Dean, and visited King Arthur's Cave (a place I last saw 25 years ago while backpacking along the Wye) and Goodrich Castle.

King Arthur's Cave... well let me quote with a fat c&p:

The cave is situated at the foot of a low cliff at the north-western end of Lord's Wood on the hill of Great Doward at Whitchurch near the River Wye. It consists of a broad entrance platform, a double interconnected entrance and two main chambers. The platform entrance lies 300 feet above the Wye and faces the north west commanding a good view of the saddle-back of Great Doward Hill. All of the deposits that have filled this cave seem to be either Late Pleistocene or more recent.

[Mr] Cave, B V refers to a skeleton discovered in 1695. In that year a woman herding goats went into the cave and found a skeleton apparently with the remains of a spear. The skeleton was reported as being of gigantic proportions. The bones were collected and given to a surgeon in Bristol called Mr Pye. Extraordinarily though it seems he took them with him on a sea voyage to Jamaica, but the ship sank and the bones were lost.

The discovery has been linked by some with the early legend of Vortigern, a British prince who fought the advancing Anglo Saxon armies, whilst others say they are the bones of King Arthur. This appears to be the reason that the cave is so named. King Arthur's Cave was partly excavated by the Revd W S Symond in 1871 after some miners had removed some of the deposits the year before (Symonds 1871). He found considerable portions had been disturbed, there were two "cave earths" an upper and a lower separated by a thick stalagmite layer. Finds included, hyaena, lion, cave and brown bear, urus, red deer, giant Irish Elk, reindeer,, and a horse, a typical Late Pleistocene fauna. Many of the bones had been gnawed by hyaenas. Symonds also obtained some flint implements that were later assigned to the Upper Palaeolithic culture. In the upper layers were coarse pottery of Neolithic type and some flint implements. Garrod (1926) has assigned his finds from the upper cave earth to the Upper Palaeolithic; those from the lower cave earth might be Middle Palaeolithic. From

Goodrich made me laugh. We parked in the carpark, as you do. I knew the booth for tickets was up at the gatehouse, so rather than walk all the way back along the long length of the carpark to get to the path, we just pushed the pushchair up through some woods and crossed a fence. Then the few hundred metres to the castle. No booth. Just a sign saying "Only ticket holders allowed" etc. Well. What would you do?

I hate coralling, fences, being shuffled with the herd - too much cattle-truck in it for my liking. And also, being an honourable and upstanding Englishman, I did not feel I had to walk back to buy a ticket before entry. Also, I'm just a stubborn and illegal git. So in we went.

The boys enjoyed it, but didn't climb the steep stair, the wee cowards! :-) I was expecting to be accosted, and was rehearsing my 'pon my honour speech. But we weren't. And no, I did not have the moral spine to go to the ticket office after the offence. We got in the car and buggered off. I've given my health, sanity and gallons upon gallons of sweat to the nation's heritage. I don't feel guilty.

Some photos:


(I loved the trees - tried to get the way they looked to me).

(Eremite Troglodyte)

(First thing middle boy did was fall over on the path and gash his eye - his nickname of mountaingoat has been amended to woundedmountaingoat)

(Youngest boy did his best impression of the egghead-beast)

(Oldest boy doing his Rally at Nuremburg impersonation, or he might just have been pointing at an interesting bird.)

(Picnic in a gorgeous overgrown quarry.)

Enough. Waiting for Blogger to upload pictures is enough to induce the hope of torpor in the best of us. I will try lying in bed. But if that doesn't work, I'll try coffee (amazingly, at the right time it can knock me out - I think there is a part of the brain that when stimulated with caffiene sorts out the racing and gives a brief pause - well, works for me 50% of the time). Failing that, I think K has promised to take the boys to the park in the morning. And if I can't sleep then, then I'll sunbathe.

Goodnight all, this has been rather rambly. Apologies. Night and take care Dx

Friday, 22 May 2009


I know I've posted it before, and I'll probably post it again, and again. I've put a link to a few old posts before I had many readers and a link to the poems from the very bad time last year. On the left, below the Byron, I think.


Cool space. As soon as achieved
assaults redouble, and again.
Bluebeard, his smug key thigh-hanging.

The tide comes in, leaves beach bare,
when out should be in, when in, out;
gull's eye gleams from climbless roost.

The figures come and pass the window.
Seagreen shutters the house fold-blind;
inside what half-heard laughter means?

A dim hall obscures mysteries,
bulbs have been torn from sockets,
the lamp-click in dark could be teeth.

Cool space is a pinnacle rising out of hell.
It is not found in womb or casket.
There must be air to stretch in.

Thursday, 21 May 2009

Vagaries of Mixed Downs

Subtitled: Feeling Shit, But Feel A Duty To Invent A Reason For This Post

Ok, so I feel shit. But when I feel down-shit I usually feel shit in terms of energy and thought - not necessarily in mood. It's as if I'm not allowed to feel unhappy shit. What have I to feel shit about? It's not allowed. Currently looking back through old photos from three years ago and noticing with pain how much happier people look. Innocently happier. Makes me feel as if I've fouled the water. I still don't think of this as being particularly down in mood, though I haven't felt like moving much today and the brain has been in the deep freeze.

I managed to cook. That's something.

Last night went to bed bright and early. Well, one-ish. Lay in bed wide awake for eight hours watching my brain play tricks with the lampshade on the ceiling. It was scurrying around. Fell asleep for about three seconds: I felt myself falling downwards through the bed into a giant dustbin. It was similar to general anaesthetic. I was naked, and in the dustbin was a giant rat. I knew killing that rat in the dustbin the other week would get its revenge.

Fell asleep at nine am for an hour and a half, and had a very horrible, bizarre and explicit dream - I witnessed a Roman Decimation. I can still see the faces of those centurions being speared through the face in pairs. The spear-thrusters were behind my shoulders. Where do these faces come from? It genuinely felt like an accidental fold in time I fell through.

Felt flat as hell today. Still wouldn't describe myself as 'down' - yeah, the symptoms, but what the hell have I got to feel unhappy about? Eh? Nothing. Eh? Therefore I'm not down. Therefore I'm not down. Both mantra and curse.

CPN has been coming over daily. It's good of him to bother. It's not necessary.

Oh well, this has been a barrel of laughs. As I said. I'm fine. What on earth have I got reason to feel not-fine about?

Take care all. Dx

edit. Sorry for the uncheery post. I try not to post when I'm crap, and if I do, I hide the crap. I'll post readily when up, agitated, horrible etc, hard not to sometimes, but I had to force myself to post this. It's taken (what a surprise) about ten times longer to write than my wont. It will pass. Somedays I wish I'd stay down for a while. I envy people who sleep and sleep. It doesn't happen to me. Something in me doesn't allow it. A Path With Heart posted about the cursed dancing shoes. Just entrails dancing. That struck home right through the bone.

Tuesday, 19 May 2009

Crappy Auld Day

But could have been worse. Weird letters from the tax computer. Don't they communicate with the computer? No? Figures. Head on a wee wild trip. No matter. IB form to fill in, and was already angry with them. Why? Oh, who needs reasons? It was when I started sarcastically filling in the 'soiling myself' box then scribbling all over it I realised the day was going from bad to worse. And why on earth do they need to know if I'm dexter or sinister? Bastards! Felt like treating the kids and family so we had a Bengal takeaway. Doesn't happen often, but a treat when it does. Had an email containing a diary my grandmother kept in 58. Strange experience to read. Time travel feels so much more personal when it's family, don't you find?

Have a tune:

Keep safe all, Dx

Drafts to the Psychiatrists.

(Just had the summary letter from the psych from last Tuesday's appointment. I now know why I like him - he treats me on the basis of what I say, not what I imply. He's a gorgeous faith-inspiring Nigerian - I genuinely like him a lot as a person - but... but... he doesn't get what I'm telling him.)

Random quote: "You and your wife have experienced a significant improvement in your relationship because you make pots together."!!!!! K found me cackling at that this morning. "News to me," she jested. The rest of the letter was even more inaccurate.

So here follows some tentative draft to 'them' putting things straight. And it's for me really I'm attempting this. Because I'm feeling betterish for the first time in ages, and want to fool myself / take advantage of the feeling / ride the silly wave / just keep going without the horrid.


Gorblimey Doc, it's draughty in here!

Start again.


Here is my considered opinion on my mental health at present. The last week or two of April, and the first week of May was hell. Hypomania with bells on. The only 'disordered thinking' and 'bizarre perceptions' were merely headbutting a door as hard as I could, not being able to sleep for the noise in my ears, and... no... I'm not going to tell you about the disordered thoughts.

I kept myself safe though. I didn't feel SUICIDAL once. (Though was told tonight by one of my closest friends he'd been very worried about me over the last few weeks). But he was mistaken. At present, I'm fully cognizant of my responsibilities towards my children and their upbringing. Suicide is off the table. See? I'm well if I think that. I know it doesn't always hold.

I am doing better for myself off the medication in one aspect: the ricochet seems to be slackening. I am convinced I have a temperament that zooms up whenever the bad big down comes along - a survival mechanism. The pills, which are basically depressants, send me up, or plunge me far too down. Funny eh? Let's all have a cup of tea and laugh about it. Ha ha ha! Our prescription nearly made him kill himself!

(Should perhaps edit last para).

Where was I, dear Doctors...? The last week has been the best week I've had since 2007.

Put that in your fucking file and choke on it you shits.

Sorry dear readers.

Was overcome with a certain emotion beginning with R. Those idiots. Incompetent idiots. I don't want to become a professional symptom-shouting whinge-bucket. I do the English stiff upper lip. Why can't they read it?

Arghghh. Sigh.

I am going to write and correct them. But glad to get the worst out of my system.



Take care all, sorry to be angry online, again... and again... and again...


Pots and New Blog

I've just started a pottery blog: Throwing Up. Here's a post. I'll probably still keep ranting about throwing on here too, but good to have a 'dedicated' space I suppose.

Busy day. Made a 12lb flagon bottle cider jar thing this morning. Felt like trying a big lump of clay. Not sure why, but it always feels one learns more with the bigger lumps. Didn't go too well, but came home this evening, had a look at it and had a moment of inspiration (the word of course derived from the gods breathing into you) so kissed the top and exhaled into the pot. Whether it was the pint of beer I'd had earlier that made it shudder and rise on tiptoe in high dudgeon, or if it was just pleased to see me, I do not know, but it worked! The shoulders were a tad slumpy before, but they've perked up nicely. I shall of course name this technique "giving the pot a blowjob". (Have just googled, and there seems to be a grand tradition of doing this).

Put a sprig around the rather pathetic rim of the 7lb jug I made yesterday and handled it. Also tried rolling it forward on the front edge after reading about medieval jugs and the way some of their bases were designed for ease of pouring without lifting. Think I'll try painting a couple of apple trees on it.

Little 2lb jar with first attempt at sgraffito. This one is too damn light. I nearly smash it on the ceiling when I pick it up. There is throwing thin, and then there is unpleasant. I love the way one pushes the boundaries - higher, thinner - and then learns when to draw back again for strength, comfort, rightness.

Anyway, I'm an ignoramus - as this post probably shows. But I'm enjoying learning in my ignorant little bubble at the moment. I'm probably trying things I shouldn't be contemplating at the moment, but by heck it's fun.

Sunday, 17 May 2009

Weekend Photos Again

Nothing to write about me except feeling a bit flat. The world looms up into an unfriendly shape once again. But we'll come through. Thought I'd share a few photos from today.

The boys were monsters today.

And this one, though he looks like butter wouldn't etc with his bunch of lilac.

Pot detail.

Two pots - the decorated one I chose the old Adam and Eve theme with the snake - I think it should be a winejug called The Temptation Jug.

The other one I made this morning, from the same amount of clay as the other, leaps and bounds, leaps and bounds. Didn't go as well as I hoped. But still, the girth and height increases. I did hear some good feedback from the college lecturers when K took some of mine in for firing. Something like "that's end of degree standard" etc cough cough cough. Blushes.

Personally I think that says more about that college than it does about my cack-handed three-months-in throwing abilities. I'm a great critic. My bete noir and one of my most useful attributes!

Keep safe everyone. Dx

For Loopykate

Saw you'd deleted yourself today. I just wanted to say thanks for all the times you helped pick me up. I hope you're ok, and wish you all the best, and indeed hope you reappear in some guise in the future.

Take care dear, D x

Friday, 15 May 2009

Mr Psycho "Sleep Hygiene".

Isn't that the most disgusting phrase? "Sleep hygiene"? It turns the most blessed benison we're given in this life into a ghastly medical exercise.

Anyway, yesterday the head was bad, but it was bad from the opposite corner of the boxing ring. (Hypo)mania with dysphoria is not the same as agitated depression. In fact I prefer, (when clever enough to form a critical opinion), the latter.

So, I thought I'd fight the bastard and ensure a good night's sleep. So I kipped on the sofa and jammed the door shut with a large trunk to stop the dawn chorus of small boys leaping on me. Stupid. I should have left a note. Worried K. She was trying to break the door in.

One always forgets, knowing oneself, how little others actually know you, and how there are places and times for worrying, and places and times to ignore. (Stephen Fry's anecdote about penile warts comes to mind... it's on youtube if you want to find it - the essence was you don't take your penile warts to your wife or best friend, you find people who are more distant - your gp for example).

It's a good sign I didn't even consider telling anyone. It means I'm not thinking in that quarter in the slightest. But I feel bad for worrying her.

Take care all, there's nothing one can do right apart from be born and die, all the middle part is just a gorgeous cock-up, so enjoy!


p.s. The strategy worked. Selfish. But it worked.

Thursday, 14 May 2009

UK Bloggers Summer Party

Ok, it will be bizarre and a miracle if it happens. But I'm setting the ball rolling. If you fancy a weekend in wildest Wales on a date TBA in the summer in a 19th C (unmodernised) farmhouse, send me your email, and I'll add you to the 'getting it organised' blog.

Take care all, Dx

Wednesday, 13 May 2009


Saw Psychiatrist - went well I suppose. He seems to be behind me pretty much in my attempt to get my head straight sans drugs - the evidence of the last 18 months is that they don't help - or I don't take them, so I think they're giving me my head for the time being. He seemed very pleased at my recent improvement. He didn't really worry about the last 'interesting' month or two. Told me to avoid stress - Ha! - and to have things to look forward to. (Yawn). Don't have to see him for six months, which is good. I'm perfecting the lie, or the art of down-playing events.

Went to CAB for advice on tax, benefits, the whole crap shebang. The woman seemed confident that it would be fine, but not sure enough to inspire confidence in me. She didn't know, in other words. She was very nice though, a real old sterling silver battleaxe with a heart of gold.

Went to Bristol in the evening to play music - quiet night, only four or five of us, which made a pleasant change.

Been rather flat today. That flatness that one tries to stay in because one knows that leaving it means worrying about a hundred different things, and one is just too damn fed up with worrying for the time being.

Oh well, take care all, D x

Monday, 11 May 2009

General MH Admin Stuff

CPN today, went well. He didn't bat an eyelid at my recent transformation. He said that some idiot somewhere would want to explain it, but the likelihood would be that they'd be wrong*.

The head has stayed calm. Ok, I'm still moving along at a fair clip with the wind behind my sails, so to speak, but the thing that's vanished it the black undertow. I'm mildly to moderately up. No down. The down has evaporated. The horrid head noise has vanished. The constant ear-thunder has put its finger to its lips. The depersonalisation or whatever its called... the thing where you step outside yourself... that's gone away too. It's like a voyage on brisk seas, but the sun is shiny and the wind is steady.

Metaphors aside, I can't say how much I'm appreciating the feeling of a calm head. A head that isn't broken open. A head that isn't on fire. A head that isn't a lightning conductor.

Things were getting dicey, and somehow they've resolved themselves.

It's thrown me, but I'm glad to be thrown by it.

The only difference I can point my finger at from the last 18 months is that this is the first up I've allowed to take its course without chemical intervention. This is how it used to be, looking back to those dim and distant days before that dire diagnosis. Gybe ho! Luff ho!

In medical terms, I suppose I'm generally either up or mixed, and only occasionally down without the infernal engine running. I suppose there must be something I've learned over the years, or perhaps just luck of the draw, the lucky straw that doesn't quite break this camel's back... something that ricochets me out of pure depression most of the time. I am lucky. I know what misery major depression can be. (* - what did the cpn say?)

I know I posted a while back, probably very incoherently, about what I thought mixed states were. I think my personality cannot bear to be depressed, so it revolts against it and these days tries to go up simultaneously. A revulsion of the revolting spirit. So the months I should be down I'm horribly up at the same time - and I think it is a survival mechanism, because it avoids that slow whirlpool of stasis. It drives me nuts in a different way, but it avoids the plughole that I cannot fit through or even stare at. (* - what did the cpn say?)

Apologies - this is all rather self-indulgent, navel gazing, omphalos perusing twaddle. But I have a psych appt tomorrow, so I have just been introspectively, prospectively, proleptically trying to come to terms with the various places I've been over the last three months. (* - what did the cpn say?)

The only solid remark I can offer: stress isn't helpful, but anger is useful. (* - what did the cpn say?)

Those silly personality types: if I had to describe myself, I would probably plump for hyperthymic. Maybe shading into cyclothymic. But I'm definitely a person with a smile on his face, even if it's the grimmest smile in my repetoire. But smile! Smile! Smile! (* - what did the cpn say?)

What was that Fowles wrote in the Magus (a great book for 16 year olds) - Conchis was talking about a Cycladic Head, and the smile it had. Like the smiles on the old Kores. Smug, but understanding, or something. Or indifferent, but full of humour. Or humorous, but detached. I forget. It was the combination of feeling pain while laughing at it that struck me.

Enough. I only meant to write a brief note. Keep safe, one and all. Dx

Edit, a final word, but I think it's vaguely important: the older I've got the more I've learned to laugh at myself. I was much more sad when I was young. And don't get me wrong, often my laughter is gay and from the belly.

Nothing to Report

Which is a delightful feeling.

Have long and rambling post in mind about living daily with death, or dying daily in life, but that might get written tomorrow. (As if it matters...)

On a much brighter note, I'm still planning on trying to organise a weekend party in the Welsh sticks (yeah, yeah, a doomed endeavour, but one must still attempt even the doomed). Watch this space.

But I'm yawning, so I'm going to go to bed. And it's not even four o'clock.

Keep safe all, Dx

edit - I remembered I was going to post this for your pleasure.

There is a scene in Tarkovsky's 'The Sacrifice', where Otto the Postman looks at Leonardo's Adoration of the Magi, and mutters something like "I find Leonardo quite terrifying." Quite so.

Click on it for big. Night Dx

Sunday, 10 May 2009

Ok, I'm Still Up Rather Late

But there is a difference.

Three days ago I had no choice. Tonight I'm just winding down.

And the horrid noise in the head that has built and built over the last two months has gone.

It must be a good sign? Mustn't it?

I feel calm inside. Calm and confident and still. Not ghastly shredding and anxiety and tap-dancing.

Please, no 'calm before the storm' comments. I don't think I'm in the eye of the hurricane either.

I can't explain it, but I feel much better. And just one night's good sleep did it. Haven't had super sleep since. Firstly, families with small children don't let you, even if they're trying to. Secondly, I'm still zinging, but it's shifted into a different framework. A calm framework. It'll turn into productivity I hope. That's what always used to happen. Those bloody pills just sent me into depression or mixed states. I'm trying an experiment - letting nature take her bloody course.

Wish me luck!


Friday, 8 May 2009

What A Difference One Night's Sleep Makes

After two whole bloody months of going steadily more and more 'up' (nuts), for once I think I've escaped (or am escaping) the ghastly bubble without desperately being driven back to the medication. After all, I used to survive before I was diagnosed.

This time I have just been waiting impatiently, excruciatingly, until exhaustion reached such a pitch it swallowed the energy with a black belch.

I slept nine hours last night - about half as much again as all the sleep I'd had in total in May so far. The night was jam-packed with dreams - I think my brain spent those hours filing and sorting to great effect - I'm sure my mental desk and in-box had overflowed my mental office, and the corridors, and was spilling onto the street outside.

I've spent all day with a peaceful head. I had forgotten what that felt like.

This may be a false dawn; one swallow doth not a summer make, etc, but I take great encouragement from dealing with this on my own account. It can go away by itself, eventually. Then again, I'll see tomorrow. Perhaps I'm in free-fall, passing through a comfortable part of the sky. But I don't want to think that way, so I won't.

Yes, I have had a horrible amount of stress over the last few months - tax bailiffs are not very restful - and yes, once again stress has proved it sends me flying. But I think I've come through.

And of all the strange coincidences, today, after waking peacefully, and spending a peaceful morning, when the post arrived with ANOTHER letter from the taxman, I found upon opening it an apology for the unacceptable way they had been hounding me.

I wish they would change their policy, rather than apologise afterwards, but heigh ho.

Thanks everyone for your kindness over recent months. Your solidarity has meant a lot.

D x

p.s. Here are some snippets from last night's dreams:

Shopping mall, the atrium of some public space, museum or gallery or somesuch. A chap is hanging from a cctv camera on the wall in some sort of protest. There is someone (security?) climbing up beside him. I'm standing on a window ledge slightly above trying to stop the security person who takes a knife and stabs the protester in the neck. I can't reach across the victim to stop the other. I'm shouting at the crowd below to get help.

Dockside, canal basin, sunshine, crowds, bizarre mixture of Gloucester and Venice. Someone is trying to get their magic self-perpetuation boat engine started. The cable keeps getting caught on other boats, staunchions, jetties, causing great tension and then the whipshock of breaking cables. I'm in the water between the piles and an iron barge. The cable catches and the tension builds and I can't move - dream paralysis. Thankfully I can talk in the dream, and ask a person for a hand - can pull myself out round the corner of the piles before the barge cracks and crushes against the piling.

I'm on an expedition with bizarrely my old uni lecturer, several other people, my wife and our youngest boy. We're all camping in a Landrover, and there are no toilet facilities. Everyone is filling plastic bags with poo, and the Landrover is filling up. I'm in an argument, trying to persuade people that we should hire a portaloo. We stop in a forest with large, elephantine boulders. I recognise it as Fontainbleau. Standing on a boulder a large piece falls off, and I have to jump for it. The piece on the ground (about the size of a sofa), slides across the flat ground haphazardly, then spins on it's axis very fast before stopping abruptly.

I'm hanging on a cliff, there are two bodies or injured people caught in their ropes nearby, other people are doing a hoisting exercise, pulling an armchair up the rockface. They are too busy to help.

Scattering through a city with others. Party feel. Chaotic, fate-breezes blowing through the streets. Meet old friend. About to kiss but suddenly our faces are covered with spit - I blame her, she blames me. Holding onto collasping oriel window, old timber, trying to climb up high enough to retrieve a blanket that is something to do with us. The timbers keeps slipping out and crumbling and there are railings below. Eventually climb down and ask a friend for help, but when we return there is a strange fiesta going on, and lots of seated cardinals and nuns just below where I need to climb up.

There was plenty more, but it's all evaporated. Or self-censored. :-)

Thursday, 7 May 2009

I Wish I Knew

What the fuel is that keeps sleep away night after night after night. How does it work? How does the body keep functioning? How does the mind keep grip day after day of it?

It is like a possession by some dreadful spirit. The poor body and mind becomes frayed and flayed around this red-hot iron skeleton creature that keeps moving and refusing to submit.

I've tried lying down in dark rooms. I've tried reading dull tomes. I've tried mimicking that slump and sigh that comes before the extinguishing of consciousness. Each time the stiff brass neck of that idiot mannekin raises the head, stares about, and asks: "And now?"

I've averaged two hours sleep per day over the last five nights. And those have been grabbed in bits and pieces. It's like eating your meals a spoon here, another spoon there. And still the infernal engine is motoring.

I'm really fed up with it. It doesn't seem plausible or possible, but the evidence is in front of me, or behind me in a memory of sleeplessness. I feel the fibres of my body getting more and more tired. As for my mind, all it says is: "And now?"

I would love you all to come over to my house, and form an orderly queue, and hit me over the head with a mallet while reciting the phonebook until I fall asleep, but I'd only find the experience exciting and start wondering what sort of person each anonymous name read out is was and will be.

Tomorrow I have a physio appointment - my broken finger from last year has developed a strange lump. It's getting bigger. What else? No electric tomorrow - probably the electricity board vandals are cutting down more trees. The largest tree in the field over the wall was felled a fortnight ago. Our house is even windier and colder if that is possible. We're invited for lunch at my cousin's.

As for me, I just ache with the tedium of the vortex-engine. I wish sleeping pills worked. They don't work on me.

Keep safe everyone. There seems to be a lot of the badness in the air at the moment. If anyone wants to ring the abysmal hotline, I may as well man the nightshift. It's in my profile. (I may as well man the dayshift too, come to think of it).

Well, I'd say night. But I may as well say morning. At least the head is feeling more peaceful, even if sleep is still a bizarre memory.

Take care all, D x

Wednesday, 6 May 2009

I Am A Wee (not pee) Bit Up

But taking a leaf from Dee Dee, I would only describe this as the hypos.

The only thing and strange thing that is the coronary corollary to that argument is that some aspects of that bete noir called psychosis I have quite often. I call it inspiration, personally, so it isn't usually a problem. Yes, I see and hear people, but I've done it all my life. I know (I KNOW!!!) they're not real. They are figments of me. I can't control them. They'd be very boring if I could. But I'm only telling you all this in the hope it reassures someone, anyone.

I have had psychotic times which I couldn't deal with properly, at the time. They were very frightening. But in retrospect, they have taught me a lot about how my brain usually works.

After all. Bad dreams? We can deal with them. What is the difference with waking bad dreams?

I'm ok. In fact my biggest 'problem' is that I can live with it. And no-one around me can live with me without it. End of story.

Keep safe all.

Titian, Manet, & Berger

Ok, so I'm sure you all know the way Manet's Olympia quotes Titian's Venus of Urbino? I can't sleep, so I'll just bore you all with my take on it.

Here's the Titian:

Here's the Manet:

The obvious difference, as Berger points out in Ways of Seeing (which is a super little book) is the way that Manet's model is intentionally unidealised, and also has closed the door with her spread hand to the gaze. (This is a concise summary, apologies to the original argument). (Better than reading that Sewell fellow wittering about Titian's Venus "fingering her rima" - I knew the word 'rima' because I originally studied geology. It means a cleft. But honestly!) (And of course Titian's Venus broke the mould because she is gently playing with herself as opposed to covering herself for Modesty's sake).

Berger argues that Titian's version was for male gratification (and of course it is), while Manet's is a challenge to the male gaze - it shuts one out. I think this is an over-simplification.

The perspective in the Titian undermines that notion. There is an article I found while seeking evidence to bolster my conviction the other day: - it's worth the read, and says lots of wise things.

To summarise: it points out what I had noticed: in Titian's painting we're kneeling before Venus. She appears to be slightly above, or at the same level as our gaze on her couch. The page cited above spoils it's own argument slightly, by failing to measure the perspectival lines properly, and only gets half the story.

Here's my defaced and delineated travesty of the original:

What should be obvious (apart from the really obvious part of the composition, being that part that has been the central part of all art since day dot), is that the perspective of the pattern of the floor, and the wall and tapestries give us two contradictory viewpoints for the spectator.

We are either kneeling before Venus with our eye at the level of her upper eye if we take the pattern of the floor as our guide, or we are kneeling below Venus with our eye at the level of her mouth, if we take the room as our guide. Both points fall on the same vertical line, where we are situated, again, in front of that part that shall not be alluded to, lest I'm accused of doing a Sewell. (On a sidenote, the strong foreground vertical line and the vertical sightline frame that part again... sigh).

What's my point? I think Titian was being rather clever. While his picture was la porn de jour, he played it out so there was an ambivalence to do with whether Venus was the viewer's equal, or better (bearing in mind we're kneeling still in either case). And that ambivalence almost makes her look as if she's nodding assent.

That's all. It was so important, wasn't it?

p.s. edit. The same ambivalence is why we can't quite make up our mind as to whether there is a step beyond the couch into background or not. But I think you'll agree that Titian agrees with the lower viewpoint. Safest policy, when dealing with goddesses, I imagine.

This Blog is a Selfish Blog

It is, isn't it?

I use it so I can keep track of myself.

I try to help people when they are in holes.

But I don't really post anything worth posting.

I nearly went and deleted it an hour ago.

But then I realised what I use it for. Hence the title for the post.

There is one thing I'm scared of: being eaten by a dinosaur.

Actually, that's a lie. I'm scared of being eaten alive by anything. It's the having your nose rubbed in the shitty smell of dumb existence in your final moments that scares me.

And as for hell. I hope it's as horrible as we were taught as bad catholics. Otherwise it's going to be exceedingly dull.

I'm ok. I'm flying. But I'm Oh Kay (said Arthur with a sigh).

Nasty, Quite Rightly

Search Terms - à la La

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Bless their little cotton socks.

Devilish Dopamine, Sunny Seratonin, Naughty Noradrenaline

Yeah, I know it's more complicated than that. But (kiss) keep it simple stupid and it's a working model good enough for me.

Devilish Dopamine is quite a card, but rather scatty. Always rushing from one party to another, so full of ideas his head is emptied by the roaring noise of static. He is far too eager for everything. Like a cracked vessel he fills himself but never fills.

Sunny Seratonin is a pleasant chap with a hideous shadow. Either he breezes along, unconcerned, serene, or huddles, crushed, diminished and worthless in the corner. As far as I'm concerned he doesn't get on well with Devilish Dopamine - they usually shun each others company. For others they may well be habitual and perverse bedfellows.

Naughty Noradrenaline never goes to bed. He loves to dance. He loves to run. He loves to howl at the moon. When he hides away he crumples, paralysed.

Now, a little fable.

Devilish Dopamine had been up to all his old tricks. He raised a brazen trumpet, beat a stone drum, crashed a copper cymbal, painted horrible loud designs across the wall until Naughty Noradrenaline popped out to see what all the chaos was.

"Ah, Naughty Noradrenaline!" Devilish Dopamine hooted and sang, "Let the Wild Rumpus begin!" (And what those naughty boys got up to, I would be ashamed to recount.)

In the morning, Sunny Seratonin, who had been on holiday in the Seychelles for so long the others barely recognised him wandered up the garden path, tilting a cocksure panama over a good-humoured smile.

"I say old chaps, haven't you been making rather enough of a nuisance of yourselves for one day?"

Now this is where the story cracks to a halt because I don't know if Sunny Saucy Seratonin will disgust Dirty Dopamine and Nasty Noradrenaline so they bugger off for a bit, or if all three will take it into their tiny heads to make a party of it.

But my mood has lifted - and all together lads! sing now! "Soft landings...! Soft landings...!"

Tuesday, 5 May 2009

Wardrobe Malfunction

Sleepless and shattered. Slipshod and scattered. Shredded and splattered.

Still got a sense of humour somewhere.

From tonight, this is the post to read.

Who Has Seen

L'Enfants de Paradis?

What a lovely film.

I hate to give snippets: watch all three hours. It will make you feel better.

Poor K

Couldn't find me. I was just making 3/4 lb balls of clay out of the large bottle I decided was too ugly a day or two ago (there is a photo of it at the bottom of the pots) and I came wandering back from the sanctuary of the workshop and saw her stricken by the kitchen door. I'm not sleeping tonight. No way. Impossible.

How To Be A Screaming Nut and Have Children Revisited.

Right, I got distracted there, had to beat up the sofa, cry and sob, go outside and listen to the dawn-chorus.

Let's get to the nitty-gritty.

I suppose I have to recapitulate myself, once again. I prefer to let myself speak through the unexpurgated revolting crap I post. It's more honest. But what am I? Diagnosed Mixed Bipolar - some say one, some say two. I don't get depressed very much. My problem is the other direction. Psychosis. Florid pyschosis I've only had either at times of extreme stress and weirdness, or when on anti-psychotics (quetiapine) at a low dose - low because I wouldn't take a high dose when I saw the effect it had on my wife when she saw me crumple with the first pill.

Yet another digression. There is a good post on the Last Psychiatrist's blog about the way that different anti-psychs latch on to different brainjuices in different orders. For instance, Zyprexa goes for the dopamine first, Seroquel does histamine first, then seratonin, then dopamine. If you're on a low seroquel/quetiapine dose then it cuts histamine, which has a knock on effect of INCREASING DOPAMINE! Great! I was so impressed with my latest new pyschiatrist when I explained this to him, and he said: "Yes! We know this!" Why didn't the twats prescribing know it? I nearly hanged myself! (If I'd got the little tail of the knot wrong - wanting the escape route - I would be dead back in feb 08). BASTARDS! BASTARDOS! BASTADORITOSISOSES!

Where was I? Oh yes. Apparently I'm nuts.

But I have children. How do I cope? How do they cope? How does responsibility affect the condition?

Short answer first. They are my children. I can be psychotic but if a child comes into the room I can stop for five minutes. They are the best anti-psychotics ever invented.

Long answer. Mealtimes are hard. I hate myself for being another ghastly strict daddy insisting on quiet chomping and no mouths open. It makes me want to shriek. Strangely, this exists in my father, and allegedly in my grandfather and one of my uncles. Some to the extent they always ate apart from the children. I would NEVER do that. But sometimes I'm tempted, just to give the poor kids a break.

Discipline. I'm good at that. They love me, and I am firm and forthright. So that isn't a problem, and they know when I'm serious.

Mania: christ - kids love manic people. Well. Not all kids. My kids love me when I'm manic. Another kid they look up to and love being a huge horrible lovely kid. Enough said really. But the boys really appreciate it.

Depression: what children?

There must be more than this to add, so look in on this post. I'll add edits etc.

Take care all, D x

p.s. I may be fucking mad, but I think I'm also fucking sane.

p.p.s. I just reread this. But I could ask my wife to write something on here, and what she would write is that I love my boys, and my boys adore me. End of story really.

How To Be A Screaming Nut and Have Children.

I promised I'd write this post for la a few days back. I have no idea what I'm going to write, but I can't sleep now, and doing this may well tire me into submission.

I spent my entire adult life (and boyhood life, come to think of it) assuming I would never have children. Not because I thought I was mad. Far from it. Just the usual over-population reasons, etc. Anyway, there came the day when I was met at the train station coming back (I think) from my first week away on my MA by my wife in a very short skirt and rather suggestive tights. (She maintains they were 'patterned' - I always tell the story as 'fishnets' - her version is the correct one.)

Anyway, she said the saying that all women say privately, publicly, to their lovers, to their pillows. "I want a baby." "Of course!" said I, and that very night our oldest was made.

At six weeks there was 'spotting'. We went in for a check up. There was/perhaps still is a HORSE-FACED SONOGRAPHER AT CHELTENHAM MATERNITY UNIT who glanced and said "There is no heartbeat - it's dead."

Even I knew that the heart is hard to see pre-seven weeks. We were referred to the head of the maternity unit who did her best Hazel Blears impersonation, and waxed lyrical on the merits and sheer pleasure of the D&C. We had to ask, and then replied: "You mean an abortion."

Some instinct between us both made us say no. Let it happen, if it will. We went for a long hard walk, vigorous in the attempt to make matters natural, so to speak. Nothing. Two weeks went by. We went back for the next appointment.

Different sonographer. Fat nursie ala blackadder. Looked at the notes. "Oooh, dearies, it's dead!!!! Let's have a looksie!"

She had a looksie. "It's dead!!!!!"

Another instinct took hold. "Are you sure?" I said. Or it might have been K who said. WE SAID. She looked again. "Oh SILLY ME!!" she said. "Your womb looks like a Victorian Freak Circus!" she said "But it's alive!" she said.

"It" is the one on the right.

Fuck. I'll finish this post later.

Seamus Ennis

My favourite piper. Playing Were You At Carrick.

Monday, 4 May 2009

Martial 11.104

I had two lines of this running round and round in my head all night and couldn't remember the source, author, date, or anything. Finally found it:

Uxor, vade foras, aut moribus utere nostris:
Non sum ego nec Curius nec Numa nec Tatius.
Me iucunda iuvant tractae per pocula noctes:
Tu properas pota surgere tristis aqua.

Tu tenebris gaudes: me ludere teste lucerna
Et iuvat admissa rumpere luce latus.
Fascia te tunicaeque obscuraque pallia celant:
At mihi nulla satis nuda puella iacet.
Basia me capiunt blandas imitata columbas:

Tu mihi das, aviae qualia mane soles.
Nec motu dignaris opus nec voce iuvare
Nec digitis, tamquam tura merumque pares:
Masturbabantur Phrygii post ostia servi,
Hectoreo quotiens sederat uxor equo,

Et quamvis Ithaco stertente pudica solebat
Illic Penelope semper habere manum.
Pedicare negas: dabat hoc Cornelia Graccho,
Iulia Pompeio, Porcia, Brute, tibi;
Dulcia Dardanio nondum miscente ministro

Pocula Iuno fuit pro Ganymede Iovi.
Si te delectat gravitas, Lucretia toto
Sis licet usque die: Laïda nocte volo.

Can't find a translation on the web.

The lines running through my head were:

"Even modest Penelope, when Ulysses snored
Kept her hand upon the sceptre of her lord"

Oh well, it killed two hours.

Take care all Dx

Send for Pulping

One wakes and the same story opens in your head at the page you left off. The only difference is one has a little more strength to face the next chapter. But when will the strength run out? Afternoon, evening, night? How long is this chapter? Twice as long? How exciting? How turbulent? Four times as violent? Never knowing - what a real page-turner my life is. Send for pulping.

Sunday, 3 May 2009

Just Dreadful

Me that is.

Topics to be covered (to channel my arrant mind):

i) Today
ii) The safe nature of words/blogs/posting/whatever
iii) I want to die but won't

Today. Woke up. Got up. Saw missus at wits end with childers. Took childers out for walk and icecream. Came home. Looked after childers while missus slept. And slept. And slept. She deserved it. Neighbours childers came round. (3 girls to match our three boys). Pushed my youngest around garden on toy tractor. Trying to navigate careless rake left by missus was very aware about risk of it falling on youngest's head. It fell on his head. Neighbours taking great delight in watching me console him. I headbutted a door a few times with the self-disgust I felt. Childers got noisier and noisier. I flipped and sent them home, thankfully without screaming. But close. I hate that dangerzone. Not knowing if the explosion is contained or beginning. Sat down in peace and sobbed my guts out. Gutsobbing continueth for next 6 hours. My head's exploding.

The safe nature of words/blogs/posting/whatever: the simple fact I can write this with tears streaming down my cheeks, and if you were to read it you wouldn't ever guess.

I want to die but won't: or rather can't. I won't and can't put my kids and wife through that. Finit. But to stop the noise in my head. God. I'd give anything (but that) to stop the noise in my head. Whirlygig whirlgig, let me go round, whirlygig whirlygig, I hate your sound. I'm cracking up.


Just assume that I would disinfect this putrid blog if I had the time and inclination. Just assume I hang my head with shame at my awful manners. Just take for granted. If anyone wants to clean up while passing:

Just assume I apologise before the event and after the event, as a matter of course. Now, back to being foul-mouthed and inappropriate.

Love all, Dx

And New Days Dawn

And the Pyschotropic Brain Engine is still running at full scream. I'm taking the boys out for a walk up Smallpox Hill. Just for some peace would be devoutly.

Edit: went to Coaley Peak instead:


I learned this trick 20 years ago.

Cut an inch and a half slice of bread. Butter it up well. Cover thickly with cheddar. Eat in nine bites. Nine Bites. NINE BITES. That last is very important. It gives a different perspective on cheddar and bread. Obviously, buy good bread, but why wouldn't ye? Good bread is an essential. I make lots. But hate eating the synthetic supermarket shite-for-bread they pretend is bread.


Ok you have probably noticed that I am up to a minor degree. 1/2 a wine box and a glass of whisky has kept me legal. But it disgusts me. It revolts me. But it's still far, far better than the medication 'they' peddle. What amazes me is that I'm still not drunk. Why? Well I know why, and it's called mania. Where does that energy come from? Surely there is a source. I hate the drugs. And I hate the commonplace drugs too. I try to make all my posts Honest. This is another. Self-medication. It works to an extent... But then what? When you awake full-fired from your yawn of crapness? Drink more? No! Way! Hose! Then you start dancing. Then you start stripping off. Then you go for a 6 mile run over the fields.

I'm sorry my life is so sad and vibrant, but that is how it is.
D x

My Wife Described Me As a "Problem" This Evening.

What's that all about, eh?

Well I know, obviously.

But it raised a good laugh from both of us.

I Don't Want To Waste My Fucking Time With You

All these health people in my head. Imagined interviews. Over and over in real time. Just get out of it! I've got better things to do, better fish to fry, better cunts to lick, better pots to make, better poems to write, better better better bets on the gee gees, better absolutely anything except fucking imaginary conversations with one's fucking twathead psychiatrist!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

edit - I've never bet on a horse in my life, though my grandpa made a living out of it. Fuck knows where that came from.

What Is Mental Health?

Should be obvious, eh? But what is it. Come on, define it for me.

See, it's vague.

Let's start at the sharp end. Obviously if you're wanting to kill people or yourself, then you must be mentally unhealthy? Correct? No, not always. Sometimes there could be very good and logical reasons for murder or suicide. So if those extremely antisocial types of behaviour can't define it, then what can?

Ok... so hearing voices, seeing people. Just ask writers and artists how inspiration can work. Often we rely on hearing voices and seeing people to get the work out. And not all of them are deemed mentally unhealthy.

Take the capitalist angle: are you productive, a good wage-slave? Does your brain prevent you functioning as a useful member of society? Since when did use or function become the benchmark for mental health? This paragraph leads into a cesspool slimepit of arguments you'll all be familiar with, so I'll stop.

I'm starting to get stuck. What is mental health? What is it? Is it the dull placid life? Where happiness of a tepid sort is the be and end all? Is it simply coping with whatever trials you make, the world makes, life makes, and surviving?

I'm deeply confused, dear readers. Sometimes the noise in my head makes function difficult. Sometimes I swarm and swim over it like a dolphin.

Please help. The longer I dwell, the more I ponder, the more I ponder, the more I wonder, the more I wonder, the more I toss everything to the stars and shout a big fuck off to the whole paradigm.

My Favourite Film

My 2nd Favourite Film

Saturday, 2 May 2009

Spider Web Still Standing

Feel rather blasted, dessicated, exhausted, a ghost of sorts still somehow forcing his way through the intricate air.

Photos from today:

Feel definitely in the mood that movement is essential. Can't dare stop at the moment. Running on empty.

Oh I'm well enough, I think - I wouldn't like to be assessed at present. Have appointment with damn psych in 10 days - hoping I'll be more restive by then. At least I'm getting some sleep.

Wondering what to do with my misbegotten hundred-times-stalled life. What should I bloody do? Any suggestions? Perhaps I should train as a pig-flu-short-fund-manager-oil-prospector-donkey-delivery-service-operative?

I'm so tired. The damn carousel keeps turning. And there is no getting off. And the fair is gay enough, the fun is fun, the noise, heat, smells all interest - just this ridiculous gossamer spiderweb shadow full of holes for the winds of every moment to blow through is tired.

Humanity is a Vain Creature

It amuses me no end how people with a coincident name find their way to my poems!

May Statistically

Is the worst month for suicide. So here's a covenant, a pledge, a firm handshake (watch out for flu), just to say that I'm here, you're all there, and between us all we'll get to June.

And a big thanks to all who have helped me in the bad times.

D x

Lust is a Mortal Sin

But I've taken a leaf from my wife's book. Nothing wrong with looking and appreciating. I went for years faithful to the point where I was blind. Now I walk around and enjoy the countless wonderful women (oh, and men too). The last year has been a treat. An eremite with poked-out eyes restored to sight. Sometimes the pleasure of seeing an old old lady, bent but straight, hunched, but the memory of youth is written in the lines of her frame. God. This sounds pervy and pretentious. I must stop. I'll start declaring myself a flaneur before too long. Cease, cretin! Cease!

And don't get me started on hypersexuality. The word is so antiseptic. Dionysiac vigour! That's what it is!!!!

(Excuse me, I think I just heard the bleating of a winsome goat three fields away).

Five Bad Pentameters

Sybarite, guiltlessly I idly loll,
Enduring insectile sun-prickings myriad,
And later, preening like a cockerel
With all my merry brood of butter-tangles
The loon delight of Ciren's handsome daughters.

Friday, 1 May 2009


Workers of the world unite!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Viva los downtroddenos!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mayday is my favourite holiday.

Wish you all a good one. Love M.Abys.

p.s. My head has gone awol. Come back head! I implore thee! Your children need you! You did a responsible day with them all ferrying carrying picking up putting down out for lunching them, indulging them, and now your fucking stuck in the groove of doing and you can't stop doing and I wish you would stop doing and doing and wanting to do more and



I've just realised, I've skipped a generation, backwards. Being brought up by people born in 1913 1912 etc with parents absent parents couldn't care less, children for parents, I grew from 3 to 6 with the older generation. That explains a lot. Why on earth haven't I seen it so simply before?

But it begs the question, if that is true, then am I simply drawing my pension at my correct mental age at present?

Time to move on.

I hope it is as easy as typing this.

(the seventy year old trapped in a late-thirties body says goodnight, and hopes he'll get through the night)

Night all. Shite, shite and crap.

Take care everyone, said Tiny Tim.