Tuesday, 6 November 2012


I should stop writing. Earlier in the year, or it may even have been last year, I came up with a plot for a novel. It involved Oxford Tories sexually abusing mentally-ill people. Think Bullingdon Club meets da Salo. Now, about a third done, I am going to have to shelve it. It is a minor irritation for me personally when I compare it to the vilenesses done to innocents that have come out over the last couple of months. I am beginning to worry about life imitating art. No matter what disgusting abuse of privilege and power I imagine, it invariably comes true. I need to stop imagining, lest my brainwaves act like butterfly wings.

Sunday, 16 September 2012

Literary Conceits and Experiments...

They sleep: dream the same dream, limbs-locked in a shared sleep of contingency and apprehension. They murmur the same words of protest and denial; their arms ward off in symmetrical gestures, a twinned hierophantic ensorcellement…

He sleeps: I am in a strange pursuit of a thing, it is a beach holiday the setting, a battle over my children, I am losing them, it forbodes me in my heart as the donkeys race across the shining sands in the distance as I traverse a world of sea-torn concrete, reinforcement bar protruding wildly, rustily… To the lighthouse, to the lighthouse… I gather my little ones and we escape into the lighthouse, the red granite, flaking whitewash, the feldspars, micas, quartz crumbling in the sea-air, and we enter the maze of stairs and passages, ascending to descend and exit elsewhere, a warren of precipitousness…

They sleep: the animals shuffle in the walkways between their cages, and ever-constant stream, some coming, some going, some sitting down alone or in groups. They appear to be a species of some cultural complexity, exhibiting signs of rudimentary religious devotion in their caressing of and gazing at the small votive tablets they carry. Group mimicry is apparent. If one animal breaks off communication with its fellows to absorb itself in temporary prayer, this seems to be a sign for the other animals in the group to follow suit. They are exceedingly placid, on the whole. A motorbike and sidecar in the snow. Lisaveta pours the tea. The brutalist facade of the employment agency has been partially refaced in mirrored glass. A mallard scuttles across the river before the identical emerald prow of the rowing boat. One of the chairs from the enamelled garden furniture lies on its side in the brown slush. Two dogs run into an alleyway. There is nothing in the newspaper, as always: the Devil moves the Locomotive. Venus is low and bright in the west. A helicopter comes over, circles, and leaves the way it came. Steeplejacks are laddering the spire, slowly, steadily. On the cleared paths, the gravel is purple, cream, russet and brown. One by one, the people blind their windows…

She sleeps: I am on a train with you, packed, shades of the cattle trucks - we are escaping, we are fleeing a cataclysm, there is you, my daughter, my friend, we are fleeing something terrible, we do not know whither we go, our fear evacuates us, and I have lost you all, and I cannot find you, frightened, confused, lost, concrete everywhere, brutalist concrete, a department store in concrete, or is it a hotel, Stalinist, but the town is Slough… people in pink and grey uniforms with nylon blouses and viscose sashes like their father wore… I lose my phone and my daughter’s phone and I cannot contact anyone, and all communication is breaking down around me…

They sleep: you lean, arms clasped behind you, hands at the elastic of your knickers, ankle deep in the warm bog, regarding sundews, and you reveal to me how they eat flies. Sundews are innocent of that very deep apprehension of, say, a group of horses clopping and pretty, so delicate about fellatio, and coming down the road, they pause among leaves sparkling with cunnilingus, whinnying. “Do you want some grass, that promise of sweet nectar treated somehow…?” asks a rider. The horse, like a foolish insect, on a par with incest, leans its head over the wall, curious enough to give some forbidden, shaking, pantomime of transgression, perilously close to the sundew’s unspeakable slightest touch. There our wasp-thronged pints suddenly found themselves, of course, stray of cider…

He sleeps: in the lighthouse, the precipitous maze, the children running recklessly ahead, my fingers only brushing their collars, never seizing, I lose them, I lose my children and all the people are getting in my way, I run up and down and in the lighthouse, pushing through people, but I have lost my children, but then I am with others...

They sleep: the area of intersection of two circles of the same radius, each centred on the other’s circumference describe the shape known as the vesica piscus: the fish bladder. It is a symbol used to depict the Womb of the Holy Virgin Mary, and as such, is often shown surrounding the figure of Christ in Majesty, reminding us that the Lord of Heaven is also the Son of Man. The full figure, including the circles, looks like a pair of buttocks. Who are the men following over the mountain ridge? We clutch the children harder to our breasts, and stumble on, ever upwards through the deepening snow. They are laying patios again down the street. Between the harsh rattle of the angle-grinder’s blade as it disengages from its completed cut, a single voice rises in song, a sobbing melody from the Middle-East or maybe Pakistan, based on a half-familiar maqam. The sun is getting lower by the day, and the occasional needle of autumn pushes through his guernsey and prickles his upper arms. There can be no innoculation against winter, flu-jabs notwithstanding. And when (fibonacci equation) approaches infinity, (ratio) approaches Phi. The pineapple ticks ominously at the crown of her headgear. There is no smoke in the bars now to get in your eyes: the public life or lice of dissolution has been banned, dissolved by Order of Parliament. Men mistake the entropic process for disruption: true disorder is the blandest, most even state of matter and energy. It is order that sets up the greatest tension…

She sleeps: why did I lose my phone? It was when that suspicious one was talking, it is all untrustworthy, that is why it was stolen and all is lost, and I am asking, asking, where is the way out? Where is my daughter, and where is my phone? They find her phone, but it is full of pornography, and I tut in mild annoyance, while a woman...

They sleep: wordy woman, lexical lover, who rides a spear of wit: we slowly screw while reading Hegel for the challenge; St Paul too, to cock a snook, and conjure a stink of hell. Oh to ride, caught in that living nightmare of all those references to fellatio - oh to ride, to trot steadily down, doomed to a horrible death and cunnilingus in the sun-hot lanes, with the struggling insect, struggling for classical literature and the brown-green smell a blessed few minutes, before they tend overwhelmingly to the accompaniment of dung; to ride, to suffer for untold hours the pejorative breeze…

He sleeps: the others, I vaguely knew them but could not place them… We fall asleep, asleep in the dark, in our dream-dark, on a cold concrete floor. I wake, and I am in the same knickers as a woman, face to face, bound by a single pair of knickers, deeply buried in her, she asleep, and farting profusely against my balls, a vibration like a distant dentist… I feel her shoulders, it is not her, though the curves and points are reminiscent, but then a voice tells me I have got into the knickers of the only lesbian of our party, and I realise it is Fabienne from all those years ago… I drift…

They sleep: gracious, that fennel plant must be eight feet high now. Enough bouillabaise for the five-thousand. That grey seal, staring at me swimming in Borthwen that morning, staring like the skull of Death’s Horse, nothing but the sand-itch heat of a whisky hangover in my blood to ward off the sand-filled, sea-flung wind and rain. I wore my hat. It is well to dress for the occasion. The spine of a young mackerel, the molecatcher said repeatedly as he embraced you. I never spied any fins (quaintrelle, with spearpoint shoulders and your poise trim as a spry boat beam-reached to the wind, your nuanced instinct for rags and ribbons, you sit straight backed, curve your blades' twin coulters, flukes, trapezoid ribs falling ladderwise to your notch of hip and your folded legs, yet words will not come bar triteness, over-dramatised cliche: it's effortless for you. I cannot grasp you through simple desire) - the tiger-stripes of her ribs, those I could identify with. I danced naked from the waist down with you before the wedding guests. Later I squared a circle, only to remember it was a broken pentagram, or a diamond with a tail…

She sleeps: the woman foists a napalm-hot apple-pie, full of sugary pureé, molten, microwaved, I accept and eat it, she foists it upon me perversely because she supposes me rich, but I am poor and hungry although I have nice things and clothes, and my mouth is burned like a heretic forced to drink molten lead. She directs me to the exit, a grey door, it opens, a corridor ankle-deep in grey sewage, it deepens up to my thighs as I wade, then my neck and another door, and a corridor that extends endlessly, and this door has no handle on the far side, and the sewage is too deep and I’ll have to swim for it and commit myself to the shutting of the door, the imprisoning of my swimming form in endless sewage…

They sleep: our bed flowers around us, fed by sweat, spilled coffee, toastcrumbs, ash; the nervous sheets rumple into petals; our thrown-off duvet curls a nest for us screwloose birds. Svevo, as he tries to break free, for instance, claiming: “I am a silly man, puffing on ensnaring, suffocating, Manichaean, phallic smokesticks, addictive glue, grasping tentacles,” ceremoniously eats his coffin-nail cocks, inhaling burning acids, enzymes, figs dipped in semen, nipple-substitutes… Meanwhile the oh-so-precious Cyril of Jerusalem exclaims, agonising constantly as his bodily fluids are slowly sucked dry: “Who would accept the weakness of Mother Nature who hopefully had instruction from such lips, and a variance of psychiatric cures after she (who would under any circumstances subject herself to his will) performed the act of navel-gazing, and designed the sundews…

He sleeps: I drift awake, and am with a crowd, are we at university, some field-trip, we seem to be in a port… there is a pylon out at sea we are supposed to find important, but I am telling them all the techniques of photographic composition, but I realised I should be drawing, as everyone else was drawing, so I begin to draw randomly, not knowing what else to do, but realise the others are drawing the pylon, and I realise I have been unwittingly drawing the pylon too, although it is frustratingly indistinct, blurred, or obscured, or things kept interfering with my line of vision, or it may be my eyes, but I have to move to see it better, and I have to negotiate another lighthouse like the first, and end up on a seaside promenade…

They sleep: it is a mistake to think that it makes sense. It just is. The fuschia has done badly this year for want of sun, not rain. Uncoursed brickwork gives me the shudders. They do not dock dogs’ tails anymore. A different kind of ridiculousness. Do they not expect revolution eventually? Not in this country. A poet and an anthropologist are an unlikely match. Yet a facility with the sciences in him, and a lifetime given over to drawing and painting in her compliments their nature and relinks all their possible ellipses. His cardial raptures are annealed by his mordant determinism, and her dispassionate criticism is sapped by her ravished imagination. Together they make a four-faced coin, seasonally complimentary, the winds of all quarters blowing around a still eye. They are a piece of flesh-clockwork that chimes synchronously often enough to endure their cross-rhythms and syncopations...

She sleeps: I cannot swim endlessly in sewage, locked in to an interminable drowning. I retreat and there are teenagers there behind me on the stairs, laughing at me covered in shit, and I realise I am in a Tarkovsky film, and I’ve failed something, but there is another door, and I walk through to sunlight and an Italian plaza, but I am still lost… and vagueness… and then a railway platform, sitting in the midst of crowded, impenetrable throngs, and knowing the apocalypse was imminent, and I have my daughter and my lover back, I am on his left and she is on his right, and I am hopeful that we shall escape, and he is hopeless that the doom is already upon us, and I want to touch my daughter, but she is not quite within reach, and I strain as a grey shadow begins to loom over the earth, an eclipse, a darkness expanding above us…

They sleep: we peer at the pink glands, dew-primped stalks, deadly aureoles: endangered, modest, contained... easy to condemn a predator; a fly might sketch death so; we admire the tricks of beauty. Circumstances kiss her on until she has invented those leaves that are generally flat-meeting. Quite apart, a new omphalotic art demarcates their upper surfaces from the sin against religion, the sin of inaction, the sin of myocardial infarction, or simple heartbreak. Though covered with hundreds, will you not shun such warmth of the sun on stalked glands or tentacles? Defilement of men does battle with many of these designs, producing worse than mere profligacy of the cold breeze, a tiny drop of glue, a clear and more abominable ectoplasm… and my lover giggles a grey mucilage that is more thrawn, difficult and twisted than the curse of any prostitute, and quietly giggles as she, now extremely sticky and viscid, slowly, lingeringly, reads beside me…

He sleeps: on the promenade the pylon is as indistinct as before, but my children are back with me, and we have to steal something from back in time, we can travel in time, but the thing we have to steal is unknowable, but we go back to 2.47 to steal it but our enemies have already stolen it at 2.37 so we go to 2.27 but our enemies got there before us at 2.17, and this continues, and if we do not succeed it will be the end of the world, or if we do succeed, but in the wrong way, it will still be the end of the world, but we somehow beat the paradox - thank goodness for the oneiric ellipsis - and we are running through the dark and green lanes, and driving, and then my ex is there, and there is a shinglebeach, horseshoe shaped, very high and very steep, like a cliff of marbles, russet rubble, orange, purple, red, my youngest slipping away, my fingers nerveless, my ex not helping, my youngest slipping and lurching further into the avalance and my fingers refusing to clench tighter as millimetre by millimetre his slender wrist…

They sleep: pewter tankards, glass-bottomed to espy your enemy’s approach as you drain your cup. That dim shape, seen darkly, raises it thus its hand in threat or greeting? Or a window to catch the glint of the Queen’s Shilling slipped for sly solicitation to the ranks. All stories are lies. Nothing is true and everything is permitted as the old man said. Be careful how you sit down. A bookshelf, covered with dust and cobwebs, all the words unread. I scan the titles: The Optical Consciousness, Krauss; Moby Dick, Melville; De Anima, Aristotle; A Journey Through Ruins, Wright; The Secret Life of Trees, Tudge; Mary and Maria, Wollstonecraft; Matilda, Shelley; Mr Palomar, Calvino; Daybreak, Nietzsche; In Praise of Folly, Erasmus; The Greeks and the Irrational, Dodds; The Bardic Apostles of Innisfree, Tansey; Le Square, Duras; Madness & Civilisation, Foucault; Mrs Dalloway, Woolf; Murphy, Beckett; Les Liasons Dangereuses, Laclos. What does the life of a man require? Food, shelter, and culture. The last is why all materially-based political systems will ultimately fail, ha ha. Since the caves, since the caves, my friend, culture has been the concomitant of consciousness…

She sleeps: and the darkness grows and I am not afraid to walk in the shadow although my lover wants to live and is frightened which shocks me and I want to touch my daughter but she is out of reach and I am holding a bottle of wine and I want to suggest we all drink to the end of all things but it is tucked under my arm and the darkness is growing we clutch each other but I cannot reach my daughter and I discard the wine and I still cannot reach and then there is a sudden blast…

They shock awake, lock arms tight around each others necks and when their hearts slacken their pounding, they murmur their nightmares softly in each others ear. Her head spins with the echo of the blast, and he finds he has been sleeping on his nerveless arm. Gradually all demons, shapes, portents, threats and confusion drift away from them, and they reluctantly return to sleep.

Monday, 13 August 2012

It's just one of those nights.

The house is full of ghosts. It is full of ghosts. The house ghost-filled. Full. Ghosts yammering and stammering. Guilty ghosts and ghosts of guilt. Ghosts that tell me I did wrong and should suffer. Ghosts of suffering, ghosts that sing of suffrage. I ignore them. I ignore them. I ignore them while I stammer and stutter while listening to their yammer and stammer. They came when I was left alone to my madness. They have never left. They came when I was left alone. They came when I was truly left alone, with no path left but to leave to be alone. They yammer incessantly. Ceaseless is their incessant yammer. It is a babble without cease, in Babel voices, yammering and stammering and blammering and crammering till my brain is so full I cannot for the life of me think nor blink nor stink nor wink. No joke this. This yoke is no joke. I have been stripped by experience. Caustic experience coruscates at a distance, and cauterises, and flays. Who can joke when they are a tissue of blood? Is it that? It could be more. Is it that? It could be more. Love. I fell in love for the first time. We are apart again. The voices, the ghosts, the incessant, unceasing, yammering ghosts, they gnaw my brain, they dig their teeth into my grey blancmange, they suck my lobes, and they lascive over my poor coils of brain-turd. Love. We are having a holiday, love and I. So the ghosts think they can come back. They are here. Herewith, a billion paranoid fantasies of hideousness: my children burning to death, the world dying, every good man and woman being turned out into hell, the caryatids shrugging off their buildings. The yammer is loud, as loud as tintinabulations of pandemonium. Guilt. I wilt and walk on broken stilts, just to keep my head above the shit-bells, that strike with a fart as the clapper swings like a turd about to drop. What now, brown cow? Distract yourself by pat-flinging at the ghastly, ghostly fetes? Ignore the noises. Ignore the guilt. Ghosts are guilt. Love is the antidote. I am useless here. I have no purpose here. The ghosts say die. I say there will be a day. The ghosts shout Die. Can someone prescribe me an exorcist? I know one, and she loves me, but I need her more than she needs me. I owe her a holiday, and a cock to Asclepius. Silence, ghosts. Be quiet. Leave me alone. My children turning into fiends. My youngest a yob. My fault. I left. I didn't stay to kill myself. Die you bastard. It must have been a ghost made me say that. Turds. Children. Guilt. Ghosts. Love.

Thursday, 28 June 2012

My Lover Is A Genius

(I was rather inebriated when I wrote this, tired to the bone, not expecting to sleep, and an sich, this is a rather sentimental post. But as it is a big-up for the Mamanski, let it stand, and yes, I have slept on it. She will murder me later.)
My lover is a genius. Well, of course, we'd never have managed the two plus years if she wasn't. But she is. I hope she will publish her twenty-year old dissertation soon. She was asked by the Wellcome Trust on the strength of it to do a fully paid PhD. She turned it down - she had Barbados in her sights. Fair enough. But I've read it, and it is bloody good. Humbles me. Put it that way. (He said, oh so humbly.)

All I can say is that at least when she was in her early twenties, she was horrifically clever. I thought I was a wise one. Humbled to pieces in comparison. Not the cause of love by any means, but part of the foundations.

I hope and mistrust I'm a match for her now. It is very good to be with someone who fits the cranky segments of one's intellect. But Mrs Maman, the Nameless Waif... clever to the point of insanity... poor as a church mouse... creative as a nuclear explosion in a paint shop. And as devastating. She is among the most amazing people I've met in my 41 (almost) years. (Yes, you too, Kate. That will never vanish. Enough said, and can always be taken for granted.) Forgive me, but I need to sing her praises for once.

She paints like an angel. We are going to try to make it work. I'm going to do the grotty, and she is going to do nothing but paint.. Website coming soon. Watch this space, etc. But if she sells anything, it will be measured in K's, not Monkeys, and crystal skulls can be inserted in a certain orifice not a million miles away from Chalford. I know enough about art to state that.

Have a preview, and goodnight:

The Triumph of Pan, Biro on Cartridge Paper, Approx 150 cm x 57 cm. 2002. Not for Sale.

Friday, 22 June 2012

Akrasia and Rationality

“No one goes willingly toward the bad” ~ Socrates, in Plato’s Protagoras.

Yes they do, they do it all the time, constantly, be it through drink, drugs, cigarettes, cutting off their very noses, or even killing themselves. But there is always a good reason for it.

Akrasia means the state of not being in control of oneself, and acting against ones best interests. It encapsulates that state of mind that forces our unwilling witnesses to scratch their heads, and ask Why?

Everything in the universe is ultimately rational. The Enlightenment was correct on that score, at least. The problem is, for us, to see rationality in human-sized lumps. We cannot grasp quantum mechanics or bubble-universe theory as our broken spar in this stormy sea. No solace there, even if the indescribable scribble of numbers can adequately explain existence.

No, we need ‘truths’ to be palatable. I cannot eat an ox at one gulp. Scale is the thing. Akratic perspective: an act that seems crazy makes sense when you broaden your viewpoint. Lie on the ground in a riot, and it all seems senseless, chaotic, the feet flashing by hither and thither in a tumult of madness. Recline on a lofty peak, and see the currents of sense, flight, fight, tremulously rippling through the dynamics of that crowd.

Simplest example:

A) I smoke. It is killing me.

B) Why? That’s crazy.

A) It helps me avoid killing myself.

B) That’s even crazier!

A) Blame the history of the universe for that, my friend.

Ah, see, scale again. I could blame parents. I could blame grandparents. Great-grandparents. I could blame the Wars, both I & II and every one before. Not good enough - not personal enough.

Take a recent example. I and my lover only spend half our time together out of practical necessity due to family and geography. We cope with being apart with a variety of fictions: the need for space, freedom, emancipation from the tired old institutions tainted with gendered property-ownership etc etc ad nauseum. These are all useful lies, and sometimes half-truths too. They are actually very positive and virtuous (in a modern sense) ideals. However. We sometimes unconsciously punish each other for the fact of being apart. So natural, and so counter productive. Why?

Rationality says: because you are communicating your anguish against your better judgement. It would be better if you both were honest and clear about your emotions, but the practical nature of life means the pasteboard fictions are better, easier crutches to lean on, despite the negatives that bite your feet in the murky, turbulent waters.

It is grotty to realise that we go through life as if it is a game. We know the rules are arbitrary. We know we are strutting on a stage. We know there are a couple of shelled-crab-creatures, naked and whimpering under the sun and the beaks of the stabbing birds. Pretence is a survival instinct, despite the lie.

Oh Walter Raleigh, where are you for our times?

Enough. Take care all. X


by: Sir Walter Raleigh

O, Soul, the body's guest,
Upon a thankless arrant!
Fear not to touch the best;
The truth shall be thy warrant:
Go, since I needs must die,
And give the world the lie.

Say to the court it glows
And shines like rotten wood;
Say to the church it shows
What's good, and doth no good:
If court and church reply,
Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' action,
Not loved unless they give,
Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition
That manage the estate,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practice only hate:
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
Who, in their greatest cost,
Seek nothing but commending:
And if they make reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;
Tell love it is but lust;
Tell time it is but motion;
Tell flesh it is but dust:
And wish them not reply,
For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honor how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favor how she falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles
Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;
Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming:
If arts and school reply,
Give arts and school the lie.

Tell faith it fled the city;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell manhood shakes off pity;
Tell virtue least preferreth:
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.

So when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,--
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing,--
Stab at thee, he that will,
No stab the soul can kill.

Saturday, 26 May 2012

Sur La Fil and Sent to Coventry by Heidegger

Is breaking down on the Coventry ringroad the most depressing place on earth to do so? The few hours I spent there in a dead car, working out what to do, and not having any answers, being broke, bonkers and generally suffering from the psychic buboes, were not the most pleasant, indeed, living as I do on this tightrope of circumstance, one week up north, one week down south, made possible by a combination of kindness, mutual cooperation, manic-depressive state-funding and general goodwill was rivetted brutally through nipples, cock, eyeballs and soul, and while the lorries pulled in and out, and I contemplated change, and that spiritually, in a Heideggerian sense, I *dwelled* in a Coventry lay-by, being the halfway point, the zenith, or rather, nadir of that hundred and sixty miles I traverse each week for love of lover and love of children... I seem to have lost my thread-

Sur la fil. Sur la fil. On the wire. Somehow, I've survived two years of this, with varying degrees of success and failure. My meditations in that lay-by, while waiting for the breakdown lorry (of course I had no cover) gave rise to a question that has simmered and nagged and pustulated in my heart seemingly for all time now: where do I live, and when can I declare to myself I *dwell* here, or there.

My life is truly split. I *dwell* in two places. Here, lying naked in the garden this sunny saturday, the children busying around, typing this shite. There, up north, piecing my life together in a new form. I think it's thereapeutic. I daresay it must be therapeutic.

My old car, now dead, now hopefully ripped and crushed and mangled for being a treacherous lump of metal... I can say I didn't treat it well. It was my splitting car. It saw more tears, more shouting, more suicidal drives and recklessness and harsh treatment than any car deserves. I don't blame it for dying on me. I murdered it.

When it was dead, and I was stranded in the south, I argued with both my lover and my ex. Why did I need a car? (A thousand practical reasons. All true.) But the car (or the next car, the theoretical car now made ominous steel flesh here in actuality) symbolises this precarious stasis. Why can't I just accept that my life is torn in a way many might envy? Because I'm not like that. Astrology is bunk, but I am pure home-loving affectionate Cancer. ("Too true," my harem chorus.)

I can tell myself I *dwell* north AND south. But each absence of the other hollows me out. I have stretches of time (bizarre concept, infinitely provoking and malleable) when I cope well with it. Other times it is pure torture.

The thing is, dear reader, I am two people. There is a free-spirit, (yes all-too-dangerously-free yawn yawn), and there is a fucking traditional well-socialised actor, and they fight continuously. The polygam and the monogam are locked in an eternal argument. I'm writing from the gap in-between.

If I can only interpret my life as happiness, then I am happy. But it's tough, and I've fallen off my tightrope, and have only been reinstated by the kindness of the women who care for my continued balancing act.

This isn't sour grapes. By no means. Either I will learn and change and accept, or some crisis (perhaps eagerly awaited) will inculcate decision. But for now, I have to keep balancing.

"Life is on the wire. The rest is just waiting." Karl Wallenda.

Obligatory 'trigger warning': he falls off and dies.

So, foolish man, keep balancing, keep walking. If you fall off, it won't matter then. Enjoy life!

Tuesday, 22 May 2012


Two poorly boys. One with the pox, one with a cold.

What else is happening here? Finally, after six months of black and slime, the last two months have been good. The sun has finally come out. I spent £450 £600 on the bloody car last week and it's repaid me by dying yesterday. Can't afford a new one! Don't know the prognosis yet. So, naked sunbathing, and a walk this afternoon. What else to do but enjoy until everything cascades upon one's all-too-battered head?

Hope you're all well. atb D