I remember when I scratched fret one.
In my heart and soul I didnt care,
the mirror grimaced at what I'd done,
Then returned my impassive stare.
One absent minded night at home,
strumming to death when drunk and alone.
Stared at the mirror, lost in its eyes.
Frustrated more with each sound I made,
And watching the dawn's sun slowly rise.
A finale on the 2nd fret,
a bent and broken string.
That came too early on the 2nd song
For me to let the talent ring,
Onstage on trial and everything.
(As I sang my final note,
And find the me that others see,
the me I dont know how to be,
The reflection in the mirror.)
The 3rd fret grazed by love.
No need for details here.
But playing on the strings of love,
And my guitar was too near.
This scratch I hold dear.
The 4th fret slightly out of shape,
A compromise from overwork,
Just playing wear into the wood,
Worn down by songs misunderstood,
Not playing music like I should,
My gift to the guitar.
The fifth fret forked with sadness.
Bent the notes of the loss of love,
that fill the heart with emptiness.
Reminds of times of lonelyness.
The sadness of a midwinter day,
Of all those words I had to say.
Learned to grow, and to live on,
And how to write the saddest songs.
Everything I need to know,
tattooed into that little groove.
Fret number six stands out unmarked,
A testament to composition,
A proud and varnished inch of wood,
From my rare moments of precision.
No story in its unmarked state,
No scratch or tear or hurt to date.
Fret number seven, lucky,
Just a little scorched black graze,
A falling rock fell from above,
While I was in a daze.
And branded my mark forever with
Reminders of a smokey haze,
Of how I passed those college days.
Fret eight marks out my first bad song,
A minor thing, a little flourish,
The memory of which long since gone.
A memory I'd never cherish,
A song of pain written alone, of
My eyes lost on a little thing,
A little pretty aged 16 thing,
Not a girl but an evil dream,
A paradigm of how love seemed,
Till she ripped my young heart out
And asked me to forgive her
but still she was a bitch,
And still I have my guitar.
Fret nine and ten and on again,
Tell tales of more recent times,
Coming to terms with the world of men,
Of rights I never saw in rhyme,
Of ups and downs since adulthood,
And fights I had no right to fight.
Up to twelve, beyond and flying,
A solo time in life and dreams,
With 22 frets for 22 years,
22 stories, and 22 dreams,
None to fruition, and none are dead,
I'm not behind but neither ahead.
But these grazes are why I play songs,
A memory I play on and on,
How each mark on my guitar,
Tells the tale of my life so far,
My silent brother in my arms,
When we fall we'll fall together,
What I've forgotten my guitar remembers.
Dendrite Squash
I just poured sugar on my chips. From a sugar jar, versus salt from a salt cellar. There could be no way of rationally confusing the two. This is after losing my mobile phone battery for 20 minutes before checking my mobile to see if it was there. I have also had a combined total of fuck all sleep in the last three days on top of a weekend consisting entirely of sleeping. I've been on three calls this morning where I realised about 5 minutes in that I had no idea what I was saying, and I had even less idea why the customer called in the first place. Honest to God Im not stupid, and this is not a regular thing for me. I don't quite know whats going on. I think my mind is just permanently elsewhere today. Its not letting me be easygoing, and even though I have all the will in the world, I still feel an irrational anger and fear rise from me, taking over any ambition I had to relax, to learn to take it easy, to let things be.
Believe me, I could start listing the things that are pissing me off now and not stop for about three hours, but thats true every day, not just today, so why the sugarring chips? And why the irrational mobile phone battery hunt? And why cant i do my job?
My brain is more than scattered today, It's more than random mind distortion brought about by lack of sleep and the most unsettled home and work life since Fred Flintstone got a new pet T-rex.
If you dont see me soon it'll be because my head will most likely soon explode. Literally explode. Fuelled by continuous chemical reactions from months of warring and ulcerous emotions misfiring around my head. Feelings are locking arms to battle and murder other emotions, mating and creating new nasty emotions, cheating on emotions, stealing, murdering, begging to be the evil King nasty emotion of my newly rotten and evil head. Months of pressure and anger, worry and care, worsening attitudes, jealousy, impatience, annoyance, regret, fear of the future fear of the past, wondering what might have been and hatred has finally ended its battle royale and exploded randomly as I was walking to or from someplace unimportant. just nothing and then BLAAM! Spewing out cognitive mush, deep fried brain bits, dendrite squash, and lumps of bloody skull in every direction, creating a fifteen feet arc of nick blood like a geyser losing its virginity with a satisfying Squwoosh Splatter sound that covers everyone and thing near me at the time with the last of my life juice and creating stains that will never clean or come out.
Believe me, I could start listing the things that are pissing me off now and not stop for about three hours, but thats true every day, not just today, so why the sugarring chips? And why the irrational mobile phone battery hunt? And why cant i do my job?
My brain is more than scattered today, It's more than random mind distortion brought about by lack of sleep and the most unsettled home and work life since Fred Flintstone got a new pet T-rex.
If you dont see me soon it'll be because my head will most likely soon explode. Literally explode. Fuelled by continuous chemical reactions from months of warring and ulcerous emotions misfiring around my head. Feelings are locking arms to battle and murder other emotions, mating and creating new nasty emotions, cheating on emotions, stealing, murdering, begging to be the evil King nasty emotion of my newly rotten and evil head. Months of pressure and anger, worry and care, worsening attitudes, jealousy, impatience, annoyance, regret, fear of the future fear of the past, wondering what might have been and hatred has finally ended its battle royale and exploded randomly as I was walking to or from someplace unimportant. just nothing and then BLAAM! Spewing out cognitive mush, deep fried brain bits, dendrite squash, and lumps of bloody skull in every direction, creating a fifteen feet arc of nick blood like a geyser losing its virginity with a satisfying Squwoosh Splatter sound that covers everyone and thing near me at the time with the last of my life juice and creating stains that will never clean or come out.
Good reason not to fall asleep on a Mobile phone mast on top of a tall building when you're incredibly totally wasted.
Woke up incredibly late. I just lay there. My mind was bruised, thoughts still soggy from last night. Last night. I closed my eyes and tried to let my thoughts marinate for a few minutes. Tried to put a clear picture of the night before in my head. I rolled over and rubbed my eyes, and decided I had to force myself up, had to go to the bathroom. I put both feet down and jumped off the bed, looking for ground. I never found it.
In the 3.8 seconds before I spread my remains over three streets, seventeen cars and an unfortunate letterbox I could only think one thing... "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh."
In the 3.8 seconds before I spread my remains over three streets, seventeen cars and an unfortunate letterbox I could only think one thing... "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeh."
Apologies
He turned, looked up, and apologised.
Stared at the heads in front of him
Dreamt of the hatred he felt for them.
As all life ran from his drawn pale eyes.
Until there was no life left.
And he knew, without telling to a soul
That there was no coming back from this.
He clenched and unclenched his wrinkled fist.
But theres no power left, from the tip to the wrist
And no time left to ever make his mark.
What have these hands built? Nothing.
What will they ever build? Nothing.
Once had the power of the world in my palm.
And cradled it, with the world, in his arms.
But now in my grip I have nothing.
Stared at the heads in front of him
Dreamt of the hatred he felt for them.
As all life ran from his drawn pale eyes.
Until there was no life left.
And he knew, without telling to a soul
That there was no coming back from this.
He clenched and unclenched his wrinkled fist.
But theres no power left, from the tip to the wrist
And no time left to ever make his mark.
What have these hands built? Nothing.
What will they ever build? Nothing.
Once had the power of the world in my palm.
And cradled it, with the world, in his arms.
But now in my grip I have nothing.
What do you REALLY want?
Just walking to work and was pondering a couple of different dream of ideas regarding the kind of writing I want to do.
I wonder about the books that speak to us the most. The books that we read and re-read and fall in love with more as we learn more. Im talking about for me, On the Road, the Great Gatsby, The Bell Jar, 1984, Brave New world, the big stuff. But everyone has different tastes. For example, ten million trillion years of solitude, I hated that book. It was so whiny, so hung up on vivid description and developing imagery and preporting to Steinbeck style writings that make me want to burn books. Nothing happens. I cried, I wailed, I moaned. I made sucking noises. I laughed, I put the book in the bathroom for TP emergencies. What I look for in books is ideas, real characters. Nervous, stuttering drunken fools who have it in their power to enlighten the world through their own stumbling path through life. Holden Caulfield for example. I can see where he's coming from. I like characters that hurt themselves. Characters that lead real lives. Characters that realise the hopelessness and helplessness that is always only two seconds away is a natural state and isnt right. Thats why I think the only way to write really personally is in first person. I hate reading the likes of "Goerge looked up and then down the street into the sun. He was musing on what to do now, ideas flicking through his misdirected mind, looking for a hit, but none was coming." I am talking about third person narrative here. It sounds like lies to me. How does the author know what this person is thinking? You need a point of reference. A book needs a voice, a single minds thoughts used as a pair of eyes to view the world through, and when writing in the third person you cant generally acheive that. It loses the message and confuses people. Too often it ends up with a book falling down because the author is trying to personalise every character, view life from everyones eyes, and gets so obsessed with how everyone acts and reacts internally, that nothing actually happens. I hate that. I need books to flow, books that you read as fast as you possibly can. Books that tell you how real people think.
I need a six pack and a day off.
I need to do something with my life. I need to work out more and stop sweating and worrying so much. I really should stop dreaming and start writing. I need to work on my CV. yeah, get it out to agencies and get a kickass job. I need to learn to drive, and if I do, I need to get a better car. I need to get out of Limerick, start going out, stop smoking, stop drinking so much, start eating healthier, Get the groceries, poop, have a fag and get some lunch before I starve. Deep breaths.
I wonder about the books that speak to us the most. The books that we read and re-read and fall in love with more as we learn more. Im talking about for me, On the Road, the Great Gatsby, The Bell Jar, 1984, Brave New world, the big stuff. But everyone has different tastes. For example, ten million trillion years of solitude, I hated that book. It was so whiny, so hung up on vivid description and developing imagery and preporting to Steinbeck style writings that make me want to burn books. Nothing happens. I cried, I wailed, I moaned. I made sucking noises. I laughed, I put the book in the bathroom for TP emergencies. What I look for in books is ideas, real characters. Nervous, stuttering drunken fools who have it in their power to enlighten the world through their own stumbling path through life. Holden Caulfield for example. I can see where he's coming from. I like characters that hurt themselves. Characters that lead real lives. Characters that realise the hopelessness and helplessness that is always only two seconds away is a natural state and isnt right. Thats why I think the only way to write really personally is in first person. I hate reading the likes of "Goerge looked up and then down the street into the sun. He was musing on what to do now, ideas flicking through his misdirected mind, looking for a hit, but none was coming." I am talking about third person narrative here. It sounds like lies to me. How does the author know what this person is thinking? You need a point of reference. A book needs a voice, a single minds thoughts used as a pair of eyes to view the world through, and when writing in the third person you cant generally acheive that. It loses the message and confuses people. Too often it ends up with a book falling down because the author is trying to personalise every character, view life from everyones eyes, and gets so obsessed with how everyone acts and reacts internally, that nothing actually happens. I hate that. I need books to flow, books that you read as fast as you possibly can. Books that tell you how real people think.
I need a six pack and a day off.
I need to do something with my life. I need to work out more and stop sweating and worrying so much. I really should stop dreaming and start writing. I need to work on my CV. yeah, get it out to agencies and get a kickass job. I need to learn to drive, and if I do, I need to get a better car. I need to get out of Limerick, start going out, stop smoking, stop drinking so much, start eating healthier, Get the groceries, poop, have a fag and get some lunch before I starve. Deep breaths.
What the fuck is so fucking interesting about some cunt buying a football club?
Ever since I had any interest in sport I have been a manchester united fan. It was Mark Hughes' fault. He scored an impossible goal against Oldham in the FA Cup Semi final in the last minute of extra time to bring man united back to one one and force the game to a replay. Pretty much one of those most intense moments that can happen in soccer, when the will of millions of people seems to push the ball into the goal, just from the desperation of needing it to happen so much. I still get the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up thinking of it. It was the goal that started the United domination of the nineties, because they had won fuck all decent for about 20 years before it. (they went on to win everything.) But it seems to me that there is no point anymore. And I'm not saying this because of the Glazer takeover and all this shit about buying and selling the theatre of dreams. I was a compulsive fan, watching entire matches through the medium of teletext, living in a Utd shirt, measuring my loyalty based on the amount of gear I had. If United won I was elated in the playground, If united lost, I didnt want to show my face at school. Basically, I was in love with football. But I dont blame Glazer for changing me into someone who takes a fleeting look at the score in the newspaper the next day. I dont blame him at all. I blame Chelsea, and Roman Abronovich particularly.
We used to have football teams where a few of the players were actually developed by the team. Soccer players were from the towns that they played in. They loved their club and stuck by them. And of course, nobody really ever minds when the club splashes out 20 million on some amazing striker or other and the team gets better. But this day is over. Now we have football club PLC's, companies, with goal number one being the money made on match day, not the number of scores in a game. Man Utd were definitely at least partly responsible for this trend. But the general theory is that the business side of things should never intermingle with the pitch side of things, what goes on in the boardroom doesnt have any impact on what squad is picked and how a team plays. Business is not football... But this is not the case anymore. We'll take one example, Man Utd buying Tim Howard, their american "goalkeeper". I was actually over in America when they signed this guy, and at the time, there was a huge deal about the NBA and its practices relating to player transfers. here was an outcry because more and more teams were bringing in European players to play basketball, purely to raise the profile of the basketball team in Europe. Instead of the basketball team buying the best player, they went out and got the most marketable player, the player that would do the best for the bank book and not the team. This was widely condemned and this process has been stopped. So in the middle of all this basketball fury, a few weeks before Man Utd signed the Yank keeper, I was in San Francisco, and incredibly surprised to see a large number of Man Utd jerseys all over the place! More shocked again when I found out that Man U were doing a publicity tour of America and playing 4 or 5 games across the US. Then magically they bought an American soccer player not more than a month later! The signing of Tim Howard was a business decision alone. The man was bought to raise United's profile in America, to sell more gear and get more money. As everyone with a passing interest knows, this guy is a shit goalkeeper. (This in itself is barely remarkable considering that very very few American soccer players are worth two shits.) So there we go, not soccer anymore, but a show for money. And now its come full circle. And here's where i get back to bitching about Chelsea football club. Roman showed up, and wanted a new toy. This guy is so rich he makes Malcolm Glazer look like a grant getting student. He bought chelsea as a hobby shop, something to sink a billion pounds or so in for the laugh. He signed an entire new team of players. The cream of europe suddenly flying in to play for one of the most spineless teams of the nineties, widely regarded as a bunch of soft southern Nonses that the rich guys in London supported. For Gods sake, John Major supports Chelsea. So Roman just bought a team, took them over and funded every crazy wage request, every insane transfer that the manager wanted, just bank rolled the club until they were the best. Why the fuck did a bunch of poofs like chelsea deserve to win the equivalent of the soccer lottery? It could have been any team. But now he has bankrolled the new dominant force in English football, and spat in the face of any fan who has seen their team struggle, and inadvertently taken away my love of football, because when business and football started to mix, it just makes the game worse and leaves a bad taste in all of our mouths. So there's a fuck load of clubs that are trying a hell of a lot harder than the likes of Chelsea and Man U, and along come the big guns and just say, fuck football, its the show that bankrolls the dollars, we'll fuck tradition, buy the absolute best cos we can, and fuck every other football team that loses money, goes bankrupt etc. because of what we do. So when one business has some new assets, their competitors need to improve theirs, so now there is nothing but a money culture, and all it ever does is fuck with games, ruin football, and make fans ashamed of their teams. And I know it wasnt all Roman's fault, but his was the final nail. I fucking despise chelsea, to wishing an air disaster on them size proportions. And Roman, why the fuck could you not just have fucking bought a soccer video game and been happy and not bankrolled the final nail in the coffin of my love of the game, you evil Russian shit.
We used to have football teams where a few of the players were actually developed by the team. Soccer players were from the towns that they played in. They loved their club and stuck by them. And of course, nobody really ever minds when the club splashes out 20 million on some amazing striker or other and the team gets better. But this day is over. Now we have football club PLC's, companies, with goal number one being the money made on match day, not the number of scores in a game. Man Utd were definitely at least partly responsible for this trend. But the general theory is that the business side of things should never intermingle with the pitch side of things, what goes on in the boardroom doesnt have any impact on what squad is picked and how a team plays. Business is not football... But this is not the case anymore. We'll take one example, Man Utd buying Tim Howard, their american "goalkeeper". I was actually over in America when they signed this guy, and at the time, there was a huge deal about the NBA and its practices relating to player transfers. here was an outcry because more and more teams were bringing in European players to play basketball, purely to raise the profile of the basketball team in Europe. Instead of the basketball team buying the best player, they went out and got the most marketable player, the player that would do the best for the bank book and not the team. This was widely condemned and this process has been stopped. So in the middle of all this basketball fury, a few weeks before Man Utd signed the Yank keeper, I was in San Francisco, and incredibly surprised to see a large number of Man Utd jerseys all over the place! More shocked again when I found out that Man U were doing a publicity tour of America and playing 4 or 5 games across the US. Then magically they bought an American soccer player not more than a month later! The signing of Tim Howard was a business decision alone. The man was bought to raise United's profile in America, to sell more gear and get more money. As everyone with a passing interest knows, this guy is a shit goalkeeper. (This in itself is barely remarkable considering that very very few American soccer players are worth two shits.) So there we go, not soccer anymore, but a show for money. And now its come full circle. And here's where i get back to bitching about Chelsea football club. Roman showed up, and wanted a new toy. This guy is so rich he makes Malcolm Glazer look like a grant getting student. He bought chelsea as a hobby shop, something to sink a billion pounds or so in for the laugh. He signed an entire new team of players. The cream of europe suddenly flying in to play for one of the most spineless teams of the nineties, widely regarded as a bunch of soft southern Nonses that the rich guys in London supported. For Gods sake, John Major supports Chelsea. So Roman just bought a team, took them over and funded every crazy wage request, every insane transfer that the manager wanted, just bank rolled the club until they were the best. Why the fuck did a bunch of poofs like chelsea deserve to win the equivalent of the soccer lottery? It could have been any team. But now he has bankrolled the new dominant force in English football, and spat in the face of any fan who has seen their team struggle, and inadvertently taken away my love of football, because when business and football started to mix, it just makes the game worse and leaves a bad taste in all of our mouths. So there's a fuck load of clubs that are trying a hell of a lot harder than the likes of Chelsea and Man U, and along come the big guns and just say, fuck football, its the show that bankrolls the dollars, we'll fuck tradition, buy the absolute best cos we can, and fuck every other football team that loses money, goes bankrupt etc. because of what we do. So when one business has some new assets, their competitors need to improve theirs, so now there is nothing but a money culture, and all it ever does is fuck with games, ruin football, and make fans ashamed of their teams. And I know it wasnt all Roman's fault, but his was the final nail. I fucking despise chelsea, to wishing an air disaster on them size proportions. And Roman, why the fuck could you not just have fucking bought a soccer video game and been happy and not bankrolled the final nail in the coffin of my love of the game, you evil Russian shit.
Nothingness
I'm quitting work. Soon. Well I hope so anyway.
Slowly killing me you see.
Need more time off than any job can give me I fear.
Just went into UL on the lunch break with some guys from work. Didnt realise how much I missed just having the freedom to make your own decisions about when you work.
Wanting to live the dream of doing... nothing!
Slowly killing me you see.
Need more time off than any job can give me I fear.
Just went into UL on the lunch break with some guys from work. Didnt realise how much I missed just having the freedom to make your own decisions about when you work.
Wanting to live the dream of doing... nothing!
I am soooooo bored.
Nothing ever seems to bore me more than anything to do with having to work till some god forsaken time on a tuesday evening in the middle of limerick. I work in a teeny tiny Industrial estate, without about 3 other people, two dogs, a tenacious window-loving spider and a large mountain to the left. So every tuesday evening I find myself here until, 6, 7, 8, 9 or 10 at night, and beyond boring, it sends me to a new panicky wave of infectuous freakout I like to call "spaz-tedium". Something out of the "Please jesus get me the hell out of here, I bet Im foaming at the mouth, how could I not be foaming at the mouth, ok breathe, relax, its not that long, its only JESUS FUCKING CHRIST I HAVE ANOTHER BASTARD HOUR AND A HALF LEFT and nothing to amuse myself and people will call and call and call and I'll have to work and work and oh for fuck sake" style of internal monologue. If I stare to my left, I can see a grey-black Clare mountain, a single street light and a car retardedly reversing back and forward like a demented see-saw. If I stare straight on, I can read about how buffalo flavoured crisps are suitable for vegetarians, If I stare to my right, the guy next to me can see the little bit of snot hanging low on the left nostril. About that snot, I have been trying to get rid of this thing for over an hour now. I have the tissue, I have the fingers and I have the time, its just that every time I move my hand, this guy turns towards me! This has been going on for so long now I think I've figured out the problem. I think our time killing games have overlapped. He is playing a little game whereby he is going to see if he can catch me getting the booger out before the end of work. Which is fine, we all need games to pass the day. But My game is to see if I can get out this snot without this guy seeing me before the end of work. And he's good at this too. Making my nasal excavation hand a bit sweaty. Its a bit of a stalemate.
New Pope Mobile driver wanted.
Just had a look at the new Pope's profile. He's 423 years old, which is as old as Noah. His first words were ""Dear brothers and sisters, after the great Pope John Paul II, the cardinals have elected me — a simple, humble worker in the vineyard of the Lord." Now these were his first words as a pope, not his first words as a human but still. Problem number one, even he thinks he's simple. The least fallible man on the planet is a bit simple. Problem number two, he has imaginary friends. And he mentioned vineyards, possible Popaholica there. Now in his past, this guy was in Hitler Youth. I suppose we cant knock that, it was like scouts in Germany at the time. Scouts that learned how to use guns and to hate all non-aryan races., that were brain washed by Hitler in the hope that they would fly the flag of Naziism in the future. That kind of scouts. And of course, the Jews in the middle of a tense stand-off in Isreal at the moment will be heartened to learn that the new leader of the Catholic church is a German who was around during the war... So what branches of Catholicism in the new world are happy that this cunt is the new pope? Thats right I said CUNT. Try it on for size. There's nothing like calling Mr. Infallible a total fucking Cunt, just cos there's no way I could be right, and Im insulting millions of people, I still think he's a cunt. This guy has already called every part of the catholic church except his own deificent. That means, you know what, post-conclave, you don't like this guy, he doesn't like you either. He thinks our church is deficient. He is insulting your beliefs! He has already slammed homosexuality and gay marriage, although that was the eighties, and every wannabe celeb was ok to queer bash away the pounds in the eighties. So basically, if you're gay, or not in his pious church (like me!!), he doesn't fucking want us anyway. Awww. Now you'll have to give up the buddy Christ and toss the prayer beads, because you can be damn damn damn sure the Pope doesnt like you. He is in truth a mean faced demon of an old tosser who has too few rolling around upstairs, and not much in the testicular fortitude department. He is a stop gap, a political decision by the catholic church, old conservative whining cunt, who won't change anything, can't change anything, and with a bit of luck, before anyone realises who the cock he is, he will have shuffled off to God's Hizzouse with Pope JP and the spider I flushed this morning. (Or was that a bit of beard?) Anyway, the new pope will change nothing, improve nothing, help nothing and he is not an infallible repersentative for God on earth, he's a miserable old fucking CUNT of a cocksucking CUNT who was elected to power as a matter of policy and spin by Vatican cardinals too old and staunch to realise that the world needs a change before the church becomes even more incidental than it already is. It's not Razzi's fault I suppose, he doesnt know he's a cunt. But when millions every year are dying of AIDS, dying, in their thousands, and this rich fat fucking turd in a ridiculously opulent mansion in the Vatican, who isnt having sex, has never had sex, and will never have sex is telling us that condoms are wrong, then it makes me sick to my stomach. The catholic church still has blood on its hands.
60 seconds of weird
Its hard to argle bargle nouse
With a sheeps cock in your mouth.
And if the sheep should come on you,
You'd spit and say "HA!" and "Moo!"
Cos that sheep deserves to be
Freaked by cowshit in his pee.
With a sheeps cock in your mouth.
And if the sheep should come on you,
You'd spit and say "HA!" and "Moo!"
Cos that sheep deserves to be
Freaked by cowshit in his pee.
New Format
Very dull sunday today. So I redesigned and cleaned house. The comments section is now sweeter, there's a bit more hyper linking and the nav is much smooter.
I think its like when a girl gets dumped and she like gets a completely radical haircut. My Blog is feeling Cumshat on. so it's thinking kinda like me, kinda like:
Im a pretty good version of the person you think I am.
I do a mean impression of someone who cares.
I think of all the things that you want me to think of,
But I dont want to be that person anymore.
I think its like when a girl gets dumped and she like gets a completely radical haircut. My Blog is feeling Cumshat on. so it's thinking kinda like me, kinda like:
Im a pretty good version of the person you think I am.
I do a mean impression of someone who cares.
I think of all the things that you want me to think of,
But I dont want to be that person anymore.
Ire
The hub-bub of voices stings at this stage. Up periscope for a second, poking my head out over my desk to stare at the expanse of office, bodies, calls, limbs and conversations. I cant pick out any individual words over the turmoil and noise anymore, I've stopped listening. Far far away, a million miles away and less than a tenth of a millimetre from my ear some voice is explaining some problem I dont care about and wont fix, can't in fact fix. My main compulsions are sleep, or bashing my forehead so hard off the keyboard that I loosen buttons and they get wedged onto my face, spelling out some word I can't see. Waiting and working like this feels like purgatory sometimes. It takes me a million miles away from home, from where I want to be.Sometimes, Its so hard to go and do this everyday and then return home and be productive in any way. Sometimes, I nearly sprint away, because Im so close to being free that it doesn't matter, I'll just fucking run home and have fun. But right now I finish work and Im still so far away from where I want to be that it doesnt fucking matter anyway. Work is fine, until anything at all gets in the way of the time when you're supposed to be free and unsober, and when you mix these tiny little insignificant snags, they really fuck your day up. When you are stuck in a cycle of stuff repeatedly fucking your day up you get pissed off. When you stay pissed off for long enough eventually people stop caring that you're pissed off. Why are you pissed off? Cos you're always pissed off. And all because of tiny things jumping up and down on the big things making them suck more. And all for the want of a hash shoe nail.
Walking after you.
My feet played a symphony on the broken cobbles. Crunch click, crunch click. It was all I could focus on as I was strolling towards home. Its like my brain wouldnt let me think big. Wouldnt let me figure anything out except Crunch Crunch Crunch, the sound of my feet on the gravel, all my weight pushing down on the world. Halfway from home as the drizzle rolls down my neck and fogs up my glasses. It was about half past twilight and the lack of light made the world that bit more depressing. I had been sharing this jaunt home with the Irish weather for the past six months, the subdued lollop home from work. I stared down at my pants, the slow crawl of a muddy stain up my left leg. I was watching it grow, My newest pet.
I was about to pass by the window. About equidistant from home and work, there was a random window, 2nd floor, far left in a group of 3 adjoined houses. The bushes under it in the garden were empty of leaves, and its skeleton seemed to be pointing up at the window; this is maybe why sub-consciously I chose that one, but every day I would pass it and look up, hoping that one day the curtain would be open, that one day my millions of questions about its owner would be answered. That maybe each time I would look up there was someone looking back through the tiniest crack in the curtains, that maybe I was sharing a secret smile with a someone, that maybe someone would emerge, a hand, a tiny move in the curtain. I looked up, and it stood again, impassive and unmoving, large and awkward. I hated being a dreamer. I walked on and cursed my imagination.
Was thinking about this old badge I used to have. "I like the pope, the pope smokes dope" as the man himself was busy checking out in the Vatican. I couldnt even tally how my night was going to go, and there's pontiff, choking and coughing and pulling himself slowly up to heaven. Like a kid on a gym rope, one foot in front of the other, and no looking back, because there is no coming back. Him and Prince Rainier. Would be hand in hand, but you know how the church feels about homosexuals. But every time that the church even mentions homosexuals, they spout on about sex before marriage, co-habiting before marriage, artificial contraception, and a million other things we do outside of marriage that everyone everywhere does. But the pope makes a speech slamming us for it, and the next day you pick up a newspaper and all you read is "Pope slams homosexuality", or "Catholic church slams gay marriage." Why do they never say "Pope slams gay marriage, and also 99% of heterosexual activity all over the world. Why cant they be honest about it?
Prince big ears is getting married to Queen horse face too, and we just don't care do we? All these old world rock stars who have simply stopped mattering and are bowing out one after another, choking and croaking their way to history books whilst we worship, well, drugs and druggies. I wish there were some more answers out there tonight, more than the sound of my feet, more than the wait for a drink and chasing that feeling that we love but can never ever hope to describe. The cocktail to make my head spin, the dreams wrapped inside intoxication. Short way from home and I hear a dull banging sound. I glance around, quickly, because why would anyone bang at me? I see nothing, nobody, no door opening or light on at a window, just a car in a drive, and the thump thump again. It could be coming from there, but walking is disorienting and i cant tell for sure where the noise is coming from. Even as the noise stops, I get flashes in my head of a prisoner trapped in the boot, or a hostage struggling for escape, frantically thumping the car in the vain hope that anyone would hear. I walk on, step inside the door as I hear a car horn sound in the distance, close the door and begin my evening.
I was about to pass by the window. About equidistant from home and work, there was a random window, 2nd floor, far left in a group of 3 adjoined houses. The bushes under it in the garden were empty of leaves, and its skeleton seemed to be pointing up at the window; this is maybe why sub-consciously I chose that one, but every day I would pass it and look up, hoping that one day the curtain would be open, that one day my millions of questions about its owner would be answered. That maybe each time I would look up there was someone looking back through the tiniest crack in the curtains, that maybe I was sharing a secret smile with a someone, that maybe someone would emerge, a hand, a tiny move in the curtain. I looked up, and it stood again, impassive and unmoving, large and awkward. I hated being a dreamer. I walked on and cursed my imagination.
Was thinking about this old badge I used to have. "I like the pope, the pope smokes dope" as the man himself was busy checking out in the Vatican. I couldnt even tally how my night was going to go, and there's pontiff, choking and coughing and pulling himself slowly up to heaven. Like a kid on a gym rope, one foot in front of the other, and no looking back, because there is no coming back. Him and Prince Rainier. Would be hand in hand, but you know how the church feels about homosexuals. But every time that the church even mentions homosexuals, they spout on about sex before marriage, co-habiting before marriage, artificial contraception, and a million other things we do outside of marriage that everyone everywhere does. But the pope makes a speech slamming us for it, and the next day you pick up a newspaper and all you read is "Pope slams homosexuality", or "Catholic church slams gay marriage." Why do they never say "Pope slams gay marriage, and also 99% of heterosexual activity all over the world. Why cant they be honest about it?
Prince big ears is getting married to Queen horse face too, and we just don't care do we? All these old world rock stars who have simply stopped mattering and are bowing out one after another, choking and croaking their way to history books whilst we worship, well, drugs and druggies. I wish there were some more answers out there tonight, more than the sound of my feet, more than the wait for a drink and chasing that feeling that we love but can never ever hope to describe. The cocktail to make my head spin, the dreams wrapped inside intoxication. Short way from home and I hear a dull banging sound. I glance around, quickly, because why would anyone bang at me? I see nothing, nobody, no door opening or light on at a window, just a car in a drive, and the thump thump again. It could be coming from there, but walking is disorienting and i cant tell for sure where the noise is coming from. Even as the noise stops, I get flashes in my head of a prisoner trapped in the boot, or a hostage struggling for escape, frantically thumping the car in the vain hope that anyone would hear. I walk on, step inside the door as I hear a car horn sound in the distance, close the door and begin my evening.
1 minute of weird
Starts....... now!
There is no future like your future when you wake up on your day off at half two in the afternoon, have frosties for breakfast and then cant leave the house until you iron your simpsons socks. Im logging off now. No more work for me. Till tomorow, Let me introduce you
There is no future like your future when you wake up on your day off at half two in the afternoon, have frosties for breakfast and then cant leave the house until you iron your simpsons socks. Im logging off now. No more work for me. Till tomorow, Let me introduce you
Whatever the fuck you mean to say, say it.
Im also in two minds about how to proceed with this Bloggy wog thing. I mean, am I really getting anything out of it? I suppose I am feeding the desire to write that used to flow up my spine and into my brain so furiously, but I dont even know it thats worth fuelling anymore. Im sitting here, aged 21, too close to 22, tapping away but completely and totally nowhere in the wordsmith stakes. Where before I would have had vision, and statements I wanted to make as an author, commentator, hell even as a zeitgiest. But that seems to have dried up like a two month old dog shit. In fact if anything, Im more lost now than when i was 16 and used to spend hours just writing, the post-teen equivalent of playing with crayons or finger paint. So basically what this blog is doing for me is a metaphorical grip on my neck, ferociously wanking my mind. But maybe its time for another pursuit. Or another way of looking at things. I dont want to end the dream, the great goal I have always had to write, but I just dont see how any 22 year old in the world can write a single first novel worth reading. I want to change the world a little, and this is the only way how I see myself doing it, but I just cant move for frustrated ambition, and big ideas and no time, and nice style no substance, and fucking fucking fucking unfinished pieces.
Fast times, but not at ridgemont high.
Yes, thats right, another 60 seconds of weird. Instead of streaming words at you really quickly that make no sense, Im going to impressively end this quickly with just one statement. Sometimes life is a full box of fags, perfectly encased in plastic, so nice that you'd dream about them and drool. Sometimes though, its a tipped up ashtray all over your pants with 20 fag butts in it.
No need to applaud, though I am bowing.
No need to applaud, though I am bowing.
1 minute of weirdness
I don't know.
And what I don't want to know I dont know anymore.
"Moving on, Moving on, Moving on" like a bad song stuck in my head at this stage.
Lost count of all the things that I wasnt supposed to do that weren't my fault.
Like "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" Doesnt stop the evil, it just stops it effecting you.
Or something. Or something. Good name for a rock opera. Ten seconds left in this minute... Squawk.
And what I don't want to know I dont know anymore.
"Moving on, Moving on, Moving on" like a bad song stuck in my head at this stage.
Lost count of all the things that I wasnt supposed to do that weren't my fault.
Like "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil" Doesnt stop the evil, it just stops it effecting you.
Or something. Or something. Good name for a rock opera. Ten seconds left in this minute... Squawk.
Mp3
Hey hey again. Still getting used to flowing on this blog, you know, effective humorous bullshit in ten minutes or less? At the moment Im struggling with ideas, and I dont want to redesign, because then I'd be one of those custom blog losers, when all I want out of this blog is a random rant diary that I hope nobody ever reads. But yeah, have to have a quick mention to the main shit in my life right now, and that would have to be mp3's. Currently have upwards of 40 GB which is about a month and a week's worth of non-stop music. Not good not bad. But that collection has been modified, and has probably had about twice that amount at different times in the collection, due to constant deleting and reloading of a lot of really shit albums. Its always a matter of refining the collection, because often a random downloaded album collection is not going to make your mp3 collection any better. I'm talking about Beyonce, Christina, Bjork, and alanis. All the albums that no sane thinking non-moron would ever buy, but they're there in my collection. If I network my collection, and people look at it without knowing me, how can I explain why I have a Village People album? What do they think of me, when shuffling through Michelle Branch, Linkin Park and Limp Bizkit, and associating my good name with this flawed "music". MP3 pirating should be outlawed completely, because its making me look bad in front of people I will never meet, and giving Bjork fans the opportunity to get in touch with me as a similar enthusiast. Look, ok? I dont like bjork, I dont like make-up wearing guys, I dont like welsh people, and I definitely dont like you if you do. So if u are using my PC to download your pillow wank music, do it discretely, when I'm not doing something else more important, and definitely never ever get in touch with me about our mutual interest in Freak Icelandic Man-she's with a penchant for recording the internal sounds of horses being ass-screwed and then releasing as a 12 track concept album. Unless it's about the Doors or Led Zeppelin, keep your opinions to yourself, you fag. (Or alternatively, you could open a blog, and post a stilted one-sided scathing attack on something you actually know nothing about, though I wouldnt know anything about that.)
DownSide me!
Block your ears now.
Visualise a small part of the world, and then turn it upside down.
Lets say for example what I chose, an upside down bridge, with the river over your head, and the suspension holding you up spread out below you. This road is leading to an inverted castle,
in through the out door, down the up stairs, Step onto the bedroom cieling, And say, I am comfortable here. Say it three more times. Say it until you can see the cobwebs on the floor above your head, and see the window skewed and upside down looking out on the green earth falling from above to meet the blue sky down below, with the clouds at your feet, and birds landing just over you. Are you more comfortable here than a room full of new people? Why do you always turn your world upside down? Why not do it more?
Visualise a small part of the world, and then turn it upside down.
Lets say for example what I chose, an upside down bridge, with the river over your head, and the suspension holding you up spread out below you. This road is leading to an inverted castle,
in through the out door, down the up stairs, Step onto the bedroom cieling, And say, I am comfortable here. Say it three more times. Say it until you can see the cobwebs on the floor above your head, and see the window skewed and upside down looking out on the green earth falling from above to meet the blue sky down below, with the clouds at your feet, and birds landing just over you. Are you more comfortable here than a room full of new people? Why do you always turn your world upside down? Why not do it more?
Hey. I am getting completely, COMP-FUCKING_LETELY fed up with being so depressed for so long for what I can only really define as no reason. I have been a fully functional adult on this earth for let me see, about two years now, and I am already thrown into depression at where I see myself going, or not going in life. I have only just arrived as an adult! Up until I was at least 15, I never ever got depressed because I wasnt *winge* "Acheiving something"! Why start now, at the very start of the real race, why not go slow and steady, and take small little steps out into the world, break them down into manageabe shuffles that give me the option of looking around and maybe grabbing something I want out of live? Everyone is so gung-ho to get going, but they're not even realising that it is just history repeating itself. We always look forward to a future hoping it will be better purely because its not the present. Regardless of where we are, we're always looking to something else. And instead of someone saying, Hey, You stupid young bastard! You're a stupid young bastard, even if you fall into a good time by accident right now you wouldn't even recognise it, so calm the fuck down, leave fate alone and do your own thing for a little while, until you know who the hell you are and what you want out of life. I am fed up with "Love the questions, love the answers, love the adversity of life, love living, love learning and failing." What A load of TOTAL FUCKING ASTERISK! You probably all know what Im talking about, all those things that we have all started telling ourselves since leaving College, or since verging on leaving college, or leaving school or whatever. We feel bad, because we have no idea what to do. We suddenly realise that the college course we chose wont give us the job we want, or that it takes that much more work than you were expecting, or that you would rather work part time and have no responsibilities, or maybe all of the above, or maybe you've just suddenly realised that you're not going to be a rockstar or fashion designer, pro footballer or worlds greatest writer, actor, filmmaker or race car driver. These things take time to get over. Are we coming to terms with adulthood, or with disappointment, or with self-loathing, or with limiting our expectations. Surely we aren't happy accepting our limitations in society? So why are we getting depressed or angry and taking it out on ourselves? We either thrive under society's values or reject them. I dont want a shit job. I dont care too much about earning shit money, but I dont want to spend 40 hours a week having my soul sucked out through a straw inserted in a small metaphor in my neck. So why dont we just say no? Lets analyse it... We need to work for 40 hours at least every week, because? We need to make money money money above all else, even above happiness? Money isnt the source of happyness. Just cos thats what our parents have been telling us for 20 years doesnt mean that that is the case. We are brought up to be part of a generation and a movement that we couldnt possible care about. We should be pushing limits, Homo Ludens, further on towards the line of human self-actualisation. We were never meant for this post-Tayloristic reality! Come on! I dont care how many self help books I read, as long as I stay in this world, in Telecommunications industry world, or the IT universe, or anything to do with profiteering, there'll be a bad taste in my mouth.
Kinda hard to be down about Hunter thompson dying. something like "too crazy to live, too rare to die" being bullshit, because no matter how rare and wonderful a flower you are, it might at some point seem like a good idea to buy two bottles of JD and introduce mr. bullet to mr. temple. I dont really feel mortality from it, or like he learned any lessons from it either. He just seemed to live fast, die fast, and maybe that he had his own choice at the end, maybe he would have liked that. Maybe its the need of an icon to give one last piece of shock journalism to his critics. But who really cares. Why is it that every single drug writer starts out so hopeful, and revolutionary, and unique, and they all end up in a pool of blood vomit and shit on someone's floor, with half a head left and no more beautiful images to spout on about whilst supping from a bottle of strong acid and ranting at his weirdo friends. It just seems exciting that stories didnt occur to him, he went out and found them all. Right up until recently, he was taking investigatory journalism down the Lucy in the Sky route. Maybe he just went dry, finished up his last line, had nothing left in the tap, or maybe too long living too hard caught up with him. Either way, it seems obvous. We die young! It makes you think. Maybe drugs ARE bad. Maybe drugs are a depressant. Maybe writing is a depressant. Was drugs his life, and writing his release, or vice versa? Maybe its the fate of everyone who has been up to a certain height, that you suddenly realise how much lower they can go than the rest of us. Maybe Hunter just won the life limbo competition.
I have taken numerous pro-active steps so far. The car is now in my name, Im waiting on a call for my drivers license and I have checked insurance quotes. Other than that, I have had the worst stats of any team member in my job for the last three weeks, so theres another proactive step towards getting fired and getting another job, if even in a destructive way. Other than that I have been puzzling about paris, and what ever the hell I am gonna do there, but mostly I have just been desperate for a week off. I dunno what to do after that. A new job? A masters? Just getting out of the country? I wish I had a resolution of some sort, or knew what the hell I was doing or where I am going, but instead I'l just wait for my guitar to be fixed. Christina!!!!!!! WHY!!!???
Hello Nobody!
Just randomly decided to re-open the blog. Im tired, its been a long year so far, and Im currently in O2, on a sunday, since 9 o clock, working answering phones for a living. See now I can take this as a reference point for the first real day of 2005, and maybe then I can see where I am and who I am by the end of this. Im getting a car soon. Thats one of the major signs of adulthood for me, your own car. Now I just need, a cool job, a direction, a bit of fun, and the feeling in my stomach that I am a valid and useful member of society. I wonder how I'll do with these kinds of resolutions, those and giving up fags, drinking and the other fags (slowly but surely) , working out more, and getting out the hell fuck out of my current job. So thats my january snapshot, my status as to the beginning of 2005. Lets see how things change. Lets see how I make them change
Just randomly decided to re-open the blog. Im tired, its been a long year so far, and Im currently in O2, on a sunday, since 9 o clock, working answering phones for a living. See now I can take this as a reference point for the first real day of 2005, and maybe then I can see where I am and who I am by the end of this. Im getting a car soon. Thats one of the major signs of adulthood for me, your own car. Now I just need, a cool job, a direction, a bit of fun, and the feeling in my stomach that I am a valid and useful member of society. I wonder how I'll do with these kinds of resolutions, those and giving up fags, drinking and the other fags (slowly but surely) , working out more, and getting out the hell fuck out of my current job. So thats my january snapshot, my status as to the beginning of 2005. Lets see how things change. Lets see how I make them change
Roars of triumph echo
As the future stretches on.
We feel like we have time to ride,
This precious lifeline, on and on.
But already this triumph is weakened by time,
So close to the end but with little to gain,
We sit and reflect and reason and rhyme,
What shame on our shoulders makes timeless again.
Take me home but there is none.
Or let me watch as it tumbles on down.
And weep in the ashes of happiness
Of the joy that's destroyed that surrounds.
Or, in other words,
Fuck shit bollucks bollucks cunt shit wank wank wank.
As the future stretches on.
We feel like we have time to ride,
This precious lifeline, on and on.
But already this triumph is weakened by time,
So close to the end but with little to gain,
We sit and reflect and reason and rhyme,
What shame on our shoulders makes timeless again.
Take me home but there is none.
Or let me watch as it tumbles on down.
And weep in the ashes of happiness
Of the joy that's destroyed that surrounds.
Or, in other words,
Fuck shit bollucks bollucks cunt shit wank wank wank.
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