Land of Diskgrinder

So I sit in my grey room, hearing, but not listening to, the grinding elevator's descent/ascent, and I write this. Whilst all you important people ascend/descend I'm here writing on the back of discarded photocopies. I take the best home to my depressing "studio flat" where I transcribe keyboard and interweb-wise what I think you'll appreciate. Although, saying that, I know enough about the blogosphere that no links out and no links in make this a peninsula whose only egress is barb-wired by no hub, no authority, search engine obscurity. And if you have stumbled across this (barrier) then fair play to you, well done, buy yourself a jar of pickled cockles to celebrate. Then fuck off. Move along, there's nothing to see here, this is my cheap therapy.

This is the thing, the thing that sits in the corner of a room with a door I locked long ago, the thing that spits and smiles. That thing

It's got a bit dark round here lately. Which is odd, as that doesn't reflect my mood - mildly irritated sometimes, occasionally exasperated by the bloodymindedness of inanimate objects (cars, washing machines, drills, keys and so on) but basically happy.

And it was all variously good. Each of those years had one little happenstance that made the next year wanted. Same again this year. Big things are happening. Some not so good. But at least, if you walk barefoot through the park, and tread in shit of dog: well, at least you have toes to feel the warm embrace of canine clart in between. I'm not saying that's good, I'm just saying that's better than anaesthetic disregard.

Throw out all the old shit Clean up, clean out, garage sale of gathered crap Clean slate, clean room, cleared out Everything must go, including all your shit Five year plan, with necessary purges Fuck off to Siberia, stay there, write a book no-one will read Then burn it

Because everyone tells me that. I am a bad man because: I don't return texts immediately, irrespective of the circumstances I'm in (you know, like separating my small boys from each other's whirling fists) I have a "phone manner" I reply to long rambling emails with one-liners I think it is clearly ok to let my boys play on the Xbox, the Wii and the iMac until they get square-eyed and LCD irradiated I am not interested in how shit your day was I don't tell you how shit my day was, because I don't think you would be interested I drink alcohol and smoke cigarettes I don't give a flying shit about issues you have I drink coffee with three sugars I sing about killing people on youTube , and this is not taken as a joke I have no time for religionists, and do not respect their lunacy I am taller than you You are unlikely to be taller than me, or better looking, as you are all ugly dwarves (and that's a joke too) You don't get my sense...

I'm 43, white, male. And yet still I come up against situations for which I have no easy answer. This is unfair. Surely all my hurdles should have been cleared by the age of 12? No, that's right, didn't go to public school, therefore don't have the cultural entitlement thing going on. Therefore explained. Sorry I wasted your time.

After having done something fairly heroic. Maybe involving fire, or subsequent seismic movements in the underground: one complete rock grinds against another mile high piece of thing thrusting and pushed up plate tectonics. And me in a cape and tights (but not zentai) do the laser eyes thing, and all is set to rest.

Sometimes things are like picking scabs, all of them are almost just as nasty, but one is nastier than the others, so that's the one you'll choose. You keep on coming back to it, like the keys you know are on the fucking mantelpiece , and yet they're not, but you keep on looking there, shuffling through the bills and picking up the ornaments that otherwise would be unbalanced - if your keys were under them. And all the time they're in your hand - one day you'll let yourself in your house, with your keys, to find your keys. But you can't resist, it's there, it has an itch that can be momentarily satisfied (but amplifies ongoing). Conversely, you can rehearse conversations that will reverse and therefore never happen - "if they say to me: this thing; then I will say: that thing; and I will be the winner". Not going to happen, things don't work that way, there's always something missing. So you keep on coming back, to see if it's stil...

There's this thing that Carlos Castenada would shit on about: self importance. It's where you think everything you hear, or read, or see, is somehow related to you. In this respect, it's a less fundamental reading of solipsism (in that it's not as up its own fundament). Unlike this post, this post is completely not about you. And there's the paradox (the soap powder that washes blacker), related to Epimenides' thing: what I just wrote was true; but reading it makes it false for the few that do. "You won't read this," is more true than it isn't for the majority. Really, this isn't about you, it's about seven o'clock.

That is behind a wall, where Eric the sparrow used to sing His little heart out, hoping that the spring, in his step, would make Some other friend hear him, and come and see The twigs and leaves he'd gathered there But he got ate by Merlin, next door's cat (for a friend)

I'm a misanthrope, not a misogynist, and I don't mean you any harm, the list of my inadequacies is long but stops before wilful hurt. I'll stay calm, apply the balm of my solution to your disease. Whilst worthy in my absolute hatred of all things half-done, half-hearted and empty, I'll stay true to the bitter morality I built in my head, and pay those fees. Or something like that. Maybe with less internal rhyme.

Going to shave off all my hair tonight. Down to the nub of skull. Because that's attractive. I have for many years, since I started losing hairs (one by bunch) flirted with the skinhead look (and even when I had the full head of sprouting weeds). As I have lost a deal of weight in the past two months (due to indian illness ) slim-lining with a lack of head-hedge will suit. I'll post a photograph through the loveliness of photobooth when I'm done. You know, because that's some kind of entertainment and a record for me in later years (happen this post doesn't succumb to pixel-rot).

Like a dying battery that arcs occasionally, the smell of ozone cracking in the air "The delta wave has started building - how long does it need" I think I'm going to go to the poetry slam upcoming. Although it sounds like the usual dreary twats will be in attendance, still I think I may enjoy it. Here's a quote from the site: Slamming is competitive poetry; where poets perform their work and the audience decide by their applause which poets are best. Sounds engaging. Any suggestions as to what I should perform? Perhaps this (I like it). Or maybe I'll crash?

I wanted to write about On being a man , because I think I have something to say about that: not hunch-shouldered laddish snickering , or creepy beardy bombastard; but confidence and generosity, respect and strength. Time to reclaim maleness from the cocksure thirty-somethings, the man-boys, the Tory twats, the lax and slack, and the loud and arrogant. Time to think, and keep what you think to yourself. Time to retrench to reticence. Time to shut up. But if it was that time, I wouldn't be writing about it. Best advice I got from my dad: there's nothing you can't say "fuck off" to.