Land of Diskgrinder

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.

I have this weapon of mass banjo.

Having looked at correspondence recorded, and remembering conversations unrecorded, and basically looking up my own arse from three years distant: I now realise 2005 was pretty much fucked from stem to stern. 2006 was less fucked, but still fucked. 2007 worked out ok, but in unexpected ways. 2008, what little grey of it has passed so far, is fairly ok; but in that inoffensive, piss poor way. I refer you to due recompense . Sometimes I think I should lay the blame squarely, as circularly is difficult to say, at me. Other times I think, no, fuck it, it's all your fault .

Just realised my blog (this one) has taken a rather dark turn. That's odd as I am mostly a person: if you saw me in a park, not at night, you might not hide your children. Diskgrinder will visit you one day, just turn up at your door, with wilted flowers and a sideways smile. I just ate your gardenias, but I'm still hungry.

He spat and he muttered as he walked up and down the ranks of bunks. He swore and coughed. His head down and forward, a glower on his brow, he was dark and sour and ill-lit from a bare bulb, yellow in the corridor behind. We hid under our blankets, waiting for him to pass. Because, if he turned at your bunk, you hoped he chose the one above, or below, just not you.

The equivalent of ohrwurms in the head of me, a writer (that sounds pompous, well done me), is the occasional sparkle of a phrase as it crosses the corpus callosum from right brain to left. Here's some I can't get out my head (you too, Kylie): Creamy Spartan surprise Trumpet blocked by sausage, not a sexual reference, or does it? Mouldy friends reunite in back alleys, hand round crisps Holes are absent plugs Dog bark can't be rubbed Delicate bitch polish They fizzing bang from one side of skull to the other, narrowly missing ear bones, and therefore not escaping, until now.

Plus photoshop filter, and eye-high-lighting, makes for vanity publishing. Yours for the price of a slack cigarette Have at it phrenologists, the topology of my skull brooks no tiny patch algebra .

... of opening the comment stream, if I don't get comments? Eh? answer me that then. Surely I have been controversial enough to elicit some kind of feedfront? No? Fuck off then. Instead, I will rely on my imaginary friend, who always (invisible and anonymous) pulls me up short, and makes me think in generous ways.

Nothing to see here (that you haven't already seen), move along