So ... we've moved, and I can almost feel the stress seeping out of my body and evaporating ... or whatever happens to stress when it's no longer required.
For the last couple of days I've felt totally dispossessed - like I was acting in a film with a weird script, and over which I had no control. Most odd.
Now it's the cats that are stressed out. The poor things are going off their heads with angst. And because they can't go out for a couple of weeks, they spend most of their time slinking ar
too much to do
too much bleedin' everything and not enough (read none at all) "how's your father"
can't be bothered with capitals or punctu-blinkin'-ation
must get back to it
don't want to
want to play
Having got rid of the 'ouse, I'm in the middle of packing up to move.
Lord I have a lot of utter crap ... and it's so damn hard to get rid of. Which accounts for the stress levels.
I know that 'things' don't really make one happy. But I've accumulated them, and they're mine (all mine Bwahaha), and I want-want-want to keep them.
I've already taken two van loads to the dump.
*sighs some more*
I'll be away for a bit, and back when I can.
Cheers y'all, and apologies to those who hav
I'm stressed. Stressed to the point of twanging like a human harp - except without the nice chilled music.
Another 48 hours will see me either beamishly copacetic, or in a damn nut house. I Pray (or I would if I wasn't agnostic) it's the former ... 'cause I've never really fancied a straight jacket. Too dashed uncomfortable, don't you know.
The point. Of life. Is there one?
I'd like to think there is. I'd like to think that it's not all for naught ... but I wonder.
The years roll by and I find myself getting more and more jaded. More and more meh. That's not to say that I'm giving it all up to join a hermitage. I know what I want to do, and I know that I can do what I want to do ... but the shear amount of effort required sometimes seems pointless .... I wish I didn't ponder. I wish I could slob out in front of the tube and 'he
Earlier today I was slugging coffee, writing, and occasionally - when I got stuck - picking up the guitar and noodling. Noodling helps me think. Anyway, I ended up penning a ditty. Then - as I don't write music - I made a rough recording.
Here are the lyrics:
i am an ordinary man
i ain't subtle there's no plan
when I saw you at first
my heart flipped went berserk
i think i love you - i think i love you
you're a man
wasn't the plan
'cause i am straight
let others hate
'tis a beautiful sunny day, even though it started off with a frost.
I'm looking at this:
which is rather nice, except I'm trying to hate it as I'm selling up ....
... and I'm just off to play with M.
Playing with one's true love is ... well pretty damn fun, especially as he's such a good keyboard player. He's just got a new guitar, which I get to strum, and apparently he's written a new song, too: so that should be good.
The cat says hello, as do her Mum and brothers.
So ... I said I was going to write an entry a day. Ha. Stupid me, and more fool you for reading.
Umm ... It snowed the day before yesterday, then yesterday, as if by magic - but really because of the sun - the snow vanished. Amazing.
And now I feel I must go and watch The Simpsons.
edited to add:
listen to this - Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds - Dig Lazarus Dig
It's raining, and the cats are in a fractious mood. Cody sneaks up on her brother ... wakes him up ... he gets grumpy, and starts chasing her ... she comes thundering upstairs, and hides on my lap.
Then they go out, and back in again: wet. I have to stop what I'm doing and dry them off ... then they go out again ... and back in ... and ....
I'm part exchanging them for a hamster.
I'm sitting at Mick's computer, and he's on the phone talking to a guitarist.
Our band is going to take a back seat for a while, 'cause we're re-forming a band that was quite well known a while ago. It's a three piece, and I'm going back to my first discipline: Drumming.
Looking forward to it? Fuck yeah!
"They don't like it up 'em, Captain Mainwaring!" This line from 'Dad's Army' set the tone for Katie (ancient siamese beasty) having her claws clipped. She's pretty much house-bound nowadays and her claws are ... well 'savage' belies the truth. 'Wickedly Bitching Sabatier' comes closer.
You don't want her on your lap: unless you're wearing chain-mail, and unfortunately, mine's rusty.
So ... I tried. The thing is with cats: they're psychic. She knew I was nervous even before I decided to start
Bloody black dog. I can't seem to shake the thing. And me thinking it was all roses. They have thorns, don't you know.
'Bath Time' is finished, and should be up this weekend, I hope. Like 'Fellow Travellers', it has a pinch of truth swaddled by muse's wanderings. Apropos of nowt: spooge is such a great word!
'Probisher' is getting longer and longer, and consequently more and more convoluted. I want to write an 'A does this, then that, then a bit of the other ... and finally shags B' Oh, s
There's a series on TV at the moment called 'Ice Road Truckers,' about the supply of sub-arctic diamond mines in Alaska. Because they are all well away from civilisation, roads, and the other side of a plethora of lakes, they have to wait until winter, when the lakes freeze, to get supplies trucked in. It's a two month season - then the ice melts.
When I was growing up the one high risk high - reward job around, was working on the oil rigs in the north sea. I had friends who earned enough in
I love 'Duck Duck Goose' and I hate it, too. As a story it's had me in all states of emotion, yet as a writer I know I could never write anything similar. That kind of length would get me twisted up in knots so fast I'd have to admit myself to the loony bin.
But why? That's what's bothering me. Why can I only seem to write short stories?
I have a couple of nearly finished novels, and yet every time I think of finishing them, I get into a cold sweat.
Know thyself is good advice. I obviously do
I'm not very good with inventing unique character names. Appalling actually, no idea why, just one of those things. So, as no matter what I do I get a lot of spam, I came up with the idea of using the senders names. Now, some of these really are unique, otherwise they'd get caught by my good friend and colleague: 'Spammy', the spam filter.
I keep them in a file called ... erm *shuffles about looking embarrassed* 'good names.txt'
Here are today's:
Today I hate the world.
Fecking women who drive small Nissans and who think they have the right to drive down the outside of a stationary line of traffic, and then cut in. I might have been vaguely amused if she'd been pretty, or if she'd have been a he, and cute. But nooooo.
There was a thread in the news forum (which got well out of hand) that strayed into the rights and wrongs of gun control. All I have to say on the matter is that, with fecking Nissan tart, I suffered a serious amount of
Having nothing better to do - it's not that I don't 'cause I do, but hell, if I don't make time for some plaintive whining, where would I be?
So, yeah. M. The one I love. The one, this afternoon, I wanted to beat about the head with a wet kipper. We were rehearsing, as you do, and .... Oh, poop. What's the point. I'll find a fish monger in the morning.
I'm marginally happier now since I finished www.camysgaff.com, and Codey's 'Broken Heart'.
It's kind of strange that I worked harder on that song than I ever work on my own stuff. I know I'm genuinely lazy, but that - that recording - has shown me I can achieve more if I want to. Now all I need is a month in a proper studio and a band. Fat chance.
My new short 'Gin' was almost finished when I showed it to a mate. Now: I'm ripping it apart and re-writing. I wanted to post it soon, but there it
Umm. I had a reason to blog, but it seems to be escaping me at the moment. Most odd.
Anyway ... so I found a box of Cassettes that had - once I dug an old cassette machine out of the loft and found a lead to attach it to the computer - some amazing AMAZING stuff on them. Like the rehearsal at Solid Light where I fell asleep over the drum kit in the middle of a song. Hmm, I suppose gouched out is closer to the truth: it was a long time ago. Then there are the first few recordings I made with M.