Purple

The familiarity behind a mechanically reclaimed sausage led me out into a world looking less than ordinary and it made me realise the transition and change. It could be any day as every day is the same as the one before but briefly punctuated by sporting events or visits from faraway friends. It is not a glum existence as the routine and mundane implies as beyond the routine lies a magical place of my making. A sharp contrast to the way I have lived, survived, to date as the relative Mr Nobody this blog has always been about before.

So this would be a fond farewell to a person I have known and loved and loathed over the last decade. There are those of you that know me, have known me or think that you know me that read this, check in with it, to see if perhaps I am still alive, still disillusioned, lost or unhappy. Perhaps to see if things would change. There are those massive regrets, the lows and the loves lost and thrown away, there has also been a lot I have blamed myself for and failed to look past the end of my own nose maybe into the direction of somewhere else. Things change. People don’t. We find ourselves though or lose ourselves more. We settle or accept contentment. Happiness being more a marketing gimmick that an actual destination. As a feeling it has its merits.

It is literally the light I see blinding me each day reminding me of the progress, evolution and eventual endpoint. Mr Nobody is no more and a somebody is forming in the distance.

To be continued.......

?

This life is getting to me.
A slow suicide diet of codeine, beer and weed is not what the doctor ordered and nor a healthy way of living. Trapped once again when I thought I was free. How ironic and the new kitten keeps smashing glasses which is not good for my temprement. Oh sweet winter. Oh sweet Woolstone. What the fuck next?

Mr Nobody

I need to be a better person.
I care about the wrong things.
I take joy in problems and chaos and forget what it is that I have until it is always too late. It somehow does not feel too late. It feels about the right time.....

Mr RAF

I really want to tell my boss to go fuck himself as I know inevitably he is only going to do the same to me. It’s not an engrained paranoia but more a simple and cold business reality and business has always been a grimy place to be, so many lies hidden within those pinstripes. I feel as if I am a puppet, much the same as most I guess, but most, do not have their boss peering through the window or knocking on the door, most do not have to put up with mood swings that should only be attributed to severe menstruation or crystal meth addiction not that of a pub landlord. Once again his simple presence has left me with a dirty feeling that I am finding hard to shift, that slimy feeling of spending too much time near or around those that are directly responsible for paying my salary. At times, especially now, I feel no more than the salt whore I am, clutching the grains between my clenched fingers, hanging on for dear life hoping not to lose any but just like water eventually they all disappear, what is left is barely enough to season my chips.

My secret drawer is becoming fuller, close to overflowing with the evidence of my sins, torn and ripped, plastic and empty and resembling that of the monster it has become than the drawer it always has been. It’s endemic of this situation I find myself in, perhaps a case of borrowed time. As usual it may seem just waiting to be screwed and fucked over once more, protection pointless, wasted, a bore of ones time, living, pretending, hoping that things will get better.

I find myself miserably lost within the mis-management of others in such a small environment that means I am mis-managed and feel like a sheep without a flock. I wait for a degree of normal, rational decision making to take hold but instead each horrible incident is followed by another of even bigger magnitude. My boss who is completely oblivious to the fact that at times he is very bad at his job makes decisions that make my life uncomfortable at best and currently untenable and almost a severance is necessary. I sit and lose myself within the magic of the remastered copy of Sgt Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles wishing for a simpler time and one in where I had followed the music rather than this humble and shallow existence. I try to fit in but no matter how hard I try I simply do not want to.

Freemans Close

The centre of attention I find myself once more and a situation certainly not of my own seeking or wanting. Nursing the lives of those around me with a stuttering care born out of a selfish desire for an easy life, where at least a small portion of it, I can sit, wonder, and revel, cry and laugh, in my own company, maybe sharing it with a musical hero, but ultimately my own company,my own thoughts, the warmth, the comfort I am mock building around me as if in the style of a mock cartoon cuckoo. All i seek is a let up from this summer madness that seen me settled in a corner house in a quiet village on the very outer rim of oxford. A chance to breathe and reflect, pause and thought, plan and action, composure, deep breath, start again only in winter clothes.
I find myself lost within marvel recently delighted by the choruses that remind me of a band I still love and a memory long ago, in a borderline like club, the bright lights and neon for the first time, the bite stuck and forever I am drawn to the neon, tacky and overcrowded that it is. Billy Talent sound very much like Ether should have been, both as an overstated and ambitious authour, are highly recommended, as is the corner house with conservatory in a village that absorbs your pain and provides flowers and good mornings. It has been a near three week stint working every day in a hell hole I proudly call mine and a five months that has stretched my patience and resolve every day to the limits and still all I can think about is that flower and Pippy. I do wonder, whether that symbol, was much more, or whether it was simply a kitten and with "house full signs" up at Battersea I think, and I do think too much that it is time to return for a forage around, a rustle and a stir. To see what lies dormant and what is still active and to find a new Pippy and perhaps the missing jigsaw piece to content and soothe when a winter batters and the winter will batter, the senses, the mind, control and motivation, the winter is always one of discontent but in all fairness perhaps at least winter will live up to its billing this year, spring stunted by snow, summer seemingly over by the start of June, autumn, well I can see that being consumed by Summer spreading itself a little more thinly, a warm October hopefully. It is a ramble. That makes sense to me, as its a vent. You are secret. Perhaps.......

Tolstoy wrote it first...

"I know that most men, including those at ease with problems of the greatest complexity, can seldom accept the simplest and most obvious truth if it be such as would oblige them to admit the falsity of conclusions which they have proudly taught to others, and which they have woven, thread by thread, into the fabrics of their life"

Desire

It has been a love affair. It is still a love affair as I write. Ash falling off my naked body, smoke swirling all around and that taste, like the ash and crack taste that addicts find so difficult to never taste again, this tar and slime that coats the inside of my mouth has been there for so long it is normal. It is hard to break normal as then it becomes extraordinary, by default maybe, but nonetheless, the habit, the smoke, the skins and packets, hard tops and soft tops, different brands for different moods, plenty or none, scrapings of tobacco, the love affair has to stop. It is a two front battle though with smoking being both the mighty tobacco and the weed and both have had their day like the pink cardigan I should never have wore as a teenager or the gola trainers I insisted would be cool in twenty years, its more irony than observation I was right and that I still wear Gola trainers. Smoking has been with me since I hit twenty and taken hold like a monster that is never quite fed, always hungry, snarling like a beast. My cravings for all and everything smoke related has always threatened to manifest health, mind, body and spirit problems but only now am I starting to see their slimy marks all over this crazy thing I call my life. There never appears to be enough air anymore and wind is a total relief although a sporadic weather force in the height of summer. Those scurrying little things that only come out at night and under extreme duress have started to surface in the days, sometimes brazenly winking until I look and then they scurry and the mind, well the mind is perpetually unsettled like it is trying to work out a math problem just out of its reach, as so often it is the difference between the gutter and the stars. There is a financial aspect to it all too which many would argue is long overdue, but those many probably do not read anyway, so still a Mr Nobody I am. Smoking is soon to be a thing of the past. Booked in for hypnotherapy, made lots of soup, got lots of puzzles and big lists and interesting books to read as night changes into day once more with me still awake trying not to scratch out the walls or my eyes wondering why, why did i ever choose to quit smoking.

Children

As the wind whistles around the building as a summers day becomes a stormy evening the soundtrack for the day as it tends to always be at the weekend is that of children, playing and laughing, shreeching and skurling (whether the latter is even a word(s) only seems to fit in nicely with my point) I forgot crying as that is the sound that most resonates at this current point in time. I sit, out of the back of the kitchen, on my builders chair, watching the children generally act like children which seems to be for the most part really annoying and obnoxious. There are the little creatures that are supposed to bring such joy and love into our life but all I see is a bastard love child of the devil. My mum was right when she merely went along with my previous conclusion that perhaps I would not make the best father but then most fathers I guess perhaps think that they are not particularly good fathers. Maybe not most but again its a whole world I know nothing about and avoid like the plague, shunning all family gatherings of mine and others, of that world where normal people go and talk about so called normal things all the time constantly telling little Maddie or Jo to shut the fuck up but always in that parental loving kind of way. Working here, well working is is strange and for the best part of it I surround myself with a little serenity, for the other part I have an unrealistic boss with a head that baffles me at times and a presence that scares me and a whole life within a life within a bubble like existence that I always seem to want away from but have no idea where. Mr nobody once more. Perhaps

There is a bedsit with my name on it. Perhaps not my name. Maybe Mannorca House or Sky View but it could be my name. Somewhere by the sea rather than Milton Keynes or Swindon, somewhere inevitably and predictably like Brighton but bedsits there are apartments and well out of the league of a travelling nobody. More like Bournemouth with with its skag and old age running through it like a disease, Eastbourne is no better but at least the pier resembles what life used to be like before this whatever that this is of course. At some point obviously I will have to switch to rolling tobacco once more and endure the wrench and heartache of smoking the devils poison, not for the nicotine, but for the time, a poor mans chess. That bedsit has always been there haunting me daily, nightly and like torture at times of desperation and horror somehow urning itself into a little point in my brain, there to lure me, distract me, comfort me and inspire me to be anything but that. That white cider swigging, failed nobody living for the reason of living with nothing but shattered dreams and a million lost loves. It a hearty thing to perpetually carry around but I think only because I illuminate it with such imagery in my mind that number forty six mannorca house seems more real than not. That struggle has always been the heart of this blog and is no different now with the exception I am actually about to do something.... or perhaps that is an illusion to.

Swine Flu

For well over a week now I have been ill. My latest symptom although less of a symptom and more of a excruciating pain is my right ear. Suddenly and in the space of the three hours i slept from midnight until three am it became very angry, started ringing with pain and has cut itself of from the outside world. Noise does not seem to permeate the thick swelling and wax that lies beyond that little black hole. The pain reminds me of the exact same pain was i was a kid who regularly suffered with ear infections and that same pain nobody could take away, I would curl into my duvet, head pressed against the cold wall trying to avoid the pain and the tinnitus rattling around my brain. Having my brain jangled so violently means I am literally nothing, all but reduced to a frail old man losing his marbles and blinded by pain.
It safe to say i have worked my way through the swine flu symptoms one by one starting with the more nasty ones first, the coincidence is funny if not a little unnerving considering my travel movements albeit not Mexico. Watching the endless stream of propaganda masked as news float around my headspace its hard not to feel more ill than one actually is. In reality if it is so, then it is so and i will be fine, it it is as it is supposed to be, then whats one more person in the millions. Its safe to say it has put me on my back at the worse possible time but i guess there is no right time to be so ill the only place that feels right is under a duvet in a bed. A luxury when you are homeless and once again hanging onto life with a feather and a prayer.