Blog 4

Armbands.  

I have no idea of what to say to you. 

Absolutely no clue. I'm paralysed.  

But I love you, I know that much.

And It all starts with an idea of 'us'. A knee jerk, a spasm of excitement, a sense that I'm finally in the right place at the right time. I can remember it in my brain, recreate the feeling right now. 

Is this what butterflies feels like? It doesn't feel like butterflies to me. It feels like something far greater, far more beautiful than butterflies. Like when you've over indulged, eaten too much but you fucking enjoyed every, single mouthful. And it sits there in the very depth of your stomach. 

Next thing you're holding hands and the forever lonesome "I" turns to "we", the words stick in the throat initially, find it hard to make their way to the surface but when they do!...  

When they do I'm introvertly singing at the top of my lungs, standing on the street where you live, looking upwards towards that moon you told me about as everyone jostles and shifts around me and but i just really don't care that I'm going to miss the bus. 

"Yeah you might have caught the bus and got home before me but you're missing it!!!" 
You're missing "it"... "It"... Whatever "it" is. 

But we've found it. 

And "it" carries on. And "it" carries and it carries. Carries me, carries you. Carries us to places we'd never seen before, beautiful places but also places we didn't wanna go but we went there anyway. 

And I really hope that's ok because there are some things I will carry and not really forgive myself for. 
And the next thing I know it I'm carrying something that is only ours and it's a shock to my system. A 'smack-me-sideways' shock that I daren't engage with at the time but I swear to you I never missed a meal since that day and I never will. 
It was too precious. And inevitably after too much heavy lifting comes dropping. And the dropping gets heavier. 
I hate the word drop. 

It's so final and shit. Drop a tab, drop a bomb, drop a plum...it's all sounds the same. 

Can we not think of it as a 'plop'.
In any case, I like to think of it that way because at least with a plop there's a chance that it'll bob to the surface one day and just float. Find itself. 
Not like a drop. Because like I said its so final and shit.  

I really hope you float. 

I hope to god I float. 

Sometimes it just doesn't feel like I am though and I'm sorry. 

It's like I'm swimming and I'm swimming I've got armbands on and they're this treacherous thing because on the one hand they keep me afloat but on the other I CANT FUCKING MOVE ME FUCKING ARMS!!!! ...DO YOU KNOW HOW IT FEELS??? ...ITS SOUL DESTROYING!!!  

Yes yes I checked, check, check, check..All the components are there, they just won't FLOW. Everything's connected to within an inch of its life, the electrical current JUST WONT FLOW. 

What's your armband? I never knew. Is that bad? Was it me? Did I rub off on you like sun cream? Did I drag you down into the wet sand? I have a sneaking suspicion that I may. Made you feel like something your not. But I know you're not.  

I really love you. Always have, always will. 

Blog 2

I walk to the fridge. 
I walk to the sofa, I make a coffee...I walk to the window to see the sky. 
To check it's still where it was yesterday. 
I walk to the bedroom. 
I make the bed but there's that same fucking coffee stain that I see everyday and I wash it and wash it but I can't get it out. I iron it, maybe I can burn it out but it just got blacker and blacker, like that coffee stain cos I forgot and left the iron on it, the stain in the shape of a cardboard box with air holes, like the ones they trap pets in to give them to their new owners.

I make a coffee and light a cigarette.....'these are a few of my favourite things'.. but the hot curls of smoke get in my eyes, prick and burn them immensely as I've had none of that fresh air that this new sky brought today.. I walk to the fridge I stand at the fridge.i walk back to the window. It's grey out. Splatters of water mark the glass that encases me. Splat, split, splat crack... I step on eggshell. 

I walk to the market to find some breakfast but I can't remember if I already had breakfast when I stood at the fridge. I think I had an egg at home. I held it cold against my hot palm and let the shell crack underneath my hand so fucking easily but I dont remember eating it, enjoying it or putting it in a sandwich like normal people do. But maybe I did. I don't remember. Maybe I'll have a coffee. I haven't had one yet today. 

I think I'll take a walk to the park to clear my head. Maybe I'll run? I finish my coffee and I run. and run and run and run and feel the hot trickles of sweat that drain down my back. And It feels good...it feels so good to sweat, safe because it shows I'm achieving. It's the sheer hot stinking proof that I CAN BE A MACHINE! that hot state of euphoria that I love when my legs burn and burn and so do my eyes coz of the salty water that I forgot to wipe away, mixed with remnants of yesterday's make up but I'm achieving because my body says stop but I carry on just because I can. 

I've reached the natural high now, so high that my legs won't walk straight. I stop to glug back a coffee. My reward cos I haven't had one today yet. I deserve it. Maybe I'll have an omelette coz I haven't had an egg for years and I'm told they're protein. Or is fat? I can't remember? I'll just pick the cheese out. 

And I'm late, I'm late for a very important date. For a very important date I'm late, how dare I be late for this date.. 

And as I hit the natural daylight my eyes burn, a sting not unlike that from earlier today as I rush to the train. I fall down the potholes in the street in my high boots.. The ones that tell the world that I am 'together' I can still pick out a good pair of shoes....

LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT LEFT RIGHT.... IM LATE IM LATE FOR A VERY IMPORTANT DATE IM LATE...And I walked and walked right down the length of the train, I kid you not 8 9 10 15 32 108 carriages to finally find the solace of a free two seater. the fresh smell of cheesy wotsits, egg cress sandwiches, baby wipes and chips to sink into the tepid warmth from the mould of butt cheeks that sat before me..

And I order a coffee because it's only 1030 and I have the whole day to go yet. 

Blog 1

I was asked recently how could I get someone into My head, get someone into my thoughts, feel what I'm feeling to understand this music. 

My immediate reaction was a picture

Maybe this.

Or this. 

They say in moments of mental quietude you then can create. 
I totally agree with that. 

Sometimes in those few moments when my mind rests, the waves of dread that lap at the rocks that make up the mind cease, I can see the ripples, the long stringy veins of a melody or idea swimming about all too clearly. Teasing. I try to catch it, lock it down. Make it better, make it better...fry it with some garlic and herbs, make it better, minor to major, hook line here, hook line and sinker, reel it in, reel it in! I CAN DO THIS! I can give it that injection of something that isn't just like ever other fucking piece of music that I've ever heard before. The same chords riffs hooks licks and loops. 

And it's right there on his plate. A wholesome serving of something that I love. 

There's nothing like laying back and basking in the warmth of your own creation, maybe I am an ego maniac.

But that's mine, it's from my heart and no one can take that away from me, even if I am useless at everything else. 

I only hope they can understand what I'm trying to say. 
And I mean really understand it. Really get it. 

But what happens when your mind is screaming so loud you can no longer hear the thing that you need to create. The fish turns to ash in your mouth. Hell! You can no longer even spy said fish. The waves crash so immensely, so harshly and all you can see and taste and hear is the grit from the bottom of the ocean that covers all that's gone before and anything you've ever thought. The layers and layers of the silt and mud that make up your subconscious, the relentless battle of the self and the ego that has intertwined to make one thick shitty residue.

I'M JUST TRYING TO FIND THAT FUCKING FISH BECAUSE I NEED TO FEED MYSELF, MY MIND AND MY EGO BUT I CAN NO LONGER SEE IT, NOT WITH ALL THIS DAMN GRIT IN MY EYES !!!!!

That record on loop of 'I can't' that even followed me down to the bottom of the ocean... HOW DID IT FIND ME HERE?!!! I'm floating, I'm weightless. How are you still here? 

So I keep swimming. Panicked. Salty water gets in my nose eyes and mouth. I choke. I go to sleep.
The next day I swim into a warm patch of water. The warmth floods through my veins. Gives my body another taste of how good life can be for that split second. Is it my own warm piss that I'm swimming through? Yes yes it is, I've just swam through my own warm piss, a piss of anxiety that I forgot the relieve.  

I swim  

And I wait. And I wait. 

And suddenly, I am in this room, this radio, this piano. 

Everything is as it was. 

And will be tomorrow. 

And the day after. 

And I realise. 
I haven't swam. I haven't walked . I haven't Choked. I haven't eaten. I haven't been down to the depths of the ocean and sucked up the silt. 

All I have done is thought.