Bone.

Now I know to some degree, in some fashion I’m a bit of a clever fucker. But what became apparent at about 12.30 this morning, in the chilly night air, was that perhaps I’m a bit too fucking clever for me own good…

Reading txt messages whilst riding a skateboard is perhaps not the best mix of activities… especially when the skateboard decides to have an altercation with a pot hole…

There are pieces of the phone missing, pieces of my jeans, and pieces of my leg.

Still, at least this time I can’t actually see the bone in my right hip, I haven’t cracked my bare head on the asphalt, and nor have I gravel rash upon my face. So I guess I’m getting more talented at injuring myself without doing serious damage…

Progress abounds.

Head Creeps

In long waves it makes it’s way to the shore of sleep. Is that the shore upon which one finds sleep, or emerges from it? Who can tell? That’s like asking if this is reality or a dream, and if so, is it my dream or someone else’s? There is no knowing, and there is no escaping from this caffeine fueled nightmare.

Yes, thinks the theme, recurring too often, I am being overused, abused, and then neglected. Nowhere is the respect I deserve… but here ideas wallow in their own misery, loneliness. For here, in fact is precisely where the respect is, where the love is, where the obsession is.

It all comes down to coffee… and the need to pee.

Yes, yes it’s true, the confusion continues… but that’s ok. A healthy dose of ambiguity, nonsense, idiocy is the life blood of the fool… which nearly I am.

 

Truth, Blood

Caffeine caffeine caffeine CAFFEINE…

Of course it could be the craving for nicotine as well this morning that applies this pressure inside my skull, that blankets the world in a fog of irritability and poor quality of thought. It could be the shitty night’s sleep, or it could be something else entirely… suffice it to say that I was full of it last night, this motivation and inspiration, drunk on progress, energised by the bright night, delight of the full moon…

Perhaps I went through some strange metamorphosis in those hours I lay awake, or thought I did, in the pale lunar light, and prowled the world in the bony wee hours, feeding upon the pleasure of others, a tom, peeping in the windows of the unwary, and drooling upon the sill. And all the while, I think to myself, of these hours unable to sleep, staring at the blank wall, shifting, sweating, listening to the soft rhythmic breathing next to me, dreaming of blood and sex and swamps, and looking for something to come and change it all, to feed upon me, to drink this mix of foolery and wisdom, consciousness and ignorance, bigotry and love.

And if it makes no sense to them who would make of it all a heady drink, a sustenance, then they have nought but themselves to blame, for no one thinks to ask before if they are going to like what they take. If anyone bothered to ask, I’d put up my arms and shrug, and say: I have no fucking idea what I am talking about.

Further adventures in absentia…

So well, things have been happening haven’t they… as they are wont to do, while the majority of us are not paying any attention whatsoever…

I have exited the tardises (tardi?) of the espresso world… and let’s face it, for any self-respecting barista, this is a clever move. As much as I like the old shysters who run the network, the coffee ain’t exactly high class… in keeping with the equipment, the hygiene levels, in fact the whole show really…

I have managed to weasel my way into Artisan Roast, The Best Cafe In The Universe. I have rediscovered the benefits to one’s well being of actually learning things… fantastic.

It is, as usual, at this point in the proceedings that I have become somewhat distracted by other nonsense, and have lost track of where I was going. That being the case, I will move on to the good old Land of Hypocrisy…

So apparently my lack of commitment to the United Snakes of America (i.e. working outwith the country), has rendered me ineligible for naturalisation… perhaps this is some kind of karmic slap in the face, as a result of that fact that I don’t really give a shit about the US, just want to be able to come and go as I please… maybe I need to develop a great patriotic love of all things yank…

Or maybe it’s just the Dept. of Homeland Security keeping tabs on my every move, thought, action, and deciding that I have not yet been indoctrinated enough to warrant being allowed in for good… yeah that’d be it.

Absence, Absynth, and Momentous Occasions.

Ok, ok, so Absynth has nothing to do with the whole situation whatsoever, but it sounded good at the time… as in a few seconds ago.

Anyway, as anyone has probably failed to notice, there have been absences recently… absence from cyber-hell, absence from Scotland-hell… during which times, there have been some momentous happenings – at least in my minor little universe. Let’s go backwards shall we?

Right, so Friday morning (as the facebook whores might have already read), I was hoeing garden beds in the beautiful Scottish summer… er… I mean the pissing rain… er… yes, that. A stark contrast to Thursday that was spent wandering the lovely streets of Cagliari, sipping coffee on shady little terrazzas, overlooking the sparkling meditterranean… in a wave of comfort some 25 fucking degrees warmer than Friday had to offer… Welcome home, says Davva…

The momentous bit being, I am brown (as opposed to pale blue), as I bloody well should be, for the first time in several years… I feel like a human again. That whole far North pale blue bit, it kind of makes you feel like you were grown in a vat somewhere, beneath the healthy glow of flourescent lights, and are not really meant to be out of doors… ick. I have rediscovered the bliss of living in a real climate, of eating the universes greatest pizza (really, I am NOT fucking kidding), of swimming in water that no doubt puts God’s private beach to shame… it’s too good, or at least it was… Now I learn to appreciate the joys of multiple layers of clothing again… which strangely, now that I have had a recharge of the good life, I am actually finding easier than I have in yonks.

Ok, so back a bit further… Paris… Rock en Seine… Faith No More, and a seamingly mostly uninterested French crowd – apart from those fuck knuckles who think that trying to start a mosh is best acheived through grievous bodily harm – perhaps they spent all there energy on going absolutely berko to The Offspring… go figure… bloody strange.

And a bit further… Edinbrugh… Corn Exchange… Faith No fucking More!!! Lost none of their edge, none of their energy, amusement, lunacy… the list goes on. Best gig in years – honestly, even disregarding the fact that I am such a fanboy – fucking amazing… but I am left with the question:

What, exactly, constitutes a good gig?

We pondered this on our way home… the over riding opinion being that if you have wrung a litre of sweat out of your shirt, and are borderline deaf, then it must have been pretty fucking good…

On the other hand… a good number of the other fuckers at the show(s) seemed to think that the mark of an amazing gig is how many photo’s you manage to snap on your fucking phone… clearly so when you wake up tomorrow you can have some record of having been there… because no doubt the amount of attention you paid to getting good angles for the fucking pictures will have rendered you mind blank of any actual memories of the band… fucking arseholes…

This is all a bit outdated however… I think in fact I actually wrote this bollocks well over a month ago, and never posted it…

He’s going for distance…

I saw Neil Gaiman the other day… not walking down the street, but talking, reading, talking at the Edinburgh Book Festival – which one of my co-workers informed me, is an incredibly geeky thing to go to. No walking down the street would have been nice… I might have been able to stop him and take him for a coffee, and suck out endless anecdotes and bits of advice about being a writer. Hey, I’ll take all the inspiration I can get…

He looked a little too much like Dylan Moran – well from a mild distance, and without my glasses at least – for me to not be waiting for him too make some cynical comment, rather than just appreciating how down to earth and humble he seemd…

I forget what the point I was going to make about the whole experience now… it was going to be a good one, I assure you. At any rate, I have been furiously tapping away at my keyboard ever since, and in my typical fashion, have written some pretty good wee sentences – if I do say so myself.

The problem is, however, that I have a couple of things, bits of writing, on the go, that I sem unable to keep working on. Every thing I do lately seems to be something new… and while this is not a bad thing ,and while they are managing to be relatively complete, I am faced with that old problem of mine, that I start something (something longish) which I thin has merit, which I know could be really fucking good actually, and I never get around to finishing it. I seem to be quite good at sitting there in the moment and spewing something out, and as long as it is short enough to inish in one go, it all turns out ok. But all my “real” stories are left to gather dust (metaphorically speaking of course, as they are all stored on a fucking hard drive).

And I wonder if this is commonplace amongst would be writers, or am I a sad little creature, unable to commit to the long haul? Is my endless work at improving myself, and being self-reflective, and all that, taking up my seemingly limited ability to go the distance?

Maugham.

I love the little, occasionally useful or amusing, but generally banal, application available for the Google homepage… they’re probably all available in much brighter colours, with much more “intuitive” interactive capabilities on an iphone, but I am neither that rich, nor that trendy… yet.

Anyway, I have a little box that presents me with quotes of the day. Brilliant. Puts me in mind of the old staff room at Real Foods, and the instigation of a quote of the week segment upon the cork board… David (Daveed, the crazy, stoned spaniard) started it… or rather I started it, being so amused by one of his linguistic fuck ups. “No, just because I have a large head, does not mean I have a big brain.” Genius. Encapsulated humanity right there.

Anyway, one of today’s little offerings is from W. Somerset Maugham.

“Sometimes people carry to such perfection the mask they have assumed that in due course they actually become the person they seem.”

I mention it only because I have perfected so many of my own, that I really have no fucking idea who I am anymore…

This is somewhat disturbing.

mmmMonica Bellucci

I’ve said it afore and, no doubt, I’ll think it again… People really are fucking amazing creatures… I pretend not to be any great analyst, nor even a particularly competent thinker most of the time, but I do love to ponder the vast black gulf that stretches between one person’s thought processes and another’s…

Here I am, sitting in one of these anonymously crowded public places, reading “news” articles about Monica Bellucci not being as empty-headed as one might think (well you can’t blame a bloke can you? She’s pretty much the bees knees of European beauty), and pretending that I am here actually getting some work done on one of my various writing projects… yeah yeah, I’ll get there… it’ll only take an hour or two of procrastinating to get started…

I choose these places so I don’t fall victim to all the distractions of trying to work at home… you know, making food I’m not hungry for… cleaning the toilet… etc. And, of course, being the grand zen-master of not doing what I came to do, I get more and more distracted by the cafe, the longer I sit here. So now, after a good hour of Monica’s shapely… er… thought processes, and dodgy, bugged-out free internet, when I finally get down to it… or at least, down to this… along comes Mr. Inexplicable and sits at the table next to my couch…

Now, call me dim, call me narrow in my scope of understanding, but for the life of me, I cannae work out why the hell a bloke would chose to sit at the seat that not only does not afford him the better view (he’s facing a fucking blank wall), but is also far more cramped than the seat on the other side of his table, and his elbow is scant inches away from my earlobe… perhaps I’m just too perplexed to get it, or maybe it’s the fact that people (as I said) are amazing in the scope of their thoughts…

Or mayhaps I just be so deafened by his high volume chattering into his mobile phone, that I cannae hear the thoughts that explain why cramped, boring, close-proximity seating is preferable to spacious, comfortable, visual stimulation…

Or, then again, perhaps I’m just daft… yeah that could be it.

Boo hoo…

Whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge whinge…

Boring!

Registration

And here I was thinking that I was the financially irresponsible one in this relationship…

Home… it is an odd experience. I have not really been away that long, three rapid months, and though Auld Reekie is as familiar as ever, it feels very alien at the moment as well… Or perhaps I am what feels alien… fuck I have an official Alien Registration Number, so why not?

I am wasted, the result of several late, intoxicated nights leading up to a disgustingly long day of flights, airports, lightening storms, and runway delays. And after a 16 hour sleep, I still feel fucked up. Add to this that fucking horrible situation of having to find a job, and being near penniless, having just enough money (I thought) for rent, bills, the odd meal, and a bed when we go away for a few days at the end of the month…

Like I am a financially relaxed person to begin with…

So glad to be back.