Golden Brown Begbie, Self-destruction, and Blood on the Tracks… by the way.*

It may be the combination of the Rolling Stones and Dylan’s Blood on the Tracks – not to mention the happy happy heroin heroes of The Strangler’s Golden Brown – but I find myself once again in the grip of identity crisis… well, that’s perhaps not entirely true… I guess it’s more of an existential crisis. In fact I am quite past identity crises in general these days. The embodiment of how I identify myself, however, is another thing altogether, as we shall see.

Woke up bone tired. You know, that “I’ve been hit by a fucking semi-trailer” feeling – or perhaps (given I’ve never been hit by a truck) more of a “too much smack last night” sensation.  (Not that I’ve indulged in the use of heroin either, but I can imagine it a little easier than being run over by a lorry, given the amount of partying and inhaling of illegal vegetable matter I am wont to do). Anyway, the point was, that it took me nearly three (sizable) cups of coffee this morning to produce even a chemically induced approximation of consciousness. Having achieved such a grand state of being, I can only – logically – want more right? But more what?

If I intake much (any) more bloody caffeine, not only am I going to give myself an ulcer, I’ll be up every 2.3 minutes pissing my brains out. Where does that leave me. In a vague (as I said) semblance of normality. Very vague, you understand. What I am after, is what any normal, stable human being would experience as a matter of course, namely, the ability and energy to move and think coherently… ok, well, the verdict is definitely still out on that last point. I keep trying to give humanity the benefit of the doubt, and allow that people can actually think, but I am repeatedly disappointed… oh well, if at first you don’t succeed, as they say.

I am trying to be good though peeps. And as such, I am staying away from the use and/or abuse of substances. I am trying to shake this mantle of a semi-functional drug addict (predominantly alcohol, but unlike the nice, conservative policy makers out there, I tend to think of booze as probably the most destructive recreational drug currently known to human kind).

I am far too familiar with – and have long been in love with – the notion of destroying one’s self for their art. (I blame this predominantly, entirely, on my musical and literary heroes, by the way – I do love that little saying, by the way. Always makes me feel like Francis Begbie – “playing like fucking Paul Newman, by the way”).

I have come to realise recently, however,  (actually as a result of someone talking about the specifics of Edith Piaf destroying herself for her art, and fuck did she do that well), that I am really not engaging in this practice at all. I am just destroying myself. There’s fuck all art here you know. Actually, now that I think about it, that’s wholly untrue. There’s a shit-load of it, rattling around the inside of my skull. It just ain’t making it onto the page. So it clearly doesn’t quite qualify, but it does exist.

Now, in an attempt to turn myself into one of the (afore-mentioned) balanced, stable (and hopefully not boring) specimens of humanity – as much for the sanity of my nearest and dearest, as for my own sake – I have been quite diligent in my efforts to turn the cranial edition of my art into a “real” one – as in, in print, on the page, fucking tangible… This effort toward action, coupled with the relative lack of intoxication, I am left clear-headed enough (apart from this particular morning) to realise that I need to find some new way of being financially responsible, one that doesn’t involve bars, table cloths, aprons, or fucking espresso machines. Something that can keep me in a relative state of comfort and health until I become fantastically rich, (only) mildly famous, and (at the very least) creatively fulfilled.

As someone mentioned off-hand to me the other day, more and more people start entering the Public Service as they get older.

God help me.

* Apparently the trick to getting more people to look at your fucking blog, is to put a bunch of bloody hooks in the title, so it shows up all attractive like in their web searches. Let’s see how this fucker goes, and perhaps next time I’ll include such relevancies as Stephen Hawking, Lee Harvey Oswald, and the flouride content of herbal toothpaste…

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~ by Gethin A. Lynes on February 11th, 2011.

One Response to “Golden Brown Begbie, Self-destruction, and Blood on the Tracks… by the way.*”

  1. […] well end up slain by d20 wielding half-elven fighter/mage after all. By the way – I love by-the-ways, by the way – the entire reason for gaming/military bookshops to exist is so ageing D&D […]

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