My only friend, the end.

Anyone who’s spent any time riding a long board around  – one with wheels, not one of those ones covered in sex wax – will be familiar with the moment when, sooner or later, you’re part way down a really big fuck-off hill, and you realise that if you don’t get off now, you’re not going to get off until the hill has run its course.

Sometimes that course ends in a nice long piece of flat ground, devoid of traffic, of pedestrians, and you cruise down to a speed at which you’re no longer trying really hard to unclench yourself from around that fist of terror that’s shoved itself in through your out door. Sometimes things wind up in a desperate sprint across a patch of ground – grass if you’re lucky – that’s moving significantly faster than your legs are capable of carrying you, followed by a few painful somersaults. Sometimes you just run straight into a brick wall, a cyclist, a knot of passersby, or the side of a moving vehicle. The point is, that once you hit that terminal velocity, you’ve got to ride things out, or you’re going to fuck yourself up, terminally.

It’s the perfect test of one’s reflexes. Mental reflexes. To be sure, it helps to be able to manoeuvre a highly unstable plank of wood at ball–shrinking speeds, but nanosecond decision-making is what saves. This whole scenario, from the moment of doubt, through the analysis of potential hazards and the likelihood of imminent quadriplegia, to the decision the get the fuck off your skateboard, takes place in about 0.003 seconds. If the brain’s on a bit of a lag, it’s over, the moment has passed, there’s fuck all you can do now.

Now, I’d love it if this was a good analogy for writing this blog, but really it’s been more like try to skate up that fucking hill. Have you ever tried that? It’s fucking excruciating. It takes at least three times the effort of just getting off and walking, and everybody stares at you thinking dickhead.

Sometimes you start something, and then you find yourself hurtling along, and you’ve got one of two choices: go with it, or get off. In either case you’ll probably end up a little bit broken, but at least if you went with it, there’d be an audience. There’s no point in fucking yourself up fantastically if there’s no one there to watch. That’s not to say that gathering an audience is necessarily gathering yourself supporters. It’s like the lunatic skating down a mountainside. Half the people who see it, are going to think fuck yeah! Legend. The others are going to stand there muttering fucking idiot. But they will stand there and watch.

Actually, come to think of it, there’s a third choice. You stay on the board but keep dragging a foot to slow yourself down. You like the idea, but you’re too afraid of the consequences, too apologetic for your display of daring, your exhibitionism, your opinions.

I have a habit of taking that kind of middle of the road approach, and as a result, the history of this blog is an archive of average; a mediocre bookshelf, with a few fucking brilliant volumes (if I do say so myself), but mostly filled with self-indulgent drivel, a collection of profane Mills & Boon novels.

So, that being the case, this is it; the end.

Like the title suggests, I’m putting up with the sound of my own voice, rather than screaming it out, all the way to the bottom of the hill. It’s time to go and do something different, to find a new hill, and keep my feet on the board and off the fucking road.

To be honest, I also feel like perhaps it’s time I stopped setting myself up for libel suits being so unkind. No, no, don’t get me wrong. I’m sure there’ll be rants aplenty, and I’ll probably keep plastering cyberspace with anti-Abbottfucking-cunt propaganda, and bemoaning the mediocrity flung about by the likes of Dan Brown and Josh Pyke.

But you know, I’m not sure I have to name names and all that. Not that I think I’m spreading the vitriol very far, nor that I have any influence over anyone, at all. It’s just that, well, it’s not very fair to Mr Brown, or to Mr Pyke to direct it all at them personally. There are boring twats aplenty out there, and those guys are definitely not the most glaring examples – though certainly DB is one of the richest, so fuck him. And I know, I’m probably even someone’s very own boring twat. It’s a hard world out there for creative types, and the Brown/Pyke contingent are doing a lot better than most – and certainly a damn sight better than I.

You know, you’ve probably actually heard Josh Pyke’s name, and for someone operating in the Australian music industry, that’s fucking phenominal. I really should be nicer, and more congratulatory. And I would, if it wasn’t for that fact that his music makes me want to go out and find every guy in skinny jeans, a cardigan/low-cut t-shirt combo, and black rimmed glasses and punch them the fuck out.

But that’s not filling the world with love, and being supportive of difference, and… excuse me while I go and have a quick vomit…

Right, back.

Anyhoo, until I find somewhere new from whence to fill the world with words, some other lonely soapbox from which to spout my nonsense to an empty room, it’s been grand people.

Thanks for reading, both of you.

Catch you on the other side…

Ok, Ok, I’ll come back and give you directions when I work out where I’m going. I don’t like to be by myself…


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on April 8th, 2012.

One Response to “My only friend, the end.”

  1. Mate, I think you’re being a wee bit harsh on yerself. You’ve made me laugh, a lot, out loud, more and more often.

    And one argumentative point, just for old times’ sake. Restraint needent be average, and I don’t think yours generally has been.

    Still, to endings and new beginnings. Well done and thank you.

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