Not quite yet
Because even if i never am off duty - as that is what awaking with the birds, means - the birds as they tweet way before the dawn, remind "still alive, great sleep, plod on.....but enjoy 'it'.. whatever the it is... ohh i suppose i will start to upload ziggabytes of film from the last ten years...why not.... it was only ever to show one person....one day she may be interested in what really happened in the lands she was raised.... way aside from the bourgeois, at first..."
Now, I can write.
With tremendous LIFE FORCE and ...
Well, 'creativity' is a word far too easily used without having lived.
Live it...
which means get the fuck out of the way of your words, or perhaps songs, or perhaps pics...
And despite poor Little Mister Tolle really missing out the important bit which means he is a fraud...
Nope... Herman that greatest German knew....
You gotta spend a fuck of a long time staring into the river knowing for sure you should drown yourself as all the others are wretched runts, but they win.... and always will.
Only once you have known for sure there is no point in for even 'just for five minutes' living on and being made stronger by what may have killed you....
Had you forgot to bother not dying from it...
ONLY then.... are you free to make a fool of yourself in the journey into the creative zone and, be there just because you can.
As there is little other raison d'etre...
Oh yes tangent, raison d'etre: it may well be the highest form of actual writing, especially when it was in respect of those three....
It started with her, the first...
In that last ever slightly terrible part of a year ...eighteen...
I mean what man has endured that not even Lady Macbeth on steroids in could have been that wonky... lets just call the poor lamb wonky as she knew not
what
she didnt do but others used her, to
So be it, folk will be wonky
(even that one word there is a three year story of life and death by little green men, and an American woman who must of course push her nasty so called drugs for her inadequate life onto a lamb so pure, even i couldnt find constructive critique.. and killed her, for which America must never be forgiven, or at least the truth of it always remembered, and turned one day into a Rhyme even Coleridge couldn't outdo for smelly Albatrosses...)
Anyway as usual i digress, which is pretty good going when i sit in someone elses building with a plug and know i only have it for half an hour, so have to go into overdrive and not think about how i may or may not digress, for effect.
The point, I can write. I knew the most beautiful woman in the Kingdom once. As a teen. Her older than I just a tad.
Anyway long story about having to leave the country, then, thank god.... because i discovered what actual love was. A year in her gang - their gang.... and that one first night when, just her and i at that party me never quite the life and soul. And we spoke. She ...well i don't know what she did, but someone you have been fascinated by for a year and always on easiest terms, and then just like that - nothing saucy, just real person woman.... that night you realise all of a sudden out of the blue, in a dream or in a whirlwind it matters not, but you cannot ever again be in her vicinity, because.... she is with him. And he is great too....
But then - bought back together by Jeremy Yes Jezza the second coming of Christ knows what.....
because her and I - Ms Smith, yes so 'smith' you cannot possibly look them up - ultra commoner her....
Spend a year at odds - person to person via The Book....
'person to 'person'? i wrote that woman my life story especially the bit about that night - the last one i saw her...
And talk about getting blood from a mad stone... er... yes UK the land where even a 37 years senior NHS head chief nursey is sucha druggie she cannot be human any more....
Pages
chapters....
hardly ever a word...
And then maybe nine months in, and the beautiful or one beautiful don't just 'laugh' smileything...
"you made me laugh writing that" i can tell you is Homer on The lotus juice ..squared, times infinity.
No one makes her 'laugh'... by an absurd nine months of her not picking up her phone, and maybe reading her messages, maybe not...unless
they can harness all the Muses who ever were extant, squared and whip them into flying you through the air in lead chariot they drag as theyre hunted by Cyclops imself.... on speed
No one ever ...by mere writing alone...made her... [near illiterate too]...laugh.
But then when that is not what one wanted, it is no boast...
And she was only the first.
Perhaps the ultimate getting out of the way of yourself as i believe comedic communication, is overrated...
I an write.
I can not be myself and still write.
But not yet..
And because this one is so important as there are just maybe a few folk one day i may be content if they have pondered what certain words are really for...
its just DRAFT
And for now very scrappy...
A not that middle class town, nevertheless i wonder when in September ...dogs started top need to wrap up
This is not rteally full on 'bourgeois' but is a start. The real meat and two veg of the bourgeois essay is about how it HURTS them so to lose their... 'standard' of ..'living'..what a curious phrase when it isn't living..its just bourgeois
One is alive, aside, of oneself, and certainly aside of all their expensive show off items....
And i was for a short period of great acedia - lost and lonely...a minor lost affluenza sufferer ... stuff mattered... well it did until you got it home and tried it on
