My only friend, the end.

November 26, 2010 § Leave a comment

 This is the end. – The Doors.

This maybe my last post for a while. Perhaps forever. I’m not really sure why I started this thing anyway. I’m sorry to have wasted your time with my thoughts. Thank you to anyone who sent me anything. You were all so kind. Maybe I will get lucky and you will hear from me again. I sort of ran out of the madness that I thought was supposed to define me, I’m scared without it. I don’t feel right and haven’t for months. That last post was liquid insanity and I’m sorry to anyone who it might have worried, I didn’t take it down because I wanted to keep it up as evidence, maybe justification for what I may have to do. I’m sorry. But you claim to be crazy if you have the bang to back it up. Thank you for your time and I hope we have the time or the mental will power to talk again.

Your sincerely

Simon Blake

No Longer an Astronaut


Insanity and a suicide note.

November 25, 2010 § Leave a comment

 “I heard it said you had come back from the dead” – Babyshambles – Back from the dead.

So here I go, just one last time. From the swimming depths of a vodka brain fuck. A spirit that never looses it’s effect or ability. I’m in love with a stranger but I always have been. Shit man. I mean it. If you’ve ever come close to knowing me you will understand this one. If you don’t you will look at me how the church tent would look at me at Reading festival, how the fucking sober kids would look at me in year 11, how my fucking friends would look at me when they didn’t understand. Silly brain. Your the cause of all this. There’s no way to hide from that. Maybe this drinking is the only thing giving my writing any fucking creditability, but I don’t tell people about it, never, ever, not even some of my closest friends. They worry about me, the ones I do tell. I left a message on one of their answer phones from a back alley where I am now. I told him I was a short enough walk from a long enough fall, but hey who’s keeping score? Not me. Was I serious? In a word, no. But that’s just a word and doesn’t tell the whole story. Fuck. I hope my friend doesn’t read this. I hope he looses interest like I was sure he would. I would always be very careful to keep how much of a fuck-up I am rattling around inside my own brain. What price creature comforts? Hell, this is straight up, lie down on the couch Mr. Blake you’ve paid for an hour of this shit. Fuck. I’m everything I said I won’t be. That’s rambling enough. Enough non nonsensical madness. Time to tell you what’s going on.

We picked Maxi’s ashes up with a kiss to his mother. We sat in the bar and we drank Tequila like someones bullet was screaming in at us. Worth it. Because we realised exactly where we should scatter the ashes. Well, sort of. We realised that the mistake we had been making was not where to scatter them, but HOW to scatter them. We took to a stolen car, drunk and screaming through the roads Tequila in one hand and ashes in the other, in the sun roof, Maxis‘ favourite seat, and just like that, with the music screaming in the way that gets the heart pumping faster than usual. The way it makes you feel like cocaine and speed without the awful come-down. Beware me, I’m everything I promised I would be. Like a puff of grey he was gone. Fuck him and his easy way out the lucky cunt. Maybe I just need sleep. I have been pushing insanity for a few days now. Fuck it. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. God. Your either due a pussying out or a fucking Pulitzer prize and a suicide note.

You can only make your own mistakes.

November 22, 2010 § Leave a comment

“When I get home I don’t wanna talk about what you’ve done, cos yeah you’ve let me down and fucked around but I guess you were having fun.” – Father’s DayFrank Turner.

When I was 13 me and mother never really got on. When we were talking we were fighting. Yes I was a horrible teenager who’s hormones were all over the place but she wasn’t without her part to be played. One day she asked me to “do something useful and get the clothes out of the dryer.” Our dryer lived in the garage, so I ventured out there. While pulling the warm clothes from the high dryer I knocked over one of my dads power drills, it fell onto the stone floor of the garage and broke at the handle, I knew it was bust. I took the clothes in and told her what happened. She made me feel terrible. “You can’t do anything right” – “why does this always happen with you?”- “Your dads going to be so mad!” It didn’t help that my older brother was immaculate and was never in trouble. So I went upstairs and I waited in my room. I waited the 2 hours until my dad came home. I heard his car home down the road and pull into the gravel in front of our house. I heard him walk into the house and into the kitchen where my mum was. I heard them talking for a few minutes. The drill was in the kitchen and I was sure that my mum would be showing him. I heard the kitchen door open and his foot on the first stair. This was it, this was what I had been waiting for. My fathers wrath that had been fired up by my mother. My dad was the perfect mix of carrot and stick but when my mum got at him about me he had no choice but to get me. He got to the top of the stairs and turned right, straight to my room, knocked then entered. There really was nothing I could do. I tried to say “Come in” and pathetically as I could but my dad was never a sucker for sympathy. The conversation passed with very little telling off which confused me greatly, the reason for this would become clear a few days later. When my father sat me down and told me that the drill had been broken for years, that my mother knew this, and told my dad never to tell me and to make me feel bad. It’s that sort of thing that stays with you as a child.

I don’t know why I told you that, or why I felt so uncomfortable writing it. I love my mum, I guess I’m trying to say sometimes you have to be really careful of people. A lot of times in my life I haven’t trusted people for good reason, a lot of times I’ve trusted people and they’ve fucked me over. I don’t know. What I’m trying to say is you can only make your own mistakes.

I’m in England and later will meet up with Mossy to collect the ashes. There has been a ground swell of people to this page and I’m not really sure why, if your new, hello thank you for coming, grab a beer pull up a chair or some shit to sit on. I never thought that my writing would hold any public attention.

No Longer an Astronaut.

Simon Blake.

It’s souled out in heaven.

November 20, 2010 § Leave a comment

 “I feel like a stray from my Cannonball days.” – Cannonball DaysRyan Adams.

Some thing’s come up. I am in a hotel in north Germany and it was mid afternoon when I was awoken by a phone call. I’m currently in the stage of the year in which I write as much as I can before the magazine turns itself into the pay-for-good-publicity advertisement rag that it becomes every Christmas to make the money it needs to sustain itself. I had spent the evening drinking in another empty hotel room and turned in the story via the internet. I was in the blurry eyed sleep stage of the hangover, the ones that don’t hurt, the ones you get when you know that your body has got used to this sort of punishment recently. Anyway, what do you know, I’m spinning around in a tangent again and dancing with distraction, back to my point. I was slapped from my stupor by the unpleasant sharpness of a ringing mobile phone. There’s something horrible about being woken up by a phone call, like somebody has just punched into your warm bubble to deliver bad news. I rolled out of the bed and crawled to the floor where my phone was going off. I risked looking at the screen despite the effect the light had on my eyes, “Private Number.” I put the phone to my ear.

Hello?” I said in that strange voice that always comes out of me when I’m hungover, when I sound like a fucking lumberjack. “Hello Simon” I recognized her voice instantly and the accent and her grace. Maxi’s mother. Her voice had lost some of it’s bounce since the death of her son. She was a conversation artist in my humble opinion. She briefly enquired as to my well being then cutting to the point. Maintaining social convention while also preventing from being patronising. I had last seen her at the funeral, well cremation? Is it still a funeral if its a cremation? She cut to the point. Maxi had no will, he was too busy being insane to bother with that. So she had spent the time since Maxis‘ funeral planning where to scatter the ashes. Then she decided that there was only one way for it to be dealt with. She would take half ashes to the motherland, they would go back with her to Mexico. The other half, she told me, would be given to me and Mossy and we would take them to wherever we thought was the best place. I told her that I love her and that I would see her when I was back in England and put the phone down. Back in my bubble. So now I have a decision on my hands, where do I scatter them? Where we spent our childhood? Where we used to get drunk? In that field near our primary school when I know he had his first kiss or outside Sarah Jamersons’ house where he had his first screw? Or France or Monaco or Rome Or Fucking Nebraska. One thing is for certain. I’m going home and I’m meeting up with Mossy again and we are putting Maxi to rest wherever, for the last time.

Fear & self-loathing.

November 17, 2010 § Leave a comment

“I’m just looking for that person who will answer all my questions, who will tell me I’m just tired and then send me back to sleep.” – Frank Turner.

I’ve been a little lost of late, a little tired a little ill, a little too sane. My heads been in balance and I’ve been worrying a lot. This is not like me. Not one bit. Sometimes when I have an idea I run at it, head first and should I break my head on it, so be it. But with my America idea, I started to run, but got out of breath. Like so many people with ideas and dreams, I put it on a back burner, I put it on my to do list. Fuck to do lists? When did I become that sort of person? Is this what happens to all our dreams? For fuck sake man stop bitching and moaning your whole life. Grow up. Act your age. Such confusion and self loathing could lead to disaster. Maybe I’m just shit out of ideas? These mood swings keep coming and going. Everybody knows its all about the things that get stuck inside of your head and yes, we would love to buy a bottle of whiskey and just chase and chase and chase those things until we have them but we fucking can’t. We can’t because sometimes those things don’t want us, hold tight kid, your going to need that whiskey. So what do we do? When the things we want don’t want us? Back to that bottle kid? Go home and clean your blood? Fuck no, what are you six?. You find something else to want, something that will want you back. Of course, it’s so fucking simple THAT is what I’ll be doing with my life. And when your Heroes let you down? What Heroes? Find some new ones, they didn’t deserve you anyway.

 But wait, just one second, before we go running fresh faced into the world like a new born child. Just one second. What if we only wanted those things, those things and those heroes, because they didn’t want us? Maybe that’s what we find attractive. Is unattainably the height of attractiveness? Sure, we want something more after we know we can’t have it, we all know that, but does it define attraction? Are we really as far down the evolutionary diagram as we would like to think if there is a fundamental floor that big in all our brains? I was supposed to be fucking indestructible that’s what I was promised. God listen to me, I’m like Einstein’s retarded social-studies bother on coke scribbling on a blackboard. That was pure insanity. Take no notice of me, I’m just tired. I’ll keep you posted, I need to reply to your emails, especially yours Elizabeth.

Simon Blake

Short on ideas but not insanity

New Year in New York.

November 15, 2010 § Leave a comment

 “A great place for architects and dilettantes”-Black History Month– Death From Above

I have something in the pipeline, something big, another trip. I’m currently back home but this is where I have all my best ideas. San Francisco to New York City on a paupers budget. I’m going to try and beg steal and borrow my way across the richest country in the world. I fly from Luton tomorrow. Just me on this one, friends are fine company but dead-weight in this sort of insanity. I’m excited. God I’m excited. This is a great idea. If you reading this in America I could need you real soon, don’t be shy if I could sleep on your floor that would fucking rock and I will take you out and we can find some trouble, so email, my details are on here on the page on the left. Other than that it’s strangers and hitch-hiking from here on in. It’s bad food in bad diners. It’s eat or drink with the money I will be on. It’s sleeping on floors and in cars. It’s beg stealing or borrowing and I couldn’t be looking forward to it more. Europe served me and my friends with love laughter and tragedy, like every good play-Now it’s time for the United States of America to step up to the plate.

New year in New York? Yes, please.

Be good or be gone.

November 13, 2010 § Leave a comment

I put you on a pedestal they put you on they pill.”- New England-Billy Bragg  

Fuck it. I’m a liar. I’m a clean natural liar. I do it because I can and because I’m good at it. I lied to you and I’m sorry. Yes I found her. Yes she was with a man. But it was not her brother and she didn’t chase me around the corner. She was never in the next room. I just left her there in the café.

Why did I do it? I’m not really sure. I couldn’t tell you. Perhaps it was a self comfort thing. Perhaps it was the half of Tequila. Perhaps it was the 14 year old girl from Boston who sent me an email telling me she hopes that me and Paris girl get married. Who am I to break a young girls heart again? I’m sorry Sarah, truly I am, but it looks like me and Paris girl won’t be getting hitched, I would love to tell you otherwise, hell I tried to, I really did, but these are the breaks kid. Your still young, roll with the punches, be somebody.

You may have started to get in sync with my train of thoughts these days, so you might realise what I went and did after I saw her. If you guessed got drunk off my ass, you were right. I hate waking up on the floor, the beds just there man! Would it have been so hard to just get into it? Hotel’s in Paris are like none anywhere else in the world. Imagine Orwell’s 1984, but without the fear. Everyone’s a not caring cog in machine that cares just as much the sum of it’s parts. I have no rights to feel betrayed by her, but that has never stopped me before.

What a stupid fucking trip. San Francisco to Paris for a girl I don’t know the name of. Fuck it, it’s this sort of thing that makes me feel like I’m still young. Like I’ve still got it in me. Like I could still be who I want to be. That’s why people do stupid things, because they make us feel alive and they make us smile on public transport. Those are the people who are truly happy, the ones who are smiling at strangers on trains.

I’m waiting for my orders from the magazine to find out my next port of call and place to adventure. Maxi funeral is coming up but I will not be talking about that on here. Some things are better left untalked about

Ever since I put my email address on here I’ve been getting a load of really positive feedback, it’s great. Thank you. Feel free to email me about anything. I will keep writing as long as people keep reading. Tell your friends, throw the link about on facebook, the more the merrier.

Yours Sincerely Simon Blake. ( Not the famous one )

No Longer An Astronaut.

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