I will make it through this year if it kills me

August 29, 2012 § Leave a comment

“I could hear the alcohol in my blood hum.” This Year – The Mountain Goats

I feel like I owe you apology. I owe myself an apology. I have taken you for granted. Too many nights I have pissed away on shit that doesn’t matter, that has no repercussions, no risk, no legacy, no meaning. Bad TV dramas, fucking awful reality television, video games. They numb the brain. You can feel it, like wet cake dripping inside your head. To me, this matters. You matter. You the people. You who come in your drones, from all corners, the off screen tells me. Where. Everywhere. To hear what I have to say. To listen to a drip-feed of self-indulgence. I fear I lost my way. I fear a lot these days. It is my opinion that a writer should learn to type quickly so that what they are thinking and what they are writing can become one thing. A stream of thought. Honesty is so rare. This is honesty. This is me. This is what I try to provide to you the people. I’ve been uneasy my whole life. Insecure, fucked-up, scared, dishonest. I’ve been a liar, a thief, a coward, a drunk, a junkie. But this doesn’t make me different. No, this doesn’t make me different. It makes me the same. It makes me like you. What sets me apart, what sets us all apart is the other things. The brave. Being brave, standing tall, fighting for what matters, whatever that may be, put yourself out there, trying, risks. This sets us apart. To me a man who dies on his feet has always been worth 100,000 men who die on their knees.

So line up you brave. Line up you foolhardy and you die hard’s. Line up you gamblers and you fighters, those who never spent a night in a glasshouse. Line up those who try in the same line as those who fail and those who succeed. Line up and stand tall. This is your homecoming. This is your swan-song. Your final notes. Die on your feet.

This is my 100th post.

No Longer an Astronaut.

Simon Blake.



Jumping from the balcony.

August 26, 2012 § Leave a comment

“No emotion that’s worth having could call my heart it’s home, my hearts an autoclave.” – The Mountain Goats – Autoclaves

I need this. I always come back to this. This is square one. HQ. Home. This is where I end up. Before I had this I wasn’t happy. I was restless, stuck, like all of this would cook up and get to the top of my blood. It would kick and scream and make  me mad. It made me push. It wasn’t all bad though, when it stayed in my blood. I learnt more about myself that I would have ever had learnt staying at home. It taught me that I was capable. Not of anything or everything. But capable of something. Something was more than I had ever let cross my mind before. Something was an achievement. Something was hope. I needed the crazy. We all need it. We must learn when to fight it and when to not.

Argh. You know? You know. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t know. I thought I wanted sex but that wasn’t the case. I thought it was drugs or cigarettes. It was neither. I don’t know what it is. For the first time, the thing that I want that I can’t get is completely unknown to me. But I want it. God how I want it. I itch and I wake up in the ditch water sleep I’ve been getting. I still feel where they put in the I.V drip sometimes. Sometimes I wake up and grab at it’s trolley as I make up way to the bathroom. I’m always confused when it isn’t there. I still sleep with my right hand away from my body to keep the tubes clear. I’m better now. It takes some time to remember.

Self-indulgent people give up. They start. They stop. They keep going. Bad tattoos.

Sober again. Easy. Sober. Forgiving. Forgiven. Gone. Easy. Happy. People. Smiling.




Dressed up to the whole nine yards.

August 13, 2012 § Leave a comment

“You told me again you preferred handsome men, but for me you would make an exception.” – Lenard Cohen

Lack of years should not leave you void of grace. My pulse isn’t holding steady anymore, it’s dull, too dull. As if there is a leak in the system, and slowly, like a quiet hiss of a young boy’s bicycle tire, the life is getting out. Getting clear. Going down like a air mattress in an abandoned room of a trashed party house. Similes are coming thick like hot air. Similes and cheap jokes. My minds not holding water like it used too. What once was a bowl is now a sieve. What once was lost with water, is now found without. Still wet. No water. Fell out of a boat. No water.

I wound down the drinking, the mad, self-destruction. The appeal is lost on me for now. I think I leveled out. Last time I felt it this steady I hit the rails so hard I bounced. The bottle so hard I went straight through.

I’m too young to be getting old.


Histories arc with your family with art, it don’t mean nothing, not to you not tonight.

August 1, 2012 § 1 Comment

“You’ve bronzed it it’s your bad.” It’s only your life – Kevin Devine. 

That scene Trainspotting – when he sinks through the carpet.

I’m feeling easy. A girl on a bus spoke a phrase in a conversation I was gate-crashing. “My life is at a crossroads.” She said well her friend deafly nodded, listening without hearing, acknowledging the information before it even reached her and prematurely greeting it with a sense of acceptance. With that I left the conversation, having taken an out, a slip road, a jump off point. Isn’t life always a crossroads? Really? I mean people talk about “the straight and narrow” all the time, it’s confusing.  If I was to drink a bottle of whiskey, 5 grams of cocaine and choose to tear through it in a night people would say “he went off the rails” like I’d slipped off some track. In my experience, in life people don’t slip. A slip is a choice or mistake caused by failure before the event. My point, my very strange, ironically twisted point is that if, like so many people suggest through many phrases, life is a road a crossroads is a crossroads, even if you go straight on with out thinking. God. I’m not sure I got that one.

I’m unsettled. I’m trying to pull it out, like there’s this nasty thread dug and rapped in my brain and I’m trying to pull it out, to think it out. It’s twisted, it’s folded, it’s deep. It’ll wait? I’m not sure. I used to sleep like a baby. I used to sleep alone. Hell, I used to do a lot things, so did you, and you know it. We all know it. Disappointment and moments of delirious happiness are the things that bind us. The moments are like films that stick, and rewind and play, fading with age in those lonely moments on buses and in empty beds. Those feelings, those moments that hit the blood. Like a train dropping in your veins, and pumping and coursing around like heaven. Like some passing drug, some guiltless, shameless, free drug, but not non-addictive, oh no, not non-addictive, and perhaps, no – certainly – more dangerous. More harmful. Harder to get off. Longer rehab. But time, cold-turkey and time will get you clean. No substitutes. No, they won’t help you were your going – painkillers don’t numb pain you have to get through – they just waste time.

Simon Blake

No Longer an Astronaut.

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