February 17, 2013 § 1 Comment
“Kill me now ‘cos I let you down” – The Strokes, New York City Cops.
I could see the song in her eyes so much that I’d stop hearing it in my ears. The whole audio was lost and my entire perception of what could be heard was communicated to me entirely in through those pistol blue eyes half tucked away under a dirty blonde fringe. I look away and let the song hit my ears again, it rises and falls like how I saw it. She’s sat across from me in a bar down in the south, wooden tables meet the broken wooden legs of our unstable table, small, wooden chairs, neon signs, people. Lots of people. That noise of people, of friends, rings out under the music, like shouts at a concert. She looks up through her fringe, smiles softy, it’s easy, it’s free, it’s that contradiction of security that I’m terrified I will loose. Oh life, you’re just a penny in a well, you’re a fallen leaf in a forest, you’re that football lost on the roof, you’re long forgotten here.
I’d dam near died trying to get here. Jumping lanes in the dark, flashing through traffic, the engine screaming like a wounded animal. Downshifting, engine breaking, that subtle kick back on the rev jump. Throwing it through corners, actually smelling the burning on the break pads. She provides the exact feeling to me that I felt on the way when I entered a corner a little too hot and the back stepped out. She is that adrenaline dump, that rush, that feeling that you are doing something worth while with your life for the simple reason that have this running through your veins. For the simple reason that the dead don’t feel like this. All of those reasons coupled with the grim and simultaneously blissful feeling of knowing that this beautiful emotion could mean that in the end of the next 4 seconds, you may well be dead, but what a last thing to feel.
This is what living should be, every once in awhile, not too far apart. That feeling like someone is hitting a heavy bass drum inside your heart. Steady rhythms are knocked into instability by pretty girls. That sweat. That glorious feeling of having avoided certain death another time. To have lived to fight another day. Heavy hearts are fallen further by idle action and self pity. No good can come from milling around, staring at the walls, going over it all in your head. Run. Fucking run. See if you can outrun the thoughts, go, not trying hasn’t been helping has it? Run. Don’t die though. The art is not dying. It took me a few years to work that one out, have it’s yours, try it on, it suites you.
I need more direct than this? Don’t we all. Yes. I owe you direction.
February 12, 2013 § Leave a comment
“For every famous last words there are a million last words that no one’s ever heard.” – Miricale of 86′ – Every famous last words.
I’ve worked out that whatever this is, it isn’t going to kill me. I’m not going to let this kill me. Mental illness is a strange thing for the simple reason that most illness, excluding the utmost personal ones, are discussed openly in public. Mental illness doesn’t enjoy such free reign. Those whispers and worry, we are taught to ignore. We are taught to suppress. There is something very British about that. During the second World War a relative of mine, on my fathers side, was living in London at the peak of the Blitz. She was offered the opportunity to move to the country but she did not take it as she valued the work she was doing in the City. Every time she’d hear that air raid siren whine over the marshes she wouldn’t run. She wouldn’t panic. She would calmly put down what she was doing, and make her way to the stove to boil some water. She’d sit at the wooden kitchen table in her empty house and watch the steam rise from the kettle. The world was literally exploding around her and she was waiting to make tea. One day a German bomb fell on the other side of the house next door, it took the out the wall by the old front door and stripped the front door from it hinges. She says she didn’t move from her seat. In my brain, when I imagine it, the splinters and shredded wallpaper flying through the corridor and onto the kitchen floor, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even blink. They say that Ayrton Senna‘s heartbeat dropped when he was sat on the grid and the lights were going out at the start of a race. That’s how I imagine her to be, but more impressive. In this comparison Senna’s just a racer. She’s sat, explosions tearing through any house on the street, just drinking tea, waiting to get on with her day. She saw the end of that conflict. She lived to see London rebuilt and the world start to move on. She went in the late 60’s, a good decade to go. Where was I? I always loved that story. It made me feel calm, easy. The thought of the splintered wood flying through the air around her, not a eyelid blinked. Bless her. I don’t doubt her for a second. Anyway – Enough. That’s what I think about when I think of my paranoia. When I think of anxiety and short comings. When I think of my fear and why I have been alone. I think of sitting in a 1940’s kitchen, holding onto a cup of tea, remembering small my problems are, until they start blowing out the world around me, I should be fine. Sorry? Sorry.
February 7, 2013 § 1 Comment
“Was each new page an outrage?” Al Baker & The Dole Queue. – Green Lights and Gasoline.
Perfection was more persistence than pistol shots, to me at least. The things that have been worked for, the struggles, the worthwhile outcomes, are earned through attrition. Pulling triggers on guns isn’t the sort of knee jerk reaction which is required for real change. No reward should be given for such rash, snatching at what’s needed. Regardless of intention. I’ve always said, it’s not what you know, it’s what you were thinking at the time. You have to be careful of that. You have to get on top of it. It’s not enough to know stuff, it’s not enough to seek new information, you must know when think it. To do this, I think, you have to make mistakes. Maybe natural intelligence isn’t the ability to soak up new information, or the ability to use it at the right time like a twisted card game, maybe natural intelligence lies in the infrequency of the mistakes.
People pick people apart. Have you noticed? Maybe it’s a chain and that’s why they do it. People watch people, they see the faults, they pass comment, they tell to anyone who will listen, exactly what they would do in that situation. The thing that bothered me about that is that it seems so natural. It just rolls off the tongue. It’s easy. No credentials are required. It bothered me that. Still does in fact. This one’s just rolling out.
I had my caged rattled but the bird settled after weeks. Who am I kidding? I rattled my cage myself. I’m the only one who can do a proper job of that. It was messy. Everything was plain sailing until the boat ended up on the desert plain. Fucked. Black dog. Knee hugging bouts of insanity. Really had think about sticking or twisting. Really thought about it. Got out. Calmed down. Sometimes in life you need to hug your knees, sit tight, and just hope to god that your brain doesn’t slip from your ear. You need your brain. A lot is made of the lungs and the heart but it’s the brain that makes it all go. It’s the brain that keeps you happy. It’s the brain that makes you OK. But only if you look after it. You can’t keep on kicking seven bells of shit out of it just for a laugh. Those are the breaks. Some peoples brains can take more poison than others. That’s important to remember. Just ‘cos you shot Jessie James, that don’t make you Jessie James. People are fickle, people are fighters, they’re lovers and scrappers and dangerous, lost, alone, scared, brave, so very brave, smiling, sad, 9 to 5’s, day dreamers, hard workers, long haulers, safe, sharp, shocked and shamed. But beautiful, so very fucking beautiful. Those are the flash back – blur memories I have of people. If you put them all in sports style montage, that’s what you’d see.
I’d like to slow down. I’d like to watch that. I’d like to sit on a beach with those people I love, let them bring their friends, set up some string lights, all different colours like Christmas, wait until just after the sunsets and project the images onto a big old wall, let the people see all the good times. Just the good times. Play something beautiful over the top. Something easy. Something sweet. That’ll do, you can close curtains on that.