08 September 2005

I’ve decided I’m not sleeping properly. This suicidal tendancy of my sleeping pattern to wake me up at idiot o’clock is actually killing me, I’m sure. The past couple of mornings I’ve awoken with aching eyes. That cannot be a good sign.

I had another dream.
“Oh wow Adam, another dream? Your so gifted, how do you do it? I bet you can walk and chew gum at the same time as well!” I picture you thinking such things, because that’s what I would think, but you don’t understand (or I don’t understand, or something).

I’m sure I dream all the time, I’m sure I’ve had a million in the past month, but I very seldom, if ever, remember them. If they’re there they’re locked away in a box in my head, a picture show for my unconscious only. Sometimes, though, I do remember them. Sometimes they leave such a deep impression that I cannot help but recall them in the morning, if only briefly, small snatches, like snooker highlights, only with Jasper Carrot and ridiculous amounts of ecstasy. I guess what this truly means is that I’m only conscious of the dreams I have just before I wake up, like everybody else on the damn planet. I’ve read books, you know.

This mornings little snatch was about a girl. I ain’t naming names, because, you never know, they might be reading this and I’m such a little social/emotional retard that letting a girl know that I like them seems about as a good idea as cleaning my teeth with a loaded shotgun, my finger resting on the trigger. In the dream, from what I remember, I was just saying goodbye, and we hug, which happens, but then we kiss, and we kiss for a real long time, my head is spinning so much that I lose my balance and so gently lower her to the ground, and then I wake up.

I can’t have this girl. Well, maybe I can, and the opportunity has definitely been there in the past, but I was too slow and stupid to take advantage. Now it’s all stupidly complicated and I’m sure she’s not even interested – except I’m not. Maybe she is and she’s just waiting for me to pull my head out of my arse and say something. But then, maybe she’s not.

There’s this other girl. I only met her once, except I think I met her at a party once as well, and I immediately dug her. She had that divine kookiness that just makes me smile dreamily. We showed each other our poetry – her’s had to be read outloud because the page does it no justice at all, but when it is it’s like this bizarre barrage of words that psychiclly slaps you about the face. I’ve got her number and as soon as I’ve got money I’m gonna call her and make a date. I am. I will. Just you fukking watch.

I just hope she’s not gay. There definitely felt like there was something between us.

I awoke feeling morose, as you may of guessed. I didn’t want to be awake, but my stomach was being rather insistant, as was my brain. I’m not eating properly, I’m certain. I’m just so bored with the little food that I have – all easy peasy, microwavable or tinned. Not enough fukking meat. I reassure myself with the fact that soon I’ll have money and be able to go shopping and have cupboards overflowing with the most delicious and varied food the supermarket as to offer. I just gotta weather this week and then I’ll be dining like henry the eighth .

Downstairs I lie on the couch and keep my feet, slow and impatient like. Loneliness bubbles around my head, a flick through a bill hicks biography I recently borrowed, part of which I read in The Flat, before deciding to start at the beginning. Chris is supposed to be coming over today. He wants me to write some rap/beat poetry about super mario. As I don’t consider my sh*t beat poetry I guess it’s gonna be the rap. That’s cool, I’ve been honing my skills at rhyme and rhythm for so long I’m just aching to jump on a mic and blow everyone away. That’s why I think a lot of people can’t rap but can rhyme. It’s not just about sticking words together that sound similar, something I keep telling my gangsta rap listenin’ cousin on a regular basis when he decides to do a little flow and it sounds awkward as fuk, it’s about delivering them in a way that gets in your craw i.e. rhythm. If any of you fuks are thinking “Wigga” then you can actually go to hell, the only thing approaching bling that I own is an ipod. Life is much more than just b*tches and money, yo. Just sit back and let this white british kid school you on rapping, okay?

I’m not arrogant, you know, I’m just really quite good. It’s time I proved that to at least a few more people than those that already know.

Why do I write? Am I writing to create pictures and impressions in peoples heads? To be a weaver of metaphor and situation, to tangle you in my web of words, or is this all just a psychoanalytical exercise that my inner-therapist gave me at the end of my last session? Things aren’t that simple; no black/white either/or mutually exclusive label to stamp neatly onto my psyche. I admit that when I feel fucked up writing makes me feel a hell of a lot better, like now for instance, but it’s so much more than that. It feels like so much more than that anyway. I’ve been doing this shit for so long that it simply must have more to it than mental purging. There’s gotta be some depth, right? Hell, at least I’m writing. The document I’m saving all my stuff for future posting in is already ten pages long. Every time I sit down to write I’m writing more and more. I’ve written over 1000 words this morning and I wrote over a thousand words yesterday. If this was a uni essay I’d be done already. Of course, that kinda writing doesn’t spill out of you like a torrent, least not for me. I think that’s Jennie’s area of expertise. If each time I sit down to write I can write 2000 decent words then I’m halfway towards slaying that nagging doubt that has been with me since the beginning that I just lack the discipline to be a real writer.

Oh, fuk that, I am a real writer.

Coming back to that Bill Hicks book: for the longest time my attitude towards creative/intellectual/spiritual growth has been that of a ride of synchronicity. If it’s there, at the right time I will devour it. It just seems to fit. Its been like that so many times in the past that I just cannot doubt the method. I’ve been thinking a lot about my lack of occult/spiritual growth (which will please at least one person that reads this blog) and the fact that I found this biography on the bookshelf of a friend yesterday seems like a good sign. Bill was all about that shit. I’m gonna read it, and then I’m gonna email his lifelong friend Dwight (who Mortimer over at Media Underground interviewed recently) and see if he’ll be kind enough to give me a reading list. I’m gonna pick a small magickal practice and start doing it regularly, something simple with little in the way of preparation, maybe some candle magick or divination. I’m sick of sitting on the fence over this shit. It’s time I threw myself into the crosswinds and ride the thermals.

Even though I awoke with my tummy rumbling I still haven’t eaten. Time I go rectify that.