Can’t think, Can’t walk….

So I’m trying to think of something to write and nothing has entered my head, I’ve devoted today to doing nothing else but writing a piece for a magazine, deadline tomorrow. That and making some curtains out of pages of the Sunday telegraph which was a success. Powering through cigarettes now beginning to grow anxious. I’ve turned to the blog again as it usually induces my brain to shake off the cobwebs and churn out creative clumps of literature. The past hour has just been spent watching a documentary on Fredrick the great of Prussia, or ‘Fritz’ as he was casually called, inducing the nickname of all Germans. This hasn’t worked, nor has the endless tea and toast or the 4 pints of ridiculously strong Bavarian blond beer I drank last night.
So what now…? The rooms getting dark, the fire’s still on, I’m still wearing my pyjama’s and listening to classical music. I look extremely rough for I haven’t shaved in days and my bed isn’t made. What I should do is go for a walk but I look a scruff and by the time I’ve shaved, had a bath, found some suitable clothes it would be dark and too late for a walk, because upon returning the dinner must be cooked and I’m not leaving this desk until I’ve written something good…..i’ll let you know how it goes… argghhhhh!!!

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Windows Are Overated

I’m experimenting…I often ponder about medieval people, and how they go about without windows. Well it seems the body gets used to it, for the past few days I have had no radiators on and the windows open constantly. I can now tell you it’s a doddle except I’m sitting here at my desk in a shirt, a rugby shirt, a woolly jumper, a tweed jacket, a scarf, and some trousers….I’m comfy and the fresh air does my lungs a treat; meaning I can smoke more before coughing to death….all in all; those medieval folk weren’t soft, imagine the savings on double glazing.

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A Burning Desire To Scribble The Hour Away

I find myself fixed in an abyss between hell and heaven, both being metaphors for life on earth. Religion really is pagan, regardless of it’s fictitious lathered up ireality, in the end it is just a reflection of us all…. in reality, how we are. We are religion aren’t we? We’re the devil and god; we change landscapes, kill and save as we please. As a collective we are the almighty. It’s all we know and all we can draw our conclusions from, forming the basis of how we govern ourselves and understand the world around us….
Anyway back to the abyss…stuck in a zone of purposeless existence, meaning not a jot to the world, flirting with the pain of reality yet capable of indulging in pasta and wine…. bored…that’s the word I’m looking for.
It’s 5:36 a.m. I have no intention of going to bed and shan’t succumb to the pit of sleep as I did last night after breakfast. I’m in a bizarre sagacious mood, listening to Philip glass and thinking about marriage. Not that I have a fiancé yet but I find myself pondering upon it more these days, I suppose I occasionally find the odd grey hair these days also so maybe it’s not a good thing. Hell what’s up with me…I still have yet to have a threesome so maybe marriage should be delayed? At least, that is, until I can afford a châteaux anyway. Balderdash.
I have this urge to write a novel…god knows what about, but it’s the same urge driving me to write this blog. Maybe it’s because I haven’t left the flat in four days…I’m ready to explode with more energy than dead star on the brink of…well, exploding. Normally I’d reach for the wine, wine seems to calm the burning nuclear fire in me, stopping it from projecting its beam across sensible society and blinding everyone into panic. I suppose booze just stops me dead, cognitively and physically, maybe I should take drugs instead… but not at this hour, that would be silly.

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Give Me Your Money!

Sorry I haven’t been in touch, I’ve been writing for a magazine, travelling to and from my Gran’s house. Generally getting by on my own, decorating my flat with any old shit I can get my hands on and wrestling with a natural nocturnalism. This has led to a lack of blogs….

I’m writing this as a vent to be honest. I like writing and find it a therapeutic pleasure; a pleasure most required given the shit creak situation that is my finances. I’ve finally stopped internally screaming at Lloyds-tsb and myself for allowing myself to be ripped off by the said bank. It has now left me in a situation of financial plight with ramifications, which shan’t clear up for at least a month. Basically I’m going to be eating beans for the rest of October, which is nothing, compared to being beheaded and so I keep telling myself. Get a grip…

So with that out of my system, I can contemplate the goings on and what not. As I declared I’ve been to my Grandparents’ house recently. This meant sticking to strict routine with the wrath of a very headstrong grandma to put up with if I tread out of line. I like it there; compared to this bachelor pad it’s a delight to have a structured day. Mine usually is made up of getting up at a preposterously late hour, smoking, eating toast, contemplating a clean up from the night prior’s festivities, cleaning up, tackling the weeks build up of dishes Withnail style. Completing this I put on some clothes and go for a mild walk. This time of the year it’s a pleasure, the autumn is arriving with that fresh smell in the air and a desire to put on a scarf as the wind picks up. With the ipod in I potter down to the beach for a stroll before returning for a spot of writing. Unless that is like last week when everything I normally do goes out the window due to deadlines and I write or chase interviews whereby; nothing gets done and the flat looks like a farm yard.
Anyway back to the daily ritual…I type, and then have dinner before watching grand designs. I love this programme for no rational reason, probably the same infliction that forces people to watch ‘House’ but I don’t really know. Back to typing, then booze or chess then bed at about half 5 in the morn. All supplemented throughout the day by about 800 cigarettes and 500 mugs of kenco.
All in all a potentially dull life if it wasn’t for the fact I’m at its centre, being me everything often gets screwed up or drunk or never paid for. Voila….my financial predicament and messy hair.

Good night

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A Chaotic Pondering About Artists

One man that has always eluded me, an artist that always since a child captured my imagination was a chap called Byron. It was never his poetry itself, which with age I have grown to admire that so pinched my imagination but the rock star lifestyle and monumental swagger of the man. The womanising, drinking and madness I’ve come to enjoy personally with maturity, embedded somewhat in those early days spent exploring biographies for heroes as young boys do. It was this idiosyncrasy that had me so engrossed.
This begs me to ask. How often is it the artist him/herself that clings to our ideal of art? I mean, if it wasn’t for the back-story behind the paintings and poetry, sculptures and prose would your favourite work still be that. Can the two points even be mutually exclusive? Without the artist there would be no art, it’s perhaps the extraordinary lives of these individuals that provides the fuel which heats the hue of our rooms through prints and canvas or decks out our bookshelves so profoundly.
For example; I found myself thinking Ezra Pound wasn’t as good because in the end, regardless of his work, he didn’t get much sex (parking the fact he was a filthy fascist also). Subconsciously to me he could never be as good as Byron to me and yes, this is wrong but a prime example of why the back-story must delight as much as the work. The greatest artists are renowned just as much for their personalities and character, the stories are as profound as their masterpieces: Byron, Shelley, Caravaggio, The entire Bloomsbury group, the pre Raphaelites, Jim Morrison and the beat generation to name but a few.

Is it through the debauchery and madness that so enchants these characters that they gain the experience which fuels great art? Is the fact the greatest artists seemingly have entertaining lives linked and only by coincidence produce the most popular work. Or is the mixture of experience and sensitivity that produces great back-stories, leading onto creative genius not entirely exclusive to the end result? It’s a bit of a chicken and egg situation or is it a mixture of the two?

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A Massive Void Filled With Excuses

This is my parrot which doesn't exist

Today was a bank holiday; so I used it as an excuse to be hungover…apparently it was a nice sunny day so I avoided the windows. I was happy convincing myself it was raining as an excuse to sit on the sofa with a dodgy brain and watch QI for 8 hours straight, I ate last nights pizza and resigned myself to being a crappy pleb. Naturally I didn’t watch Jeremy Kyle, that would be absurd, I also didn’t feed the parrot because it doesn’t exist. So here I am at 3:04 a.m. contemplating an all-nighter just for the challenge. I have a mountain of work, which if not done will mean I’ll have fewer publications but sod all else. It won’t affect the bills much and it’ll mean my brain goes to mash due to the lack of stimulation and I’ll have a breakdown. Well it would if I didn’t have this to do which is really easy and good mental equivalent of doing 10 press ups to get the blood pumping.
Did you know beer in large quantities and a bit of rum sponged by copious amounts of take away food is bad for you…me neither, but apparently it is, I think I’ll give up eating like a football fan on FA cup final day; everyday. Yes I’ll give it up and buy myself a cookbook with some fresh vegetables, might even walk down the beach a bit more but I’m not joining a gym, ghastly places full of healthy people who eat free range egg shells for supper.
I really like Muse, the rock band that is…I haven’t set itunes to muse and shuffle for a while but it’s coaxing my brain into a state of wanting books…old classics, perhaps gothic. But I’ll do that later. I must focus on writing but my desk looks like a mini Helmand province. I really can’t think properly surrounded by mess, I want to employ a cleaner but find that if I do, I’ll become a tit, and tits aren’t attractive…hmm bad metaphor but you get my drift, time to get my finger out and clean up…. Tomorrow.

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Where was i

So now I’ve finally setup my “study” I can blog properly. The comp was next to a sofa and to be honest I was too drunk for a week to ever concoct a decent page of prose. Drinking I’ve decided after feeling a tad depressed is silly. So with an ever so slightly depleted account by say x00 quid, in a week, it has finally come to my attention that acting the goat and squandering my little wealth will get me nowhere. I suppose it’s my way of letting off steam and really I should go rowing instead.

I must remember to close the skylight as my mac sits beneath it. If it rains…bye bye computer.

My brothers en route..no doubt to request another loan, I shall insist we be civil and play cards or something instead. He can help me with the shopping or put the bins out or something. I’ll make him work for cash..that’s a good idea.

So this here then is more a status update than a blog which will suit this new world of kindles and twitter.

I’m going now to wash the dishes..goodbye

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