IPOD
RADIO
Day trip to Avebury and Silbury Hill
I sat behind a black and white
a field of stones in dimming light
from grounded pegs and ovine mounds
on bounding legs from engine sounds
I staggered round the river bend
along the evening avenue
of man and wife arranged in twos
I spared the horse of coursing time
this harnessed force divorced my mind
to stagger round the river bend
bone and flint and hand and chalk
I built a hill encircling walked
and sheared the top to fill the hole
the fear to stop to spill the soul
to stagger round the river bend
we gather here and onward send:
cut the carnal string
life will vernal spring
wood to rock and blood to crop
the streams a living thing
I sat behind a black and white
a field of stones in dimming light
from grounded pegs and ovine mounds
on bounding legs from engine sounds
I staggered round the river bend
along the evening avenue
of man and wife arranged in twos
I spared the horse of coursing time
this harnessed force divorced my mind
to stagger round the river bend
bone and flint and hand and chalk
I built a hill encircling walked
and sheared the top to fill the hole
the fear to stop to spill the soul
to stagger round the river bend
we gather here and onward send:
cut the carnal string
life will vernal spring
wood to rock and blood to crop
the streams a living thing
The balloon was huge, like an inflatable everest. I don't remember the climb, but I remember getting to the top and seeing the tent. A white hemicylinder, about twenty feet long and as white as the landscape surrounding it. I lay down on the elastic floor, radically sloped, and slept.
On a whim I travelled, and it was to New York that I came. My companion was male, a father figure or a colleague, and he brought me to a man named Gaeol. This man had scaled the balloon many times, although he was only young, and was the owner of the tent that I had rested in. His home was simple, decorated in khaki and pale grey with a sofa that looked as comfortable as any bed I had seen. And so I slept.
I sat in the cafe with the two girls. The one who got away, and the one who never came. I played with my pocket knife under the table as they laughed with each other, gently teasing me, trying to make me choose, until at last I did.
"Will you please come with me" I said to the future, and left the past behind. Smiling serenely as she watched me walk away.
We danced.
And then my companion and I, seemingly much older, performed an experiment. Something to do with eggs that had thick shells and rolled down a tiny rollercoaster in a wooden cart. Some broke, some not. At the conclusion we debated whether to share the results. The girl was there, aged as we were, and she listened to us converse. He wanted to keep the information to himself, but I convinced him that it was too important and that we should tell everyone.
And so we went out again to the streets of New York. There was a shop selling beautiful meerschaum pipes, light as sea foam, and behind a curtain were shelves filled with cannabis pipes. We turned around to go, but found ourselves at a different curtain, behind which were people relaxing and playing pool.
"Where you chased here?" One asked,
"No"
"Come join us"
So we stood and watched as they played, and they drank their beer. It felt comfortable to be in their company although we didn't say much.
And then there was another curtain, much bigger than the last. And the people behind it were unwelcoming, rude, jeering at us from a distance. My companion donned a gasmask, and rolled in a canister that belched smoke.
And then we were in this shopping mall, one huge department store. We looked at the stereo speakers - futuristic, slimline and powerful. There were three lifts behind them, Black doors, glowing red buttons and gold trim, so I pressed the call button. Timers on top of the lifts told us how long we would have to wait: The middle lift would not come, the left said 45 and the right 2. A woman came over to me and apologised, saying we could not use the lifts.
"I'm sorry, these are the wrong lifts, aren't they" I said, and she left.
I felt anger at being denied the right to travel in them, and expressed this to my companion as we left the mall.
On the street again, and there were three letters we had to deliver to Coney Island. In this place, my companion told me, people just hand their letters to anyone that's going that way. Each of the letters had a date on it: 07/06/10
"What are the dates on them?" I asked
"I wrote those" came the reply.
We were standing near a coast, maybe a boardwalk, and it was here that my companion left me to walk through the wall of fire.
I can't help but feel this means something.
On a whim I travelled, and it was to New York that I came. My companion was male, a father figure or a colleague, and he brought me to a man named Gaeol. This man had scaled the balloon many times, although he was only young, and was the owner of the tent that I had rested in. His home was simple, decorated in khaki and pale grey with a sofa that looked as comfortable as any bed I had seen. And so I slept.
I sat in the cafe with the two girls. The one who got away, and the one who never came. I played with my pocket knife under the table as they laughed with each other, gently teasing me, trying to make me choose, until at last I did.
"Will you please come with me" I said to the future, and left the past behind. Smiling serenely as she watched me walk away.
We danced.
And then my companion and I, seemingly much older, performed an experiment. Something to do with eggs that had thick shells and rolled down a tiny rollercoaster in a wooden cart. Some broke, some not. At the conclusion we debated whether to share the results. The girl was there, aged as we were, and she listened to us converse. He wanted to keep the information to himself, but I convinced him that it was too important and that we should tell everyone.
And so we went out again to the streets of New York. There was a shop selling beautiful meerschaum pipes, light as sea foam, and behind a curtain were shelves filled with cannabis pipes. We turned around to go, but found ourselves at a different curtain, behind which were people relaxing and playing pool.
"Where you chased here?" One asked,
"No"
"Come join us"
So we stood and watched as they played, and they drank their beer. It felt comfortable to be in their company although we didn't say much.
And then there was another curtain, much bigger than the last. And the people behind it were unwelcoming, rude, jeering at us from a distance. My companion donned a gasmask, and rolled in a canister that belched smoke.
And then we were in this shopping mall, one huge department store. We looked at the stereo speakers - futuristic, slimline and powerful. There were three lifts behind them, Black doors, glowing red buttons and gold trim, so I pressed the call button. Timers on top of the lifts told us how long we would have to wait: The middle lift would not come, the left said 45 and the right 2. A woman came over to me and apologised, saying we could not use the lifts.
"I'm sorry, these are the wrong lifts, aren't they" I said, and she left.
I felt anger at being denied the right to travel in them, and expressed this to my companion as we left the mall.
On the street again, and there were three letters we had to deliver to Coney Island. In this place, my companion told me, people just hand their letters to anyone that's going that way. Each of the letters had a date on it: 07/06/10
"What are the dates on them?" I asked
"I wrote those" came the reply.
We were standing near a coast, maybe a boardwalk, and it was here that my companion left me to walk through the wall of fire.
I can't help but feel this means something.
He stands there. Immobile. Staring straight ahead of him.
His eyes burn, unblinking in the thunderous wind, but still he can see everything. He can see every blade of grass, every flower and every muddy rut on the hill. All the way to the bottom. And he can see the men. They are like slow moving smears in his vision. Brown and gold, glints of silver. They move and he sees.
The drums are pounding, four strikes every second. And the blood in his ears plays a half time counter beat, fading in and out of sync with the sonorous thuds. He can hear the men. They are like a blur of sound, brushed across the air two inches from his face. He can hear every voice but can't make out the words.
He can smell the ones that stand with him. Sweat and blood. Firesmoke and wet wolf. He inhales. As if it were roasting meat, he feels the spit grow in his mouth and he lets it build there.
He feels his arm all the way down to the ground, double headed and sharp. Weightless leather from the wrist to the stone head. He feels the calm inside his gut, feels it grow; pushing the fear and the hatred up. He feels his chest expand, feels the rage pushed into his throat. And he holds it there.
The calm envelopes him and annihilates him. He feels it rise up his spine and spread around his temples. He feels it connect, right in the centre, and he tastes the drip that runs down his throat. The taste is platinum, and sour.
The falling inner tear meets the rising scream, and they explode as one. He releases the howling, pained cry and spittle flies behind him. Every movement causes destruction. His feet tear the grass, and kick the mud. His arms are raised four feet above his head, and a wave of razor sharp flint smashes into the first mans head. The blood red against the clouded stone is like milk flecked with saffron.
The men bellow, terrified and furious. But he is silent. He has passed beyond rage, and his mind is empty. There is only the slow beating of his heart.
He feels the air move around him, hears the desperate noises of the men.
He sees everything bright, and shining. Spirals and lines dart across his sight. The world is shades of ochre. Orange, yellow and red. Fingerpainted, glorious.
And then all is silent.
He stands there. Fluid, constantly shifting.
He closes his eyes. He breathes.
His eyes burn, unblinking in the thunderous wind, but still he can see everything. He can see every blade of grass, every flower and every muddy rut on the hill. All the way to the bottom. And he can see the men. They are like slow moving smears in his vision. Brown and gold, glints of silver. They move and he sees.
The drums are pounding, four strikes every second. And the blood in his ears plays a half time counter beat, fading in and out of sync with the sonorous thuds. He can hear the men. They are like a blur of sound, brushed across the air two inches from his face. He can hear every voice but can't make out the words.
He can smell the ones that stand with him. Sweat and blood. Firesmoke and wet wolf. He inhales. As if it were roasting meat, he feels the spit grow in his mouth and he lets it build there.
He feels his arm all the way down to the ground, double headed and sharp. Weightless leather from the wrist to the stone head. He feels the calm inside his gut, feels it grow; pushing the fear and the hatred up. He feels his chest expand, feels the rage pushed into his throat. And he holds it there.
The calm envelopes him and annihilates him. He feels it rise up his spine and spread around his temples. He feels it connect, right in the centre, and he tastes the drip that runs down his throat. The taste is platinum, and sour.
The falling inner tear meets the rising scream, and they explode as one. He releases the howling, pained cry and spittle flies behind him. Every movement causes destruction. His feet tear the grass, and kick the mud. His arms are raised four feet above his head, and a wave of razor sharp flint smashes into the first mans head. The blood red against the clouded stone is like milk flecked with saffron.
The men bellow, terrified and furious. But he is silent. He has passed beyond rage, and his mind is empty. There is only the slow beating of his heart.
He feels the air move around him, hears the desperate noises of the men.
He sees everything bright, and shining. Spirals and lines dart across his sight. The world is shades of ochre. Orange, yellow and red. Fingerpainted, glorious.
And then all is silent.
He stands there. Fluid, constantly shifting.
He closes his eyes. He breathes.
I shall start this blog with a confession. I am a viewer, consumer and user of pornography. Far worse than this, though, I am a stealer of pornography. I download it in large quantities from shady torrent sites, and don't pay a penny for it.
Most of the time I feel guilty about this, but there are some times when I'm glad. This is a story about one of those times.
My relationship with internet porn has changed a great deal over the years, just as the content available to me has. From the early days of faked celebrity pictures and slightly blurry glamour shots, through the Kazzaa days, when every file was a lottery: 18yo teenage dick suck teddy bear high heels.avi and the like. That was before the days of preview pics, and descriptions. Before the wonderful advent of bittorrent. There are now at least four really big torrent sites out there dedicated to porn. No other content to wade through, just page after page of filth. It is heaven (or at least, it feels like it at 2am when the urge for self pollution is upon you.)
The site that I personally use is set up to make the crime of pornographic larceny as easy as possible. Every torrent has a full description (sometimes a bit *too* full) and screenshots are mandatory. All the torrents have tags too, just like the pictures on SG. It is a triumph of ergonomic design. My favourite part of the site is the index screen, which give links to all the torrents in chronological order. Each one has a short description of the file to entice in potential pervs.
Now, these titles range from the simple (Asswatcher.com: Star) to the cryptic (The Red Door) and from the perfunctory (shemale and Dildos) to the graphically detailed (Tiny latina "Little Lupe" impaling herself on a huge cock (aka Zuleidy) DO NOT MISS!!!! ) and in my time there I have taken them all in stride. There are many folks, and they enjoy different strokes as the song goes. That was until I saw.. it.
...It was the first time i'd seen one of these torrent titles and actually been disgusted. I looked at it for a few seconds, taking in all the words, each one on its own conjured a vivid sexual image in my mind, but put together my brain refused to display anything. It simply wasn't gonna go there.
The title read:
Pregnant Blonde Slut in Amateur Interracial Creampie Gangbang
Lets just stop and analyse that for a second. She's pregnant, she's blonde, and she's doing an interracial gangbang where the guys cum inside her at the end. And she's not doing it cos she's getting paid.
So, I clicked the link. Not out of any desire to see the freakshow, I wanted to look at the comments that this atrocity of bad taste had provoked. There was only one, and it read simply:
"looks nice"
Most of the time I feel guilty about this, but there are some times when I'm glad. This is a story about one of those times.
My relationship with internet porn has changed a great deal over the years, just as the content available to me has. From the early days of faked celebrity pictures and slightly blurry glamour shots, through the Kazzaa days, when every file was a lottery: 18yo teenage dick suck teddy bear high heels.avi and the like. That was before the days of preview pics, and descriptions. Before the wonderful advent of bittorrent. There are now at least four really big torrent sites out there dedicated to porn. No other content to wade through, just page after page of filth. It is heaven (or at least, it feels like it at 2am when the urge for self pollution is upon you.)
The site that I personally use is set up to make the crime of pornographic larceny as easy as possible. Every torrent has a full description (sometimes a bit *too* full) and screenshots are mandatory. All the torrents have tags too, just like the pictures on SG. It is a triumph of ergonomic design. My favourite part of the site is the index screen, which give links to all the torrents in chronological order. Each one has a short description of the file to entice in potential pervs.
Now, these titles range from the simple (Asswatcher.com: Star) to the cryptic (The Red Door) and from the perfunctory (shemale and Dildos) to the graphically detailed (Tiny latina "Little Lupe" impaling herself on a huge cock (aka Zuleidy) DO NOT MISS!!!! ) and in my time there I have taken them all in stride. There are many folks, and they enjoy different strokes as the song goes. That was until I saw.. it.
...It was the first time i'd seen one of these torrent titles and actually been disgusted. I looked at it for a few seconds, taking in all the words, each one on its own conjured a vivid sexual image in my mind, but put together my brain refused to display anything. It simply wasn't gonna go there.
The title read:
Pregnant Blonde Slut in Amateur Interracial Creampie Gangbang
Lets just stop and analyse that for a second. She's pregnant, she's blonde, and she's doing an interracial gangbang where the guys cum inside her at the end. And she's not doing it cos she's getting paid.
So, I clicked the link. Not out of any desire to see the freakshow, I wanted to look at the comments that this atrocity of bad taste had provoked. There was only one, and it read simply:
"looks nice"
Henry
Cold and clean in battle,
Though slim, he was strongest
Brooked no touch from others,
Gave as gifts his vanquished,
He would startle every foe
From the Garden to the Road.
Silent he was swift he was Henry
As he grew ever old,
The lion still within him,
Not so mean, nor so bold,
The hunter but resting,
We forced an orange terror
from our homeland together.
Bravest he was best he was Henry
From a longing to be held
In the night he would call
Shining cracks of its frame
Led him here to my door
He would curl upon my bed
Like the sleep of blessed death
Weary he was warm he was Henry
And now in his passing
He is in another's hall
Waits for me to join him
We shall meet in some war
Side by side we will fight
We will cut them down like mice
Mighty he was mine he was Henry
Cold and clean in battle,
Though slim, he was strongest
Brooked no touch from others,
Gave as gifts his vanquished,
He would startle every foe
From the Garden to the Road.
Silent he was swift he was Henry
As he grew ever old,
The lion still within him,
Not so mean, nor so bold,
The hunter but resting,
We forced an orange terror
from our homeland together.
Bravest he was best he was Henry
From a longing to be held
In the night he would call
Shining cracks of its frame
Led him here to my door
He would curl upon my bed
Like the sleep of blessed death
Weary he was warm he was Henry
And now in his passing
He is in another's hall
Waits for me to join him
We shall meet in some war
Side by side we will fight
We will cut them down like mice
Mighty he was mine he was Henry
Terrorism
The world today is threatened by an insidious evil. An enormous machine intent on causing fear and terror in every man. It's goal? To force you to do what it wants. To become a slave.
But this is not the terrorism of a desperate and sad man strapping a bomb to himself and destroying a bus. It's not the terrorism of figures in balaclavas holding rifles in front of flags painted on sheets, nor is it the terrorism of box cutters, aeroplanes and tall buildings. These are side shows, diversions. Secondary effects of the primary cause.
The terrorism that threatens to destroy us is the terrorism of CNN, of Fox news, of the BBC and all the newspapers telling you to BE AFRAID and to STAY VIGILANT oh, and while you're at it BUY THIS. It's the terrorism of advertising billboards, insisting that you will be left behind if you don't have the biggest, the best, the brightest. The terrorism of "Because I'm the boss" "Listen to your teacher" "Stop! Police!"
The terrorism of the EGO. The Ego, and it's desire to perpetuate itself like a virus of mind, always growing, always suppressing the other parts of the person. But what is the ego? Surely it is just a remnant of the primate dominance mechanism that exists in apes? And yes indeed this is true. But it has become horribly distended by a kind of psychic pathology. The ego is now a cancer that threatens to metastasize and destroy the human organism.
So we must face the terrorism of "ME", we have to excise the tumour like a psychological appendix that has ruptured, pouring its foul contents into our psyches.
Don't fear imitation death from imitation terrorism, if you die you will be dead and you'll be somewhere better or nowhere at all. Fear the real death that will take hold of us when we lose all that makes us good as humans if the Ego takes control. A life devoid of anything but self interest is a life not worth living.
Fight the Ego, fight with all you are worth, because otherwise we will have failed as a species. And our planet has a place in the shale for those who do not succed. Consigned to the dustbin of history.
The world today is threatened by an insidious evil. An enormous machine intent on causing fear and terror in every man. It's goal? To force you to do what it wants. To become a slave.
But this is not the terrorism of a desperate and sad man strapping a bomb to himself and destroying a bus. It's not the terrorism of figures in balaclavas holding rifles in front of flags painted on sheets, nor is it the terrorism of box cutters, aeroplanes and tall buildings. These are side shows, diversions. Secondary effects of the primary cause.
The terrorism that threatens to destroy us is the terrorism of CNN, of Fox news, of the BBC and all the newspapers telling you to BE AFRAID and to STAY VIGILANT oh, and while you're at it BUY THIS. It's the terrorism of advertising billboards, insisting that you will be left behind if you don't have the biggest, the best, the brightest. The terrorism of "Because I'm the boss" "Listen to your teacher" "Stop! Police!"
The terrorism of the EGO. The Ego, and it's desire to perpetuate itself like a virus of mind, always growing, always suppressing the other parts of the person. But what is the ego? Surely it is just a remnant of the primate dominance mechanism that exists in apes? And yes indeed this is true. But it has become horribly distended by a kind of psychic pathology. The ego is now a cancer that threatens to metastasize and destroy the human organism.
So we must face the terrorism of "ME", we have to excise the tumour like a psychological appendix that has ruptured, pouring its foul contents into our psyches.
Don't fear imitation death from imitation terrorism, if you die you will be dead and you'll be somewhere better or nowhere at all. Fear the real death that will take hold of us when we lose all that makes us good as humans if the Ego takes control. A life devoid of anything but self interest is a life not worth living.
Fight the Ego, fight with all you are worth, because otherwise we will have failed as a species. And our planet has a place in the shale for those who do not succed. Consigned to the dustbin of history.
Plunderers of the world, they have exhausted the land and now ransack the sea. Enemy wealth excites their greed, enemy poverty their lust for power; as is obvious, since neither East nor West has yet glutted them.
While relatives are being torn from us by conscription to slave it in other lands, our wives and sisters... are defiled by those who masquerade as friends and guests. Our goods and fortunes are drained to pay taxes, the produce of our land to pay corn levies, and our very bodies and hands to build roads through forests and swamps, under blows and insults
Perverting language, they call robbery, butchery and extortion "government", and when they make a desert, they call it peace
-Tacitus, Attr. Galgacus
While relatives are being torn from us by conscription to slave it in other lands, our wives and sisters... are defiled by those who masquerade as friends and guests. Our goods and fortunes are drained to pay taxes, the produce of our land to pay corn levies, and our very bodies and hands to build roads through forests and swamps, under blows and insults
Perverting language, they call robbery, butchery and extortion "government", and when they make a desert, they call it peace
-Tacitus, Attr. Galgacus
We are all refugees from the past, because history is like a country. A broken, nuked state that no longer issues visas and has to all intents and purposes ceased to exist. There is no way back to that place, although a great many of us expend huge amounts of effort trying to return. The past is an exclusion zone, an empty wasteland - everything that there ever was in the past now exists outside of it or not at all.
Realistically, there are only two courses of action. You can spend your whole life trying to go back, kick and scream to no avail or you can make a new home in the place that you have fled to. I have finally come to understand this after a year of being paralysed by my desperate need to get back the life I once had. I thought that I was adhering to the philosophy of wei wu wei: "action through inaction" but in reality I was swimming upstream, and only ever staying where I was. True inaction is to allow the stream to carry you, take the course of least resistance, and resist the temptation to swim ahead (there may be dangerous rapids - best to have a fair warning)
It is surely best to be like the water itself, be a part of the river, not a swimmer. Recognise that life is not an activity, it is a process: Life is not something you do, it is something you are. Observe the way and align yourself with it, in this manner all doing becomes effortless.
All pain, all suffering is transitory, like rocks in the stream. The river flows around them, experiences them but does not make them a part of itself. They are on the path, but are not the path. I will no longer let those things trouble me, for like the rocks in the stream they have passed by. They exist now only as memories of another place.
Realistically, there are only two courses of action. You can spend your whole life trying to go back, kick and scream to no avail or you can make a new home in the place that you have fled to. I have finally come to understand this after a year of being paralysed by my desperate need to get back the life I once had. I thought that I was adhering to the philosophy of wei wu wei: "action through inaction" but in reality I was swimming upstream, and only ever staying where I was. True inaction is to allow the stream to carry you, take the course of least resistance, and resist the temptation to swim ahead (there may be dangerous rapids - best to have a fair warning)
It is surely best to be like the water itself, be a part of the river, not a swimmer. Recognise that life is not an activity, it is a process: Life is not something you do, it is something you are. Observe the way and align yourself with it, in this manner all doing becomes effortless.
All pain, all suffering is transitory, like rocks in the stream. The river flows around them, experiences them but does not make them a part of itself. They are on the path, but are not the path. I will no longer let those things trouble me, for like the rocks in the stream they have passed by. They exist now only as memories of another place.
Riding a bike, peddling fast as the wind across a wide green space, I head away from the trees. Fording the river next to a wooden bridge I kick spray up behind me. This world is painted with lurid primary colours, crayon blue and astroturf green. A few faceless people amble about, no direction in their movements, they exist only as props here.
A row of small houses, a muddy track leading past them. My aching calves the only reminder of the vanished bicycle. Turn a corner, I know this house. The ropeswing hanging from the tree, the climbing frame unused in years but standing nonetheless. Hop the fence and stare up at a tree full of apples, the summer sun rains down on me,
happy tears from a blissful heavenly sky humming with impossibly huge airplanes that leave no vapor trails.
This place has been forbidden me for so long, I had forgotten it existed. But the way has been cleared now, each night I come walk here in the unchanging daylight of the ever-summer, the land of the timeless ones, and feel comforted. If there truly are two worlds, then this is the less evil of the two. Certainly the internal logic of this place is different, but both are equally nonsensical when you really examine them closely. And what's more, in this place I carry none of the world of men with me, but upon waking I can feel the otherworld inside me, around me, behind the quantum D-membrane of one of those ultra compact foreign dimensions that exist beyond the four we are hardwired to process.
In other words, things are pretty good
A row of small houses, a muddy track leading past them. My aching calves the only reminder of the vanished bicycle. Turn a corner, I know this house. The ropeswing hanging from the tree, the climbing frame unused in years but standing nonetheless. Hop the fence and stare up at a tree full of apples, the summer sun rains down on me,
happy tears from a blissful heavenly sky humming with impossibly huge airplanes that leave no vapor trails.
This place has been forbidden me for so long, I had forgotten it existed. But the way has been cleared now, each night I come walk here in the unchanging daylight of the ever-summer, the land of the timeless ones, and feel comforted. If there truly are two worlds, then this is the less evil of the two. Certainly the internal logic of this place is different, but both are equally nonsensical when you really examine them closely. And what's more, in this place I carry none of the world of men with me, but upon waking I can feel the otherworld inside me, around me, behind the quantum D-membrane of one of those ultra compact foreign dimensions that exist beyond the four we are hardwired to process.
In other words, things are pretty good
I used to post about my life on here, I stopped for a while because It was stressful enough for me just living my life, let alone writing about it too. Well, here goes nothing.
Over the past two years I've been through what I can only describe as a fucking nightmare. I don't want to dwell on the details of it but it started with a nervous breakdown and ended with a complete meltdown. In the intervening time I had fun times with a girl that turned into a headfuck of the highest order, one of my friends died, I lost 3 jobs, all with no prior notice, all around christmas time and someone with whom i'd had a long and dramatic friendship cut all ties. Most of that was 2005.
2006 was the year of anxiety for me. I have spent 11 long months fighting an enemy that has no logic. An insidious worry that won't go away. I have hidden myself from everyone, trying to avoid getting hurt but all that's happened is I've lost all social skills I once had. I got sacked last week for being unnapproachable and volatile, although I had not Idea I was behaving this way, I was just aware of being very anxious.
I don't feel like myself anymore. I used to be happy, used to be articulate and lntelligent, kind and generous. Now I feel bitter and angry. Resentful. I can't stand the company of other people for more than a few minutes, and I've got nothing to say to anyone. Not that anyone is there to listen, so successfully have I isolated myself.
I just can't find the way back to being me.
Over the past two years I've been through what I can only describe as a fucking nightmare. I don't want to dwell on the details of it but it started with a nervous breakdown and ended with a complete meltdown. In the intervening time I had fun times with a girl that turned into a headfuck of the highest order, one of my friends died, I lost 3 jobs, all with no prior notice, all around christmas time and someone with whom i'd had a long and dramatic friendship cut all ties. Most of that was 2005.
2006 was the year of anxiety for me. I have spent 11 long months fighting an enemy that has no logic. An insidious worry that won't go away. I have hidden myself from everyone, trying to avoid getting hurt but all that's happened is I've lost all social skills I once had. I got sacked last week for being unnapproachable and volatile, although I had not Idea I was behaving this way, I was just aware of being very anxious.
I don't feel like myself anymore. I used to be happy, used to be articulate and lntelligent, kind and generous. Now I feel bitter and angry. Resentful. I can't stand the company of other people for more than a few minutes, and I've got nothing to say to anyone. Not that anyone is there to listen, so successfully have I isolated myself.
I just can't find the way back to being me.
OCTOBER 2007
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
SEPTEMBER 2007
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
AUGUST 2007
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
JULY 2007