“Ho ho ho” said Father Christmas, again, in an unnecessarily repetative way that made the children wonder if he suffered a mild autism as well as an underactive thyroid.
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Had a jacket potato with marmite for lunch.
Farted.
Drank 2 cups of water. 6 more to go, to meet quota.
Walked into work as both car and bike are poorly.
A brief meeting.
Spoke to a man at the army regarding some filming.
Wrote blog.
Blogged down with the mundane detail. This is my minutiae. Did you want to know
about the black outs last night?
I can’t help. Nor explain the feinting this morning.
But I do know: I had a nice chat with a friend, today, and that is something.
Perhaps the small things do count? The details. Maybe that’s the purpose. Stop aiming for the big picture and go for the detail. Concentrate on it. Own it. Control it. You can be your own God, then, for the things that you create.
But no. I don’t think that this is it. You need the high aims to get the small.
Apparently when I walked into the office I looked as though I was going to fall asleep. Whilst walking. Its certainly possible, although I think Iwas fairly alert at that stage. Earier? Well, that would be different. But earlier is always different. That’s the only thing that stays the same.
Kirwin’s universal theory of porn states that word association will bring any word to porn within 2 jumps (ie original word > new word > porn).
Today is important.
It is the first day of the rest of my life.
Six years after I took posession of my house, I took steps to change other aspects of my life. Yay.
Life is ephemeral. The greatest compliment that it can receive is to be remembered in a TV show.
Hear news of a sudden death of a friend. Want to find out about it. web search. Find page that implicates and blaimes self.
I have a meeting this afternoon. Preparation consists of eating two bags of dried fruit and drinking fizzy pop. Made from Andrews Liver Salts. After which I shall freshen my breath with some sugar free mints. An entire pack.
I don’t intend being at the meeting for too long.
For a brief moment I stopped looking for the shit in the field of gold. A good thing has happended. Firstly is that I have nearly cleared out all of the particularly obsolete things from the attic. There’s most of a playing card collection to go, and coins and stamps, so I am confident that I can keep up the sales for – ooh – the rest of my life. But nonetheless, the attic is getting to the point that it seems plausable for it one day to be tidy.
The second thing is that I have signed up to a film production workshop in Manchester tomorrow night.
Everything is black. The world has stopped turning. The corpses of dead birds fall from the trees. Rain gives way to hail. Yet the ground cracks. Laughter is unheard of. Air tastes heavy of sulpher. Dogs howl. Cats claw at the eyes of the children. Nothing to celebrate. Summer in Manchester.
Ramble.
Who are you. Really?
Standing, looking at the unblinking refelction in the mirror.
Its a difficult question.
What do you see when you wipe the glass clear. A face. Recognisable in appearance. But inside? Who is really there? What thoughts, what hopes, dreams, belief? The eyes are dulled in the reflection, devoid of the spark that should make them engage.
Finding a place is so often done without thought; people are doing things not because it may be right, but because it fits into convention and expectation. Perhaps they don’t want to think about it? Maybe drifting from place to place, job to job, is the ideal?
But perhaps people have low expectations. Or no expectations. Achievement is a reduced scale; the abililty to save enough for a new car, or holiday, or a promotion above the head of a colleague. All minor self obsessions, a little people following Narcissus with blinkered lack of wonder.
Are my hopes any different? My dreams? Who can say. I don’t have the acope to read your mind. I can’t scan your brainwaves for thoughts – I’ve tried, of course, but the TV needs a new aerial. For now its just observation. And TV.
TV’s shared consciousness is a comfort. I know how to fit in here; so do you. Passive participation. You can even drink tea at the same time. And then, tomorrow, around the water cooler – a conversation with those with whom you might otherwise refuse to speak.
Of course this ignores the elite. And the technicians. They’re not the elite – the backroom boys and girls – although they are privilaged. They get to breathe the same air as the stars.
The elite are those on screen. The stars. People for whom personal identity is fame – at least to their fans – whose adoration and following supplies the place in the world, without concern for individuality.
In the mirror. Beneath the surface. Inside. What is the identity. What place in the world. What value the person?
What person?