Two types of twitching a welcomed this eve: the first is a memory of yesterday, of looking out across a club floor, where a potato band were playing, with recognisable naíf faces you could read every day of faked history from, and seeing that floor full of the spasmodically twitching heads of people who didn’t really like the music, but liked the youth on show. Coming such a way to see a band who you know are no good, and then being lonely in tune to them in a crowd. What a pleasantly self-destructive way to pass the night. However Herman Dúne were harmonic enough, in a mid-west hassidic way – one of them even had peyers!
The second twitching was supposedly induced by the intake of substantial quantities of gaming-enhancing drugs, though no such effects were seen – supposedly they restore your concentration but hardcore gamers have no problem with that as far as we could see in our dead scientific study tonight – subject A took the pills (uppers, maintainers, and downers), subject B was a control and subject C (me!) got to drink lots of booze to see how it would affect his game. Results in the next issue of PC Format boys and girls!
]On the subject of old bloody bloom, so steeped in’t that to go on is easier than to go back, my sanguinne obsession has taken up apace. Apart from using White Blood Cells as a metaphor for death (skullish colour, consuming phagocytes, etc.) in my copy, I also started the day with a bloody mary, and last night my nose bled all over my desk. ]
Apparently I’m a writer now, speciality subject staves. What do I think of that? I don’t know. I’m happy sure, in that it feels like progress (even if it is only the next desk) but at the moment I could just collapse. I think its lack of air or light, and the continuance of my Leopold bloom obsession from yesterday (bought enormous quantities of bloody liver, and proceeded to eat with polenta and onions to disgust of veggie flatmate.) I’ve been back for 3 weeks,and I really, really need a big break in the countryside with air, a pub, and places to walk. Let me out!
Watched the ring last night. Curse my febrile imagination (why is nothing else ever febrile, why are dawns always rosy-fingered, why are statesmen always overweight, and why is this line of questioning so familiar? So easy to adhere to the common language, the regular expressions that must go together – Proust had it, doing a Gormenghast, think about the coupling of words, and force-birth them into each other – grass not crisp or green or even velvety, but like boxed oxygen or low-lying sheets of putrid stomach lining… which brings me back to topic I guess.)
Watched the ring last night. Vituperate my unsleeping imagination, but I watched another laugh-a-horror afterwards, and came back to my lonely well-screened, bemonitored room. The walk back had been terrible (opening the door was difficult in itself) but to sit in my dark room with a vaguely glimmerborn black void of a screen pointing at me asleep was too much. I turned the lights on, and though my rationalisations, sorry rationality, said “horror won’t come and get you”, my bloody uncertainty, my godforsaken nihilism of belief, let me believe anything, leaving me awake into the wee hours, reading, gaming, but not doing anything that could let me think too much.
So. What I’m saying is it was a standard dull human night; avoidance of thought is our birthright, the way to cope with what comes after, and the futility of what comes now; bury it in the only worthwhile thing, the absenting of pain, and we draw it nearer without caring about the drawing down of these sad curtains.
[BTW the last post was some sort of reference to my christmas party – I think – been a while since I’ve frequented these parts…]