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It has been an eventful day. I thought I would round it off with some more of this stupidity.
I got up at about five after some fairly hair-raising dreams. I took a volumous piss and switched on my old Viglen PC. It went tits up straight away, displayed some incomprehensible shit on boot up and then refused to recognise the mouse.
I rebooted, let it run scandisk, went on-line and made a half-arsed concession to download some patches. It fixed it up nicely, to my surprise.
I checked Railtrack for train times to Victoria, smoked a cigarette and had one off the wrist.
I polished my boots, dusted off my old (brown) briefcase, found a pair (black) briefs big enough to accommodate my backside, put a white Zara shirt on, a brown tie, a pair of brown jeans, a black jumper and a brown casual jacket.
I walked to the station in this shitty rain which we have had for the last three months and may never stop.
I stood in the rain at the end of the platform and smoked another cigarette. Everyone else was huddled under the awnings. For typically surreal reasons I don't like smoking in public, especially near other people, especially at train stations. But the rain started to make a mess of me, so I stood under the footbridge over the platforms.
The train arrived and I boarded. The usual nightmare. Stupidity and suffering. The thought came to me, the words came to me - This is a cattle truck of slaves - as I headed into London.
I got to Victoria, alighted, and spent half an hour on the raised balcony of Wetherspoons nursing a Latte, smoking, eyeing up the talent and waiting for my boss.
When she arrived we walked to Westminster City Hall for our chat with other local government bods about Revenue systems. It was nice in there. I did some talking. You might even say I led the meeting. I thought at one point that one of the Westminster birds was giving me the eye.
Will take two tablets tonight.
After the meeting I came back to Twickenham with my boss. We chatted idly on the train, enjoyed each other's company I think. I felt half-human.
When we got back to the Civic Centre I decided to have lunch in The Clubhouse straight away. When I got there the place was empty apart from Steve (the barman) and some crazy old coot who had walked in off the street talking gibberish.
She had bummed a smoke off Steve and because he is a sound, laid-back bloke he was humouring her. At first I thought she might be his grandmother. If that was the case I was impressed, because she looked like a beggar you might find in an alleyway in Montmarte in about 1932. Steve could barely make out what she was saying. Maybe one word in ten was comprehensible.
I ordered a London Pride and a burger and chips at the bar and Steve brought me up to speed on the situation.
When I sat down I pulled out a rundown of the recommended specs for our client side hardware, taking into consideration the need for the all-important J-initiator.
It was too fucking much for me. I pulled out my copy of Red Shift by Alan Garner - a book I had chosen that morning to take into London because it was slim and expendable.
At this point the old lady came and sat next to me. My food had arrived. A greasy burger with fat chips. She started to talk to me. For the life of me I couldn't decipher a word. Steve worked out that she wanted a pen. I gave her a biro and a sheet of paper and she started to write.
I wanted to buy her a meal. When Steve mentions how good the soup is she says she would like a cup of soup. Steve said he would get her a bowl of soup for £2.50. She asked me for an envelope. I said I didn't have one.
Some suits came in and she went to sit near them. This amused me. After a while she took the piece of paper back up to the bar and handed it to Steve. He said he didn't understand what it meant. She slammed the bar, shouted and walked out.
I don't know what she had written. But everyone has a story to tell.
::chris::
Apologies for the craziness of the last post. Was pissed off. This {Originally a link to one of the spamletters at spamletters.com on ramraiding supermarkets 200205}cheered me up. I needed it. Have been busying myself with a new PC. Have two machines set up in my room at the moment. It looks impressive. It would be even more impressive if I knew how to use them.
Cheers
::chris::
Night-time. In an alcohol haze at the moment. Finished off a bottle of St Emilion a while ago and moved on to Warre's 10 year old tawny. Am drinking it now, with no apparent plan to stop. But tawny ports are not the way forward. I must remember to stick to vintage/crusted. More room for manoeuvre.
I feel lost now, as I listen to the orchestra warm up on the Elton John CD I ripped earlier. Sixteen years on. Live in Australia in the early eighties. I have never liked Elton John, but this moves me. I may surf later for the tracks I couldn't rip, ignorant useless bastard that I am.
I want to feel lost.
I am writing this slowly.
Now A Horse With No Name.
"The ocean is a desert with it's life underground and the perfect disguise above."
Got to get a grip.
"Mother should I run for President..."
Not much has been happening. Which is to say that there has been no movement in any way, psychological or physical. I'm paralysed. The snow is falling all over Ireland.
"I've seen all good people turn their heads each day so satisfied I'm on my way..."
"Don't surround yourself with yourself..."
Damb right.
There is not much to report. I have been dealing with work every day. I have been seconded back to the Fraud section - pending a decision on the new mega bucks IT partner deal. Have been keeping my head down and trying to show signs of devotion. Don't want to be moved back to the main office, where no fucker has a sense of humour, or even a life. We have a reputation for taking the piss in Fraud, but we talk turkey and we believe in each other. I am back in the loop and happy. I like these people. I even like the parade of misery, pain, stupidity and bullshit that makes up our daily round.
Let me get this straight: I have been working in Fraud, on and off, since '96. In that time I have visited about a thousand people and sat on interviews with them in their homes - with maybe a hundred or so at the Civic Centre.
I have watched people. Taken pictures of them. Watched their homes. Watched them leave for work in the morning. Followed them on foot and followed them in cars. We have followed people singly and in groups. We have followed them around the borough, or around London, or followed them all the way to the coast.
I have dealt with schizophrenics, manic depressives, psychopaths, career criminals, drug addicts, drug dealers, cop killers, alcoholics, asylum seekers (genuine and otherwise), pikeys, priests, Russian gangsters, idiots, wife beaters, battered wives, war wounded and watermelon traders. I have seen my fair share of saints as well. I have spoken to people who were crippled - financially, physically and mentally. I have seen plenty of people who moved me with their courage, who seemed incredible characters, who I will never forget. People have wept in front of me, or thrown me out of their homes, or threatened to fuck me up in some way.
I interviewed a woman and found out she was blind - afterwards. She committed suicide after our investigation. I have spoken to people who were dying, visited claimants on Richmond Hill, visited people whose servants answered the door. Seen people who were completely lost, tormented with nightmares or bad memories. People with months or weeks to live.
But we mostly work in a sea of bullshit.
I am sorry to bore you with this. Here are some pictures. One of the new gauche furniture item I bought this evening and one of the candles that soothe my soul.
Hope you sleep well tonight. Peace (is a nice thing).
::chris::
I find this sensational. {Originally a link to virtualom 160106}
"I've been through the desert on a horse with no name..."
Have been off work since last Friday with the 'Flu bug that has been doing the rounds. Now coughing my lungs up, worrying about the sore pain on the left-hand side of my chest...thinking of Uncle Joe, who died of lung cancer at the age of 35. I can put a year on him now. Depressed and sick of the sight of my room (#1/#2). It needs to be ripped apart and reconstructed.
I have been reading Opus Pistorum, The Illustrated Book of Sexual Records (Simons) and Reflections (Ed. Thiebaud). I had The Wicker Man original soundtrack delivered a few days ago. Only 39 minutes long - but nicely packaged with excellent notes. It's curious: A friend sent me a version of the Willow song a few weeks ago - which I expected to hear on this new album - but no. I prefer my friends version.
I got hold of a copy of The Matrix for the first time a few days ago. Ended up watching it 2 or 3 times.
I have begun to master Warcraft 3. I have played on-line a few times. I am 3-1 down (consensus that I won the last game after the connection failed). My opponent is in Spain now for a friend's wedding. Time for me to practice perhaps.
To be honest, I was never very good at computer games - from Space Invaders onwards. I'm a bad loser, lack co-ordination and get bored easily. I'm a control freak. I like to play games that I can win - quickly and easily. I'm the wrong material. I will always know someone better than me, who can beat me without breaking sweat.
I have tussled with a few over the last couple of years; Bladerunner, Half-life, Civilisation, Commandos, Starcraft, Medieval Total War, Firefight...
But the game of my life, without question, was Arkanoid - back in the eighties.
Christ...
"We had just got stoned - James, Charlie and myself - when we ventured out of James' new room in C block. It was about two in the morning and we were heading for the common room and the Arkanoid machine. We were off our faces, reduced to steam, when we made it to the bar and, with some difficulty, plugged the machine in.
When the screen flickered into life it was obvious that we had hit upon a winner - a new medium. I could barely stand the tension. It felt like we were robbing a bank. We were breaking all the rules. Breaking into a new world.
(Later on, especially when we came to experiment with mushrooms and acid, we got used to trippy effects. Even on mushrooms it was quite possible to see, say, a polychromatic triangular octopus (with one eye, staring up at you) in the toilet as you took a piss. But these effects were shallow compared to the seductive draw of that other world in those early days. It was as if we were sailing in an ocean so beautiful it touched everything, everyone...every minute of the day and night.)
The screen was a riot of colour. The multi-coloured checker work of the walls was counterpoint to the white, ghost-like ball. Charlie went first. He was the best player. It was only a matter of time before he reached a million points.
We were all playing for points now. The three of us were kings of the machine, easily able to work through all thirty-three levels. Twenty pence would buy us an hour or an hour-and-a-half on the game. Our Initials never left the top of the best scores table. No-one else was remotely close. All our scores were in excess of eight or nine hundred thousand.
Not tonight though. We are laughing our heads off, because our first attempts to control the ball are risible. We seem to be playing in a psychic gale of some kind. It's blowing right through our bodies and on to the screen. It's making the ball drift slightly, though we reckon this to be impossible. The ball seems to be made of white fire. Every pixel seems alive.
After the opening shots we began to adjust finely. I was entranced even watching James and Charlie play. I could perceive little but the screen and the peripheral silhouette of the person playing. Hypnotic. Total absorption. Symbiosis."
.......
That's what it was like.
Besides downloading ripped MP3s I have been hanging around some interesting blogs over the last week or so. Darian has good links and is worth a look. This lady looks gorgeous and knows her stuff. This is great for links and artwork.
And don't miss the kittens at http://www.rathergood.com
::chris::
I've just had another call from Dell. They still believe I am using one of their systems, three months after I cancelled the order. I shouted down the phone like a pixilated psychopath for 5 minutes until the girl at the other end of the line got pissed with me so I hung up.
This is modern life.
I am drinking Lagavulin as I type this but it is not helping me. I feel bloated, nervous, at a loss, disgusted with myself.
I feel like an aberration, so much of a failure I cannot begin to describe it.
But here it is.
I got very drunk on Friday night and Saturday was a write-off. I was gathering speed by nightfall and started to think that I should record my dreams and post them on this site. I have some experience in recording dreams. It used to be a speciality of mine. I prepared a notepad and pen before I slept - feeling quite exited at the prospect of getting a different, possibly more revealing form onto this page.
But the next morning I found that my dream had been so vast and wide ranging that I was unable to get a fix on it - especially the chronology, which is very important.
I seemed to have had seven or eight totally different dreams. I had no idea which one came first. Key episodes were so obscured that they were nearly lost. It was as if I could not tell the difference between what I had dreamt and what was popping into my head as I was thinking about the dreams. Writing them down in detail was impossible. There were too many of them. I made some notes anyway:
Staines Theatre
Auntie and mother
Trains and tents
Underground
30's film stars
Floating Flowers
Businessmen sleeping on platform
........
Sunday was a mess. I charged up my camera batteries and took some pictures. One of my hand and one of the view from my window. (I need to do something about the carrier bag).
I remember now that yesterday was Monday. Not sure what happened. Not much probably.
Today I had the phone call from Dell, my first .com address went live and a guy was going bananas in the Civic Centre Atrium. One of the girls who works for us was upset and cried.
I have this picture tiled on my desktop at home and at work.
And I did make a start on the Glastonbury story.
Will do it one day if I live.
...chris
I have a new digital camera.
Here is a picture of my current stash - not including the new fridge situation, which is in a state of constant flux.
I went away over the weekend to stay at Kingswood, my old hall of residence, with a couple of friends. We did much drinking at the bar in The Happy Man - the finest pub known to me. The food is first class (for a pub) and the bar is rich, warm, textured. I had a nice hangover the next morning - completely cut loose, listless, drifting. I was up early, as usual, and took some snaps. My first one was of the early morning cure. Then I went outside. The sun was pulsing behind scudding clouds. I walked over to the RAF war memorial. It's one of the most peaceful and beautiful places I know. It was closed - which was a shame. We went to The Happy Man again for lunch. That's when I took the snaps of the bar. It was a fine weekend.
I am pissed now on beer, port and whisky. So what?
But take care - honestly - and have a peaceful evening.
I need to shape up. {Originally a link to one of the spamletters at spamletters.com on dating 200205}
I have decided to go out less. Everything on the outside seems like shit. The people, the food, the drink, the heat, the job - what have you. It all makes me feel worse.
It was my birthday on Sunday. I woke up at about 10 a.m. after about 4 hours sleep. I was probably having a nightmare but I can't remember. I got ready slowly then wandered around the pubs - having a drink in each one. It was pretty bad. Then I came back home and slept again.
I had planned to go back to the college and stay there for the night. I felt that I would be making a better statement that way. I had planned to find a prime spot at the bar in The Happy Man and stay there for about 9 or 10 hours. But it was too hot and I was too low on cash (or so it seemed).
So I stayed in Twickenham.
Monday (yesterday) was more interesting. I went out on a mission to (a) get some ice and (b) stock up on Stelazine. Getting ice is pretty much of a daily occurrence for me but the Stelazine run only happens about six times a year. Getting more Stelazine always seems to cheer me up. There is something quite invigorating about confronting both your "fucked-upness" and the apparent ignorance, uselessness and absence of the people who are supposed to be helping you.
I never say anything untoward to the receptionist at the surgery. I always hand the prescription over as though it was for something meaningless and mundane. I am always very polite and considerate - which is part of the joke.
At the pharmacy I also say little but again I am very polite - not to say gormless. Sometimes they have a new assistant who will ask me if I have taken these tablets before. I always say: "Yes." I find this last interaction particularly invigorating, in an ironic way, because I was diagnosed as being schizophrenic way back in 1989 and I have been taking Stelazine for thirteen years.
To cap it all, I have not discussed either the condition or the medication with anyone, least of all a doctor, for over seven years. No-one seems to give a shit - and there is something primal and beautiful about that. In fact, when I think about it - it's genuinely funny, in a dangerous sort of way.
There was more good news on the way to the surgery. I noticed a billboard advertising a liquidation sale at 106 The Green. This was the address of a communications company I used to work for about three years ago. I took myself down there and had a look around. Everyone had been made redundant. I had walked out the building after working about seventy straight days without a break.
This was a nice sense of closure. I went home and drank myself to sleep.
I have been bookmarking a lot of sites recently. They put this shit to shame.
This woman {She went into the shadows a long time ago 210405} is something of a genius designer as well as being a good poet. These guys leave me standing of course - as does Zanna.
Maybe in a few years...
Back to work tomorrow. I feel like walking out.
Well, clearly there has been a major fuck-up of some kind. Let me explain.
The new machine (from Dell) never arrived. The whole process only underscored the fact that doing anything more complicated than growing root vegetables is asking for trouble. It reinforced in me the need to keep contact with people, groups of people, waiters, bar staff, shop assistants, agencies and companies of all kinds, quangos, committees, management teams etc etc to a minimum. Even going into a pub and ordering a pint is asking for trouble.
The shit seems to have piled so high in the last few weeks I've a) gone blind and b) can't smell it any more.
Things at work have gone from bad to worse. There has been a lot of bad politics and backstabbing, which has always made me puke. And I have come to the attention of a number of (apparent) arseholes in the office. People with no sense of humour now surround me. Depressing to say the least.
My new systems development job has strangely turned into a council tax recovery job. I'm not quite sure how this happened (or could happen). Apparently I have been spending too much time on the web site. Which is to say, I have been wasting my time.
I decided quite a while ago that they are probably right - but for the wrong reasons. I decided not to care and worked at my machine with some bitter mantras in my head. I must still have some false pride left, because today I had a run-in with one of these arseholes.
I was shaking slightly - a common reaction for me. Sometimes I get it a lot worse. My mind stays clear but my body falls apart. I can handle it when I'm on the phone, on my own, but not when there are people around who might notice.
That makes it a lot worse.
Luckily it was close to lunchtime so I headed for the nearest pub. I thought that I should be a man but I thought (literally) that I would rather be a man with a drink. I got into The Tup and ordered a Fosters with what I hope was some style.
I felt much happier in the pub. I made some notes in my filofax:
BE A MAN
I WOULD RATHER BE A MAN DRINKING
PLACES TO LOOK FOR A NEW JOB
LOCAL AUTHORITY SITES
JOBSERVERS.COM
REED
CHURCHILL
WINSTON CHURCHILL
Why Churchill popped into my head I don't know. I cannot remember my train of thought at the time, but I realised with a start that Churchill was both a fighter and a drinker. In fact, I thought it was possible that he drank his way to victory.
I got tapes of his speeches from the library on the way home. I have listened to them many times, for research purposes of course, and to my delight I could clearly hear the pattern of sobriety=failure/drunkeness=success for the first time.
Listen to those speeches yourself. He gave a few as First Lord of the Admiralty at the beginning of the war, sober as a judge, and sounded off like a twee, deluded, sententious prick. As soon as he takes to the floor of Parliament in May 1940 as Prime Minister he sounds as pissed as a Scottish fisherman and is marvellous in every way.
.......
the Glastonbury story is on the back burner. I have tried - honestly I have. I have drafted and redrafted, made plans and false starts. Maybe one day soon during a hiatus.
Bye...Chris::
I am back from the festival and it is raining. I went out earlier to buy some reggae and sweated like a bastard all the way in and out of Richmond.
The festival was a success in some ways and a failure in others. I felt fitter, safer and more clued-in than any other time in the valley. I still feel fitter - but that won't last.
I moved about a lot - always on my own. What was different this year was that I actually talked to some people - or rather - they talked to me. I had a sense, an inkling, that I was laying the groundwork for a good time. Maybe next year. Maybe in ten years time. If I'm alive I will be there. Something might happen if I work at it.
I peaked early on Thursday night. I was tripping quite badly because I had eaten about seven or eight hash cakes. I ate them out of boredom and desperation.
It was strange, flashing in and out of reality like that, but ultimately boring. I tried to buy some grass but the professional dealing infrastructure of previous years had been squeezed out.
Maybe that's a good thing - ok?
To be honest - I felt pretty bad about myself and my life most of the time I was there - when I was straight and when I was not. That's normal for me. Someone asked me if I was enjoying myself.
I said: "It's interesting."
They said: "That is not the right answer."
I said: "No. Yeah. Yeah."
I had about ten hours sleep over six and a half days. I spent much of my time taking notes. They are fairly extensive.
I am having a new machine delivered tomorrow. When that is ready I will start the story. It may take some time.
Have a peaceful evening.
...Chris::
I'm leaving tomorrow on the 8.42 to Reading, and then on to Castle Carey. I am not sure how I am going to get from the station to the site. Walk perhaps. I've seen many people do that, mainly to avoid the sniffer dogs. That was the choice the police gave us in 2000 - walk 5 miles or have a once over by a golden retriever. I took the dog and cracked a joke about carrying dog food. The dog handler told me to get lost.
Different tomorrow maybe. No buses and maybe no police. Just me sweating and coughing on the verge of a heart attack. An overweight, prematurely greying gimp with shaky hands, pains in the chest and pocketfuls of medication.
Your ideal Glastonbury Steward.
I have been bouncing around with preparation and panic for the last few days. Things came to a head yesterday. I left the house in the afternoon and ended up at Radnor Gardens in Twickenham. I was vaguely hoping to meet one of three other people that I know who is going to the festival. I badly needed to talk to someone.
It was music day at the gardens and there were a couple of thousand people there. Good practice, I thought. Mingle in the throng holding skiffs of lager, listen to the music, eat some weird food - you get the idea.
I wandered around eyeing up the crowd. An eclectic mix I suppose. Mostly families, ex-hippies, ex-island people maybe, all respectable now. There were a few crusties there, to my surprise, rolling joints, and at least one hard core traveller type, pissed, dancing, stripped to the waist, can of Hofbrau, combat trousers and with what looked like felt-tipped pen drawing and writing all over his torso.
I met up with some people I know and mingled awkwardly for a couple of hours. I felt bad being so straight - only drunk. I toyed with the idea of offering one of the crusties some money for a joint but I couldn't muster the front. If I had an ounce in my pocket it would have been easier. People with no connections (like me) are truly marginalised (fucked). I could talk about this at length. Maybe another time.
I walked home, sorted some more shit and went to bed early to try and sort my head out. My mind raced in the darkness in a way that can only truly be achieved by the mentally ill/paranoid. I wondered if I was going to dream about the festival that night. Have another one of the dreams that drew me back in 2000 after a gap of eleven years. I thought about how important it was for me to go this year and how nothing could keep me away, even a giant maggot exploding out of my arse (I literally had this thought).
This thought worried me a little. I did an audit, in my mind, of the current situation - concurrent with the theme of things that could stop me from getting to Worthy Farm. I could think of four good reasons why I should be dead or dying and four good reasons why I should have been locked up before now.
This is all true.
But most important of all were the thoughts of what I could write about the festival. Christ help me, I felt more like a writer in my head last night than at any other time in the last eighteen years. I wanted to make it work for me. I saw the story unfold, even without knowing anything about it. I felt it was a new beginning.
As it happened I dreamt about the festival again.
I have a notepad and a pen. I will try for about 10,000 words. It will give me something to do.
Take it easy.
...Chris::
It's really difficult for me to write (speak?) at the moment - but I should try.
I have been on a low for the past few weeks, feeling tired and angry most of the time. I'm boozing a lot. Drinking Lagavulin now in fact. It tastes of old oranges. Wonderful old oranges. I have Blade Runner on in the background behind me. I figured it was one of two films that could help me at the moment. I may watch the other one afterwards. I may have to put some music on.
I will be wrecked at the festival within the next few days. I believe I operate much better when I am stoned. I feel better, and I feel as though I am a better person. Maybe that's sad.
Anyway, let's see what happens. I haven't got my site pass yet. The bastards are cutting it fine.
The line-up has been confirmed and Roger Waters is playing. I need to see him and Richie Havens. That will do it for me. That and some mad moments with space cakes.
If you are reading this I wish you well. Have a peaceful night. Deckard has just given Rachel a drink, looked through the replicant photos and is standing on the balcony.
I will have a drink for you tonight.
...Chris::
Midnight - the witching hour - as I write this. I upgraded to Blogger Pro and found I couldn't handle the code (Fool). I'm going it alone with this site (Fool). Fuck it. It's FTP all the way now. The easy way out. The new site should be ready Sunday morning. It's interesting to contemplate that I may be the only person reading this. I need to keep that in mind. It's just me looking at this.
It has been an eventful week. A nightmare - a real mess - punctuated with mishaps, money mis-spent, hours wasted, computers crashing, debt accrued, embarrassing moments and trip falls. A sea of misery, in short.
This site is under intensive development from this point. The home page will retain the blog format - but the posts should be shorter, with more pages in the background and more links.
In my opinion the biggest deal on the old site was the election story. It's available here.
As Grace Slick said - It's a new dawn.
...Chris::
This work is licensed under a Creative
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