tubes

A peak at how depressing my new book is going to be:

(very rough 1st draft)

so we are just muli-developed tubes;

i was shoed into the ladies by a fat man in a red cardigan, the men’s were closed, hopefully they were’ fumigating the place, never had i seen a toilet quite as disgusting,; and in one of the most state of the art libraries of the world; they couldnt stop people from spreading shit up the walls, pissing in the sink or making glory holes.

so i locked my self in the cubicle and it came; the heavens opened and i swear i heard angels sing as a Brown moby dick splashed happily into its natural habitat;

the clouds kept clearing; instant happiness; this was at least half the problem of my misery of late, that and lack of human connection,; i appeared to be amongst some unsavoury fucks who i hadnt made much effort with at the squat and kept myself locked in my room, trying to sleep between the shouting, and pissing in a bottle and holding my shit in so i didnt have to go out there

id slip out in the days and do plenty of walking and thinking and writing and still taking in the city; but i was still wondering what the fuck i was doing here:

so i took the shit,; and things felt better; i hadnt done much the last few days; kind of been half contemplating going home; then got the crazy idea to go see the northern lights for my birthjday which is an idea i been toying with; but Tara poopooed the northern lights idea; and going home depressed me; but for some reason i had now recreatred the misery i had felt at home right here in Marseille: i could see it more clearly coz itr wasnt wrapped up with all the other everyday things of life; two things;

no money and two, lack of connection and 3 actually while were thinking of it,; lack of creation:

so could i fulfill these gaping voids and find some purpose and rip a smile across this fat wonky face of mine,

i went to the modern art museum and thought you know what ill spunk half of my final 10 euros and see if im inspired; i got to the desk; 10 euros please; i looked at the lady; i think she could tell by my face the genuine look of poverty;: she leaned in; demain  dix hueres cest entree gratuit she whispered; i smiled and she winked and i walked back out of the museum; this tiny connection and little gift had brought a huge smile to my face and i realised i was lacking the connection of humans; whom i usually despised;, i wazs begiing to realise you cant live without them, you turn into a crank and a bore and depresssed fucker; Terry was right; company went a long way:

i headed down to the fort; i phoned steve from the Spott on the way to see if i could salvage the party and get something going instead of being depressed in the scout hut with no bands;: i felt sick and lonely and without friends: this feeling i fathomed out had stemmed from the choice to give up drink which put up this new distance between everyone i knew and me; i was no longer the happy go Lucky wreck head everyone knew and loved; i was this middle aged bore that no fucker really had anything in common, with; the only people i seemed to genuinely to click with these days were elderly people; old and lonely fuckers; just like i felt; they didnt talk shite and act the goat they just got weird and interesting in their loneliness:

so yeh no connection and no drink was making me some middle aged freak, now you couple this with no money; thus cutting off all my options for movement and running,; and here i was sitting still in a big strange city; living on the fringes of society with the drop outs and the insane and unwanted: and i didn;t even fit in with those;:

why was i here; i seriously didn’t know the answer to that; but i weren’t creating other than wrting this depressing shit; i werent connecting or makng many friends due to my lack of fun making like in my drinking days when i was always surrounded by everyone and people sleeping over at mine in my bed everywhere; just chaos; it had gone: and there was no income, i hadnt worked in months and the funds were non existenet; and on top of all this shit an ex-friend had fucked me 5 years ago and i was up in court and had to return home to compile my defense; i was trying to get my flat mate to sort it; i text her last night saying is now a good time as id asked her previously to give me half hour to go thru some documents on computer.

yes she replied;:

i phoned and she was off her face on mdma with her ex boyfriend in her dressing gown gurning on her bedroom floor: ok this is not a good time:

no no its fine im on it hoestly;: no mate i need you to be on it; ill phone you in the week ; ok email me what to do and ill do it when i get five;:

ok ciao; i went to bed and slept a great night sleep at the squat; there was no screamin tonight,; and i woke up only twice during the night and must have had at least eight hours:

i atill woke up early tho; every day i woke up early: all my life; i loved the twilight to get my thoughts together and that time alone before the noise;: i laid in bed til gone 11 and finished up the excellent bukowski book, the crazy cunt; the honest bastard,; like speaking to norris nuvo;, hilarious book from some one who blatantly and inspiringly didnt give a flying fuck: then i finished up the keroac book; two stories; satori in paris which was gushing drunken self flagillating nonesnse and got right on my tits, i wasnt a fan of that modern classic ‘on the road’ that everyone seemed to love; it didnt do it for me ,; there was no story just him gushing and describing and pontification; get to the action for fuck sake:; that was the problem here again; there was none; jut him in paris telling us of some conversations he’d had and how good his french is and how much he drinks: whatever jack no one gives a fuck; he also seemed contrived in the way he carved up his sentences; at first glance he seemed quite nonchalant and carefree ala bukowski but an overall vibe eminated from the work as you realised he really did care what you thought of him; he really did; and this was the point at where the two writers are polaxed into different stratosphères for me. saying that, the second story of jacks was  story of a Young negro boy point of view; it was written in his drawl and followed the adventures of his brother taking him across america to come live with him; i really loved it and realised as soon as jack removed himself out of the equation i could get on with it;: was this what bukowski was doing by fictionlising what was so obviously auto biographical???,  henry chinaski his alter ego,; might have gave him the freedom to not worry what anyone thought and let his true identity come through; and this may be the key; so i thought should i take on a character; a new name and let legend and stories warp to make the story better while changing the names of everyone involved and suddenly im not hell bent on trying to carve out this image;, im merely telling a story of a guy who is losely based upon myself and some of the things that have happened to me;;;;

 

it made sense, Tristan Laffont; Tristan always felt like my dead twins name and Laffont was the first name i seen looking around at the Library i’m sat in;

the second option would be my dead children, the ones i killed in the womb; jack and Sophie; could Sophie work as a surname suddenly this makes me feel free ;

vivian velveteen, a character i invented in a previous blog,; i love the name velveteen

ok three option,; jason wil die in the next novel and here is a work of fiction based on fact;

i can keep ranting but i dont know much where this is leading anymore; but yeh that was that shit i took,; it cleared the mind instantly; and as we are all tubes; every animal is some kind of shit tube right.

we eat for energy;: and the bits we dont need we wshit out rigghjt; thats the basics of life right; so when we filling up and stuffing ourselves til we are bulging and popping eyes and distended shit pipes, can this be natural; and i notice it takes it toll on the mind before any where else; it makes you lethargic, tired; depressed; cranky and suicidal;

so i took a shit; i spoke to a wrinkly woman at the art gallery; theres two steps to sanity; now i got to create; i guess im doign that shit here; this is creating laying down whats Inside to the outside;

so i need to increase these three as^pects; i read someshere recently what gets measured gets managed; so as the boring sober nerd i have become i will now start to measure these three vital ingrédients to happiness:

 

im gunna simply measure these and see where i am at; and see if i can increasze them and how; so thats me in Marseille mid mid life crisis facing the very shit that is making mer a miserabme sad sack:

the only time i feel good is on the run; literally too tied up in running to face the truths; by deciding to stay still in Marseille, all the shit of home, the patterns have come back and shown me where im going wrong;: i see it clearly and now i have to work on it;: so lets begin you grumpy fat boring 39 year old fuck

 

 

a revised version of this and other depressing notes from marseille will make up my next book. bet you cant wait!