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Nothing prevents happiness like the memory of happiness

One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.

Sin is whatever obscures the soul

The most decisive actions of life are most often unconsidered actions.

There are very few monsters who warrant the fear we have of them.

"Therefore" is a word the poet must not know.

Through loyalty to the past, our mind refuses to realize that tomorrow's joy is possible only if today's makes way for it; that each wave owes the beauty of its line only to the withdrawal of the preceding one.

What another would have done as well as you, do not do it. What another would have said as well as you, do not say it; what another would have written as well, do not write it. Be faithful to that which exists nowhere but in yourself-and thus make yourself indispensable.

Work and struggle and never accept an evil that you can change.

Art is the collaboration between God and the artist, and the less the artist does the better.

I had a dream last night.

On a wim, I had decided to go to France to travel. I arrived at the ferry depot too late and had to wait to take the firt one in the morning. When I arrived, I found that several of my friends were already there first. We were in some town which was half Paris, and half some beach side town. Two of my best and oldest male friends were already there, S and H. S, the consumate consumer, traveller who is always ahead of me, confidently at home in these foreign dwellings. And, H, who was relaxed but more nervy. I love these guys even if S does intimidate me with his largesse.

Then there were the girls S and H. S had been there a long time. Right at home in Paris. H had decided that she was now a lesbian and spoke of the relief and freedom to be free from the nasty imbalances of heterosexual love. Her hair kept changing. She was more hippyish with blonde and blue dreadlocks at one point. She looked less pretty than i remembered with no make up but still brought all the tenderness back nonetheless. My male friend S had footage on his phone of the two girls tonguing each other in a cafe and laughing.

All quite merry and forcing me to accept that, while some things are very different, some are very the same and I have to roll with the times.

The next day her body throbbed and ached tenderly, each pulse keeping the previous nights events close to the surface.

After repeating the practice the body did not ache so much as throb calmly satisfied and the feeling became more familiar.

After the split and time wore on, the body was forcibly starved and seemed to ache hungrily for replenishment. A different throbbing now which spoke of an absence. The physical longing.

Time would see the pangs quieten.

Others kept their bodies on a constant drip feed of sex and cock.

Things and memory. Things and memory. Things connected to memory. Condoms and lube and everything. Things. Belle and Sebastian. A person, a friend, an ex lover. All things are connected to other people. Condoms and Lube are the worst because they remind me of the replacable nature of bodies. Looking at a condom will remind you of the last time you looked at a condom and thus the last time you fucked. Thus you bring that memory into the new experience. The new experience is compromised by you sharing the new moment with a memory of the former. Different hands to fit the same glove. The glove is the sheaf, the cover, the mask, the surface, the performance. It is the same thing. Different puppeteers inside the performance puppet. But the puppet repeats the same performance, the same act, for your pleasure. Different bodies, replacable for the same duties.

Like repeating the same acts. The similar dialogues, the same tactics, the drinks, the weekend breaks, the moans, the sharing of dreams and jokes.

She decided to reclaim her body as apart of reclaiming her independence. She took revenge with her body, aggressively, coolly fucking her way through a series of anonymous lovers, to vigorously scratch out his touches that lingered lightly traced on her body. As she lay drifting off to sleep that night, she lay her hand on her waist, which he had always loved to caress. This place which had been associated so painfully with him was now reinscribed, the memory scrambled by a series of drunken half images, vying for position, where vague happy lusting faces merged with Chagall-ian effect, flickering, strobing like a mosaic, of abstract greens, reds and purples, disavowing his cruel monopoloy over her.

It was hellish but not altogether unpleasent. At least it was an alternate chaos to the exhaustion of the perpetually unsatisfying tunnelled focused love she had used her body with before in devotion to him. So that was something.

Whose your favourite author and why?

I like Milan Kundera because he articulates the complicated unruly logic of relationships in the finest way I've seen.

Who do you like?

Ideation

The fear of recovering memories of sexual abuse. Using therapy to look back and to help. Assuming everything was fine but being afraid of recovering something horrible. What do you then do with that memory?

Zombies vs Terminators.
Future film where military robotics is highly advanced, so society is completely protected by an omniscient killing system to control and monitor deviance. Everything is controlled. People are passive. But the dead are restless. The undead could be undetected. Appearing like people and tearing their heads off.

Possiblities. The robotics don't recognise zombies, thus allowing them to overwhelm.
It becomes a battle of robotics v Zombies.
The robotics turn on the humans.
Viruses.

Stages.
1. describe the society
2. what's the story?
3. whose the hero?

Memory.
Out of sight, out of mind.
The will to forget.
Forgetting about her because I don't see her.
The will to remove someone.
Getting over it.
Don't look at them and they will disappear.
What if they reappear?
What if that person or memory reared it's head in front of you.
That person or memory could loom up and terrify you, send you into shock.
Why would it return? Like a monster/beast.

(different to)
Recurring memory.
Someone keeps recurring.
The same situation.
Nothing changes.
Like an addiction.
Self destructive.

Very happy memories.

Does anyone here like rare and unusual football shirts, both european and british based?

I do. In fact, I sell them on ebay. If interested, let me know. I'd be interested in swapping/selling/buying.

Is advertising one's wares, terribly immoral and against the spirit of the blog?

We'll see.

More poetry to follow.....

Storms remind me of her
Pixies remind me of her
Alice Cooper reminds me of her
Walkley reminds me of her
The park reminds me of her
Kundera reminds me of her
Guitars remind me of her

Only when I'm rid of these things will I be rid of her.

Today, I have been to my therapist. My therapist. He takes care of me.

I need to record some of the things we said, lest they are committed to the gloom of forgetfulness.

Key things he said:

'you can't let go.'
'You dismiss everything, sarcastically.'
'you need to try and recover more memories from pre-adolescence.'
'you don't become a warrior overnight.'
'You liked vehicles a lot as a child.'

I talked a lot about my parents. (my therapist likes this.) I admitted that I hate them for being a let down. He said I believe in primeval myths - which i thought was annoying as it means I 'm stuck as a 4 year old.

He played a game with me at the beginning. I was early and he asked me to wait a couple of minutes. I waited 7 minutes and he said I was now late and would not get the time back. I argued my case, that he had been flexible in the past about beginnings and endings of the session. He asked me what I was doing. I said I was fighting my case. I could not win though. I am annoyed. I should demmand my time back. But I won't. I did not win.

I can learn though.

I talked about how I hated my dad for being an ignoramous and asking me stupid question. I said that I often attacked my mum with sniping comments. He asked, why do I go back? Do I realise I have a choice?

I said I know I have a choice, but I don't believe I have a choice. I can't let go of anything. I want to go back and make things better. I can't cope with broken relationships. I want to go back and fix them.

My therapist seems to think that I need to delve into my memories to get a clearer understanding of this. I don't know if this will help. I'm thinking I just need to train myself to be nice and accepting.

Last night I went out drinking with pals and spent lots of time chatting to some gays. Then I thought about how I might like some cock. But only briefly.

Idea for a story about love:

feeling too much being a dichotmous idea where lust becomes over complicated with love. Feeeeeling too much being initially, a lusty, rampaging rumage over another person's body. This leads the luster to fall hopelessly and painfully in love. Confusion reigns over the distinction between lust and love. aaaah.

After three months of being apart, I couldn't take it anymore and decided to go to her. I had been uncertain, and because I was uncertain I couldn't bare to take the risk. The risk of not knowing how good it could be hurt too much now. I couldn't move on in any direction without her.

I had grand plans. When I thought I wanted to be without her, I thought what I needed was independence and freedom. I thought that I must learn to grasp life for myself and not keep looking to others to provide inspiration and direction for me. Then I realised people will always be there, as will my memories, friends and family, all influencing and suggesting. It's up to me to make my way amongst that considering I like them and don't want to lose them ultimately.

I can never sever myself completely, although this did feel like a kind of dream. Total independence. The dream of independence is an ideal view I have where I am a very different person, taking action, making things happen, being dissident, being deviant. Being Jean Genet. These are the characters I admire. I find it hard to accept I am just who I am. Lazy, disinterested, avoiding the issue, letting life fly by. One has to retrain oneself, but it is tiresome.

So, I am left with two desires. I always seem to be able to pair my problems. I have a desire to go to her and start again, and I have a desire to flee in a reach for independence.

To be with her, I would move to London now. I would get a temp job, while applying for work experience and internships with publishing companies. I would try and get involved with creative stuff, write a poem. While doing this, I would work out how to make it happen. My fear is that she would say no. If she said no, I would up my passion and give her an offer of commitment she could not refuse. We would see each other after work and kiss. It would be delightful. Then we could go away at weekends and be romantic. I would listen to things she said and we would spar with ideas. We would become publishers and go to Prague together.

But she will be angry. I will say I can't stop thinking about her. she will say, yes you can. You have a choice. My pals will say I'm crazy. I will agree. I will then be alone in London.

The question is, how do you cope when you are alone? The idea of being in London without her is awful. Even if I have a career in publishing. The idea of being in Sheffield without her is horrible too. But at least I have friends and 5-aside football teams to take my mind off it.

Being unable to cope on my own is the real fear. If I went there I would be very dependent on her.

Blogging is disgusting. I feel like a pervert, looking at strangers. You are all perverts aswell, looking at me. Reading is for perverts. Sitting, looking, at your own illicit leisure. To me, you are all potential lovers. I fantasise about who you could be. You could be the one I've been hoping for. This fantasy makes me feel ashamed and wrong. Here is me in type. Come and satiate yourselves. Afteral, I am still here. I am addicted to deviance.

Yummy Yummy Yummy Yummy Yum Yum, protect me from the restaurants.

Writing about the blog was never the aim. But it was always going to be an issue. The blog was initially setup as a space I could collect ideas at work (seeing as I fear the shared work network for storing my writing and I can't get on email.)

But context is everything and now I am in the blog world I am thinking about the audience. I have a choice about making things public or not. Initially I was thinking just to be private and hidden, not to get involved in the public nature of it all. It is a choice. But, deep down I have a need to test my ideas with the people.

I'm asking myself some questions:
How much do people like making themselves public? (I'm thinking that bloggers love it)
How do they chose what to keep private/public?
How many indulge in this kind of questioning on their blogs?
How many came here initially to exorcise their pain - a kind of therapy, to narrativise their misery in an attempt to cleanse and move on? (Hello, my name's *. I'm looking to gain something from blogging.)

The blog has defeated the process. The blog has routed me in a a squalid pool of questioning. I am not 'taking action.' The action to be took was one of progressive new fiction and prose to spew forth from my type-board. I can't blame the blog though. I have a choice. This was my choice. This was my choice. (This must have been thought and written 5 years ago.)

Learnings and discoveries:
The blog has manipulated what I say.
Maybe this is Ok.

I'm beginning a blog. Will use it to collect things I write. Intrigued about the whole process, like the way I can keep editing what I thought was done. Am going to post some prose to practice having it public. How does it feel to have your prose public? It's a step.