Outsource

The man who felt too much.
The story of the compulsive froteur who falls hopelessly in love with his many victims.

David Foster Wallace please.

Last night did something new. Went out with some new people. B and his renegade pals. I'd been promised a soiree. We stayed up late lacing our bodies with a variety of substances, walked around in Ecclesall Cemetery and climbed on a bus stop. I know it was fun but I don't remember many details. Most importantly I know why I was on top of the bus stop.

Tonight I am out again.

Trying to say things. Words and sentences are old tools for a close approximation.

I'm thinking a lot about time. The nature of being a nowist vs a futurist. I am not a futurist. I remain deliberatly naive about the future. Plans and schemes feel heavy, oppressive. I love the now. I love this moment I'm in. I love the moment. I'm looking out over Sheffield right now in the evening. I'm going out soon to see friends. The now is fine. But what do you want. There is a problem of being committed to the now and that's that you are unprepared. Totally unprepared.

There's a girl. I know if she crosses my path I'll be scrambled. Being in the now makes you very vulnerable. Like writing. If you live in the now of the sentence it lives its own weaving rambling arabesque and any sense of an over arching thesis is lost. And this is very unsatisfying for the reader. A concept of the future is invaluable. It means you won't put too much emphasis on the moment. Living for the moment means every instant is about seeking to optimise the body's pleasures and satisfactions out of fear. A kind of paranoid and fervid hunger.

With a concept of the future i can keep perspective, not put too much onus on the moment and take it as a small block in the building. Life is a sandcastle that is never finished. I need to keep moulding and sculpting and shaping with my vision in mind. Demand precise attention to detail. I may spend hours shaping the turrets.

Love is here. Good evening. The Thundo lickers. Our favourite band. OOooooooh, aaaaaaaah. I love the klaxons- to my shame. I just want to fight and dance and stand. The bass is kelting. The Klaxons are fantastic. Thank fuck for them. The blog.

Apologies perverts. Ogle over my luscious cock.

Knuckle Dust by Don Delillo

The men had gathered in the public house to relax and speak after work. They huddled close to the window and relaxed happily into conversation and drink. They were held in a place between mid-afternoon and evening and no-one had any desire to be anywhere else.

Nick sat at the heart of the group. "How was work?"
"Same old shit."

The same easy tones and reasurring phrases to mark their place in the week.

The fight broke out seemlessly and at once. The drunks set upon the drunks, pounded fists into faces and blood was exchanged on shirts. Shouts and bodies piled in and were scattered by affray. The old calls of 'leave it,' 'calm down'denied by squirming bodies and elbows.

The exchange collapses under its own weight, deflates under its own tension. Adrenaline only goes so long. The short quick outbust. The shots ring out. All moves happening too quickly. The spontanaeity of action preceding thought.

In the aftermath, men stood; onlookers outwaying the fighters made awkward by their numbers. The victorious party scarpers, ambling away indulgently. The other human remains, standing defiantly.

The crowd murmers to itslef and is aware of its need to act. Is he ok. What should we do. What wankers. Do you think we should stay. Where is X. I saw it all. They just went at him. And history begins to take shape. Friends cross-examine each other to confirm what they have seen. Interpreters of what they have seen.

He said he had a knuclke duster. They were just looking for an excuse. He's the kind of guy who would though, I know him. I know him. I knew those guys were trouble.

And as the witnesses spill away, the highlight of their evening is retold and retold. To friends, we saw a fight in the dog and penguin earlier. Really what happened. He threw a punch. There was blood. The police were involved. I've got blood on my jeans. New details eke out. The story comes to rest.

The people who spoke at length.

Spare Parts.

Low impact.

The therapist. Bought intimacy. Pseudo intimate relationship. Therapee getting great sense of connection. The other no personal investment. Satisfatction bought.

"I'm always here if you need me," she said. "That's the problem," I said. The problem comes from the need to conquer intimacty. Intimacy is an illness and a need.

The difference is I don't want to fuck my therapist. I don't crave his fit ass.

Vision/Wants
I don't want to be here.
By not being here all my problems will be solved.