April Showers

Listening to Bruce Springstein and wondering if it might make me depressed? It's been a really nice day today and then the mizzle started around seven in the evening. I had fallen asleep at Brendan's after having had a few tokes on a joint, pretty lame really. Before I started listening to Bruce, I'd been thinking about how things are suppose to define you and about struggle. What am I struggling for, why is that some people just refuse to roll over accept what they've been given? or other don't even bother to do anything about what it is that we are suppose to strive for? if that is we are intended to strive........

It's a bit of a cliche, I'm struggling for freedom, for freedom of being and freedom of purpose. I think that's true. Finally I'm drop kicking that shitty boring plywood box that we are all in into touch. The shackles are coming of and I'm just not getting back in. It's gone forgotten about another life. How did so many other end up sold out and second rate. It's hard making your own choice carving out your own path and setting your own agenda. Life is like being confronted with a huge chunk of marble that looks pure and perfect when you started and then as you start to work it, the flaws become apparent and you either work with them and they become integral or you try to avoid them plough on through until the marble shatters. The marble shatters. What happens to the fragments, what can be rebuilt with what is completely broken. So here we are. Here I am.

I'm really glad that I live, in Falmouth and particularly Penryn. The people here are so inspiring. Many of them dare to be things that arn't even contrived there so far off the edge they are beyond recompense.

The radio show has been good and it's really helping me with output, output, output. I'm understanding that my brain is so cram packed full of information that output is the only way forward and until I've tipped enough out of the full glass that is my psyche, not much else is going to get in there. Culture it's an interesting thing, I would like to be plugged in to contemporary culture but my brain is just to full. No that isn't true. I recognise that once I was a consumer of culture and now I am slowly becoming a producer of culture, or to put it better becoming creative. I wonder if the last twenty-eight years or so have quite simply been research for what it is that I meant to be doing. I know I have a drive motivation at the moment unlike any other. I want to get up in the mornings. For the first time in my life I find myself up ready and at the radio station before time rather than my usual ten minutes late and totally disinterested. I think it's the lack of control I like. I've had more jobs than I could ever care to mention that I got paid for, that I got paid good money for. None of them have spurred me on like unpaid projects I've taken on over the last few years.

Everyday I work to make something happen, something totally arbitrary and not on the plane of other people consciousness at all but for me nourishing. It's strange one. Dan from the 'Rosemarie Band' once told me he used to watch chocolate merchandisers rearrange all the sweets in the petrol garage to get there product the best position, apparently some of them were really into it. Who in primary school all of a sudden decides when I grow up I what to be a chocolate merchandiser? We can't all be astronauts, doctors an physicists, can we? It the white line though, living in Guildford that what really threw me the white lines of the motorway, the non-space, the non-journey, the non-experience. Hours of looped concrete, tail lights and sign posts out and off lost into the existence of the commuter traffic, that hasn't even summoned up a simple why? Only the occasional breakdown, to question a different experience. What if that was me, there on the side of the road? What if that was me there, with no mobile phone stuck on the side of the road? What if that was me there stuck at the side of the road with no mobile phone and it was raining? How would the altered reality of the pick up truck and the highway people effect them? What if they didn't turn up. That happened to me once.

So there it is existence, I live in a warren of existence. My brain is a warren of rabbit holes that lead nowhere and have a lot of dead ends and no connectivity with one another. Accept of course my experience. My weird altering experience, perspective and being. Changing, constantly changing and altering like the weather and yet we humans mistakenly try to look at live as a one dimensional experience or even only a physical experience. We are taught in school what it is to have five senses; sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste. We are not formally taught how it is to feel and to think. What does it feel like to be angry? What is happiness? We assume even of small children to understand or to take on board huge emotional landscapes that do not necessarily to apply to them. What if you're four and you've never been happy? Yet forced to read a sugar coated story book all about such things? Confused? Alienated? You will be.

Love after all is the greatest fallacy of this? Happily ever after? Somewhere out there it does exist, not for me but somewhere.

Who do I write these little spats for, mainly myself. What for output, output, output. Afton I will get round to your wedding I'll write something I promise I'll get all those photos on line too.