Monday 22nd March.
Category Archives: Drugs
Vale SRC. I’m gonna miss you hugely in some ways; in other ways not so much. I’ll certainly miss your Xmas parties. Or maybe I’ll just crash them.
The following was captured at Harrie & Atkins’ house, at some point quite far into the 17-odd hours’ worth of extended shenanigans.
Messy night; messy audio. But I like it.
I spent yesterday evening migrating to a new phone.
(I lost my iPhone in a taxi a few weeks ago. Deep down I wanted to lose it. It was cursed by association.)
I bought it again because I liked the first one a lot. It was the first phone I’d owned with a vaguely decent camera, a voice recorder, substantial storage capacity, and the ability to talk to my computer. I captured a lot of audio and took a lot of pictures with it, and posted a lot of both here.
Thems were happy, phoenix-from-the-ashes times. Could Has Art. It was great.
There was a lot of acid around then. Maybe that was a factor. Who knows.
(The whole record-some-audio-take-a-picture blogging formula continued, in a more standardized way, through the subsequent winter via the MacBook I got when my eMac died, around the same time that Wouters – sick of hearing me whine about nasty text messages from J that I didn’t want to read – killed the aforementioned old Nokia by dropping it in a glass of bourbon & coke.
Different era, more complex & difficult, but in its own way equally good.
Then – in a seasonally trend-bucking turn of events – everything went to shit when Spring hit, and life stopped. Couldn’t Has Art.)
The phone died, but its memory card survived.
Going through all of that old media last night was reeaal interesting.
I think it’s time for some psychedelics.
So there I was, attending an uncivilised picnic in the park on Royal Parade, having a perfectly nice time & minding my own and a select handful of other peoples’ business when who should call me completely out of nowhere on my – which is to say, someone else‘s – mobile telephony device but the J-meister.
We hadn’t spoken in the voice since November, when I drunkenly and unsolicitedly facilitated her and Henley‘s first ever verbal exchange. She’s been in the country three weeks, apparently. Now she & the H-Dogg were in my hood. And they wanted to hang.
The tone of her voice didn’t make me feel like something she’d just scraped off her shoe, which was nice. So, throwing caution to the wind as I am wont to do on occasion, I went.
We met at Alia. We talked. We danced. A good time was had. It seems like we’re all friends now. Which is totally what I wanted, although if you’d asked me twelve hours ago I’d have said this outcome seemed less likely than [insert comedy incredibly unlikely occurrence which in practice will never ever happen here]. They’re totally coming to my housewarming and shit.
I don’t know what else to say about all of this, but if ever something seemed blogworthy etc.
Hooray for drugs; hooray for Jebus.
Despite my cynicism regarding his religion(s), I am a fan of the man’s work. That cunt was liable for nothing.
Looking at old TF posts for the purposes of linking to them in more recent TF posts, I was struck by something: No fucker is commenting here any more. (Except Liv. And Li. And Wortwut. And the odd Neurocam random combing the archives.) (Gotta love those tenacious, cockroachlike Neurocam randoms.)
Where have you gone, beloved blog massive?
Do you not love me any more?
Is it because Lady J doesn’t love me any more?
That’s it, isn’t it.
It is. Don’t lie.
Actually, I don’t think that’s really it at all. It’s all about me. (It is always all about me.)
To get perhaps ill-advisedly personal for a moment (Li will enjoy this):
And I got lots of comments in those days. Because as we all know, if you love yourself – like, really, truly do – then everyone else will love you too. Everyone who matters, anyways.
LJ fell in love with me at around this time. And that was great. But then I think I became dependent on her loving me in order to love myself. So when she stopped, I kinda stopped as well. Et voila: blog comments? Thing of the past.
It’s more complex than that, naturally. But it’s One Way Of Looking At Things. Makes a lot of sense to me.
This is partly the reason people sing the blues when their partners leave them. It’s partly that you just desperately miss having them around, course; it’s partly the shattered dreams of future happiness; it’s partly the sense that all this time and energy expended on getting to know this person really, really well and them getting to know you really, really well, and building trust and constructing a shared identity and blah blah blah has all gone totally to waste. It’s partly because you feel like a part of your very soul has been ripped out, leaving a huge gaping hole in your psyche.
But it’s also significantly because you’ve forgotten how to love yourself without someone else to back you up on it.
That’s really, really bad though. You shouldn’t need anyone else to love you. And the more you do, the less they will.
Am I wrong, non-existent blog readers?
It’s one of those perverse inverse dynamics that The Universe is so fond of, for some sick twisted reason that I will never entirely understand [*] except maybe when I’m on nitrous oxide.
Ah, sweet nitrous oxide.
It will never leave me. Until they make it illegal.
(Why isn’t it illegal? It’s so good.)
[*] NB This is disingenuous; I do in fact understand perfectly. It’s because people are attracted to power and personal power derives from self-sufficiency. But for the purposes of allowing this post to form a nice, natural arc, I had to pretend to be stupider than I really am. Funny how that happens sometimes.
This afternoon a waifish aboriginal chick came up and asked me if I had any change. I said no, which was a lie but generally my policy in such situations.
She noticed I was wielding an unlit cigarette, and asked if I needed a light. Again, I said no (thanks). Which, conversely, I thought was true.
“You have a good day,” she said nicely, and continued on her way.
I fished into my pocket for the lighter I thought I had, and realised I didn’t actually have it.
So I chased after her and told her that I did, as it turned out, need a light after all.
“You looked like you didn’t have one,” she said with a quiet smile.
I gave her a dollar, and went to hand the lighter back.
“Nah, that’s okay,” she said. “I’ve got about six of them.”
Maybe you had to be there.
My only regret concerning this encounter, which totally rebrightened my day –
(Said day having turned, from promising beginnings, to shitty slit-yer-wrists shit when it became apparent that I’d probably irretrievably lost my bag, containing my camera and my visual diary, in a taxi yesterday.
Which would have been really bad, and totally fucking sucked.
Turns out I’d left it at
work the doodle palace. Phew.
But I digress.)
– was that I didn’t ask her if she could assist me in my ongoing quest for time machine fuel.
(Note to blog readers: TIME MACHINE FUEL IS SOUGHT.)
In other news: please excuse the rambling, discombobulated nature of this post.
Two and a half hours sleep, see.
I had to be up at six this morning to receive some people who came to strip the asbestos from my bathroom.
(Now the bathroom looks like this:
And I didn’t get to sleep until 3:30am, because some broad whose name I forget [*] was fucking hardcore with my head.
Although she denies doing it deliberately. And in any case, I’m really just fucking hardcore with my own head, and attributing said headfuckery to an external source.
Which is, ultimately, all that any of us are ever doing.
(It pays to remember this sometimes.)
I fully hardcore fall down go boom now.
[*] I think maybe her name is Audrey.
I remember, very early on in our acquaintance, suspecting that might be her name and addressing her as such.
“Who’s Audrey?” she replied, all blinking wide-eyed incomprehension. Although in fact she knew damn well exactly who Audrey was. And she knew damn well that I knew that she knew. And that I knew that she knew that I knew that she knew. And in general, things were Known. You know how it goes, hypothetical blog reader.
In hindsight I might have imagined the blinking wide eyes.
Anyroad, I was well smitten and from that point on there was no turning back.
But that’s a whole ‘nother story for a whole ‘nother time, if ever there was one.
The artist, gentleman & scholar formerly known as Semi/Dirty Kant/Rorschach gave me – perfectly – a time machine for my birthday.
I was touched. But I have not, as yet, been able to use it. Appropriate fuel is required, lest dire consequences etc:
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