Written Communications

I went to see Taxi Driver, a 35th anniversary showing. It hadn’t been planned. I had met a girl; I was lonely and we happened upon the cinema. A couple had ducked out during the trailers and the cashier had said we could have their tickets free of charge. Rows of red felt chairs stretched toward the screen. Every two seats a little wooden sideboard.

I was not very taken with the girl. Our eyes first made contact on the tube; a beautiful impression. She smiled and left the tube at my stop. I hurried away, but she lingered in my thoughts. I planned the next day to catch the same train, the 10am from South Ken. I got on and walked down; smiling to see her sitting in what could have been the same carriage. I waited for her to spot me. When she did I smiled and gave a little wave. As we left the train I got her number.

I’m looking for a girl. She should not be vacuous, obsessed with social media and she preferably has a great taste in music, gamer a plus. She’d be a talented pianist who composed beautiful melodies for me to put my words to, and together we’d form a successful duet. I’d sing…
God, I want a girl. Someone to cuddle and kiss, someone to arouse me, to undress me, caress me, give me pleasure, love me for simply being. But that’s not how it goes. Achievement is what is loved; the skills and abilities you hold are what are loved, the actions that take you towards whatever and wherever that person deems admirable, that is when the love will flow from them to you. You earn love like money, you collect it and save it until it appreciates so much that you become more than

human in a lover’s eyes. They need you unlike they need most people because a shade of their heart has fallen into yours and now your heart beats for two.

However, this currency of love can also be spent. You pay it back to your partner when you are selfish or cruel, in exchange for their tolerance, and when it is all returned, an empty equilibrium is achieved, you descend from the heights of their esteem to become as important to them as the stranger you once were.

So action is needed, or else there is nothing to give in exchange for love,and you won’t be loved, only alone, or as close as makes no difference.

The spectre of loneliness is kept at bay by the telephone chime, so I keep Michaela on a cold hook, baiting her with false hope whenever she swims away. As I wrote earlier, I am looking for an angel with blowjob lips and she doesn’t fit the bill. She’s only human.

This is the first thing of length that I’ve written in a while that has kept me hooked. There’s a certain openness and freedom in it. I can write whatever I damned well please. I can put it down and take it up in a year’s time, and I’ll only ever need to add another communication.

I started therapy today, get my mind straight, find a way to make the hurricane cease to fray. Round and round I go, contemplating the angle of my knee to my body and how that is what matters most, as they bare their pearls.

If I had a switch to turn on the tears I’d flip it now. I’m backed up, up against a wall, smoke-like figures looming.

The city is a trap. The only thing is, I’m trapped in here with everyone I hold dear to me; and everything that I rely on to give me meaning. I’m painted in highly defined colours, true red and black, I’ve been named one hundred times over, by one hundred smiling faces.

A wooden house, in a clearing, surrounded by trees, in a forest, in the pages of a book, there’s a world where for a one off fee, you are beholden to no one. You get the keys to a little snow globe kingdom. You step in, close the door and bombs could fall, but you are not where they fall, you’re in another place. You’re flying now. The trees are made of dreams and the house erected by thoughts. Reality is where you fly to, unchained by earthly things. The world we live in is only one of an infinite number of places, you need not settle for a corner of it.

I’m not here anymore. I’m falling through a swirl of primary colours, a paint pot, falling, falling… I open my eyes and the colours take forms indescribable. I become the colours and twist and, and…. That fucking alarm clock! Fuck…. am I even hearing it anymore or is it only an imaginary echo, taunting me?

Confusion. Doubt. Pride. Depression because of doubt. Prentention? Doubt. Doubt. Fear. Confusion. Loneliness. Scorn. Doubt. Doubt. Doubt on doubt. Imagination. Doubt. Flicker. Doubt. Pretention. Doubt… Doubt…

Air holds no doubt, sunshine holds no doubt. I bet plants hold no doubt, perhaps expressed in a reluctant bloom? Where does doubt come from? Babies can’t have doubt, can they? They have nothing to doubt, as they have no previous memory or experience to tell them otherwise, or the ability to conceptualise doubt.

Doubt’s a funny thing. Well, not funny, just, there, hanging like damp washing.

On and off, when thinking about the meaning of those words, in the sense of turning on and off introspective thoughts, it’s funny. When I’m ‘on’, the thoughts are dancing and pirouetting in my mind, as if a coin has kicked an old toy into life. But then, by turning these thoughts on, suddenly I’m off, as if there is only power enough for my inner self or my outer self to function at any one time.

The spires of my castle are empty and tall. Some of the huge blocks which make up the base are dense as lead and will not budge. Sometimes I look up and see a spire, but it’s only really a cloud, as I can see it begin to shift and dissolve under the sun. The sun has no doubt. I do.

The china sits depressed, stacked as if ready to be boxed, taken by a driverless truck into the horizon. The china’s sad, even more so than the candle. It sits pretty, waiting like an immobilised servant, smile spread, never complaining. I feel sorry for that china. At least the candle is lit occasionally. The china is born to be used, or maybe it isn’t. Why make a plate or a teacup and never eat or drink from them? Why make them to then leave them there, sitting pretty with a sad smile?

We, as in humans, are the master manipulators of the world around us. First we create a society and then that comes alive as it perpetuates itself. We have manipulated ourselves and future generations without knowing it…? Yeah right.

The only way to break free is with the mind. If I give you a world outside your own, and you allow it entry into your… A mind is like a computer, my story is like a compact disk. You slip the story into your mind and the story comes alive on your monitor. The way that your mind visualises the story is the way that you manipulate blah///

Does a writer have an extra muscle? Beat.

Scabs peel to reveal, congealed like jam, what I am under the surface, blood red nervous un-impervious flesh. Soft as fudge, the soft fudge, that crumbles like dry cake, sweet mud slide. Every day I fade away, who I was who I am, replaced every day. Annoyance. Fuck it.

What does it mean if I look at snapshots of our past? If I dream about your face, have I lost something? Have I gained something? Have I gained something through losing something? I lost you and found freedom. But that freedom was forced upon me. More like exile.

Are we selfish. Yes. No. I’m bored of our self-involvement. My self-involvement. God damn I need another plane. I need a new space, flat, curved, bulbous. I need another feel, another touch, another another. I need something completely different. I need my own place to walk into, where I know that no one has ever experienced what is inside that space. I need a world, but not a spherical globe like earth or any other planet. I need a squark. It is as thin as tissue, and juts in seemingly random places, as if someone had laid a silk handkerchief over a porcupine’s spines. You think about where to travel to, to travel, like teleportation. Then when you arrive at the patch you desire, you sink through the squark into a disorientating storm of light. These orbs of light pass through you at incredible speeds, but the nature of this place means that you acknowledge each one in a way which is easily done, meaning that in a matter of seconds you have found the orb with which you wish to scramble. Scrambling is done via the meshing of light and presence to form a flash, a crack and a disappearance of both presence and orb.

The orb that you have chosen represents a state of being which you wished to inhabit. You do not squark with a specific intention of being in a particular state, as only the orbs which pass through you are able to be scrambled with, and an orb you scrambled with last week, might never pass through you again, or may pass within a millimetre of your left earlobe and not be noticed.

There are no places, only states of being. You begin by feeling as if you are being passed through a television screen, think white noise and static electricity. You gain the ability to consider the squark, then you automatically come to a decision about where to delve through the squark fabric. You then are subjected to the light shower, and you latch onto an orb and scramble with it. Then you inhabit the state of being which the orb enables you to inhabit.

One being-state which I inhabited was one of flash symmetrium. I experienced the exact feeling that another presence felt at the time briefly after having scrambled with another light-orb, meaning, in a way, that some orbs have twins.

Another being-state I experienced was…

It’s of no use I’m struggling to understand whether it’s impossible to imagine something not of this universe. Something not derived from anything known. I think not. How sad.

I’m watching television, there’s this young boy standing, hands by his sides, freshly scolded by his parents. He knocked over a glass. He looks so sad, I want to hold him, comfort him, because no one else is doing so. He looks so lost, like a little tadpole spawned to a tumultuous ocean.

How can he be punished for knowing nothing, for being the smallest of lights, bouncing without reason against life’s windowpane. No one can fully explain this. That little sad boy, before my eyes, is the truest personification of the enormity of this, the depth of this, the loneliness of this.

There is so much that is good, and so much bad.

So much whirring in my head, around my body, my hands shake. I’m searching for the words to describe this; this feeling of emptiness, balanced by that of complete inescapable presence. Oh wait, there is a way out, yes, but it must never be taken; only understood.

What an arsehole. Fuck him. Fuck what I see in you, fuck what I see in me. I spit in your face. Compassion rots. Fuck all that you lack.

It’s not your fault, it is and it isn’t. What’s the point in trying to form a philosophy when every belief can be contradicted?

Is this substantial, will it slice and toast, carry my jam faithfully?

Ladies and gentlemen, my heart on my sleeve, little boy lost. Need to leave home, need to break free, from this warm cocoon of family. Need to break free from these loving arms that feed me. Need to go forth, from a porch that keeps me warm. Need to leave, need to breathe unfiltered air, given to me removed of impurity. Jokes aside, I want it all, the sex, the sanity, the body. My mind is on the fritz, blocked by clogging bits, I have, at least I think I do, so much to give.

I write for you, you know. I want you to love me, by the way I tap my keys, by the way I talk to you, through your hands, moving pages. What can I show you here? Oh god, everything. Enough to make you silent for years, enough to reduce you to tears, but I want more. Open the door, It’s a push, not a pull.

It’s this; it has no direction. Move on!