Blues II

SO TYPICAL OF ME. To post up. Yesterday. The "story of my day" and yet leave it with the first paragraph running nowhere. So let me correct it. Basically I was trying to say that I'd just come out of that dreaded drugs clinic, having only been 13 minutes late (they've got a real thing about punctuality even though the staff are hardly sticklers themselves. But that's life.) I had been procrastinating after the bad-trip carnival of a crowd I had to put up with last week (schizophrenic guy with saw protruding from backpack who believes his old next door neighbour is his brother ~ and the woman with the arrest story and the cigarette demanding guy. Their memory is still so traumatically ... what? Traumatically irritating, I suppose. Of course years ago I'd have been all ears to talk like that. When it was new to me. Now I'm utterly bored by it. And it was hardly looking forward to returning to the same place to hear more of the same same same. But I forced myself in there. And the rest I did tell yesterday: about how disapointed I was to be told that I cannot, in fact, go straight into rehab the way they kind of implied I might be able to ... which makes sense of the pregnant pauses when I pointed out that upping my methadone and detoxing in rehab were hardly compatible strategies. Their fob-off to me was "well we'll worry about that later, shall we?" Ho-hum.

I slept for six hours yesterday afternoon. Came in here and posted at some time after 11:30 pm. Went back not thinking I'd sleep. I'm afraid I've not been online much but to post. Tried reading various books. Harold Robbins' The Dream Merchants has gone cold on me. He may as well have written a potted history of Hollywood and called it nonfiction, rather than the novel he came out with. Which I suppose is OK in its own way but just fails to grab me now ... I tried two more. Boris Pasternak's Dr Zhivago and Ken Follet's A Dangerous Fortune. The second (though hardly in the same league) is surprisingly easy to dip into (anywhere along the tale) and continue reading... If I were more pretentious I'd of course make out that Dr Zhivago was gonna be my first choice. Actually, you all know I'm going to pay my attention to Ken Follet first. And if that fails to grab me go on to Dr Zhivago ...

So I tried reading these books, swiftly fell asleep. And had a nightmarish (probably psychedelic flashback) of a dream where my consciousness was framed just as mirrors are framed. And reflecting reflections back, I could not for all my striving break out of these frames ... and cannot describe it any better than that, I'm afraid...

I woke up believing I was intoxicated on drugs. And was indeed very heavily dizzy. But this was more likely the mere drunkenness of disturbed sleep ...

And slept again; into dream #2. This ties in with what I said yesterday about rehab and the South Coast... I don't know what I was trying to do, gaining entry to this country from Dover. But rather than real customs officials at the port, the entire workings of this country had been taken over by criminals. We were all queueing up (for what? It was never quite clear.) I suspect we were lining up in these massive long lines for them to thief our baggage off us. So when I tried to escape, by flying (literally floating, as one so often can do in dreams) over the bordering scaffold and over the "customs" mens' heads ... I got spotted and fished down and caught... and was in some outdoor holding area when I eventually woke to find it ten past nine and time to get up and do things.

So that's my night and day.

As for today: all I will say so far is that I really ought to give my "neighbour" Laundretta a lovely big kitchen knife. So she can stab me in the back proper stylee. As she's so adept (not to mention practised) in doing it with her words ...

... And last but not least, continuing my Power Ballad theme, here's today's

Foreigner: I Wanna Know What Love Is ...