On Some Forgotten Day ... Extracts from Scribblings ...

3:30am ON SOME FORGOTTEN DAY:- GAAH! AWAKE. Oh - before I forget: this is the label nutnut doctors slap on some naughty children: oppositional-defiant! Yeah. Horrible little brats in other words.

O what am I doing what am I doing? Clutching at straws. Straws snapping off in my hands. I have handfuls of straw not.

I have been bingeing. On food. (Pasta.) And chocolate milkshake. Milk is cold. The nights and days are hot. Milk's good for teeth. That is my reasoning!

Aaargh! What am I going to do? I am so desperatly looking for a crutch of some kind. Why, having lived without outside distractions of any kind, at some points (no TV, no books; just the background radio chirping), am I insisting such distractions might somehow help me? What am I going to do? Distract my whole life away? Well isn't that what most ordinary people do? With their jobs, with their families and relationships, with their TV, computers, CD collection, exotic getaways?

Is my animals blog really boring?

Am I ever going to relinquish my grip on heroin? Let alone shake myself out of its grip on me ..??..

This is what I hate about hot weather: it makes life into a nasty, hazy, flickering consciousness that makes me uncertain. It is not nice. As Slaghammer of Texas pointed out: it's the drinking and drugging that makes the heat intolerable.

Before I became a living, breathing sponge for opiates I never sweated so heavily ever ... unless I was ill. Before I got junkified I was fine with summertime.

Sometimes I hate the countryside.

Once I went on a bikeride outside Norwich. The landscapes there are flat. I ound myself exhausted, stuck on a wide, quiet road with a slight incline. Fields of cabbages stretched out on all sides. And in the background, curtaining this reality in all directions were lines of trees. It was like being stuck in a painting by Van Gough. How the world glistered and flashed and shimmered, sparkled and dreamed. Every now and then a car would come rocketting past with a swoosh - cutting this picture-world in half.

How I wished I could crumple this picture in a ball, like such a bad drawing, and chuck it in the trash ...

SUNDAY. I do apologize for letting Barbra Steisand and a poodle and a chinchilla stay up for three dreadful days.

Reason? No computer time. No money to replenish it.

Tomorrow (ie today, but I never got round to tapping this then) I'll be able to update: also respond to comments. Today I literally have a mere 2 mins left to type and go.

OK ... I would have been off to Mother Hubbs' for Sunday lunch at this point had all gone nicely, but it didn't. I didn't feel right. I don't think Mother H was right. I stayed away, having slept through till 4 in the afternoon... five... six o'clock; nudging evening now ... Got up. Sat down again. Still I was sleeping by three and dragged myself up at nine a.m. ... What's wrong with me? Nobody can tell. I just don't wanna have to answer for it. My inconveniences to me become great big deals to others when it's their sleep that's interrupting. Yet those dismissive doctors over the years never have been there to feel the distress ...

SATURDAY NIGHT NOT SLEEPY. No. Streetlife. No nightlife. The local pub is closed already, which means it is late-late. Past midnight; into Sunday now. And now when I've no computer credit of course I've so much to say to specific online friends ...

I feel I have been very remiss in commenting on the blogs I used to go to all the time. And I haven't fallen out of affection. Not at all. It just feels like life has passed me on to different tracks. Like the image of teh runaway train I used to use to describe my life, I fel I have no control And I've realized that haplessly collecting a random CD selection is not going to do it for me. Even though some do have strong pre-drugs associations ...

And there I talked my way through my meagre music collection ...

But I gotta go meet a friend in town now ...

Cheerio and L8Rs

Gleds ...