October 23

An so with the darkness knocking at the door patiently waiting for the inevitability of winter letting it in, we pass into this month of stoic routine preparing for the quiet nut not quiet yet. In keeping with this spirit I will keep working on the old male nude and the amoral twist to the fable.

When I hit the pavement I wanted to roll over onto my back and stay there, then I panicked that my trousers were torn at the knee, my knee hurt, as did my elbow. But I got straight back on the scooter. For the rest of the journey I thought about what I should say, that I had a fall? Am I of that age that I had a fall? But no several hours later I was certain I had taken a tumble which is fitting for my age.

There will be a bunch of nude figures, all naked self portraits but not posed by the self instead posed strictly to the rules set in an arbitrary and unseen manner within a structure laid out by art history, for example a random number of art works from the entrance to the national gallery. I wonder.

Check out this glass, if it is half full then does that mean I am happier with my glass, or does it mean I might be a little wasteful as I am prone to overestimating. And if the glass is half empty, am I reflecting on the time I have spent drinking from the glass, this is it really a reflection on my past. I am probably a half person, wishing I knew what fullness feels like.

The moment I saw them my heart dropped, but then I thought why not just chat. Why not complement them on what they are doing and say to them there is no reason I don't believe, it is just I have no faith. When I was in their congregation I pretended to believe, but I always knew it was a pretence. But they couldn't understand, because they do believe they think there must be a reason why I don't. A blockage that if they could clear it then I would. But the truth is simply put: I don't believe. I am certain there is magic and there are gods but I don't know them.

Islands in the sun, and man is not an island, is man still not an island if he island is in the sun? I have got stuck in another dragnet where I don't have the energy to fight for a change, don't have the energy to seek out something new, or to hmchange something. Or, you know, just no energy.

The good, the bad, and the resting when all is done. Resting and recovering, and waiting for these tired muscles weighed down by memory, and these joints twinging with portents of paying to come, tomorrow, oh, tomorrow. Things will be so much worse tomorrow.

Difficult, they praised the story but the only word that came to my mind was difficult. A few more maybe could include confusing, obtuse, vague. I guess it was meant to give me a feeling of something but the only feeling I had was I am not clever enough to get whatever it is trying to say. So I left it. The first thing I thing a novel has to have is a good story. Anything more comes after that.

There are times when it is good to listen. It started with a little enthusiasm, nothing extraordinary, nothing more that, just, oh yes, what a fabulous idea, let's meet up there. Then there was a nice but pricey drink to warm up the happiness motor. Then there was the extraordinary day to which I listened attentively and interactively. Bliss.

And when the listening is done it is time to talk. Time to talk, the words written in bold, no, in glowing lights, a sign above the door when entering. But without that gift of small talk, the kind that makes all feel heard, without that gift, to talk meens wanting to say something and you are not even sure you want to have something to say.

He looked at his foot, a misstep. Momentarily the wrong place to set his foot, the ground was soft, the sludge creeping up. He was about to step back when he heard the cackle behind him. Those crows. He wondered if he could pull his foot back without them noticing. He thought maybe they weren't even watching him this time. But he couldn't risk it. He stepped forward, squelch. He pretended this was what his plan had been all along. Bloody crows.

Perhaps I would enjoy the life of a nomad, tavelling from place to place in my cycle-powered tiny caravan. I would like to have a few items of clothing. They can be simple clothes, no one needs intelligent clothes. And watercolour paints, ink and a few pens. And washing things. And eating things. But maybe all I will eat is noodles and cans of nuts. And a mattress and a sleeping bag. And a pillow. What else do I need, I sulfation, maybe. Nothing more. Lovely. And a tablet, or a smart phone.

Taken for granted, first do the hard work then make the flashy riffs delight the crowd (I wonder what it would be like to play a flashy riff with or without a crowd). That was the way I thought the match went, the favourites didn't respect their opponents enough, but their opponents had worked hard to find the weaknesses, the small areas in which they could take the lead. And led they did. Throughout. And even though I favoured the favourite, they lost.

Norman, what a strange name for an Italian, but there it is. I am a little in love with Norman. Today was the third time I met him, a smile here a chit chat there, him confirming my name, perfectly average for where I come from. But then today, on our third meeting I heard him talk to a unhappy person and the ease and assurity in which he resolved their issue was amazing, even though it was nothing to do with his work.

Impending doom is one of the most common of the dooms found in this civil society. See how the workers looked to the clear blue sky with a frown wrinkling their foreheads because of impending doom. See how the bosses stare agitatedly out the windows of the tenth story offices because of impending doom. And see how the little boy plays with his sticks and his toys blissfully unaware of impending doom. He will be the first to go, or the last, perhaps, it depends on which type of story this one is.

Normal, what a strange name for an Italian, but there it is. I am a little in love with Normal. It was nothing to do with the nudity or indeed his bigdick. It was nothing to do with the topless dancing women performing the techno funeral march. It was all about the smile, a little quirky upturned corner of a smiling face. And a look that say, I know shit. Oh yes

I have reached a state of drastic unpreparedness. I am not sure how to do an about face in this situation. I am not sure what rabbits I can start looking for but I am going to have to do something because when everyone is looking at the hat wondering if it is only a hat they damnwell best be wrong, bitches.

He had not been thinking about it, that is the key to magic, it has to be spontaneous. Sure he had idly fantasised about her, they all had, he was sure of that. Then when he said something about how dirty it was in the store and made to pull off his nice cardigan and for a tiny awkward moment his shirt had risen over his head and he had, again without a thought, hummed the tune it's getting hot in here... and she had stripped off her blouse too. Fine then, he said as he dropped his slacks. And she said this is just to keep my good clothes good as she dropped down her chiffon skirt. And that was how they did the stock count, him in his boxers and her naked as a newborn, for she was of that age that didn't believe in unders. And he tried not to look at her too much, sternly working until he could control himself no longer and he burst out laughing saying: how am I ever going to tell anyone about this ever, they'll think it just a fantasy. And she said fine then, don't tell anyone. And he looked her fine young figure up and down and said they'll believe me if you teased all the old men like this. And she said: then I'd better not, had I.

So here is the thing, turning the tide is done with a stone of unimaginable size. It is not something that you or I could do, I don't know which gods, even, would have a shot at it. The thing I need to turn is much smaller than the tide and merely requires a little application and a consistent sight on the target. But the target blurs and I don't know if it is my eyes that are getting old, or if all these years I have been playing the wrong game.

Wrapped up in my own troubles, wrapped so tight in my own troubles I can barely see further than the trouble for more than a moment. The irony is in that moment I have a clear recognition that my troubles are pointless, meaningless, of no consequence. In that moment I understand all I should do is pursue my own happiness, after all happiness is something that anyone can achieve.

The explosion sounded like a pop, a sudden, sharp sound but it was not substantial. It was a silly sound to begin the massive cloud that enveloped the car. And by the damsel emerged with her working clothes not knowing what was happening, she was a doctor not a mechanic. And he, the passerby, was of little help. All he could do was say to her she was not going to get yo work that day. Not on time, anyway.

Sometimes the journey is as important as the destination, in life it is good to enjoy working not just resting. And sometimes the struggle is only made bearable by the success. This was my day: most of the day was struggling against the shower that did not want fixing and all through I wonder what is the point, well the point is a clean shower.

When telling a story is is best to be brought in hand in hand of an accessible character. And the character, usually the protagonist, leads us through the story, but usually the protagonist is the story. Is the story just a folly, just a distraction, and are the greatest stories, the ones that change the world, shape humanity, are they just follies or distractions that were in the right place at the right time

Recovery, each time the fabric it streatched it becomes a little weaker, oh so slightly so it takes many streatches for it to become frayed. And so it is with my body, all those things are harder to recover. Smoking first. Then drinking. Then junk food. Then sugars and refined food. Oh, if there is one thing I miss it is recovery, and, of course, the sense of endless possibilities.

Click clack whack-it-i-whack, watched the rugby and it was intense. A bit boring and none of the bits that made me feel these young men are doing things I could never dream of. Of course they were doing things I could never dream of, one tackle or a glancing blow andninwould be out for the week. What I mean was when it is important it is not exciting, it doesn't have to be.

And so coming to the end of this little period, with Halloween a day away, and again it is a time of little achievement. But that is how it has always been, I have always had great expectations but in terms of delivery, I have only on occasion managed to deliver when the format has been clearly defined. Oh that I should be able to achieve our side the box.

Time to meet John, it was written on the paper but she didn't know who John is. So she said, ok, and just a moment please. And she came across to me. Who is John? I don't know. Neither do I, why you asking me. As there is meet John on the piece of paper. Well, I didn't write it he must have, he must be trying to confuse us, like a chunk of text without paragraphing confuses. It is all true but none is true. At the same time. Yes, isn't it strange what difference a paragraph makes. Well, let's ask who could help him if John wasn't available. Yes, life is a practical matter

Your call is important to us please hold. But it is not just the call, it is so much more than the call, it is life. My life was on hold today, for sure. My life seems to have been on hold other than a few moments, job applications mostly, and there have been periods when I have thought I would amount to something more than I have. Times when I thought I had meaning, but that hasn't turned out to be true. But I haven't given up, yet.

Wobbling, perhaps even stumbling into this new year, without much of a plan other than an idea of trudging along hoping the bad is bottoming out and the good still has a fair way to climb. It is a balance, not so? It is always a balancing trick.

Fitting for my age
When I hit the pavement I wanted to roll over onto my back and stay there, then I...

Random art
There will be a bunch of nude figures, all naked self portraits but not posed by the self...

Half a glass
Check out this glass, if it is half full then does that mean I am happier with my glass,...

Not mine to know
The moment I saw them my heart dropped, but then I thought why not just chat. Why...

Islaners
Islands in the sun, and man is not an island, is man still not an island if he island is...

On feeling weary
The good, the bad, and the resting when all is done. Resting and recovering, and...

After that
Difficult, they praised the story but the only word that came to my mind was...

Listening
There are times when it is good to listen. It started with a little enthusiasm,...

Talking
And when the listening is done it is time to talk. Time to talk, the words written...

Those crows
He looked at his foot, a misstep. Momentarily the wrong place to set his foot, the...

Once lost
Taken for granted, first do the hard work then make the flashy riffs delight the crowd (I...

Wanderer
Perhaps I would enjoy the life of a nomad, tavelling from place to place in my...