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barely left house during bank holiday weekend, but it wasn't as productive as i'd have liked. have started next short story collection in earnest, and it's shaping up ok. also getting used to being the zombie overlord of webzine write collective project, but it's too early to say how closely glorious minions will obey.
illness largely departed, though there's a vestigial cough racking me unawares. but no fatal flaw. i bought a book on notable bohemians yesterday. maybe i can rock the consumptive look or something.
the ever-circling rivers of paranoia round my heart having been swollen to bursting by last month's disastrous second (11:20-12:00) set, i've painstakingly constructed what i hope will be a foolproof dancefloor assault. if i am wrong, i shall kill myself at 12:01.
the other, most important thing i've been wasting my time on is synopses for the next two plays i'm considering writing this summer, once i've put second draft of film and story collection to bed. also: a twelve-page primer of previous unperformed extracts from the four full-length plays so far. gonna mail them to theatres with a painfully-honest, sincere letter confessing how lost i am at this point. fingers crossed someone will at least point me in some direction. all i need is some encouragement every couple of years. i can eke out compliments pretty well, and insults (at this point at least) are spurs, wounds to revenge.
i probably shd have taken at least one day off. it makes me feel better, it's healthier. to be honest, the first two days most of my time was spent staring blankly at monitor - light scalding tired eyes - or lying on back hating myself for lying on my back hating myself. there's just so much to do right now. i sleepwalk from one task to another, no enthusiasm, much as if i'm playing a kind of lifestyle tetris with endless artistic chores for the spaces in schedule. but, whatever, slow progress is my curse and my reward. i'm not ripe for burial just yet.
strange to have actual bodily sensations to report rather than the usual metaphysical mini-seizures. thought i was over it saturday, even managed a couple of optimistic hours at 'l'amour electronique' (drinks consumed: one, length of time taken to consume said drink: two hours).
sunday i awoke with visit from mucus fairy, who'd clearly been toboganning huskified slugs through my respiratory system for much of my sleepytime. energy levels drooped to melodramatic levels - own body so heavy, uncooperative. also: bone-cold, accessorized with shivers. alternating with long feverish fully-clothed sleep episodes, natch. made lonesome pilgrimage to supermarket, moped round aisles and bought really strange things i don't usually eat - suddenly craving savoury rice?
today, better. until i tried to speak to other human beings, when my voice rasped and i performed choleric arias that riff interminably, aching the side of my throat so that i end each blast with an involutary 'ow'. also: i make exertion noises when completing simple tasks. it is pathetic. for lunch, i cdn't quite finish a bowl of chicken and mushroom soup, for dinner i stalled on the last couple of potato wedges (i managed, like, three forkfuls of fucking savoury rice). cdn't manage work, thought it might set me back to stagger to workstation like a cheerful, masochistic plague victim (now with added *team spirit*).
my room grows increasingly disordered. the idea of tidying it seems impossibly decadent. at least today i manged to get hold of some new music for the club, and have been making serious inroads on michael billington's biography of harold pinter - when my atomized attention span allows it. bah.
i am secretly tending a conviction that tomorrow i shall have lost my voice. if so, i shall come here and offload the most venomous string of expletives this side of the infamous volcano Mount Nasti, in japan.
my 20JazzFunk appearance will be remembered (by me) for every wrong reason. i cdn't split work shift, so had to lose day's pay, spent most of that time aimlessly flitting from room to room with no real purpose, became anxious i'd let them down, got behind schedule, wolfed down readymeal and spritzers, nauseous...
by the time i got to venue and had last minute panic of cd decks not accepting my obsessively programmed CD-Rs, nausea had been replaced by something less metaphysical. through my first set i was taking deep breaths and holding them. when it finished, made a trip to the bathroom and was sick, enormously, repeatedly. meanwhile, in the hall outside, behind the unlockable door i'm bracing with the sole of my foot, a bunch of guys are having heated argument and making definite plans to fuck each other up. bad scene all round.
feeling better in wake of act, i circulated amongst friends, but cdn't talk properly, preoccupied with the first stirrings of the next assault, getting tetchy at their genuine and appreciated concerns. didn't want to talk about it but cdn't concentrate on anything else. after my second set i was in there again, exploding from both ends now, felt like a resident evil end-of-level baddie. by now someone else has been sick in there, all over floor, fixtures, everything. i'm disgorging mouthfuls with the dried out consistency of meat paste. behind me the guys are all up in each others' faces.
i play one last batch of songs, too gone to hide it now, leave early, cdn't even wait till the end of my final track, made way home where i repeat the process again at hourly intervals thru the night. someitmes i manage forty minutes' unconsciousness, other times i half-watch jurassic simpsons episodes, incapable of even the tiniest motor movement, exhausted and empty.
the thing about momentum, though, is you lose it, even for an evening – as i did, last night – and suddenly you’re moving thru air with no visible means of support. and it’s a long way down. last night crawled beneath my covers and curled into a full stop. i had nightmares but i cdn’t get up.
almost feel like something happened, in my blind spot. the way cattle sense heavy weather. in other news, my comments seem to have momentarily winked out. blogger can be so buggy, but i guess it’s my own fault for not learning to do even the most basic of this stuff myself. anyway, they always return before too long, and its not as if they’re used for anything other than character assassination anyway.
stalled. maybe it’s just the end tail end of an energy supply. i shd eat something. there’s a lot to do today, don’t have luxury of bad mood, apathy.
tonight I’ll be guesting at the formidable geek-out mind-orgy that is 20JazzFunk Greats. shall play french techno hip-hop (TTC), female MCs from grime, reggaeton and indie (No Lay, Ivy Queen, Jean Grae), slow conceptual stuff (Tracy + the Plastics, Laurie Anderson), perverse gay pseudo-cabaret (Anthony and the Johnsons, Dresden Dolls, Kamerakino), proggy dancescapes (Out Hud, Vitalic) and so on. and so forth.
have unaccountable desire to get drunk. it's twelve o'clock.
'lacklove' draft#1 done and dusted, cdn't sleep tuesday night so wrote thru very early morning before crawling back into unconsciousness. 80 pages, rough as all hell near the end, but salvagable, a start somewhere.
since then, knocked out preview piece, content for club site, and - this morning - what i think is a pretty good first sketch for the 'painted galaxy' logo. momentum is magic.
only blot on this landscape is fucking full-time job. have to do something about that.
Nikon Driver says: hey. just got an e-mail from nikon. my camera has just won best digital SLR camera of the year, and product of the year! Nikon Driver says: i can just sniff out the quality goods Nikon Driver says: i am a good consumer kicking_k says: yes. yes you are. kicking_k says: two thumbs up!
time management improving. effort unstinting. feel dizzy, hyperactive, fidgety - like i'm not a person at all but a shoal of fish coming apart in a current. feels ok. feels good. cd get used to this.
hit page sixty of 'lacklove' this morning. thirty-five pages in five days. 'righteous exile' is ready to go, excepting a logo design i'm working on for a publishing imprint we're conjuring up especially. friend at weekend really psyched me up about the microstories - she's read one and circulated it, says all feedback has been better than good. feel vindicated, relieved. the work's indirectly very personal and readers passing judgment on it resonates thru my bones. so, phew.
hate the fact i have to go to work this afternoon/evening and sit there, following simple commands, performing repetitive tasks, sluicing me out of me for eight slow hours. still, i can read. it'll soon be over and tonight will be waiting at the other side.
it’s official. productivity is the new fun. productivity is pretty much the only thing that never fails me. since sorting post-club/mag chores at beginning week, i’ve locked back into the screenplay. three days and twenty extra pages later, i’m more than halfway through the rough draft, and feeling, well, y’know. like i’ve made a path and i’m looking back over the distance covered so far and the sun is on my face as i write this…
i had a long midday sleep just now, ‘cause i woke up early and threw myself straight into it, guess i wore through my attention span and blitzed myself a little. outside my window it’s cold and clear. i put on ‘master & everyone’ by bonnie ‘prince’ billy, ostensibly a melancholic album – but today it sounds so. chords are rippling like analogue of sunbeams. heh.
i feel really good ‘cause it means i can go out tonight and not feel bad, that i’m sapping time for no reason. i can relax, i can give myself the reward of a night off. don’t plan on getting messy – i have work to do tomorrow morn, but.
i have to spend some time after lunch fixing up and dummy-running the design and format of ‘righteous exile’, but maybe after that, if it’s not too late, i’ll go for a walk out there. it looks nice. maybe i’ll manage a circuit of the secondhand bookshops. i'm ploughing through short story collections at the moment, ballard, mann, mansfield - i want to check out maupassant next.
such big plans, so far away. such modest pleasures.
moments like this, now and again, make the difference.
didn’t struggle free of sleep till mid-afternoon, nauseous, headachey, blocked. drank chocolate milkshake. milkshake made comeback into toilet bowl with such passion i got splashback in my eye. paced round rooms till nightfall, phoned a friend, forgot about mothers day, felt like coccooning self in newspaper or something, hibernating till they found a cure. watched 'american splendor' as diversionary tactic. better.
monday was work. dismal. had an expanding list of chores for before and after - rewrites for mag, setlist for website, this short story that's faded in like an evil scent. was really hoping the next few short pieces i'd write might be a bit less relentlessly unpleasant,but not as yet, it seems. wish my subconscious wd get on with processing whatever it's chewing over and i cd get on with, i dunno, something less circular and obsessive and brutal and dooomy.
have to finish work early today, said i'd review a gig. i'm already mourning lost wages - the club has thrown me a lifeline, but i'm in so much fucking debt, it's just depressing. can't remember a time i cd spend money on anything not absolutely necessary without knotting my intestines over it. plus, i'm finding it really difficult to motivate myself to do fun stuff like gigs or, well anything that doesn't appear to have a mid- to long-term function. wish i cd relax, stop thinking.
got the best rejection letter of the 'back to the sea' campaign thus far, yesterday. it was from the bootleg theatre co, said: "An interesting presentation and well-constructed piece that we cannot consider scheduling." this was madd preferable to the nuffield theatre's email a week and a half ago, which resorted to CAPITAL LETTERS in emphasising how much they didn't dig.
otherwise, it's mostly been simple notes of receipt. it's funny, completely detached, polite. like we're undergoing some extremely formal long-distance dance, going thru the motions though we both know it's pointless. hopefully, the stories will do at least a little more.
ICFTHS was ridiculously busy, management claimed a 200-strong queue until they announced it was one in/out. i took full advantage of a full room to deliver what's perhaps my most stillborn second set ever - was amazing, i swear, people were playing statues. we bickered behind the decks, nikon took over, place erupted. i guess i just played too much hip-hop etc - they even ignored lady sovereign. oh well, third set was joyous, major relief, some guy asked us to play in paris.
after there was a party. i pretty much slept thru it.
incidentally, 'dad and i masturbate together' may be the most arresting search i've been lucky to be on the wrong end of. thx for the enduring image. i sincerely hope you resolve yr issues.
was super-disciplined over weekend. no socializing for moi, just unflinching work from friday night thru sunday evening. i now have (besides thirty pages notes, thirty raw dialogue) the first twenty-five pages of 'lacklove'. quietly confident. feels like a worthwhile waste of time and energy, so far as these things go. meanwhile, 'righteous exile' is being mocked-up prior to production.
tonight, i shd be completing my tracy + the plastics interview, but got nailed by ICFTHS chores, propagandist massmail time. the source gave us a glowing lead feature, pleasingly. and thankfully, they did not attempt to sneak any pix of me in. smoke + lights look awesome, psychedelic blasts and shafts of colour. but they used barely any of my promo bullshit. le bah.
if you exhaust yrself, if you push as hard as you can and don't stop except when you can't not stop, there are a whole lot less emotions to deal with, i find. there just isn't the time. you go from action to action like they're links in a fucking chain you're pulling taut, you're holding on, you're drawing out of the future like, i dunno, a strand of silk, what, a web, a thread? whatever. it's when momentum fails that we get stuck, supporting actors or extras in own stalled narrative.
this relentless momentum haunts me, has even spilt into domestic arena. found myself in obsessive cleaning spree yesterday, so much so i cdn't stop until i'd turned the place upside down and back again, making myself two hours late for work in process (an override).
i dunno. this blog is such an indulgence, sometimes. i don't know what i ever hoped to gain from dipping metaphysical toe in metaphysical water but i supose i always had fond imaginings it might make up the public record of a writer's slow ascent. instead of which, we get a stuck record.
and sometimes i think if it didn't exist i cd ditch the romantic fiction of the struggling artist and just do it, do it at long last until it didn't matter what others thought of me, when i cd escape all orbits, all value judgement, all ties. when i amped my actions up so high they matched my plans, and i found myself in a motion blur.