I swear I didn't go to sleep

Yet here I am, in my bed, drinking beer. Hm.

Gonna Go to Sleep and Let This...

Watch fall Dover mean. ;p Just a quick flyby. Still much the same, but we have a house together. Some of us (including my girly [fuck the conspiratory dick of a concept that is geographical longitude {Dimensions can suck my balls} ] ) are together at this instance :) In the meantime, someone recently asked me if the band Korpiklaani sounded like what it was mean to be like in my head. I always pissed about with it. But it kinda is. I like being in here :D

I look more like my dad every time I get out of an ambulance

FUCK. THE. FLOOR.

More mess

Mess, mess, mess, mess, mess, mess, mess.

I feel very odd today. Not in any specific way, just a little distant. Not as bad as yesterday though. I wonder if my mind is flying away somewhere?

Probably just hit the bottle a little hard over the weekend.

Going back to London in maybe a month? It'll be odd. Familiar faces in different places, but it'll certainly be pleasant I imagine :)

But, of course, when I go to London I won't be taking Jess with me. Another year of not nearly enough time spent with each other... but we'll both be better off this time, we can see each other more than last year... I suppose I should count my blessings. I'm the only person in the world to have a Jessica Potts. I'm very lucky :)

A lot of birthdays this summer. Summer's like that... it was my birthday recently :)

Listen to that song. It's beautiful (beautiful, beautiful, just beautiful). :)


There's not much else to say about life really. I spent all summer looking for a job, to no avail. Sigh. There's a beautiful place some new-ish friends showed me recently, it's lovely. I hope to spend more time there, and with them in general. They're good guys, and get on with just about everyone I do. It will be nice, I imagine :)

I want to be in a band. Me and Ish have a band, but geography conspires against us having much more than a collection of covers, a handful of self-written songs and about a gig a month. I dreamed I was in a band last night.

Anyway, I'm not sure how much more I have left to say. Since Space Walk is such a long song, it'll be the only one I include today. Next time, though... :)


Love dove and shove, you crazy kids. Play safe and play hard.

xxxx

Fine Day

When I first heard this song it was as part of a NuNRG dance mix. It worked really well. On it's own, it's... intensely creepy.

Miss Jane - It's a Fine Day (original 1983) by marinellina

Dear Politics

Dear Politics: fuck you.
You aren't what I thought, you're just what I knew.
You happen to be right but nobody moves,
I want a revolution tomorrow, with no blood and no tears,
And I want it to be over when it's over and I want it to be sorted,
And I want equality and I want it now,
And I want racism to be gone.
I'm Miss Right Now. I want world peace.

Dear Art: fuck you.
I want perfect expression, not expressive depression,
You can be so beautiful but fuck knows it's easy,
When did you become something anyone could do,
Without being accessible to me? To us? To the world?
I want art, I want art, I want fucking art,
I want a sunset explained to me and I want it there,
I swear I've had to wait twenty years for someone to show me a rainbow
On a canvas. So show me.
I'm Miss Right Now. I want world fucking peace.

Dear Science: fuck you.
You're clever and I don't want you to go,
Please don't leave, I'm sorry, but...
Why can't I live forever? Why are there diseases?
Why illness? Famine? Age? Poverty?
Destruction despair the need to go piss when I want to stay,
Why isn't there right here, why do people get fat,
Why can't I be strong by sitting on my ass?
Should I ask God? 'Cause I asked him (a prelude to this poem,
From when I was young and little and good)
And he was fucking useless.

Dear reality: fuck you.
It's hard being me.
Poor little me.
Trapped in you.
No matter how beautiful.
Signed,
- An angsty, optimistic idealist.

Weird

I think a lot about little hypothetical situations when I walk on my own. Usually I have superpowers or do something breathtakingly courageous and admirable in them since if I'm already setting the rules of the hypothetical I might as well enjoy the ride as much as possible. I doubt this is particular to me, since everyone I've mentioned it to seemed familiar with the idea and it just kinda feels like one of those things everyone does, anyway.

But there's one particular type of hypothesis I always construct, far more than the others. What if I woke up tomorrow at some previous point in my life? With all my memories of the future? Would I pass it off as a dream? Maybe, but it wouldn't be, would it? How would I act on this? For a start I'd have all my knowledge, all my skills that I currently posses. I'd be able to fingerpick guitar and write better, I'd have better experience and more understanding and a more mature outlook. But most importantly I could act on things. Not even rectify mistakes, bar maybe a couple. I think I'd mainly try to intercept the mistakes of others that I could predict with my new found insight before I tried to rectify my own. It would feel oddly presumptious to change my past, but to steer others from things they'd regret later would just feel oddly like giving advice from a newer, more enlightened perspective... and they'd be free to decline it if they chose.

I think I'd mostly rush to where I was now. None of this fucking about, I know who liked me and who didn't; I could rush and whip my Jess off her feet and be a little more brave because I'd know that I could and I'd know that she was scared. I could tell people where they'd find love and give them a swift boot up the ass, I could find people jepordising their happiness and wallowing in misery and give them a hand. I could get people out of places before the bad shit went down and I could steer clear of the places I now know I ought have avoided. But how much good would I do?

I think the good I'd do would be limited to the trust of the people I approached or the subtleness needed. If I need to approach someone straight up with a 'do this' and 'don't do that' then I'd better hope they can trust me, and I'd better hope my judgement is as clear as it seems. On the other hand if I merely need to be somewhere, or not be somewhere or smile in the right place then I think I'd have more chance of doing it right, and less chance of making some poor judgement call because I've only seen the outcome of what has been instead of what could have.

And of course there'd be things I'd need to leave well alone. No matter how frustrating, no matter how cringeworthy to watch the slow crawl of events I'd just have to sit back and hope that some small factor hasn't changed what was about to come to pass.

And I'd have to hope to fuck that there weren't unseen ramifications.







I guess I'm just naturally a meddler. I see something and think 'Oooh, I could fix that,' regardless of how qualified I am in any given field. Especially with people. I think I can fix people, which is a fairly sweeping presumption to make and one that remains even though, by and large, it turns out you can't really fix anyone without their express permission first. I wonder if people have fixed me? I'm sure they probably have at various points, but you kind of forget. It's nice to imagine you've got where you are on your own, so you end up with just this unspecified, immense thankfulness towards people. A kinda ethereal gratitude. Course you can pin it down, if you really try. Even as I've been writing this a few examples popped into my head.

I'm musing aimlessly, not sure why. Anyways, a pleasure as ever. :)

Something more cheery and less philosophically whimsical next time, promise ;)




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Oh, thumb.

Oh, thumb. You've been hurting for far too fucking long, thumb. I am starting to lose my patience, thumb. And everytime I move you, all your little bones and cartilage bits and tendons slide back and forth into and out of place with a distressing grinding click, thumb. Which hurts, thumb. And also feels extremely disturbing, thumb. Everytime I need to open a door, hold the guitar, lift up something or do anything ever, thumb. Do you know how long you've been doing this, thumb? It's two weeks, thumb. Two weeks. Oh, thumb. You are a cunt.





I fucking miss my girlfriend. Thumb is cunt, miss girlfriend. Just finished all work in world. Three in morning. Need lie down time.


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It Just Hit Me

It's nearly summer.
Do you know what, I haven't made a big deal about this in a while.

So NOW I WILL.

IT'S NEARLY SUMMER, YOU BEAUTIFUL ASSBITCHES OF SATANBALLS DEATHSHIT AAAAAAAAAH!
Do you know what this means?! This means the sun, this means love and madness and people dancing when and where they ought not be! This means people who we thought lost! This means green grass and hot fire! This means drinking cheap rose even though we have money for better! This means laughing upside down on rocks and the sand and rocks and trees and dirt becoming a world of splendour! This means new acquintances and old music! This means my Jess! This means Jacob and Alex and Jess and Molly and Baz and Katie and Merlin and Ish and Codie and every single fucker in Hastings! This means mornings lurching about the room in underwear, half dead from the night before with the guilty pleasure of tonight on our tongues like tabs of acid! This means thing that I can't even THINK OF RIGHT NOW!

This means music and wine. Get on it, people.

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(The kisses are so big 'cause of all that love I'm in)

Mess

I am a huge, heaping, endless mess of odd contentment. And with that sentence I greet me blog. Howdy :)

Welp, I have a mild hangover which is nestling itself beneath a curtain of drunk so I'm listening to happy music and being as melodramatic as I can. I think I was genuinely more hungover earlier. Toying with the notion of shotting a bit of Millie's overproof rum to feel better, but I know it's a bad idea. The problem with bad ideas is that they're always so hopelessly attractive.

Last night was quite awesome, a girl from my course with green hair plied me with tequila and chatted with me for hours whilst the birthday girl got pissed, took various members of both sex to her room and passed out in that order. It was an overall positive experience. I also found out that one of my uni acquintances is heavily into breakcore. We were chatting about ATR for some time, and when someone tried to interrupt she screeched 'GO AWAY, WE'RE BONDING!' at them. I think she's about to escalate from uni acquintance to uni friend.

Anyway, I ramble at you and then give you some music, oh blog. 'Tis kinda our 'thing'. So I shall indulge you :)




I'd listen to that song iffin I were you. It's fuckin' awesome.

What else happened in recent events? BANGFACE.
Yes, Bangface. It happened. For the third year running. AND IT WAS MY FAVOURITE.
IT KICKED SO MUCH ASS THAT EVEN THESE CAPITAL LETTERS CANNOT FULLY EXPRESS THE MAGNITUDE OF MY GLEE.
Only this picture can do that.


Yes, that is me having a drunk-nap on a man dressed as a dinosaur who's so fucked that drugs are literally falling back out of his nose.

I liked him. He was cool.

I just remembered! Today's hangover has a name! It's called 'Big Bag of Meat That Bees Can Eat'. 'Tis a quote. From this song here :)



I just shotted some of that overproof rum exactly like I knew I shouldn't. It was fucking awful :(

Anyway, despite all of this brilliance of events, all is not well in Kieranland. And it's primarily because this one is missing:



She's my favourite and she's not here :(

Do you know what sucks? Distance. I actually, in fact, once wrote a haiku on the subject of distance for my Creative Writing coursework.

Yes, I have to write haikus for coursework. That's a thing now.

Anyway, I should probably leave. I can't think of what to say, I miss my girlfriend, my throat hurts from that rum I just shotted, I like complaining and Homage to Patagonia is playing. What an awesome song. :D

Even writing that bit was an experience in all emotions. Guilt, anxiety, anguish, pain, wry amusement and then sheer joy. Also, writing that sentence made experience all them emotions again in that order. I'm rather suggestible today.

Love, dove and shove me dears.

Me loves, me darlings, me dears :D

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Good afternoon :)

“Don’t be afraid to be a fool. Remember, you cannot be both young and wise. Young people who pretend to be wise to the ways of the world are mostly just cynics. Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it is the farthest thing from it. Because cynics don’t learn anything. Because cynicism is a self-imposed blindness, a rejection of the world because we are afraid it will hurt us or disappoint us. Cynics always say no. But saying yes begins things. Saying yes is how things grow. Saying yes leads to knowledge. “Yes” is for young people. So for as long as you have the strength to, say yes.”

I don't want hangovers no more

They basically just suck for no reason, and I get them much worse than anyone else I know. Stupid hangovers. What you do for Kie?!

Ah well. Anyway, have some more lighthearted tunage and keep posted for later blogs of actual substance.

Love you all!

P.S. Today's hangover is called Ferret in the Trousers.

P.P.S. Me and overproof rum are no longer on first name basis. 63 per cent? I tell you, the shit was made with metahnol or some shit. Merely drinking it has likely affected my eyesight for life.

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Extery IX

Solomon Grundy,
Born on Monday,
Christened on Tuesday,
Married on Wednesday,
Took ill on Thursday,
Worse on Friday,
Died on Saturday,
Buried on Sunday,
And that was the

end of Solomon Grundy.

George Orwell wrote that.

Because clever people sometimes don't just write about pressing and serious cultural matters. Sometimes they just write shit. Probably on opium. Yeah, opium. You heard.

I drank too much tea

Intense cramming for much belated heap of coursework I need to have done for tomorrow. I've done as much as I can with my current knowledge and am left a burnt out shivering wreck for the evening. Not being a coffee drinker I figured I'd need something equivalent to double the average coffee drinkers dosage of tea to get me by on the work, but unfortunately I was basing this calculation off of Molly...

Did you know if you drink enough tea it closely mimics the effects of amphetamines? Did you also know it will make you feel like utter, utter shit even as it happens? Despite slumping in a pit of self loathing softly flavoured with bergamont I managed to reel off massive amounts of work (undoubtedly mostly second rate, but at least it's done) before running back and forth from the toilet like an incontinent with Alzheimer's and stumbling blearily into things. I'm not even that tired, I could have easily done this without caffeine. I basically murdered my bladder for shits and giggles. I remember when I used to be hardcore - now I chow down on caffeine and bitch about my pissing. Sigh.

Anyway, aside from that not much to report. Catching up on the uni work I fucked last term, I guess, is about it. Had Jess round last weekend, which was nice even if I did spend the whole of two days in bed with her. We're pretty lazy like that :)

Going home to Hastings for this weekend, gonna catch up with the gang including, rarities of rarities, Merlin! :D

Anyway my loves, I must away. Good night to all :)

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A text I got from Codie

Hi.

I love James! Say hey to Jess from me!

Isn't being in love wonderful?

I am in love. I know you are too. :)

YAY!

xxx

Sleeping Patterns? Sorted. Sorta.

Welp, I now sleep before dawn and wake up before afternoon, which is a SOUND improvement :)

I'm never sure what to report these days. These always seemed less like a chance to report my goings on and more a chance to give the internet a chance to ascertain my personality. Fuck knows what I expected the internet to do with it, but it felt nice to kinda talk to yourself and most of the world at the same time :)

Which I guess is what I'm doing now. It has this weird feeling of total privacy and total openness. Anyone could stumble on this anytime and guess half my life, and anytime my friends log in they've got anything I've said lately staring at them. But on the other hand this rarely addresses itself to anyone. Gah. I'm to self-contradictory and muse-y; I just finished an essay. Well anyway, I've been drinking beer and wine casually. Absurdly casually, it was an afterthought to occasionally take a sip. I barely even noticed getting a little tipsy, and I feel that if I had I would have quickly progressed to drunk.

As it is I'm going to leave a beer and two thirds of a bottle of red for some other time and sleep only a little more soundly than usual, which suits me just fine :)

You know, I've been getting back into rather old-me-style music lately - the types that I didn't know but should have two to three years back sorta thang. Frightened Rabbit is one. Also my appreciation of The Postal Service has finally warmed into an all out gentle love, took a long time that one. Along with a few sceptical looks at Jess as she tried to sell me on them... You won in the long run, Jess ;p

What do you think, internet? :)

Yeah, I think it's fairly pretty too :)

Oh, I got a twelve string geetar for Christmas. For those of you not in the know, it's a magic box that makes noise. And twelve strings turn the traditional 'brang' into a 'brreeeaaaiiiiinnnggg', a vast improvement; it has at LEAST five more vowels. And musical notes need to be mostly about vowels in my opinion ;p

You know, I'm mildly tempted to complain again about all my friends being everywhere, but I think I've done that to death so I'll do the nice version:

I'm getting visits. Alex every Thursday, Ishan on the weekends and every other Thursday and Jess (my Jess, not the Jess I was addressing a moment ago, although it'd be nice to see her too) as fucking often as I humanly can :D

Next Thursday in fact Jess (again mine. Actually, fuck it, from now on my Jess will be 'Squirrel' and not-mine-but-still-my-AWESOME-friend Jess will be Messius :) ) is visiting along with many others, but she stays for several days :)

There will be laughs and merriment and wine. Then the others will trail away and leave my Squirrel and I alone.

And there will be more laughs and more merriment and more wine, because that's just how we are.

We may even dance. :)

Goodnight my loves, it's been a pleasure as ever!

Nunight my shizzly fizzly bizzly biatches ;p

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Autumnal Guest

I came home in the autumn to find a guest at my table.

The light warmth of the ambrosia sun was seeping,
In through the window cracks with the pertinence of honey dew.
The perpetual red sunset of the autumnal sky fading but not gone,
In the hours when night falls early but slowly,
As if haunted by an indifferent indecisiveness regarding the time of day,
My erstwhile companion was waiting for me at the table,
Dressed in a pale beige coat with a red plaid shirt beneath,
Wearing gold rimmed glasses with lenses cut of rose quartz he smiled,
And beckoned me in,
And asked me to sit.

Nostalgia asked me if I wanted perhaps a drink,
Reaching into a cotton carrier bag as he did so.
I thought I wanted whisky, but he smiled knowingly and shook his head,
And informed me, correctly, that I wanted a glass of red wine and a shot of vodka,
He poured both drinks, one of each for the pair of us, and reclined easily in his chair.
I started on the wine, which was fine but cheap and strong,
Which I of course related to him pleasantly, bringing a smile to his weathered lips,
And he spoke of my mother, and how she grinned in the kitchen with such glasses as these in hand,
How in the cold of winter the heat of the radiator, the drink and the stews had permeated the house,
How in the summer I sat with her in the garden or the expansive front room,
On the warm red rug would rest the bottle and two friends,
Invariably one of mine and one of hers, I laughed along with Nostalgia as he spoke.

He asked if I wanted music, and I told him I did,
I thought I wanted to hear Mischief Brew, the latest band to take my fancy,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to hear The Shins again, since I knew all the words.
With the wine down to the bottom he refilled my glass from a different bottle,
And set another glass down filled with some deeper red, familiar in scent and shading,
So I took it from him and drunk it again as I listened to him talk once more.

He told me how the deep red and the faint hint of foulness in its taste beautifully contradicted the sweetness of the songs,
And I could not help but agree as he elabourated.
He spoke this time of two headstrong lads, intoxicated on an endless possibility of youth,
He spoke of the reckless glee of testosterone teenagers,
How the fury of confusing adolescence had been channelled into childish excitement,
How they did their best to do away with the rage and sadness that was the curse of their age,
And he spoke of how they succeeded.
He spoke of how one could not handle cider and the other dark rum,
And he spoke of the few ‘incidents’ that steered them from their respective devils.
He spoke of how they lived so wildly, took such impossible risks and received such impossible rewards,
Of how they threw themselves into the wildest moments of wreckhead insanity and emerged unscathed,
Of how they overcame their differences by simply choosing not to have them,
He spoke of platonic love and pure camaraderie.

By this point, my eyes were a little damp and he suggested we change the music and have another drink,
Quick to agree, I told him I wanted to listen to Evil Nine, something with bass to break the beat,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to listen to Ani Difranco instead, because I loved her voice.
I reached for the vodka, but he moved it away, replacing it with yet another glass of wine.
This one was deep in colour, deeper still than the last, and had the smell of distinction about it,
It’s thick, dark quality betraying its owner a connoisseur of some kind,
I sipped it and was moved, after the foul tang of the last it was almost sublime.

I considered conveying to Nostalgia my approval, but he had already begun to speak,
And this time he spoke of a girl, though not in the way you might think.
He spoke of some perfect creature, some indefinable being of immense worth,
He spoke of her walking about the roads down to the beaches,
He spoke in praises of her immense talent with strings and her voice and how the boy had just begun the struggling ascent of learning such things,
He spoke of how they fell headfirst but landed on their feet, running with laughter and grass between their toes.
He spoke of walking beneath the trees and of the constant position each held steadying the other,
He spoke of dependence but also of affection and of how they had found what they needed,
And he spoke at last of the times each defended the other, from predation and foolishness, especially from folly.

Nostalgia noted the ended record and empty glasses, and told me to switch the records whilst he switched the drinks.
I told him I wanted to listen to Kwoon, something new and beautiful to fit the mood,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to listen to Chumbawamba instead.
Unlike the reds of before, this time he poured rose,
The bottle was corked and had a price label on the side, proudly proclaiming it the produce of Londis,
And marking it at the grand price of £2.50 a bottle.

As I put the glass to my lips (and was greeted with the scent of vinegar and chemicals),
He reclined despite the blatant intent of the music to rouse and spoke again.
He spoke of hedonistic boys and girls with a tenner and a deathwish,
Craving cheap wine and cheap thrills, with laughter writ on their faces and youth in their breath,
He spoke of how they fell into some delirious, drunken state of mutual love,
And never left.
He spoke of how they threw up into toilet rims whilst the music pounded the walls and doors,
He spoke of how they collapsed into each other’s arms, smelling of vinegar and love,
Besotted, besozzled and beyond repair, he spoke of how they grappled with Youtube,
Pulling up the next tune, for the heartfelt moment where they serenaded one another with half remembered choruses,
And he spoke of a love so strong between friends that it felt discriminatory to even entertain it.

This fourth glass empty, this third record played I was feeling quite tired, and I told Nostalgia as much.
One more drink, he promised, just the vodka and one more record to be played,
So I told him I wanted Radiohead and for once he agreed,
I went to play In Rainbows, but he stayed my hand and demanded instead Hail to the Thief,
Which as it happened I was rather fond of, so I acquiesced.
With the wine glass unfilled, I was reluctant to now move onto a harder drink,
But he indicated the vodka and I slammed back the shot with no small degree of reluctance,
Feeling the familiar sting and burn of the cheapest way to drink and the cheapest way to go,
There was a tightening in my gut, and a spread of warmth in my being not quite pleasant enough to dispel the feeling of nausea.

As I grimaced, Nostalgia spoke of something else, but this time he spoke of only one thing
A boy sitting amidst his fellows during the earlier sunrise of tumultuous teenage years,
A boy maybe fourteen, eventually fifteen, who sat in the sand and the grass on the cliffs of his hometown,
Slugging vodka from the bottle as he was intoxicated and infatuated with youthful pride,
He spoke of how the boy fell in and out of the grasping equivalent of love,
He spoke of that mad infatuation that grips the mind in a flighty, momentary insanity,
That iron tailed dove that swoops down occasionally in age, but haunts you in youth,
He called it ‘Infatuation’ and a usurper of love, but I found these terms crude.
He spoke of a boy who grew, and found love and purpose eternally only to lose them endlessly,
And he smiled with every word.

By this point, I was about done for the night,
Nostalgia smiled at me as the last record stuttered to a halt,
The ending notes of the album falling in line with his final pertinent point,
And I reluctantly told him to pour another drink whilst I changed the album,
To both of which he said ‘no’, and advised me sit once more.

He had one more story to tell, of some ancient but unforgotten childhood brilliance.
He told of the oldest friends, thirteen years in office with a cross index of each other at hand,
He told of how they moulded and created each other through their years,
He told of endless forests and of stinging nettles yet to feel their wrath,
Of bluebell fields begging to be found and noted,
Of a rock sighing to become a castle,
And a tree to become a god.
He told of such childish things, and of such enduring eternity of memory that I almost wished he had another drink on hand after all,
To steady my nerves after the richness of his narrative.

He asked me to play him a song,
And by this late point I found myself more than willing to indulge him.
I told him I wanted to play Blackbird as he handed me the guitar,
But he informed me, correctly, that I wanted to play Wish You Were Here.
He asked if he could stay the night.

In the morning, I went through to the guest bedroom and was unsurprised to find Nostalgia gone.
The duvet was peeled back but otherwise the bed was made,
Where he had lain there was instead a handful of autumn leaves, a twig and a cooked chestnut,
A yew berry, a toffee apple, a handful of love letters,
Twelve locks of hair and a pair of rose tinted glasses, and I knew for sure that I would miss him