Sunday August 13th 2017
Friday August 13th 1999
Why write? asks a magazine.
A few vague ideas wafted through my head but the first solid shape of answer was ‘to define my disadvantage’. Then, as a crutch, a confessional. Then to communicate my vision, which I see as a strange amalgam of narrative and candy floss mysticism, full of mixture, repeated failure and rededication, constantly in flux, although embedded in the fudge like substrate are small, intensely hard nuggets and tiny stars which rarely change.
Another answer, given time to think, thuds onto the tabletop of my consciousness – I feel called to do it, I feel more myself doing this than anything else, it is what I have always wanted to do.
But I feel guilty doing it because it’s selfish, anti-social, exclusive, unreal, self indulgent, contributes little (compared to real jobs like bricklaying or nursing) – and I earn no money.
Now, if I didn’t write what would I do. It kind of defines me. I have always felt like the singer the song is calling, but I have taken an inordinate amount of time to hone my skills and even begin rehearsals.
My shoulder clicks out….
Later –
Working on story analysis of Reward1 and feeling dreadful – especially around already heavily cut section about pagan rituals and Greenhill Bower
Feeling very sad that this section proved unacceptable.
Feeling bad about it because it’s a mistake – feeling I was seduced by my own rambling philosophising yet wanting to find some value in this – still clinging to the wreckage – I’m finding it very difficult to let go yet it is obvious it blocks the narrative. But I am in love with its cross connections etc.
Saturday August 13th 2016
Friday August 13th 2004
Travelodge. San Luis Obispo
Suddenly feel I’ve been running away and the me l’ve been running away from has caught up with me here. Feeling v tired. Crashed out PM after Mexican snack.
Wednesday August 14th 2014
Sunday August 13th 2006
Walk round Wood Ranch circle
Swim and hot tub
Mount Diablo
Pizza
Danville
Dream: A woman on a mount, a small rise. My mother? I attack her with a long bladed axe or machete hacking deep long cuts through her clothing into her body. She doesn’t die but stays around. Someone comes to see me and l’m very afraid they will see what I have done. She sits on a swing on the rise and blood is welling up from the cuts.
While I write I’m pursued by background anxiety, could almost be a cacophony of voice(s).
On the plane yesterday not flying but flying through media space, personal video screens, huge choice of films, music, games but no text.
Watched four films on the plane:
The Squid and the Whale - divorce and its effect on two brothers and how the eldest learns to break free from his father
Alien Autopsy - British quirkiness meets global gullibility. V funny
Inside Man - Spike Lee bank robbery with a twist.
Enron the smartest guys in the room - mesmerising and frightening documentary about corporate greed and the way Reganomics inspired a mad spiral of debt and corruption. How the dream of free market free enterprise went badly wrong. The danger of big ideas. This film touched many different roots and routes in me and had a number of aspects in common with Alien Autopsy. The way turning a profit often involves some kind of trick.
Control of the market through contracts. Building wave effect as people are sucked into the thing. Corruption. Smoke and mirrors. This all plays back into my own work and life. A huge pile of debt. Failure to address and control the debt. Constant small steps to do just enough. Avoidance of the problem. Massive waste and greed. Yet what I’m trying to do is create viable businesses that can survive. But all the time I am slicing away at something tender within me, denying it? I feel the need to cut and simplify. Why the fuck am I so stupid to pay so much interest to the fucking banks in my efforts to do what?
Tuesday August 13th 2002
Saturday August 13 2011
