Holding onto the cracks in the foundation…

And here ends the hellish week, and aren’t we thankful for that!  Insomnia abounded with a vengence and has left me struggling to keep my eyelids from closing, from forming coherent sentences, and not looking utterly dazed and confused by simple concepts such as answering a telephone.

In a way, a successful week because there was only one point I had the “I hate my job and can’t wait to leave” feeling. But in a way this is not good, it makes it an even greater struggle to find reasons to love the prospect of having to move to London.

Lists have to be made; I am excited beyond words about being able to go back to studying what I love, I am excited about the endless possibilties for museums, galleries, concerts, people, libraries, exhibitions, lectures…aaaah the cycling not up steep hills, wouldn’t that be nice for once?  But….

Mountains, hills, forests, walks, cycling, scenery, lack of smog, people, friends…why am I doing this again?

This weekend I plan to make it worse by walking up Snowdon and generally cycling the hell outof myself and Anglesey, and then I’ll want to leave even less and hate the 8 months I have to spend away.  Gonna be one of those weekends!

What’s the point!

I deleted 100s of posts because, reading back on them and reflecting on what they conveyed, I realised that it was a whole lot of moaning self indulgent bullshit…so shall we try again and see if we can get it right this time? Shall we speak of ourselves in the third person and freak ourselves out? Yes, lets.

I just read a blog post that advocated people should write how they speak.  I took a creative writing class or 10, way back when I was 17, and one of the first exercises we had to do was transcribe a tape of two people talking.  With the ums and the errs the point was to convey that when people talk they don’t often make a lot of sense, they end sentences mid-way, they gesture and make sounds to convey meaning without actual words, and they often repeat or miss out words.  And yet it all still makes sense when we are talking.  It does not, however, make sense when written on a page.  It makes a lot of nonsense, yes, but not sense.  I begin to get the feeling that there are many people who write on the internet about writing because they have not managed to make a success of, you know, actual proper writing.  Granted, there are those who have success in both areas, but then this would be obvious by their good advice - not the bollocks some websites come up with to  fill space whilst trying to make money from their advertisements.  Nonsense!

For each man kills the thing he loves

Oscar Wilde, July 7th, 1896

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring,
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
“That fellow’s got to swing.”

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.