Another Day.


He wakes up. He has a telephone job interview today. He isn’t nervous but he is also nervous. He has a coffee and then spends the next half hour shitting because he needs to shit. It is not pleasant. Then he lays out all of his notes in front of him on the kitchen table and this includes his resume and his cover letter and the various details he gave for the job that he is about to be interviewed for. Then the phone rings and the man answers and the interview goes well for a while and then it stops going well and he watches it going badly and he cannot do anything about it going badly but he tries to right the ship but he cannot right the ship and he thinks later on hours later on in the day the answers to the questions and the responses he should have given but it is too late for that because he has already ruined that particular chance but he is sanguine and he is not too worried because he is a poet and an artist and a writer and he has enough money to live and he has enough food to eat and he has enough drink to drink but he is still irritated with himself. Then a beautiful woman flirts with him and he thinks that it must be an accident but then it happens again and he thinks that it probably isn’t an accident but then he does’t know what to do with this so he ignores it and he wonders at the Pope and why there is the Pope and why it is so important and why there is no criticism of the Pope and the office and his past and his past and the facts seem to plain yet they all go unspoken so he writes some poetry and he draws some pictures and he drinks some wine and he reads some poetry and he listens to some radio and he lies in some bed and he goes to some sleep.

Appetite for Distraction


He wakes up. He feels a little different but still tired. He has a job interview on Thursday that he must prepare for. It is on Thursday and it is on the phone but he is not sure what he will do. Will he be allowed to work for them  if he gets the job? Best to relax  and just enjoy the interview and use it as practice for interviews. He  showers this morning which is an advance  on things as they have been over the last few days. He gets to work and eats a bagel. He writes poetry on the bus and he feels invigorated by it. He makes some pictures at work and then he writes some more and he talks to his brother and then also to his friend and he finds out how to write a sestina and he does some more work on an old sestina he started last year. It is not as bad as he thought it was even though it is still pretty bad. He tries to help at work but he cannot find a solution to the sound problems in the small studio so he sets up something else that is useful and then goes home. He reads more poems by Robinson Jeffers. They are amazing. He does not know why he has not heard of him before but he is amazing. Then he realises how limited his knowledge is and determines that he will continue to broaden his horizons. Then he talks with a friend and realises that we are all living in a Cultural Panopticon of our own design. The banality of evil is us. We are the Monsters we were warned about as children. He then talks with another friend  and realises he is filling his life with too much mental activity and must clear his mind and meditate more. Then he drinks a black coffee then he half-heartedly tries to pleasure himself, gets tired because he is old and his mind is on other things and then he falls asleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. It is an hour later than it was the day before. He is still irritated the the clock change sneaked up on him unawares on Saturday evening when he was quietly enjoying jazz on the radio and reading a book about religion. Surely if there is a God then there is only a Trickster God who would go and play with the limited time of a man so. He drives through the morning and it is dark, no sunrise just yet. He returns to his house as if he had never left. He still cannot find his cell phone it is his work cell phone and he is crippled with guilt and shame at losing it because he is sure that it is in his car somewhere but he cannot find it in his car anywhere. He picks  up food from his house and wanders into work. He wanders by car and by bus and by train. Every day his journey is like a movie title. He reads some Walt Whitman. He reads the beautiful poetry of Walt Whitman. He is tired as soon as he arrives in work. He is unshaven. He is unshowered. He feels his stink like a cloud round his body and he is ashamed of it. He does some work and he talks to colleagues and he has some lunch and he does some more work and then the show itself that he works on is very busy and once again he earns his salary in the condensed time of one hour like he does every day and feels bad about it and feels that he could have done better. Then his stomach stabs with pain as he leaves work and he thinks that it may have been the mayonnaise he took from the work fridge to moisten up his lunch bagel. He now regrets this as he thought that the mayonnaise was fine but it seems that it was not fine unless he has been attacked by the tofu turkey or the bagel or the avocado or the tomato but he doesn’t think it is any of these things. Maybe someone has poisoned their mayonnaise in the fridge, but then made sure that they were immune to it’s kiss, much like in The Princess Bride. He thinks this as he aches on the way home on the train and the bus and cramped in his car where he still cannot find his phone. He gets home and he lies in bed and he feels sorry for himself and then he drinks some medicine and then he has some yoghurt and then he slowly begins to feel a little better and after lying in the cool dark listening to the radio and playing a bit of XCOM and calling someone he loves and then getting a call from someone he may love one day he feels at peace as much as he has felt at peace today which isn’t much. He reads about World War II. It seems that it is going to be even more horrendous than World War I. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up earlier than normal. There must be more to life than this he thinks but there is probably not more to life than this. He goes back to sleep. He wakes up again and then he goes for a run. Then he regrets going for a run about 3 miles from his house because he has to run 3 miles back and there are no buses and even if there were buses he forgot to bring any money or his bus pass because he was going on a run and who brings money or a bus pass on a run? Certainly not him. He stagger-runs back all the way back home determined not to walk because there are so many commuters driving and staring at him yes he is so important running in the rain. No one is paying any attention to him. They are all texting each other, moments away from death as they spend more time looking at screens and seats than what is going on out through the windows of their cars. Everyone a button push from death. Each person their own Nuclear Winter. He makes it home and sweating and red on his bed he derobes and attempts to pleasure himself but he does not have the energy and his libido is dying somewhere in the middle of last October. He showers and he has a coffee and then he reads some of his book on the first world war and he finishes the book but he is no closer to understanding the teeth breaking insanity of those four years and no matter how bad it appears now he knows that life is not that bad because he does not need to scoop his friends brain out of his helmet before eating the innards of a horse in order to stay alive whilst living in a thick sucking pit of mud. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. The snow that was promised is not there. All the roads are black and shining and clean. There is a bit of snow, but it is like saying a bald man has hair when all he has is a few sad, plucky wisps. Even so his car is still covered in snow. He gets a lift from his landlord to the train station which is very kind. He has had a good breakfast of a bagel with vegan turkey and tomato and avocado. He spends hours tweaking a photograph with two blurred people on it and he adds a ghost in the background. Then he writes a very complicated poem which is is relatively happy with but then he keeps editing it over the course of the day and changing words here and there and he thinks that he makes it a little better but is still not sure what it is about. It is probably about embracing life no matter how hard that might sometimes be and also something about memory but he isn’t sure. He finishes work and then plays twister which is hilarious but he is old and tired so he cannot play for very long. Then he goes to the store to get some food and then he goes home and then he trolls chat rooms but they are only full of people like him pretending to be other people. He is nothing if not predictable. He pretends to be himself. Then he goes to sleep. 

Another Day.


He wakes up. His rooms still smells of smoke because his landlord had a slight cooking accident on Sunday so most of Sunday was spent listening to the smoke alarm screaming and the house filling with smoke. His room now stinks of it and it fills his throat and he feels it in his lungs. He makes himself a coffee and he pisses in the toilet and he thinks about his Mother who died of cancer alone and scared in the hospital and he remembers hearing her death rattle over the phone as his brother begged him to hurry and fly over but he was too late. He listens to yet another radio piece about gamification which sounds like bullshit it probably is bullshit. He needs to learn to be less negative. He needs to learn to be more positive. He remembers the conversation he had with a friend the night before about his bleak world view and realises that this collecting of negative things about the human condition will end up destroying him. All he needs to do is to make it past 40 and he feels that he will have won the gamified version of his life. His eyes hurt but he can’t go back to sleep because of the stink of the smoke it is now present at the front of his consciousness and he cannot ignore it. He goes outside in to the cold and the dark of the outside and he breathes in the clean pure air and he walks around the neat and tidy wealthy suburbia that he believes and knows and is pretty sure that he is in the company of third world dictators and refugees from third world dictators all of whom are probably neighbours now waving across their white picket fences and sharing lemonade and summer pies and watching and smiling as their children go on play dates even as they try to forget the handless victims of their regimes or the faceless jackbooted soldiers that hounded them from their homes. He reenters the house. The smoke smell is still there and his eyes hurt but he is tired so he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He doesn’t want to get out of his bed. He is covered in his own clean laundry and dried semen scabs his disgusting hairy belly. He doesn’t want to get up and shower but somehow he manages to get up and showers. He eats a bagel with tofu turkey and avocado and fake vegan mayonnaise. It does not fill him. The black coffee fills him more than the bagel. He forgets his kindle. He has filled it with Ouspensky and Gurdjieff. He really can’t be bothered with 20th century mysticism but he always ends going back to the occult for reasons he can’t explain. He gets to work and sits in his room making graphics and drawing pictures of The Justice League. He eats some chili for lunch and then he does his work as best as he can. He hears about a journalists ethical dilemma and then he goes home. He buys a duvet for his kid and then he eats some chicken which is tasty it is honey and mustard. Then he goes home and on the way goes to CVS and buys some Arizona sweet tea and then when he is home he pours it into a glass and even though he enjoys the taste he can’t but help think that it looks like foamed urine being poured into the glass. He then thinks about a shit he took earlier in the day and wonders if he is obsessed with fecal matters and then listens to the radio so he forgets about that line of thought and then he realises that he is exhausted and lonely and his friend tells him that he needs to have more fun and he knows that she is right but he has forgotten how to have fun and he suspects that he doesn’t have the time any more. He had the chance to do that in his twenties and he squandered that opportunity and now here is he confused and he keeps feeling he is getting closer to understanding the world every day but he is not enjoying the stench that is coming from the core that he feels sure that he is approaching. He had a dream last night that he was driving a car down a dark road and the headlights went out and there were no street lights but the other cars on the road were getting along fine but he was not getting along fine. He thinks that this dream means something and it does not bode well for his nervous state of mind. He goes to sleep hoping that he will not have a dream like that again but he suspects he probably will.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He feels okay. He does not feel bad. He itches all over but he is used to that now. He drinks some cold coffee. He has a shower. He brushes his teeth. His teeth taste of toothpaste after he has brushed his teeth. He likes the taste of toothpaste. It is familiar and it reminds of of childhood – the good and the bad. He sits on the bus. It is warm on the bus. He feels safe on the bus because he does not need to do anything. There is a comfort on the bus. The driver is nice and greets him and there is a give and take of politeness which is enjoyable and it warms his soul. He hopes it warms the soul of the bus driver. He sits at his desk at work and he strums on the keyboard. He makes some graphics. He raises his voice and irritates himself. He has some lunch and he eats some nuts and he drinks coffee with condensed milk in it and he wonders where his libido has gone. It has gone gone far away gone. He still gets an erection in the morning but he thinks that this is because his blood likes to rest there. He does not think this but he thought that thought would be amusing it. It is not. He wonders why he is still writing in the third person. He finds that someone has added him to their google+ list. It is someone he has never heard of before and it is probably a bot. Yet even knowing this he is both intrigued and flattered that he has been chosen. These are not rational feelings. This is certainly not literature and yet he keeps typing. He makes many mistakes in his work and he blames others for them and then he apologises for blaming but it is too late he has spread anger and bitterness. He eats chili. It is good chili. Then he goes home. He talks to a couple of friends and then he does some writing and then he goes to bed. He wonders why he bothers and he cannot find an answer but in the dissatisfaction in not finding an answer he finds the desire to continue at least one more day. He goes to sleep.

Another Day


He wakes up. His kindle fire is literally on fire. He had it plugged in all night and the radio was still on and the back of it is burning his face and it hurts dear god it hurts so much. He prepares for his health check but when he gets there he learns that it is just for blood work and then he gives blood and he knows the nurse and he babbles and she smiles and he tries to flirt but he fails because he has no flirt tools and then after he has given his blood he leaves. He gets the bus to work and he reads some more of The Varieties of Religious Experience. He has nearly finished it. It is interesting. The day carries on. He eats a lean pocket or two and then some nuts and has too much coffee. He is also enjoying the work of Octavia Butler. His dating life is non existent. It was almost about to become existent but the person in question had a personal family tragedy to quite understandably refocused her attention to important things and not to him. He directs a show and even though it requires great skill it does not feel like it requires great skill and he feels as if, yet again he does a mediocre job of it. His ex-wife very kindly gives him some money that she doesn’t really owe him and he is thankful for that. Then he eats some lovely food which is chicken and which is sauce and pasta and then he plays i-spy and then he talks with a good friend for a while and then he does some writing and some dreamstorming and then he thinks about sex and then he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He is tired. He listens to the radio. There is something about sequestration which in his half asleep state he thinks is segregation. He thought that had been sorted out years ago. He guesses it hasn’t been sorted out after all and it does not surprise him because people are awful and he is awful. Then he realises he misheard and feels guilty for dismissing everyone so easily but it seems that he does that so easily recently. He goes to work and he eats some mixed nuts. He has a yearly check up tomorrow. He hopes  that he does not have  cancer or an STD. It would be unlucky if he had an STD because he only had unprotected sex once last year. He only had unprotected sex twice last year. He only had sex twice last year. He is sure that it will be okay and his penis won’t fall off. He is sure that it won’t fall off. He continues to write his resume and to create a portfolio and to dream of something more productive than what he is doing now and he thinks that he should probably take a nap of some kind but he knows that he can’t will tiredness on himself when he is not tired. He has two lean pockets for lunch. He is living the high life. He makes some animations. He finds that the day is over and he is no closer to epiphany. He drives to Giant and he buys some bagels and a tomato and some vegan turkey and an avocado and the goes home and he makes a coffee and a bagel and listens to the radio and does some writing and feels he is maybe on the right path finally and at last and he then shaves and then he prepares for the morning when he will be checked and tweaked and blood will be sucked from his body. He sleeps.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He gets in his car. He drives his car. He goes to work. He calls the Motor people. It seems that he shouldn’t have been driving his car. It seems that he has not transferred the title. He is an idiot. He will now have to stop driving his car and get lost in a mess of bureaucracy. It should  have been done months ago. He is very excited about a book he is reading called from Where You Dream by Robert Olen Butler. It is a book about writing and already it is invigorating him along with many conversations he is having with a good friend of his who is a writer of some merit. Work  is uneventful. His stomach is no longer sore. He spends too much time using Photoshop to make photographs for his Facebook page. This is pathetic. He is doing nothing productive at all. He drives home. He watches a terrible film. He agrees with everything in it but it is very poorly made. He wishes that is hadn’t been made. He eats some fish and he has a cup of coffee and he does some writing. He realizes that he still has not got his tax refund. He looks it up on the internet and with great sadness discovers that it has been used to pay for an old tax bill. What tax bill is this? He has no idea. Now he has a lot less money than he imagined. He is just like everyone else. This brings him no comfort. He hopes the woman who he has been talking to is alright. He goes to sleep. 

Another Day


He wakes up. He listens to the radio and has no time for a shower. He stinks but he has squandered the time to wash on listening to npr as he lies in his bed half asleep. He drives and misses the bus and then sits at work in a chair for most of the day and does nothing and then does something and has a lean pocket and feels tired and sad and unfulfilled and then he goes home and he eats some fish and he reads some more about World War I and then he goes to sleep.

Appetite for Distraction – Another Day


His body aches. It is a tired body. Shaved now from the night before. As he lies there in the stink of his morning bed he considers the lady on the train the night before who shouted at him in the contempt that only a crazy person can project onto another crazy person. He was not sure what prompted her outburst because all he wanted to do was to have a seat to rest his weary legs on the train on his way home to the bus and then wherever he might be going. He reads some Plato to calm himself. It doesn’t really calm him. The Republic is confusing. He is confused. He goes home and shaves off his beard. He has been told that he looks like a hobo. There is no problem with looking like a hobo, in his mind, but he is going to see a Doctor tomorrow and he feels he should at least make partial effort to appear presentable in public. There are no thoughts he thinks that are worth anything more than the loneliness of all the other people who sit out alone in the night thinking into the dark of the moon and the stars. He finishes Mason and Dixon by Thomas Pynchon. It has taken him three years and he read it so intermittently that he doesn’t remember what happened at the beginning or the middle. The end was confusing but now, in polite company, he can tell, when asked, that he read the book and enjoyed it, along with all the other works of Pynchon that he has read. He goes to sleep staring into himself.

Appetite for Distraction – Another Day.


He wakes up. It is early. The sun is not up yet. He stumbles in his monkey pyjamas that he got for Christmas to the bathroom to have a shower. It takes a long time to get the temperature right because neither tap works properly. He dresses. He makes himself his lunch. He is still proud that he managed to finish War and Peace at the weekend and has a real desire now to achieve to read the book again to write his own book to succeed and grow and learn and improve himself. Then he goes to the bathroom. The walk in the dark is a long and cold walk. No one is up when he reaches the house but he wakes up those who need to be woken, makes breakfast for them and makes himself a cup of coffee with coffee that he didn’t buy but feels he deserves. He reads some Nietzsche. He realizes that Nietzsche is a complicated man. It is cold outside when he walks outside. He walks to the bus stop and gets into the bus. The bus driver is pretty. She doesn’t smile because his beard scares her, he can tell. He continues to read on the bus. Nietzsche is a complicated man. He manages to make it through his day of work doing very little work. He then feels incredible pain in his eyes. It feels like they are bleeding but they are not bleeding. His eyes then feel better. He reads some more Nietzsche on the bus and the train. He is squeezed into a corner by a man who ignores him. He eats some macaroni cheese. Then he drives. He drives in the snow and the dark of the night in his car. He watches The Black Power Mixtape 1967-1975. He enjoys it. It is sad. The Revolution has been televised. He thinks it was lost. The Revolutionaries lost. He hopes that they have not lost.

Another Day.


He wakes up. It is cold but not as cold as it was before. He slides in the ice in his car and nearly crashes but he does not crash but he drives very slowly for the rest of his journey. There is a two hour delay for school in the Montgomery County area so he could have stayed in bed for longer. This irritates him a little but only a little. He slips and slides back to his own house and has a shower and makes a coffee and locks himself out of his car but it is okay because he has a spare set of keys and it is sad because this is not the first time that he has locked himself out of his car. He has been watching too much My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. He does not understand bronies. Even though it is a well made show it is no different from any other children’s cartoon. He has already had this conversation with himself so he stops. He does very little at work but  at the end of the day manages to direct some television to a barely professional level going out to millions around the world. The he gets the bus home and the train home and he keeps accidentally staring at a woman across the aisle from him so that he probably looks like a lunatic in his big woolen hat. Then he has chicken for supper and he plays I-spy and then he drives home and he makes himself a hot chocolate mixed with coffee and then he goes up to his room and finds the left over coffee from this morning which is cold now but he sees it as an extra coffee so he is happy that he now has two drinks to enjoy. This is not the reaction of a well-balanced man. He reads some more of Middlesex and then he plays Word with Friends then he thinks about the future and then he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. His car window now stays closed as long as he has his finger on the button. He finds some thick black tape and tapes the button down so that the window stays up. He likes his $900 car but it constantly reminds him that it costs $900. He has a bagel for breakfast and he also has a cup of tea. He thinks that he will start reading a book by Octavia Butler this weekend but he is not sure which one. He hopes that his friend who is feeling sad is feeling okay today and he discovers that he left his phone at another house. He watches the storms sweep the globe. Australia flooded – Ice Storms over America. Mozambique Flooded. Britain Flooded. A more connected news world or we are all sinking, like Atlantis under the waves. He does not know the answer. He goes to sleep but then wakes up with a jolt and all of his lights are on and it is his go at Words with Friends. Then he puts on his pyjamas and turns off the lights and has his go at Words with Friends and then he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He hopes that his car window will close this morning. He knows that it will not close this morning but he wishes that it will close this morning. He thinks about the hot chocolate that he had before bed last night and he wished that it was sex with a woman instead. He also wishes that he had brushed his teeth after the hot chocolate because his mouth is thick with stink and decay. He manages to get the heater to work in his car so he speeds along the highway hat ears flapping as the heating system battles with the intense cold. He is late for work again. He needs a job that will allow him to write in bed all day, like Proust. He meanders around the office and finds out about other jobs. Then he has some lunch and he talks to two senators who will never remember his name and then he tries to fix his car window with serran wrap but it tears as he drives home and flaps and whips in his face like transparent skin until he gets the chance to stop and tear it out of the space where the window used to be. He takes some photographs that he will probably make black and white later on and then he reads some of his new book, Professor Munakata’s British Museum Adventure and then he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He has the luckiest friend in the world. She was staying in Hollywood. She got a flight for $100 to DC with no planning she got a ticket for free to the inaugural ball and had a splendid time. He was at home in bed. He wonders what it is like to be beautiful. It must be nice. Things like that happen. His car window seals itself open so the freezing bitter morning crushes his fingers so he cannot feel them as he drives through the frigid streets. He gets bad news at work there will be no investment in his department so he will have no projects to look forward to. He is unsurprised but still irritated. He was promised a pony when he knew that he would not get a pony but then hoped for that pony but has now only been shown pictures of a pony. He eats cookies to calm himself. He wants a new job. He wants a green card. He wants happiness. First he has a cup of coffee. This helps him a little. He lacks direction so he goes for a walk and finds a number of directions describing a rough square as he walks out in the cold to clear his head around the outside of the building. He meanders like the last sentence. He eats fish and macaroni and cheese for supper. His car door window is still open. He turns on the heater and has it face toward his feet and that makes him feel a little more bearable. He reads a little of his book, Acorna’s Quest, by Anne McCaffrey. He has not watched television all year. He feels cleansed. He thinks about sex and then he goes to sleep. 

Another Day.


He wakes up. It is cold. He makes himself a wheatbread bagel with egg and turkey bacon. He also makes a coffee. He drinks the coffee and he eats the bagel. He is back in bed when he does this. There are crumbs. He leaves and reenters the house several times. The first time because he forgot his camera. The second time because he left his phone. The third time because he forgot his pass. The trains and the buses were no more busy than any other day even though the President is to be inaugurated for a second time. Augur – a sign or a prophecy; Inauguration – what prophecies to come for the next four years as this ritual is performed? He does not know. He takes pictures of his pitted face with his new camera. There is no blemish that goes unhidden or criticism that comes unbidden in the babble of debate that goes on inside his head. The day is uneventful except for the inauguration of the President of the United States but it is not even that because that happened the day before for and this is just an overwrought ceremony that Leni Reifensthal would have been proud to have choreographed. The Eagles are released. The entrails are read. All is well in the Empire and the Empire is all well. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He licks the taste of red wine fuzz from his teeth and makes some bacon and eggs and drinks some carrot juice. He enjoys the feel of the haircut that he got yesterday. He looks young and fresh and he feels optimism which is a rare feeling for him but he feels it and it makes him happy. He thinks about his trip to the gun range that is going to happen at the beginning of next month and he thinks how interesting that will be as he has not been to a gun range since he was a teenager in Scotland. He has recently finished reading Y The Last Man which he thinks is terrible and this makes him sad because he has wanted to read it for years. He wishes that he had read it when it first came out as he may have been a little more forgiving of it then because he was more ignorant and willing to accept awful plotting and character at that time. He is not that person any more so he is not willing to accept awful plotting and character. He watches more My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic but he is not a brony because he watches far too many cartoons already and he has never been part of a club for them so he does not feel any reason to be in a club for this particular cartoon. He reads a powerful and honest account of one woman’s search for herself which he enjoys. It is authentic and rings true although sometimes it lacks focus. He lacks focus so he understands. He plays some piano. He is not ready to go two handed but he does learn some new notes. He is enjoying teaching himself to play piano. He eats tacos for supper. He eats the tacos with people. People who he likes. He reads some Bertrand Russell and he reads some Diary of Anne Frank and he reads some Daniel Clowes and he also masturbates. He is probably doing this too much but the fact that he has done it more recently may mean that he is getting less depressed and his libido is returning or he is getting more depressed and he is acting like chimps who have gone insane and sit squatting on their zoo pen floor fucking their crooked hands as they rock back and forth to the rhythm of shutter snaps. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He reads some of Atlas Shrugged. He is now 75% through the book. It is full of psychopaths but perhaps it is an accurate portrayal of a certain kind of relentless human being and not a terrible antidote to the Horrors of Stalinism. Perhaps this is the book that explains why many Americans are terrified of Europe and socialism. Perhaps it is not explanation at all. He makes himself a coffee. He sees his landlord who has just returned from being abroad. He hugs him and consoles him on his loss. He tells him that he has got divorced. There is shared happiness in this thought. Then he goes to get a haircut and to buy a pair of sneakers. There is a pretty girl behind the counter who has lovely hair. They flirt but they do not exchange numbers. He wishes that he had exchanged numbers. He likes his new haircut. He plays some piano. Then he plays some more Words With Friends. There was supposed to be a trip to the zoo today but there has been radio silence on that matter. He learns about the concept of bronies. He learns that it is adult male fans of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. He has to watch it to see why there is such a thing. It is a Manichean Epic, as all children’s programmes in the West are, but this particular one has an ancient Gilgamesh feeling about it. The term that irritates him is brony. A man cannot simply like something that he is supposed to like. He has to give it a name, give himself a title, form a hideous club of some kind then conquer the thing by memorising the useless trivia, competing with others in relation to that useless trivia as he, unyielding, sucks all the meaning from the thing and catalogues what remains in neat piles of information – like reverse cooking. He goes out into the cold clear day and takes pictures in the woods near his house with his new digital camera. It is the first digital camera that he has ever owned. He bought it for himself as a divorce gift even though he cannot really afford it and even though he has other debts that should be paid off but he takes some pretty pictures and he then uploads them and there are compliments. He will take more pictures on Monday at the Inauguration of President Obama. Then he goes home and he practices some more of his piano and he listens to some Coursera Lectures on Genetics and Evolution and then he reads some more of Atlas Shrugged which is like eating a Mountain of Hate then he furiously masturbates until it hurts and even though his libido is non existent he at least maintains an erection for the duration of his rubbing. Then he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. It is a New Year. It is 2013. Since he last wrote things down a massacre has happened at a school of small children. A piano was purchased and Christmas was celebrated with chinese food and sangria. He watches the whole year stretch out in front of him like the last year full of opportunity and perhaps also sadness. He embraces his resolutions and then puts them back in the box that he will open at the end of the year to refresh anew. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He remembers yesterday when he spent most of his working day drawing Christmas themed doodles in a drawing pad that he had purchased. He plays a game called Castle Crashers. He looks at how long it would take to become a nueroscientist. It will take a long time but the idea does not leave him. He thinks the tires on his car are getting a little flat and that he probably needs to put some more oil in the engine but he waits and he knows at the back of his mind that this will probably do him or his car no good at all. He needs to stop watching msnbc. He cannot stop watching msnbc. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. His holiday is over. He has to go back to work even though he does not want to go back to work even though he doesn’t really mind going back to work. He gets in the shower and has a shower and washes his hair but does not shave his beard but he does trim around the edges of his beard. Then he drives in a car and then he draws some pictures of different versions of Father Christmas and then he learns about Black Peter which seems to be the very racist Dutch portrayal of Father Christmas’s assistant. Once again he thinks that Europe is shown to be a little insensitive. Then he gets on the bus after waiting in the cold and after driving to the bus stop. He thinks to himself as he sits on the bus and has yet to go and get a train to work that he is probably using too many different pieces of transport every day to get to work. Too much walking too much driving to much busing too much training. He tells the aggressive man who begs outside of his work that he doesn’t have any cash. This is not a lie as he doesn’t currently have any cash on him. He still feels guilty and he knows that the begging man is peeling back his lies to reveal him as a terrible human being to the world. Nothing has changed at work. He is asked if he wants to direct the Inauguration Special. He declines because he is aware of his skill level and his skill level is not that skill level. It is a little lower than that level. Then he does some directing and it all seems to go very well. Then he walks home then he trains home then he almost cries when he hears the busker at the bus station playing Tale as Old as Time from the Disney Version of Beauty and the Beast on his saxaphone then he gets on the bus and then he drives and then he eats some left over lasagne then he drives some more and then he gets irritated by MSNBC. He can barely watch it anymore even though he agrees with most of their opinions but he doesn’t trust his own opinions so it is very difficult for him to believe their opinions. He reads some of his book. He learns some Mandarin words and he learns some Spanish words. He plays a video game called Cogs which he enjoys. He stares into the emptiness. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He is on the last day of his holiday. He feels he has squandered his holiday again. He has not written the great American novel. He has been reading and thinking and sorting his projects. Projects he will never finish. He is learning about genetics and he is trying to improve his Spanish and he is learning mathematics but to what purpose? He does not have an answer to that question. He has been watching a show called Pumpkin Scissors. It is an anime show. The name is a strange one. He does not understand it. He is reading Anna Karenina. It is a good book. He is enjoying it. He is worrying about the cost of Christmas. He has to stop eating sugar because he is getting fat again. Swollen and filling up too much space in the Universe. He has been playing too much Broken Sword. He has already played the first two games and even though he found them only marginally entertaining he is now playing the third game. He makes a lasagna and then looks with sadness at Facebook. Then he masturbates and then he reads some of his book about World War I. He then finds some pieces of candle wax broken on his floor like dried cracked skin that is all that remains of the tawdry sex games that remain in his room from the other day. He remembers the role playing and the rope and the ice cubes and he remember his increasing boredom. Then he ate some yogurt and wondered what the point of it all was. Then he went to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up at 0300. Why does he keep waking up in the middle of the night? There were no terrible dreams this time just darkness and silence. He manages to get back to sleep and then he has a shower and he is saddened by his ageing and then he drives his car which this morning is not covered in frost which is a bonus so that he does not need to spend a long time clearing it of frost because there is no frost. He thinks about how he will get a green card now that he is mere moments away from divorce and hopes that he will be able to hire a lawyer next year who will be able to help him on his quest to get a green card and thus stay in America and possibly become a citizen of this enormous and messy nation – the Great Compost Heap of humanity – Fermented and Fermenting. He has thoughts about how irritated he is by The Establishment. Thoughts which are combinations of the unfairness of their existence and jealousy that he is not part of that group. Too many thoughts Too many projects not enough drive. He worries about dying and then eats his lunch. He makes his work last all afternoon and then he walks to the train and then gets on the train and then gets on the bus and then drives and has some turkey and some mash potato and he tweets too much about things that are not important. Later on he finds a pixel tie that he was given long ago and he decides to wear it the next day because he has never worn it before and even though he doesn’t have a bright yellow shirt which would be perfect with the tie. He reads a book about getting things done but he doesn’t get anything done because he is reading the book. He discovers he has a good credit rating. He is grateful that this doesn’t include his home country. He finishes Mark of the Ninja. It is a beautiful and poignant side scrolling platform game. He lies down and he tries to sleep. He hopes that he will succeed and that he won’t wake up at 0300 like he has been recently.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He had been wrapped in a terryifying dream being chased by a Shadow Man with a Silent Screaming Mask for a face. He gets up and takes a shower and drives in his old car which he has named Car. There is no frost on Car this morning but it begs not to be switched on because it is old and it just wants to die. He has a cup of tea and a blueberry bagel containing Thanksgiving Turkey and mayonnaise. He goes to court and hands in the final document which will mean that soon he will be divorced. He feels like a regular there now although no one recognises him because thousands of people go there every day and he is just one bearded caucasian amongst a complex tapestry of humans with desires and failings. He gets into work and someone is standing on a ladder in his room. He sees the legs and recognises them as someone he knows. He goes to make himself a coffee. When he gets into the kitchen he finds some pecan pie. He heats it up and puts some condensed milk on it. He enjoys the taste as he eats it. He looks at the work that he has to do for the day and tries to think about the end of the day when he will be able to lie in bed again. He reads some of his book on the bus and he looks at the people on the bus. He imagines what there lives are like. He eats some pizza from supper and plays a rhyming game with someone he loves. Then he gives a pie to some relatives who will not be relatives for very much longer. Then he goes home and he plays Mirrors Edge which is a fine game and then he reads about World War I which was a terrible war. Then he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He is late. He doesn’t shower. He tries to be useful at work but his heart is not in it. He does a web search for the woman he lost and discovers that she was arrested five days ago for driving under the influence. This makes him sad and makes him wish that he could call her and ask is she is okay but he also knows that this is mental and that he shouldn’t do this. He talks to his brother about other things. He eats some macaroni and cheese and some chicken. He watches two episodes of Castle which is a show that he now loves. He reads an article by a man criticising another man for saying that Ulysses by James Joyce is a waste of a read. The article was a waste of a read. He was disappointed by the whole tone. He watches Futurama. He laughs. He sleeps.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He drives the car the wrong way around 495. He usually does this even when he has written down directions which he has done today. He does not know why his directions did not work. Then he gets lost in DC but drives past The White House which he always loves to do because of the very fact that he is Driving Past The White House. He arrives at his friends in Columbia Heights. It is so hot today. The radio tells him that the Heat Index makes it 111 even though the temperature is 103. He does not understand the Heat Index but he does dislike the Heat Index for making it even hotter. He collects over 100 books from his friends to look after. He is so happy taking the books. He feels endorphins flow as he carries stacks downstairs into his car. He then takes some coat hangers and also some pens and two Spiderman comics. One Spiderman comic sees him battling verbal bullying and the other sees him battling Smoking and Cancer. They are both amazing and he loves them a lot. He also gets some watermelon which is lovely and then a glass of water. Then he says his goodbyes and drives home along 16th St. then turns onto 495 and again manages to go the wrong way but he refuses to acknowledge that fact to himself for a while so he goes further than he should but eventually reasonable brain controls stubborn brain and he turns round and goes back the right way and gets his plunder into his house. It is good plunder. Such sweet plunder. Then he goes swimming in a swimming pool and the water is lovely and he shrivels like a prune and then he makes some lunch and then the lunch is eaten and he takes some trash out and then he has a nap because swimming in the hot hot heat was tiring then he worries a little about the spot that has formed on his nose and he fears it may be some kind of uncontrollable wart that will swell and hide his face and it keeps bleeding because he picked it this morning because he has neither patience nor self control. Then he realises that it is the anniversary of the terrorist attack on London but the only news he can find of it is a piece about the conspiracy theories surrounding it which makes him feel a little sad for reasons he cannot put his finger on. Then he goes swimming again. Then he makes a pizza which is eaten by people. Then he walks home in the sweltering heat. He is sweltering and feels terrible feelings of wanting to commit suicide. Not the desire to actually do it but the familiar refrain from all parts of his brain that say that it would be good to die but he is used to this feeling and it familiar to him familiar from the age of 12 or possibly younger. He tries to calm himself by swearing out loud and it takes a time for him to realise that he looks like a madman with a backpack sweating in jeans in the dimming eve as he curses shitfuck cunthole fuckflaps bitchface dickshit slutcrack and so on and so forth as he walks home. He manages to stop the swearing but realises the fact that this takes an actual act of concentration may be a problem sometime in the future. Then he gets home and the air conditioning saves his sanity and he drinks a glass of water with ice and watches some Code Monkeys and hugs his new books and sorts them and sees that there is a lot of Marxism and a lot of Christian Sensuality which he didn’t realise was a literary sub-genre and many other delightful books besides. Then he finishes watching Sierra Leone’s Refugee All Stars which makes him cry. Then he may or may not masturbate he never decides until the last moment as and when the mood takes him. He suspects that he is too tired. He changes tenses in his head in order to exercise his mind. He goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up and is immediately irritated because his shower schedule is interrupted by someone else using the shower. There has never been a meeting to decide when people take showers in the house but he nevertheless is irritated by the fact that one of his housemates who he nevers sees but only hears, and sometimes steals his pepsi, is now showering. He calms down and dresses and then showers in his turn and then heads out of the house and drives. Work stretches out through the day the steaming wet day of the swamp that he lives and works in. Then he fails again at being a vegan – eating cheese and meat and lard. He gets home finally and goes for a swim in the warm pool and hurts his eyes as he swims through the hot dirty water bit getting in his eyes as he squints through the water that he is swimming in. It is, despite that, a pleasant experience. Then he listens to many many things at the same time again and has sensory overload. He loads spotify, and a playlist from the internet and also grooveshark and sets them to play them all at the same time. His brain is overwhelmed but it pleases him and stops his feelings of hopelessness that have been threatening first at the edges and then more recently at the very centre of his consciousness. There is too much in the world and not enough time. He reads more German philosophy and is calmed and soothed by it’s rock hard lack of sentimentality.

Another Day.


He wakes up. It is 4am. He cannot get back to sleep. He lies there for a while trying to get back to sleep but he fails. He goes downstairs and gets himself a drink of water. He then makes himself an old coffee with some soy milk – vanilla flavoured. Then he thinks about masturbating but it is too hot and he is too lethargic. Then he discovers that another dead line of pixels has appeared on the screen of his computer. He is irritated by this. He doesn’t know what to do about this. He sends an email to the company who made the computer but he doesn’t really think that this will do any good. He can imagine that day by day more and more lines of pixels will die, slowly weaving a tapestry of death across his screen until he has a beautiful Persia Carpet of uselesness instead of a screen. He will be able to see just enough to still use the computer, but not enough to make the experience pleasurable in any way but because he is stubborn he will pretend that it isn’t a problem – even though it is a massive problem. He listens to some music by Gabbie Giftsz. He is not sure about the name but he does like the music. She is a rapper or a spitta’ as the term is now. Either way she does have a wonderful facility with the English language that reminds him of Roxanne Shante who seems to have been forgotten in the pantheon of great female rappers but should certainly not be forgotten. He sits on the bus reading Nietzsche then the bus stopped for no reason and everyone had to get off the bus and walk in the sweltering heat towards the bus stop. It was not as bad as he thought although his lunch steamed in his bag. He was asked to do things at work that he didn’t want to do but he did them anyway and then he did some things that he did want to do and he had some conversations and he thought some deviant thoughts and he thoughts some entirely normal thoughts and then he thought some entirely normal deviant thoughts. Then he got home and he watched some Code Monkeys which was quite entertaining. Then he listened to Soundcloud Poetry and Mos Def on Spotify and tried to write at the same time but he managed to weld his perceptions together and ended up writing nothing productive or useful. Then he went to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He hasn’t been doing anything recently. He was rejected and he felt bad about himself but now he is over that and feels that he will probably manage to live. He bought some books recently even though he is already drowning in books that he will never read. He bought The Encyclopedia of Philosophy edited by Paul Edwards after hearing that Philip K. Dick had a set of the very same books in an article that he read in The New York Times. He was very excited to receive the books and they now sit next to his bed fat with knowledge. He also bought a Europe: A History by Norman Davies because he knows very little about the extrusion of Eurasia that he grew up on an island next to. He also bought a book called The First World War, Second Edition: A Complete History by Martin Gilbert because, again, he feels that his knowledge of that Ugly Destruction is utterly limited. He also bought Ideas: A History of Thought and Invention, from Fire to Freud by Peter Watson because he gave his brother a copy many years ago and found a cheap copy on the Internet and he really wants to read it and he had the money and the desire to buy it so he could see no reason not to buy it. He goes to sleep in Independence Day. He does not know what has happened to the time.

Another Day.


He wakes up. Morning Joe is on again. He takes a shower and brushes his hair. He walks out of the house and it is muggy outside. He takes pictures on his journey and wonders why he is taking pictures of his journey. He did not see the scrabble-skitter insect this morning. It is probably still lurking under his bed or it has already burrowed itself into his body through one of his soft warm orifi. Nothing to be done. In France socialists are back. In Greece no one can form a government. In Spain everyone is unemployed. In Italy things are not going well. In the UK the Rich and the Powerful are sucking what little marrow there is left from the bones of Empire. America is still deluded as more and more Tea Party libertarians engulf the political process and he is really behind on his Mandarin learning. Ni-hao Kai-lan is all he has so far. He gets home. He sleeps.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He hasn’t written for a while but it seems to make no difference because no matter the gap between each entry into his journal nothing much seems to change. Politicians keep politicking, Wars keep waging, Trash keeps growing and he sees that the projects for the kids at school about protecting the future of the Earth are the same projects that he had to do when he was a child twenty five years ago. No one pays attention to Children’s Projects. The Projects of Children are cooed at and then ignored. He has been reading a lot and even writing a lot and is making progress of a sort with his life. He is sad to learn that Maurice Sendak has died. He liked his books and now he is dead. A bomb plot was foiled, he learnt yesterday, but was it a real bomb plot or was it another FBI sting carried out with people too stupid to realise they were being manipulated by bored government employees? He cannot say but that often seems to be the case. He is sure that it is a real bomb plot and a real threat. Why would they lie? Why would they lie at all? Surface to air missiles are being placed atop the apartment blocks of London to protect the athletes from who? Aliens? Communists? Decepticons? It seems to be a little over the top. Then he meets up with a friend after work and they eat falafal and walk around the city that they are in at that moment and find dark alleys and do unspeakable things to one another and then he goes home and he sees a giant insect scrabbling across the floor of his bedroom that he is convinced was the size of a mouse but it couldn’t have been that big because it was an insect. Then he goes to sleep but his skin crawls as he does so because he imagines the creature will crawl on him and into him while he sleeps.

Another Day.


He wakes up. His chest is still heavy with congestion but this is an improvement on the depression and sadness and the unrelenting hopelessness that weighed down on his body throughout the winter months. He wonders if last night his body smelled of ammonia as he twisted sweating in the yoga studio. He feels healthy and vibrant. This morning he had to change a diaper on a child who had filled it with poo. The child was unhelpful as it sought to smear the excrement over it’s fingers and the uncovered parts of it’s body. He writes some more of his novel. He learnt last night that if he self-publishes a book then he can nominate himself for a Pulitzer Prize. This idea amuses him and he thinks that he would like to do this one day. He probably won’t do it but he would like to. He is truly happy at the moment and he is enjoying life and wonders why he didn’t try to be more proactive before but of course he has been this proactive before and he has been this happy and he knows, as it gnaws with tiny little teeth, at the back of his brain, that the unhappiness will return at some point. For now it is distant, stomping and unhappy on a distant hill. He will leave it there for now. He sleeps.

Another Day.


He wakes up early. He is full of energy except in his eyelids and his legs and his arms. His brain is buzzing but his body doesn’t want to connect to it so he lies in bed until he has the energy gathered to no longer lie in bed. He gets up and goes to the bathroom and pisses out the weight of his bladder. Then he goes and makes a coffee and uses unsweetened soy milk. He has forsworn dairy but it is so hard to do because he loves chocolate and he loves yogurt and it is hard to find large buckets of soy yogurt in mainstream grocery stores on his limited budget. He thinks about yesterday when he put make up on a bald man’s head. He has a strange job but he enjoys it and he gets paid enough so those are both good things to think about. He cannot find his kindle anywhere which makes him sad and he has not done bikram yoga for a few days because he has a congested chest and that also makes him sad because he really enjoys bikram yoga even though he thinks that he prepares like Mr. Bean and when he does it he smells of ammonia. Both these things could be in his imagination but he isn’t sure whether this is the case or not. He makes it to the bus stop and reads Riddley Walker by Russell Hoban. He is enjoying the book and enjoying the feel of a real book in his hand for a change even though he likes his kindle a lot because it means that he can carry lots of big books on one tiny device. He feels like a commercial for Amazon. Everyone is forgetting the Rainforest and thinking of the company, much like the way that children think that Titanic was a fictional boat created by James Cameron and not a real tragedy that marked a turning point in the decline of the British Empire at the Start of the 20th Century. To laugh is to cry, he thinks and to cry to laugh. He feels energised from his recent healthiness and his lack of meat and dairy products may be a part of that but he is not sure. His chest is heavy, thick with congestion from allergies that began the Friday before and meant that he spent the whole day in bed choking and vomiting lumps of grim globs of sputum into his mouth to be spat away in lank lumps into the toilet. He has been drinking a lot of carrot juice and alternating between abstinence and unyielding marathon masturbation sessions that leaves him aching, weak, guilty and unhappy at his unwanted rawness. He wonders if he has a problem and concludes that he does not. He helps someone get a running machine and holds someone’s hand because they are sick with stress that they should be allowed to have at nine years old but life is often unfair. Then he goes home and he finishes watching The Avengers cartoon and reads some more of his Riddley Walker book and then he goes to sleep.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He is invigorated and energised from the yoga still that he did yesterday for an hour and a half in a sweltering room. He is still disappointed that he spilt a whole tub of bluberries on the sidewalk last night in the dark but he is glad that no one saw him or rather he hope that no one saw him because he only very half heartedly managed to sweep them up and when he walked past them to get to his car this morning they were jam on the concrete. He reads about the French and how easily they went back to normal after the German invasion during World War II. It makes him sad but he knows that there is nothing particularly about the French that made them do this, it was the fact that they were human beings and human beings do things that, in hindsight often look terrible and shallow and we think that we would never do those things but we would, we most likely definitely would. He then ate some lunch at work which was chicken and mozarella and tomato and carrots that he had cooked and it was pretty tasty. Then he thought about the future and then a little about the past. Then he focused on the present and thought about signing up for some more yoga classes whether through dehydration or energy he felt that it had given him something that he had not had in a long time. It could also have been the lovely sunny day that was doing this to him. The day continued full of energy and positivity and he really had nothing to complain about except for the fact that he could not play the piano nor sing professionally and that he had not yet finished his Great American Novel. He went to sleep bathed in happiness.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He is not getting enough sleep. He is going to start doing bikram yoga because of a woman that he met but didn’t really meet but spoke to on the phone but then he hadn’t made it clear that he was still married even though he had said he was separated and he thought that there was a difference between that word and divorced but apparently there wasn’t. September it is then, he thought, when life really begins if it can be said to ever have stopped. He tweets some things he thinks are amusing and they all get stored in the Library of Congress because all tweet get stored in The Library of Congress. He finishes a Philip K. Dick novel. He loves Philip K. Dick even though he seems to have been a number one asshole. He is getting skinny and toned and he is eating lots of nuts and dried berries and he has never felt healthier or more alone. He wants to stop drinking coffee. He wants to stop being a hypocrite. It took him far too long to find out how to spell hypocrite. So much for a University Education. The nights are hot and the days are even hotter. The summer is going to be a strange one and the cherry blossoms are getting ready to explode out of their buds this time for the 100th Anniversary of the gifting of the Cherry Blossoms by the Japanese to the Americans. He walks in the warm of the dark of the night and then collapses into bed.  A chicken is slowly rotting in his fridge but he does not have the energy to cook it. Tomorrow he will cook it but not today. He sleeps.

Another Day.


He wakes up to the sound of dramatic science fiction swells and realises that it is his new phone. He smiles because it amuses him. Then he has a shower and waits for his landlord who gives him a lift in his car after eating wet oatmeal. He is in a valley of pain this morning after the plateau that he reached yesterday. He is without resolution even though the Woman he Loves has total resolution and has moved on and he acknowledges that the emails that he has been getting are bots even though he is pretending that they are not. He is keeping those two ideas in his head because he is a human being and can keep two ideas in his head at the same time. He eats a bagel and he tries to get one hundred twitter followers by the end of the day simply because one hundred seems like a good number except he keeps getting people called FuckbooknOw and huearda0m0n which don’t seem like real people so he doesn’t add them even though he wants to add them. He gets a definitive response in upper case from the woman he loves that IT IS OVER and not to reply and that she is getting uncomfortable so at least he knows now and he has tried because before she used to say that he gave up so easily and now he has gone totally the other way and has become a stalker so he stops even though stopping makes him feel sick and continuing calms his nerves. He is definitely in danger of going insane so he goes to bed early.

Another Day.


He wakes up and he is late very late so late that he misses everything. Then he goes back to sleep and then on reawakening has a coffee with some peppermint creamer and a turkey sub roll with mayonnaise and mustard and pepper that he made himself then he has a shower and he wonders how is beard can grow so quickly. The train is delayed because one of the carriages is broken so he sits and he reads his book until it arrives. Then at work he directs something in Welsh and everything sounds like poetry. His soul is full of poetry but his life is not. He goes down to CVS and he smells the stink of sewage and this is not a metaphor about capitalism and chain stores but there really is a smell of sewage in the CVS but no one seems to be bothered by it. The amazing power of the human nostril to get used to a foul odour very quickly. Then he realises that it’s not the nostril but the olfactory glands and not really the glands but the sensitive electrical interplay between input of molecules into those glands and the manner in which the brain interprets them. Then he drinks some cookies and creme milk shake and eats some chocolate. After that he goes to a pool bar and has a drink with friends. He talked with friends but couldn’t stay for long and only had one drink and then waited for the train and then got on the train and then got off the train and walked up the escalator and then ran for the bus that he could see in the distance and then had a burger and then had some wine and then put on his pyjamas and then and then and then. His life was unravelling.

Another Day.


He wakes up. He tastes wine in his mouth. He is late. He runs but he can’t run far or fast because he has a bag. He spends all day at work drawing a picture of a lorax and being satirical. Then he drinks some more wine. He plays some Mario Galaxy 2. It is an elegant game. He is not an elegant man. He sends an email even though he shouldn’t and he doesn’t expect a reply. He goes to sleep and wakes up to Lawrence O’Donnell at 1am.

Another Day.


He wakes up. His alarm from the week is still on and it wakes him up on Sunday and he cannot get back to sleep and he is annoyed at this. He watches some television and then plays some board games and then goes out for a walk and it is cold but fresh and refreshing then he learns that the woman he loves was accidentally texted by the woman he doesn’t love and then there was an exchange of words and this happened a few weeks before the Trip so he starts to whirr and click and think maybe that made the whole trip a failure, maybe it was these unknown texts but he knows that it is not but he wants to rationalise his madness and hope for his fantasies and live in a Reality that he lost last year with his cowardice and the choices he made to have to pick between selfishness and selflessness and he picked the latter and he goes to bed thinking that he hated that he had to make that choice.

Another Day.


He wakes up and goes to bible study and is confused when he is asked how he could help the bible study leader tell him what he thinks God is. The whole point of these bible studies is to find out what God is. What is God? He doesn’t know. He gets confused and he gets angry but he manages to calm down. Then he wonders what he is still doing there because the woman he loves no longer loves him and the only reason he was going to these classes is so that she would love him more but now she doesn’t love him at all, after the tragic stalking debacle of the weekend before so he wonders how he might politely extricate himself from these proceedings then he has a better idea and thinks maybe he should keep on going and become a member of the Jehovah Witness Council that will make her love him he thinks. Then he calls his friend and tells him this idea and he soon realises what a silly idea it is. Even though his friend suggested that he use the money he has saved to go back to San Francisco and ride a horse to the woman he loves house and spread rose petals everywhere. He thinks his friend is joking. So he laughs. He then thinks that he should hire Depeche Mode to play for her as that is her favourite band and he will write a song for them and teach them to ride horses too and then everything will be fine and he will get married to her and have children with her in New Zealand. This is not going to happen. He knows this but he still dreams realising, as he talks that he is always happy thinking about the places he used to be in or the places he will be in not the place he exists in now. He will never be happy but he is used to this unhappiness and to have his life any other way would confuse him now that he is old and slowly balding in all the wrong places. He spends the afternoon drifting between sleep and masturbation until the two become one. Then he eats some food and plays some monopoly and watches some terrible television and thinks about his future without the woman he loves and sinks into the bitter sadness that he made for himself.