Outside would be better

Midsummer naturally concludes a marker in time, a point when everything suddenly becomes clearer than mountain spring water and for a brief few minutes, your place in life suddenly seems to make sense.

For a few precious moments everything in life untangles, simplifies and becomes so sharply clear.

Don’t ask me where this clarity comes from. I have no idea. I don’t fully believe it truly is present, yet every year on this long summer day it reappears. There is no logical sense in believing that one day in the year conjures up this sense. Its kinetic and reflective, its something that’s present, sitting in a bit of floating brain-grisle.

Is this just an imagined belief? Am I just a hippy? Did dabbling in Paganistic ideas influence thoughts? Or is there actually something really in existence that we are aware of regardless of prior experience and knowledge.

The summer solstice is the day in the Northern hemisphere when the sun and the moon’s axis tilts towards the sun more so than any other day each year. It is the longest, lightest day of the year. This is an undisputible fact.

In our industrious artificial lives does this still effect us, are we even aware of this fraction more daylight received? Citydwellers – most of us are –  are so removed from nature it’s hard to think such subtle changes still have the capability of effecting our feelings and knowledge. Perhaps it is purely an empirical understanding than cannot be shaken no matter how urbanised we are. Yet it is a day so deeply entwinned in natural light maybe it is unescapable to even those who live artificial lives.




One year ago today I was half asleep in a tiny car. 

After dawn we climbed trees and drank a bottleof Morgan’s Spiced rum, while Mike the viking tried to poke us out of a tree with a giant stick. More of a tree trunk than a stick, really. Wondering up the hill afterwards, we ate tomato pasta salad with our fingers and fell asleep in the dawn sun. Sometime after we wondered back to the car and fell asleep. This was all in the name of midsummer, the Solstice.

When it got too hot we sleepily stumbled out the car into the early morning sun, finding shade and Waynes van. Everything is somewhat blurry about this point. Several of us squeezed into the front seats, falling asleep squished into gangly shapes. The seats were not big enough to sleep on, let alone for two or three not-so-small people. Sometime later Joy’s shoes were thrown on the roof of the van. There was some tired drama and eventual shoe retrieval.

After this everything is a blur. Then suddenly we were home. I don’t remember anything other than falling asleep squashed between people in the back of the car and drinking red bull when my eyes cracked open.


I am sat at a desk staring at a monitor wondering why I am feeling sad. Later on I will stand in an off-license pulling disgusted faces when people reeking of layers of dried sweat and stale alcohol stumble over the doorstep of the shop. And then Midsummers day will be over.

I would have liked to be outside, in the world today.



Summertime means summer wine, musky sticky goose-bump evenings, barbecues and sunburn. Dawn keeps breaking just before I wake up after passing in  and out of too-hot half sleep. I keep hoping things’ll become fun; life focused and ready to pounce on every little bit of it I can. Thats  not so when there is no-where to go, no reason or want to fight on.

I keep trying to find a life direction, plan an adventure that is not just a few months floating about, return to Uni or find an internship. Do something with a little meaning and use to myself and the/my world.

There is not enough concentration in me to complete and organise any of the above. This really bothers me. Failure is currently the situation.

For someone that always tells other people to stop talking about there ideas, and start doing them, I am a massive raging hypocrite… Writing this just adds to this some more.

There were so many ideas, ambitions in me. I was on track to getting some of them off the ground and floating into reality. Moving to Southampton was never intended as a permanent thing. It was a transition into the future. I had forgotten this.

Then last year happened. I’m still a tad stuck.

Searching for the unreachable, unobtainable, something. What the unreachable is, I don’t know.  I know it is there, it’s always there – right behind my eyes, itching the back of my brain, scrabbling to escape. It’s in the sky, in the stars, in my feet and shin muscles, fingertips, on the stairs over the railway, it’s around the corner you saw a fraction too late.

It’s down the alley with the broken windows and peeling paint you walked past everyday for months and only just saw. Behind a door that’s not yet been opened. It’s in everything – utterly everything – the bitter taste of life, the swirl of conversation over Polish beer, the pain of dry broken and stamped on chances, the gulp of coffee that burnt the roof of your mouth and then your stomach, the dreary moments that drag at work, the glance out the window, the mental kicking you give yourself for not taking a chance, bumping into someone you rarely see as you walked the long way back.

If there was a conclusion, a direction, sense of ease; this would not be here.

To step out of the body would be nice, fresh. Leaving behind a skin as reptiles do, regenerating into a new, better, stronger, quicker, more efficient self. To step out of the mind would be, unfathomably good. A sterile slate of emptiness.

Questions with no answers. Although I appreciate answers

Sometimes  you see someone, with life bursting out there eyes like they are trying to commit eye-suicide and jump right out of their face.

These are the people that seem alive. These are the people that have not lost the childlike curiosity that gets squashed and squashed and squashed away, the older you get as if some greasy belly-button fluff.

Why do people lose this spark and curiosity? How can life be so uneventful and unexciting and dreary that morbid existence takes over and that spark is gone. Then suddenly they are in their forties, fifties, sixites saying Fuck. What the hell have I done with my life.

My questions…..

What makes you feel alive, truly alive?

What do you want to do before you die?

(which is something you should do now, today, if feasible. Who know’s whats outside right now. Endless chaotic possibilities and scenarios)


Last time I wrote an entry here,  my mind felt like it was crawling through red-hot 3D Tetris building blocks that were

Tetris life fail

covered in grease and emitting burning plastic chemical smog. How is it possible to let things be and not question them? Equally there is at some point, a place where you have to stop questioning everything and its finer intent, meaning, reason and point, or it’s complete head-jelly-bake time.

For years, I would obsessively play tetris in the dark, on my phone, as I was going to sleep.  Maybe that didn’t help me sleep after all.

It is about two and a half weeks later

I can happily report that returning to take ballet classes was a good idea. The stability of a normal, 9-5 Web Assistant job is probably the thing that has levelled me out a little. A little structure and having a manger who isn’t a neurotic-psychotic-dumb-as-fuck bint is pretty damn useful. I would like to think that having some direction (my latest plan is to learn HTML properly, XML and CSS and then get some super-well-paid WebCat job) will chill me out a bit. Bollocks will it.

This is the first time I have ever had a job I kind of enjoy – despite only a basic position – and within a few weeks when I have learnt everything there is to know about the system I use,  i’m sure i’ll be bored. As yet I still have to concentrate and learn though, which is to be honest, a godsend. I need distractions and busyness still. I am sad for many things, and I hate it.

Some things/events are and always will/would have been out of my control. A friend dying is not something I can control. I can control how I react, or don’t react, to this. That’s what I would like to believe and consistently get pulled up on unexpectedly. But I don’t know how I can deal with it. It is just a fucked up dream thats not going away.

Writing about this feels like a fictional work. This could easily be a story about someone else. Someone who I have made up. I need to deal with this, not just shed a few tears unexpectedly when I get caught off-guard, before I realise, stare off into the distance for a while and plaster a fake smile on. I want to write about this: normally writing helps. Not now, there is even a detachment from writing. Normally this is where I am most brutally honest with myself.

I like Eisbrecher today.

Now I just have to deal with my own decisions. I am very sad today, the things that are hardest are sometimes the only thing to do. It is easier to cut myself away from people, possessions, communication and responsibility; chill out my mind a bit. The less there is, the simpler it becomes, right? I need to see if everything settles into some kind of sense, rather than to bombard myself with emotions that as I have recently rediscovered still flood back like a lumbar puncture gone wrong.

I wish my life was an experiment, a bit like a ‘Learn chemistry lab kit’, you get when you’re a kid. A load of harmless chemicals that react and foam up and make a bit of a rank smell when placed in some cheap test tubes, some litmus paper and plastic tweezers. Token goggles too, goggles make things more fun.

I was going to go to Bang The Boar – what Bang The Boar is, I am not entirely sure. I don’t think my ear’s will cope with this tonight however.

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