With Nails and Eyes . . .

. . . it digs for penance inside my skull. It shall find none.

I've been drinking, like, a LOT recently and I'm all out of medicine.

Thought Bubble 1:

Honestly, not a right lot has jumped right out and slapped me in the face whilst screaming for attention this week. I know a lot HAS happened in the world, a lot of horrible, nasty stuff. Stuff that just doesn't come off when washed. But I can't find the energy to give a shit about any of it. I think it happens to us all at some point. We invest our energies solidly into projects [in my case political justice, informing the masses and excessive anger issues] until one day all that energy is spent and all we feel like doing is recharging those batteries. Upon that moment of complete hate depletion, suddenly and disturbingly, I notice how nice 'outside' looks. Suddenly it seems like a really great time to dig out those summer shorts you never wear and put on a vest and walk to the shops in white socks and sandals*. In other words, I think, because I so rarely have them, that I am on holiday . . .

. . . by mistake.

This week I will write about some thing more pleasant, in bubble format, because I am sure that is exactly what everybody wants. My certainly levels are at critical mass on this. The world is so full of doom and fucking gloom right now, everyone is talking about rape and freedom of independent journalism and recession and . . . some thing to do with football. Probably.

On the 15th of August at ten twenty a.m. I was sat here at the computer, in this very spot, when I heard the thud of out mail hitting the rug down stairs. Hazy with the weight of sleep, head still stuffed with fading dreams and cotton wool I lurched up from my desk and slowly descended the stairs. This was unusual behaviour for me, for this week at least, as I had been expecting a letter. It was important. Well, ish . . . but that had not stop me from sprinting off, leaving behind a dissipating dust cloud silhouette like a excitable puppy every time the post man came. Not that day though, I think that was the first day of my holiday.

I'm sitting down to enjoy my . . . I'm not sure, actually.

There on the mat was a single face down white envelope. The instant I saw it I knew it was THE letter. I turned it over. It was addressed to me from a post code I didn't recognise. It was bizarre because I knew that at that moment I should be feeling overwhelmed with anticipation but instead I felt nothing. It was such an odd feeling. But anyway, I casually opened it up knowing what it contained and, yes I was right - a letter of confirmation from Leeds Building College. I'd evidently been in the top thirty marks on the exam they made me take in order to apply for a place otherwise they wouldn't have sent out the letter. I start my level 2 electrician on the 5th of September.

I put the letter down and shuffled pathetically yet with enthusiasm into the kitchen to make a celebratory coffee.

Later that week I told my mum the good news. Naturally she was very proud. She told me in turn that she has a friend who might be able to get me a place on a work site for job experience. I'll need to speak to the guy myself but I think that's a fairly good opportunity and I don't want to pass that by. Plus if I talk to the college about it I might be eligible [with the on site training] to be bumped up to a level 3 course.

It all got a bit out of hand from there . . .

And I did.

On Sunday of last week myself, my house mate, our mutual friend, my brother and his girlfriend [who brought the most delicious home made cookies] were all staying in and played card and computer games. Actually only one game [Magic: The Gathering] and only one computer game [Sonic Generations] but we played more then one game of each so I'm justified in my use of the word 'games'. Point is - we got totally sloshed and much chuckles were had and I took particular enjoyment out of accepting any and every intoxicant that was passed my way.

This was my third week of drinking. I was feeling rather confident, proud even, of my stamina, especially given the weekend before that I'd crawled up stairs an thrown up a red wine and stomach acid sauce into the sink. On this night there was no sauce.

At nine that evening myself and my brother ventured out into the darkness with the intention of seeing a friend who was passing through the city on his way to Paris. He was travelling with his partner of a year and was eager for me to meet her. He is notoriously vocal and slightly excentric making conversation at times bizarre and frantic so we made all the sensible preparations.

We met up and hit North Bar, a lovely independent art and real ale bar in the centre of the city, until one in the morning when they had to get their coach to London. With an hours walk home we departed company on merry terms and got home and became yet more sloshed and played card games until about five a.m. When we finished playing I was so tired that my brain had just given up and started the decomposing process, brain goo dribbling out of my nose and tear ducts.

I slept like the dead.

The next day I felt liked I'd died an been resurrected. The dead lay where they fell. There was nothing but carnage and blood shed. Relics from the night before that I did not recognise. An empty bottle of rum here . . . half rolled "cigarettes" littered the floor . . . I make my way to the kitchen. It could have been five seconds or five hours, I didn't know how long or how but I made it.

Some one had brought home some fresh flowers. That must have been me.

I knocked the power on the kettle and rummaged around in the cupboard until I had five coffee cups, filled them with coffee or tea bags, poured water and milk into one of them and walked off with it. I had done my part, the others would have to fend for themselves. I sipped it. It tasted like liquid life.

Some one cooked breakfast. Maybe it was me. In fact it was. I remember now. Like recalling a nightmare it's coming back in flashes. Yes, that's right. I did because no body else could. I cooked sausage sandwiches with surprising gusto. We all ate at different paces. I find it fascinating how different people react to hangovers. Some people just cannot eat for their lives and others, like myself, become an unsaitable 'nom nomming' machine. When the bottomless pit that is my stomach awakens it DEMANDS sacrifice. It is a vengeful God . . . It was rough but together, some how, we made it through.

Stay STRONG, boys. We CAN make it through this!

When every one was alive again, by which I mean we now had the energy to groan whilst staring blankly at nothing in particular, we played Magic: The Gathering on the PS3 til about three in the afternoon when we'd all stopped groaning like apathetic zombies, more or less. It was then that we all consciously made an agreement to get on with our days before something aweful happened, like more drinking.

After my brother and his girlfriend left we piled into a car and raced across town taking the longest route possible to go pick up the latest addition to our house hold. I didn't have time to feel sick from the journey as we were travelling too fast. Thank our lucky stars that we were not pulled over by the police. Three wrecked looking men with glazed expressions crammed into a speeding black Golf. That would have gone down well.

We arrived without arrest nor accidental death. After a five minute meet and greet of my house mate and his friend to my friends we left them to recover as much as we needed it ourselves. No one wants to hang out with other people who are hung over unless you've shared the experience together. It's like trying to talk about an orgy at the S.T.I. clinic. Either it turns into a bragging contest or people get jealous. They just cannot grasp the full extent of the experience and, ultimately, they probably will vomit.

We drove home and put the housemate on the table. We watched it through clear plastic. It was a giant African land snail.

It's name is "Φ". That's Φ spell Φ an pronounced Φ or "fee". I like to think that it's because of the Fibonacci sequence of the snails shell. How cool is that, eh?

This next part I've had to "re-pen" as the event took place before I could publish this blog online. Damn you time!

Yesterday at three in the afternoon I travelled to Manchester to attend a job interview. Not a well paid job but it could lead onto other things. I wont lie - it's been nearly a year since I was employed and all my previous references have literally vanished. I've had no work in the arts for over two years. Desperate does not quite cover it.

The position is as a performance artist during an international arts festival being hosted in Manchester. The role and meaning behind the piece is as follows: 'A Dream Came Through' by Lanfranco Aceti questions the politics of exploitative labour. In a durational performance half-naked 'workers' sign a contract of exploitation before being paid, quite literally, to do nothing, whilst fanning themselves for all to see. To some, this might seem like an ideal situation. To others, it could give rise to the question of whether all labour is merely institutionalised enslavement. How successful is the real promise of a minimum wage, of economic liberation, within a 'dream society'? Or indeed, within the context of an art world event?

This really appeals to me because of my history of working minimum wage jobs, plus my theatre and politics background. I love that it highlights the pointlessness, the mentally taxing, boring, exhausting, tedious and demanding conditions. Humiliating uniforms [we'll be wearing white Italian underwear and vest that may not fit] and the minimum amount of breaks [fifteen minutes for every four hours working on the job - which is what we'll get as actors]. I think, to enforce this point, that's why we are working three hours on the first day and seven hours on the second day - so that we cannot be entitled to breaks. This is common practise for many companies so they don't have to pay for an extra fifteen minutes worth of employment time per day at the expense of the workers. I'll receive a copy of my contract of exploitation when the show is over.

This is all of course pending that I get the job. But still I am quite excited by the idea of doing this. Having been subjected to minimum wage jobs and work fare programs I love this idea as a piece of art and actively want to show others what the experience is like. It SCREAMS to me.

If worst comes to worst and I want out, I could throw a strike. I'm not kidding.

So all in all this week has been alright. If you ignore all the horrible stuff that is, as I did.

Thought Bubble 2

In addition, for free and as advertised, here is a list of mini-Thought Bubbles that I've had recently. Go on, take them:

" Amature writers steal ideas, mature writers pay 'homage' "
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" Today I asked God why 'He' made me an atheist. God did not answer. " - Not by me, but it's rather good isn't it?
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A poem about opinion.

"Opinions are relative,
Much like this poem.
You may agree with it,
Or not"
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* I'd like to make clear that I do not own white socks or sandals. I'm not a sadist.