Coastalblog

and in the cold light of morning you read back over the previous night's raving and.... some of it's okay, actually. This is how I work best. Get all worked up and simply blast and then in the cold and sober light of day edit edit edit. There're a couple of germs of good ideas in there, and that gives me something to work with. All of a sudden This reading seems a lot less scary (B-but Bill Griffiths has the same billing at the next one! Crikey!).

I have some very exciting news to share with you all. I appear to have started writing again with a VENGEANCE. This evening I decided to take it back to the old school and see what happened if I just sat, got good and drunk, and wrote, and you know, it seems to be working. I think largely the blogging may be a part of it. Admittedly Coastalblog is a semi regular endeavour at best but even that lax discipline reminds me of what it is to write, which is, I feel, the most important thing. Even the shortest blog entry is an act of creation, and the best way to perpetuate creativity is to keep creating. On a slightly more downbeat note though, having read back through some of it it's the most self-lacerating stuff I've ever produced. I think my subconscious may have a down on me at the mo. Whatever, it feels good to have words on page again. Speaking of which, this bit's an open letter to Laura. Still write at all? Cuz you really should, I think (I know, I really should

Three things: Well fucking done Porl. I'm immensely proud. Well fucking done Jim and Robin also. Adam and I really should be kept apart, the world can't take that much ennui in a confined space. Sam is a bad bad man. A very very bad bad man. Normal service to be resumed once I'm through writing this story about a man who wilfully fucks up his own life for no readily apparent reason (ahem). One more thing. Isn't Sloop John B a brilliant song? (I'd never make it as a music journo...)

The one dayer with New Zealand was called off due to bad weather. In other news nothing happened. Nothing at all.

Ahem, my, I was in a bad mood that day wasn't I? Relax, normal service will be resumed. So over on ILE there was an almighty brouhahah after some chap said he woas going to produce a book of threads using cafepress. Nasty words like "copyright infringemen" were bandied about. Now, regardless of how silly the entire thing was (and those getting angry at him were pretty much in the right) the one thing which I did take from it was how jolly seriously everyone seemed to take themselves. I mean, I write and everything, but I've cheerfully given poems away to people without any thought as to where they may turn up. For all I know, my copyright is being badly infringed as I write this, it doesn't bother me overly; I can always write more poems. Neither do I think that anything that I write is of such massive importance that I'm going to get in a snit about it, but that's just me, it would appear. I probably should have contributed this to the thread in questio

Weeeeell. I feel strange. Everything in my life points towards some significance, but as to what significance, I cannot tell. From the moment I wake, to the last few gasps of the day my life feels cinematic. I am living outside of myself, I have no idea of why this should be. It is almost a feeling of being extra-alive, with the concomitant problems of feeling so much . I'm crying a lot more these days, often for no reason. I got back from work tonight, sat in my chair and just wept. I have no idea why. When I wake, I'm like a bullet, I tear into the day. My workrate when I'm in my job leaves others shaking their heads. The long hours on the track, or on the treadmill, or doing laps of the woods or lengths of the pool, the thousands of situps, the solitary nature of the training regime I've imposed on myself for reasons I remain unsure of all add up to a growing sense of alienation from pretty much everything. My answer to everything is like Boxer's in Animal

As an autumn-loving adolescent, addicted to big jumpers and moping under grey Cornish skies my mother always wisely said to me "as you get older, you'll like summer more." In this she was right, as I've got a little older I have a growing fondness and regard for sunlight, an ear more attuned to the soprofic qualities of bees, an almost religious devotion to breakfasting outside with the papers and a large bowl of blueberries. Fifteen year old me would be disgusted, and fly straight back to his Smiths records and Turgenev. I like summer. In all respects but one. The temperature rises, and my fellow countrymen collectively lose their minds on a heady cocktail of long evenings and two for one deals. It would be all too easy to come off sounding like a grumpy liberal writing this (aha, and the Dead Kennedy's have just come up on random play - how apt), but I do beleive that the nation's gone a bit nuts. I stood outside the door at work on the final mwhistle

Feeling kinda disjointed at the moment. Pretty good...but not that good. Something, and I have no idea what is nagging away at the back of my mind. But it won't let me see it, yet. Hmm. Some moments from the last week or so which have crystallised with perfect clarity though.. last week, cleaned the yard. Not all that exciting in and of itself, but slightly more so when it occurred as this kind of compulsion. Woke up "must clean yard" by the end of the day was eating a meal on new furniture in suddenly clean yard. Odd. Very odd. Trip with R to Byrne's of Clitheroe, the greatest wine merchants I've ever been in (admittedly not the hugest of fields, but I am yet young). The rising sense of excitement as room gave way to room, each more full of fabulous wine than the last. I shopped Also, the view from the top of the castle. I had to work Sunday, so missed the debacle in Portugal, it was a little strange, as on the final whistle I could hear this beer-sat