Wednesday, November 12, 2008


Truth is, after years of threatening to, last week I finally cracked. Everything broke inside and everything caught up and it was all I could do to just stand there, wide eyed and smashed, and wonder if this was it, this was how it ends. Oh, I was working long hard days, djing four nights in a row, but it wasn't an exhaustion thing. It was just, The End.
So there was an escape route, and I jumped on it. A brief moment of another life where I could find a centre, breathe, do the thing that people do, get up off the canvas, make a list, be like the squirrel.

The ghosts came too.

They came with me, round the corners, up the roads, chewy and bitey and remindey and guilty, guilty, guilty, you don't deserve this, you don't deserve a god damn thing. That's what it said, where ever I went. That I don't deserve a god damn thing.

How do you answer that? To yourself, I mean. How do you answer that when you say to yourself, you're right. I don't.

You don't. You just keep moving. And be grateful of that.

Anyway, today's the first day. Today comes after last week, when I killed myself in the hope of rebirth. Today comes in a mosquito heat with an unforgiving sun which punishes me like I want it to.

Thankyou, master.

But rebirth is a falsehood. I came back the same person, down below the same mountain, with the same fucking heart and the same feet which ache to touch the earth but always seem to hang dangerously over the edge of a precipitous calamity.

I came back more lost than ever.

Was I ever found? Do you remember a time that I was ever found?

So here's the thing. You wake up in a forest. It's dark but you can see the light of the moon. So which way do you go?

I always thought up.

But thinking's the trouble.

Don't think.

Just walk.

And your feet say down. Down towards water, water towards the sea, the sea towards the horizon, the horizon brings tomorrow, tomorrow brings hope.

And hope brings happiness.

I hope.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry to everyone. But there's a time when sorry dies and what's left is either regret or determination. And today I've got to find the latter, the ladder, which will help me find the answers, the grey ghosts which bound through the forest of my own making.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

I don't know what's going to happen now.

I don't know what's going to happen now.


  1. What happens now is sorry. But who is it to?


  2. What happens now is fix myself to be able to stand in front of other people.

    There is a lot to face.

    There is a lot to face.

  3. You are now of your own making...all that has passed is in the past; perhaps there is no resolution; equally no crutch.

    Richard Pryor had it right: You either make your life chicken shit or chicken salad...