4th Dec - Naked Skies

4am -

Slept one-thirty till eight in the evening yesterday, before finding a slow drawn Murphy's stout, in the lonely self-conscious bar, followed by McDonald's (all the while looking on the screen at cocoa Rihanna and her ilk... beauties, temptresses... moulds of art!). On to Prestige Music Bar. Techno. Lost in my tabled partition, with expensive JD and coke and then a pint of Lech. All the while trying to overcome. Angry, self-interested, cold. Hungry for sex and touch and love. Without direction... all the others have been here before. Too many stories. Too many people. You in your own backyard... unknown.

Slept again from midnight till two. So up to read Kerouac and stand naked on the veranda, looking down on the town and up to the clear skies now ("I might be able to get up the mountains later"). Down on my bed to write and hope words formulate and that I grow child-like and tender and that one day I help the beggar or give glory to something, someone. Reasons reasons. And I think I don't need reasons. Only strength of body and mind to climb and sing and get drunk and caress. To sink down one day with thoughts of my beloveds. And our memories.

Memories of bike rides through the jungles back from Burma, talking to Long Necks and surveying smouldering vegetations, the smoke rising with the hot air and Bob my brother waxing lyrical. Hysterical laugher. Explorers. Bikers, in the warm muddy air. Hard as Fuke. Or out on the east stretching Himalayas, with my buddy of a week or so, getting high in the good air. True sages of the moment because everything was concentrated down to walking, breathing, surveying. Onwards. Zen.

4pm-

Got up the old mountain and a walk around. Then a sit in McDonalds perusing Zen Haiku by Soseki. Oh aching legs, feet, back, and brain. Feeling better though.

Waxing lyrical - 30th Oct '08

I want the soft skin and sweet breath of a lover.

The reason my happy moments have been in Thailand is because I've had intimacy there. It should be a given in your home country and within your own family. But sometimes I think I lost that around six years old.

Independent lifestyles - not requiring others so much - seems to lesson the value we put on others. I've pretty much surrendered to our psyche being wholly self-centred, self serving, but please don't take away those old good feelings of being valued. Even if, contrary to the moral talkings and delusions of the mind, it's a value of utility.

There I am, being self-centred about wanting to feel those sensations of being valued - that warmth and cushioning. Certain kinds of self-seeking also help the majority and if everything is Self motivated then let the motives that do this prevail.

Now it seems that I am concerned about others, which brings me back to a drunken and stoned conversation I once had with a Russian Canadian girl. I said that my moral framework of Utilitarianism is a tool for personal well-being within my Existentialism. I need to understand these things better.

On Russel Brand's BBC 2 broadcast Oliver Stone, the film director, said that a man normally forms himself in his thirties. That's something I've been feeling.

Two or three nights ago I had a dream in which my brother (Bob) and I were on a hill and then running downwards we came under gun-fire and dived for cover. There were no injuries to us during the scene which continued a little, though I don't remember the details. It seemed to be rural Cornwall with other non-specific people around. It felt like we were in an area occupied by an invading force.

Ah, give me a lover of the mind
Like Ginsberg who wanted to buy things
In the supermarket with his good looks
And send eggs to India

My good buddy who taught me to walk
And shared those days in the mountains
Eating white rice and tomatoes
Drinking white alcohol - Baijiu

We got drunk and danced on the street
I tried to make it with a mountain girl
It didn't work out with her
So we walked the short stumbling walk

Towards the Tibetan farmers house
My buddy fell off the step
Away from the ferocious tied dog
Towards the pig-pen roof... huuuph!

We made our reasons for life
With good people and views we got our highs
Don't let me dwell on the smug
In their machinery... mechanical lives

It's easy real, waywardness, nonchalent zeal
"Cheers!" to the moon and all its happy faces
Upon children playing on the sand
And rum coloured monks of alcoholic breath

The cold air, the glare, the ware and tare
It's alright, we'll get drunk with the clergy

They told me kerouac was a "Mummies boy"
I don't doubt that, I love him for it
Sitting in the porch with the dogs
Mamma's cooking in the brain




POEM

I demand that the human race
ceases multiplying its kind
and bow out
I advise it

And as punishment and reward
for making this plea I know
I'll be reborn
the last human

Everybody else dead and I'm
an old woman roaming the earth
groaning in caves
sleeping on mats

And sometimes I'll cackle, sometimes
pray, sometimes cry, eat and cook
at my little stove
in the corner

"I always knew it anyway"
I'll say

And one morning won't get up from
my mat

Jack Kerouac (1962)