There's something really excellent about bright days during which it pisses down like god had too many pints the night before. I was sitting on the bus minding my own business when there was a massive downpour which set wide streams of water flowing down the windows, really fast. The world was suddenly transformed into distorted wobbly strips, with transparent glints of light writhing like muscles down the glass. Fuck. Okay, so it was just rain on a window, you say. Big deal. But no, it wasn't, it was something which made me happy to be there and have my eyes open and see it, at that time. Rain usually makes me pissed off. But not this time.

Yesterday I wrote this really long spiel about everything from estate agents walking around the house to crying in the forest to working out, taking a meandering path through the glades of trying to figure out whether you can tell if you're in love, and emerging into the stark and powerful sunlight of a glass of gin and tonic. But it all went to shit when I tried to post it, so fuck it, I'm not doing it all again because I can't remember how I phrased it all, and anyway I was drunk.

So anyway, reading for the day. Go here and here. If nothing holds any interest, write to the webmasters concerned. Don't think of blaming me; you won't find my email address anywhere. :o)

Okay, after yesterday's playful little verbal stunt, I reckon it's time for something a bit more serious. Today, I... woke up feeling bad, which rapidly turned to feeling badder when dad and I had one of the customary older-son-has-moved-back-with-much-older-father small fights. But why is it that arguing with someone, even if only for a few seconds, in the morning has such a shitty effect on the rest of your day? It was only about clearing a couple of rooms out so that estate agents can come out and value the house this week.

Well. Hmm - it was *only* that, yeah, like that's a small thing in your life when you're looking for some small measure of security in what increasingly seems to be a mad world where the nasty things are waiting to lead you down an alley and have their wicked way with you. And where the nice things in life have already grabbed someone else and are probably right at the end of the alley, fast approaching a stellar and dreamy-eyed climax.

Today feels like it's been stolen. Which is a bad thing when most days are things that your head might get a handle on or might not, depending purely on chance. There was a woman talking on the radio (thank god bus drivers don't always listen to regional news programmes!) about psychotherapies, and how most of them owe their genesis, in some way, to Sigmund Freud. At the end of her little spiel, she was talking about how one of the therapies is geared to purely and simply giving a person adequate time and space, and attention if necessary, to thinking about themself, and their needs, and how they fit into the world. Bloody hell, I don't know what that is, but I reckon the world would be a much better place if we all had about 6 hours of that every week!

It'd do a lot more for my general wellbeing than the insanely prolonged workout I just did.

So Cannes brings my life of the past 18 months to the screen, and causes an uproar. I was waiting for that film to be made, and finally it has been.

;o)

Having a pleasantly unorthodox Sunday. Sitting here playing Eminem very loudly with the door open, not caring what dad thinks.

Went into town today to find that the Lord Mayor's parade was taking place. Belfast's so prim usually about these things, but today there was this sort of bizarre atmosphere, as if the city was slipping uncontrollably into a carnival which it was worried it might never be able to escape from. I got off the bus to find loads of really quite attractive young people around, and thought I'd kinda like to have sex with a guy who was wandering around and looking almost as lost as I must have done.

But nothing came of it, so I went into HMV and saw this weird brightly-coloured CD on the player stands. The latest offering by Kronos Quartet and certainly lives up to their strong wacky wildness. And wow, I was swung, captivated, and even though I have nearly no money right now I had to buy it. It's got this cute pixelated ass inside the booklet too. You have to buy it too.

Today feels like a no-day; not really like a Saturday at all. I think it was the unexpected carnival in town that did it. And just to top it off, when I got home, I found that a plane has crashed into the sea with no expected survivors; usually plane-crashes are difficult enough to connect with anyway, but on a day like this it just feels like it's added one more frame to the movie, not the real-life day which I'm meant to live through as if it's my own.

Either Alex is being abrupt with me, or abrupt generally, or I'm feeling it too much. Either way, there's something to learn from it. Your online friends often matter to you a hell of a lot more than you can give them, or yourself, credit for. And you should always beware of words without the patterns of a human voice, because they may be playing tricks on you.

Just been reading Alain de Botton (he sounds like such a pretentious person from his name, don't you agree?) on travel, and the beauty of the countryside. What he wrote sort of shocked me. I've always thought that Wordsworth's poems are sort of sissy. Daffodils, trees, lovely clouds gently brushing the verdant hilltops with their wispy streamers etc.... what floaty bollocks. But actually, de Botton was talking about travelling in the Lake District, and how, when you leave a big city and spend even 3 days in places like that, it can give you a big emotional lift. Not immediately, maybe. But if you're sitting in a crowded tube-train and someone next to you is pissing you off (by being businessy, let's say), having something like this



flash into your head can give you a tiny but significant reason to live. And as much as I hate to say it, Wordsworth's poetry, in its celebration of all that, might just have a point. But christ, William, enough with the poofy similes, okay?

LEVEL 4 -- SOMEWHAT STRAIGHT ACTING

A few people might suspect that you might not be a heterosexual. No one knows for sure, but there are rumors about what you're doing on the weekends. Most of your traits are straight acting but a few traits you have are causing people to wonder, but nothing is so apparent that anyone is sure enough to bring it up.



And this is me, without lying, and without the influence of all my granny's ornaments which have recently been sent from this house to Yorkshire. Thank god.

LEVEL 10 -- QUEEN STATUS

There is no more feminine than you. You're simply a woman trapped in a mans body. You've made the calls about getting 'the operation' and you go to sleep every night thinking how easier it would be to be a woman instead. Over 50% of your clothes in your closet are designed for women, and life just gets better and better the more level 10 people you hang out with.



This is me.

Businesspeople annoy me. I was sitting in this great coffeeshop in Belfast today, Clement's, and there were a whole clump of them sitting at my table. With their fake smiles and sense of importance, and loudness, they really got up my nose. Hmm, guess it's not just businesspeople who annoy me then.

So yeah, I was there to read the paper while I enjoy doing in there because you've usually got enough room to spread out and actually read. Rather than being shoved, and making sure the newsprint doesn't add a subtle flavour to someone's skinny latte. And I found a really interesting article about this Roman guy who's been found in a grave dressed as a girl. I don't think that challenges what I've said before about their sense of logic and fear of the instinctive, but I could be wrong. I mean, if a priest turns up wearing a dress, big deal, we'd say today. Back then, similarly, big deal, because he was a priest I guess and had a job to do with his authorized little sect. But the Romans were the people who thought it was absurd and threatening to ignore a group of crazy people who thought death didn't mean dying and who drank the blood of the guy they loved the most. The christians. Are the lengths to which they went, truly, so absurd? I dunno...

And from the Guardian, the news that "The literary establishment sharpened its talons last night as Booker prize judges warned that plans to Americanise the prestigious award would cause irreparable damage to a great British tradition. The prize, Britain's most sought-after literary award, was last month renamed the Man Booker prize in honour of its sponsor, the Man fund management firm. The sponsor swiftly announced that the £50,000 award, for Commonwealth writers only, could be opened to US writers by 2004."

My god. Another example of a company sticking its oar in, trying to be smooth and nonchalant. Whereas what actually happens is that it drenches some poor bastard who wants nothing to do with stirring anything up: the authors for example. I mean, I'm a poet. I don't care who decides about the famous prizes or how much money's on offer, so long as they don't exclude anyone and most importantly it's not run by a company. But why open the Booker to the US when they have their big prize?

Through listening to Miles Davis for the past hour, and encountering Peer's site, I've come very much to the conclusion that Miles' trumpet solos are the musical equivalent of little fluffy kittens. :o) Awwww....

Some irritatingly cheerful woman is standing in a studio with an excited and purposeful audience. They're discussing the UK government's plans to start both a hard-hitting anti-drugs campaign in schools, and a policy whereby those horrible young people who sell drugs will be expelled from their schools.

Oh yeah, and that's really going to work. Actually, I'm not sure that we should have an anti-drugs policy in this country at all. Of course the fcking pathetic talkshows and audiences, and all the sententious middle-aged Very Concerned Parents who form part of those audiences, will have a field day over this. But my mate Chris is a doctor, and he'd legalise stuff like E as soon as he could if it was up to him. E doesn't kill you. Heroin doesn't kill you. Abuse of anything kills you very quickly, even alcohol. Why the hell this country has got such a puritan little underbelly about such things, when its roots are pagan, grabs me. But then, we did get fucked in the ass by the Romans and I guess they were terrified of anything which wasn't absolutely based on logic.

Sorry about that; I would've written a little snippet of something about me, which would educate and entertain. But I've had water dripping out my nose for every single second of today and I'm feeling shitty and the only way I can write anything is to be critical. Grrr.

Something I've just remembered, which really should have been the first post on here, is that this blog entered my mind purely after I'd seen Russ's page and thought it was cool. I downloaded Movable Type, and whaddaya know. I couldn't even install it. Don't know how to! But thanks Russ. :o)

Just spent a night talking about various gym routines with Mark. We were looking forward to gymming together later in the week, and now my nose is running so much and my head's feeling so thick that I think I'd rather french-kiss a skunk instead.

I should organise to do more active stuff when I *don't* have a cold!

There's definitely something really weird about being in this house right now, and there is a host of reasons why that could be. The first is that I've just comparatively recently had to move back here from London, which I felt was my true home and still do. The second is that I never expected to be living back here ever again. The third is that dad has now retired and he's here all the time - so when I'm here, he's here, clogging up the place with just his presence. (He doesn't get me down, but you know... I can only be around him so much.) And the final reason is maybe the most significant.

Some other family is going to be living here in less than a year.

Some other people. Strangers in my bedroom that's been mine for the past 24 years, strangers in the room mum and dad shared. It's just weird. What's even weirder is that I will see none of this taking place - because quite simply the place will no longer belong to us. If I even went back here to take a look at the place, I couldn't even walk up the driveway without explaining myself.

Oh well. I'll be going here:



tomorrow, to play for a while, and I'll probably forget all this.

Okay, this has to be the sickest thing I've heard about Northern Ireland all day. It's even worse than that car being stolen yesterday with a baby sleeping in the back.

This is it. My day is rapidly turning into html heaven. First Owen teaches me how to make links, and then Alex sends me the most wonderful message which is making me slightly jelly-like even now. Probably not a good idea, as jelly is hell to shift off cushions, but there you go.

I love both of them, but I haven't had chance to go at Alex against any railings yet. I'm not sure whether it'd be appropriate either...

Oh, and apparently I'm also:

which Episode II character are you?

Trystan just got me to do a test on emode, and apparently I'm a sexgod.

Hugged

I just got back from a morning in town (which is Belfast for those who don't know). When I woke up, I thought it was the middle of the night, it's so dark. And I have a cold coming on. It was nice to sit in a tiny coffeeshop and look at the rain on the glass, but I can't help feeling it would have been better if someone had been there to provide conversational warmth.

It's weird, but on days like this, when the weather is foul and you'd expect my mood to be, I feel sort of wrapped-up and hugged instead.

Like Peace

Like peace, but not really. Especially when you hear your dad, through a *wall*, fart in his sleep.

Sitting

Sitting in this room, late at night, with nothing much more than enya and a drink to concentrate on, is sort of like peace.