Hear Me Breathe

Not breed you idiot. Breathe. As in “a sigh of relief”.

I now finally understand why I couldn’t finish my novel. I wonder how many other easily distracted ADHD addled lunatics have the same problem.

I’ve been trying to include every good idea for a novel into this ONE. It would never have been finished. Because, so far, it’s 3 novels or so. And increasing.

Soon, it will be half a novel, and some ideas for the future. I can breathe again.

Fading

Who thinks I should go back to wearing purple nail polish ?
Who wants to go for a walk on this tree ?
Who thinks I should go back to wasting my time making videos to put on youtube and give up trying to write this fucking story ?

Ugly Sentence Day

Yesterday was fascinating, particularly the running commentary of Averil’s work day.
And it got me thinking about how there’s a good side to most things. I have too much pain, but then again, I don’t have to live through workdays that were actually killing me one at a time anymore because of that. Yes, that was a wonderfully bad sentence. Maybe I’ll turn this into a Spectacularly Bad Sentence blog. It feels kinda nice to write a really crook sentence sometimes and just leave it that way.
Anyway, I kinda remembered that being mostly broke and unemployable and having to live in a bus and stuff is mostly pretty great if you don’t count the pain, so this is a shot of me hard at work writing or reading or something. I have to lie down cos I can’t sit, so this is it, this is where I work. And that’s my built in bookshelf, nice hey.
I was gonna ask something else, but I’m full of wild painkillers and forgot, so how about if you read this, write a splendiferously bad sentence as a comment. Go on…. you know you want to.

Better Roots

Some days it feels like there’s plenty holding me to the planet. Other days not so much.
I suppose it’s what the space cadets and hippie types among us call being grounded. I’m allowed to call us that cos I’m a part time hippie space cadet…. But is being grounded all it’s cracked up to be ?
Being sane ?
Normal ?
I mean, it’s nice to have roots (all sorts), but wouldn’t it be better if they were really really long (ooooh, long roots) so we could kinda sway and float and fly a bit too ?

Join The Effing Dots

Ok, this is a ‘painting’ my girlfriend did on the ipad.
I’ll probably get in trouble for putting it on here.
I like it, I think it looks pretty cool, I know she enjoyed creating it, and am pretty sure she’d agree with me that, even if it was on canvas, it wouldn’t be worth a million bucks.
Thing is, I just read an article in our Sydney Australia newspaper, taken from The New York Times, about some arsehole called Damien Hirst, who’s described as an “art world star”.
Content is one thing… I suppose I just have to accept that if some sick fuck wants to use dead animals floating in formaldehyde to create his art. Damien Hirst does. People pay him millions for it. But fucking GRRRR anyway.
I’m not putting a link to the article because, frankly, I’d rather put the “artist” and whoever wrote the article in a tank of formaldehyde and display it in a gallery.
Anyway, more to the point, he is having huge exhibitions all over the world, where really fucking stupid people go, and pay, apparently, between $100,000 and $1,800,000 for paintings of random coloured spots that are, supposedly, his art, but, this overblown snotnosed wanker freely admits, he didn’t even paint them himself.
He painted five. All up. From when he started. And there’s hundreds of these things, and Stupid, no, Stupid, no, STUPID FUCKWITS are lining up to buy them.
They were painted by assistants.

Of the hundreds of spot canvases, Hirst painted only five himself. ”When I worked out how to do it, I sold one painting for, like, 50 quid and then used the money to employ other people to paint them,” he says, explaining he tells his staff he wants the colours to be random. Once, an assistant painted five yellow spots in a row. ”I told him those aren’t random,” Hirst recalls. ”And we had a big fight. Now I realise he was right and I was wrong.”

Sorry. Why should it matter to me ?
Ok, time to be proactive. How about every writer we can find just puts random single syllable words onto paper, and we get some famous writer who actually has no self respect or morals of any kind to sell them ?
And that can be art.
I’ll start.
Fuck. Fuck. fuck. fUck. FAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRK.

Sent from my Harry iPants

“Yair, she’s apples mate.”

Some days you’re the apple, some days you’re the knife.
Today I’m just some ordinary guy who gets to enjoy eating some apples, and maybe a small mountain of chocolate, and going nom nom nom nom nom.
Don’t get me wrong… I’m thankful for all the different experiences, but a few more days like this would be nice. Today I am normal, and I like it.

Not Me, Only It

This painting is not me.
In truth, it’s not even a real painting, but something ‘painted’ by me in Artrage, an iPad painting app. Such are our times, that to soothe my troubled (and for troubled let’s at least be truthful and say fucked up) soul, I can ‘paint’ how I feel without paint, brushes, canvas or talent.
Naturally, it kind of created itself. I was pretty much elsewhere, hellbent on self destruction, or something else with a more interesting name that means something like it, but not quite exactly that. So, this thing you see, it is not me, but It.
Some of you don’t need any explanation of what it is. Those of you who don’t know, sorry, can’t explain.
I signed it Harry iPants, but of course, that’s not me either. Strangely enough, that is my iPad’s name. My friend Harry, who is not real, but helps me anyway, somehow, when time is all I have, and I don’t want it anymore.
Time to stop ? I think so. Some days, you just can’t fix it with words. That’s why they keep making tomorrows I guess.

Sent from my Harry iPants