haters gonna hate – even the shit i be proud of, yeah?


January 2013

erotic neurotic – the saints

I’ve written quite a bit of erotica this week, mostly to try to see what kind of voice comes over in it.
It’s been a challenge, but I wanted to see if I could write in this style.
After the chaos ‘n’ carnage of the last month, a bit of nice simple filth was a walk in the park.
There’s also the challenge of writing about sexual matters when one’s own sexuality is (so I’m told) complex.
When I started writing Dreich NOiR, it was an exercise in trying to write about vanilla sex as if it was a good thing. Which was quite a challenge for me!
I think it worked, though. The central character’s enthusiasm for shoving his penis inside women is one of his biggest motivations and the writing reflected that.
Funnily enough, Dreich NOiR was begun in the closing overs of a relationship that had deteriorated to the point of no physical, emotional – or even cultural – contact.
So, the whole time I was writing it, I was completely alone and profoundly un-sexual.
Sitting writing those endless fucking-scenes was like breaking into a brand new genre of science-fiction…
Imagine a world where happiness was measured by the throughput of naked people in your life! Or a world where there was only one way to communicate – and it invariably involved banging one’s genetalia against someone else’s!
This is the headspace I inhabited in 2012. The idea of performing any of the sexual acts in Dreich NOiR would have been comedic – beyond surreal – sex had become something that only ever happened to rich people and americans.


don’t do what you’re told, do what you think – throbbing gristle

I first heard throbbing gristle’s ‘united’ in january of 1981 on cherry red’s ‘business unusual’ compilation.
Paddy used to share a bedsit with Wattie Buchan, but had moved out to East Craigs to live with four other semi-disturbed young people.
East Craigs was – and may well still be – a desolate, tarkovskian wasteland with one pub, one supermarket and shitloads of cardboard-and-plaster housing, trapping desperate insect-people in its web of valium and vodka.
Throbbing gristle always sounded like a good idea. I’d read the ‘from genesis – revelations’ interview in melody maker in 1976 or 77 and made a mental note to check them out. And never got around to actually hearing them. But this two-and-a-half years old single was pretty good!
So I decided, with my very next giro, to buy something by them.
Allans” records in tollcross (near the co-op, roundabout where uta’s joolz is now) was a family-run chain of shops across the city and, more importantly, five minutes’ walk from my flat.
The guy behind the counter showed me ‘twenty jazz-funk greats’ and ‘heathen earth’. I decided to invest my £4.29 on the latter, as it appeared to be live, so therefore had more chance of containing the ‘united’ track in some form.
There was no track listing, just ‘the live sound of T/G’ and, when you opened the gatefold, two nondescript-looking blokes – one wearing a FUCKING ABBA BADGE and the other with a moustache, lifting some injured bloke off the pavement.
The other bloke just looked weird, then there was this modeling photo of a young woman. What. The. Fuck?
So I paid, carted it home, trying not to let the wind flap the bag around and put side one on.
I wasn’t impressed. It started off with echoed trumpets, then went into a scratchy, repetitive guitar thing, followed by a bloke talking and a long, miserable, slow song with the same bloke moaning and intoning.
Back in the days before we had illegal downloads to help decide whether an album was worth having or not, pop stars often managed to con us youngsters out of our pocket money and that’s what this looked like.
I only played side two to see if it was the same as the first side. A fast instrumental with growling guitar prowling through it – a bit better. Then a different bloke and (presumably) that woman, having an un-conversation; disjointed sentences and again, loads of echo.
Another thrashy, repetitive piece, the first bloke shouting over and over, DON’T DO WHAT YOU’RE TOLD! DO WHAT YOU THINK!
Then a calm male voice, telling us we’d ‘enjoyed this experience of relaxation’ and to open our eyes. The sound of equipment being switched off and the needle lifted and returned to where it normally sat.

thy gift of tongues – chris and cosey (CTI)

I started writing some erotica today. Something I haven’t done in quite a while – weeks.
I’m not sure it’s publishable – in fact, I can’t imagine me showing it to anyone in the foreseeable future, but, as an exercise in writing to purpose, I’m happy with how it turned out.
Writing erotica, particularly when one focuses on one’s own kinks, can be exciting, but it can lead to supremely appalling prose.
Everyone’s read porn where as soon as the writer becomes excited, the spelling, grammar and just plain sense flies out of the window.
Or us that just me that wallows in this sort of prurience?

I’m the face – the high numbers

Facebook (n); popular social media site; directory of cunts one has pushed out of one’s life for valid reasons; a gaily-coloured waste of time.
I have a love/hate relationship with faceboak. On the one hand, I maintain a presence there so that people can find me if need be; on the other, I rarely go on for any length of time.
The fact is, I just can’t be arsed any longer. Oh, you were at school with me? Supposing I remember you, you were probably someone I loathed and who hated and feared me back.
Then there’s the people who erupt suddenly from the past, send a friend request, then once they’ve ‘collected’ you, fail to reply to any messages. What is the point of designating me a ‘friend’ if you’re too damn ignorant to respond to overtures?
On a cheerier note, I got up at 05:45 this morning and wrote a page of journal. In fact, it poured out of me, like pish from a knifed jakey. It feels great, being able to let the words bubble up and formulate themselves into sentences as I transcribe.
And, having lost that for a couple of weeks, I’m certainly not taking that for granted just now!

Where’s your head at – basement jaxx

I got up this morning and wrote a page of daily journal. Not a massive, decisive triumph, but the first time I’ve been able to do that in almost a fortnight.
It’s taking me longer than is traditional, but I AM managing. This sickness is receding, it’s dying, falling away from me – finally.
Every day’s another skirmish – some days I knock the shite out of the monster, other days the monster knocks the shite out of me. I am, however, winning on aggregate. Losing the occasional battle, winning the fucking war.
I’ve kept diaries on and off since I was eighteen; kept this daily journal (pretty much) religiously since the summer of 2007.
A Domme friend suggested this course of action. She felt that, as I was living as a 24/7 slave, I should try to open myself out as flat as I could for my Owner. So, each day, I took a snapshot of where my head was at. The plan was, my Owner could read through this and we could discuss any issues – positive AND negative – arising from this.
The reality fell rather short of this. At one point, She cut all my hair off – then didn’t even glance at my journal for two entire months. That relationship died, less than a year after that.
When I got into my next 24/7 relationship, I was still keeping the journal and opened it (and myself) up for my new Owner. Again, this one threw herself into it at first, then lost interest.
So where does that leave me? I’m still taking a daily snapshot of the inside of my skull, I’m just not sharing it with a living soul just now.

rtx – heavy gator

I finally bit the bullet and signed into the 1919 groups on facebook and fetlife to explain that ‘1919 (outside)’ would be delayed. It feels like taking a step backwards, but with this illness, there’s no way I have the concentration to revise the manuscript before the end of the month. I need to put my precarious health first or I’ll never get the thing finished.
RTX emerged from the ashes of royal trux. After Neil Hegarty jumped ship, Jennifer Herrema recruited some (apparently younger) guys and made the ‘transmaniacon’ lp. While hegarty’s gone on to make some very un-royal trux-like albums, his erstwhile eve’s taken it back to basics.
While rock stars mining the same rut over and over isn’t always a good thing, Herrema’s raking over the ashes of her old band to make this – a glam-rock tribute to early blue oyster cult is perfect.
This really is an album to beg, steal or download. All the nihilism I loved in royal trux’s work and Herrema’s filthy voice is as good on this as any of the highpoints of ‘thank you’ or even ‘accelerator’.

Read it in books – echo and the bunnymen

I’m sneezing a lot today. On top of all the coughing – and what I’ve got coming up is the colour of aventurine just now. Form an orderly queue, ladies.
I got away from work this morning and crawled home. Four inches of snow means the buses have to stick to the main roads.
I’m still dipping into my record collection in pretty much random order. Today, it’s been amon duul ll – ‘yeti’ and ‘tanz der lemmings’, among others – for instance I’m typing this up to the velvet underground’s third LP.
The biggest news today, however, has to be my managing to read for the first time in over a week. I got back into jo nesbo’s ‘the leopard’.
I’ve really missed reading since I got ill. Hopefully, if that’s me recovering a bit more, I can start revising soon, too.
I still have ‘1919 (outside)’ hanging over my head like the bucket of pigs’ blood in ‘carrie’. There’s no way it’ll be ready for february 1st, maybe march 1st, though.

the leopards (featuring gardenia & the mighty slug) – marc bolan & t.rex

I hate being this weak. The older I get, the more I turn into my father. Which is odd. I never really got to know the guy before he died in 1980.
He wasn’t that fond of kids and just as I was attaining a sort of manhood and he could finally start to relate to me a bit, he upped and died of a heart attack.
But anyway, I’ve inherited his stubbornness (as have my #1 son and his son). Don’t ever tell us to do, say or believe anything – we’ll eat your fucking arm off.
This flu’s a complete pain in the hole. Today, I’m back at work and I’ve had the same headache since about four o’clock. Paracetamol isn’t even touching it; I need something strong enough to involve withdrawal symptoms!
Still, I finish in less than twelve hours and I fully intend to devote the next two days to lying in bed, thriving on albums I haven’t played in a while.
My appetite seems to be returning too, which is groovy. I’ve eaten so little since I went down with this.
Maybe tomorrow, I’ll be able to read once more, too. I’m almost halfway through a Jo Nesbo novel (‘the leopard’, fact-enthusiasts) and I canny wait to get my skull working again and tear back into it.
Hmmm. Feels like my mojo’s returning, sing hosannah!

i crawled – swans

Feeling rough as arseholes again today. I got up early and crawled through the snow to dunfermline for the record fair.
With the recent redesignation of all HMV and fopp staff as ‘fucking scroungers’, record fairs are the only way I (or anyone else) can still experience the magic of trawling through boxes of disks, searching for diamonds.
It was pitch black. Like a medieval dungeon (must remember to take my own sputtering candles next time) and I left the hotel an hour later, £33 lighter and eight albums happier. I’m writing this to the ‘bladerunner’ soundtrack. Earlier, I had on beck’s ‘midnite vultures’ and an only ones bootleg.
There’s still five more albums to work through and work through them, I shall!
I’m still writing my daily journal, taking thirty minutes a day to snapshot where my head’s at. With this flu still crippling me, it’s hard work, but I’m not giving in.
If I’m going to beat this filthy sickness, pushing myself a little every day’s the way to go about it.
Not being able to read’s a pain in the arse, but that’ll pass, I’m sure.

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