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reSenTinG YoUR DArLiNGS

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

Month

February 2013

job – swans

I notice I’m hardly reading just now. And it’s irritating me. Time just seems to be escaping through my fingers like Nadine Dorries trying to catch piss and hold onto her job at the same time.
Alvin Toffler said in ‘Future shock’ that our perception of time speeds up as we get older, but this is the first time I’ve experienced this as a pain in the arse.
There just don’t seem to be enough hours in the day any more. I get up early, I stay up late and it still feels like I get nothing accomplished.
This fucking job – fun though it is – is swallowing far too much of my time. Yeah, the money’s great, but now that there’s to be no more record shops here, do I really need that much money? And anyway, amazon must be about to offer a deal whereby nazi thugs turn up at your door, plant a burning cross in your lawn and scream a list of suggestions based on previous purchases while throwing hitler salutes.
Which’ll make a nice change, really.

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dirty work – steely dan

It’s funny. None of their other LPs grab me. The sound’s cloying, like piers morgan holding your head under loads of little balls of saccharine, getting in your nose and ears and eyes and throat and lungs.
This album, though. Even better than being murdered by piers morgan – and I’m not sure how many albums of *that* caliber are being made nowadays.
The singles off it, ‘Do it again’ and ‘Reelin’ in the years’ take me back, for some reason.
Listening to their other albums (and I have done this) it’s like that prehistoric world before punk. Cocaine music, like a crystal ball right into the eighties. A magical land where everybody’s happy (nowadays) no-one has. a shadow side or any negative facets to their personality.
And bizarrely, this album works. Regular readers, who touch themselves inappropriately in front of this blog will already know my opinion on concepts like happiness, comfort, sex and shopping.
Standout tracks: ‘Dirty work’, a brilliantly sketched portrait of male weakness and ‘Midnight cruiser’ – I wish I’d coined the term ‘gentleman loser’. Bastards.
This album gets the scat candy seal of grudged approval. Sheer brilliance.

furniture music – bill nelson’s red noise

I’m still trying to master the art ‘n’ science of revision. To be honest, trying to balance working with writing isn’t leaving a whole lot of time for eating, sleeping and so on – all the things that separate us from the dead, really.
As an experiment, I’m going to drop this blog to maybe twice a week. So there’ll be less posts, but what there is will be a lot more focused (it says here).
Come next month, Dreich NOiR will revert to the more normal once-or-twice per week, too (but everybody could see that coming, couldn’t they?) He gets out of hospital at the end of this month, he’s starting to make inroads to the clothfolks’ scene in southern edinburgh… And if you live in southern edinburgh (yeah, YOU!) a grand in used, non-consecutive fives and tens in a farmfoods bag in the gents of the marmion keeps you out of the story. Inflation-resistant, aye?
But yeah, revision. I’m trying to set aside time to study (and practice) and my time management skills weren’t magically transformed into something other than a moth on crack by the insertion of office furniture last week.
So it’s time to bite the bullet, shit or get off the pot. Time actually IS a limited resource and I need to adapt mine by squashing it under a piece of wood.
Or die in the attempt.

warm – family fodder

And another bloody cold! I only put the last one to bed a matter of weeks ago and everyone at work’s sniffling again – me included.
I suppose, as I get older, my body’s going to fail more and more until I achieve room-temperature. And it’s bearing up pretty well thus far.
The asthma which defined my childhood and young adulthood has pretty much cleared up. I can be around cats – even dogs – these days.
The amount of exercise I get, just walking to where I can get a bus (and walking back after I’ve finished work) is keeping me ticking over. Pretty damn well, in fact.
It’s a pretty good score to make it into my fifties, be in pretty good physical condition and still have a full head of hair (and a full head of teeth). In fact, the glasses and hearing aids are my only concession to the cyborg life.
So I’ve a lot to be grateful for, really.

Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.

wildworld – the birthday party

Those of you following Dreich NOiR will already be aware of this, but the other day, I put in this year’s first sex scene.
Last year, the blog was pretty much all about the porking, this year’s been taken up with recuperation – and little else.
Interestingly, I’ve had quite a bit of feedback since I posted that. A pile of likes and a few more people following the blog.
Me, I still feel the same as I did the other week. From my own point-of-view, Dreich NOiR’s science fiction. There’s a few points of reference, but by and large, I’m describing a world as weird as anything china mieville could dream up.
Which is the real magic of fantasy, isn’t it? Building a world, fantastical and far-removed from the everyday. Peopling it with strange characters and even stranger creatures. Laws of physics that wouldn’t work on our own world.

the worker – fischer z

Having a proper and ergonomic working environment certainly makes all the difference! As of the other night, I have a comfortable chair and a beautiful desk. As well as my monitor at a more appropriate height to watch in bed. Still haven’t found a home for my new filing cabinet yet.
I’ve finished revising the ‘January’ section of ‘1919 (outside)’ and it’s coming together.
I’m aware that I’ve written hundreds of thousands of words since ‘1919’ was written. And, despite my best efforts, my work has improved.
So, it’s weird, polishing something written so far back. I keep finding whole sections I’d like to rip out and start again. However, I don’t want to be re-polishing this for publication in another five years when humanity’s biggest problem will be mining uranium with our bare hands and pleasing our garbage-eating overlords.
No, the errors can stay in. As a reminder of how far I’ve come and a thorn-in-the-side, a spur to improve still further.

Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.

I write the b-sides – eels

I’ve just received the text from #2 son, informing me that my desk, chair and filing cabinet were delivered. I’m trying not to ‘freak the straights’ (baby), by lapsing into a brief-yet-spirited happy-dance, but it’s hard not giving in to the urge.
So tonight’s primary task will be rebooting my bedroom from a fornicatorium fallen into disuse to a bustling office, where violence, starting behind where the eyes used to be, pours out the fingers, through an abused keyboard and finishing up on a hard-drive, overflowing with avant-filth.
And after that, I’m going to start work on revising ‘1919’ sitting upright for the first time since july or so.
It’s weird, revising something I wrote so long ago (five years, to be precise). In that time, my writing’s changed so much as has my romantic focus, I suppose.
At that time, the ideal was the 24/7 M/s relationship and the hip fashions were, on the one hand, Honorifics and the other Female Supremacy.
However, times have changed – and so have I – where a dream is proven to be impossible, I’ve been able to let go of it and move on. Kicking and fucking screaming, I admit, but yeah. I did eventually let go.

Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.

broken furniture – john foxx & louis gordon

Since I started revising ‘1919 (outside)’, I’ve been perching on cushions, typing on my ancient netbook balanced on a tv stand.
It’s not ideal. In fact, it wrecks my back and I can’t work for any length of time before the pain of being in such an absurd position rises up and forces me to walk around, lie down or something else.
This morning, I finally tracked down that furniture place and bought a desk, a chair and a filing cabinet. £95 the lot – including the delivery charge.
It’s arriving tomorrow so tomorrow night, when I get in from work, I gots to reboot my bedroom, make it more like an office.
Which is what people have been telling me since lochend 1994 – “this flat looks like an idiot’s fuckin’ office!”
Desk strewn with papers, me leaning back in high-backed chair, filing cabinet hanging open with papers sticking up and out…
It does increase productivity, though. I seem to function better in a home-office environment. Which is ironic, since I’m someone who despises office work.
The worst jobs I have EVER had (council; housing dept and inland revenue) were both in offices.

Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.

heroin – the velvet underground

I got a spanking recently. That’s good in itself – the subspace wrapping itself around me like a cotton-wool cloud.
A bit less welcome though, was the sub-drop I experienced maybe thirty, thirty-six hours later.
Now this might sound like judeo-christian bullshit (it does to me, for a start!)
I don’t believe that ‘all pleasure must be paid for’, that positive experience must drag in its wake, a comedown or hangover.
I believe, based on experience, that the point (if there is one) to terrestrial existence is to have fun. To figure out what makes us happy and grab it with both hands.
It wasn’t deep subspace. (You know, where it kicks in like heroin with an LSD chaser) but just enough to light myself up with that old familiar feeling.
It’s like riding a bike, isn’t it? Doesn’t matter how long the gap was, your body remembers what to do when you get there.
I felt it rise up, felt myself sink into it and that opiated sense that everything’s groovy.
Enough to remind me why I’m alive, at any rate.
So, the following evening, I’m at home. Things are fine. Then it hits me. Out of the blue. Right between where the eyes should be.
The first thing I noticed was the fear. Things felt heavy, like a plethora of problems I couldn’t deal with, all at once.
I started to draw parallels with other phases in my life. I found it easy to remember instances when I’ve failed as a partner, a father and a human being, but when I tried to remember good times, the well was dry.
Considering previous relationships, I forced myself to work my way back from the hellish endings to the honeymoon periods, when things were good and the world seemed positive and filled with light and potential.
It was hard work. I spent around three hours, maybe longer, forcing myself to remember the positives I dredged up from the depths of my forgetting.
Something else I noticed, was that the music I put on (Miles Davis’ ‘Steaming’; John Cale’s ‘Paris 1919’) seemed overpoweringly loud, strident and aggressive.
Eventually, I figured out what was happening and started to pull myself out of the matmos.
I believe this may have been triggered by the spanking, followed by me wiring back into revising ‘1919 (outside)’ a few hours after I got home.
The concentration being enough to tire me out and lay me open to the great, leathern-winged monster that climbed in my head for those few hours.

Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/bunnied

If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.

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