Back In The Saddle
Well, I kinda took a little break from blogging, post-holiday and now I find I've got out of the habit.
What's there to report, anyway? The world still turns, I'm still Sad and Lonely, I'm starting to hate my job. (Countdown from return from holiday to status quo: 1 Week exactly.) But I've lost half a stone and have successfully given up refined sugar for good, and am a health-giving exercise regime to make me stop losing my breath after climbing some stairs.
I've been making more of an effort to be social, going to dinner with friends and the like. I even went to a folk open mic night last week for the first time in 15 years! (My dad would be proud.)
So why did I end up spending the majority of the weekend, back on the comfy Chesterfield sipping sherry and engaging in the literary equivalent of masturbation? I blew out plans four nights in a row. No shoegazing on Thursday, and decided not to go to Emsk's artmusicpolitics because I thought I'd be out every night of the weekend. But then I couldn't even be bothered to trek up to Stoke Newington to see The Heads, even with the promise of DDBs galore. And on Sunday, after Chrissy and Gaz were too sick to make their own party, well... Well, I did finally break my longstanding phobia of going to see films by myself, and saw Children of Men at the Streatham Odeon, since it's like 500 yards from my house.
But then I was too blasted and emotionally drained (it's a brilliant film, go and see it, and you'll understand what I mean) to bother going out barn-dancing that night. (Just as well, as Ed's train got stuck at Swindon.)
And why? Because I was being creative? Making music? No. Because I was too engaged in my self indulgent wank fantasy world of writing. I don't think it's healthy, in fact, I know it's probably not healthy. I think it does keep me from interacting with real people. And it's dead air, a labour of love that no one will ever share. But it's too damn addictive to stop.
What's there to report, anyway? The world still turns, I'm still Sad and Lonely, I'm starting to hate my job. (Countdown from return from holiday to status quo: 1 Week exactly.) But I've lost half a stone and have successfully given up refined sugar for good, and am a health-giving exercise regime to make me stop losing my breath after climbing some stairs.
I've been making more of an effort to be social, going to dinner with friends and the like. I even went to a folk open mic night last week for the first time in 15 years! (My dad would be proud.)
So why did I end up spending the majority of the weekend, back on the comfy Chesterfield sipping sherry and engaging in the literary equivalent of masturbation? I blew out plans four nights in a row. No shoegazing on Thursday, and decided not to go to Emsk's artmusicpolitics because I thought I'd be out every night of the weekend. But then I couldn't even be bothered to trek up to Stoke Newington to see The Heads, even with the promise of DDBs galore. And on Sunday, after Chrissy and Gaz were too sick to make their own party, well... Well, I did finally break my longstanding phobia of going to see films by myself, and saw Children of Men at the Streatham Odeon, since it's like 500 yards from my house.
But then I was too blasted and emotionally drained (it's a brilliant film, go and see it, and you'll understand what I mean) to bother going out barn-dancing that night. (Just as well, as Ed's train got stuck at Swindon.)
And why? Because I was being creative? Making music? No. Because I was too engaged in my self indulgent wank fantasy world of writing. I don't think it's healthy, in fact, I know it's probably not healthy. I think it does keep me from interacting with real people. And it's dead air, a labour of love that no one will ever share. But it's too damn addictive to stop.
posted by Masonic Boom | 1:46 pm
5 Comments:
Yeah, they played at Bardens Boudoir! I only found out at the last minute, through their MySpace. I couldn't believe it when it was posted. Which is why I'm so disappointed with myself for not going.
But yeah, let's do folk again next month, it was a lovely night, like sitting on the floor of someone's living room.
So what's wrong with masturbation?
Yes - don't knocking wanking; it's the only sex I've had for the last 2 years.
Because I wasn't actually masturbating! I can't even be bothered to do that any more. I was just writing.
Hey, don't knock writing that you think no-one will ever read. That's what diaries are for, after all.
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