bee feast

My apathy knows no bounds and is brilliantly self-perpetuating. Perhaps I've finally reached critical mass in terms of trying to look at the back of my own head. Burning out without actually doing anything, like a lazy chip pan on a crapulous hot-plate 'cooker'. I hate my cooker. It is shit. It isn't strictly speaking my cooker of course, but for the purposes of this conversation, etc. It feels more mine than its predecessors, anyway, given that I am related to its owner and have been struggling to get it to cook things adequately for two years instead of six months, which was the usual amount of time I'd spend in one place.

Two years - the anniversary has just gone, in fact, the Bank Holiday weekend. I still can't imagine leaving. It's like I think I'll somehow put the house on like an enormous coat of bricks and precipitous stairs and woodchip wallpaper and beetle off down south in it. Houses are such dictatorial things, they give context to your everyday actions in such a way as to convince you that you could no more leave them behind than you could step out of your own skin. Bastards.

I need more outward focus. It will energise me. Unfortunately, I must first muster the energy to focus outwards, but...there is no ending to this sentence.

I have all sort of things I would like to do - they have some vague hierarchy in order of likelihood but some of them seem like requisites that I will never collect sufficient mental vouchers to cash in for. There are a thousand courses I'd like to take. It almost seems worth waiting for retirement (if I could ever afford to retire) just to have the time, and the lack of pressure to be brilliant at them. More life-drawing (actually bugger that, I have no sense of perspective and can't do faces although I can etch a decent spine). More writing. Erotic writing. Screenwriting. Novel writing. Photography. Dog behaviour. Guitar. Pole-dancing, of course. Bloody HTML. Fucking car maintenance. Sodding philosophy and psychology and German or Italian. Blehhhh.

Oh yes, and the Alexander Technique, which promises to give me a whole new life, just like almost everything else.

My apathy could kick your apathy's arse, only it can't be bothered right now.

I'm not coming back here until I've got something clever or frivolous or positive or insightful to say. Or until I take a really good picture of a beetle.