I've tried getting to sleep, but all I got were dark thoughts. Normally, thank Christ, I fall to sleep within a couple of minutes. Not tonight. Tonight has been terrible. I would call it a nightmare, if I were asleep. It's after two. I'll be writing until about six. And if you think I'm writing about finance, you're gone in the head. Really gone, boy - or girl.
Regular readers will know that I'm listening to Brian Eno's Apollo. It's the only thing that can comfort me when I'm feeling like this at night. Is it just my imagination or is life one endless stream of horror? Well, not endless. There are so many things that can go wrong. If only we could keep our eyes open all the time. Maybe I should work at night, and sleep during the day, on a regular basis. It ain't so bad sleeping in the light. By the way, I won't be editing or polishing this post. [Oh, come on, man, maybe a bit, eh? All right.] I'm in a foul mood. I really don't give a shit what it reads like. There might be some value in this sort of writing, anyway. Who knows? [I doubt it, man.] I'm hoping that twenty years from now I'll read this and laugh. [I'm such an optimist.] I shouldn't even be writing a blog. I should be writing my songs. Soon, oh, soon, I'll pack this in, or at least slow down. One polished post a week would be enough. I don't need this grief. Utter misery. The more I write, the worse I feel. It shouldn't be like that, should it? It should make you [me] feel better. And this post? I know it will be muck I'll regret in the morning. Never mind. So be it. Let it come. Let it be. Let's roll. It's a sort of freedom. Not caring.
I've been thinking I should sell everything except my laptop and my guitar. Then I should work all the time, only stopping to eat when I'm hungry and sleep when I'm tired. Wouldn't that be the best way to escape? I can understand why Bill Gates used to sleep under his desk. Not one day off in five years. And I can understand why Colonel Sanders took more than a thousand rejections and kept on going, travelling that lonesome highway, sleeping in his car. And I can understand why - after two heart attacks on that cockamamie ship - the Krishna man, Prabhupada, just went nuts opening temples left, right, and centre, hardly ever sleeping, from age sixty-nine to eighty-one, writing sixty or so books as well. Constant activity! It's an escape from the horror of existence. I think too much. I worry too much. I don't act enough. I'm like Prince Hamlet, for Krishna's sake!
Regular readers will know that I am now listening to the instrumental tracks of David Sylvian's Gone to Earth. Low and Heroes instrumentals coming up soon. (Oh, reader, don't you envy me, asleep in your bed? Where do you go to, my lovely?) I might move on to Charlie Parker with Strings. I might finish with Sinatra's Point of No Return. Anything is possible tonight. Absolutely anything. As regular readers will know.
I watched "10" earlier. That will be me one day. Getting drunk and rolling down hills and staring at naked women through a telescope. I can't wait! I'm going to make it happen. I ain't gonna cut my ear off like Van Gogh. Sod that for a game of soldiers!
Feeling very sleepy. / Low is depressing, and brilliant. Now that Bowie's happy, he'll never do anything like it again. That's art. That's life.
I've been Michael Fowke, and you've been a great audience. I'll be here all my life. Try the veal. Good night! / Good morning!
Regular readers will know that I'm listening to Brian Eno's Apollo. It's the only thing that can comfort me when I'm feeling like this at night. Is it just my imagination or is life one endless stream of horror? Well, not endless. There are so many things that can go wrong. If only we could keep our eyes open all the time. Maybe I should work at night, and sleep during the day, on a regular basis. It ain't so bad sleeping in the light. By the way, I won't be editing or polishing this post. [Oh, come on, man, maybe a bit, eh? All right.] I'm in a foul mood. I really don't give a shit what it reads like. There might be some value in this sort of writing, anyway. Who knows? [I doubt it, man.] I'm hoping that twenty years from now I'll read this and laugh. [I'm such an optimist.] I shouldn't even be writing a blog. I should be writing my songs. Soon, oh, soon, I'll pack this in, or at least slow down. One polished post a week would be enough. I don't need this grief. Utter misery. The more I write, the worse I feel. It shouldn't be like that, should it? It should make you [me] feel better. And this post? I know it will be muck I'll regret in the morning. Never mind. So be it. Let it come. Let it be. Let's roll. It's a sort of freedom. Not caring.
I've been thinking I should sell everything except my laptop and my guitar. Then I should work all the time, only stopping to eat when I'm hungry and sleep when I'm tired. Wouldn't that be the best way to escape? I can understand why Bill Gates used to sleep under his desk. Not one day off in five years. And I can understand why Colonel Sanders took more than a thousand rejections and kept on going, travelling that lonesome highway, sleeping in his car. And I can understand why - after two heart attacks on that cockamamie ship - the Krishna man, Prabhupada, just went nuts opening temples left, right, and centre, hardly ever sleeping, from age sixty-nine to eighty-one, writing sixty or so books as well. Constant activity! It's an escape from the horror of existence. I think too much. I worry too much. I don't act enough. I'm like Prince Hamlet, for Krishna's sake!
Regular readers will know that I am now listening to the instrumental tracks of David Sylvian's Gone to Earth. Low and Heroes instrumentals coming up soon. (Oh, reader, don't you envy me, asleep in your bed? Where do you go to, my lovely?) I might move on to Charlie Parker with Strings. I might finish with Sinatra's Point of No Return. Anything is possible tonight. Absolutely anything. As regular readers will know.
I watched "10" earlier. That will be me one day. Getting drunk and rolling down hills and staring at naked women through a telescope. I can't wait! I'm going to make it happen. I ain't gonna cut my ear off like Van Gogh. Sod that for a game of soldiers!
Feeling very sleepy. / Low is depressing, and brilliant. Now that Bowie's happy, he'll never do anything like it again. That's art. That's life.
I've been Michael Fowke, and you've been a great audience. I'll be here all my life. Try the veal. Good night! / Good morning!
