Tuesday, 1 January 2013

What's this fiscal cliff in America I've just heard about?

I'm always the last one to know. 'You mentioned it in August.' Eh? No, no, no. I'd remember. / Apparently, everyone in America is planning to commit suicide by jumping off the Fiscal cliff (somewhere in California, I think, where they do all the surfing) into the sea and rocks. It's some sort of weird end-of-the-world cult thing, like a Jim Jones situation. Why wasn't I invited?

Yes, I'm working today. I'm committed, man. Dedicated. Prowling around, looking for news. Hungry for sensation, listening to Neil Young's best song since the Seventies, Ramada Inn. 'Man, you're writing about music again.' So? It's my life, Voice. It's my blog.

The sun is shining. It's going to be a good year. I've got a feeling, a good feeling. This is a new beginning for me. Over the next five years, I'd like to write two hundred songs(?!). Ambitious, I know. But I want to do what I've done with this blog, build up a body of work. Of course, it means cutting down on the posting (which I can't do yet for reasons best known to myself). It will all work out. The universe is massive, ain't it? However, I'm sure it has plans for me, a speck of dust like me. A grain of sand like me. 'You're such an optimist, Mikey.' Fuckin' A I'm an optimist, Voice! It's the only way to be.

Two hundred might be a bit much. That's nearly one a week. Let's see how things develop.

Maybe I should abandon this blog. Marcel Duchamp packed it all in for chess, didn't he?

It's the mess of life I've got to get rid of. All the mundane shit. I need a butler. I can't afford one.

I wonder if there'll be any decent news tomorrow, something I can get my teeth into. I'm always being let down by cretins. It's as if they don't want me to be an immortal genius.