No More Sinful Mood

I’m beginning to have doubts about me being here bang slap in the centre of town, all up in the public section of the local government’s council offices, using their typing machines. I mean, isn’t access to these personal PC computers limited to letter writing and general enquiries? Surely they’re not for the likes of me using them for originative endeavours like apology, testimony and fiction? Ah well, I’ll dig my heels in until security politely ask me to leave. Which they usually do, after six pints and a stripdance/singsong.

There’s a new slime hall for kids opened up in the district. The authorities won’t let me anywhere near a minor. Don’t worry, this is not because I appear on some sex register; it’s just because I love them a great deal and enjoy bonding with them. To compensate for this, I invent ‘spiritual’ children in my subconscious and relate to them internally, in my heart if you like, but these too get attacked by dark forces against The Lord via cloning, hijacking and usurpation.

How do you like properly hold onto something in this villainous life, something which belongs to you, and something which is preciously coveted by warmongers of the world?

Answer: With the anchors of your heart.

There is nothing so dark, and yet so tenderly loving, as the human heart. Mine has been chewed, regurgitated, and chewed again. By the same old toxic unwanted people, committing the same old crimes, against the same old aching heart.

That heart would be mine. This is ‘mein herz’ displayed in the best approximation of wordplay I can muster in a race against the clock at the moment, without trying to be so awesome that I make you feel small in comparison. Because you know what the wise men say…comparison is the thief of joy.

I saw a school outing of ‘ducklings’ (kids in an orderly queue) earlier, leaving the cinema. Rather than ogle them up, I half felt inclined to get out of the ballpark before someone called the busies coz I was enjoyin’ watchin’ somethin’.

I feel cheeky no matter what I do lately, as if I belong in no real place, like a nomad with no real roots. Sometimes, on good days, when I’m feeling like I belong, I’ll visit the Chinese grocery shop and take a look at the names of all the strange branding. What I see are lots of monikers, big-ups, hollas and call outs relating to my childhood, as if the great nation of China was built on my personal raising through the council estate ranks in England, as a working class foot soldier for The Lord.

Particular buzzwords, unique to me, spelled out on their fancy packaging, assault my eyes all over the shop floor. It’s hard to explain. Basically, I feel like their government has been harvesting my creativity since I was little, relabelling their products after aspects of the fantastical worlds I create in my literature. Despite their unbelievable innovation, I have reasoned that China are in the business of ripping people off. May I go so far as to disclose that a lot of their them are nasty thieves. Joking, naturally. I would never make such a broad sweeping statement.

Last week I boasted that the pornographic industry was designed for me. Now I’m breaking wind that the Chinese Food industry is based on my childhood. Guess what might be headin’ my way, with claims to fame like these ones – yeah, bingo, a visit to the psych ward for mental assessment! Because I am off. My. Chops.

Sober, however. High on life. I haven’t consumed an alcoholic beverage this calendar year. Where are we now, midway through March? I know other high-flying bloggers who post pictures of themselves tanked up, reclining on their sofas, posing with bottles of chilled beer. I’m not envious about that, but I am slightly impressed. That’s the kind of thing I would do, if I was into taking pictures of myself.

I must admit though, that once you see a photograph of a writer you like, their work loses an air of anonymity. I like reading writers when I have no idea how they look. As soon as you see their countenance, stereotypical judgements come flooding in, including sexual ones, especially if they are of the opposite sex. I mean, what if you’re in love with their work, but they have leprosy on their face, or are disfigured, or disabled, or suchlike? It affects your opinion of them massively. I’m currently against author photographs on jacket sleeves.

I know an author online who writes about her own smile. Boy has she got a terrific one. But come on…

My higher power, a literary gatekeeping giant who I won’t name anymore, wrote a scene about a detective sat at his desk looking up at the ceiling. I wonder what he was up to himself, when jotting that eye-popping nugget of information down. Was he sat at his desk looking up at his ceiling by any chance? Doesn’t take Sherlock, does it?

Similarly, Lee Child readily admits on camera that when he has a coffee, Reacher has a coffee. Or is the other way around? Either way, they both guzzle lots n lots of coffee. It’s all they flippin’ do, whenever I’m reading anyway. That’s why I read it. To get down with the skinny on Reacher’s coffee intake.

Even better than coffee drinking is Reacher shopping in military surplus stores for shirts, combat pants and toothbrushes. Reacher, shopping…Classic. Coffee swigging, and retail therapy…who needs espionage, violence and conspiracy?