To repeat myself a little from last week. Downloaded some more film soundtracks. Listening to them. 'Sgreat. Just saw Grosse Pointe Black. A rather good film with some very nice songs. Napsterizings loom. Humperdidio.

I got my hair trimmed on Sunday. I was thinking about getting it all sheared off; number four back and sides. But when I was trying trousers on and looking at myself in the mirror I just couldn't stop running my fingers through my hair. And I didn't want to lose that. So I waited a couple of hours, twiddling my thumbs in a hairdressers, and as I didn't have anything to read I had a while to reflect. The other customers didn't appreciate it however, seeing their flaws shining in their ugly mugs, so I stopped and thought instead. There were a few men in there. But the majority of patrons were women. And they all had short hair. Some had as long as ear length. But most had short-short hair. 'Twas foolish. Anyway, I had a trim and now the ends of my hair don't turn and curl and knot. I can comb it with ease. Run my fingers through it without fear of pulling out huge chunks of follicle. The point. That hair's gonna keep on growing.

I am now a Digital Artist. Wow. What's that? 'Tis a person who scans shite into his computer and produces works of questionable artistic merit. I've got ideas and the quickest and most satisfying way I've found (to date) of expressing them involves scanning my screaming face seven times until I'm happy with what I've got (actually used number 4), playing with some conditioner and clingfilm and calling myself Mr Jerusalem. As an example. I want to do this for a living. I won't. On account of not. But it's fun to do for the sake of it. A thing about digital art though. Everyone does angels. EVERYONE. I've been looking at some sites featuring such work (check out www.opi8.com) and even the best there are have done it; got a picture of someone, messed with the colours, added some wings and called it art. Hell, back in wp-29.jpg I was guilty of this very crime. I scanned myself and added feather wings. More subtle than some but wings nonetheless. Why? Why are so many people fascinated with sticking wings on people? I did it because I want to fly (and left them separated from my body on account of not being able to). So there's some reason. But the feel for it was that I'd like to. We should be able to.

I'm being far too verbose. To cut down.

People are interesting when you first meet them. I want to know about a person when I first meet them. I care. Not after time has passed though.

I'm currently courting a girl. And feelings are fucking with my head. I'm always in control. I always have been and intend to stay so. I let myself feel what I feel and I stop myself feeling most everything else. Here's where the fucking with my head comes in. I really like this girl. In a way I've never done so about another person ever before. And I don't know what those feelings are but I do know that I'm not in control of them. To stop the rambling. I'm not going to be more specific. The point is that these feelings go against what I believe myself to be. They are contrary to my self-image. The reality is also contrary to what I've witnessed elsewhere. How my friends behave. To put it bluntly, and some of you will know who and what I mean, she's not a slut. End.

When I wake up early I feel sick in the bottom of my stomach. I get a cold, wet feeling and going back to sleep is not possible until I'm dry. So I rub my feet together and warm myself up and sleep again.

A few times I've gibbered at you about a site called www.peoplesound.com. Go there if you haven't by the way. Anyway, a few weeks ago, I gave them my address so that they could send me a free CD of unsigned music. It arrived a couple of days ago. Some of it was shite dance pap. But there was also some very nice rock and poppish pieces on there. So go get it. And have fun with your name. I was Mr Spider Jerusalem. Work accessories.

Cartman's mum is dead. Or rather, Mary Kay Bergman, the voice actress who played Eric Cartman's mum in the really rather funny South Park series, shot herself in the head on November 11th last year. She also played most of the other female voices in the series, not to mention many other works in her 14 year career. So it's old news. Maybe one or two of you knew already. But I only found out because I was looking for the Back to the Future soundtrack on the IMDb and came across her work in the 1990 'behind the scenes' show about the trilogy. And it felt weird. Here was someone whose professional life was going from strength to strength. Things were looking up. And she chose to end it. Fucked up.

My dad and two eldest sisters are back. I hate it. It was quiet and I was alone. Now they're back, noise reigns supreme and there's no space at all. But a smell has returned. One which I didn't notice had gone and has faded back into the background. But it's comforting. So though I dislike them intensely as people, I can at least enjoy their smell.

I don't want to let RP define me. Or rather, I don't want to think I'd want to. It'd be easier. I can let the anger and despair and bitterness take over. I probably will. I'm lazy. I enjoy not having to think. And blind panic seems to seem more and more attractive. I wouldn't have to worry about being interesting. I could be a complete bastard and get away with it (at least in front of people). I wouldn't have to try. But not now. Now I have A-Levels to screw up. So I shall.

I had another dream. Between 12pm and 5pm on Thursday afternoon. Here it is:

~

I'm stuck in my body and can't see or breathe or move. I can only feel cold air all around me, and people whispering just beyond my level of comprehension. I try to get free but don't know how and can't. Like I'm in a straight jacket.

Sitting, locked up, in a tower. Windows it's sunny and green outside. Also no windows and cold and blue morning light. I'm kneeling on the floor with my arms behind me held in a kind of vice. Someone comes in to talk to me but they have no face and black hair. I ask to be let free, they say nothing and go. I wait for a long time. I probably sleep. Someone else / maybe the same person comes and I ask to be let free. They say I have to let myself free. I have no idea what they're gibbering about. I pull and strain against my bonds. I get free. I'm overjoyed. Then the trap closes on me again. I pass out.

I wake up outside the room. I can see the trap through the wooden door. The walls are stone. I run down some stairs, outside. The landscape keeps shifting from dawn to mid-day and back. I walk.

I'm running round a train station trying to find terminal / gate 58 and we've got one minute left and we're at gate 0. Me, Ian, Gemma, others I don't know. All boys. Run and never find the way. Down stairs and along banisters. We stop and sit. The floor grows up over us and we're in a series of tunnels / air-ducts made of stone. We crawl around for ages, the lights gets darker but we never find an exit. The walls fall and we land in my living room. It's bigger. And my old one as well. There's a balcony at the western end. There are other people in there sitting, watching television. I don't know who. I lay down on the folded up sofa bed and sleep.

I wake up and most people have left. But more people are laying around, asleep. I get handed a video camera by someone who then fades out. I press eject and put the mini-cassette in the VCR. Then the video camera is a silver digital camera and I can see stills of what's on the tape. Blood is smeared over everything and the walls are breathing. I see people taking my sleeping body and having sex with it and me not waking up. People draw / tattoo stuff over me and then dress me and place me back on the sofa. I wake up and am in the kitchen watching this on the TV, others around who I can't make out but seem family. I reach under the television and the video appears in my hand. I climb inside of it and am running again, this time alone.

I'm an observer at talks between some military officials. We're in space, surrounded by stars. Black ships of shifting size and design sail around us, occasionally shooting off into white. One guy, black, tells the lady, yellow, that they should have known better. They don't have a chance now that it's began. The best they can hope for is lenient slavery. She and her colleagues agree and fade to white / black.

I'm a man in a huge space filled with people and people and people. I turn and my friends are bustling to get into ordered rows which don't have any order and which keep shifting. An extremely loud voice makes ears bleed and orders everyone to get in line. The walls are lost in the distance. The ceiling is the sky. The floor is the only part of the room visible, a light brown earthy, almost organic floor, greenery pushing through occasionally. My friends can't get in line. Then everyone's in uniform, brown, except for the old lady and she's dressed in huge amounts of white lace and her face is painted in garish red and silk pink makeup. It's extremely important that she be presentable for the arrival of the Queen. Me and someone else run with her to the back room. We're now at the western most edge. We duck under a doorway just as the ground starts to slide North. The girl takes to scraping the makeup from the old lady's face. I run round the left and see the ground moving north. A bottomless abyss widens between the wall and the floor. I run back in and the people are ready. We run back to the doorway and the ground is too far away. We jump anyway and fall and fall and fall and land amongst the others.

My friends are dead. It's morning, the fires have been put out. My floppy hair has been shaved right down. The morning ritual begins; us trying to get in straight rows and falling over our feet. I think it's something they put in the food. Or maybe the water. The Australian guy to my left falls too much and fades out. The black guy in front of me stares at me with bloodshot eyes, willing me not to be next. Because then he will be at the edge. I'm in my cell saying how stupid this is. For years we've been lining up. Some of us can never do it quite right and die. And it keeps happening. The fuzz on my head is going grey. All my friends from before are dead. Yet the walls are always lost in the distance, the ceiling the sky. The floor's now grey. And I'm at the edge. I let my legs tangle and I fall.

~

It was a good one.

On Friday I met for real someone I've been e-mailing for the last few months. It was way better than the writing.

Lit are playing.

You get the title, you let me know.

And it would seem all of you guys use dry. Foolish.

Off to watch Big Brother and then Mallrats.

She's off to France until Wednesday. Fuckit.

Less than two weeks. Double fuckit.

I miss the white text. Triple fuckit.

=

A few hours have passed. Mallrats was hilarious. The ending pissed me off, on account of it being happy. But the film as a whole was brilliant.

Damnit. Something else. Michelle sent out an e-mail about happiness (and "a myrad of other things" apparently) several days ago.
    What makes me truly happy? Thinking back, the few occasions when I have felt that limitless joy, have all been completely self-centred moments which were all in my head and had no basis in reality. 'Sgood to identify the flaws.
    About parties; movies rule. I love watching movies. Which is why I watch them so much. If you don't, then the gatherings-of-people we laughingly call parties, would bore you out of your skull. Which was said. D'oheth.
    The pursuit of happiness doesn't work. But you have to let yourself feel it. You can block it out if you want.
    Something to do with your life, other than go to school? Run away. If there's nothing for you here, simply run away to somewhere else and give living there a try. Committing suicide makes sense until you realise that there's so much in the world that you haven't experienced. So much that you can do or have done to you. You (probably) have enough money to buy a one-way ticket anywhere in the world. Throw a dart at a world map and go there. I believe I shall do this when I have finished my A-Levels. Why am I doing them? Because it's my last chance to do them for free. Same(ish) with university; not free but it's a time in your life when you're most likely to. Get it out of the way and then fuck up the rest of your life as you see fit. After fifteen years of wandering round Antarctica you may decide that you want to get a regular job and live a regular life. Or you may not. But if you want it, you need to secure it now. Or don't. I am because it's easy. In Grosse Pointe Blank, John Cusack's character runs away, joins the army, becomes a government assassin and then sets up shop as a hitman. That's the way to do it. To write, live.
    It wasn't enjoyable.