Verbal Vomit

There are times when I think I should just delete this blog and be done with it. I mean, what the fuck am I doing sharing my most intimate thoughts with the random inmates of the cyber universe?

Then again, at other times, that is exactly what I love about blogging: the weird paradox of such intimacy with total strangers; the sharing of stories; the raving of ideas; the baring of souls; the gnashing of teeth; the gurning of stupefied ecstasies.

My discomfort comes from knowing that friends, acquaintances and even people I just barely know (like, just on nodding terms) have actually read my blog. It feels a bit like parading myself naked down a street of over-dressed Victorian spectators... but then again, I think to myself, fuck them if they can't take a joke!

Over the last week or so though, the verbal vomiting got just a bit too close to the bone for comfort. For a while - for a week or so that felt like a decade - I thought I was staring death in the face. Not just any old death, but MY death. Oh crumbs, oh fuck and oh bollocks! My extinction. Adios Dee.

And, of course, whilst I was considering my own mortality, I was also considering questions about the nature (and purpose) of life... and, particularly, of my life. Also being considered was my take on what - if anything - happens after death.

The first few days of it were not pleasant at all. Aside from the pain, there was the dismay about not having lived as full or fulfilling a life as I would have liked. However, I started getting my head round the idea of dying and - whilst still reluctant to shuffle off this mortal coil - had kind of reconciled myself to it.

It's now sixteen days I've had my headache, but in the last two days it has eased right off, so that it is more like a background hum. Yesterday, I needed only one paracetamol, and that was late at night. Today, I have also had only one (and that's largely because I drank brandy last night). So - touch wood - I think I am through the worst. Two weeks of stupefied rest have done the trick. Two weeks of paracetamol, diazepam and temazepam.

All I've got left in the medicine cabinet is paracetamol now. Last 48 hours I've been doing my cold turkey off the tranquillisers and sleeping pills. Yep, even two weeks on those fuckers and you're champing at the bit for more. Stupefaction may be stupid, but it is also quite a comfortable place to be. The thoughts - even the darkest ones - are still there, but they stumble through your brain like pale ghosts, rather than latching onto your skull with sharpened claws, as they do normally. Tranquillisers make me feel almost Buddhist. It is so easy to release and let go of thoughts when you are full of diazepam. And - strangely - it's so easy to write five pages of verbal vomit... although - I now notice in my sobriety - I made loads of typos and generally
meandered round my ideas like a syntactical dyslexic. (ed - most of these typos have now been corrected)

I notice - in my sobriety - that I am still suffering from the verbal vomit, but this doc is - so far - just one page long rather than five. I feel little urge to witter on much longer. Yesterday I was well enough to work on a new tune, so the creative demon inside me is being fed once again and the urge to blog is, thank God, easing off once again.

Anyway, enough said for the now. Hopefully there'll be a decent spell of radio silence now and it'll be because I'm being remarkably creative rather than because I'm dead. If you don't see any entries over the next few months though, start fearing the worst, because I don't think I've ever got through more than about a month without something or someone pissing me off enough to make me want to blog about it.

Hasta luego!