March 2017 - International Happiness Day

It’s like being placed in a glass tank and you can’t be heard. Trapped from the outside world, you hammer the sides with your fists until they are vermillion blurs, but no one can hear. No one can even see, as if the walls are somehow so translucent in their clarity, they morph into the surroundings like a prison cell of invisibility.

But that is where the old me is - cast away into purgatory, lost forever swirling in a black hole of despair.

The frustration is a smouldering volcano ready to erupt. Things feel so out of sync. Out of control.

And yet also strangely within grasp. It’s like the dropped catch in cricket - you almost had it all in your palm, but you messed up, lost your cool. Your eye was distracted, your mind maybe scanned a different thread for an atom of time, and the next thing you know the ball has slipped between your unresponsive fingers.

And its gone.

What do you do when you are a different person? Do you throw up the white flag? Or do you soldier on in the hope of some kind of miracle?

The odd sensation of no longer existing makes me feel like I am floating, and yet I feel weighed down in my very own special iron diving suit. The sparks that used to ignite my veins can no longer catch. Worse, the motor will no longer start because someone has thrown away the key.

Describing the loneliness is the blackest of ski runs; climbing an emotional Everest. It’s a hollowing out of your being; scooping yourself out like an avocado until all that remains is the hard skin shell. It’s frighteningly disconcerting. It’s standing at the extremest point of the edge... of the largest edge in the world.

And yet even then it doesn’t even come close to explaining it. How tragically pathetic it makes you feel, how articulating the sensation can make you feel the most gigantic loser.

Where to go? Where do all the broken things go. Things that cannot be fixed.

I have woken up with amnesia, only forgotten to lose my memory.

22 February - Storm Doris

When you feel as vacant as a dormant volcano crater; as lifeless as an extinct fossilised dinosaur bone, and invisible as world peace.

29 January - Music

This week is best left to the footnotes of history. I wish I could drag and drop days to the trash can icon, so that I never have to think about them again. Apart from, that is, having been to two excellent gigs the last few nights. Martha Wainwright and Gruff Rhys.

It sounds naff but I am a huge fan of both. I hate the word fan as a description of your admiration to someone or thing. It feels something flippant, or childish. It seems often synonymously used with the music industry, and I scold myself for using it here in lazy writing.

Martha was brilliant. She always is, in a way that almost diminishes how good she is. It seems so effortless and expected. Her brother Rufus is the same. And music is one of the few things feeding me successfully - it keeps me nourished, it makes me feel like my heart is finally beating. Live music especially.  

I find it odd sometimes listening to Martha and Rufus' music now. Their incredible music carried me through a particularly dark time a few years ago. An ambulance constructed of heartfelt crotchets and bridges. 

Listening to those songs now scoops me up in a large open topped fender and sends me flying back to that time. Its a tiny bit uncomfortable and yet also very comforting. It's like bumping into your ex. Hashtag awkward-but-kinda-nice. 

The worst part for me I guess, was the reminder that in someways, I have come full circle again. I've moved on so much and yet have somehow managed to end up back at the start line. 

And that is, singularly, the most heaviest weight to carry. If you had told me this during that time, that after all this that was the outcome, I'm not sure I would have been strong enough to have resisted the sirens of death drive.

23rd January - Oil

There's a mysterious cryptic squeak emitting from my bike, and I cannot uncover the source. I'm failing GCSE Sherlock Holmesing.

It's most infuriating, at first I thought I was imagining it. Then I thought I was being followed by a hoarse crow. A very persistent, repetitive and relentless bird.

Imagine being an endless squeak in a machine. Forever chirping away, desperate for a drink, but no one can be bothered to buy a round in. Everyone can hear you, but everyone pretends to ignore, despite the relentless bellowing of annoy.

I have flashbacks to that car advert from the 1980s, and it could well end up that actually, one of my earrings needs oiling.

17 January - No news day

Avoiding the news at the moment. If I go near it, I recoil away with an unseen force like two magnets put close together. It tries to hunt me down but I need to keep it away; it is nourishment for the dark side of the brain.

So I'm going to pretend that nothing is happening. And coincidentally I spotted a sign to celebrate the fact whilst my mind frolicks with the fairies.

15 January - Banksy

Desperate to escape Cardiff, which seems to be a kryptonite shackle to my brain at the moment, the other day I went on a Banksy art trail around Bristol. It was like Treasure Hunt, only without Anneka Rice.

I love graffiti art. And I do think graffiti is art. The skill for detail graffiti artists show at times is incredible - I have looked at some artists work and have sometimes felt I have been looking at some kind of photograph. Often the sheer scale is a thing to behold. It is the same stirring of admiring awe I get when gazing at paintings in galleries - the only difference is that these are straight onto brick walls and with spray cans, not a nice neat canvas with oils or watercolours. Different materials. Same effect. Maybe not all art should be behind doors or inside.

Banksy has always interested me, because I have always thought his work was current, relevant and clever. And of course, the anonymity randometer of it all gives it an extra teaspoon of intrigue.

I was lucky enough to visit Dismaland and came out of it incredibly conflicted and unsure. It was not unlike some actual-not-even-trying-to-be-dismal seaside 'resorts' I had been to in the UK, and many of the incredibly upper middle class people there were completely missing the point. I couldn't help feel that he was taking us all for one massive money making ride. But maybe thats what he was aiming for.

Dismaland

However, I decided I wanted to try and photograph some of his works across Bristol that I could find in a day. A bit like a Banksy Pokemon Go. There are not volumes to find, but when you don't know the city, nor sure of what state you would find them in if any, it seemed like a fun challenge.

I enjoy photographing graffiti; not only do I just like finding it and admiring it, but I like the idea of photographing something that may well not even exist in a number of years, months, even weeks. Often graffiti does remain, tattooed onto the streets, but very often it gets removed, vandalised, weathered, painted over, and eventually worn away by time itself. Photographs become the documentation of something that seems endangered. Indeed, some Banksy works are now worn or barely visible, like faded prints when the ink cartridges are running on empty:

January 2017 - the masked gorilla is looking decidedly sorry for itself

To focus solely on Banksy does a disservice to the many other fantastically talented street artists practicing on the streets in the city.  What struck me was how much incredible graffiti Bristol is blessed with. Compared to Cardiff especially.

Cardiff has become monotone and 2D to my wary eyes.
Banksy Bristol art trail
Other Bristol graffiti

9th January

I saw La La Land last night which is a film that broke my brain. Aside from jokes about it being a film about teletubbies, I'd probably enjoy it more when not already feeling in a strange flux of no man land life when it comes to failed aspirations.

Tested holding the new iPhone 7+ in one hand today in work; it was like what I can only imagine trying to contain a rhinoceros in your palm. And I have giant hands (they often get mistaken for those huge foam hands audience members in gladiators used to brandish). Maybe the size is not a bad thing- it will encourage me and others to stop using their phones so much whilst out and about.

 I often worry I do this and don't take enough notice of the world around me; getting too engrossed in bombarding my (poor suffering) friends with text messages about how I've seen a su pollard 45. Maybe it's worth remortgaging a kidney to get an iPhone 7+.

I then mashed my laptop keyboard to enter a long string of random 38636363937262839483 sianz numbers (testing data inputs- there was actually a genuine reason) only to somehow inadvertently activate Spotify - next thing I knew, an obscure Japanese version of Video killed the radio star starting playing from my computer like the hard drive was possessed by a cheesey japanese pop ghost. If I was to be haunted by anything, aside from bouncer the dog, I think the random kitsch obscure cover version spectre would be my choice.

4th January

I hope the new UK EU ambassador's first task is to build the Ferrero rocher pyramid. That's surely what any self respecting ambassador for anything does.
Such is my interlinked thought pattern with retro television, if I ever see or hear the word ambassador I immediately think of gold foiled wrapped nobly edible balls. Child of the commercialist age. Late 80s can be summed up as a big giant ferrero Roche- gold and glamorous (trying to be) but actually a bit naff and will probably just get stuck in your teeth later on.

I spent 10 minutes discussing politics with the physiotherapist this evening before we both pretty much realised having knotted screaming muscles ironed out by tough thumbs was far less painful a process. Although nothing is as excruciating as trying to explain I.T solutions to your irate and confused father who thinks every computer is waging a personal vendetta against him.

Vendettas remind me of vienettas. I'm back to retro sweets again.

3rd January

Back to school day. Weary eyed commuters on the train all seemed to have that glazed over boiled sweet expression. As if they had just spent two full weeks sitting in their pants eating bread sauce and chocolate Christmas tree decorations for breakfast whilst watching Columbo.

Eyes are windows into the slothy sole. And glazed eyes in particular, never lie.

A Loon's Diary

I don't really believe in new year's resolutions, but as I am a hot, steaming pile of hypocrite, my new year's resolution is going to be to write more. I found writing about my brain misbehaving the last 18 months helped. So I have decided to start a diary/blog on this shiny new sister blog to my other ramblings.

I was reading some of the wonderful Alan Bennett's diaries over Christmas, and rather like the idea of writing a diary again (something I haven't done since I left high school, mostly ramblings about how miserable and misunderstood I was - so no change from now really). Rather than write every day, Alan Bennett will write when he chooses on topics he finds instigates inspiration - and that is what I am going to attempt. Therein ends the only comparison I would ever dream to make with the legendary national treasure of uber treasures that is His Royal Highness Sir Alan of Bennett (he really should have those titles). And then reader, we began.

January 2nd

Today was a gorgeously blue, bright January performance - one that would razzle and dazzle even the most Scroogey of couch potatoes. I love crisp sunny winter days, and especially as its the last day of the holidays before we go back to 'school',  I headed early to the countryside to get muddy on the bike trails. I am happiest outdoors and amongst the trees and mountains. It is the only thing that effectively fights back at my self diagnosed brain cataracts. I picked a random and obscure trail deliberately in the hope it would be devoid of humans. And it mostly was.

I usually call these hikes, trails, runs or outdoor explores etc. my '999 routes', as when we or I set off, I can always hear in the back of my head Michael Burke narrating the reconstruction of a hugely catastrophic random accident involving maiming by a lost javelin. "It started off....just a fun afternoon hike, but little did they know the horror that was awaiting...". Now I tend call them my 'Murder Podcast' trails. Having been obsessed with true crime podcasts the last 18 months, all I can think about in these desolate and barren areas is how many dead bodies are buried underneath my feet. All that runs through my mind is how easy it would be to knock someone over the head with a hiking stove, stuff them in a biffie bag weighted down with kendal mint cake, and toss into the lake before you can say 'north face jacket sale'. So as I set out on my routes, I now start filling my head with how the podcast about my untimely disappearance would narrate the theories on how I might have disappeared. It's enough to make me leave breadcrumb trails (or the modern day version - squillions of instagram photos if we're lucky to get signals).

Luckily none of that happened today. And it was jolly good. Instead, I got a lot of mud in my eye and kept thinking I was going to die on the ice.
It is remarkable how much ice resembles cling film; until I did disappointingly keep just finding abandoned cling film. Usually next to the bags of dog poop that dog owners think in their infinite wisdom [sic] that its somehow ok to just leave on the side of a trail. There are, of course, many good dog owners. I saw some today towards the end, a middle-aged couple - the gillet-clad lady stood in a field whilst the man barked directions to her from the side where he thought their poochie off lead had left his present. It was a bit like the retro kids show Knightmare, only searching for doggie doodoos. Their determination in discovering the dog dirt amongst the boggy mass was heart warming, but I can't help feel they're still there looking for a poopy needle in a haystack when it probably didn't even exist in the first place. I just hope the dog was called Schrödinger.