Jonathon Carnegie walked home quicker than he usually did on account of the fact that it was raining hard, so hard in fact that it almost took his breath away. Though to where it might have taken it, had it taken it that is, he knew not.

He was home in approximately twelve minutes and kicked his shoes off after obediently wiping them on the doormat. The doormat irritated him more often than not because it tended to get under the door when you opened it. If you ever rushed in to the house there was always the risk of friction from the bottom of door to the top of mat, which culminated in the risk that if you weren’t careful you could bang your head on the face of the door.

The gods were smiling on him this time: there was no friction and no bang of the head.

He opened the door to the living room and ran his cold fingers through his wet hair. Rain-drips from his fringe reached the corners of his mouth and he could taste the hair product he had readily applied earlier that morning. It was a normal day. The television was on and his Mother was sat transfixed by it. Jonathon sighed and opened the kitchen door. As he did so he thought of how the layout of this house seemed to encourage the opening of doors and almost nothing else. It was a fleeting thought at best, there were more important things to think about.
          “How much was she offered Mum?”
          “I don’t know, I wasn’t watching.”
           Jonathon walked from the kitchen into the living room. Deal or No Deal was on and his Mother was quite clearly watching it.
          “What do you mean you wasn’t watching? You are sat here watching it now!”
          “I know, but I didn’t see it.”
          “Oh right,” replied Jonathon, bemused. Then he muttered something under his breath that wasn’t heard by anybody other than him.

Jonathon went upstairs (after opening a door), and stripped his clothes from his body. Rain made them stick and he hated the sensation as his jeans dragged down his legs, his tee-shirt up his body. He chucked his jeans down onto the bed and change from his pocket scattered across it. Standing there in his boxer shorts he bent down and gathered up all the coins. Three pound coins, one twenty pence, two ten pences, one five pence, two two pences and a penny. Then he placed them on his chest of drawers, ensuring that they all lay there heads up. Jonathon did little things designed to give him a sense of satisfaction. The effect was often converse: he could rest if everything was as it should be and that was ok, but were it to ever not be as it should it was a great feeling of anxiety that shot through him. The feeling of anxiety often outweighed the sense of satisfaction which only served to highlight how futile obsessive compulsions truly were.

Still, his favourite pastime was biting his finger nails. People would see them and, not entirely believing what they had seen would demand: “let’s have a look at your fingernails.” Jonathon duly obliged and, like a monkey in a cage, would stand on duty while the individual peered more keenly into his fingernails, occasionally muttering “oh my god”, or something equally disbelieving. Sometimes, though admittedly rarely, people would overhear the disbeliever and become encouraged to see what all the incredulous fuss was about. There then followed a period of minutes where Jonathon would stand, arm outstretched, completely disconnected from the crowd that was huddling around him to see the evidence of his anxiety in a disgustingly raw form.

It gave people the impression that he was dirty.

He couldn’t be bothered to shower and so put some dry clothes on and went downstairs. His Mum was still watching the television, though he couldn’t tell if she was seeing it. He walked into the hall and put his shoes on, opened the front door and stepped back out into the grey.

It had stopped raining now but the threat was still there. He walked up the street towards the shop and was there in less than five minutes. He opened the door of the shop and stepped inside. The Indian woman who owned the shop was on the far side loading biscuits onto the shelves. She looked up and registered Jonathon’s presence but did not acknowledge him. Jonathon waited a couple of minutes before she stopped loading biscuits and walked back round towards him and behind the counter.
          “Ten Mayfair please.”
          "Two forty one please,” she replied, handing him the cigarettes.
          “There you go,” said Jonathon, handing her the exact money. “Thank you, see you later.”
          “Bye,” she replied.

Jonathon walked back down the street towards home and thought of how the Indian woman in the shop was strangely beautiful. She had a languid, almost disinterested way of going about things. He remembered how she had once asked him how he was and how he was so shocked, so surprised at this bizarre enquiry (from her at least), that he was almost unable to dumbly reply that he was “alright thank you.” After her enquiry he had walked home analysing why she might have chosen that time and that time only to ask him how he was. He had concluded that she had either A) had such a good day that day that she had felt obliged to ask him how he was through a genuine concern about how everyone else in the world was doing, or B) her husband, confusing her beautifully languid style for ignorance, had insisted that she paid more attention to the customers and their welfare. Jonathon preferred to think that it was B, for it implied that nobody, not even her husband, understood her plight and aloofness. A Martyr for her own self.

Jonathon thought that he might have fallen in love.

He was stirred from his thoughts by a woman holding a dog on a lead. She was standing outside her front gate while her husband locked the door. As Jonathon approached she gently said to the dog who was trying to escape “it’s not Alex, no, it’s not Alex.”  Jonathon wondered who the hell Alex was, and if he resembled him, for this would explain her attempts to assuage the dog.

It started to rain. Jonathon lit a cigarette and carried on walking.

What a difference a year makes. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty little hours. Ha! How linear everything is. It is all about getting from an A to a B. Nobody interests themselves in the in between. Today I am walking down a street and I see a funeral procession. Actually, it was less a procession and more one silver coffin-carrying Mercedes driving over a roundabout. But there was a man, an elderly man, and noticing this solitary car he stopped doing whatever he was doing and gently took his cap from his head and held it over where I imagine he imagined his heart was.

(Example of changing priorities: eagerly looking at the back of newly acquired cigarette packets to see to what extent the picture distresses you.)

Gosh, what a difference a general length of time makes! I am currently reading Naked Lunch by William Burroughs for what is perhaps the third time. Yet this time it is actually making sense to me. I am a very quick reader normally, but this book, at little over one hundred and fifty pages, is taking me an unusually lengthy amount of time to devour. I put it down to the vibrancy of the language. Every word springs from the page making the mind whirr. I take regular breaks where I just lie back and think of everything I have just been forced to visualise. Incredible visualisations, images you would never independently be able to conjure. Naked Lunch enables me to appreciate the power of the brain in a way that nothing else ever has.

(Example of changing of personality: I keep reading and re-reading what I have written so far and every time I come to the line “I am a very quick reader normally” I wince because I think it sounds too arrogant. But the truth is I AM a very quick reader. However, if I am honest doesn’t this parenthetical sentence serve as evidence to the contrary? I mean, I state that I am wincing at that sentence and then not only repeat that sentence, but actually go so far as to affirm it in CAPITAL LETTERS!)

What a difference the weather makes. I can’t decide whether it is absurdly shallow or profoundly beautiful that something so seemingly meaningless as whether it is sun shining or raining can affect creative output. But having acquired the aforementioned cigarettes, I walk back home and with the sun on my back, decide to write something when I get back. I fumble with ideas on the short journey but conclude that I shall just open a new document and write whatever comes to mind. It’s what I used to do when I was prolific so why not now? It is this final point that resonates inside me so much – that it WAS the sensation of the sun on my back whilst walking home that created this. The sun shining on my back is not a painful experience, it could not be described in any way as being a form of suffering, yet prior to channelling this simple, humble piece of writing I remained convinced that pain and suffering was absolutely necessary to creativity. And who knows? Perhaps I remain convinced of this. Only the linear movement of time will tell.

(Example of changing of attitudes: I am now prepared to accept that in the past I have been guilty of self-indulgence to the point where there came a blatant disregard for anything other than myself. But it made who I was me. The person I am now I don’t seem to be able to see him as me. I state this as fact. Life has become an attempt to reconcile the bad in who I was with the awareness of that bad in who I now am. I don’t feel as if I am succeeding, but writing about it helps clarify the task. At least in my own mind.)

What a difference a piece of writing makes. I might read this in a few days and see it as a dreadful expression of what it is I think I want to say. But that would only further demonstrate the effect the linear movement of time can have upon an individual. Because, for now, I am satisfied. To be perfectly honest I’m just grateful for the sun that shone on my back as I walked home, the sensation it created, and the something inside me it stirred back into life. I only hope I don’t retreat back into my own self. I was made for effusion.

was going to say “and there I was, literally laughing my head off” but then I thought “I am not literally laughing my head off, that would be impractical and highly irresponsible of me”. Besides, nothing’s that funny, and even more pertinent perhaps was that I wasn’t even laughing.

(not sure what to say instead now then. how about sorry? The easiest word to say and the hardest to mean.)

being the absurdly cynical man that I am it almost goes without saying that I quash any suggestions (can you quash suggestions or is it only rumours?) that the titbits of information contained within a daily newspapers’ horoscope strike me as being a gigantic load of bollocks. To pin your hopes on them is to limply punch the atmosphere in protest (it is nothing like that at all). but actions make hypocrites of us all and so when Sunday comes and the observer magazine drops onto the doormat I read (reed NOT red) it fervently (gosh, what a word – it has been so long since I wrote I am not altogether sure of the meaning of certain words anymore but – hey ho – I’ll leave it in and cross my amateurish fingers). So ANYWAY, I read this magazine and towards the end I come to the horoscopes. It is my birthday today and so I think ‘surely something is aligned with something in the sky around us which will spell a fortuitous period for moi’ and, sure enough, today marks the beginning of a creative period in which I must “advertise myself, promote myself and cajole people into listening to what it is I have to say”. Well, I am sat there defecating and drinking coffee and I can almost see the lightbulb above my head. After all (and here is the point I guess I was getting to), this horoscope happens to be in the liberal, left-wing, free-thinking, ethical, intelligent and well-informed Observer Magazine and so this horoscope must carry more weight than the tit-filled, scandal-ridden, paedophile-concentrated News Of The World (what a ridiculous title for that newspaper!).

God I am such a fucking prick.

The horoscope, because it was in the Observer, did its job in a way. I mean, literally the only reason I wrote this was because of what the horoscope said.

Despite the fact I had nothing to say anyway. Hey Ho.

Yes. supposing I had thrown myself on the grenade. perhaps I would have saved lives. Not mine. seventeen people done gone. Visions of blood guts flowering out of my back. decorating the brickwork seemingly imprisoning me. my entrails raining down on our earth with a fat wet slap. The mist clearing. The calm descending. The lungs exhaling. The bowels releasing. The footsteps approaching. The hand covering. The fingers reaching. The eyes closing. The light disappearing. Who wants to be a hero anyway?

a rat on antibiotics. and penicillin. The stolid stench of something all about me. faint ideas of suicide – not the deed, avoid the deed, escape the deed, but think about the drinks to you afterwards. The clink of glasses. The drunken speeches.

“I knew him bescht.”
“He could be a cunt, yesh, but hish heart wasch in the right place.”
and those that are glad but won’t say.

God I thought of the best idea ever I really fucking did. dress my bathroom in black ink. A hundred thousand word wallpapered note to say SORRY but to EXPLAIN why I HAD to anyway. they would have hated the fact but they would have loved that fucking note. To some it would make no sense but to those it did, by Christ they would have fucking adored it. spread like cancer through the streets towns pubs.

“did you hear about….?”
“it’s true then?”
“you gotta see it to believe it.”
“what’s it say?”
“oh, all kinds of things.”
“a work of art they say.”
“of course, it’s all nonsense.”
“such a waste.”
“what a waste.”
“such a lovely girlfriend too.”
“I TOLD him to think about the people he’d leave behind.”

hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

                                                           all

                                                                 the

                                                                        way

                                                                                    home.

Shudder awake. Freezing cold. Boiling hot. Not irritable. Definitely not irritable. Miss Marple on the television. Who could ever commit suicide when Margaret Rutherford is on the television playing one of the most immortal literary characters of all time. fuck basil rathbone. fuck suchet. Yeah, go on, fuck falk while you’re at it.

it’s all about Rutherford.

shudder awake.
shudder. should I.
shudder. should I. 
fucking shudder. fucking should I.
FUCKING SHUDDER.
FUCKING SHOULD I.
FUCKING SHUDDER AT THIS BIG FUCKING MESS.
GOD I WISH I I I I I I I I I WERE GOD.

evaporate vb –rating, -rated 1 to change from a liquid or solid to a vapour. 2 to become less and less and finally disappear. evaporable adj evaporation n

The line used to come and I would note it down. It was it's own mother. A catalyst for a catalyst. A vessel for my being. Words for my truth. What is my truth? There is, of course, a danger in writing something down – it becomes easier to see the sentiment expressed as THE sentiment. Perfect and complete. Pre-fabricated. I merely put it together. But the screws came loose and I had no manual. It became a case of thinking up new ways to say the same old thing. I got bored with it. Now every day is a Monday. Or Thursday, what the hell.

Somebody cut their finger on a knife the other day, slicing fruit. I couldn't have appeared more disinterested if I had had the motivation to affect exactly that. It just didn't seem that important. It was early Sunday (or Monday. or Thursday, what the hell) morning. Insomnia had ruled the night. I carried on scrubbing. Minutes passed, as they do, and in he came again. Arms aloft, one holding the other. The blood trickled down his forearm and dripped from his elbow. It caught my interest for a few seconds and I watched those little balls of blood burst into spiders as they hit the floor, meandering their way out into the world… I carried on scrubbing.

Don't get me wrong, I mean I'm all for melodrama providing it's me being the melodramatic one. Anybody else and I just think they're being melodramatic. But he went on and on about it, though this is perhaps unfair on my part as he hardly said a word. It was his standing there really, just watching that cut bleeding. Waiting for it to stop bleeding. Sucking at his finger and then pulling it into view again. Holding his finger, squeezing his finger, the blood mixing with the spit, sucking some more, squeezing some more until he could barely force just one tiny little bead of blood out into the open. Then sucking some more. He never said a word the whole time and he couldn't have made more noise. I could feel it and, further still, I could feel it irritating me. He was trying to consume me at this time in a morning. Then, just when I felt I was simply going to have say something he put a plaster on it and that was the end of that.

Later he sliced some more fruit. It was a big deal for him. Me too – I was praying he was more careful this time. He made some comment to the effect of "I-am-scared-of-slicing-fruit-this-time-because-we-all-know-what-happened-last-time". I turned to him and said:

            "Well, you know what they say when you fall off your bike…" and here I turned to him.
            He stared, blankly.
            "…you should get right back on."
            He stared blankly.
            That's the last time I am going to even try today, thinks I.

Still, time passed and my mood lightened. I hydrated a little, wasn't quite so dry and prickly. I started thinking at one point, which was a highlight, but then I always open my mouth and ruin it. Or rather, I always open my mouth and then somebody else ruins it. At about 2pm (5pm, 10am, what the hell…), there was that question, that one question which I am loathe to answer. Answer seriously you give them credit. Answer ridiculously you reinforce the idea behind the question.
            "Paul, has anybody ever told you you're weird?" Ruined.

            "No, but I always took it as a compliment." Reinforced.

But the days have to end. Damn thing about days – they only give rise to more. It's own mother. A catalyst for a catalyst. It depends on how you look at it. A drink to relax and then another because you've had one. You better stop now otherwise they'll be no stopping. Pray for willpower. Remarkably, sometimes it's within my grasp, though always fleeting. If I'm not quick it will fly through my hands and crash to the floor. I managed to hold on tight and headed home.