Er, what?

This makes so little sense.

I'm home.

It's been so fucking good to see Liz and Cat and Neal and the puppy Lenore again.

I've missed my deck, my Place Where I Make The Filthy Noise.

I'm sitting down to it with a small amount of booze, having spent an evening sorting out band logistics... the daft stuff you imagine people pay managers for. It's all good.

But there's a melody that's come a-creeping out of my fingers that makes me horrifically petrified... melancholy and grieving.

Something is wrong, and I don't know what it is.

There's a gaping hole in me.

Where it used to be.

Thought that had gone for a while.

Tears 'n blood 'n that.

Tastes funny.


Heh.

I spose, actually that all makes sense.

I haven't written music in ages (rehearsing old bile), I've missed my friends (been Whitbying) and am missing the ones I just saw but are now gone again (fuckdamnit), and I'm gushing filth into the sequencer.

Ha ha HA, mister logician.

I'll beat you yet.

Let's go.

Good

It's really good to be sat in the basement, bashing shit out, glance over to my right...

... and there's Cat, staring at Cubase on a pair of monitors, thumping shit out against the sun, wearing the same damn fucking pair of senns as me, bobbing, tabbing out to talk to mates, doing his fucking thing.

I am not alone.

WE are not alone.

We do our filthy fucking thing.

Drink the drink, smoke the tabs, burn the oil, grin and stare.

Fighting the only fight we know :)

Oh yeah...

I know it doesn't gain me any comments, but I say these things here because they occur to me and 'cos, you know, kids, when good things happen, you should say them.

If you truly have the filthy gothic blackened heart you claim, if life is so frickin' terrible, if IT ALL HAS TO FUCKING DIE IN A HAIL OF PAIN AND FURY AND DEMONIC LEATHERY SPAFF...


... well, if that's the truth, you must be... what was it they called me? ... 'highly strung'.


You're pissed off because the world is filthy and you were built for a shinier, better place than this... and every day serves as a reminder that you're out-of-place, lost and hungry in a nasty thing you didn't want.

I hurt because I have a vast capacity for love.

I hate because I was told the world was perfect.

I beat myself up because all I really wanted was to sit and smile and be happy as the world ran by.

So it's not like that all the time.

OK.

So it's not like that often...

OK.

But despite years of telling myself I'm here to hate, here to cut, burn, rend, shriek, devour and break...

.. I'm only like this because my parents loved me enough to lie to me about the world.

All of you.

ALL OF YOU.

When life is good, SCREAM AND SHOUT.

Write about it.

Tell people.

Make sure everyone you love knows there's stuff out there worth punching on for.

We're not stupid.

We're not addicted to Jerry Springer.

We've just fallen into a silly trap of self-misery.

That's fair enough.

So fight.

So scream.

So shout.

So bite, kick, tear and scrabble away from the hatred.

But when things are good, shout it.

MAKE SOME FUCKING NOISE.

Because life has stuff that we need, and we can fucking well get.




It's cool to be happy..



I'm grinning at the shit I'll take for this... like it's mind-shattering to tell people to smile.

But you should.

And here's a fucking reminder.

When the world fills you with reasons to hate yourself, I'm gonna give you reasons to hate where you are, what you might have been forced into, why shit just isn't right, but if you can't grasp and grin at the abundant good shit, get off my fucking train. Your ticket ain't valid.

Off you fuck.

We're gonna hate and fight our way to paradise.

And someone else is paying the bill.

bed

made some tuney stuff.

not good enough to put out for people to hear.

listening to 'boxes'.

it's good.

you should fecking like it.

you won't.

because you're fucking stupid.

you're FUCKING STUPID.

you hate me and you hate you and you hate the people who would, given half a chance love and save you but you're SO FUCKING STUPID YOU STILL HAVE TO HATE THEM SO YOU DIE AND YOU DIE AND YOU STILL JUST FUCKING **DIE**.

nightnight, problempeople.

mornings are filthy.

bah.

tra.














one times blue. two times black. kill myself. don't look back. feel my fingers start to crack. one times blue. two times black.

That's not new, btw, it was just on my mind again...

looking

A brief interlude follows...

*ding-dee-ding lift music*