Tuesday, 19 April 2016

Brighton up sunshine!

'Twas a sweet evening, but overall uneventful, yesterday was. It was mounted on the carcasses of inevitability from the first, with no hope of reprieve. It is supposed to be the case that I should have been halfway to London by now. My journey began yesterday and crashed and burned only an hour or so later. Thorough cowardice and forced elation. Slowly I have acclimated (acclimatised?) to my new nature. Sleep no longer was a pained affair. I wake up and go before anyone barely notices. The only witnesses I have are coming from the eyes of uncaring rubbishmen doing their morning dues.

Today the plan is to just not die. By hook or crook, I will survive. Come tomorrow, I will be back in London working once again at Mansion House and Vintners, the usual piss-posh. Wembley after that for two days. Ecstatic, with a little bit of last night's mackerel stuck in my teeth after I threw up a little bit in my mouth after saying that. Tragedy is what would be if a single shift gets shafted off my grasp. I still have about two weeks and three day before payday, and it will be a long-winding road from here to there. Hardships will be had for certain. Just not a moment long ago was a conversation with a man who I thought was my salvation. I had applied for a program that would hopefully give me roof for the rough, but what I was only reassured with was hopelessness. Kept asking me for a frequent spot, as if as a homeless person you have to mark a territory and brandish it around as if your own. I told him, "To be honest, I don't know. It's really hard to say. Anywhere outside Kings Cross-St. Pancras station." Nothing is ever enough. He required from me a spot, a nonexistent fucking spot. He would not have it any other way and would fight me tooth and nail even though I cannot claim one place as my own. Is it that difficult to fathom that someone without a place of their own would be roaming around hoping to shake off this disease and find a miracle or so mayhap? No, the dunce would rather the specifics, where there happens to be none. I surrender to this system of shittery and would rather deal not with the complications and rest assured that tonight is going to be rough so I can easily move on for the next day.

I still have until tomorrow to unshitten what tiny creases there may be before the more productive hours come to light. That is, go back to my locker for the shoes and other stuff, wash myself clean as a cunt, nab me some food absent worries. Right now I could really use a bit of groom. Once I have sorted out all the simpler things, the next step is to just gauge time and walk swift as intended, walk efficient, and, most of all, walk proud.

Monday, 18 April 2016

The long wait to becoming almighty so I can savour the decadent taste of fall

Today is my third day here in Brighton, and it is hardly what I would consider a pleasant experience. However it is not without its own sweet moments. I myself do love to partake in the glorious minutes of peace that I oh so left with my old life. Old habits simply die hard.

The plan today was to walk home back to London, and I then chickened out seven kilometres through with my tailfeather tucked neatly inside my asshole. I can still feel the nagging discomfort my anus seems hard-pressed to let go after the morning shit once I was done with my first coffee inside the McDonald's lavatory in Marina Village. It had been a few days since I had let go, and so it felt like a rubbish dump that turned into a nuclear warhead somewhere in between. My gastric space now feels as if it had been turned into an Arizonan launching site and is still reeling after a test run.

Also today it feels as though my career as a petty criminal has finally been made official. It almost feels second nature to me now, regardless of the fact that I almost got into deep trouble after forgetting the most simple rule of kleptomiming. Fortunately for me the person in charge of the small establishment was somewhat a dunce, and I was able to walk away scot-free.

However the absence of the Swiss experience yet lingers in the air. My heart feels oddly betrayed, but I do admit I did this to myself from the get-go and have no one else to blame but my own. No one asked me to come to Brighton. No one? Really? Hm.

So I still have some hours to burn before a Monday get-together comes into full view. Two or three hours of that really is not that much to ask, and then I can go on and resume what I had almost started earlier today. My phone indicates seventeen full hours of walk from this furthest point in the southern part of England to Kings Cross in the capital. Christ I hope strength and courage guide me. I have about forty hours to spare before work with Esprit also comes knocking.

It should not be that hard, should it?

And joyful news! I have tickets for two to the BBC event Museum of Curiosities at Oxford Circus in London for the second of May. I can think of only one person to take with me, but it's not a lady, and I want a date. Fuck this. Itinerary for this week is good, but I need to be more proactive. I need to survive for three weeks with only less than forty quid in tow. And with nowhere else to sleep, it feels like a bloodbath.

Wala sa hinagap na ako'y mabibigo.

Monday, 11 April 2016

Need to learn, or maybe just a little, just a little more

She was lost to me completely the moment I allowed to let her go
Now only the memory of our sweet escape remains
I have to start saying no
I have to learn to say no
She was lost to me from the start

She was there sitting beside me when I woke up yesterday
And she was there today doing the same
I have to start saying yes
I have to learn to say yes
She was warm to me to the end

Our hearts were far apart
Maybe just a little bit
Maybe because I think it so
Or maybe because I'm just afraid

She said goodbye, and I hugged her twice for good measure
She went in,  and I walked away
I turned around, and she turned around
She never sees me, and she walks away
She walks away
She walked away

How the Swiss Kiss

Some days are filled with tedious nothingness that the only reprieve I can muster are the same things that I routined back when I had what resembles so close to life. Nowadays it has been somewhat a blur. Little things that pile up to turn into... a thaig of little things. Just like what it feels pretending to be Russian dolls undulating in the peripheries of your windshield.

It has recently felt like an extreme change of pace from the way I lived my life before compared to where I find my position to be in at the moment. My greatest enemy all of a sudden are my basics of needs; food, shelter, companionship, camaraderie, and whatnot, etc. Not to say it is absent but it feels very antibody-like, and I am a pathogen. I am my own biggest autoimmune disease. My body fails me most of the time. I have been experiencing epistaxis, at the most random of times at that, more often than I bother to count. My head feels heavier due to which I reckon is lack of proper sleep, or a timeslot with which my sleeping pattern feels comfortable to manage. Blood is part of my body's unwanted hostility. I bleed when I poop, a tumour sits on my back like a wing that failed its growth, and I have been coughing more than a Vietnamese lovemelongtimer. I just can simply not be bothered to figure out what is wrong with me right now.

Today, for the second day in a row, I woke up to the face of Luisa greeting me with her wide smile. That was all it took for me to try to keep on living.

Clinker Clanker Sailor Shy

It has been the most awkward of months since my birthday a few weeks ago. Left home when nothing else was in tow for me. Everyone else around me seemed to give up, and I was left to fend for my own against the harsh jungles of urban England. Homeless is not a word I am unfamiliar with, or even comfortable with, but here I am, a month later, just that.

A few days deprived of a good night's rest. I have lost more of my possessions than I am in procuring them, and I have not enough resources to make do with what I have. This is not like one of my spiritual gallivantings where I go walk towards the deeper yonders of neverwhere. I now am stuck to rot in London trying to survive against every single thing and one. Time is long, work is scarce -- ergo money is scarce as well -- but when work does come it is miserably torturous, where in the aftermath of a single shift deprives you of all the joys in your system. It is all fried and fucked up. Like the people and colleagues around me. Friends, they who come and go. They who go more than they come. Everything is very in the moment, very precise, efficient. So beyond my realm of jurisdiction. While my situation right now is shittier than I would admit, I would dare say it is not all that miserable, to be perfectly honest. To an outside eye looking in, it may be so, and my laurels may take time to tidy up, or my hair perpetually unkempt, but all in all life goes on regardless of the circumstances. Apocalypse is nigh, but I feel fine.

So, in a month's time, if I still reach that point, I wish to be in a different place and different circumstance. It might not be the case. Over the past few weeks, I have been all over the place here in England, from London to Carlisle, from there to St. Bees then to Ennerdale. Fucked myself over a few days later, all bruised, knackered, pathetic. I had to run back to London to meet my fate. Lost it all in furious blunder. And now here I am.

King's Cross is my new home, temporarily or otherwise, and I will be damned if the next fury heading towards me takes me some place worse.

Search and destroy