Postscript.

Tunes in my head: Another Door by Mike Gordon
Books of a page: As above.
Atmosphere: Alone and gone.

So, I guess it's been good writing here, and if you're one of those reading this, I hope you've enjoyed it.

But...all things must come to an end some day. Good or bad.

And so this place is closing up. I don't feel any inspiration to write here anymore, I can't see the point in it, so I might as well leave it instead of continuing the same old substandard stuff that I've been throwing out there in the past few weeks. I can't stand seeing my reputation as a good writer die.

It's a massive blow to my self confidence to actually see this happen.

It's sad. I really feel I'm slipping.

Well, if you're reading this, you know how to get in touch with me. Any suggestions for how I can revitalise my writing would be greatly appreciated.

Thankyou for reading.

Goodbye.

- Liam McCann
21st February 2010.

Three hundredth post.

Tunes in my head: Querencia by Medeski, Martin and Wood
Books of a page: Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
Atmosphere: Destroyed.

I'm decaying, so quickly.

I feel like all of my mental faculties, all of my physical faculties, are being slowly drained from me. I feel like I can't even make use of my fine motor skills, or of my intelligence anymore.

Help.

To wander neath the sleep.

Tunes in my head: Julius by Phish
Books of a page: Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote
Atmosphere: Grumpy

Sleep is a powerful thing, really.

It can tear us apart, revitalise us, destroy us.

It can embolden us to do things that aren't expected, that aren't typical.

Stairway stare Dan dare who's there?

Tunes in my head: Astronomy Domine by Pink Floyd
Books of a page: Sleep When I'm Dead by Crystal Zevon
Atmosphere: Pissed off. 

The only unforgivable thing is the betrayal. The betrayal I felt when I was fifteen, in the English countryside, underneath limpid sound. The harsh stab of the knife digging it's way through my repulsive flesh.

I know that life can't be simple again.

Tunes in my head: Rocky Top by Phish
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Headache

Why do we choose to take our frustrations out on others?

Does it really achieve anything?

And the bird leapt from his shoulder, unto the boulder.

Tunes in my head: Fly Famous Mockingbird by Phish
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Introspective.

If we went to heaven, the indifferent place that it is, how will we be preserved?

Will it be as we were born (i.e. innocent and naked), as we died (i.e. jaded and mostly clothed), or when we were at our best?

Just a little thought, I suppose one could say.

Ask me why, and I'll spit in your eye.

Tunes in my head: Still Ill by The Smiths
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Jealous. Insanely jealous.

Under the iron bridge, we kissed. And I ended up with sore lips. 

We live as we dream. Alone.

I don't enjoy being alone, and I don't want to be alone.

But at the same time, I wish to maintain my dreams, I suppose. I guess when people ask me "oh for fuck's sakes just ask her out already, she obviously loves you to bits", I'm scared of breaking the picture I have in my head.

Sure, could there be better? Yeah.

But it involves taking a risk, which I...I don't know. I want to do it but I'm seemingly unable to do it for whatever stupid fucking reason.

It's really sad and depressing and lonely.

So what can I do here? I know that yeah, in essence, I could jump into the darkness. But at the same time, what's the point of doing that when I practically know that I'll just get impaled there anyway.

Up on the cloud line.

Tunes in my head: The Night Watch by King Crimson
Books of a page: Why You Should Read Kafka Before You Waste Your Life by James Hawes
Atmosphere: Alert

There's a certain bravado that accompanies going up on stage in front of five hundred, two thousand, seventy thousand people, and just playing whatever comes through the conduits of your soul, in going up and improvising in front of them.

It takes skill, too, of course. But mainly absolute guts. Who says the audience will be there with you, neccesarily? It's by no means definite. Sometimes they can listen to the uplifting, "type II" jamming and be completely turned off. Sometimes they can hear total improv and just be entranced by it.

Take for example, King Crimson's Trio. During a late night gig, at three in the morning, the band had just ripped through particularly energetic and heavy versions of their Starless and Bible Black material, concluding that section with a dissonant, atonal improv. From the chaos and carnage of this assault came a sole flute line, and from there the composers took up interweaving melodic lines. Soon there was a three pronged melodic piece, the bass guitar, flute and violin interlocking and playing around each other's gaps. It was so profound that the band's drummer, Bill Bruford, did not play a single note, realising that adding percussion to this gorgeous improv would merely destroy its integrity.

The audience had to be completely in on it, as well. If someone had yelled in the middle of the piece, the integrity would be ruined, the beauty of this completely improvised moment would be destroyed totally. Instead, the audience sat in silence, perhaps not realising that this was a moment of invention.

And the result is heard on Starless and Bible Black. Pieces of absolute beauty, something sublime, gorgeous.

On the other end of the scale comes what is affectionately titled "The Went Gin". At The Great Went in 1997, Phish launched into a version of the song Bathtub Gin that seemed at first ordinary.

Within ten minutes they had launched from a mid tempo vamp to a high paced improvisational flurry that transcended composed music. They had never done anything this potent, this uplifting before - and never would again. The final six minutes were quite possibly the six best minutes of music ever, period. A double time melodic vamp which repeated in absolute nirvana.

Sure, improv is at best risky, but when it goes off, it's heavenly. It just defies all definition, all words.

The red one, the green one, the silver and blue.

Tunes in my head: Cascade by Siouxsie and the Banshees
Books of a page: Yeats Collection
Atmosphere: Sweaty

We move in an endless, full, perfect circle. 

Everything's going to be alright.

Tunes in my head: Three Little Birds by Bob Marley
Books of a page: W.B. Yeats - Collected Poems
Atmosphere: Sleepy

I remember California, where people would happily tell the foreigner "well, how are ya, I'm from the area and I'll show you the Golden Gate Bridge and Arnie's office if you really want me to."

The scary thing is this is the exact same motivation that drives us to mercilessly slit our bretheren's throats on a mud-sodden battlefield.

How can we put our own stupid nationalistic drive at the forefront of our political aims and let it drive us to kill someone who theoretically be our blood, our brother.

What drives us to kill each other, in the name of God?

We are, as a human race, very similar to ants. We attack better under force, en masse, under the dominion of some leader, whether they're a queen bee, a hick who chokes on pretzel, someone who gets elected to the office by a watery tart throwing scimitars, or the very same spiritual being from above.

In brief, humans are truly pathetic creatures. We happily allow ourselves to be brainwashed into killing, into raping, into committing something that could only truly be considered an atrocity.

And how exactly do we justify that?

And the enthralling words.

Tunes in my head: Still Ill by The Smiths
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Sick

What enthralls us?

I mean, people say this book is good or this song is good or this TV series draws us in.

But why is that? Is it because of the level of emotional attachment we have to it? We can feel empathy or attraction or sympathy for something that's been talked about, that's been written about. And so we continue to seek out more, to become borderline obsessed with said thing.

Or is it because we enjoy seeing people get damaged and eventually die? The critically lauded TV shows often have some sort of nihilistic ending to them. Think about Twin Peaks. The entire story revolved around the morbid fascination of the viewers and of Lynch with the "protagonist"'s death. Once that story arc was resolved the show meant nothing.

Perhaps it could be the sense of redemption they get. Why do we have tears in our eyes when a convicted criminal dies in a bloody fight? Because they have achieved their redemption in the view of the audience.

Or could it be the way in which the story is cleverly constructed? The use of clever puns and interesting plot devices, of unconventional camera angles.

If all of these are the case, then what makes the human life so captivating?

Every bird and bee...

Tunes in my head: Burning With Optimism's Flames by XTC
Books of a page: And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks by William Burroughs and Jack Kerouac
Atmosphere: Good

So why exactly is it so hard to smile, to actually look at things with a positive bent?

We are more scarred by our pain than by our pleasure.

Just a brief thought, discuss. 

It's been quiet here.

Tunes in my head: Aerial Boundaries by Michael Hedges
Books of a page: And The Hippos Were Boiled In Their Tanks by Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs
Atmosphere: Frustrated.

It's been a while.

I'll be back to writing regularly in a couple of days, all things considered.

I'll leave you all with one question.

If the nuclear holocaust was to happen in seven days, what would you do?

It's why I hope.

There's a certain grace that accompanies pain.

Whenever we're on the ground from whatever kills us, there's a sensitivity, a pained expression, that comes with the inevitable fall.

Death is just so full of life. When we know our demise is imminent, we attempt to combine whatever we enjoy most from our past in a vain attempt to recapture it.

Shout your name into the wind
I'll never hear your voice again 

I'd like to live beneath the dirt
A tiny space to move and breathe
Is all that I would ever need

I wanna live beneath the dirt
Where I'd be free from push and shove
Like all those swarming up above

Beneath their heels I'll spend my time
I'll wriggle in the earth and dew
And sometimes I will think of you

And if you ever think of me
Kneel down and kiss the earth
And show me what this thought is worth

I love you. Goodbye. 

Tunes in my head: Accidentally Like A Martyr by Warren Zevon
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Eh. 

we have random love
accidents, love
scandalous love
and abandoned love
we're just accidentally ecstatic

we have summer breeze
winter breeze
new ordeals
and things to feel
accidentally ecstatic
the hope gets high
the heart gets harder 

we have random letters
bottles of pills
dry lovesongs
jealous to kill
accidentally ecstatic
why do we need to hide away 

These dreams will never end.

Tunes in my head: Cut by The Cure
Books of a page: And The Ass Saw The Angel by Nick Cave
Atmosphere: Hot

You gave me the hope to wish impossible things to be true.

But now. All I wish is gone away.

All I wish is gone away.

Driving home to mum and dad, to spend a weekend with no cares.

Tunes in my head: Dirt by Phish
Books of a page: Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
Atmosphere: Melancholic.

It's funny, really. We're all inherently disposable. We all have our own faults and flaws and positives and strengths, but in the end, when it all comes down to it, if we were replaced by someone else, who would give a fuck? Sure, society in the short term on the smallest possible scale would be affected, but in the long term, nobody would give a shit.

So then, when we notice that we're being replaced, why do we get so offended? We evolve as human beings, we discover new needs and goals, lose old desires. But even so, when we go to grasp these, there is a certain part in us that regrets.

Do we need some sort of immense pain before we can finally let something go? Do we need some great event before we can finally just give it away for it to abuse the next person who traverses amongst their path?

Perhaps. But even so, the whole notion of letting go of something one cares about, even though you know they merely use you as a stepping stone to some other place is still a painful one. It's not as easy as anyone can say, as anyone can think. There are memories involved in any sort of interaction between people, even if it's as insignificant and inconsequential as walking by them in a corridor and meeting eyes.

But when you cut the ties, and when you let go, then that all slowly dies away. You become hardened, less emotional, less willing to let someone into your little place.

As the same time, though, what exactly is the point in erasing your memories? Yes, they are painful, but they are what they are. One can never forget the time you spent with a person, even as they slowly, or quickly and painfully tear themselves away. And in reality, they will always be there, affecting your psyche.

So do we become jaded and cold, or do we stay emotional and hurt? What can be said, aside from that when you turn your back, the bastards will do nothing but put the knife in.

Maybe there's one more option. Maybe we can hide beneath the dirt and watch as the selfish motherfuckers walk over our graves, not even noting our existence as they do so.

But what's the point in a life where we don't experience, where we don't feel?

Yes, the notion of detachment is a painful one that I wouldn't wish on my worst enemies, it leads to so many negative consequences and feelings. But at the same time, isn't it an integral part of us as humans? Isn't the negative experience of someone just completely ditching us, leaving us in the dust for some unfeasible reason, or even worse, as a method of getting away from their own comfort zone, something that strengthens us as human beings?

Perhaps that's why people do it. They make a conscious attempt to move as far away from the things that make them feel loved, that make them feel wanted. And it often fails, and they fall back into their own pit of despair and denial. Somehow they feed off this feeling, utilising it in order to get support behind them.

Then again, they never said they'd stay until the end, I suppose. There was never a promise.

Which is why I don't necessarily believe in the concept of marriage. Isn't there always the lingering chance of abandonment, the doubt that lies in the back of one's mind that their love will find a sense of total intimacy with another? Even in the person that we eternally trust, forever and ever, there is a sense of doubt, sometimes rightfully, sometimes unjustifiably, that we will be tossed aside like yesterday's newspaper.

But isn't that what we do best as humans? We're a selfish race. We enjoy tossing aside what won't directly benefit us in the future. Fuck somebody who has the balls to put you first and themselves second. You'll just use them for every fucking penny they have and then toss them aside, never to be looked at again, the cinderella who is no longer a virgin, the tainted prize.

That's how the end always is.

Leave it all behind.

Tunes in my head: The Curtain With by Phish
Books of a page:  On The Road by Seamus Heaney
Atmosphere: Short of breath

As he saw his life run away from him
Thousands ran along
Chanting words from a song
"Please, me, have no regrets."
Came from the baby's mouth
We followed the lines going south


We feel too much sometimes, I think. We feel all of these emotions, all of these mixed feelings and don't truly understand the mechanisms behind ourselves. We don't understand what make the neurons in our brain fire the way they do, leading to an emotional response.

If you'll excuse me for a brief moment, I'm going to talk about myself.

As a person, I'm an extremely emotional person. I see people in situations and then go through something similar. It seems that when I go through them, I feel the pain, the pleasure more than others do. Is that a result of ego or just of my perception of things? When I was in love, I was the person who showed it. Not just in what I did, but what I said, how I treated the other person. It seemed very intense. When I hate, it's with such a fiery passion that it's almost impossible to cool me down from it. Once I get psyched up about something, it's very hard to pull me away. Once I become apathetic and give it, I cannot be motivated. Jealousy for me is an interesting emotion. I feel jealousy quite powerfully, and I'm not afraid to admit this. I can be an extremely jealous bastard sometimes, even when it doesn't concern me. When someone has the ideals, the thing that I want (compassion) in front of them, then I fight them for it. And it sucks. But it's as if something takes me over when I do so. When I become very emotionally driven, it's like the driver in my head takes me over and runs me without any thought.

There are four kinds of people. Or, perhaps better to say, there are four characteristics that people tend to lean towards. The emotional, the analytical, the extroverted and the introverted. Look at your friend circles. Look at how people could be classified into those categories. It's amazing how we complement each other with our combinations of those characteristics.

So why am I intensely emotional? I don't know. Perhaps it has to do with upbringing. But what can I do about it? Nothing, really. It is me. To change it would be to change the essence of myself.

And nobody wants that.

So why do we emote? Why do we cry, do we laugh, do we feel?