I have been listening to Ray Lamontagne again recently and listening to the song Burn from his first album Trouble, I had one of those moments when you feel a song is directly speaking to you. I thought I would post the lyrics here. Have a listen (and buy the album) If you don't own it already you should.
"Burn"
Oh mama don't walk away
I'm a goddam sore loser
I ain't too proud to stay
But I'm still thinking 'bout you
And I'm so lonesome without you
And I can't get you out of my mind
Oh mama don't leave me alone
with my soul sat down so tight it's like a stone cold tomb
Ain't it clear when I'm near you
I'm just dying to hear you
Calling my name one more time
Oh so don't pay no mind
To my watering eyes
Must be something in the air
That I'm breathing
Yes'n I try to ignore
All this blood on the floor
It's just this heart on my sleeve that's a bleeding
Oh mama don't walk away
You leave me here bereaving from the words so hard and plain
Saying the love that we had
was just selfish and sad
To see you now with him
is just making me mad
Oh so kiss him again
just to prove to me that you can
an I will stand here
and burn in my skin
Yes I will stand here
and burn in my skin
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Wednesday, 2 February 2011
Side Note
At this stage I feel it pertinent to explain a little about my life at this time. Where I was, my surroundings, the types of people I was running round with:
Basically I was living with my parents in a small town in the midlands. It was nothing special, nothing fancy, the school I went to I adored, despite it being a shithole. It was a school full of arseholes, a couple of great teachers, a range of individuals and as per the stereotype a large selection of groups from the townies to the grebos, of which I managed to move in and out of.
The local town was the haunt for us. Before we went to pubs me and my friends would buy a bottle of Strongbow (through older friends) and smoke cigarettes in parks. That was our Fridays, and they were exceptionally enjoyable, growing up with the thrill of seeing the pretty girls and learning the art of flirting, which ranged from tickling to running around undoing bras. Back then it was all so easy, all I ever had to worry about was excusing the smell of smoke on my clothes and who I was going to flirt with the next week.
As we grew older, we started spending time with older people, drugs were around, but I was never interested, didn’t seem fun to me, also I was terrified.
I sometimes go back to this town, and marvel at the younger people who have replaced us. As the years went on and we would go to the pubs, slowly the small town filter that occurs, when people move on and up and enter your world. Getting invited to an older girls birthday in a dreary town hall somewhere by a farm was a particular highlight.
When we started clubbing we graduated to a ramp in the local club in Larva Ignite in Northampton, where we would queue for what would seem like hours, staring at the girls dressed in the most atrocious outfits. It was wonderful, we never saw the end of the night as one of our group would get in a fight. Every week.
The ramp even eventually was anointed with its own Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=4782423234
Looking back I remember by the end being so desperate to move to London, to separate myself from these people, but in fact the majority had hearts of gold and were wonderful people. Some were cunts.
Basically I was living with my parents in a small town in the midlands. It was nothing special, nothing fancy, the school I went to I adored, despite it being a shithole. It was a school full of arseholes, a couple of great teachers, a range of individuals and as per the stereotype a large selection of groups from the townies to the grebos, of which I managed to move in and out of.
The local town was the haunt for us. Before we went to pubs me and my friends would buy a bottle of Strongbow (through older friends) and smoke cigarettes in parks. That was our Fridays, and they were exceptionally enjoyable, growing up with the thrill of seeing the pretty girls and learning the art of flirting, which ranged from tickling to running around undoing bras. Back then it was all so easy, all I ever had to worry about was excusing the smell of smoke on my clothes and who I was going to flirt with the next week.
As we grew older, we started spending time with older people, drugs were around, but I was never interested, didn’t seem fun to me, also I was terrified.
I sometimes go back to this town, and marvel at the younger people who have replaced us. As the years went on and we would go to the pubs, slowly the small town filter that occurs, when people move on and up and enter your world. Getting invited to an older girls birthday in a dreary town hall somewhere by a farm was a particular highlight.
When we started clubbing we graduated to a ramp in the local club in Larva Ignite in Northampton, where we would queue for what would seem like hours, staring at the girls dressed in the most atrocious outfits. It was wonderful, we never saw the end of the night as one of our group would get in a fight. Every week.
The ramp even eventually was anointed with its own Facebook page:
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=4782423234
Looking back I remember by the end being so desperate to move to London, to separate myself from these people, but in fact the majority had hearts of gold and were wonderful people. Some were cunts.
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
06/01/04
Rose shows Hugo through the front door. Impressive material things are not seen (how different this makes her to Sandra). This abysmal place is quite intruding to Hugo’s perfect vision; in an almost embarrassingly feminine way planned this whole scenario out in his head.
They eat Chinese, its ok. Hugo amuses himself while he sits on Rose’s browny green, moss covered stone sofa. He must be careful not to spill any sweet and sour sauce, he wouldn’t want to spoil the décor.
Rose smoothly leads things into the bedroom (has she done this before?) they sit on the bed; it is covered in an array of bears, is this normal for an 18 year old?
Rose is very self conscious, Hugo is not surprised she is by no means perfect - beautiful definitely - but her body, breasts and stomach in particular, leave a lot to be desired. Rose switches off the lights, Hugo does not argue. He knows this will obscure his fat chest and stomach, not to mention his bad skin and average ‘equipment’.
He is hard. He rejoices silently to himself, sex is here. He will lose his virginity to a girl two years his senior, three in October. Hugo’s mind digresses, he imagines telling his friends, has he beaten Jack to it? He hopes so, that will mean he will be the second lad in the group to have lost it. It is this moment he hears the words:
“I can’t believe I’m naked in front of you.”
He laughs, he thinks he loves her despite her faults, then he realises he isn’t wearing an protection, cockily he mentions the contents of his wallet, she instead reaches for a box, out topples a condom. It’s hideously velvety touch excites him.
He is finally going to fuck; he reaches down to put it on. He is shaking now, he is turning red, he is fucking up!
“Don’t be nervous.” Her voices is tinged with a sickening twist of pity he has come to resent. He wants to fucking cry. “What’s wrong?” He has proved inadequate, Rose reaches down and feels the continually reducing mass of his enemy. Her response is so soothing: “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.”
Well done for being so fucking perceptive.
Hugo is furious and now sick. Embarrassment overwhelms him, his breathing is surprisingly sterterous. She has left the room, left him alone, first she patronises him further by telling him to put the condom, which has now been denied its destiny, in the bin not in his pocket. He curses himself and his inadequacies. Hope remains however, Rose is taking it well, sweetly reassuring him now the shock of the situation has softened. She drives him home and he is now falling in love with her. When he leaves her he proceeds to beat the shit out of everything in is room, focussing most of his attention on a punch bag, that usually lays dormant in the corner of his garage. When Hugo has calmed down, he texts Rose, he expresses that he believes he is beginning to love her. He thinks to himself that if their relationship can survive this, it can survive anything. But he is naïve. They won’t survive this, their relationship means very little to Rose, she breaks up with him through the very contemporary and torturing form of text.
Hugo now sits alone cursing, crying and lashing out at inanimate objects. Because that helps! Hugo now believes he is impotent, Hugo hopes he will be able to have sex one day, even if it with the help of Viagra. (Where does one purchase Viagra?)
Hugo now pleads silently that Rose will not tell anyone. He must be nice to her, despite his feelings he must always be nice. She could destroy him, subconsciously though he knows a part of him is already destroyed. He will never be honest about these events, better becoming a new person than facing the shame of public ridicule.
He starts again. A new school year, a new start and he finds it in the wrong person…….Angie.
Monday, 31 January 2011
13/03/05
Hugo feels guilty. Why can’t he stop looking at other girls. He realises that he wouldn’t cheat on Sandra, but it doesn’t stop him looking, imagining and fantasising about the other ones.
That affects Hugo.
Why is it that his other friends can simply fall head over heels in love? Or do they use it as a mask, a cover for their true feelings. Maybe they keep it a secret just like Hugo does. This notion acts as a wonderful momentary relief to Hugo, like the start of a rain shower when you feel those first few drops.
Hugo feels guilty. Sex is on his mind whenever he’s alone, and often when he’s not. It annoys him, it fucking stays there chanting at him, jeering Virgin! Virgin!.
He thinks deeply when is alone. He thinks about Sandra, he wants her, but then again he wants anyone. Hugo knows on some subconscious level that he wants her because he understands that he will have her. For some reason the acknowledgement that as soon as he has had sex all will be right in his world is assumed. He doesn’t hope this is true, he doesn’t worry that this isn’t true. He knows. It’s true.
Hugo also believes, though not with quite as much assurance, that he will disappoint. Hugo is an average young man, and this fact shows him that whatever he does the probably will not match up to expectations.
Her last one (her only one) will forever be the comparison. So many times has the knowledge that a first time is never omitted from the memory plagued his mind. Hugo has finally admitted to himself that Carol was sexual infactuation, perfection would have been sleeping with her, both of them together sharing their first time.
Two years have passed since that first girl made him realistically think about sex as more than a thing done by old people. To achieved the goal of having sex would have been a fantastic achievement before the age of sixteen. What a great thing that would have been, with the wrong person of course, but regardless a great addition to the sexual CV.
It wouldn’t have been love, but that concept was such an elusive thing to Hugo at the time, and still is in some respects (but he won’t know that until later). He assumes that to make love, you must be at least able to someday love the girl. Therefore it wouldn’t have been right, not love – just sex – making sex. ? .
Maybe it isn’t love now, despite Hugo feeling as if love is enveloping him, smothering his reason like a tobacco cloud, coating his eyes, nostrils and mouth with that stench, so wonderful to him but so revolting to the people ignorant of it’s effect.
He can’t quite articulate the feeling the indescribable longing that eats him up yet at the same time frees him to think optimistically about almost anything. He continues to ponder, maybe love is just the desire for sex, the truth at this stage in his life is hard to attain, but he will know soon he feels. He makes a mental note to return to this after he has finally had sex.
Failure, the hypothetic idea of failure suddenly pours back into his mind, flooding the open hallways of his reasoning. The irony of his situation makes him feel sick.
He wants to have sex but is afraid to do it.
Ever since Rose and that night that still nearly a year after remains vivid….
I am no prophet...
31/01/2011
This is a new start for me. Something I have never tried but often had a curiosity about. I have kept a range a diary style notebooks in my lifetime. I have always written in the third person so as not to worry about the disastrous effect of what someone reading these episodic ramblings would discover.
I am no writer but have always found solace in pouring my emotions and worries onto the page of a beautiful black Moleskine.
I have decided to begin this blog, because once again, and I am certain that for the last time, I have had my heart broken.
I have decided that the pain of this kind of loss is just not worth the period of time spent letting someone get close to you. I too easily allow those barriers I so carefully place around me to get stealthily infiltrated, only to then be cast aside like some bad habit.
The latest in a series of catastrophe's has left me more alone than ever before and so I begin to forge a new relationship with people I will never meet. The reader.
I have no reason other than the desire to share, I feel by hiding behind my words I can still hopefully have an effect. But this way the effect is just one way. I have no reason to want contact, yet I will attempt to recreate my life through these entries as they were written, so other people may allow themselves to not get caught up in this cycle of torment I have previously been locked in.
I will occasionally write to you directly such as I am now, but for the most part I will just copy my diary entries form my notebooks onto this blog.
I will start by adding a quote that sums up my life and has acted as my guide for much of my life. I have adapted the quote slightly to suit myself. I won't tell you how though.
"I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;. I have seen the moment of my greatest flicker"
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S.Eliot
This is a new start for me. Something I have never tried but often had a curiosity about. I have kept a range a diary style notebooks in my lifetime. I have always written in the third person so as not to worry about the disastrous effect of what someone reading these episodic ramblings would discover.
I am no writer but have always found solace in pouring my emotions and worries onto the page of a beautiful black Moleskine.
I have decided to begin this blog, because once again, and I am certain that for the last time, I have had my heart broken.
I have decided that the pain of this kind of loss is just not worth the period of time spent letting someone get close to you. I too easily allow those barriers I so carefully place around me to get stealthily infiltrated, only to then be cast aside like some bad habit.
The latest in a series of catastrophe's has left me more alone than ever before and so I begin to forge a new relationship with people I will never meet. The reader.
I have no reason other than the desire to share, I feel by hiding behind my words I can still hopefully have an effect. But this way the effect is just one way. I have no reason to want contact, yet I will attempt to recreate my life through these entries as they were written, so other people may allow themselves to not get caught up in this cycle of torment I have previously been locked in.
I will occasionally write to you directly such as I am now, but for the most part I will just copy my diary entries form my notebooks onto this blog.
I will start by adding a quote that sums up my life and has acted as my guide for much of my life. I have adapted the quote slightly to suit myself. I won't tell you how though.
"I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;. I have seen the moment of my greatest flicker"
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
T.S.Eliot
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