Conclusions on Blogging

I was fervently hoping that this was going to be the conclusion of my blog, although I have been informed that I must still update it.

I hate and resent being forced to add to the noise on the internet. We are jammed full with personal narratives and obsessions. MySpace and every other blogging site is an abomination of noise.

Does this make me a snob? As an anarchist I am totally in favour of open access publishing. However I have a problem with the presumption that someone wants to read the minutiae of my life, my processes, whatever it is we choose to share.

I want to speak. I want to have a voice. But, perversely, this doesn't come close to fulfilling this need.

I don't believe I have anything of value to add to a blog. When I was a full time activist, if the technology had been popular, maybe it would have been interesting. Even back then there would have been a limit to the number of times I could post “got nicked again” and “I'm worried I'm going to get sent to prison”, before it became boring.

It just seems so self indulgent to presume that anyone has the slightest interest in random blogging.

Okay, so I could be crafting beautiful posts. I could be showcasing my ability as a writer. It doesn't have to be a boring diary.

I just don't like the format. I'd much prefer these thoughts and processes remained here in my notebook where they belong.

There are also legal issues I have to consider. Any blog I write will never be totally open and honest because the State can read it. Cops who hound and harass me can read it.

And this may seem like raving paranoia or an inflated ego, but it is founded on reality, on years of harassment.

A few years ago, I was arrested and my house searched. The cops took my personal diaries, diaries I had not shared with anyone. These diaries catalogued my vulnerabilities.

As a very active activist, I had been on the receiving end of a lot of harassment, from violent wrongful arrests, to being followed, and having my photograph taken whenever I spoke to anyone at a demonstration. All of this mental and physical pain had been poured onto those pages.

Out on the streets, I was hardcore. I was sarcastic and arsey. Uncooperative and wilful. I never cried. I never asked them to loosen handcuffs even if I'd lost all circulation to my hands. I didn't show weakness. I didn't give an inch.

But back at home, after a few spliffs and the wearing off of the post adrenalin buzz, I sat, and documented the pain, the fear, the mental exhaustion I felt after a day on the front line.

So when the cops took my diaries, it threw me over the edge. I felt they had broken me. I felt weak and shaky. My enemy had my innermost secrets and I no longer knew how to cope.

Unfortunately I found my coping mechanism in the bottom of the vodka bottle. Not to mention the whiskey bottle, the wine bottle and the gin bottle.

But it was the tequila that finished me off. We drank more bottles than any of us can remember. We drank until I ripped my stomach lining and threw up a large quantity of blood and was rushed to hospital in an ambulance. Once there, I hallucinated cops in the place of paramedics, and only avoided being sectioned by a very patient friend explaining my background.

So you see, it isn't simple, sharing my thoughts on the World Wide Web. I can write articles, I can write stories. I can write anything that is finely edited and has a direct purpose. But this, this sharing of emotion and processes makes me feel too vulnerable.

I may not like the noise, but I could overcome this if it wasn't for the vulnerability. It is the vulnerability that is crippling. It's the vulnerability that blocks my path when I try to update these pages and it is vulnerability that has scarred me, stained me.
It took me a long time to start writing again. It's a cliché, but it's been a long and hard journey but I feel happy writing again. It's just maybe this is a step too far, a step I'm not yet ready for; a step I shouldn't be forced to take.

Feeling Down

Before
15/11/06
I’m in a bad mood but I’m also realising that I haven’t been in a bad for ages. Not this kind of thick malignant fog anyway.

My I-Pod’s refusing to working. Technology has failed me which would be ironic if it wasn’t so fucking frustrating.

And I’ve left my glasses downstairs. This isn’t a problem of simple laziness. Jack is downstairs and is happy with my parents, but if I go down and he spots me, then I lose the opportunity to write. Besides, I’ve been wearing them too much recently.

My I-Pod is showing a sad face and an exclamation mart but is now moving between this and the Apple logo which seems more promising than a totally blank screen. I’m hoping that the batteries are just totally drained and it will sort itself out once it has been plugged in for a while.

I know, I know. You’re waiting on tentahooks for the conclusion of this riverting thriller. But fear not, my friends, I will keep you updated.

A gale is blowing up outside, The sound of the wind and the rain make me shiver although I am not cold. I am writing upstairs on the little table which is just the right size for the bed., I have one sidelight on. It is cosy.

But I feel fat. I feel my stomach expanding against my jeans; jeans that last year were too big for me.

My shoulder’s also bothering me. The numbness still the result of the two hours I spent handcuffed at Sack Parliament.

But it is my massive midriff that is my real preoccupation, my main cause of sadness. I keep seeming to pile on the weight. I think maybe it’s partly down to my medication, but my diet has ben crap recently: whole packets of biscuits demolished in one sitting. It’s not good.

Still no I-Pod. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten my promise. At least if there’s music I might move. And if I move at least there’s some chnce of losing some calories.

I don’t want to be a weight obsessed freak, I really don’t.

Well, that’s good. I’ve changed Jack, got my glasses and now my I-Pod is working again.

Oh, yes, that was it, feeling fat. I went into New Look a few weeks ago, and tried on some black combats, a hoodie and a gillet. I look in the mirror and all I could see was a fat version of my former image. Totally gutting.

Novel thoughts

Before
Novel Thoughts
I want to write about the nature of my novel, my novel with its peculiar soundtrack. A novel that explores our relationship to music as much as anything else. I think I want to stick with it for now, although I might revise some of the track listings. And I need to heavily edit what I’ve already done. Although, here’s the key. I need to just start writing bits again and forget about the finished overview. Stop worrying what I may have written somewhere and where this might fit into the narrative.

I don’t kneed to remember what comes wehre and what I have or have not decided to include. This is all up for grabs again which is quite exciting. I had something that to my mind was set in stone and which has now become a crumbling edifice which can be rebuilt in any series of combinations and designs. It is very exciting.

Hackney

Before
Hackney
I don’t miss Hackney. I don’t miss the crack hores, the stink of nail air brushing chemicals and bus exhausts. I don’t miss the animalistic charge round Primark stepping over the detritus of the frenzy as patrons discard garments over the floor. The snake has shed it’s skin and has been reborn in a florescent glow on a Sunday afternoon. God bless sweat shop labour and that’s not even counting the UK employees.

Thoughts on MA

Before:
Thoughts on MA Course
I am feeling increasingly confident in my skills through doing my course. I’m learning to be precise, I’m learning to think about every word, about whether the narrative is consistent, whether the right image is being created.

I feel very alert. Super wired. I’m on a long elastic band waiting to be twanged.

But I am also feeling swamped. I feel like I’ve got too much to think about and there’s only so many projects that my head can hold onto. It’s difficult because I can’t settle on anything, just lots of works in progress.

Yes, we all know that this is because I have a fear of completion. A fear of having to say this is finished, please read. Even articles I’ve written have been up to the deadline because I’m afraid that I can’t do it. I need the deadline to make me do it, to prove I can do it.

Only this course has given me more confidence, I can do it. It’s not a fluke. When I have to, I can sit down and write and something reasonably coherent comes out the other end.

Well, one last note to myself. DON’T PANIC. This is the key to all of this. If I can keep calm then I can keep on top of things. And if think things are coming on top, then I need to prioritise.

I suppose I’m worried because I’ve got so many different threads running through my head and I’m worried they’re going to tangle themselves into one large inscrutable knot.

If nothing else, this course has got me writing every day again. And it’s got to the point where I’m writing automatically. I find myself sitting with my notebook and pen almost subconsciously; my notebook has become an extension of myself

Thoughts

Before:
Fresh starts. Fresh perspectives. A blank page. I’m afraid of the blank page.There’s so much I need to write. I’ve deliberately left all my old notebooks at home today so that I can just experiment with the potential of the new. I need progression not reflection at the moment.I’m waffling and I can’t seem to stop. I am on cruise control and the auto pilot has jammed. The record keeps skipping, scratching without style. Tripping up like a small child learning to skip.I need to write about fighting, about feeling strong and powerful. About believing. About passion. About a longing to achieve something tangible. About saying “fuck you baby, I’m an anarchist. Let’s flip a finger to society and all that sails in her.”But more subtly, about the power that comes with experience and about seriousness. About being focussed. About being sure. About feeling that there is no other option. Any other option would render me a hypocrite and I want to be true to myself – this has always been my ultimate aim. I will take them on and I will win because I have to win. I will triumph, morally at least. Practicalities are always harder.