Never Too Late!

Never Too Late!
any resemblance to anyone real or imaginary is mere bad luck
we are all lying in the gutter, but some of us are trying to get up


Sometimes naked
Sometimes mad
Now the scholar
Now the fool
Thus they appear on earth:
The free men

(found in old notebook, unknown origin)
People run hither and thither.

And then hither again.
alcohol is a good social drug because it reduces your ability to understand what other people are saying



my back teeth are more filling than tooth. i had a tooth finally pulled the other day, it was glorious. my quality of life immediately improved 25 per cent or so.

shit proliferates. bad shit drives out good shit. it's the inexorable march of entropy.

i'm gonna get an electric typewriter so i can write without goddamn emails and blogs and facebooks.

i was digging in the garden today, hardpacked soil in a long-abandoned flowerbed.

at about a foot depth i dug through the central egg chamber of a huge ant colony. there was a tiny little plastic kid's toy in there, first i thought it was a little dinosaur figure.

no, it was an anteater.


i save earthworms from the biting ants to bring to the flowerbed and herb patch. i love earthworms and hate ants.

i am sure we will reach the stars from this planet someday. but it may well be the descendants of the ants and not us who reach other worlds.

bastard things.


it's that fucker i hate. what fucker? the one that lives down the street, a couple houses down. what number? i don't know what number. 7. or 8. i don't care what fucking number. but i don't like him. i'm gonna punch his lights out the first pretext he gives me. what fucker? you know the one i mean, the one that really enrages me. that wannabe rockstar wanker. no, he doesn't have blond hair, he's got dark hair. i think. if it's not dark it might be light though. i don't know. his name? fuck knows. i don't fucking know. you know the one i mean. that mean-spirited fucking twat that i want to punch. i don't know anything else about him.


Running under a big sky

London is so very pretty in the summer. A long absence does much to re-inspire an appreciation for the cultural wealth of this city - the libraries, the galleries, the opportunities for study and learning, the people gathered here from every corner of the earth.

Lazy lurches from one extreme to another, as is his wont. After a thousand broken vows, he returns once again to the caravan of seekers and lovers of knowledge. After the years lost to heroin, and then a year-long drunken bender across four countries and two continents, he runs, he hammers the punch bag until he collapses, he does sit-ups and push-ups and yoga stretches, he seeks a squash partner and a sparring partner and joins a boxing gym; he reads widely, he applies himself fanatically to his passion, the study of languages.

We have re-instituted VFEC, the "Valid Fucking Experiment in Consciousness" of our driven and Nietzschean years (there is even a VFEC blog, although most entries have been redacted. The first post may be useful as background and as a statement of intent).

Lazy takes up chi kung and meditation and pranayama once again. He borrows and reads Paulette's books on Taoist sexual alchemy and maintains himself in a state of heightened sexual excitement without allowing himself to come, attempting to channel the ching into strengthening the chi and shen and forcing his consciousness wider open. He reads Radigan's Solipsist novel The Steppe and contemplates the nature of external reality and knowledge. He resolves to conduct many experiments on himself, the only subject you may ethically experiment on; and on others. He cultivates a sacred detachment, the paradoxical state of non-attachment / non-disinterest.

And it is so effortless. If you must force yourself into any type of "self-improvement", so-called, you are harming yourself, as you do not really want it, or perhaps you want it too much.

"Act without doing; work without effort. The way is not difficult, only there must be no wanting or not wanting."


When you come back after a year, and there are the same people, sitting in the same places, beer cans held at the same angles, having the same conversation.

It fills me with a chilling existential dread.