One For The Road

 

Part  One

 

by zoot forzilch

   The Log Of The Bottles

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      Here goes then. I'll try and set it down. Though I warn you it wont be a pretty sight. I can only get it together when the chips are down. Don't know why. Gives it more of an edge I guess. Thats all. Its a guilty conscience really that drives me on. Guilty that when I'm sober so much is left unsaid. Dark deep pools I wouldnt dare enter. Trapped here in this dinky little cave. Safe in it too. But always hid behind all this subterfuge, the longing to breeze on out. Except I can never find the right spot to crack it. At least not one where I could just blow out anonymous and split. So I carry on regardless. Just below the waves. Blowing out captions through a long hollow tube. Hoping they'll surface without too much disturbance. No ripples. Just a calm clear blast of lucid connection.

                    At the start it all seems possible. Then its easy. Everythings free. Up for grabs, if you will. But every word reduces the orbit of the chances. Limits the possibilities. Lays lures to trip and trap. Has me running pell mell down the one way, when I should be freewheeling easy down the other. As I always used to. Til I ran out of rope, road, and a sight of the end. Now I'm just sat by the window counting the days. Making deals with the bottles. Seeing them through with the minimum of intent. But its difficult to tell. Theyre like dumbstruck chameleons. If they ever get wind that somethings up they'll give me no rest. Have me spinning this out into totally unfathomable knots. Way beyond this pleasantly abstruse diversion which is, hopefully, no more than a cryptic collection of deceptive recollection.

                    Just a few gentle strands in the night is all, or the day, or whatever it is now. I have no way of telling being only the recipient of these absurd impulses. If the situation is favourable I can spin it out into a cleverly complex knot that wont cause too many tangles. But, if also the situation is favourable, then it would seem like the best plan to let it go lie. Wherever it lays. Stony ground and all. For what would there be to say then. I could, possibly, breeze along being exuberantly exhilarant, but thats not my style. On that tack I wouldnt get anywhere. Theres nothing to prove in any case, nothing really to tell. Only a never ending tale of the slow motion expansion of the limited explosion of preverbial bliss. Whatever that means and whichever is best. Which is at times a bit difficult to relate to or tell. Or even grab hold of or pass on as well.

                    Up turns in the proceedings if they appear at all are, after all, only the same old numbers hiding out in the low lands. Why go through all that digging? All those peregrinations over the flic of a die. Let them be. They look okay where they are. Being stuck in the ground isnt so bad. Why spin it out. Down time on the other hand. Thats somewhat different. A little more intriguing. Down time casts its own spells. Right smack in the middle of the frame. So much so that any attempt at metamorphosis betwixt the two  is absorbed in the continually evolving struggle for control of the  polarities. Thus one is never as bad as the other seems to think it is. Its just an absence of any finely tuned distinction to the contrary. The subliminal interplay of shy waves of conscience. Weaving all the way through back and too. Whispering hidden words in the wings. Should of written. The rules say dont write out of obligation. True enough. Write out a hundred times, do not write out of obligation. Right. Straight out of the memory tunnel. With abstract corruption for an alibi and independant concern for a raisin.

                    Choosing any at random. In reverse mode for preference. Without so many traps. The constant stab of the phone, the post building mountains behind the door, the video scream constantly beckoning and threatening. Haunting with the stray precision of ghosts. When I'd rather be out rolling down the road in a frantic search for friendly phantoms. Diving into deep waters to retrieve lost bottles. Searching avidly for the message. Writ on any scrap of paper. The rescue crew poised on the edge. Throwing out a line as I try to demolish a bottle and stay straight edged and sober. You know, the same old round. The other side. All that nonsense. Make it through. Which I surely can now, without a trace of the slightest hesitation.

                    Once more into the breach. The chronosphere says four fifteen. I'm quite certain of it. I mark the times on the bottles as they go down. No reason really. No reason not to. Just the black magic of chance. Trying to see it through. Desperate to find out why it always fails. While the track always seems to leave the trail. But this time no. To catch the trick of it. To see it through will be the one accord. Theres other things that should be done, but they can wait. Right now an acre of space. A small degree of silence. To bask in, and bathe in, and drown in. Roll in even. But enough of that. No more wallowing in drunken words. Without vowels and consonants, and thus any point of reference. Cast adrift but determined to continue. Yes indeed. But with what? These lonesome words? That old cowboy hat? No, not likely. They can go and sing. Dance too for all I care. But not me. I'll just sit here and not give a damn. Watch those flies fiddling on the wall. Wait and see what happens. But what will it be? Something I'm sure but hopefully not  the product of these few drinks. Spilling out all over the place. I cant say anymore. Its four thirty. Time for another.

 

 

 

 

                    Here it is then, finally at last. No, not at last. Thats not true. Thats already been done. I've already said that, and certainly the opening line, so many times I've lost count. Its simply that I roll inevitably to this point every time, like a ball bearing on a bagatelle board, reaching the lowest rung and scoring zilch. Its the amend I make for spending too much time at these bottles, whilst pretending to be searching for something else; then finding out, too late, that there is nothing else. For not knowing which came first. The full one or the empty. For being unable to say which fuels which. Then for never knowing which is right. For being unable to be sure, too clearly, of what drives it all on. Of having dozens of starts but no real sight of an end, except to return here, again and again, in the hope of setting up an ambush for that particular point. To strike the keys and hope they might get lucky. That by magic the answers will pop up like new born corn after hiding out in exile for so long. Bent but never bowed. Simply awaiting a suitable line. Staring out with one of those old fashioned, told you so, looks that said they knew it all the time.

                    But so many dead ends have worn me down. I dont know now what keeps this all going but blind obssession. To even think clearly now seems a might too much. What the purpose is, I know not, though it, no doubt, knows mine. All too clearly it seems, for it spins forever out of reach, shimmering like a series of extenuating circumstances constantly witheld. Farewells that were too short in the coming and too slow in the telling and too long in the going. The oft dreamed of oft dreaded escape that dances on the horizon, and has me cutting out and lying low, there to grow anew, and reappear, and say, I knew what was happening all the time. I knew that there were so many mistakes, but they were not in vain. I was aware. It just needed the right blend of circumstance to set them all in order. So I have run around in circles. To find this place at that time. Or that place at this time. To say this is it. This is where it was. All the time.

                    But it never was. The answer is still as far away as when I first set out, whenever that was, which I now fear was a long time ago. Since when I have sat down many times and tried to set it down right, but it never comes out right the way that it should do. So I search and try to fill out all the loose corners with the spare change of recollection, but even if the end does hove into view, its only a reminder that I still havent made any progress, apart from speeding on towards the open goal that looms ever ominously closer. The words, meanwhile, have slipped in with their own game and turned it all to something else, more suited to their purpose than mine, and I am left with only a blank spinning vacuum, tantalisingly close and yet still without any adequate means of giving shape to it, other than with a couple of shots at the bottles, that I imagine will unlock all the closed doors that are hidden away in here.

                    At which point I give up this quest, and give up the fire that fuels it, and set the roller coaster back on the rails, and begin a further process of rejuvenation, and mourn what, in my haste, I have so casually thrown away. I resolve for a new start, and for an end to this circle of nonsense. Quickly I find one and endeavour to break it, and then, once more, it goes more by default, until I reach a point where I am powerless to alter anything contained therein and where I realise that all the changes that I desire are as impossible to achieve as my desire to set this down in accord with the proper channels. Then, it is, that I realise that perhaps a better way would be to return once more to the warm hypnotic gaze of the bottles and, with their aid, conjure up some new found genie from the depths below. One that will take up the reins and give me a break. But he never appears. Except to hammer incessantly inside my head and tantalise me with dreams of all of this. Until there is nothing I can do but throw down the towel and draft out a truce. Even as, at the same time, I hope desperately to make amends with the world, and then to go, and know at last some kind of contentment. Even if it is merely the knowledge that content can do nothing especially but coexist in discontent.

                    To be finally and irrevocably alone, beyond the call of duty, where at last there will be no need to make peace with anyone but myself. If such a state can now be, which I doubt is possible, since in whatever direction I look there appear on all sides only shadey lanes of no fixed abode. Each with its own peculiar set of premises, shot through with promises; though none I could live with except, at a pinch, for the complete insulation of isolation. Yet I do not know how adequately to explain this, for I do not really understand it. I know only that it arises out of fear, but I do not know from whence the fear springs. Only, maybe, that it is the fear of being found out. But I do not know what it is I have done. The only true possible causes are the ones I have invented to cover up the fact that I was afraid in the first place. As in this romance with the bottles. Where I am, at all events, determined to keep this fact well hid. But is this too only manufactured, to give me something tangible to hide, when the real thing that should be hidden is buried so much deeper.

                    The beaming fizzog of stout barleycorn who has always seemed, in some ways, such an undemanding companion. Yet one whose keen sufficiency along the way makes my own haphazard inefficiency affect only myself, and that with my own sweet complicity. Even to cases like this, where I'm not really that profficient, and it takes a whole day to sink a decent measure, amid bursting head, and half blind eyes, and a throat of leaden ashes. But I do go on, and stagger through it somehow, until at the end something has been achieved. Though other than the drowning of my own remorse, at my own failure and ineptitude, I am not that sure what has  really been accomplished. Sometimes, in moments of pure fantasy, it appears as a form of punishment forced on the outside by some other on the inside. But furious fancy whispers, who can believe that. If it does wind up being so, then so be it, but what could be the cause.  Other than the inability to finish the bottle, coupled with the ever deepening belief that by doing so it will achieve some miraculous transformation. A chip of the old block turned to philosopher stoned. A hogshead of spiritsladen transformed into long cool drinks of water. Whatever. It maintains an interest and makes it unnecessary to stop at the first. Quite the reverse in fact. The failure to make good on the opening gambit only leads more quickly, and hopefully, and obsessively, to a whole series that are consumed in ever more deliciously desperate straits. The lack of the hoped for result leading to the ever hardening conclusion that it was simply bad luck and so, like a gambler plunging when he ought to fold, it continues, and each attempt becomes progressively more complex, since previous efforts must be ended before new ones can be begun.

                    It becomes a part of the ritual, that needs to be gone through, in the ever increasing search for a conclusion. The trick being to finish a bottle within a certain duration, whilst remaining resolutely upright and still, in some way, in complete command of all the faculties and incredulities. Though these are hopefully altered somewhat, and have led at last to the hoped for eldorado that has been, for so long, dangling just out of reach. And all the time remaining aware that, all of this may be simply a self imposed deception for the need to set up the appropriate conditions whereby a sustained attempt can be made without being accompanied by the attendant feelings of guilt that are mostly engendered by the underlying feeling that what is being  done by all of this is copping out of all that could be done, whatever that might mean. And also that, because of this, and the remorse that is conjured thereby, it is also the simplest and easiest way to this instinctively felt nirvana that is always  imagined, lurking just around the corner.

                    But this chain could go on infinitely deeper. The measures and rememedies. The counter measures, the counter rememedies. Its all there. It becomes increasingly obvious as consumption increases, if for no other reason than the fact that there is so much accompanying time available for minute inspection of the motives. So much to kill. Then again it is no more than another variable, that can be included or not, in this somewhat strange equation that is trying to formulate itself at present. Equally all of this may be simply another self deception. Even the deception itself may be only imagined and the whole act of emptying these bottles can be construed as a seriously embarked on hallucination. The reasons may be obscure as to why it should be occur but then, in the same way, one could look with equal equanimity at the activities involved in any number of similar pursuits. Riding the blinds for instance, or rolling the drunks or doing the rounds, hitting the road perhaps, maybe shooting the breeze, theres none completely free from a little complication down the way. The risk that the moon might come out and the wild things start to stray, always accompanies the simplest shots. Try to explain that though and ultimately it all reduces to a case of last chance least explained or soonest mended or something of the sort. Like hitting the spot and taking off the edge, or waiting for the click and listening to the buzz, and  finally, maybe, providing a little respite from thinking of all of this.

                    Its just like any crackerbarrel philosophy really. Its all much the same. Though it takes a few different routes along the way, it still comes down to much the same bottom line. The why of how you like it. Or the how of the why. Somehow it leads inexorably to the same question burning like a fire at the bitter end. Maybe in so doing it diminishs the likelihood of ever discovering one but, nonetheless, it has a strange wondrous way of crystalising the question from out of the ashes. A riddle that must be solved. But it takes so long to arrive at this point that once there, there is no way back anyway and only vague footprints forward, stumbling in doubt, forever convinced the answer is hidden back there, just aching to be plucked from out the maelstrom. Probably obviously and there all the time. Winking out from some stray corner. Waiting for a chance to stumble out of this ever widening, darkening, deepening circle. Filling acres of space for want of  a couple of halves of pure reason. Wondering all the time, where will they come from, and will they still be recognisable, and when will they be here?

                    It could be compared to some brand new, home made, way of thinking out loud and could, in its way, I'm sure. Simply another way of imposing order on that which is without. With confusion no more than an occasional therapy in a subject littered with dead ends and madness. Which are, after all,  the subtle accomplices of all such endeavours. Leaping out to brandish a burning bush in ones face, while tripping down damascus highway in search of a little enlightenment. Or entitlement maybe. The right to a few quiet moments. To ponder the old idle questions. For they do no real good and likewise no harm. Like a crosswork patch really. Thats all. That wont go away til you fill in every last word. Without recourse to the clues. Trial and error of judgement. A lucky bag jamboree. Which is, after all, what keeps it all lurching from one spot to another. One of which will hopefully turn out to be true. The one that holds the magic potion charms that will lead to the end of all these tumbled up beginnings. Wound up tight in much easier going fashion. Light, and with a touch of humour. For what else is there in the darkness. And there is some here, to be sure. Though somewhat hidden no doubt. Though there is some here no doubt. And somewhat hidden to be sure.

                    As usually it is amongst rumbling and rambling and rambunctious shambling. But it wouldnt be true to the state of the art if it wasnt composed under textbook conditions. For which my most profuse apologies and heartfelt repentance. Though that too would not be in allegiance to the spirit in which it was begun. A definate result is called for here. One way or the other. And an end to all these random speculations. To keep right on to the end of the ultimate. Through all of the obstacles that that necessitates. To find the resolve, and to convince myself that lack of inspiration is not neccessarily lack of resolve. That what I do is right and that I will from this debacle unlock a secret or two. Its just that right now I need some hints lord, and perchance another snort.

                    Well thats that done. No clues but fresh supplies. A first outing in two days. Still have made it out and back reasonably okay. Managed some sustenance too. Well of course I always do. As long as theres something there that is. Yesterday was a bit grim. Ryvita, about two years old, and marmite. The old faithfuls. Still filled a hole, as no doubt will these two fresh bottles. Neat now. Much easier. Enable me to finish this somehow. Presently I've hit a black spot. Thus giving rise to this rather tedious banter concerning humdrum experimental details. The conditions under which it is performed which, nevertheless, seem essential. Or is it existential? There do seem to be  reasons for it but right now I am unsure what they might be. Maybe just the absence of any other diversion. With which to fill the time. Or the space. The deception is always lurking round the corner. Is it there or is it here? How definately to decide the outcome to this question. To finish or not to finish? That is what it boils down to. That is where the answers are contained.

                    I must keep on now, for I've sacrificed all to this somewhat trivial pursuit. The phone rings and I do not answer. I have done with all such memorabilia. I do not eat, or sleep, or give thought to anything else. I've been trying everyday for weeks now through countless attempts. Everyone dissolving as I get two thirds of the way through and then fall by the wayside. And never even get drunk. Just exhausted. Well maybe once or twice to begin with.  But now not at all. For I do not have the strength to see it through unless I can somehow find the strength to see through the self deception that says that I do not have the strength to see it through, and finish it, and enjoy it. But such concentration is required. Not here its true, but at the other. To keep up a steady stream of swallows and swigs, through the swampy waters of amazonian brigs, and the temple of doom that floats close by. Staying clear of getting lost in the infinite daydreams of each hasty snort. The imaginings of finishing this and learning that. Achieving something. Without ever having to say anything. Thats the trick. Not to have to give anything away.

                    Keep the central idea intact. The implausible dream of redemption that even in setting it down I know is merely a dream, another deception, to enable me to go for one last go round. To go out with grace. Knowing I've let so many down, sunk without trace, and yet still occupied with the purely vain idea that I must act in such a way that it will still conclude on an up note. Not realising that the idea is doomed from the start, since the only way to do this is not to do it at all. But is this true or merely deception? And if so whose? What is the truth of it? What should be done to freely disengage it? And what would that show anyway? Only what can be made of it. But what if it proves otherwise? So many possibilities. Every one crying out for consideration. Exploitation under the magicians microscope. There to lay bare what is really being stated. Delving down  through all the many layers of interpretation that every utterance contains. Every idea hides. Whatever can be believed in. But how can it be known? With any degree of certainty.

                    If every thought contains but ten percent of its available capacity. Where every memory ever struck is stored away with most beyond recall. And the whole damn seen side is only a much smaller part of the hopelessly unseen. The glorious wastes of desolate space that  can only be imagined but never yet grasped. Much less explored. Minimal grooves that never get seen all floating round with no way of knowing. Individual pieces of the sorcerers jigsaw handed down from buckets on high. The never dreamt of lowly past that would come slowly round to pass. As sunken probes crashed half aground on shoals of alien spaces. To run wild as children if running at all. As all the mysteries that can never be understood. Lacking the tools to properly explore. The wilderness dreams that are forever witheld. The right to try for whatever seems lost. Whatever the cost. With no count for whats gone. For beyond the realms of the immediate they mean nothing at all. Just cogs to roll in mysterious wheels that keep others well fed with the keys to it all. The other mysteries from the other wheels. That cannot be understood. And so not understanding wish to keep hid. Or is this just one more deception. And if so whose.

                    What the hell. A small break. Sherry and biscuits, or in this case, whisky and cheddars. Whatever, some small sustenance. Keeps me going a wee while longer. A couple more down the hatch. Where the ship is already overloaded and sailing dangerously close to the shore. The dithering crack of the hull on the submerged brownstone door. The endless merry go round of sink and swim. Only by accident can it be known and only by chance did I ever know it was there. The calmly detached building standing like a beautiful dark tenement that I only saw once on a moving screen in much calmer climes.

                    But I wonder, is it all coincidence? Like yesterday, or the day before. Becalmed at ten in the morning seeing my old school, which was only some run of the mill primary, suddenly materialise like a ghostly apparition on the morning tv kids screen. Rolling coke cans down an alley. For god only knows what purpose. But enough for a film. What the hell I'm hardly the type for retrospection. Introspection, maybe. Maybe? Is that what this is? A whole series of imagined speeches that never got said. Dreamt up in the midst of a bubble of drunken reverie. Like most of this really. A stumbled attempt to make sense of what is plainly beyond such definitions. Well that I can define, anyway. But needlessly feel ordered to confess to this drunken page. Who thankfully is silent in reply. With no all accusing eye. Learing and blearing up at me as I down at it. With only a thought that it might be wrong. Running down the wrong road like willie mctell who surely cant be blamed since he was blind. Played a mean twelve string though. Which is a pretty empty note from one that cant play a two chord waltz. Not with a busted guitar and a rusty harp. But you have to wait til it slips down into the subliminimal music of punctured chords. Whatever seems right. Then it all flows. Somehow. I feel only that I must finish the bottle. Then all will be revealed. Though I confess I dont quite rightly know why. Or how.

 

 

 

 

                                                The first sip of  the  day.  The  first  begun  at fourteen twenty five as I careen relentlessly on in this never ending search. On whisky mac this time around. Stones and white horse so that I can leap on its back and be carried away from this mad obsession. Simply as always to reach the end and break on through. But I am weak. I know that only too well. Just as well as one with a lifetimes running fore and aft can be. Which is to say that I can see clearly through all these actions, down to the core, where at bottom there is none. It is the sense of amazement, produced by this very knowledge, that forces me further and further into the maelstrom. Gazing all around. Convinced the answers there, but unable to find it. Using raw spirit as a guide. Or this narrative as a glass. Its hard to distinguish between the two, though they ache for some seperation. It appears as just another of the riddles that must be solved. Nothing can be done until that is achieved. Even then it may still prove in vain but until that position is reached I can, at least, dispense with these intense speculations and merely dream. This goes down well, this first, and the accompaniment seems to bode well. But then, is this not always the case? Why should this be any different? Only my will can make it so. My will that has vanished. That I drink to, and also to be reunited with. That if I can locate it, even once, then I'll never let it go, but seal it in tightly in a glass jar darkly.

                    I know not where else to look but, once more into the face of that which, I presume, originally caused its incarceration. It is in there somewhere of that I am certain. It is camouflaged in the blank spots. Of that I am sure. For just before departing I am constantly overtaken with such thoughts, and dreams, and visions. All becomes crystal clear and simple. The fears are vanished along with the doubt and persistent self question. The deep seated probes are stilled an instant. Then in a flash it is gone. I come to later and all has disappeared. The aggregate of all possibilites left in even worse repair than they were before embarking on this journey. Only the knowledge that I have failed once again remains. That and the awful conclusion that, come whatever may, I must still go back and do it all again. Return as it were to the scene of the crime. For the answer is there without a doubt. Even if the answer turns out to be simply that it is not there anymore. But until I get there and see for myself, that way will be forever barred. That thought hangs like an anchor chain to the bitter end and weaves and strains the simplest motives. It makes even the most straightforward actions seem like the labours of strong men in a thunderstorm. From first awakening to finally slouching down here requires such concentrated effort that I feel as though it were a battle with sly cunning monsters. Though even this seems like just a regular hill of beans when compared to the road ahead. Staring out at me with quiet repose from the glazed magnificence of these two wondrous bottles. Egging me on with promises of omelettes. Lulling me on with idle thoughts aplenty. Continually trying to trip me up and deflect me from my one true purpose. It knows my weakness and plays upon it a thousand times. I know how to win, it whispers, and so can afford to be charitable. And I, thankful for even the most minute mercy, gratefully aquiesce and trust to my weakness, my imaginings, and my unparallelled conviction that, in the best of possible worlds, I will undoubtedly wind up with a selection of the worst. A twinge of sickness rose up just there on that last swallow. Do these demons know already the nature of my purpose here, and in so doing, will they now unleash their fury without their customary charity. I must not allow it. I must be strong and return immediately to the task at hand.

                    Which I have. So simple really. The second is underway, at a minute before three, on this dismal wet january afternoon. The rain is beating constant and all seems grey. Even to this ragbag of motley that I wear. But it is underway. That is perhaps paramount. For that give a little thanks. But do I, did I, ever. Give thanks. For anything. For a thousand kindnesses that were showered my way, and I did nought but toss them sneeringly back at the faces of those that threw them. I feel already drowsy. Insensate. The demons are true to form. They will not let me proceed. But I, who shall be nameless, will do my best to place obstacles in their path. I am after all, though in somewhat tawdry rundown state, still the master of this sinking ship. If I have nothing but a straw still I will not let it slip. Furiously pumping. Baling with the will of the damned I will not let it go down. I cannot. I am committed, for whatever reason, to seeing this thing through. Or seeing through this thing. There are too many circles from the stone in the pond for me ever to be able to count them, but still I will not let them hit the banks unaided. I shall jump, but not as from that which I wish to escape from, but rather into that which I wish to embrace some. It is here already. I know it or rather I feel it. It is all around and lures me like sirens. Bleating plaintiffly in all the half remembered nights. Whispering casually that this is not really too important. Not out there in the real world. That it is only a game you play on your sod and sarry road through the wilderness. That you hold up before all as the reason for your failure when you know all the time that it is, instead, the product of your failure. Without ever once stopping to discover what it is this failure holds. Other than the inability to see anything through. Or through anything. Til now when you do. Or rather think you do. For you do not know til it is done and it is still much way from that oh yes. Though it is begun in a certain sense. Or is it? Yes I must say. Yes I must scream it if it is only a dreamy echo in the back of my mind. If it is only a disembodied voice at the end of these spidery arms. Yes it must be yes even if yes is ultimately no. What matter that only to their creator. As what matter this, only to his, as stumbling on he crashs through all these out of tune keys. Blindly hitting. Hoping for a jackpot. Hoping for an end to this that, nevertheless, lurks all the time around the corner without ever holding out a helping hand. But beckoning with a long, pointed, crone crooked, finger that says you are wrong. Told you so. You've done it again. Your only talent is self deception. Your only achievement is your own humiliation. The only thing you can ever do, or are ever capable of, is this prolonged and sustained assault on your own most fallible proclivities. Which may be true. But I'm far from beaten. (These are the demons speaking now, not me.) No, not me. I am here still. Manic as sin. Talking through this keyboard like a blind man playing a furious tatoo. Blowing a trumpet of wild mans fury. Trying to find the way out with a couple of pairs of walkin' blues. Good for you. Have another. (See, I said they were still here.) Thanks, dont mind if I do. (Thats me now, and in total control.) Ho, ho. [Dont know who that was.] But I am here still. Or is it still here? Who knows? This is what I must find out. I am, after all, still only trying to throw a six. On a five sided dice? {Who is this? Some other? Who has mastered some hidden keys.} The second, I fear, is long. It is untimely and long. Maybe even wrong. Is that a clue? No, of course its not a clue. They are trying to delude you. Do you not see that? Yes I see it. But equally I too was only playing a game. This whole thing. This nonsense with the bottles and the demons too. I put that in simply to fill some time. To keep my fingers alive. Wandering deranged across the keys. Experimenting with punctuation which I can never get the hang of for it is always invisible. Ciphers for odd points of view. Thats all. The upswing, down swing, of doss discs in this old stumblebum computer I fondly imagine is at the heart of it all. Spluttering out with meaningless bursts of hands on, and shirt sleeves, and package. Hands off more like. I wouldnt touch them with a bards pole. Though I still delude myself. No, thats not true. I certainly dont. I know where I am. But whose voice is that? Only the one thats always there. That I can never be free of. That I drink to lose. Small as that hope might be. Even now when these words seem to take an hour to materialise on the screen. Well I assume they do for I am not sure that I ever properly consult them again. (Of course you dont. Why dont you listen to us instead.) As I am dragged down unknowing by them. (We told you so, they say again.) To look for nothing but the end of this second glass. Which I find. Eventually. Near to the bottom.

                    The third. At five before four. Or is it four before five? Though I must, in all honesty, say that I have not yet partaken of even the faintest snook. I am hopeful though, but doubtful too. Who knows what it may contain? The longed for, feared for, undreamt secret. I have. I did. One fearful slip. I must stop. I must save this and then continue. I did. I dont know why. For what. To read out at awkward intervals. Filling in time on the witness stand. But I tell you. You said this. Well sure I did but have I ever once claimed to know what in the fuck I was talking about. Would I, in fact, even say this if at this moment the circumstances were different. <Thats what I want to know too.> A new set of brackets. Did you see that? Who is that now? What spinning dervish does he presume to insert into this already unwholesomely paranoid equation? Or fair annoyed? Is that it? Is that what that word really means? I've been hearing it for a long time now. One of the whispering voices. Slyly insinuating itself into circumstances that dont concern it. Certainly dont cause it to rear its scaly green head in this place like a gorgon. A gay one no doubt. Full square across the floor.

                    I am at the point, and here I depart from the norm, of deciding that what I am trying to tell is not very tellable. Though that is not what I sent out to say. I absolutely fear these intrusions. They grow all over the place and leap out at me unawares with a steel toed boot for my unsuspecting cobblers. To send me leaping down this unfathomed lane. Wincing at every pain. Throwing it up again. Even as I do now but cannot get it down. (They lie. I do not. That was them speaking. Trying to put me off my guard.) I am here. Large as life. Wishing I had a bull fiddle. Wishing I could play it. Relax. You have an old cigar box. Play that if you will. No I certainly will not. However please accept in its place a few bars from blind willie. And my god here it is. Ticket agent blues. Huckled out the back of the music machine. For my own amazement. Or is it amusement? (These brackets mean nothing. I put them in only to describe purely mechanical things that go on in the background.) As these brackets and blues do. Well I never had the blues. He says. Whos the narrator here? No one knows, we all scream. Well maybe. Back into the trough. Only the third and already we have more then passed the startling shot. All of us. For all those others were only me. (You'll see.)

                    You see, and already I make a departure from form (if nothing else in spelling this word right) by attempting to say that what has gone before is not by any length what I set out to say. This too is not it either. Even though I yet again broke a narra para to try and say it. And in so doing did not.

                    But it goes down. Thats the best that will come of it. I must grip close to that. Hope that what I try despairingly to say will come through and not get side tracked in nonsense as I was wide tracked before in the relative measures I was using.

                    The fourth is still here except that I am not. Not really. Hanging on thats all. The adversary wins or thinks he does. But I am not beaten. No not yet. Not by a long chalk. No absolutely not. Even if I have to spell it out with every effort.

                    The fifth will come. Some time soon.

                    But first. To the fourth.

 

 

 

 

                    Eleven o'clock. Another attempt to drink to the end without dissolving somewhere along the way.  I did, I believe, try yesterday, but apparently this session was not blessed with success. As I recall I kept count up to the fifth. It was a bona fide venture commenced by measuring up a glass so that it could be carried out in the manner of a scientifically controlled investigation. Each libation was composed of two parts limo to one part scotch and, in celebration of the occasion, a rune was carved upon the face of the bottle denoting the binomial expansion of the series and also, the times at which successive iterations occurred. The experiment began at three in the post noon and the last incursion made thereon was the fifth at five. There were possibly one or two more but no records of these survive. Unfortunately I am unable to recall later events with much precision, five o'clock being the last memory extant in my repertoire.

                    The next is of waking at eight, aslant the sofa. After that I retired to my chamber and slept fitfully in the direction of morn. Waking at three I partook of a sweet snifter and then at six when I debated whether to make tracks or remain as I was. Obviously I chose the latter since otherwise I would not presently be spieling this out or drinking it in. I must see this through though, comes as always the lone crow from the depths of the crews nost. Rum though that appears and notwithstanding the fact that it is a  somewhat bizarre obsession, in the absence of any enterprising diversion to the contrary it serves to fill up the gaps in the days. ( In truth there is no clear reason to be so obsessed. Maybe its just because its there. Close at hand. Easy.) But I also feel that if I could see it through at one sitting, whilst remaining in contact all the time, it would lead me on out to fresher and greener pastures. Also, perhaps, break free of the need to do so in the first place. Also, as well, satisfy an odd and old ambition. These and more are just some of the reasons for doing so. That and the plain old desire for a swift snort of course.

                    Maybe it is all a rather elaborate exercise in self delusion and subterfusion but I remain convinced that it is not. Though it is true that there are some days when there seems to be nothing else to do. No, thats not quite true. There are always things to do but sometimes they cannot be gotten done in suitable fashion and its then that this course of action seems most hopeful. Not to say helpful even beautiful. I mean yesterday I was going to go and see about a little occupational therapy but as I was arising I heard about the wall street crash. Well not the original. I'm not that out of touch. But this latest instalment. Said to be the third largest on record. Anyway, thinking someone had put the panic on, it seemed propitious to make a management decision. I would instigate a buy out fast, before the rot set in, and as I'd been decidedly under the weather from the freeze out of last week  I figured I might cash in on a little time off in lou. So that was yesterday morning. Now most of its gone. So are the bonds. Though I imagine I may have been somewhat premature since things dont seem to be sliding like the delta predicted. Still its probably best left since it will raise enough to clear some cash flow and hang a little moratorium on the charges and interest. Also I am resolved to get in touch with an actual plumber and deal direct where I'll be able to get actual quotes and prices. And thats the first one gone.

                    So here comes the second at half eleven. Half an hour for the first. No bad, aye. Though I'm not sure how many glasses there are in this bottle. I mean I could work it out easily enough in standard measures but these would appear to be a little out of place here. Scarcely adequate to much more than a brief gargoyle. But I am using a system so that all the drinks are approximately the same. I mean I'm not going to extreme lengths, like using a pipette or anything like that. Just a tall tumbler, straight up and down. I fill the foremost third with whisky and the upper two thirds with limo. Maybe its cheating but I dont have the throat for it at the moment. Not a bottle anyway. Not here anyway. I suppose there will come a time when it will seem likely. Not one, but probably two, or maybe even three, but with luck some other diversion will have snuck in before that point is reached. Two quarts a day, of gin, one man drank. For over thirty years. Including all the prohibition years. All the bathtub stuff and wood alcohol junk. Anyway, whatever transpires the main thing to do is keep busy collecting this assorted paraphernalia. A little occupational therapeutics, to while away the anchors. All that occurs. This way I'll cheat the black out. That I suppose is what I really want to achieve by doing this. Find out what happens in the blank spots. I tell myself its easy. All it requires is to keep thinking from one minute to the next. A steady stream of up to the moment consciousness. Being aware. Experiencing every minute second minutely. Accutely. Saying I know whats happening. I'll remember it all. I swear. Honest injun. But I never have so far. It always reachs a point at which I'm completely overwhelmed. I stand up, stretch out, yawn away, and fall over. I dont even remember this part. Not usually. More often its related by casual observers. But I do sometimes, so I imagine thats what I always do. But not today. Today will be different. Maybe if I keep it all battened down it will in fact make it so. Kind of like hypnotising the lifeboats. Oh well, we'll see. The second is going down well. Faster than the first. Easier than the third. I'm already feeling a warm kind of glow flow through too. Light and easy. The main thing is my head still appears in good fettle. No sign yet of an ache. For the first time in a fine wee while.

                    Theres been so many blunders and blinders recently that, even when I'm not tippling and toppling them down, theyve almost become a permanent fixture. After yesterday I thought I'd be on course for a real humdinger but thankfully no. Maybe its the hot lemon. A modicum of salve for the soul that is belatedly trying to maintain some decorum on the cold front. But so far to no avail. Well not much. I guess when its ready it'll just blow by itself. I certainly feel in fine form at this precise instant. Insulated from all my cares and woes such as they are. Not much really, to be sure, so I wont bore on about the details. Just to keep shooting the moon and drinking in the breeze is all that really matters for the moment. The most pressing consideration for now. And thats the second gone.

                    So heres the third. At five to noon. Well a little after that as I write this since, on completing the previous paragraph, I've taken out time to prefer headers and footers etc plus save and copy the first page. It all takes time you know. Still doesnt interfere with the drinking. The third is going down well. Maybe this is the time I should watch out for. But I feel fine. Obviously. Pride becomes a broken fall so take extra care. I will, I will, he cries. God, I feel half cut already, and I've only just begun. Still if it feels like that now what will it feel like at the end. Who knows a raggedy voice shouts from the depth of the passage. I'm definately in uncharted waters here. Though my fingers are still connecting remarkably well with these keys. Picking out just this word, just that one. Just enough to keep the ghosts at bay.  Enough I've written all this before. Many times. Something new is required. To keep this going. To keep me going. But what will it be. What could I find in this raggle taggle ragbag of a head of mine. There must be something. Something new. Something I never found before. Or did I use them all. Squandered recklessly on this forlorn page. I dont know, but thats the third gone.

                    Heres the fourth. Half of twelve. Sneezing like a dervish. Best lively up like the record says. Still its going well. It appears half the bottle is gone. Which requires some hasty arithmetic and recalculation. I figured there were ten of these measures in the bottle but if half is gone at four then theres only eight. Which means theres only four to go which means I'll run out too pretty damn quick. Or reach the end that much sooner than I thought. But then thats the reason its done I suppose. And maybe the reason the end is never in sight. To lose it all. Except in this instance, which is in fact, a fact finding mission of snorts. A journey of discovery if you will. Not just another bowl down the road. Everyone I ever walked down. And theres been a few. From one end of the country to the other. But I dont remember them too well. Only vaguely. And shrink from all the memories they contain. Bumbling around below the surface. Sneaking up and giving out with the half nelsons at every available opportuntity. Squirming and wriggling. Trying to devine a way out. There must be one. Dont tell me, I'll find it myself. Slipped in under the edge of the table or somesuch. To rise again new born. Like a babies behind. Smooth as silk. But I dont know where to go. Where the hells the third? Gone I think. This is the fourth thank god.

                    The fifth. At twenty past one I think. Slurping  it down. Wish I was there. Rolling up the west coast. Thats what I remember any way. A whole host of raggedy memories. Its the drunken half at the helm now. All the way.

                    Ah damn it I lost it three whole hours ago. It must be half four now. Somewhere round there.  Still, not so bad, I'm here again, still on the fifth. Thats something. I'll start again. Thats something. Maybe I can only do it with a pause. A long one at that. Still what the hell. I've found out theres no blackout I just fall asleep. Leastways thats how I remember it. Laying down on the sofa. But I was going. I know it. Still must press on. Alls not lost. Just carry on. Slapping it down. Does it matter that I missed some. Yes and no. Never found out but hit some good zeds. But I'll go on. With hands like lead. Thump splatter on the keyboard. But I'll see it through. Clatter clatter.

 

 

 

 

                    Once again. The bog of the lottles. This I know is fast descending into madness but what can I do. I am powerless and can only go with the flow. So heres the first at five past eight. The pendulum seems now to be swinging backward. I dont even have a full deck to begin with. In fact theres only about two shots left in this present one. Still I've marked the bottle so that when I go out presently to collect another I'll still be able to continue up to the capacity of the old one. I've also experimented on an old empty and find that with the measure I'm using there are approxiamately eight to the bottle, as of course to the bar, so my previous attempts have not been without a certain sense of rhythm. In each case I counted to five and then lost track. In fact I did finish the bottle yesterday but after a seven hour hiatus. I must approach todays attempt with some serious intent. I'm starting to feel a trifle apprehensive about all this. I must discover the secret of the black hole and then all my worries will be over. Its so strange to have such a large gap in the stream of nonesuch. It haunts with an enervating predilection. Tantalises with endless thoughts of what might have been. Becomes an obsession that there is no way round. And incidently provides the only subject that gives any pleasure at these keys. I'm sure everything else that is committed here is really only the same old story in various shades of subliminal detection. As long as I stay with it thats the secret. And I will this time. Third time lucky as the saying goes. A quick shot of the antepenultimate. After all it only takes eight to see it through which at one every half hour means I'll be through in time for a good lunch. Could even try another in the afternoon. Or will that be all that happens. I'll get to the end of this and still be in the dark. No I'll definately find out something. I can feel it instinctively, even as this first of the day begins to weave its magic. And is almost gone. I was thinking earlier that perhaps I should pace myself better. Say three quarters of an hour for each but then that wouldnt work. I've done that before. Often in the depths of the most gloomie hangovers when I can do nothing but sit all day and take the most meagre sips. Usually I've taken half a bottle at a gallop then passed out. Woke up feeling below par and then spent all day nursing my head and wishing I could get high so's it would go away. Just spotted it back there. Yes oh yes. Is that some kind of message from the subcompost. Hope not. Anyway I'll choose to ignore it. Definately the best thing to do. For I know I can win at this. This bottle hasnt got me beat yet. Not by a long spot. Or shot or whatever its supposed to be. I can sit all day and beat out this rhythmic tatoo of tattered keys. I was going to say tears but theres been enough of those. No more. My eyes are as dry as a bone. Anyway what more could a man ask for on a mourning like this. To be in dry while its lashing down out there. Well not exactly dry if you get the drifteroo. The first is always so pleasant. Maybe I should just stop there. No definatively not. It is my avowed intention to see this thing through. I've started so I'll continue. Keep right on to the end of the pier. Walking the road and lining the track. Discover the secrets of the black magic box. Whatever they may be. Nothing will hold me now. So many days I've been at it. All merged and blended with all the other blinders and benders that have occurred. That have raged uncontrolled for what seemed like ever. But this is a controlled experiment. Carefully logged and measured. A dabble in psychodiametrics if you will. The draggy depths of whatever I'm capable of. Alone this time without music to hinder. Just the inside of my head with all its ragbag of memories. The dusty filing cabinets that I cherish such mispent dreams over. All that might of been and all that wasnt. Still I've survived thus far and have gathered my doubts for the spate of time to come. One way or another. < Thats a page in half an hour which cant be bad. Usually it takes ages to cover one as I sit and ponder. This is obviously a vein worth tapping. And about nothing really which is a surprising but welcome bonus. [Well to me anyway who always professes to have nothing much to say. No opinions. No ideas or insights. Or anything else so to speak.]> And thats the first gone. Thirty five minutes. Not bad huh.

                    Well thats it. Thats the bottle finished. Worked out quite well. Almost exactly two measures. I guess if theres about eight of these to the bottle it would make them quadrophonic in normal parlance. Which may seem a trice over the top but anything less and I could stand accused of not really trying. Not being adequately prepared. Well I wouldnt anyway. But you have to do something. I cannot lie around all day idle and yet theres nothing much really to do. So by default it comes down to this. A bottle and a handful of keys. Which was never how I saw it when I enlisted but nonetheless this is what it has come down to. Bowling along hoping for the best and always getting the rest. Ah who cares. Not me thats for sure. { Or do I just say that? To be on the safe side. Which is the safe side anyway? The sunny side side of the street? Christ I've never even found the street. Though I've walked down a good few in my time. Rose street for instance. Which runs parallel to princess street. So many saloons. I went there once years ago. Went almost to every one. } The first and last time I ever started counting. Then it was experimentation time. A lager and lime a bacardian black. A vodka and orange a glass of mild. Whisky and water a pint of golden. Pastis and pernod bourbon and branch. Absinthe and schnapps. Barley wine white wine. Dark rum pink gin. Anything really. I remember running down bootle high street shouting about how great it all was. Back then I thought it was something to be be proud of. Well you would wouldnt you. Now I'm not so sure. Still it fuels these meagre fires. Well, thats the second almost gone. Not so difficult that time but leaves the problem of what to do next. I mean how to get some more. This is what I was afraid of. Rations running low. Best get dressed I suppose. Try and be a ... see what happens. And thats the second gone at ten after nine.

                    Returning here now more composed after a quick trip through the cumberland gap. For fresh supplies you understand. Went down to forest gate and called in at the bakers for old times and breakfast. Sat in on a ragamuffin quartet. Newly in from the buildings. One totally kaput. Reminded me of myself years ago. Always got in, no matter what state, from the night before. Now of course its all changed. The resolve, the pride, or whatever it is thats supposed to  keep you going, is all gone. Totally used up. Still here I am at half ten on the third. Or is it the first? I dont know. I'll need to see. I dont know how the gap fits in. Its over an hour. Does that count or not? Is it three, or one, or just wishful thinking? The thing to do is  get up to five as soon as possible and then see. If I can weather it then I suppose it means three. Or is that just more wishful thinking? But to get past it on to eight or nine, even if they are only six or seven. That would be the thing. Lost in a dream of haze. How marvellous that would be. Must watch the nerves though. Spilled a little of this drink on the way back. Also my bottle of limo was leaking which left a little puddle in the nether regions of the old black sack I use to tote the supplies home in. Listening to mardi gras presently. Disregard earlier references to lack of music. Old new orleans. Bourbon street. What a name. Wobble like jelly. Roll on bix. How will it go these next two? Or four. Could read yesterdays notes but why bother. Never learn anything that way. Nothing so lonesome as flapping through yesterdays cuttings. Once is enough as they go down. Question. Is this why I never learn? Who knows? I need all my strength to keep sober. Or at least get drunk in the shortest possible time and still give a passable fax of same. I will, I will. Things going well on that score. Dont know about this one? Putting it down right that is. Well something will come of it, of that I'm more than sure. Still you never know. [What was that about? Dont know. Just keep it going, the flow or whatever it is keeps me alive, awake, aware. Of whats going on.] The fine flow of highland springs slipping down the throat. From one second to the next. Keep in sight of the ultimate aim. Thats the name of the game. Need to get a few more down though before I can really start to get there. Need to be seven, I think, because then that will be an honest five. No sweat. Thats what, oh, only another four. Easy really. This one almost gone now. One more swig will do it. There its gone.

                    Well thats us on four at just before eleven. Or is it two? Still an improvement on the last couple of days. Didnt begin til three yesterday and eleven the day before. In fact the exact same time it is now, only removed by twenty four hours. Made it back okay with this one. Steady as a rock. Didnt spill a drop. Mind you, horror of horrors, it has just struck me. What if I need two bottles a day and so far have just been lazy? An exceedingly perplexing conundrum. No doubt theres an answer to  this somewhere but in attempting to discover its whereabouts the first thing to notice is how remarkably close this is to wishful thinking. Good lord I already spend the best part of a day just trying to get through one. However conclusive proof on this point  must remain within the gift of a higher authority who, thankfully, is not in receipt of sufficient incontrovertible evidence.  [Whither the swans now? Halfway down meseglise highway I'll be bound. Leastways thats what I think so far.] Slipping into the fourth or is it the second. Well its certainly four but is it in the series. Yes? No? No. Yes. Well its going down well whatever. Tippling down my insides. Rumbling and stumbling. No, enough of that rhythmic expression. It goes nowhere. I have pages of it as proof. Its all over the place. All I ever wanna do. Really. Get drunk and bulimically regurgitate the flow. Which is okay I guess in one way since all I want to do is cover it up as soon as possible. Scramble the alphabet and pray. This fourth is going down so well I'm sure it must be the second. It doesnt matter though as long as I stay with it. Roll with the punches as they say. As lemmy the caution said in zeroville. No it wasnt that. It was freddy constantly all right but it was in something else. Some weird old foreign movie. No. Not old. New. Wave variety. Fast blinder or vim or ajax or something. It matters not. Some old black and white number I must have watched some drunken night. Made on a shoe string by jean luc pronto on an off day from the mothers. Fiddling at length while the spools burn in two lane flip top. And thats another gone.

                    Well thats the third or is it the fifth? Anyway I carried it back dry. Didnt spill a drop or fall or slip and its only half eleven. Now thats something. The ineluctable elegance of being half cut before lunch. Certainly does away with the hassle of cooking something up. A marmite sarni will suffice. Incur the wrath of the great god flatulence but what the hell. This ones going down well. Maybe too well. Makes me wonder have maybe the last few days weakened my resistance. Underarmed the constitution so to speak. Well not weakened it I suppose. Strengthened it. (Yeah goddamn right. I'll drink to that.) This is the sizzler. Whether its five or three. Its sunk like a stone. I'm blinded, bespotten. Or whatever. Theres a german word sounds like that but I cant think what it is. Damn it I wont give in. Whatever it takes. Even to the ends of these fumbling fingers if need be. Spreadeagled all over the place in wide abandon. Well thats it I'm drunk again. But fuck it here goes the sixth.

                    Well I'm into the sixth or is it the fourth. Still all in one place. (I think.) For christ sake. My throat is hurting like hell. It burbles and blows like ahabs buddy. (But you must hold on.) I am holding on goddamn it. I am drunk as a skunk. Thats all. This is the hard part. I've got not what I came for. Up and down and all around. Its still not that which I sent out to seek for.

 

 

 

 

                    Two thirty. The first drink. Larger measures. I estimate on this present go round there are about six, maybe six and a half, of these to the bottle. Well to each bottle, for there is one of white horse and one of crabbies. I am of course mixing them in equal parts for symmetry. To complete the symmetry I have in fact layed on an additional brace of  bottles. With a beautifully absurd slice of logic I have reasoned that since I cannot drink my way through one then I must double and redouble my efforts and make it work, backgammon fashion, by drinking through four. Well we shall see. What if it worked. To have mount everest here in my own back yard. With me at the top. Pitching camp and hoisting the sail. Well one can only dream. Still the omens augur well if such they be for whilst out on my way to replenish the supplies I passed a priest. He seemed shakey on his feet though it could as well have been me on mine. He was walking down the road toward me reading a paper. All in black, a little smidgen of white at his throat. He looked a little dishabilled as, no doubt, did I to him. Are you all right, he said as we passed, though we didnt stop. Yes fine, I lied, how about you. By then we were both on our way. From there it was the post office. I needed some stamps. It was closed. Well the post part was. It was one of those half and half numbers you know. I asked the lady behind the counter where I could get some and she said out of the machine. Right outside. So I did. She split a large round pound into a handful of change and bingo there I was, back on the street, shoving my scare claims into the gaping maw of the post box. Then to the bank. No queue. No hassle. I had horrible memories of the time I went there once and was shaking so much I couldnt sign my name properly. The embarrassment was acute as a line built up behind me and they started asking questions and ringing around. And all I wanted to do was say, enough, its not worth it, I will go without. Promise. I do solemnly swear etc. But of course I never did. Never will probably for that matter.

                    This is all perfectly controlled. The conditions are fine. Its just that I'm a lousy maker of hypotheses. Never did too well at science either. We had this guy called archie andrews. A frustrated music hall man who used us unmercifully as straight men for his absurd experiments in humour. Nothing much ever happened though except that someone had to stand on his head for an hour after inhaling a lungful of chlorine gas. The theory being that its heavier than air. Which thank god it was. But then thats all that ever happened there. Such like things of that ilk. Once we carried one of the cars into a corner and layed it end to end across two adjacent walls such that it was impossible to proceed either forawards or backawards. They retrieved it of course. So next time we rigged up a block and tackle and hauled it onto the outhouse  roof. It was only a mini. It wasnt hard. But then life at that time was full of all these unanswered conundrums. Why was Jimmy Purple always so angry? Who was the woman in pink? How was the child who was hid in the picture? When were the bandits ever on our side? They'll never be answered now. No. No way blue. Not in a long time. Of first and second coming. All a long time anyway. All along down along. The story goes. Flows. Head above water at all time. Thats the thing. Thats paramount. Universally so my dear fellow. The after half waiting wickedly in the wings to throw his four cents in. Finding none. Hassling a bag full of change. Listening to the river flow like the way it does in the open by fast rushing rivers at twilight. Listening to all the creaks and groans of the night. Getting wildly drunk. Thrown out of the sun. Half way up the mountain for mining impressions. Hands moving a million miles an hour from pocket to pocket. Walking out into the lake in search of a legend, to vanish beneath the waves for a half a dollar. Nearly shivered into oblivion afterwards. Feeling fine but unable to say why. So going along with the crowd and saying yes I do feel somewhat ill now. Then lying Houdini like on the edge of the frame and freezing half to death. Or pretending so to do.

                    Oh enough of that. What the hell was it about? Bugger all really. A few tattered memories from years ago. Untutored and unarranged. Glimpses of the past thats all. The spiky drift of memory lane. Whats more important is the on going lurch of future plain. The long lane that is. One going south at eight, one going north at nine. (Deaf Orange Jawbone - Blackhorse Crash - c 1929) Getting to the end in one piece. So hard to do. Yet so easy. With concentration. Camp to the end. Brown as a bean. The billy can brewing an out of date drink that I tried to concoct on a half pint pocket sized stove. Lit little tablets like sugar that blew away in the wind. Saying this is hard but its real. It will not degenerate into russian roulette with the keys. Like some previous attempts I could mention.

                    An hour gone. I havent even finished a glass yet. At this rate it'll take me twelve hours to do the four. And for the two? Days probably. Days. Maybe a new tack is required. A drink for a sentence. No, no, it would read like warren piece then. Blowing smoke out his six guns as he slides into town. His four bottles blazing. His two glasses glazing. His one avowed intention to get them all in the end. Riding high and lonesome down the dusty trail of a spaghetti western conurbation. Spewing out poems like christmas light bunting. Underneath the arches of some dread bitten city. Rising up from a black sodden crater. For a swift pint of soakie. To trade on the spot. Go dutch in the french racket. Two months at sea dished up for the loosers. Debarred from the rum ration. Tongues tried and twisted. The bum boats are full and mostly overflowing. Theres no room left here. The credits say thats all folks.

                    God this is still only one glass and I feel awful. I dont know what to say. Not about the lack of progress in the drinking, though that too I guess is bad enough. But about anything. I want to make it pass so as I can reach the end quickly but so far I havent a chance of doing that. Though something is done. The first glass is finished. In eighty minutes flat. God thats awful.

                    Still ten before four. Here we go. Once more onto the beach. I've heard of pacing but this is ridiculous. A mules pace. A fools pace. Fuel for thought. Maybe? Grey day? They're all grey days. Or is it grade A's. Straight A's. A straight flush perchance layed down in spades. Grave spades. Dug on down. To the hard part now. The second refuses to go down. My head hurts. I feel exhausted. I've tried water to wash away all the stickiness. Dug out some old tapes and found out they're already gone. Played over with old records. I have at this rate til ten past five to finish this second one. Its only quarter after four at the moment. So relax. Plenty of time. Just dont crash out. But crash in if you can. Which is what I most definately want to do. The reasons for this pilgrimmage to lowly hordes. This holy slow scramble across the wasted barren keys. Picking at this scratching at that. Licking and slicking at this still small second drink. Damn small really and yet as big as the empire state express. Which is forbiddingly forbidden someone said once. Clattering round in the shadow of belle vue. Wearing a sack of local cloth but. Saw a plane come rebounding through the air and crash unsparingly through all those upstairs windows. Battle jumping on down the ward singing an ode to his pool hall queue. After playing games on the roof without benefit of a bath. A rolling colonaded esplanade. West of here by far. Where all the other drinks are. Waiting in sweet repose. Saying here goes. Once again. Other moronic intros and outros. Waiting to capsize the already sinking boat. Only myself left here. The furiously demoted captain abjectedly pumping. Flushing it all back out. From whence it came. The time to hesitate is through. Come on boobaloo. Light my fire. Burn baby burn. Out upon the waters of oblivion. Rising in a vast sheet that covers the earth and the stars. Swamps the lands with its tyrranical soarus hand. Wrecked on a reef a thousand miles long. Without a sight or sniff of the shore. In a sinking raft that travels for days without a care for the pilgrims. Marooned on its back without a glimpse of a drink. An upturned glass for a marker boy. Ship ahoy, ship away. Slip away, skip away. Dont stop me now the exits someplace here I know. I saw it once. In the middle of a dark, black, blasted knight of pitiable sorrow. Tilting at spare clothes. The errant sand blown panzer. Always to hand with a fresh drawn drug of wine. Pour on down. Thrown all down. Rabid grains through the skeletons hand. Leaping down the dales in a buck and wing with a big red nose for some comic relief. Drawing insanely on a half litten coal. Passing it round. The best is the west. Vanishing out of sight on the blue bus. Driver where've you taken us. Forsaken us. Wheres our burning bush. The walking blind. The waking bind. The singing thrush. Shot dead on a winter morn after feeding on the full drawn barrels of lifes shogan. Littered round in off cast cloaks of silk. Chinese patterns of dreamy nightmare peppered on their veranda. Worming their way into ever deepening mystery. Their entrails like a picture of last years news paper. Ink all faded. Grubby photos from out of date places. Faded dagger O types. No time to wallow in the mire. Just let it burn. To the ground. To the grave. To the six feet under. To the long past time for the second. Which was ten minutes past gone when I began this sentence and is now probably ten and a quarter. Over due. We're here to collect. With the stumps of your broken teeth. Split out one by one by our hambone prentice dentist. Sticking in spikes of novocaine. A wee draft of ersatz tranquility. One that allows us to suffer a mite first. Past fresh pastures of new played mandoline music with a definate line in the blues. I had one one time. A mandoline. God knows what happened to it. Smashed up most probably with all the guitars. Smashed in a frustration of fury at not playing a lick. Like don and dewey. Or not being able to finish this second drink. Which flies like a hanging dutchman. Loose or not. To sway in the giblets. Swear in the goblets. From early in the morning to late at night. With all of the poison headaches. Against a backdrop of a hundred harmonicas wailing. Flailing. Sailing. Saying where is the end of the glass. At the end of your hand. Out beyond where you think it is. Thought it was. Said it was. Dreamt it could be. Imagined it should be. Looked for and lost. Grateful and very very dead. Playing a long lost harmony. Of tinkled, twinkled ivories. That I hear ever onward. To the end of this glass, that does not come, but only teases.

 

 

 

 

                    Once more an attempt. Must try and keep with it. Like bobby the bruce. I feel at the moment in the same condition as I did when I got back from the beach that time. Then wound up going through the window. Very weird and shaky. The drink going down like water. Maybe because I drank a whole bottle of benelin. Straight down at a draught. Hoping to get high or at least shift the fever. I did in a manner of speaking though I doubt if the results were what I expected. I kept seeing spiders all over the place. The carpet was alive with them. They were running everywhere. All over my feet. Eventually I tried hard to focus and they disappeared. Then I saw one huge one, about six inches wide, slowly advance towards me across the bedside table. Again it was only with intense concentration that I made it vanish. Still this is better than the time at the beach. That time I only managed two sentences before my mind went blank. I've done a little more this time. Though about what? Mostly the same as last time, which was something about the crack up, which I eventually turned into a couple of pages. This I guess is pretty much the same thing, as is all that I do. Foraging around in the dark looking for a few clues. Finding only the same old dusty few. Buried at the bottom of the closet mind. Bringing them out, dusting them down, trying to turn them around, make of them something new. Finally to find a way of deceiving myself and thus sneak out unobserved in the general direction of the exit. But it still remains elusively hidden. Unless I force its hand with some chemical commotion, which idea lurks underneath my conscience and enables me to continue so far as I do. For right now I can see no sight of the end. Its totally vanished. Sometimes I see it in half waking, half hidden dreams, but when I come to they are gone. Completely. I think I see stories below the surface. Indeed, in a fever, they come and go, and I, as only an innocent bystander, watch as amazed as the next man, thinking all the while I must keep track of this, put it all down later, when my minds at peace, but it never happens. Somehow its all gone and theres only myself again skating waferishly thin over the same skinny shell. Tapping with a little hammer, a toffee perhaps or an icepick, looking for a blind spot. A blank spot. One that I can get out of or into. Whenever at random. Whichever is best. Whatever looks the most inviting.

                    For truly at this moment none does. None says anything. Tells me anything. Says anything. Leaves me here only alone to guess. Wonder. Drift. Wander. Drunk. Trembling visions of bated breath. Whatever that means. Which is not a lot. Only a handful of pebbles thrown forlornly at a well worn window. Forever closed. An upturned hand says do not enter. Do not move one centimetre over that line or we'll cut you down. Like a piece of old vine. Sabres flashing, jousting sticks thrashing. Giving out clunks on this steel helmeted sconce.

                    No way to go but out. Get rid of all this. Have done with it once and for all. Down the road then never come back. Long gone and lost john. Bowled over from bowling green

 

 

 

 

                    God dont even know what the date is thats a good start. No more time. No more counting. I've completely lost track now. I dont even know what I'm doing this for anymore. Kill time I suppose. It gets the drink down faster. Somehow. Thats all. Try to pick dogs out of the ashtray. Still, thank god none of this will surface for some time. I have no idea what I'm doing anymore. True. Oh what the hell. Might as well do something. Anything? Yeah what ever comes along. I'm out in the twilight zone now. No not really it just seems that way. If I could only get through a bottle. That would be the thing. That would be something. Find the black spots. God it should be easy theres enough of them before my eyes. I used to think it was so hard to fill the page. Now its easy as I dont think of it at all. What can I do? This looks like the last shot. And its all the time slipping. I know it. I'll blow it somehow. Whatever there is to lose I'll lose it. I can do nothing else. I'm programmed that way. _I'm alive with dandruff. Its leaking out all over the place. It just doesnt stop. I keep scratching and I look down and there it is. A white cloud of fluff. _This is no good.__ The only thing is, I can write now as fast as I can think. But how slow is my thinking? My sinking. Really. I ONLY REALLY WANT TO FINISH THIS DRINK. Then maybe a few more. Just to make sure I was right in the first place. What is all this? What in hell is the whole ungodly purpose of it? Everyone else is turning to religion but I have none. No none at all. I gambled and lost. My head feels broken split in two. What should I do? Those capitals back there were quite by chance, quite by accident. _ Truly so _ Apt though. Rapt though. Ipso facto. Fee fie fo fum. I smell the breath of an absurd man. Or something like that. Well never did really. I lie about that as I lie about this place all day and wonder why I have to do so much lying. About it. AND I STILL HAVENT FINISHED IT. God this is awful. Not like its meant to be at all. But it flows. (No it doesnt.) This glass is three days old and theres mist on the outside. Mist on the inside too. But I'm still not there. I cant remember when I was. Must of been some time. Quite recent too, by all accounts. Well theres evidence. Theres abandoned debris everywhere. My fear of the phone. If it rings what will I say. I'm drunk again. No, not really, but not for want of trying. It still wont go down. It goes so slow after the first few. I'm bent out of shape. Yes absolutely truely. Theres nothing I can call on. Only keep on going to the end. Of this I mean. Lets not get carried away here. But I feel so ill. I cant even go out of the house. Well only for more supplies of course. When the caps hit the top of the screen I'll put some more in. That filled a line. I'm gone. Thats for damn sure. Damson strawberry what the hell does it matter. Only that my head is broken. I know things are not going too well. But all my chances are used up. Is this sexual paranoia. Christ it cant be I've never had enough sex to get paranoid in the first place. Or fair annoyed. Fair enough. God I feel so ill. Christ the caps have hit the top of the screen already. I WILL FINISH THIS FUCKING DRINK. Now its gone. The drink too. No its not I lied.

                    Well I did it. I finished it. Now for some more. I'm exploding all over the place. Thats why I cant go out. None of my clothes fit anymore. Better save this or I'll lose it.

                    Found out the time too. Its the fifteenth. God almighty what happened to the new year. Ring out the old. Ring its fucking neck more like. Went back and changed this but it wont show up. Well how could it? I didnt. I lied again.

 

 

 

 

                    Again the second. This may be something or then again not. It doesnt matter now. Todays attempt is done. Failed in maudlin doom and failure. Failed for the very reason it was started. Now it matters not. Just a way to drink until the morrow. Which probably never comes since its all only one long day. That lasts so much longer even than the bottles do. The thirst is unbearable and will never be satisfied. By me anyway. With all my talk of nonsense. My insane imagining. All these diesel fuels I pump down my neck do nothing but drown. Die painless as they say. It matters not too much now. I am indelibly dyed by the constraints of this project. The future seems to hold naught but crawling round floors and pulling up short. I ache with sadness but its not enough to make me give it up. But I never was sad til I started to drink. Then I thought how sad it all is. Then I realised how maudlin it all sounded. Then I realised I would never accomplish what I set out to do. Never ever really. But still I keep trying. Slogging on or is it off, dipping out or is it neither. I suspect all three and trust none. I wish only to sink another and another. Wash it all away. As fast as damn well possible. Anything is better than this. This maddening emptyness. This yawning silence. This unbearable load. This awful end. In tawdry nothing. Spluttering occasionally to the surface of the page. This classic position. Hunched over the word spinning machine with a bottle of rotgut booze for scant companion. Not the guts though, the mind. Spilling out everywhere like a broken bag of wine. A cancerous old lung. A string bag that holds nothing. But pulls all the punchs.

                     The memory of a dream is all I hold on to now. Not even sure if its that. Or even what it should be. Or shouldnt. Only that I shouldnt be in it. Die painless. As they say. Somehow. As fast as possible. Preferably. I'm here already half way down a maddening page. But what have I said. What have I ever said. Not one of these words means anything. They only represent all the nonsense that I still cannot face. That I run round emptyhanded wishing to forget. Modeling wigs for headless chickens. Without ever first remembering. Just feeling all the time so god awful tired for no reason.

 

 

 

 

            So here I am again once more. Compelled to write but nothing to say. I dont know why. Why I must write. To satisfy some part of me I guess. But another part, a stronger part, says its nonsense. All attempts will be futile. Will be nonsense. I dont know why I try. Why I still go on. I do it only because I dont know how not to. There should be some satisfaction but there is none. There should be some illumination but there is nothing but a dim murky light. Casting more shadows than glows. Theres nothing new in it. I've said it all before. Many times. With different words thats all. But you know that I'm sure. I can find nothing new to say and am continually reduced to silence. To dwell alone in this place of mad delusion. Impossible confusion. That I can never untangle. Rusted nails in a circle inside my head would not cause as much pain as this ball breaking silence. But it is all engulfing. It  is a beautifully constructed trap. I know. I made it myself. For reasons that are now lost. It was supposed to be armour to protect me. Now it is a chain to trap me. But I never let it be known so it becomes a ruse to play  tricks with. Nothing I ever do is spontaneous. It is all premeditated. I think before I do everything. I say it is wrong. But I do it anyway. I dont know why. I might just as well swallow a fly. Or pick half eaten apples from off the tree. As I did as a child. Without knowing why. For I was not hungry. It was only to see if I could do it. To prove something. I can always prove things. I can never sustain them. Like giving all this up. I've done it all so many times. But it was hollow. Too easy. It never lasted. It found me here adrift in the boat. Afloat on broken dreams of strangled promise. I made them I broke them. I dont know why to either. Either why I made them. What was the point. Once broken what was that point. What is any point. I do not know. I have nothing to say on that score. (I told you so.) Only this long yawn of aching agonised silence. That is not understood. That is misunderstood by the others outside. Which is all including. Also me. I do not know what I fear to disclose. What I mindlessly protect. Only this obsession. To be an island. It overwhelms all that I could do against it. The circle is complete it will never be unbroken. There is nothing that will dislodge it. Nothing that I know. The answer must come from without. It is not in me I know. I've searched and looked everywhere. Without any success. All the stones I lifted held nothing but worms. But I was the one that was wriggling. Trying desperately to get out from under all of this. But without hope. To go back above with the others. To this place I imagine is there. Where all would be okay. But is it only a figment of the drink crazed alchemist.