Friday, 2 November 2012

The Inevitable Return of Coach Cockroach

It's fair to say that I started losing it towards the end of my last piece. I'd have to be a really miserable cock to leave the world of journalism in such a pathetic manner. There WILL be a FINAL piece, one day, but I'm not ready to quit this game just yet. In fact, I'm feeling surprisingly recharged right now. A recent rush of serious creative insanity has propelled me back into the ugly world of words. It was the buildup that was the problem. "Brain-pummeling" is the most accurate way to explain the almost unbearable buildup to creation, especially when you're out on your own. If you can survive that, you will probably survive anything. It's important to remember that nobody can take away your freedom to create. It is also very important to attempt to physically realise your creations in the most professional way possible. If you can't make it real then you haven't made it at all. Stop focusing on limitations and concentrate on what CAN be done, for fuck's sake. Maybe I am a fool for saying so much unhinged stuff on here, but I'd rather be an irrepressible fool than nothing at all. At least I'm not posting cunting Facebook and Twitter updates, unlike the rest of you bloody morons. Ouch. There I go again. I know, I know, I do need those people, yes, that is true, but I don't have to BE one of them, do I? You should all be fucking grateful that I'm willing to take the time to digest things and poop out such substantial delights. Some stuff requires a lot of digestion, but there are times when the only option is to let rip instantly, regardless of the consequences. Fuck the consequences. This is an expressive ART FORM, not just another twatty micro-statement lost in a sea of cyber-shit. Do you hate me now? I hope you do, you ignorant pillocks. Go back to your smart phones.

Fuck! That was extremely stupid and mean of me. I AM SORRY. Will you forgive me if I promise to commit suicide ASAP? Why is that funny? I shouldn't joke about things like that, should I? A wise old woman once said; "Laughter is the greatest medicine that isn't a medicine," but she then immediately jumped off a cliff and her body exploded over many jagged rocks. It's a bloody foggy concept, isn't it? Maybe the blood and fog will never completely clear, who knows? At least I'm getting moments of slight clarity again now. I am finally stabilising, to a certain extent. Stability is only available to those who can occasionally come to terms with their situation.

There are going to be new Perhower recordings being made in the very near future, and they could even find their way into a professional physical form. There is also a possibility that I might attempt to compile all of these Automatic Updates into a book. You could even be reading that very book right now. That'd be great, but I mustn't get too ahead of myself because time travel is extremely dangerous. Let's just enjoy being back on track and try to forget about what happened in The Disjointed Gantlet. But as this book will be playing out in reverse order there's not much chance of forgetting about something that you haven't even experienced yet...

I'm sitting here alone, typing away in the dark, with only the harsh light of the computer monitor and a sweet smelling candle for illumination. The doorbell just rang. I'd better see who it is. There's not enough light outside to make out who it could be. Cautiously, I open the door. To my surprise, Leonard Maltin is standing there, masquerading as a creepy traveling salesman. He's trying to sell me these strange looking root vegetables that glow in the dark. There's a crate of them next to him on the patio floor. The glow is only faint, but they're certainly glowing. I try to tell him that I'm not really interested, but he won't listen. He picks up two of these pyramid-shaped glowing vegetables, one in each palm, and then extends his arms out in front. I am stunned by this unsettling paranormal image. His eyes have rolled back into his head and his mouth is quivering. I want to shut the door, but for some reason I just can't do it. I can't really move anything. The street is dark and lifeless. The only light source is coming from the pyramids in Maltin's hands; a neon green glow that is horrifically exaggerating his features. Now he's talking in an extremely bizarre, seemingly schizophrenic manner;

"...confiscates the cigarettes and rations them out to his daughter Alicia. The L.A. Dance Project then established a full-time residence at the Boleyn estate. Despite this scandal, Alicia became the Supreme Governor of cigarettes. Towards the end of her reign, independent strings of Puritanism became more prominent, and the confluence of Swiss patriotism and humanism came to be referred to as the Affair of the Sausages. This event, along with its pious customs are a reminder that the response to the kingdom will have eternal consequences. The Sermon on the Mount is now married to Cora; an armed escort to the airport of Schombing. Alicia gets eliminated by a team of brain-police who broke in via the Puritanism Lab..."

I can't escape. I can't even bring myself to slam the front door shut. My body is fixed into position by some sort of magnetism / force-field. I can't close my eyes. All I can do is listen as Maltin continues his neon-green pyramid lit ravings;

"After a nocturnal row with his mistress, Cora is then knocked out by Bayman, daughter of the tournament’s founder, and Alicia's best friend. Bayman is a bronze-skinned Maltin Ninja. She is trained in the darkest arts. Bayman, come to your master! Let yourself be seen!"

At that moment, a fluorescent green limousine screeches past. Maltin doesn't react, but the glow from his pyramids is getting brighter. The limousine slowly reverse parks in front of my house and the back passenger window automatically slides open.

"Go to the window, Miles," Maltin says, sternly.
"I don't want..." but before I can even finish my sentence my legs are walking me over to the limo. I am not in control, but I'm painfully aware of what's going on. Suddenly, I get the feeling like there's a massive locust stuck to my face and my whole body is filling with vibrations. I manage to frantically claw at my nose. I hear something break and I see a blinding light. Shit, I've just fallen asleep at the desk and knocked a half full glass of orange juice over. I throw a t-shirt on the puddle before it drips down onto something electrical. My phone is buzzing on the floor, next to my right foot. It stops. 1 missed call. An unknown number.

Bloody hell, I wrote all that stuff last night and I can hardly remember doing it. I wasn't even intoxicated. Is this still classed as journalism? I can't be 100% sure. I think it's about time for me to get my teeth into some real stories. I need to reconnect. My next live performance with Perhower is in three weeks time. Three weeks to attempt a new regime. Three weeks to conquer madness. I had to bail out of volunteering at the CP centre this week because I've been suffering from a lovely combination of manic depression and physical illness, but I'm determined to go in on Monday to rekindle the music group and also attempt to start an art class. It might not work out, but I'm going to donate loads of old paints, pens, paper and other tools for them to use anyway. I think I'm on the road to recovery, but unfortunately that road seems to be leading to Recluse Town. I might have to stay there for a while, at least until all traces of poison have left my body. There is too much love going to waste. The super-ego has spoken. Don't be afraid of what happens next.

I've just read those last few lines over and over again, but something is preventing me from fully believing in them. I know I can't write my way out of this problem. COME ON, MPH, SNAP OUT OF IT! You WILL make the right decision, even if it's not the most acceptable one. Feed your brain and feed your belly, OK? Get in the shower, sort the house out, set up the drums and get everything ready for next week. Get yourself in shape. Remember how to access that place where you don't feel totally crazy. You can get there anytime you need to. Stop feeling guilty. You are innocent. The fight rages on. Let the stories come to you.