Love in the Asylum, response

DT turns in his fastidious grave.

Blue hands clenched tight against his powerlessness, he keeps out the cold. You shed a dark light on me.

Anger warning. Read on at your own peril.

I’m always fucking going on about Bill Hicks, but then I’m always fucking going on about something. Why are you even fucking reading this? Am I that fucking difficult to communicate with that you can only read about how I feel on my fucking blog? Can’t we just have a fucking conversation – or are you too far away for that?

Whatever this thing is – I’m so fucking angry at the world and have nowhere to send it. I am fucking angry – really fucking angry.

Tell me what to do with it. Tell me it won’t always be like this. Tell me I’m a good person and that you’re thinking of me. It’s all just fucking words. I’m full of them, pour them out every waking hour, endless fucking drivel, pointless distraction, nothing cathartic; just a record of ruin. I feel five years older and rotten to the core. All my goodness gone, stolen.

Feeling you drift away.

The person that believed in me the most has gone.

Tom Waits’ 20 most cherished albums in the Observer includes ‘Rant in E Minor’ by Bill Hicks.

“Bill Hicks: blowtorch, excavator, truthsayer and brain specialist.

Others will drive on the road he built.”

Absence is impossible to grasp; it is absolute nothingness, it has nothing, it is too silent. Permanent absence even more so.

I can only try to understand his absence by reminding myself of his presence. So his absence is defined by memory, by photograph, letter, postcard and object.

Rachel Whiteread: can only define the emptiness of a negative space by casting the positive space.

Meticulously ordered past. File labelled ‘journal’.

I never knew Dad wrote this way. Notes like mine on cafe receipts and typed sheets.

Lies are an insult to reality, he wrote.

Dear Mima… thanks 4 Rod Steward, Brocoli etc. You’re such a good girl and work so hard on these occasions. Everyone is looking forward 2 seeing u & Tom. Got all 7 seats together. Lov  Dad XXX

29 December 2004, 12:31

I don’t have any faith in the world or any positivity about the future. I also don’t believe that this sequence of events is happening for any karmic reason – and if I did I’d really be doomed.

This is actually a revelation – that life is brutal and purposeless. The sugary moments are artifice, added extras, disguise, tricking us into pursuing unattainable happiness. Drinking tea and looking at clouds is as close as we get.

Life is death. We are only born to die, reproduce to pass that curse onto someone else. Carry that around for decades and just wait for it, children.

Bleak? Bleak. Empty, fucking pointless, futile existence. I just fill my life up with crap, focus in on the meaningless micro-detail, born to breathe, eat, fuck, sleep, die myself.

I am deeply unhappy with my life and seemingly unable to do anything about it. I have lost my reference point and my inspiration for the future.

Just about alive, breathing fills my empty shell with air and out again, leaving nothing.

Platitudes; the trigger is the terror that the same thing could happen to you – will happen to you. We are all on the edge.

View from the train.

Snow wafting every which way. This cover seals in the numbness, unreality, too beautiful. The world carries on.

Too intense, so many memories and thoughts and so much pain echoing in an empty cave. Wonder when this will all feel real.

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manner of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

As part of some callous coincidence, the builders began to take down the scaffolding outside today. I think I need all the support I can get!