Disregard everything you might have read in the previous entry, published just over a month ago. That’s an order. If you didn’t read it, don’t start now. Avoid, avoid, avoid. This site is still as good (bad) as dormant. Go and watch something on Youtube instead.
These days and nights, dusks and late mornings and every other point inbetween, I find myself hearing a lot of echoes. I see them, too. I don’t think I’ve acquired sound-colour synaesthesia on my non-travels — though anything is possible on internal pathways — because I’m not sure the sounds themselves, the echoes, exist. I could be imagining them. I am very probably imagining them. Anything is possible, though (x2).
Internal pathways. Ring roads. Country lanes. Bridges. Cul-de-sacs. Lines in the sand. Underscores. Mapped and folded.
I lack something. I’m not sure what it is. If you have it, whatever it might be, I’d appreciate its swift and safe return. I need it more than I realised. You’ll recognise it, I’m sure. Whatever it was. Give it back and we’ll say no more about it.
I play sounds to make my eardrums hurt. My meatus acusticus externus fills with sludge. It’s life-affirming. Louder, louder, still louder. Life-reminding. Stop. Silence. This behaviour could explain the echoes.
I’ve started sleeping on my left side again. I haven’t done that for about ten years, since the window with the view over a West London garden, a broken bench, an overgrown rockery and a cat on a cold tin roof. I am not sure this is significant, but I’m going to claim that it is because I am currently lacking in signifiers.
I recently asked a one-time fellow blogger (as in: he still blogs but I don’t, despite the evidence of this lacklustre update) to remove a guest post I wrote on his site some seven years ago. 2005 is almost prehistoric in internet terms, and asking for such a deletion is near pointless because if anyone really wanted to read the navel-gazing ramblings of that thirty-four year-old, they could do so easily enough thanks to the thorough but disorganised archives that the web keeps hidden away in its collective memory. Nevertheless, I wanted it gone. I spent a long time explaining to this current blogger, via email, that there was no dramatic reason for my request. No internet stalker. No worries about privacy. No concerns about potential employers seeing what I’d written. Not even any embarrassment. No, just my own unease at the prescience of the words I’d written; how they had heralded changes that occurred the next year and have continued to exert their effect upon my life. The post frequently appeared on the second, sometimes even the first page of Google results against my name. I couldn’t forget it was there, even if I was also perfectly well aware that no one else knew or cared about its existence.
It’s gone now. Just a few hundred other online references to my existence to bleach from the whitespace and scrub from the source code.
No comments this time. I’m being unfriendly. Stand-offish and aloof. I don’t want to read about beauty because, whatever this might be, it certainly isn’t beautiful or inspiring or deep or missed or words or poeticism. Or anything. None of those. At best, it’s thoughts sluiced out to empty a cesspit in my cerebral cortex; at worst, it’s choking on fumes and ramming fingers down my throat so I spew my guts. If I read any reactions, I’d surely need to go and tear my face from the surface of the mirror.