I’m writing this latest instalment of the seven-day dreams from a train bound for Wolverhampton. Now I’m in state of limbo, having enjoyed my time away from the Black Country I cannot wait to arrive back to the grim dim sunny side of the midlands. There are things I’ve missed and things that drive me up the wall, no ball game signs, no men drinking wine, no trains on time and no sun to shine. But for every cloud there is a muggy grey lining. I can go to my local watering hole and sit whilst sipping a pint of carlings finest safe in the knowledge that it hasn’t cost me a small kitten to buy it. I can openly discuss the news with a bloke I’ve never met before (excluding cockney Charlie who’d had a bit of jip the night before, dropping his phone on the floor more than thrice.) and I can appreciate the prettiness off the female species that grace the gornal land.
OK, the last point was a lie.
More to follow…
Times been going by a bit quicker than usual, which is surprising when the days have been longer. I’ve re-found my hunger to write all things down, I’ve found writing on the ground, on walls and through corridors. I’m currently on Brick Lane, drainpipe denim and fem fatale. It’s a nice change from the Black Country back slang.
After proof reading BIB and eventually, nearly, almost completing it I’ve been in a very retrospective mood. Looking back sometimes is the first step forward.
When do the weak become heroes?
When do we become adult? What defines adult? What defines me? Now I’m starting to sound very fight club (ish) but with answered questions all I’ve seemed to find are more questions to be asked. ‘Ask me why and I’ll spit in your eye’. From a very early age we learn by firstly burning our fingers playing with fire. We don’t ask questions as to why that bloody hurt so much, we just accept that the next time you try to pick a cup of tea up without a drinking implement its going to bloody hurt again, maybe next time your Mothers finest cutlery might be a better tool than your pink plastered thumbs. But why have fine teapots? Why not have a brown mug, a beige rug and velvet curtains?
It’s all about hair-don’ts and long coats in this café I’m sitting in. We’re all thin, trim and not one of us dim, with our laptops on tables telling fables of that bloke back home, or if you’re here on your own with your dog and bone and a creamed scone its cool to be alone. It’s interesting to see the difference in places, does a man make the legend or does the legend come after?
All I know its 13:56 on a Thursday afternoon. Time for a beer.
sitting here, a cheese and pickle cob..
‘It doesn’t matter cause my eyes are lying
and they don’t have emotion
don’t wanna be social, can’t take it when they hate me
but i know there’s nothing i can do’
I want to talk about opinions but when I can’t accept other peoples it very very VERY difficult to talk about these. I accept that it’s an entitlement and we all have them, but i really struggle sometimes to accept others. Favourite football team, biscuit, colour and band I can except, but what really takes the biscuit (and mines a digestive by the way) is when a person’s opinion is not their own but that of a red top tabloid designed to make the average man paranoid. I hate to write about them because its only since the media hysteria of the EDL has being a dudlian been so difficult. Ask someone what EDL means and I’d say about 70% wouldn’t be able to answer, I don’t need to ask the audience or phone a friend. THE ENGLISH DEFENCE LEAGUE, the only defence i need is protection against the way they make me feel. Selling burka’s when they are trying to ban them sums them up.
No valid argument, no text-book contradiction if anything an affliction to the distinction of a working class man. No REAL opinion.
‘it’s a destruction of a mystery
the more i listen to what they say
so does that mean that there’s no more doin’
and there’s no more thinkin’
and there’s no more feeling
cause there’s no right opinion
so can you tell me what I’m supposed to do’
Now i cant help the way I feel about things such as this, I’m on my ‘soap box’ trying to explain to the plain. Theres a whole world out there and its all down to predicament and I guarantee if the shoe were on the other foot they’d give a fuck, lets just hope they can duck and dodge the media, they’ll feed ya with whatever sells, be it global anarchy or the best selling epiphany from Brad and Jen, the mother hen or the top story on news at ten.
‘For I’d rather be a pebble than an ocean vast and drowned, alone and make no sound’
Its been one of those, you’re in bed the worlds not dead just sleeping and you wish you were doing the same, when my biography gets printed there will be a huge section of ‘the viao days’. We live, we learn, we grow you know. Like most posts this one doesn’t have a massive point, I’ve just been thinking about what we choose and what we are given. Do we lose? or misplace? or just sweep it under the carpet?
Right now I don’t feel I have the answers for any of these questions. I’m on mastermind and my specialist subject is James Harry Penn and I don’t even know my favourite colour. More fitting is learning lines playing through Spotify.
I’m not even sure I’m ready for answers just yet anyway, Id rather ask a few more questions, maybe have multiple choice. I’m on countdown and I have no vowels, im having a chat with Noel but the dealers forgot to pay his phone bill, I’m covered in gunge im listening to grunge but my minds a sponge. Our survey says, carry on..
I’ll be brief, just doing a bit of proof reading.
“Treading carefully round that saft bookcase because he’s gone and dropped his pencil behind it, the last thing he wanted was to have an argument over that. He’s got no petrol, no change for burns or enough to grab the 558 to wolverhampton to see if theres a job going free. Getting angry at the lack of post and the monumental amounts of spam his inbox has taken over the past three months. Its basically hadn’t been that great a week for him, a knock down from the week before last. The little things were bothering him again so he put on the heavily scratched ‘Hatful of Hollow’ and pretended he’d had half a day but to his dismay the disk tray confirmed the cherry on the cake.”
© james harry penn 2010
Today I’m going to talk abut change. Bob Dylan had a go and now its my turn,
Things change when you’ve got spare change in your trousers. Things change when you change your shoes, you can have the blues or choose your mood. Time apparently changes most things, things age, erode, grow mould and mutate. Big Ben has seen it all, the new years the ‘tears for fears’ years, the cheers for new change. Can you change time? or does time change you?
What if things don’t change?
I wake up most mornings without a change in my mind, I wash my face put on my shirt grab a piece of fruit then I’m on my way to work. A bleak week later and still no change maybe a different choice of dinner and a little less thinner but mostly mundane. Fast forward a month and a half maybe more, still a bore I’m sure but look at what you’ve learnt.
Grow, learn and participate. Get about when you’ve got a bit of time free. Theres a whole world out the to see.
Getting through a pile of books gives me food for thought. It’s a sunday so for lunch I’ve had a feast, a few vegetables and a portion of Coelho. Nothing but crumbs and butter left now so I’ll focus on my own. In the news this week we saw the fall and rise of the con-dem party, Browny boy pack his bags and a few shocker’s from the penalty spot.
Spot the difference from the weeks before, that’s a game I’ve been playing recently it all moulds into one, The Specials once spoke of the rat race, well im in second place behind the man with no face and no Blackberry pin to trace. Today I’ll give chase and take another route. I’ll find the root of the problem. No problem. Until maybe the morning, around about dawn when the plans ive drawn go back in the drawer. Discipline…
“Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine and at last you create what you will” – George Bernard Shaw