Yes. Losing track of time, for one. I haven't updated this blog for nigh on two weeks now. It's high time. Today, we'll be talking about losing.
No, I've not lost it, no. But thanks for caring, if you did. You probably didn't. But that's fine. This is the internet; something best described as an immoral disembodied head of evil, making ignorance a virtue and swearing an art, that can only lead us into the new dark ages, where we, with luck; will kill the remainder of the human race by cannibalism (also a popular internet-based pastime). So what I want to talk about is Julian Assange.
No, not really. I'd be in prison if I did. What I really want to talk about is losing shit. I do this a lot. I go about my daily business, mislay something, and go mad. It's not a strange thing to be doing, losing shit. But my problem is the intense self-aggravation that goes on between the realisation of having lost the shit (or Thing, if you're going to be pedantic about it) and finding it again. It's like, as my friend said today, a bad sit-com. My head is humorous. But never to me.
Today, I lost a thing again. State 1: Annoyed. Where is it? I'm looking around calmly until the first jolt of fright hits me. Like a gerbil getting an electric shock, panic jolts through my brain (apparently it's dopamine! Who knew?) and a voice goes: WHERE IS THE whatever it's supposed to be this time.
Although I do have a problem with the internal monologue/voice thing. Mainly because that's not the way people think. It's not the way I think, certainly. People think in concepts, emotions are never based in words; at least not in your own head. The idea of an internal monologue having one particular train of thought (confusing it may be) all the time is basically flawed. Take that James Joyce! Though I might be very much mistaken, thinking differently to literally all human beings (except some people in Russia. Hello there!) whilst having the ambition of working in an industry (humour) that relies mainly on shared assumptions being built or broken and feelings anti- or sympathy with some people in a place. Which would be shit. A bit like electing a crocodile on the board of directors of your local swimming pool. Because the crocodile wouldn't be able to communicate his particulars view on the future of swimming in the 21st century or communicate with the council. If it could even talk, it would probably focus on the consumption of visitors from out of an alcove, underneath the shallow end. Likewise; me on a stage talking to people in a humorous way would simply fail. Yes, that's what we're playing with here. A mind that self-destructs. I hate you, Jacques Derrida!
Where was I?
Oh, yeah. Losing shit.
Then, the lost thing would have to be refound, but in a manic, high speed manner, with one bit of my brain shouting at me for not having found it yet and the other bit calmly pondering worst-case scenarios.
In years past, I would usually call out for my mum and would ask her if she knew anything about the thing that had been lost. She would then usually ask me where I was when I last had it. I never know, that's why I'm asking her.
I actually considered calling her, 200 miles away. She only ever saw this room via Skype. It would be so stupid as to actually distort the space-time continuum. I doubt that anyone would have done anything more idiotic than that. Not even Hannibal, the bane of Pachyderms. If you got that; point to you. If not: read up. I like writing about stuff that's deliberately obscure. It takes the mind on a journey. Though not always a pleasurable one, like this one, which is mainly concerned with the inner workings of my own head.
For minutes on end, I'd look maniacally for things, even shouting into thin air things like: 'rah!', and 'where is it?', a rhetorical question if there ever was one. Although if you ask a rhetorical question, and no-one is there to witness it; is that still a rhetorical question? Possibly. But almost certainly not. I asked someone. The proper scientific name is apparently be: 'Stop writing me, go away, you're strange!' Which doesn't really help. But hey; this guy probably knows best. Thank you Dr. Phil.
But in the end, the thing I lose will be, without fail, always where I last had it. I've even turned to that classical 1920s French Silent Movie thing where I kiss the thing I just found in a flamboyant manner. Which I can do, cos I'm by myself so no-one will ever have to know. Oh, bum-Oh, jeez-How embarrassing-Never mind.
When I'd eventually found the thing, my mum would go on about me not having a system. And I'd think I was a dick for not doing so and promise myself to actually start filing stuff, from now. on But that horrible self-loathing sensation would be better than the mania of actually losing something, with the two sides of my head being equally annoyed by me. That means I prefer only 1 thing being annoyed with me, as opposed to 2 distinct ones. Interesting. It's like being a small German village in the 17th Century while the 30-years war is raging between my forehead and oesophagus. But funny. Cos it's true. They never say that about famine, eh? Bono visits an African Orphan and decides to tell a joke:
- Who's dying?
- Ah, come on. Who's dying?
- Who's dying? You are!
+ Haha! (dies)
- It's funny cos it's true! (walks away smugly)
There, comedy about my brain. Take that Hippocampus! I rule. Although I am not sure how, exactly. Thanks for reading this far. I don't know if I would have, in your place. So congratulations for finishing reading my blog. Yes. Bye!
I would like to thank my many Russian fans who have inexplicably found my blog amusing and came to it in their droves. So a baffled thanks for that.
And now the Meaningless Self-Promotion Bit! Gigs lined up: Wednesday at UCL Union at Huntley St! And I'll be in Walthamstow on Tuesday seeing friends (and if there's still a spot free, then perhaps?).