Profane Exegesis: Friendly Neighborhood Fascism

Inc. 2

“I need a TV when I got T. Rex.” And David Bowie. I didn’t even have
that. 'We' had the one in the 'living room'. That was it. And I came to avoid the
sitting-room due to the psycho vibe and the general unpleasantness as I say. By
which I mean the sense of constant psychic assault on my rather fictile and
nebulous sense of self, as with any 'sensitive' adolescent. The unspoken
judgments and repressed anger. Better to stay in 'my' room, playing the loner.
Anything to improve on the quality of life as I experienced it. But it would piss
me off deeply to hear some snippet of passing adolescent info, such as Billy P
telling me TOTP played Bowie’s Life On Mars? It showed footage from his last
Ziggy concert, with Bowie in tears. I pictured this image of him on stage – in
tears.

Yet I’ve never seen any such thing – ever. Nor read about it. Even in
passing. It’s interesting that my mother and bo called the sitting room or
front/main room the living room. This would seem to imply an acceptance on
their part that to spend time in my room – and a fair whack over the last few
years before taking off to my gran’s, you know gran – was to not really be living.
A matter of opinion, and compared to their parody of life, I beg to differ
methinks. But I’d loved to have had a TV.

The problem was it would have highlighted what was understood but
unacknowledged. They had no real interest in what I was interested in or how I
spent my time. Worse, they’d resent the extra on the electric bill. For the TV. I
kid thee not. It would have seemed like a wild and needless extravagance to
them. In the early 70’s they’d just got a colour TV. At least I assume so. I can’t
really recall, but I do remember going by houses – usually a house rather than a
flat, and seeing the colour TV in their nor insubstantial sitting room and feeling
some envy. Other lives, other ways of being. But I had my whole life before me.
Nothing could change that, short of some form of conspiracy, or walking into a
bus driven by one of them. I’m pulling your leg. Or am I?

It’s strange to think that PKD was convinced that he was getting negative
messages through his radio – even when they unplugged it. A voice telling him
he should end it all; kill himself. Which sounds like some form of schizophrenia
of course, only he got the same thing in a letter, and what’s more, knew it would
be there. He’d asked his young wife Tessa to open it. The incident with the radio
sounds more like a poltergeist phenomenon, or even some kind of demonic
presence; though some would say these are the same thing.

I’ve certainly never thought the radio or TV was talking to me or sending

me personal messages, though I have often been thinking of a place or a name
and just at that moment, someone on the box/TV says the same name. I’m as
inclined as the next person to put it down to chance and statistics. It’s gonna
happen. But I also think the context and the ability to discern patterns is as
relevant. That there can be a crossover of interests and subject that make these
synchronicities more likely, edging them beyond mere coincidence, convergence
of related themes notwithstanding. I’ve experienced the same thing so often with
books of every kind, and can be too bewildered by interlinking themes and
synchronicities to be be bothered to try and get it all down. I’ve come to take it
for granted to a large extent. Perhaps life itself is aiming toward one great
synchronistic convergence.

The Convergence of The Lambs. But coming back to ah, talking TV’s and
radios, I was reading in another website on Gangstalking. that they also have
techies/electronics experts who can can tamper with and fix up targeted
individual's TV and radio to do just that; interfering with current broadcasts. And
there’s the scene as mentioned before, in The Game, where Micheal Douglas is
watching the news and the newsreader suddenly shifts to talking to him directly.
I look forward to the day. No doubt this will be one I won’t be able to capture on
video. I’ve yet to reconnect the bloody contraption anyway, excuse my Friend –
Walter Ego. The furgen bastage. Micheal Keaton as Johnny Dangerously; 1984.
He was in Pacific Heights too. Another revelation of a movie, as with The Game.
And Arlington Road with Jeff Bridges and Tim Robbins and Joan Cusack. And
Jacob’s Ladder, starring Tim Robbins. In all of them, someone is being 'played',
gaslighted.

Franz Frenchfried. The well-known Scottish beat rock combo. 'Micheal' is

brilliant. Positively infectious. I think of Jojo Gun’s ‘Run’ from way back in the
60’s much the same way, if more so, as I was a kid at the time and it was all the
fresher due to that, as life is at that age. I wonder if there’s a soundtrack CD to
Forbidden Planet. Play that funky music. I’m gonna rock it up. Funk soul space
brother. A real toe tapper. The Monster Mash of the Id. Galactic Creation Beam
Blues. The Unharmonic Convergence. Does talking to your TV and radio count?
Only if they talk back I suppose. And carry on a conversation. Now that really
would be something, and I’m not talking about the vidphone in Blade Runner, or
Friends. Have mobile phones reached that level of technology yet? I assume
they must have. Some lampposts are telling 'litterbugs' to pick up their rubbish.
Tell someone that a few years ago and you might find yourself commited. Now
we’re all under observation. The lunatics have extended the asylum – to take in
the whole world. You’re next. No, I’m next. Then you. All in their own good
time.

Talking about the real world – and I say that in all irony, and really, I almost
can’t be bothered now, as I’ve left it a bit late, having sat through The Fantastic
Four and Alien 3 again in a kind of free-floating stupor, but when I got my arse
up and out at 'em this afternoon, by which I mean tea-time. after I noticed Third
Rock on the Sci-Fi Channel wasn’t repeated later – as I was walking along
Gilmore Place on the way to Tollcross on the way to the the library, and keeping
my eyes and ears open what with reading more printouts on the old gangstalking
the previous night and having written about and been mulling over/brooding on
some instances – or incidents of passersby (Anarchy In The UK) suddenly
veering into my path and funk soul space, some dipstick veered in from behind
and the side, so close that the trajectory of his arrogant /curve/banana bend was
of course too short and slow for the pace I was going so that in effect, he blocked
my path. I tutted distinctly, akin to Elaine in Seinfeld, only she’s a fictional
character, unlike the situation upon me. For moment I was tempted to just shove
the jerk, along with some rejoinder such as 'get out of my space', where I'd get
the angry or fake quizzical look, and sorry'? Funny how the people who say that
never sound very sorry.

But I refrained of course, ever aware that if something was up, that’s the
way to fall for it, if set-up it is. Hey, I didn’t realize one of the agents in Profiler
is the same actor who plays Doctor Doom. He’s a bit of a scoffer in the early
days of Sam the psychic’s sojourn there with them. Sam is a female agent/FBI
profiler. Her expressions of bemused sensitivity and concern used to drive me to
distraction. Honestly, it drove me up the fucking wall. Because every time, it
reminded me I’m watching a TV series/actor. And it’s Millennium by any other
name. But I don’t know which came first. As with Frank Black, they are both
psychic detectives, but for some reason, it’s downplayed; they’re described as
'intuitive'. Maybe the actual profilers at Quantico wouldn't be too happy at being
portrayed as flaky New Age modern day mumbo jumbo aficionados. If it
weren't for that the intuitive (psychic) flashes are straight out of The Dead Zone,
the movie. I suppose that’s what they call artistic/dramatic license. There are
some amazing sequences in the TV series of that movie – based on the Stephen
King novel of course. Yet I rarely watched it.

So I check out the bloke who’s done the pavement/sidewalk equivalent of

'cutting me up', – though I don’t drive, and thank the Lord, and he’s walking at a
fair pace – yes the bloke, not the Lord, and I consider catching up and doing the
same, but it’s too much effort and too stupid and too trivial, and anyway, there’s
another bloke to the side and behind him and he’ll see it (nor does it occur to me
they might be together), so I let it pass with the intention of forgetting it. I’m
good at that, until next time. Only he stops to look in…the charity shop shortly
before the end of the street. This cretin actually believes I'm not on yo him, that
I'm going to walk straight by in happy obliviousness. So I stop too and stand by
him. He moves off within about two seconds, and goes into the Pakistani grocer
cum newsagents. I walk in after him; he’s standing just inside, apparently
perusing the newspapers along the floor level shelf. I stop and do the same,
about a couple of feet away from him again. He takes about three seconds this
time, then walks straight out without buying anything. I think; fuck it, and do the
same. He stops just outside, but at the edge of the pavement away from me as I
turn to go by. I look back and he’s lifting up his calf as if to check his shoe.
Complete bullshit. Now I’m sure there’s no coincidence. Or as near as. I stop
and bend down to tie an imaginary shoelace. Two can play that game. Hold
on... that was when he lifted his leg. It was as I looked back while still on my
hunkers. It seems all the more obvious now. Clearly he wanted me in front. The
same intention behind looking in the charity shop window? What a plonker.
Clearly he's a bit slow to catch on his jig is up, but that overconfidence and the
egos hubris for you.

But how often have I not noticed this before? What I don't realize is that
I've somehow inadvertently or intuitively done the very signal that says 'abort,
my cover is blown', when I crouched to tie my lace. No wonder he was a bit
disconcerted. He stops at the traffic lights at the end of the street. I’d pissed
around so he had to get ahead of me. But he’s on the corner, by the traffic lights.
That stops me from getting to his right where both of us would look to the left at
oncoming traffic, and I would look at him of course. I look at the traffic and at
him anyway. He should be looking in my direction as that’s where the traffic
coming from but he’s looking straight ahead. I turn my neck like an owl to look
in the window of another charity shop as I tend to do in any case when standing
at those lights on that spot, and straight into the gaze of a young black Asian who
might be assuming I’m either checking out his white youngish girlfriend or
disapproving or both, so I turn back a second, then look in the window again,
then quickly swivel round to catch the clever-dick to my right at the lights. He
doesn't bat an eyelid, as he’s still looking straight ahead. This in itself is a mite
abbynornal it seems to me. Certainly unlikely. Anyone else might look at me
like the nut I am ha ha, as if to say 'What’s up with you'? Nothing. Nada. The
green is on still. Will we have an equally low-key waiting contest? Hey, I’m not
moving, buddy-boy. An almost imperceptible pause, and he goes first. I walk
straight across into Tarvit Street, next to the Kings. I’ve still to collect my
camera, having left it in a slightly autistic aquaintences flat. I change my mind
after a few yards and double back. I’ll check out the progress of the gangstalker,
and anyway, I wanted to get to the library.
 And their he is, sitting at the bus stop. The one that doubles back the way
he came, except it goes up to Bruntsfield. Who walks along Gilmore Place to
double back to Bruntsfield? It’s simple enough to cut up there from there, as it’s
about the same length, even if you’re still getting the bus. But then the bus goes
further than Bruntsfield. Quite simply I don't believe he's genuinely waiting for a
bus, though he might be now. (It's clear he wants to stay where there's a lot of
people around). This is how weird things can get. The tip of the iceberg. I walk
on the outside and behind the stop, then double back to go to the chip shop
directly by the stop, for a haggis as intended, then change my mind as I don’t like
the thought of him observing me though I could have done the same I suppose,
In fact I could have stood before the stop and eyeballed him for a while or until
his phantom bus came; and I did for some seconds. This Spectre of the brocken'.
This mediocrity/idiot of the Id. This denizen of the deranged. Or daft. I’m
knackered now - cream-crackered, but it was quite enjoyable to write this. It’s
like capturing the freshness of a dream before the details fade, if a disturbing one.
Joining the illusory dots. It’s a dotty old world. These shit for brains. Walking
talking arses. As long as their butt doesn’t start talking to me, Pet Detective
stylee. Biddy thee well my funk soul space brothers. And don’t forget to fuck it
up now. I’m sure you won’t. Confused? You will be.

My dreams have been like surreal entities with a life of their own of late or
so it would seem, but I know I breathe life into them myself. I’ve gotta start
keeping a notebook by my bed again. It’s like martial arts or dieting. I tend to
lose my resolve. I can’t be arsed. And then some morning I’m gobsmacked by
the sheer inventiveness of some ultra weird and thought - provoking scenario.
The mind wobbles. Keeping up with them though; making notes. It’s far too
conscientious and methodical. Too much like hard work. That and the further
possibility of trying to make some sense of them. I figure if they’re so
significant, then I’ll remember them anyway. There’s some truth to this. The
dreams and nightmares that have stuck in mind from childhood.

One in my teens where I’m stuck in a taxi that runs out of control. I’m
driving, but the breaks don’t work. Remind me to never get a car. Perhaps it was
due to reading one of those informative scenarios in the tamer comic annuals,
only this one described how to get out of a car that you’ve somehow driven into
deep or deepish water. Don’t waste energy trying to open the doors as the
pressure of the water against them is too strong. Open the windows and wait
until the car has flooded, taking a deep breathe just beforehand, then when the
pressure is equal on both sides you can open the door.

Nothing in the annual about what happens if the water is really deep and
you’ve yet to hit bottom, but I suppose that depth is unlikely, unless you’re being
thrown out of a plane, in which case you might die on impact anyway, especially
if you happen to be in a car at the time. Or the plane. And even if you do
survive, your head will have exploded long before you reach the bottom. In the
dream – nightmare, I woke up out of fright before the taxi hit the wall. Now I
can wake up as a matter of course, quite methodically and calmly, or increasingly
so, ever since I learned life is a dream. Alternatively, I've been more aggressive
in dreams, defeating perceived enemies. But at the back of my mind, even in the
dream, is the thought that I might only make them more real to myself if I
confront them directly. Because who in their right mind can be threatened or
truly harmed by dream figures? All too easily forgotten in the 'real' world. The
nightmare we've still to wake from.

Waking events may have replaced sleeping nightmares. Perhaps if I had a

car, some wise-arse may have cut the breaks or forced me off the road. In that
case the dream from my teens would be illustrating a possible scenario. I
wouldn’t rule it out. Nefarious times we live in. One of the most outstanding of
flashing perceptions during a recent bout of intense dreaming was again, of an
earlier dream image within the main dream, from many years ago. A memory as
vivid as an actual event, or a piece of music one loves but had long forgotten, if
not quite. It was there all along. Like a reminder of better times or a better
future here and now if I’ll only pay attention to it. Hey, I’m listening, or trying.
But I know the emotion quite well now, if I can call it that. It’s as much a
perception. In essence, it’s the thought of God. I only need to turn my thoughts
to the more abstract. Often it involves no thought at all, as with concentrating
deeply on music. Or it can be the thought of music itself, as with reminding
myself of the symphonies of Kancheli the other night. The sheer otherworldly
strangeness, of his 6th. I don’t know where the CD’s are. It’s years since I’ve
heard them, and they click anyway.

In my teens it was a particular sound, and chord change, such as in Bowie’s

Life On Mars? or 1984, and others from his Diamond Dogs elpee/album. Again I
haven’t heard it for years. But it doesn’t have to be music... It’s the thought of
living out in the wilds in seclusion in a comfortable and large house, yes, the one
with the glass front and even parts of the sides, a recurring image. I would add a
view of the sea or a harbor and the lights in the distance. I even had the merest
hint of it today as I glanced at a restaurant as I passed a lane off Thistle Street.
No doubt it reminded me of something out of Dickens, or a Christmas card.
Snow will do it. Unless I’m buried under it in a car. I felt the same thing when I
first moved here, when I was... twenty-two, and saw the little restaurant at the top
of Viewforth from a slight distance away. Walking up by St Giles in the mist van
do it, as I did that one evening, that first year here, only there was no mist, only
the open future, or so I believed, but it was at a price, and increasingly
circumscribed. Since then it's been a case of ever-decreasing circles as I feel my
mind expanding all the more. The Man Who's Head Expaded. I'm a mental
traveler myself. Then there’s a childhood memory, as ephemeral as any dream
of the stores seen at the end of a large close off the Murraygate in Dundee. (My
mum used to work there in Keillor's, the sweet factory. Can't say I remember her
bringing any home. But then they probably weren't allowed. I'd long forgotten
that; my dad reminded me only recently). The image is of the lights shining
through the windows in the surrounding darkness. Maybe I associate shops etc..
with some form of security. It’s where they keep all the presents for Xmas, after
all. The toyshop in Whitehall Crescent I remember as a kid, when I visited my
gran's, you know gran, around the corner. But the shop wasn’t large enough to
forget yourself in, like a department store. I'm pretty sure I once dreamed I was
locked in in one and the mannequins came to life. Did that suck. Probably
influenced by seeing Dennis Waterman in a TV play where he falls in love with a
shop dummy, thinking she's a real girl... images of him carrying the mannequin
around in the street at night, ignoring the taunts of passersby. The scenes
alternate with him having conversations with the woman he believes her to be. I
was in my teens when I saw it... and found it sad and disturbing; as intended.

A more abiding memory is of visiting a flat in the same street, in the

evening; the older sister of the the kid, Gordon who lived below and opposite
gran's around the corner, in Union Street. The light in her flat was dim, probably
less dim than I recall. For me it was like Miss Faversham in Great Expectations,
only she was younger and shapely in a heavy-set sort of way and not unattractive.
I think I envied her her apparent independence, situated there in the center of
town. Wondering what it must be like to be her... What she did with her days,
how she lived her life. Reminded me the future was an open book or would be,
once I gained my own independence through escaping the control freaks who
ruled over my life, iff not wholly dominated my existence. I could meet women
'just like' her, with their own place, and discover the secrets of their lives and
existence while being a part of it. A girl could encapsulate the emotion for me.
She could represent another world, a different way of being. I could barely
imagine my mother as ever having been of the same species, let alone a girl.
(But she was). It wasn’t something I thought about. I knew that in some
fundamental sense she had chosen to leave the essence of herself behind. She
was of an old and ignorant, out-dated aspect of the world. I could feel a new and
different world in me every day, or most days. On some unconscious level I
assumed it would grow and come into being as I and others like me came to
ourselves. I saw that world in friends – the few I knew, and later, in Bowie's
songs, or a movie, as they did, only we would rarely attempt to articulate it to one
another.

But most people I knew, even those overtly interested in music seemed to
oblivious to his special magic. It was easy to assume you were the only one who
shared this special perception, along with Bowie himself, who had the apparently
numinous quality of feeling closer to you in his way than anyone you knew, yet
as about as attainable as God Himself in any interpersonal sense. It never once
crossed my mind that anything I might write might get to him. I wouldn’t have
known what to try and articulate anyway. I couldn’t even face a group in school,
whereas he was known by the whole world it seemed, and more than comfortable
with it. But the emotion had always been there. It didn’t need a person or a place
in town to focus on and focus it in order to be aware of it. In the abstract, it could
have a different quality of intensity. Simultaneously more intense, yet diffuse.

For the most part there was probably always a focus, such as the sight of the
woods of Camperdown Park in the distance, that aroused an inexplicable and
intense longing in me. I knew nothing of the Romantic poets and the rest. There
was no way for me to conceptualize the emotion. It didn’t matter. It was beyond
concepts. That I could feel such an emotion in myself and towards the world
despite the deepest uncertainty and the most mundane of circumstances overall
was surely a wonderful thing. No one else seemed to be aware of it. Certainly
no one ever talked about it. Incredibly, there was an aspect of taking it literally. I
felt inpatient, excited. Would the emotion sustain itself as I came closer to the
trees in the distance over the wall? It was as if the emotion was centered around
them in an invisible aura, that stretched out into the sky and even beyond, but to
where and to what?.. It would be interesting to find out. I was alone of course. I
couldn’t sustain the emotion in the presence of others. Not that I ever thought
about it in such methodical terms. Perhaps the emotion would increase even
more as I came closer to the woods. But it was an almost unthinkable thought in
its way. The longing was almost unbearable as it was. As if there was some
unspeakable revelation that lay behind it all. I didn’t articulate it to myself in
such terms. But that was the unspoken, unarticulated thought and implication.
It’s possible the thought unnerved me on an unconscious level yet the paradox
was I could handle it in the abstract, the impersonal.

I didn’t make the connection that I felt a similar emotion at the thought of
Lynne. But in person my ego self got in the way; it was all far more tangible,
corporeal, and in my face. I denied the emotions I had for her; the love I felt for
her. If I ever voiced it to myself, and I probably did at some point, I was soon
overwhelmed at the thought of ever doing anything about it. But here, in the
street, approaching the huge park, they were only trees, inanimate objects. The
emotion wasn’t literally in them. They echoed something in me, whatever it was.
Yet I knew also that it was something 'out there'. I could handle that. I knew that
on some level, thinking the emotion might grow in intensity as I came closer to
them was only my way of exploring it and the sense of wonder I felt. This wasn’t
just a 'good mood'. It was, if I could have articulated it, 'intimations of
immortality'. The world transformed by emanations of eternity. And, as always,
all too easily forgotten. Writing itself feels like 'coming to myself'. as can
reading. There’s no one else here after all. Only you. Possibly. An impossible
dream we dream in unison. Once or twice I walked into the stretches of pine
trees, and stopped and stood in the quiet on the soft canopy of pine needles, as if
waiting for something to happen. I could drink in the sense of peace and quiet.
The feeling of respite from the world, as remote as if I were in the Canadian
wilderness. Or Finnish. Or the Highlands. I wished I could stay forever. That it
would never change and I had no needs or obligation to leave. I understood my
childhood, why most kids dreamed of being Robin Hood, or wanted to build a
tree-house, or a cabin in the woods. Both, in my case. Hell, I still did.

A man decides to kill himself and leaves a two-thousand page suicide note
for spite.

Bjork. Where does she find these freaks? This video is fucking awful.
Now we’re out in the country and she’s emanating love hearts. Now a cat is
driving a car, like some weird dream. Now she’s dancing with it in a house after
it grew to the same size as her. In reality it would probably just eat her. Don't get
me wrong, some of her videos and songs are sublime, fantastic.

“The unsubs are right about one thing. The world is pretty screwed up”.

Thomas Gibson is in a series called Criminal Minds, about FBI profilers

who hunt down serial killers. He used to be in naff comedy series Dharma and
Gregg. Parodied in an episode of the bitingly satirical animation, Family Guy.
No, it was CSI. I tried watching one or two of those but it's like Star Trek now;
there are too many. So I didn't bother. But I like the time-travel themes, I'll
watch those. 'Gregg's' music taste in the sitcom – as bland as the show – was
straight out of American Psycho, the darkly humorous and possibly bitingly
satiral movie about a vacuous yuppy serial killer in the 80’s, played by Christian
Bale. You find that quite often with American sitcoms and movies, often some
quite good ones. Or engaging, such as one or two of the Diehard movies. The
one with Jeremy Ironic. The deep irony and paradox of it seems to be lost on
them and most people it seems. (But Criminal Minds is very engaging and keeps
a modicum of detachment as well as dealing with that as a theme in the series.
Unlike the gung-ho SVU, where they can barely keep their hands to themselves it
reeks so much of self-righteous moralisation. And who can blame them when the
nature of the crimes they're dealing with is so heinous? But then, they're not,
they're actors, playing to a script. Thomas Gibson suits the part as head honcho
FBI agent, as he looks far too serious for comedy anyway. He's quite believable
in this.). Then again, we have Bowie teaming up for a duet with Tina Turner in
the mid-nineties. What can you do? I've watched any number of good movies
that end with some MOR bilge by Bryan Adams or whomever. An exception is
The Crow, with Brandon Lee, son of Bruce – and music by The Cure and Jane
Siberry and others. Only, like his dad, he ended up dead, this time in an accident
on the set of the movie. I heard the movie was cursed or the set was haunted.
Anything's possible... and you can quote me on that.

Speaking of accidents, when I was eighteen, I got as job in the Kowloon

Restaurant, washing dishes. Yippee. I must have been alright at it as they kept
me on after the trial period, but only after the manager who reminded me if
vaguely, of a youngish Barbara Stanwyck, you know Barbara, told me the hourly
rate stayed the same after saying before that it went up. Anyhoo, I got on
passably well with the young and not very attractive barmaid, and one day, as I
was getting on with the said dishes, we heard this terrific scream and crash went
out the kitchen to see what was going on. The barmaid had fallen down the open
trap door behind the bar. Guess who’d forgotten to close it? I was the gofer the
Chinese owner, Simon, would ask to go down into the cellar to get this or that big
bag of vegetables or chicken or whatever it may be out of the big fridge freezer.
Some times I couldn’t find what he’s asked me for right away. I recall my first
day, and I just couldn’t seem to find what he’d asked me to go get. I would get
very tense over it. That critical internal voice would be loud and clear, reminding
me of how useless, how worthless I was; the proverbial born loser. It wouldn’t
be an auspicious start I felt. I persevered, raking through those frozen bags and
getting more and more pissed of both at myself, him, the situation, and life. I’d
just have to tell him I couldn’t find what was supposed to be there, but refused to
be found. Perhaps I did. I can’t recall. Imagine if it was a piss-take. Maybe this
was on my mind after getting something from the cellar again and why I left the
trap-door open. A trap right enough. Or I plain forgot, my head full of more
interesting thoughts and musings. Such as this is no way for a fellow of my
abilities and talents to be spending his time. I felt tremendously guilty about it.
She smashed her watch during the fall. There was a ladder on the way down, so
perhaps it partly broke her fall as well as her watch. I went along with her to
casualty for a check-up. She was okay; and alright about it. I packed the job in –
handed in my notice as they meaningless say – I felt so bad about it. Seemed to
me the job and I and the low wages weren’t suited. My self-inflicted little guilt
trip. One of a series over my life so far. Collect the set. A cook took the
opportunity to give me some kind of friendly lecture, insufferably condescending,
however well-intentioned, making it all the worse. Perhaps that was the
intention.

But to get back to the theme of Bruce Lee, I meant to say I had mentioned to
Simon the owner, that Bruce Lee was born and raised in Kowloon in Hong Kong,
as he’d know, and he said he was in the same class (at school) as Bruce Lee. I
found that fascinating, and would have loved to have quizzed him, no doubt
boring him. He probably hadn’t paid that much attention at the time. I did ask
him of he thought he was as good as he seems. He answered there’s always
someone who’s tougher. No doubt, but not as skillful and famous for it, Crazier,
yes. It reminded me of how small the world was, however complicated. That,
and another kid having been at the same primary school as me, worked in the
kitchen too. A pleasant bore of a bloke. When I thought of primary school I
thought of Lynne, among others. After secondary school it already seemed like a
distant dream, a previous life.

Walking back to the flat I shared with with a girl who I cared about but felt
no real connection with, wondering what the hell was wrong with me – if
anything, and what would become of me. I couldn’t seem to get a definite handle
on events, on people, on myself. They didn’t seem to suffer from a similar self-
doubt – an ever shifting, nebulous sense of identity. But I was relieved. I knew
how I’d felt every afternoon at the thought of having to be there. The irrelevance
and absurdity of it. I had reading to get through. I’d collected five hundred or so
books in a big box in the kitchen cum bedroom (!?). Gillian saw them as an
irrelevance I've no doubt. It confirmed I was 'different from the other boys'. Ha.
More intelligent, studious even.

As for myself, I only had to look at the cover of an old album by Love, titled
Forever Changes in a window and on the wall of the second-hand record shop
close by, to feel more myself again, though I didn’t know if it was any good, so I
never got around to buying it. I was so into punk through following John Peel’s
show most evenings without fail. A mistake, I subsequently learned, as it
contained one of my favorite songs ever. Arthur Lee’s Alone Again, Or… And
how brilliantly, intuitively apposite. Now, as then.

On the Eve of Destruction… Barry Maguire.