thwack

Not been getting enough sleep lately, nor have I ever really, but getting through the day yesterday was really a challenge. Hate it when you feel like you are just barely swimming through the day, drowning not waving, head constantly dizzy from the insomnia. But anyway, I'm not dead yet and that's the main thing isn't it? At least I managed to fall into a nice deep slumber just now, four hours of refreshing heaven. And, if I can't sleep, there's always this little spot to turn to, which seems somehow easier than real actual writing. But of course nothing is ever easy, at least not if it's worthwhile. Things like staying faithful in relationships, that's not too easy really. Although I must say that in my mid-30's it's getting a whole lot easier. When I condider the way I boozed and screwed and partied my way through my 20's, I've really slowed down quite a bit and I'm grateful for that. There are certainly better things in life than the mindless pursuit of oblivion and sex. One inevitably moves towards more spiritual pursuits as one ages, no matter what kind of youth one has had. The body simply refuses to put up with so much abuse. Even Charles Bukowski gave up whiskey in his old age.

One tosses about ideas for the next big thing, which usually come to nothing. I'd like to either write a story or make a little video doc about my terrace house, which is arguably the most run-down place in my entire suburb. Glebe these days is mostly a deeply yuppified place for 30-something professionals, not a place for professional loser/drifters like me although there are exceptions there of course. But anyway, I haven't seen any functioning households in quite the state of delapidation and neglect as mine. Of course I can only speculate what goes on in the neighbours' rooms, most of whom are actually pretty quiet these days. At least they painted the halls which made the interior look just presentable enough to entice a couple of female tenants. The remains of the old paint job made the place look like the set of Fight Club. But old Mick the mad Irishman remains as a remnant of what used to be here. I don't know how he affords to pay the rent, drink, gamble and maybe even eat occasionally. A government pension is only worth about a hundred and fifty bucks a week. Then there is Sam downstairs, who is also decidedly Old School. Sam may not drink, but he has other vices, like a vicious disregard for order of any kind. I was actually shocked when I saw the state of his flat. Mine may not be flash, but at least I tidy things away occasionally. I suppose that Sam is a manic-depressive, he has all the hallmarks. The laugh that is just a little too hysterical, the verbal diahorrea, the quirky mannerisms. And how do I know what a manic-depressive is supposed to look like? Well, my uncle happens to be one and, like Sam, his flat was in a somewhat shabby state when the condition was really out of control. My cousin stayed over with him one night and they folded out the couch only to find a dead rat in there. This thing had been dead so long it just ripped apart and turned to dust as the bed came out. They tried vaccuuming the thing up but then rat-dust just poured out of the vaccuum cleaner. Or so the story goes.