400066_10151168929131975_629058302_nSo it goes (as someone once said): this is a weird time of year. Not exactly the most original of proclamations, but well, there is no guitar in this house so rather than write a song I am writing a blog post. Call it The Modern Curse, or something less dramatic, however you’re inclined.

It’s always the people you least expect that hang on every word you say. You think you’ve done enough, knowing full well that you don’t believe in ‘enough’ – or value judgements of any kind. But then you find yourself staring into empty space (or at the bump) and considering yr mortality with a completely new grid placed upon ‘reality’ – and you know you’ve been here before, and last time it meant so much more, you can remember how it felt when every single cell in your body (at that time) was doing summersaults (turning in its grave) – but the older you get, the more you begin to realise. The Magicians were fucking liars. Illusionists. Prostitutes of the truth and we’re all so fucking desperate to believe that we close our eyes (or ears, or put our phones on silent, or just ignore the fuck out of them) that we make mistakes. And it’s the people that we ignore that are howling the truth into our faces. The truth is burning into our brows and still we turn the other cheek and think we know better. And maybe we do? But I don’t think so.

I’ve never given two fucks about the family life, but when CREATION is staring you in the face, when it has fixed it’s beady fuckin’ eye on yours (and no, I don’t believe it cares about my swearing) – when it is right in front of you – it gives you a sense of perspective that nothing else can offer. Not the drugs. Not the scene. Not Love. Nothing else. If you give yourself over to it then it is fucking primitive, and that is all we are. And all ŵe are doing. Perpetually drinking Christmas Booze and lying to ourselves. And each other.

But, when you’ve survived an apocalypse it’s fucking rude to take the Turkey Knife to yrself. Especially when enough blood has been shed already. Sometimes you’ve just got to go to bed and hope Santa doesn’t leave you a new razor in yr stocking.

G’night, and G’luck. We’re all gonna need it.
AJM, 24.12.2012


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