Watched the Wicker Man this morning - one of my favourite films - I love the sort of film where a white Christian policeman with a high moral standard can be the bad guy. He's the bad guy from my point of view anyway - a lot of other people would probably disagree. I am standing here poised to write and yet can get nothing down. Thoughts flicker through my mind - nothing substantial - unsubstantiated judgements on those around me - he's an arsehole - she looks gorgeous - why is this cunt sitting so close to me, there are plenty of other seats. He's gone now - I wonder if he was psychic... Being psychic would be a total nightmare - first impressions are rarely good (mine aren't at any rate...) It would be hard walking around knowing that everyone hates you and not being able to blame it on paranoia. I often find myself wondering about the origin of words - some are fairly obvious, such as breakfast and wardrobe - no back story there just a functional definition. Other words not so much - where does nightmare come from - it is a composite word with obvious roots, but no obvious meaning - I bet there is a pretty cool myth behind that phrase, I could probably find out in about fifteen minutes on the Net if I wasn't so apathetic. End of side-track - back to the plot (what little there is) Judge in haste, repent at leisure - more of a paraphrase than a quote - seems to be a pretty good summation of me. I like to think I don't judge by appearance - but I do, I can't help it. I try to keep unsubstantiated stuff relegated to my internal monologue and when the conscious mind kicks in I try to give a fair chance - but it doesn't excuse the snap judgements. I am so bitter and twisted inside - it's like the gordian knot - there is no way to unravel it, I need someone to come along and cut their way through. I am dwelling again. I need a hobby - one that involves a face to face interaction with others - but I can't think of anything worth doing, something that inspires me to get off of my fat arse. Instead I have my solitary hobbies - music, comics, the Internet, tattoos. Why do I want to decorate my body in places no-one will ever see? Bugger, didn't do this weeks picture for the diary - I knew there was something else I meant to do last night. Enough. Work now.
Monday, 23 August 1999
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