I'm currantly living in a house in Prescot. One which is inhabited by the insane and broke. The gas, electricity and interent run out quite quickly and the food is mostly processed. It is a low point in my life where I can't afford to eat, wash, travel. But can afford to type and sleep.
The house mainly smells of vinegar, lady of the house has an absession with it. I saw her drink it with diet pepsi this morning and the bathroom stinks of it.
There are layers of papers (bills, menus, orders, tasks) lining the surfaces and a sunday sport newspaper on the table. I felt sick when flicking through it. It was the abundance of tits, it was the human shame on every page.
It is good to take the piss out of your fellow man, but to roll and reveal in the disturbed characters on our earth is a little too much for me. I'll stay with the light mocking.
This house, for all the people living it in, is not noisey. I rarely hear music played unless I'm playing it. This is another problem with the house. I breathe music. I'm not used to depressed silence and car engines.
This is not my home. I aven't had one for two months now.
My old prose lecturer would say that it is impossible to get silence. There is always something moving, breathing. In that case this house isn't silent as much as flat. Flat hope. Flat dreams. Flat problems which the head lady takes out on me in a subtle and brutal fashion.
To releave myself of some of this flat pressure I've started a blog, to exercise the writing, get it out on the wide web for people to read and maybe discuss. Who knows. Most of the blogs I imagine will be writing ideas or debating some small life crisis. But it'll be to the best of my abilities and hopefully not too self absessed.