I bought Flaubert’s Madame Bovary. For a moment there I couldn’t remember why.

But the film version from 1949 was shown on TCM and this has perked up my in interest. Always better to act on it now. The theme of Bovary’s craving for experience, for excitement and affairs reminded me of Ruth. I sit here writing like an old man reminiscing and at not far off 50, I suppose that’s how it would seem to many. Writing is interesting. On the level of form, one paragraph or page of writing looks much like another. The level of experience, the writers’ state of mind, and level of emotionality can’t be immediately discerned, except through reading it. Every author uses much the same technology, whatever he or she can afford or is comfortable with. The past and future need have no bearing on what he chooses to write. He need only state whatever he wants and his view of the world. And I’ve just discovered this keyboard is much faster and smoother than the computer I was using. I was going to stick to the earlier model for the sake of continuity; whatever I mean by that exactly. I set this computer up to get onto the Internet, but it isn’t happening. I’m waiting to catch my downstairs neighbour do he can sort it out for me, if he can. Anyway, I’ve given up on the notion of what I’ve written so far as being fit for editing into a novel of any kind. Or if any part of it is, then there’s going to have to be some drastic editing. I’ve said this numerous times in the text itself and this is why I come to keep considering the possibility of using what I’ve written so far. That I would be reluctant to scrap what I’ve done so far is understandable. But that’s to miss the point of why I’m doing it and have come this far. To tell a no frills story of where I’m at and what’s been going down over the years, as I see it. It may stem from an immature impulse, the wish to tell tales. That’s up to me to find out. This is the purpose of it I would say. I just have. I think there’s an imbalance in how the world condemns others, for their supposed sins, but refuses to take into account it’s own. In fact, seeking out sin in others is its way of brushing far heinous behaviour under the carpet, all the better to carry it on, in the guise of altruistic motives. This is the sort of thing that’s worth saying and probably needs saying, but as most people seem to fall into the “Gaslighting”/crazymaking mindset, you can feel yourself to be very much in the minority on a planet invented by Philip K Dick, or straight out of a Hollywood or pulp horror story. So an interesting and directly relevant and pressing question is how the fuck has such a state of affairs come about, and why are people like this – maybe the same question but in a different way, but also, now that it is, and may well have always been like this, what are we going to do about it, if anything, and do we really need to? And who is this “we” anyway, if I see myself as working in so much isolation and often feel it? But isn’t that a typical consequence due to interpreting existence in the usual linear way, through the brain and its perceptions that positively encourages that sense of isolation, of being alone, struggling in the dark? I’d also like to try making stuff up, by which I mean of course, writing fiction. What I’ve been writing is autobiography of sorts, and thoroughly disorganised at that. My

dreams make clear there is no problem with my faculty of imagination. I might be another PKD, but with my own particular slant or signature. It would be interesting to make things up for a change. It’s also true that the autobiographical material I can use is as interesting and far-out as any SF story. A sentence that stops me in my tracks. Am I supposed to discard it before I use it? Why do I feel the need to include as many aspects of my life as possible, much of which is not directly related to many of my numinous experiences and even perceptions? It may be my way of making sense of it all of course. But does it follow I need to include it all? If I want to write about it, then I can do it here, see what I think of it, though I’ve had 1000’s of pages of that, the bulk of it in longhand. At the moment, I’m over 500 pages. I’ll no doubt transfer to here what I’ve done on the other computer. Above all, or almost, I’m just glad I’ve written. What I really want to do is get down the essence of me before I die – not that I’m in any hurry to – die that is, but I’d prefer it to be sooner rather than later; getting it down that is, not dying. And it’s legible for a change. And it has the immediacy of now. I’m right here, as if still in the dream, like a piece of music or a painting. And I do feel like getting back to a bit of painting, because it’s been a while. I undoubtedly enjoy it, when I’m not trying to interpret it intellectually. Let’s rephrase that. When I’m not over intellectualising and just enjoy it, I don’t feel I’m wasting time that would be far more productively spent in writing. Another thing; I really would like to focus on making my way to C., not wasting my energies on feeling I have to reconcile myself to the secular world if you like. Not that C is any escape, but the ego keeps tricking one into seeing the immediate environment and situation as real, the closer one comes to focusing on the apparent sources of guilt in order to dismantle them. It uses the apparent specificity of time and place to reinforce itself in the mind, where after all, is where the source of it is and nowhere else. This of course, indicates there is no need for any real escape if the source of guilt isn’t real. On the other hand, staying put can be a bit of a bit of a provincial bore, and anxiety inducing for that reason. Do I really want to churn out more Edinburgh scenes for the sake of blending in and “making it” here, and being “accepted?” In a narcissistic culture and city it would only be thrown back in my face anyway. One ids dealing with many people who have no wish to see you successful in their town on their terms. And their terms are the means to make sure that doesn’t come about, or die trying. So fuck them. And isn’t this what’s been happening anyway, in a sneaky and unacknowledged fashion. Whether for reasons they see as legitimate and deserved or because on some instinctual (ego) level, they recognise that to help you is to hasten their own demise. This operates on the most mundane of levels of course; artistic jealousy over my abilities. But I’m focusing on the aspects of specialness; the unconscious hatred that motivates such behaviour. I see it there in the personal level all the time as with having spent years being hoodwinked emotionally, by the narcissists, who of course, once you cease being a source of – I’ve forgotten what Sam Vankin described it as…Narcissistic supply, they drop you like a stone. Whatever time and effort on any level you may have invested in them is now irrelevant when you refuse to play the game. They don’t want to know any more. And this is a person you couldn’t seem to get rid of, and who had no pride, no awareness or concern over their pathetic dependency and clinging. They – she –

seemed to really believe it was love and professed to buy it as long as you bought it, all the simpler to confuse you with. The commonality with the psychopath is they seem to genuinely believe their own lies up and until the point when they stop getting what they want, then the apparent anguish – that you were leaving them, the rage, the jealousy, whatever the pathology of the situation contributed to bringing about, is turned off like a tap. The rage is still there, and you haven’t got rid of them at all of course, as all they’re doing is distancing themselves from you now, all the easier to see you as the stranger you always were to them, and the all pretext they need to step up their harassment in a colder, nastier and more methodical manner. All an expression of the hatred that underlay everything, and permeated the involvement from the outset. The goal was always destruction and the ultimate expression of the need to triumph over the insignificant others that stray or are enticed into their deadly orbit. Here’s The Outer Limits and Valerie 23 – the perfect homicidally inclined companion. Aren’t we all. The actress who plays her, Sofia Shinas, has a definite resemblance to Cameron Diaz, especially when she smiles, she of…There’s Something About Mary. I was only ever involved with one Valerie, and attractive she was to be sure, with nice big tits and the usual unconscious attraction to death; just another narcissistic clone for all her intelligence, hopelessly enmeshed in her own passive aggression. Married, she talked about getting a small flat in town where I could visit her. Of course as soon as I pulled her up on her repeated and tedious BS, the relationship, such as it was, was over. And yet, she genuinely believed she cared for me, offering me her journals to peruse, her ego no doubt feeling wounded by the encounter. This seems to be my subject; this is what I enjoy writing about. I find it as compelling as it is interesting. And my ignorance on the subject as maddening and infuriating as ever. But it’s PKD ands Blade Runner all over again. Valerie 23 and the experience of involvement with the emotional zombies. Oh it’s clear they feel emotion and intensely so; but is it real? It brings into question the validity and apparent reality of all intense emotion and of course, what we think it means to be alive. These people are as illusory, as subjective as their emotions. Through them we can learn to question the reality and validity of our own seemingly real negative emotions. If they stem from an unconscious association with death and death is an illusion, then these emotions are equally illusory. Clearly I’m writing with the benefit of more than passing hindsight here. At least I’m writing. I spent most of my life before I was 30 only writing spasmodically. It was when I was separated from the narcissist, however short the period, I would immediately write, or just about. I was writing before, at the age of 19, and I was writing after, as soon as I got the chance. Living with a narcissist was existing, not real living. You put your internal sense of self on hold, playing this part that suited their purposes. If the creative frustration came to be a cause or contributory factor to screwing up in any way then all the better to tighten those bonds of guilt they would wrap you in, whether now or later. They could bide their time in the name of love to be reinterpreted as it suited their insanely unconscious purpose. Fucking writing. This is the only thing worth writing about; of not allowing oneself to be hoodwinked and taken in and emotionally blackmailed by the fanatics of whatever persuasion.

A band on MTV2, Cat The Dog – pretty good. Reminded me of Nirvana. What would I do if I went for what I wanted with no regrets? Aside from it sounding like the MO of a serial-killer, this includes reading and writing and much as I ever fancied doing music and fucking lots of women. I’m not sure where the money has gone, though a good deal went on food, and more so on books, as always. The reason I never got any music done as I seem to prefer to spend my time with deluded fools like Richard Dawkins for example. I’ve already spent a good deal of my life on CW, who has his limitations, his rejection of the Course, being a metaphor on a wider scale for the same dynamic on a more personal and provincial level, though it helps to know one needn’t take it personally. But the metaphor is accurate, no question. What is wrong with this city is that it’s essentially trivial, provincial. You need to be of that same mindset or it won’t let you in. They have their means by which they know their own and by which they recognise who they believe is a threat to them, however imaginary. They are of course, insane and paranoid, using the very same accusation against whomever isn’t of the same mindset and who might expose the dynamic. Incredible and frightening, really. And why operating on that level is no life at all, and why writing is the answer for me. Through it I can expose this weird and pathological mindset and make some money in the process, as well as carving out a vocation for myself.