Playing It Loose! Polishing Mahogany?

Confessional Essay Update: Sunday 19 January 2025.

19 January 2025

‘Hope You Get Your Mic Droppers on ME’

I’ve been looking for YOU! Haven’t you heard?? xx

Let’s Start the Good Way, as I realise you have been looking forward to hearing me drop in your inbox again, so patient with me that I am going to ease you in comfortably. BUT FIRST:

HUGE SHOUT OUT: to all my new followers and subscribers! It’s amazing to have you here with me and hopefully you’ll still be here by the end of this first letter. I will try to keep this a quick read but I do have a tendency to get it all out at once.

Sometimes, like now, I have a lot of stuff bottled up, well simmering on a pan that’s boiling at the back of my skull.

I have been telling myself NOT to write this one… go easy on the new readers. I will try to talk a bit about ‘writing and the craft from my perspective and the perspective of others, probably ‘proper writers/legends’.

I might share a few quotes and pictures too. I will end up telling you about some stuff that even I would rather keep to myself, disassociate from, wish never happened.. I always do.

I always go too far or say too much (usually over on my bigger publication JUSTCLINGINGON - my OG newsletter!!) where I try to tone down the cursy words and stuff to attempt to soften the delivery of dangerously personal content in a diluted format. Here I just unzip my jeans and release the entire GUT.

I am opening this with some music. Sometimes known (to me) as the ENTRANCE SONG:

On Writing: Is My Craft A Cage That’s Killing Me?

Ideas come to me at weird times. This is a MESSY block of explanation so to accompany the read I’ll include LOLA YOUNG's trending track which is the current ‘can’t get out of head’ one.

Ideas at the worse times…

Like, whenever I’m in physical pain which has been self inflicted like being stuck on a toilet with the watery shits, stomach cramps and curled over the pot, nose-to-toes, with my gaping arsehole whistling loud like a old man screaming at the clouds. With each out pour I get another idea, and another idea and they’re like bubbles being blown by an excited child through a plastic blower ring thing.. the bubble full of single ideas floating up and up and before I can whisper an apologise to my body for eating so many litres of chocolate Ice Cream in one day, or at least wish for forgiveness for adding half a bottle of peanut-caramel dessert sauce; the real ideas for the open document I was working on in the other room, begin to pop and my brain goes blank.

The waves of pain and shame come on over me again. I close my eyes and turn off the bathroom light to help me focus on getting the sticky lumps of sewage out of my anal pipe after squirting all the ‘poison as I like to think of it’ so hard underneath me I think of a busted hydro-tank thing. You know you see those red things on cartoons like Tom Cat (showing my age now..FIRE HYDRANTS) we don’t have them in the UK but I imagine them on the streets in New York or somewhere near the states. I see my arse as one with me sat on top of it. BOOM ‘explosions and flashlights…. it was me on that road..’

well, I kinda duck in case I fly up and twat my head on the ceiling. Those are not ‘ideas’ those are moments of OCD or ADHD anxiety. They are frequently repeated whenever this kind of thing happens to me. Not only am I distracted with stubborn shit refusing to leave my body, while a sea or ocean of poisonous brown fluid wants to beam me scotty, my brain says lets take note of all the pain, blend in a few GOOD writing ideas that I could be working on (making me frustrated AND irritated) and then throw in a few complex familiar feelings and thoughts into the mix.

I love writing to me it’s REAL love. REAL LOVE.

Is walking around your living room in a t-shirt, socks and slippers, noticing the environment being more than OK. Feeling kind of perfect all of a sudden. Sounds (my music), Smells (my perfume battling the fried onions and garlic coming from the kitchen), the lights (pink and perfect ‘that’s what he said’ :P ) -the vibe is right even though everything else seems contrite. Even the look on the sleeping dog’s face, her shivering smile, the slight twitch of her whiskers. Perfection. So How Can My Heart BE Concentrated on a LOVE (not real in return) A love I have for someone, how can all this be love if this REAL here and now is a whisker away from becoming history. I am forever looking forward, or at the now.. will I ever look behind? I don’t want to. It will Kill me.

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