Now we come to the final instalment of this section which has got to do with my own loneliness, isolation and self-love throughout writing…
The funny thing is: I never felt alone or isolated throughout writing these poems and stories and screenplays and articles…
The real funny thing is: I always felt better when I was on my own!
The three women I talked about: of course I loved their company, but when they were gone: I always had my writing to fall back on and keep me company!
I personally know a lot of people who are so scared of being on their own and they have never truly been alone for too long in their lives…
I don’t necessarily hate people or other writers but… I can do without them most of the time.
I think when you are with someone or a part of a clique with writers it starts to get too political… and that’s the part I don’t like at all!
When I did all the hardcore training: I did most of it on my own and maybe that’s why I got so good at it.
And when I did the skating: there were some nights I would just go out on my own and practice as much as I could to get better!
And when it came to love (one of my main reasons to live) I would always clash with the other woman over the heads of something stupid and I would always look like a bastard and seen as the shit head!
But, for my writing: I could do most of it on my own and be on my own while I did it and that career path just really, really suited me to the ground.
I have met so many great living writers in my time writing all of this bullshit but… there is something so sublime reading a dead writers book and getting what you need from him, her or it!
My mum would always say: most of your writer friends are dead ha ha.
But, of course! All of the living writer friends I have befriended over the last several years doing this more prolifically: I fucking love them and I will and always have wanted the very best for them…
I just hate when it gets political and people only do it to win things… instead it should be about encouraging one another to get better and better instead of downgrading each other after every controversial lyric or mistake you may make!
I love the story Bill Hicks’s brother told about Bill… he said that Bill only felt like himself when he was on stage… and for me: this one room I am in now where I do all of my writing is the only place I feel normal, safe and free!
So, where do you feel most as yourself?
When you find this: don’t fucking let go!
We have to deal with a lot of bullshit outside of ‘our’ place, unfortunately!
So, when you do find it: build a fucking universe and don’t stop until you’re dead!
That is the only way they are getting me out of here ha ha!!!!
As long as I have my books, music, films, writing, coffee, cigarettes, food and wanking… I’ll be all fucking good!
I will be honest with you: there are times I do get very, very fucking lonely but, I remember what the great Bukowski said: you get so alone sometimes it just makes sense!
I couldn’t say it better myself!
Loneliness will make you into your ‘own’ greatest writer!
I mean, look at Emily Dickinson!
She never fucking left her room and she has been seen as one of the greatest woman poets of all time.
And if I’m to be frank with you: I fucking love Emily!
I am going to leave you with the one thing that has got me through my most difficult times in my life from one of the greatest philosophers in the word: the only thing I know is that I know nothing – Socrates!!!!
Take that with you everywhere you go and your life and your art will become your very own playground to do with it as you please!
The many loves of P
Love entered P’s life young. He was five years old when he was entranced by A. she was a-class. She eventually became his girlfriend in primary 5 until primary 7. He fucked it up by kissing another girl under his cousin’s bed sheets. About ten years later P met A at a rock concert and she told him that he was her first kiss and she wrote it in her diary.
In the summer of P’s 12th year he fell in teenage love with E. They dated in that summer with their thirteenth birthdays only a few days a part. She broke it off with him and he slit his forearm with a piece of dirty glass on a car park floor. She met him in an alleyway in their hometown a few days later, but she never took him back. Another autumn, winter, spring went by and then the summer appeared its head like a rose and they got back together again. They dated all summer and into the autumn then it fell apart again. She wanted him back a few weeks later and got one of her friends to ring him to see how he was. When E’s friend rang P he became butch and manly and told her he didn’t care for her anymore. Which was not entirely true, but what he didn’t know was, her friend had a crush on him and she was trying ‘not’ to get them back together again. It was finally over and he never saw her adolescent face again as the last autumn leaf fell.
By the time P was 19 he fell in love with a girl he was sure was his other half. Their whole relationship was like the nougat bars and hot chocolate they drank and ate every night and day. But when she decided she could not deal with his inability of not being able to see how great he really was, as a man and a god damn artist, she left him with a last kiss at her door and it tasted like rotten tomatoes and he wandered about aimlessly for one full year until he wrote that ‘I’m over you poem.’
P met N through a friend of hers he kissed while she was there as well that night. On that night she told him he was fucking hot. A few months later and with her friend out of the way P got in there and made a move and it was successful. They started off great and the sex was open and full of life with every moon that showed its smile and whatever bit of sunshine they got in Northern Ireland. But in the last six months he lived in fear. She would always say: you’ll never get rid of me. But in the last six months he wanted her gone and it was difficult because they lived together. The opportunity arose to have that talk about splitting up and they did. The next day she left in her first car and drove off and he knew she was crying when she turned that corner as he waved in relief.
These were the four major loves of P’s life but there was others like: the time he blew his load in J’s mouth and told her he would come back, but he never did, or the Christian girl who only believed in procreating when you’re having sex. P wasn’t so much a slut but he was a handsome man. From a child with snow white hair till twenty something with a leather jacket and sunglasses. You couldn’t fathom the amount of love and sex P had in his lifetime, but he plants them in major poetry magazines all over the world.
He will leave this world just exactly as he leaves this page… FULL!
Many other loves beside the same moon
We were young and pretty once
The same stuff they say the angels are made of
Over a decade later
We are more tired
We are heavier
From life’s beatings
We would be perfect for each other now
We will know many other loves
Beside the same moon
We kissed in front of many times