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how much does therapy costs these days? it’s been a long time. thomas bought me a couple of sessions as a birthday gift around eighteen years ago,and it was surely money well spent.the doctor who was very old and wise, got the gist of my ongoing fear of nearly everything,while pressing home three important words..calm…control..confidence. i can’t say i successfully employ those virtues all of the time,but i do strive to,cause i’m prone to blowing my top…if someone experiments with my buttons,i’ll give wiggle room for a while,but if the bollox persists, it’s only a matter of yards before i vomit up lime green bile.i don’t always regret it,but often i do,knowing full well there was a better way to have handled things….calm control confidence.
as a fourteen year old teenager in northern ireland, i had therapy for a whole year on wednesday afternoons after school….a while before the therapy,i was taken up to a hospital where they checked about my brain. it was a chilling yet painless experience..they laid me on a stretcher, greased and wired little attachments to my head,told me to relax,and when i closed my eyes i saw pretty little patterns,and that was that…my brain was fine i guess,but therapy was afoot.
the trouble started when i’d been caught missing school..i’d manage to hide from it for several months,until the school finally called my mother to ask if all was alright,but no one asked me…they just rattled up the drama into a worse state.
the reason i avoided school was because of the physical education classes. this completely private hell was born from the idea of having to take my clothes off in the smelly changing rooms for hockey or whatever else.the thought of stripping off naked in front of all those awful stinky boys, struck to the very soul of me …this nightmare escalated till it was all i thought about for roughly two miserable years….in the end they got the truth out of me. a permanent pass out of physical education classes was issued,and that was that…..funny how now you’d be hard pressed to find a keener exhibitionist…i’m forever ripping my kit off for anyone who’s standards are low enough to watch. maybe i’ve fetishised my own worst nightmare in order to cope with it.
do you ever watch that absolutely brilliant cartoon on the telly called american dad? me and thomas love it…you know during the theme tune where he jumps out of bed in his y-fronts and sings ‘good morning usa’?…well i jump out of my armchair,pull my trousers down,revealing myself in the exact same white y-fronts as american dad,while singing along with the telly..thomas loves this…it’s a million miles away from the kid who skived off school cause he was afraid of taking his clothes off in front of other cunts for hockey.
those first therapy sessions as a teenager were such a joke…the therapist would just stare at me for ages..i’d say nothing..but i wasn’t being passive aggressive,i just didn’t know how to articulate anything….she’d ask about the bowler hat and cape i often wore,but i didn’t really know why i was wearing these things…i just loved to…she’d see me flouncing around the tiny farming town in my cape and bowler while she was doing her errands…at fourteen this was my chosen attire,and i must have looked a proper fruitcake,yet somehow it kept me sane…
i’m still dressing up..but the plot thickens now i’ve discovered all these other nelly poofs who do it too.i’d really like to go for therapy again,just to find out what it all means,though these days i tend to lap up the funny side of all this…one time out here in the desert i went to a fetish party where everyone was dressed up as leathermen…skinheads and cops…the club had been greedy and packed too many into the venue, so the real police arrived to shut the party down…it was hilariously embarrassing for both sides to watch fake ravishing cops being turned over by reluctantly real cops.it really did piss on everyones fish n chips badly………hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
i’ll finish off now..a load of dentists,lawyers,and doctors are riding into the desert tonight posing as hells angels on harleys among real hells angels on harleys…happy weekend to any dear soul who reads this revery .. mary fairy liquid xxxxxxx
watching very old human beings parade around naked in the sunshine is like some sort of cruel primer regarding ones own fate…the thin ones like me,will end up with skin flapping and hanging off where a backside used to be,while fat backsides look much better…more firm and plump,but sometimes with a fat fucker,as my good friend jef observes, their todger looks like its been sucked up into the big enormous belly,so all you can see is the nut sack and a little button of a bell-end……hahahahahahahahahaha.
mary fairy liquid
one day in the middle of june or roundabouts i clocked a thing going on down the kings road in chelsea…there’s a chap called morgan howell who does these gorgeous big blow ups of old 45 rpm pop singles…he’s very exacting…gets all the crinkles into the paper sleeves,and they are pure eye candy…i see the bbc has now decorated it’s radio studios with these fun pieces of art……and so i figured i’d head to this gallery where they were giving a bit of a splash. when i got there i found much to my surprise there was more going on than these blow ups of pop singles…they had a hifi shop come along with a gramophone turntable that cost as much as a rolls royce,where they played a new mono pressing of the beatles ‘a hard days night’….now this was an odd thing in itself…imagine this….about three rows of mostly males sitting ever so still while someone made it clear that we were listening to one of the worlds great hifi systems…he then proceeds to play not just one track off ‘a hard days night’ but the whole buggery album..side a and side b,while all these mojo magazine type males sat bolt upright listening to music that was designed for young girls and boys to scream and dance mindlessly to fifty years ago. the whole experience was curiously funny and sexless..men with beards stroking their chins,and sure,the perfect mono pressing of this beatles record did sound fantastic…i don’t think i’ve ever heard mono in such high quality before,it was lovely on the ear…pure and simple…no exhausting modern production fireworks…just a well healed band playing live to tape.
so there we are in this airless basement on the kings road…three rows of beard strokers listening earnestly to a full album of music that was created for the young dumb and full of cum. to heighten the irony of the situation, is the sad absence of anything remotely rock and roll on the kings road today…not one record shop…..even the punk rockers have gone….it’s hard to imagine dandified hippies ever having set foot on that street now..the chelsea drug store that mick jagger sang of, is now a macdonalds. it’s just not the same place it once was…so i sat there feeling like i’d arrived at a party that ended decades ago…very very strange.
the next surprise was a high profile journalist/radio presenter interviewing the mother of all beatles biographers….this man hunts out accurate details of jean paul george and gringo’s lives like no other..his life seems to have been devoted to writing mostly about the beatles..it seems to have paid him well..his books are the chosen benchmark i’m told….and i’m enjoying this man telling us things like how coincidently all four beatles fathers escaped military service,and had their fathers not done so,those mop topped boys wouldn’t have been free to chase dreams and bugger off to places like hamburg in 1961…this is all fine,but then he turned me off… he explained how in the midst of writing these beatle books his relationship had soured with paul…he then went on to say he wishes paul would stop singing….right there and then i decided i didn’t like this man anymore…how bloody dare he?!…sure i understand that pauls voice isn’t the supple power house it once was,but firstly,if paul wants to sing,then why the fun shouldn’t he…no one’s forcing anyone to listen..but what shocked me,was as a consummate biographer,that he wasn’t curious or interested in how pauls singing would play out on his way to the grave….
i’ve been thinking about this a lot lately….the way singing voices change throughout a lifetime…i love how leonard cohen’s negotiated his singing style…i’m glad he kept on singing for us to hear that…then there’s robert plant,who’s been very smart..he doesn’t yell and scream like he used to…he preserves his voice by not selling out to led zeppelin re-union tours, and as a result makes sweeter music that suits him at his time in life…he’s looking after his voice..marianne faithful became a very interesting singer when her voice buckled..truly awful sometimes,but so full of character on her record ‘broken english’…and then there’s paul,who just seems to love performing live..it’s not great all the time,but fuck me,it’s still better than most. the thing is…when a voice looses it’s supple tone or range,it’s often replaced with something else..a pathos…a sadness…the mortality edging in…for me that can be so riveting to listen to.the sound of a human voice over his or hers own peak…the roll down the hill..the fading and weakening.. y’know there’s a great song on the latest paul mccartney album,where they recorded him without him really knowing..his voice sounds craggy,and all the more convincing for it…he is very old after all…but there he is…singing his truth,while some biographer would rather he’d stop. here’s a video..this biographer was vain and smart enough to ruminate on weather the song was written about him…and maybe it was…millions of hims and jim jims who have great authority on someone else’s life that is not their own. here’s the song. so this nostalgia based evening wasn’t quite over until some old music business executive told us how different things were back in the day…he must have been blind,cause most of us were almost as old as he was….but i was curious about him…never did catch his name…but he had that wonderful combination of a posh talking voice offset with a slight rock n roll lilt to his delivery…like say chris blackwell who ran island records..or marianne faithful… so the evening is now coming to a close. i walk outside where the old music executive is standing on the kerb of the kings road smokin a fag in the balmy london evening…i thought …that looks cool…he looked so relaxed and formidable…tall,and like he owns the very street we’re standing on…he began to wonder away from the gallery,and it looked like poetry to me..this old cunt..in a suit…nose in the air…smokin his fag..walking away and fully aware of what a glorious evening it is…not dark yet…..so wouldn’t you know it, i start following him…i was just curious…i wanted to know where he was going…i figured he probably lived in chelsea, and i wanted to see what type of house he lived in….hahahahahaha…so it was fun following this bleeder..he went down all the little backroads to the side of the kings road…little streets i’d never seen before that are lovely…tiny cute little houses in lovely pastel colours ,with opened up interiors….it’s funny how some very rich folk who live in places like chelsea ,but deck the situation out to look and feel like a village on their street….it takes millions to maintain that rustic look in heart of the city.
sometimes i think the internet’s like a wailing wall that goes all the way round the planet,while the whole population is on it’s knees crying for love or recognition…sometimes it’s more like a toilet wall screaming back low base filth,while sometimes it’s like a mirror,reflecting your own personality right back at you…oftentimes it’s like the best rock n roll jukebox ever.
for some unknown reason i found myself blogging every day this week at dawn. it’s ever so quiet here in the morning, so i’d just start typing the first thing that came into my head over a morning mug of earl grey tea. i know i’m not a great blogger…my grammar and punctuation are all over the place,but who cares…the more you do these things,the better you get.
the lovely news is no one cares…unlike childhood days of school homework,no one is laying any punishment or pressure on you to write a thing,moreover,no one may ever read it…maybe someone will,and that’s always nice,but even if they don’t,it’s just a neat idea rolling out the first thing that comes into your mind…it’s surely good exercise for the brain…i highly recommend it,if you’re not doing so already. i enjoy reading other people who do this..you can learn from them…they maybe have a clarity in the way they put things over…it’s like learning without having to go back to school…and then there’s the really bad ones…you can learn from them too..the biggest lesson of all though is your own internet reflection smiling and laughing right back at you … you might read something you’ve written a couple of years ago and wonder what the hell you were thinking..that can be most disarming,but that’s growth for you,enabled and encouraged by this big wailing wall called the internet.
i’m on my second mug of earl grey tea now,and can feel that cannabis infused breakfast muffin kicking in…this is where it could all go belly up,but why the hell not…i’m on holiday.. y’know another nice thing for the happy blogger is it’s bit like creating a magazine..there’s huge fun in taking some photographs,selecting some music to then inlay neatly round the text…it’s a gas…i also love how unlike the printed page,you can go back after publishing to correct spelling or crap sentences.here’s my view as i sit here typing. another curious feeling when you post things up on the world wide washing machine is people you’ve rubbed shoulders with who think they know you…old school acquaintances…family even…who’ll maybe then google you,and then stumble on to your diary.y’know …people who think they know you. i used to worry about that…but then i thought fuck it…be yourself.. own your own truth…don’t apologise.
but here’s a thing.. sometimes i’ll talk on the phone to folk i’ve known all my life…i can’t be sure,but i get a strong feeling in my gut that they read this shit of mine simply because they never mention it,but they do hint at it…..a lot of my oldest and dearest lead a very different life from me….they’re mainly heterosexual..raising kids and living in the provinces..so they get an insight into my faggy ways…but i’ve learned to love my faggy ways,where once upon a time i really wrestled with it all….i now feel happy with the honest base on which my life resides…writing it all down helped me arrive at the resolve.
this week i’ve been posting for five days in a row yet never meant to..i just felt like it…a diary is like an unconditional relationship with yourself…you can visit and disappear anytime you please…no one will care but yourself…that’s a great and humbling headspace…to know that you’re not important..that this world is so very huge..we are all mere specs of dust here…the internet drove that home to me like no other medium in my lifetime…it’s very humbling……hahahahahahahahaha loads and loads….happy weekend…mary wilderness.
yesterday i visited an english couple who own and run a boutique hotel here. it’s real nice..a bit niche..if you know what i mean. they do good business hosting fun loving kinky people who come here to let off a bit of steam. one of my favourite things about this place is they have big wooden stocks right by the pool. even though it’s mostly a homo situation, hetero players sometimes take over the hotel for the occasional organised event that might be happening in the town, so the men who run this fine hotel,have great stories of both men and woman locking their sweethearts into these big wooden stocks to help keep a subordinate in his or her place…..or not. apparently the lesbians are the most fierce.
the dolls who run this hotel are semi retired.one of them was an accountant in hollywood,while the other made wigs for the stars.he made michael jacksons wigs ever since he was partially balded by that accident in a pepsi advert where his hair caught fire from the special effects.. he visited him only months before he died.he was to make several hair pieces for the world tour that michael never lived to do…i enjoy visiting those men…they make for a cool scene…it can be very sexy…if i’m lucky,they’ll sometimes have other friendly folk come by at the same time,and it’s just nice yapping away to these good people for an afternoon.
when i left them,i dandered back to my apartment,and as the cannabis lemonade gently kicked in, a man and woman swept into view….they were from newcastle in england.. fresh off an eleven hour flight.. in the heat of their golden moment,they took their jeans off right there by the poolside, and immediately lowered themselves into the warm glimmering liquid…the sustained unbridled groans they made as they decompressed in the blue pool made me laugh out loud..then they laughed in return.
who needs artists? .. i think it was bruce springsteen who once said it’s the taxi drivers and the folk working long shifts in a hot kitchens who are the real heroes of this world…and he’s right…without food transport or hospitals, the very fabric of our days fall apart…so y’know it’s easy to perceive of artists as a bunch of superfluous escapists…and i have to be honest,i for one definitely saw music as a form of escape from the hum drum of life,but as a youngster,i had no idea what i was biting off to chew.
it all starts off tickety boo ..pure innocent fun,but then once the songwriting bug kicked in,i became emotionally invested in the work…and then the work became a mirror of my own vanity and a million other conceits…it also became a mirror of how successful or unsuccessful i was becoming …it all gets far too personal…i’ve become precious about it all. after a bunch of years my whole identity got wrapped up in my worth as an artist. there were people telling me i was worth nothing,while others were putting their money where their mouth was, while saying i’m worth a lot….and then they’d change their minds, and i’d be worth nothing again… then some other mister moneybags would come along saying i’m worth something…it’s very strange,and by the time i hit my middle ages,and not commercially successful,no one cared anymore,because the world is quite rightly orientated towards the younger ones. try dealing with that one cuntyhooks.
where do artists go? if they’re artists at all,they’ll hope to never stop..they’ll carry it right up to the grave…sure enough songwriters or singers are only a tiny part of the picture…there’s the painters ,the actors,and my favourite of all,the comedians. for me comedy is one art form the world just doesn’t take seriously enough. it’s effect is so profound…the talent of driving angry, lonely,or suffering folk towards gut busting laughter blows my mind every time .
for a while in my late teens i had a life in working class cabaret clubs in the north and midlands as a disc jockey… the comedians were very different from any other type of entertainer.. singers were mere professionals by comparison..i remember jim davidson in his early twenties high as a kite on speed,unable to comedown after his performance,so he continued to entertain bar staff after closing time until he was surgically removed from the club and returned to his hotel for sleep…god only knows the comedown he felt the next day,while having to pump himself right back up to do it all over again…then there was tommy cooper…he was completely different…he would just arrive..make a beeline for his dressing room…speak to no one,and leave as soon as he was done….exhausted….the work had hollowed and dried him out like a husk.
then there’s the actors…there was an interesting thing about peter sellers…he’d invested himself so strongly in his different characters,that he’d lost total sight of his own core personality..he’d become a blank page in the face of creating all these other funny creations…now that’s what i call sacrifice.
joan rivers…working till the very end…she only went into hospital to get her throat or whatever scraped so she could continue to perform…she died in the name of her work.
leonard cohen who is now eighty years old is an interesting story. he loves the songwriting,but performing was scary to him,so he’d drink bottles of red wine while on stage to calm himself down,and by doing so unwittingly became an alcoholic…so he goes up a mountain and becomes a buddhist in order to find his feet again…when he comes back down from the mountain,he finds his manager has flagrantly stolen his millions and disappeared. leonard then,in order to survive,reluctantly has to take to the road and perform live again,only this time without the red wine to get him through…i’m pretty sure leonard laughs now,and wonders if life is the sick joke that you’re not allowed to get sick of.
true artists offer themselves up like skinned rabbits on a plate..they’ll put it before everything,even when it doesn’t pay…. they’ll embrace dangerous things if they think it might throw up some good work..often they’re not very nice.. y’know…nice… like say the brilliant van morrison isn’t.. the work makes them strange…it gets messy.
i wanted to write a song with a strong tone of sympathy in it for these sort of human beings…i hope you like it..i spend weeks and months honing down a melody and lyric to these trinkets…i can happily waste a complete week searching for a single missing line in a verse or chorus.it is an absolute joy to be doing it.