“It was all a dream!”

Said Biggie.

But it wasn’t!

Which is odd.

So you stay up till 5 having hardcore actual human communication with newfangled technology. Then you get up at ten as a result of more human communication via slightly less newfangled technology, after lounging around in bed half asleep listening to Radio 3 for an hour or so. And you have a weak shower (but a shower nonetheless), the result of old technology, and coffee, with your laptop outside in the sun and the clouds, where you listen to a bunch of beats sent to you via electricity and the air, or something, from Scotland, whilst drawing with a plastic pen on a plastic board directly into said laptop, and doing more of the newfangled communicating.

You go, shit, future. But it is now. And you know that one day they’ll take this all away. You know what the bad people are up to. You know social engineering exists, and that’s why school was as it was, and that’s why the funny boy got stomped and the pretty girl got sick. You know that nothing lasts forever, even cold November rain. But you don’t care at all.

Sometimes I don’t mind that they’re going to turn this earth into wet rock, because I figure, whatever, we will survive, because we do. But that isn’t fair on the little green bugs that won’t exist. But then maybe we won’t either.

But we had a go.

Life finds a way.

— Thursday, August 4th, 2005

I had one of those amazing days where I rose early and much was achieved, and most of that went right, yesterday. Finished a song. Drew pictures. Listened to music (Hiz’s mixtape is fucking ace) Sorted emails (I still have 300 odd to deal with, but it is a happier figure than that I was facing). Communicated with members of my family (my old Man didn’t like my version of Lucretia… by the way. I don’t think Luke or my little brother did, but I DO!). And spent a delightful evening down Rotter’s Golfclub in Keith Tenniswood’s underground bunker, checking out his three (!) remixes of my song, Liverpool and some of his new stuff. And inventing a new mixtape genre. It is like screwed and chopped in that involves fucking with records, but we are calling it Ketamine (despite Keith’s hatred of the stuff), as what it does is it makes records sound like Ketamine. Via ramming things throguh chorus filters and shit. It is amazing.

I didn’t rise so early today, unhappily, but I do have Keith’s remixes, and Matt’s ideas for the live action Clones video are taking excellent shape.

Oh piss! My cofee has gone cold. Never mind. One of my American readers peoples mailed to tell me he was driving in a car with his Mammy and our version of Dreams came on and they nearly crashed. No crashing is good, and so is yankee airplay of British emcees. BIG UP!

— Wednesday, August 3rd, 2005

I said this to Mary, because it is true, and I forgot – if ever one is depressed, and is unhappy with said depression (some people love it you know), make a tune. A complete thing, with a start and an end. It can be someone else’s tune, and you can make your own version. And you will feel like a God. As I did, earlier, when this thing I have done started to come together. There is nothing on earth like it. Nothing I know, anyway. That I can do this now, this weird execution, makes it all OK – nay, beautiful. And I know it is beautiful – but sometimes it takes bowel rupturing kick drums to make fools such as I take note.

So make a song. Or a book, or a play, or nice rock, or a spoon, or a valley. Make love. Whatever you like. But take time out to make something with that that you are.

I am going to bed now, in order that I might wake up early and finish my thing. So that will be my wittering for the day. Look at this – a new month. A clean slate. No mile of ugly text, no horror. Just a blank, some might say virtual, I would argue real, canvas. Let us hope it fills with something Sweeter, and of more use, than Shit.

— Tuesday, August 2nd, 2005