#mishka shubaly

[kydtyk]

I haven't bought a t-shirt in forever but I had to splurge while buying work clothes on-line.

[hushtimeladyholes]

"I gotta get outta bed

Get over it

Because I'm still alive or what passes for it"

- Mishka Shubaly

[altared--state]

Mishka Shubaly - Your Plus One At My Funeral I know you'll be looking so beautiful, in a long black dress, at my funeral But who's gonna be your plus one, have you hanging on his arm, when I'm lying there so cold Who's gonna walk you home when I'm rottin' down below Who's gonna walk you home when I'm rottin' down below

[kinodiario]

March 2017 - TOP Music

↑ Artists

↓ Albums

Last.fm Profile

[sincretense]

Hoy he roto las reglas. Mis reglas. O al menos, aquellas que de algún lado han caído sobre mi, y yo honroso las he respetado y seguido a raja tabla.

Por lo que hoy, al romperlas, he salido del lugar con algo roto. No es el alma, o algún cosa sentimental. Me ha tocado la situación fibras en lo más profundo, que me siento descorazonado. Perfecta palabra. Me he sacado de encima tremenda tiranía de la ley, para transgredir, y salir con algo perdido dentro mío.

Cantan los coros ambivalentes, que he sido Prometeo fundando un nuevo ser, y también que la ira de los dioses caerá sobre mi por ser un traidor. Y ahora, más que nunca, puedo entender quién se oculta detrás del espejo entrecerrando los ojos, mirándome con decepción...

Luego de rota la regla, uno descubre por que ella estaba.

Realmente no me atrae ni me provoca nada lo ocurrido. Mi cerebro nublado ha visto espejismos de algo que realmente no se hallaba ahí. Y buscando, uno se entera porque nunca fue por esos lados.

Uno no puede sentirse feliz en presencia de humanos tan llenos de vacío.

Simplemente el cuerpo, el alma, se retrae y se niega a todo. Perdón a cualquiera que me pida explicaciones, pero no es mi culpa que el mundo ya no me sea útil.

Problemático yo no, es el mundo el que me ha quedado pequeño. Es la gente la que ya no me hace sonreír, ya no me genera emoción ni amor. Las lindas caras se esconden, y cuerpos macabros toman lugar. Realmente no puedo amar ni sentir si no conecto con algo en lo interno. Venido a mal desde nacimiento o por una crianza de mierda. Pero simplemente cada mañana, cada rostro, cada sonrisa o frase protocolar me genera repudio, y sepultan mis ganas de ir hacia afuera, por las venas abiertas de la humeante ciudad.

He tomado llaves y cerrado la puerta, para morir dentro de un departamento que pienso infestar de música y alcohol. Porque ya no hay nada afuera, nada que pueda amar, nada que me atraiga, nada que me genere felicidad. Solo un pequeño placebo del momento.

He testeado, por fin, distintas formas de enfrentar el vacío. Y he logrado entender porque siempre he actuado así. Definitivamente dormir borracho rodeado de muertas botellas es mi destino, y lo que yo deseo encontrar. No deseo a nadie, no me importa que me deseen. Porque el deseo ha quedado en el umbral del pasillo, y a esta altura ya nada vale. Ya los cuerpos no valen. Menos, cuando lo que se busca es unión.

Y que horror, recurrir a las camas fáciles para sentir, cuando en realidad no se siente nada y se vuelve a casa más vacío.

Ayer fue por accidente. Hoy realmente lo entiendo.

Estoy maldito. Tal vez desde el embrión. Tal vez desde la tierna infancia, cuando mamá me dijo por vez primera mi nombre, y me puso mi primer adjetivo. Condenado por los genes. Condenado por la derrota. Condenado por la sangre pútrida, por la gente desalmada, por el tiempo que me queda pequeño y me obliga a usar otras ropas. Condenado por todas las coordenadas humanas descriptas. Condenado por el ruido, por la pérdida, por el amor roto, por rostros que sonríen pero me dan miedo. Por las lágrimas que me recorren, del iris al pecho. Porque me difumino con los días, y mi voluntad se hace más débil.

Quiero enterrarme a mi y a mi pena en lo más eterno y profundo de la tierra. Se ha decidido mi destino antes de ser. Mi nombre primero ha sido una idea entre las cienes de mi madre, y soy esa pena suya impresa en carne. Soy carne corrupta y perdida, sin nombres ni destinatario. Cansado de que nada me genere placer. Cansado de que el rostro del espejo este simple y llanamente vacío.

He recurrido a los métodos. A los bajos. He decidido descender, pensando que mis ideales me han fallado. Y he emergido entendiendo de que los ideales le quedan grande a un mundo con un rostro verde de papel. Donde nada vale la pena, pero si un precio en cifras redondas.

Yo no tengo ceros que respalden ninguna cifra mía, por ningun lado. Debo tatuarme en los ojos que este mundo no es más que vanalidad hecha cemento y piedra y carne sucia y rostros vacíos...

Aun así, amo mi tierra y mi hogar. Amo este planeta asqueroso que merece ser abrazado. No aquello que lo ha corrompido. Amo esta tierra negra metiéndose por mis uñas, por mis ojos, por los espacios entre mis dientes...

Hace rato que el sentido me abandonó. Y que solo estoy dando tumbos mientra canto canciones que nadie escucha por sordos y perdidos. Yo sé que me extravié, pero logré sacarme la careta para verlo. En cambio el mundo que gira es algo oscuro, una máquina atroz, algo que no puede amar, algo que no me genera nada porque ni siquiera me mira. Pero cuando lo hace, realmente es una máscaras de payaso simulándo felicidad, detrás arde el infierno.

En efecto, mundo querido, este es el infierno ardiente y todos andan quemados de los pies andando en brazas, con máscaras sientiendo la gloria. Mientras yo veo el fuego, y la condena, y las caras ajadas, y los vientos gélidos, y las noches eternas, los días agotados, las lágrimas vueltas excusas...

Me cae la horrible sensación, que de ahora en más algo debera acompañarme. Líquidos depresores, humos de niebla, que congelen mis angustias enteras existenciales, y me permitan salir a la calle hasta mi destino predefinido, sin sentir que el próximo paso debería ser rumbo al río o a mi cama.

Enterrarse, como yo te enterré. Como yo te perdí, mientras me dejé la mano al aire y me perdía también a mi. Perdido todo, condenado por siempre.

Como buen Prometeo, de traer el fuego he pasado a ser condenado a buscar, a vagar sin hombro cercano. Ojalá mis ideas sean solo penas del momento. Ojalá lo que digo sea solo una pesadilla pasajera. Porque sino estoy condenado a la vida del Prometeo caído y sin calor.

La pena del momento no tiene porque ser la pena perpetua. No tengo porque estar sufriendo a cada paso, aunque un texto pueda darlo a entender. Ni siquiera debería justificar algo que debería entenderse como normal.

En un mundo así, cualquiera con medio dedo de frente sentiría al menos una vez en su vida los ánimos de desaparecer. Por lo pútrido del allá afuera.

Cualquiera que sepa, que sienta, que vea, podrá entender lo que se siente. Podrá entender que mañana uno se levanta radiante o mejor, que no se llora la semana entera. Pero el mundo sigue ahí, corrupto, y la angustia dando vueltas dentro de uno. Nada cambió, solo la tormenta amainó un poco. El cielo escampó.

Lo que no quitá que mañana los vientos se crucen, y vuelva a llover. Y vuelvan a entrar las ganas de enterrarse, y de enterrarte, y de enterrar todo hasta que nada quede y el fin se perpetúe...

The only one drinking tonight - Mishka Shubaly

[alwaysjohndoe]

"Break, heart, break fail, liver, fail but if you can hear me complainin' I'm neither dead or in jail I can't remember where I parked my car and I'm afraid of what the futere holds but I don't wanna die in Greenpoint"

[krispyweiss]

Book Review: “Sing Backwards and Weep: A Memoir” by Mark Lanegan

Mark Lanegan’s harrowing new memoir, “Sing Backward and Weep” begins, like so many books, with a flashback.

In it, Lanegan has just copped heroin and coke and gets popped by Seattle’s finest. Turns out they were looking for an auto-theft suspect and Lanegan, who has no ID but gives his real name, is mercifully and miraculously sent on his way.

“Didn’t you used to be a singer?” the cop says.

Lanegan is at one of his many low points here. But this opening tale, like others in his book - a weird party for four with a guy who may or may not have been Anthony Kiedis’ father, for instance - is never revisited and doesn’t seem to have a point.

But “Sing Backward and Weep,” which follows Lanegan from childhood in Ellensburg, Wash., to his ringside seat to the burgeoning Seattle scene as singer for Screaming Trees to the deaths of friends both famous - Kurt Cobain, Kristen Pfaff - and not - a fellow crackhead named Shadow, a victim of a serial killer - to his own successful rehab with big assists from Courtney Love and Duff McKagen, certainly does. That is, it’s never too late to get your shit together, even if you’ve thrown away everything multiple times in pursuit of alcohol, crack and smack.

Writing the book also inspired a new, companion LP, Straight Songs of Sorrow.

Lanegan’s nonstop tales of blackout drunkenness, stupor-inducing heroin usage, days-on-end crack binges, sex and masturbation - why do musicians always write about jacking off? - would quickly grow tiresome some of not for his obvious self-awareness and strong writing with the help of editor Mishka Shubaly. The long-sober Lanegan isn’t spouting 12-step platitudes; he’s writing as a man who knew at the depth of his lows - and knows now - every nook and cranny of his inner darkness and weakness. This is the insight that makes “Sing Backwards” such an engrossing - and validating - read at a generous 352 pages.

Toward the end of the book, when scoring heroin is all that matters in a never-ending quest to stave off dopesickness, Lanegan has an epiphany as he savagely pummels a would-be dealer in Amsterdam who tries a late-night ripoff.

“As I persisted in the unrelenting beating, I became aware of a dull, cemetery-dead emptiness inside,” he writes.

“I had stopped feeling anything at all. No rage, sadness, fear, nothing. I had finally crossed the line and ceased to give a damn about life, death or any other meaningless thing in between.”

Although he’s hardest on himself, Lanegan is also pretty nasty to the Trees’ Conner brothers - guitarist Lee and bassist Van - to the point of making the reader think enough already. But his rap on Liam Gallagher is hilarious; his friendships with Cobain and Layne Staley - whose 2002 death closes the book - are heartwarming; and his salvation is hopeful.

Ending as it does so long ago, “Sing Backwards and Weep” all but ignores Lanegan’s solo career, save for his first two solo LPs - the Winding Sheet and Whiskey for the Holy Ghost - and doesn’t explore his path to prolonged sobriety and productivity.

This is a huge disappointment for fans of his post-Trees work. But what’s there is entertaining, engaging and eye-opening.

And despite its bleak subject matter, “Sing Backwards and Weep” is ultimately, and unbelievably, a glimmer of hope in a world ravaged by opiates.

Grade card: “Sing Backwards and Weep: A Memoir” by Mark Lanegan - B+

5/21/20

[sophsweet]

Here’s an update on press releases in local newspapers for Cornwall based artists, comedians and events.

Here are a few of the latest ones:

Old School Bar and Kitchen – Falmouth Packet 3 March 2017

Comedy Jam at Toast – Falmouth Packet 16 October 2016

Comedy Jam at Toast – Falmouth Packet 27 February 2017

Mishka Shubaly at Toast – Falmouth Packet 7 November 2016

    Recent press releases from Sweet Sound PR Here's an update on press releases in local newspapers for Cornwall based artists, comedians and events.

[someonetotaketheedgeoff-blog]

10.07.2017 – Journal; The Wave.

The internet’s chaos reflects our mind’s chaos. I think it’s why it’s so hard to focus when using the internet. I feel my ability to procrastinate goes well goes beyond my awareness. I don’t even know what I’m procrastinating right now. Stand-up? Writing stand-up? I’m not procrastinating exercise – I’ve been doing that but am I using it to procrastinate doing other stuff and it’s giving me the illusion of productivity? I wish I could write material like Stanhope, Hicks, Bruce, Sun, C.K., Lee, Burr, Power, etc. But it’s when you try that nothing comes out. You just suck. If you try to be overly clever like Stewart Lee you sound retarded and if you try to be dark like Stanhope you sound fake. Seems forced. I’m too much in my own head right now. I’m pissing around in my mind. I’m avoiding fear. To be progressing is to be terrified and to be terrified is to be uncomfortable and right now I’m comfortable as fuck. Fear is the thing to look for. I know exactly where it is. But I’m not facing it because I’m a coward.

I had to snap out of it just then. I was sitting, scrolling mindlessly through my newsfeed listening to a WTF podcast episode and I wasn’t even in my own brain. I was fucked. I mean I was listening. But not really. I created this limbo state where I don’t have to do anything or engage in anything fully. Like families that watch TV while they eat. 2 things happening at once, both senses being stimulated – it removes you from reality.

Still a tiny part of me that misses smoking when drinking (I’ve quit smoking). When drunk you smoke constantly. The 2 combined creates some freedom from reality. Or maybe a distraction from reality. Add music and enjoyable conversation and you’ve got yourself some sweet relief. It’s probably a load of shit and I’m nostalgic.

Being young, you don’t do enough because you think you’ll live to 80 – you think you’ve got time. You have 60 good years on average. Years 70 – 80+ seem like shit if your body’s a mess. My life’s already a third done. Depressing. What the fuck’s is this existence? I’m surprised people aren’t all in psychiatric wards. How are we all not lying in beds by the millions just going - ‘What the fuck dude?!’

I’m a terrified person. I’m terrified of nearly everything. You say this out loud to people and they react like – ‘Come on mate? Why you being a pussy?’. How’s it that people can be so well adjusted? In their tight bodies and tight clothes. How is everyone so OK with everything? We’re all afraid and we’re all bored. That’s why we all drink. Liquid courage mate. That’s what frightens me – that people are OK with this. That’s a true horror movie. I think maybe that’s why I watch horror movies. They tell you what’s scary and you go ‘yay or nay’ all the while the true horror is the reality that your sitting in to watch the film.

I don’t even know if I’ll actually die. Maybe some weird shit’ll happen. I’ll probably die. It’ll be as if nothing ever happened. My whole life - nothing but a dream. Nothing but a meat computer freaking out for ‘x’ amount of years. I’m banking a lot on my Christian friends getting me into heaven.

The Wave

Excerpt from Facebook messenger:

Me: your in the original hoooooooooooouse?

Her: Yes Come pound me

Me: Yeaaaaaaaaaaah im coming

Her: Yayyy. U know I'm menstruating

Me: i know

Her: Yaaaayt

I loaded my phone with mostly Radiohead. Some of my favourites; 4 Minute Warning and Videotape. 2 utterly emotionally obliterating sad songs. The depressive thoughts from yesterday leaked into the current day. I wasn’t in the mood to fuck. But being a dude… of course I jumped on the opportunity.

I got the train to the city. Feeling emotionally horrendous. I started to consider the fact that even when I keep good mental hygiene; meditate, exercise, drink less, smoke less, go to bed at an OK time, wake up at an OK time I still inevitably feel very depressed throughout the day. But without reason. I can feel real dark without thinking about anything. Not suicidal, just very low. Do I have a chemical imbalance? Who knows but I’ll never take your fucking pills Mark Zuckerberg! Fuck you man! I have my reality straight. Hold the rocks.

Ironically the more depressed I am the more I write. Not much inspiration comes from a happy mind. It’s because if you’re sad you must get it out of you. You need to release something. Most people are content just to tell their close friends their problems. But I must smear them all over the internet like shitty graffiti in a public toilet. At least I put a lot of time into editing.

On the train, I read the book my girlfriend bought me for my birthday. I Swear I’ll Make It Up to You by Mishka Shubaly. A memoir by a musician, poet, artist, alcoholic, friend of my favourite comedian, Doug Stanhope, and writer of some of the best drinking songs/songs I’ve ever heard.

So far, it’s a fucking brutal read. On the train, I read about how a shooting happened in his school when he was a bit younger than me. Some wayward punk kid that was a bit weird and intimidated everyone asked this guy, Mishka, if he could get him a gun. Being in America I guess that’s not such a weird question. Mishka thought nothing of it and got him a gun. The next day he shot up the fucking school. Wounding a bunch of people and killed a kid and teacher. I read this while Thom Yorke wailed in my ears.

It took forever to get to her house. One of the trains cooked itself and I had to go back to the city and catch a tram. The longer the journey became the dumber I felt. I eventually got there. She came and let me in and took me to the lounge room where her friend/roommate was.

I sat down on a camper bed on the carpet. They were in the process of moving house. I was introduced to her friend and immediately forgot her name.

‘Want a bong?’. She asked laughing.

‘Sure’. I said.

It had tobacco mixed with the weed but I didn’t give a fuck at this point. I asked if it was strong – they laughed and said I’d be fine.

I smoked the bong carefully. Going slow as to not start coughing all over the place.

They said they’d been high for 3 days. All day. I asked how they felt. ‘Terrible - like we’re losing our minds’ – they laughed. ‘I know what you mean’ I said.

I started talking to her – just mundane shit really. Her personality was all over the place. She’d jump from one emotion to the next. One topic to the next, have an opinion and contradict it flippantly, tell you to shut up and the cycle would repeat. I couldn’t tell if it was her version of fun. It felt kinda stressful. It didn’t feel real. Was sort of thrilling but so is nearly slipping down the stairs and catching yourself. Felt like her personality was sand slipping through my fingers. I was high.

She commanded the lounge room like an MC with strong energy but lacklustre material, like she was MCing a gig she didn’t give a fuck about… Too 2 stoned people. I tried to engage with everything she said as per usual which was jarring to the situation.

Her friend was so calm. Sitting upright in the middle of the room hugging a pink water bottle. She had big thick glasses and a cute fringe. One of those fringes that’s straight the whole way around, they’re always cute. She was so relaxed sitting next to this ball of intense energy.

I smoked a few more bongs. The nicotine lightly coursed through me. I was high but still in control. Didn’t feel horny or calm, or relaxed. Somewhere In the middle of all those things. Unpleasant.

Eventually I had to comment on this girl’s insanity.

‘What’s going on dude? What the fuck is this? You’re all over the place… are you OK?’. I asked.

Her friend answered for her – ‘Hey man just relax… it’s just like… how do I explain this… you know when you’re on drugs yeah…?’

‘Yeah?’. I said.

‘Well… you know when something fucked up happens when you’re on drugs… and you think… like… oh no… I’m having a bad trip… yeah?’. She said.

‘Yeah…?’. I said.

‘Well you know… you just ride it out yeah? It’s like a wave. Like a wave at the beach. She’ll look at you, say you’re pretty and a good person, then she’ll snap and be like fuck you! Then she’ll go hang out with Bubby (her cat). Then she’ll go on her phone. Then it’ll repeat. Again, and again… like a wave at the beach yeah?’

‘Yeah I think I see what you mean…’. I said and slowly turning to her, half in horror half in fascination.

Her face softened. Her mouth readjusted around her braces. Adorable but now a little scary. I was looking at her differently. I looked in her eyes as hard as I could manage. It was freaking me the fuck out. Kinda made me sad. I realised looking at her I didn’t really want to fuck. Not tonight anyway. I’d prefer just to talk. But talking seemed like work right now. She seemed so insane in that moment.

I’m endlessly attracted to crazy girls. Don’t know why… and when I say crazy in no way am I saying I’m normal. Or more normal than her or anyone else. I don’t want to be overly harsh - I feel mean saying she’s crazy. Maybe she was going through some shit that night? It’s just how I felt at the time.

There’s something so attractive to me about an unstable mind inside of a cute body and face. I could see myself committing and putting up with this insanity for the high that came with being around someone like that. It freaked me out how open she was about her selfishness - ‘I only care about myself’ she said. It made me feel alone.

Crazy in the head, great in bed. That’s what they say isn’t it?

Why? I think it’s because it’s the opposite of intimate. If you’re crazy it’s like you’re not even there half the time. Ever talked to a crazy person? There’s no consistency. You tend to treat them unlike a real person, even if subconsciously. It gives you confidence because you feel like no one’s recording this shit -  their consciousness is flawed, they have a faulty memory emotionally and generally. So, when you fuck a crazy girl and she’s wailing on your dick like it’s a sexy exorcism you feel like you can try shit you’d usually be afraid of trying. Not because you’re on the same page but because she’s in a different fucking book. My first long term girlfriend was completely mental - the sex was great.

If you’re on the same page and you know each other it can be awkward to give away your kinks. Because you respect each other. I don’t want to tell my girlfriend what I want if it’s a bit fucked. We’ve got to have muesli in the morning and look each other in the eye. Obviously, I just have a lot of intimacy problems.

It seems people are one or the other. Super open with strangers. Totally comfortable with their sexuality, having a sick time, fucking a bunch of different people. Do they have long term committed, monogamous partners? No. Long term excitement with a singular person seems hard to maintain… or people don’t really believe you if you say you’ve achieved it. It’s fucked dude. It’s like everything’s in the dark. No one has any real answers. Because you get mixed messages from both parties. No one seems to have a common truth. No one seems to have sorted it. The closest I get to truth are in Doug Stanhope’s bits. But is there a complete answer? No. I don’t so.

All this shit I’m whinging about is pointless. When I drink too much and nothing else is going wrong I think my problem’s drinking. If stand-up isn’t going well I think that’s the cause of my trauma. If sex is a problem, If I’m shit with money - It’s a rotating fucking wheel. It’s a wave at the beach. It’s the same for everyone I think. No one’s sorted we just get better at not giving a fuck.

We went up to her room. Because she had her period she chucked a black blanket on top of a bare mattress to keep it safe from the blood. We sat down. I tried to emulate and reflect her insanity back on her.

‘Tell me about your tattoo, what does it mean?’. I asked, pointing at her thigh.

‘…I don’t know what it means I only got it the oth – shut up, too slow!’. I interrupted.

‘What’s the longest friend you’ve ever had?’. I asked, talking quickly.

‘…Um I don’t know … like what do you mean?’. She replied.

‘Shut up who cares. You’re very pretty’. I said, mirroring her bi-polarisms.

‘Are you doing… me!?’ She asked, almost shouting. And fell forward, head onto the bed laughing.

‘Yeah I am. What’s it feel like to be on the other end?’. I asked.

‘I don’t know… no one’s ever done that to me before’. She replied.

We both lay on the bed and looked at the carpet. It was a mess of general bits and pieces. Classic miscellaneous, abstract rubbish you get when you move house. We looked at the bland carpet landscape in stoned fascination. I wasn’t even fascinated to be honest. I just needed something for my brain to latch onto.

She picked up a tiny piece of cylindrical plastic and sort of planted it into the carpet. It stood amongst the carpet trash like a lone cactus in a desert. We then picked up 2 tiny rocks and a bit of blue-tac and placed it around the base. Bizarrely it was almost fun. She took a close-up photo of our sculpture and uploaded it to Instagram with a caption like – ‘$500 to who can guess what this is’.

I edged closer to her. I wanted to touch her but I didn’t know how to start touching her. What’s the protocol on casual sex? When’s it weird? Too affectionate? Or not enough? I have no fucking idea. I’m new to this.

She pulled up her big red jumper to reveal her butt and humped the bed animatedly without saying anything as she flicked through her phone.

I guess that’s invitation enough? Surely… Although I still didn’t touch her. I made ridiculous conversation. Asking her weirdly personal questions. She answered them though. This quickly peated out and she interrupted my bullshit and said - ‘Alright now stick your dick in me’ and spread her legs. I just laughed and said ‘What the fuck man? Are you serious?’. ‘Yeah’ she said. ‘Can I kiss you?’ I asked. ‘No. Just fuck me’ she said.

She picked some music to fuck too, flung her phone away and lay her head face down on the bed.

I held her head down on the bed by her neck.

I tried to generate a dominant state of mind. But the situation was too distracting. The wave. The sand-like personality. The insanity. The weed.

I tried to pretend I hated her. Maybe that’d make it easier to fuck? Fucking shameful of me I know.

I started fingering. Getting into somewhat of a rhythm. Trying to discover a clit from the opposite angle. I felt quite horny now. I felt the adrenaline start to build inside me like last time. I could smell the metallic blood smell from the period.

I realised that I wasn’t getting hard at all. It freaked me out. I started spinning out in my mind. The more I tried to get hard the more impossible it seemed. A weird feeling. It was like when I have dreams that I’m in a fight but can’t throw punches and when I try to throw punches they’re in slow motion and soft. On paper, there’s no reason this situation wouldn’t turn me on. So, it confused me and time was running out.

‘What are you doing?! Just fuck me already!’ She half shouted, slightly muffled, her mouth on the mattress.

I managed to muster a very meagre, mid-strength boner. A boner like a doomed child actor. So much promise and potential but little did it know it was going to crash and burn before it could reach maturity.

I jumped up and removed my fingers from inside her. Being stoned I’d totally forgotten about the period. I looked at my fingers in confusion for a moment and then remembered. I grabbed my jacket haphazardly, making my headphones clunk onto the floor and my book fall out. I threw my jacket onto the mattress. I went to reach into the pocket but stopped again noticing the blood on my hand. I used my other hand which felt unnatural. It took forever but I eventually found the pocket with the condoms.

The last time we fucked. I hadn’t used a condom. This time I was so over prepared it was hilarious. I had a roll of roughly 8 condoms and 2 packs of lube! It reminded me of the time I went for a job interview to be a Lollypop Lady, helping kids cross the street. I went to the interview casually dressed. The only other guy being interviewed turned up in a suit. Ridiculous I thought but he got the job.

I took my pants off to reveal a very underwhelming, lukewarm boner. I tried to hide it. I got back to fingering. But it felt stupid. I gave up and started laughing. I leaned on my side.

‘Dude… I’m really sorry… but I just can’t get hard. It’s really weird… this hasn’t happened to me before...’. I said.

‘Yeah it’s OK. It’s fine. Don’t worry about it’. She said very quickly.

‘… Are you sure I can’t kiss you?’. I asked.

‘No’. She said.

‘OK…’. I said leaning back. Trying my best not to look at my depressed looking dick.

We lay there for a bit. She started playing with her nipples. Both pierced. She told a story about them but I forget the details. The atmosphere in the room softened. I almost felt relaxed. I started to get hard. One final attempt maybe? But it was short lived – my dick retreated. I lay there feeling a combination of intense melancholy and emptiness. I said sorry a few more times and we got in the shower.

I felt a disconnection to her. To everything really. Standing in the shower I let my vision blur. I put my hand close to the spout. We had some mundane chat about the soap and I zoned out. Everything went out of focus like a depressing abstract painting, grey, white, black and her light pink silhouette. Maybe this is where Rothko got his inspiration.

‘Are you depressed?’ – She asked.

‘Um… yeah… sure’. I said absent minded.

‘Are you?’. I asked.

‘Hehe… sometimes’. She said.

I dried myself. Put my clothes back on and sat on the mattress. In hindsight, I should’ve left straight away… for everyone’s sake. But for some reason I just sat on the mattress looking depressed like I just got my Uni results and I’d failed everything.

We said a few more things. She answered while flicking around on her phone.

I jolted back into reality, said sorry for the 20th time and started to leave. We said goodbye. She told me not to worry about what happened.

I walked out the front door and checked my phone. I had like 9 messages from my mum.

‘Liam. When did you do the Ketamine?!’ ‘Liam answer now!’ ‘Please answer!’. I laughed to myself and put my headphones on.

(To clear up. 2 posts ago I briefly mentioned I tried the classic drug Ketamine. I went into no detail. It’s not that interesting and it wasn’t that important of an experience. I talk a lot about suicidal, depressive, nihilistic thoughts in a post in-between that one and this one. I think my mum thinks they’re connected – Ketamine and me being a whining, depressed fuck. It’s hilarious to me how irrelevant and bad timing her pestering about the Ketamine was. It’s sweet though but Mum I’m fine.)

I headed back to the city with a fierce hunger to get obliterated drunk. I wanted to forget everything. I headed to a bottle shop.

Saw a guy wrapped up in a blanket. 2 longnecks wrapped in brown paper either side of him. Sitting right outside the bottle shop. Bottle to his lips and swinging back and forth like Stevie Wonder minus the smile and sun glasses. I looked at him enviously. Soon I thought… soon I could be like him.

Standing in the bottle shop it dawned on me how high I was. I pulled a shoelace undone with my foot. A wave of self-conscious stoner worry rushed through me – did that just look retarded? Do I look super cooked right now? I leant down and tied my shoe. It felt like minutes. While I was down there I could hear reggae quietly plodding away on the store speakers. I turned to the shop keeper dramatically. He looked me in the eye very non-cholent. It relaxed me. I started to browse the beers. Bought 3 longnecks and left, heading home.

The train line was intermittently replaced by busses. I had to wait at a station for 20 minutes while the next train came. I had 2% battery left on my phone. It was cold. The longnecks clinked in my plastic bag as I walked along the platform. I went to the toilet – not even needing to piss and contemplated drinking a longneck in the cubical to pass the time. The door didn’t even have a lock and the Protective Service Officers lurked around the station constantly. I was already high. I decided against it. But I craved it so fucking hard.

My phone died as I was listening to Myxomatosis by Radiohead. The song that sounds like all the FIFA games from the early 2000s. I felt retarded. I kept reading my depressing yet very good book until the train came.

Got on the train. Kept reading. Got off the train and moved quickly. Looking at any shrubbery or bench that I could enjoy a late-night beverage and not be interrupted by the bouncers of the universe – the police.

I walked quickly down the street. I crossed the road and thought I’d heard voices in my head. This used to happen when I was super depressed and would walk around the streets of Hobart high at 2am with no purpose, no direction, just trying to not think about anything. Trying not to think about girls I liked and trying not to think about death. I had a little tin that originally held breath mints. I’d fill it with rolled ciggies. I’d smoke 1 every 15 – 20 minutes. Not really enjoying them and I’d listen to Joy Division. I went to the school on the corner near my house. A place with a huge stretch of grass. Perfect for public drinking. You want a good vantage point like a sniper. So if someone’s going to interrupt you have time to get away.

I drank the Melbourne Bitter longneck as quickly as I could while my eyes adjusted to the small amount of light so I could read. It didn’t taste that good. I looked at the Melbourne Bitter logo and said – ‘Yes… I feel very bitter… and I’m in Melbourne’. Which is ridiculous. Implying that Melbourne is the reason for anything bad that’s recently happened. But I guess it’s what our dumb brains do -  simplify shit. The words of a comedian I really admire rang in my head - ‘Don’t go to Melbourne you’ll fucking hate it…’. Thanks for your encouraging words Tim Logan.

I started saying my thoughts out loud. I said – ‘oh yeah no I get it… I get how people become this! Homeless… just drinking on the streets swaying back and forth. Talking to people in their heads.’

In a way, it felt kind of liberating. The idea of living on the street. Normal people pretending not to notice you. Smashing long necks and selling recycled, re-rolled ciggies to other homeless people. Sitting on the street writing my journals while passes by filled my beanie with enough change to fill my MyKi enough to go to an open mic and back. That’s the dream, isn’t it?

A comedian at a party once told me about this philosopher Eckhart Tolle. When he was younger in his late twenties he was going to kill himself, but decided to live in his local park for a few years and loved it apparently. It allowed him to enjoy his existence. Now he’s a successful philosopher – if you can believe that. No idea if any of that’s true.

Even though you could hardly call it ‘being in nature’ the soccer pitch I was sitting on, after a while, started to give me that feeling you get when you go camping. You know when it starts to get dark and you feel yourself getting sleepy at like 8pm? You feel comfort being around the nature.

I kept drinking and reading. The book hit me hard. It made me clench up and moan and push my back into the wall. The whole evening depressed me. I’d smashed 2 longnecks in the space of 15 minutes. I was sufficiently numb. I saved the nicest longneck for my girlfriend, closed my book and headed home.

Excerpt from An Attempt at A Novel – From 2015

This one time I walked up the garden path out of boredom and, I don’t know, loneliness and found three young boys that when I asked what was going on all simply poked out their tongues to show very small, singular square pieces of paper. I’ve never had a question answered with a tongue being poked out. They all disappeared and I was left with this quiet but friendly guy that didn’t say much but gave you a lot of attention.  We sat watching the TV in the lounge room. I think the cricket was on or something. We weren’t really watching it but that’s where our gaze inevitably fell. It’s weird how nowadays people just chuck TVs everywhere; waiting rooms, hospitals, dentists, malls, kitchens, bathrooms, cars and even their own lounge rooms. The Television pretty much governs a lounge room. It’s the ruler of the room. It’s a portal for any occasion, whatever the weather, whatever the time, even when there’s nothing desirable on the fucking thing. It’s like noisy incense that lets off way too much smoke and chokes the mind. But at the same time gives some disgusting feeling of comfort. I don’t know why it makes me so angry or sour, I guess it’s just how casually people turn them on and put them places, especially when they don’t even have the sound on and people in waiting rooms blankly look at the screens while their kids play with the shitty toys provided. Its external meditation; meditation that gives you no calmness but makes you a vegetable for a bit. We were watching the television, or at least looking at it. The lounge room was messy pretty much 80 percent of the time.

[invisiblehandsmusic-blog]

Vinyl..... Five for £30

22 June 2017

Check in the shop for a brand new offer providing FIVE ihm collection vinyl’s for just £30 in three separate packs!  Offer coming soon.  Click here for further information.  

[yearlater]

2- Lyrics of the year

DEATH IN GREENPOINT - MISHKA SHUBALY

The lyrics of the songs are a priority part when selecting my favorite songs, I think a good letter is the half of a song, this year I heard a lot of songs that broke me or emotionally praised me: Flamin Hot Cheetos - Clairo, C u in da ballpit - camping in Alaska, Thinking of a Place - The War on drugs, among many others, but there was one that emerged among all: Death in Greenpoint of Mishka Shubaly. A song that talks about staying in the hometown and being condemned to live while the certainty of death appearing in every corner, in the alarm of a car that was lost, in the disco ball of a bar, in the birds singing, in Chinese food with an unpredictable smell. Mishka Shubaly faces the possibility of finding death anywhere and staying in this land we want away but will always be part of us, and despite everything Mishka sings: “but if you can hear me complaining I am neither dead or in jail.” Turning his defeatist song into a compliment by being alive and free. DEATH IN GREENPOINT LYRICS: Break, heart, break fail, liver, fail but if you can hear me complaining I am neither dead or in jail. I can't remember where I parked my car and I'm afraid of what the future holds. And I don't wanna die in Greenpoint. The birds sing songs of distant car alarms, distant cars alarms sonud like birds. The moon hang so low it looks like a street light over three old men with three tall boys of coors light. You're screaming underneath my window and my roommate's blacked out on the toilet again and I'm checking into the emergency room under a fake name at 4 a.m. So.. Break, heart, break fail, liver, fail, but if you can hear me complaining I am neither dead or in jail. I can't remember where I parked my car and I'm afraid of what the future holds. And I don't wanna die in Greenpoint. Where the sewage treatment plant smells suspiciously like Chinese food and man i don't even want to think about what that means. And we're straining our eyes looking for those big city lights but it's not even Jersey it's Queens a and if that's my mother calling on the phone, dude, I am totally not home. I'm exercising my right to surrender to the poison of my choice. I'm the master of my own worst case scenario. Break, heart, break (boy, you know you'r gonna) fail, liver, fail, but if you can hear me complaining I am neither dead or in jail. I think they finally towed my car and i'm afraid of what tomorrow holds, And I don't wanna die in Greenpoint. Break, heart, break fail, liver, fail, but if you can hear me complaining I am neither dead or in jail. I can't belive they towed my car and i'm afraid of what tomorrow holds. And I feel like i'm gonna die in Greenpoint Yhea, I feel like i'm gonna die in Greenpoint Yhea, I Know i'm gonna go with a head full of blow in a polish disco in Greenpoint.

[kydtyk]

It’s drinking time.

[kidcongopowers]

By the time I got to Phoenix Lydia Lunch was rising.. great night at @valleybarphx with @lydia.lunch.official and grand set by @mishkashubaly Mishka Shubaly . I played records. Thanks Amy and Tom for setting it all up... #lydialunch #mishkashubaly #kidcongopowers (at Valley Bar) https://www.instagram.com/p/B09ESP4gRqW/?igshid=c11jl6irlswl