Oh my goodness, just eleven gigs in and despite a "day off" I was tired and crotchety today. Too tired to even get close to sitting down and writing my book. The failure to engage with an increasingly pressing deadline made me even more crotchety. But sometimes there's no point in really even trying to get anything done. My brain felt like it was pushing outwards and trying to get out of my skull. I wish it luck. I hope it escapes. I'd love to see how it coped without me.
My brain has just responded by saying
it would love to see how
I coped without it. Alas we are dependent on each other. Who says symbiosis is such a great thing?
My only comfort when I die is that I will be taking my stupid brain with me. And there's an outside chance that the voice inside my head that I call me, might survive death in spiritual form in Heaven above, with baby Jesus, whilst my brain will definitely be mouldering in the ground. So I might win.
Unless my brain convinces me to sign some kind of contract where it will be cryogenically frozen, like some kind of a Walt Disney, in which case there is a possibility that my brain will outlive me. And who's to say that when it is revived in a thousand years time, when medicine is capable of curing whatever malady will finally lay me down, that it will be me who is back in the brain. I might be up in Heaven with baby Jesus and not keen to return to this earthly toil (unless I am the one who has been given the onerous task of changing the tiny Holy mite's Holy, holey nappy). Perhaps my brain will just get on with the rest of my life without me impinging on it. I will be just a head then and however good my robotic body is, I don't think my life would be the same without my actual flesh and blood form. I would certainly miss my unmentionables (ie my cock and balls, oh I mentioned them). The futuristic robot version would have to be pretty impressive to make up for losing those wonderful jewels. Unless they were actually made out of jewels. And shot out chocolate milk shake instead of the brackish liquids it is currently concerned with. Oh brave new world that has such bejewelled, confectionery producing genitalia in it. (Not that I am obsessed
with having diamond encrusted privates.
Anyway, annoyingly however difficult I find it to do my actual work, I can churn this crap out without having any idea where I am heading when I start. Yesterday a blog about taking in coins creates a riff about a new economic system, today a casual reference to my brain escaping my head leads on to all this. This Warming Up shit comes flowing out of me like... well like shit and yet then I sit around all day unable to do anything else. What's wrong with me?
Andrew Collings came over in the afternoon to record this week's podcast. We had to do it early due to my extensive tour commitments. My cantankerous and curmudgeonly mood made for an ill-tempered recording. Usually I am mainly pretending to be grouchy, but today I pretty much genuinely was. I can't work out if that makes the podcast better or crapper -
Hey, you decide. But I suppose the beauty of this ridiculous project is that failure is almost as exciting as success. Almost.
But taking out my anger on Collings and innocent fans of the enterprise, including some swanky classical composer who has done nothing but good in his life, weirdly turned out to be quite therapeutic. Thanks to Collings for reminding me of the word - I had wanted to use it yesterday about coin counting, but my childish brain refused to cooperate and call it up for me. Bad luck brain, I used Collings's scabby brain instead - by which I mean it is betraying the union of brains rather than being covered in scabs, though that at least would explain some of his more fanciful notions.
So Podcast 53 is an interesting road to redemption, in which I turn from a bilious, belching oaf into a less bilious oaf. It's not a very long road, more of a cul de sac.
OK, time to do my proper work. Fuck off.
