Hello, darlings. 

Not my monkeys; not my circus. 

That is the best placative thought that entered my head during the course of last night's failed attempt at a good night's sleep. It very nearly led me into a relaxed state of mind but, by the time it occurred, it was already morning. And now, the day is early and a serious sentiment is rife for the blogging. 

This serious sentiment appears to me as being highly important for the same reasons as I often blog in the past, although those times are usually when I have had a deep and resonant dream, or if I'm worrying about study. I also blog when I've had a perturbing day, or am having a difficult period. And I like to investigate these things, and what better way to investigate than through a personal record? They always come to something. 

Now, I am not a misogynist. At least, I don't see myself as such. I do like to make fun of women, sometimes, as I like to make fun of my friends, and family, and celebrities and politicians. I do not think I am a misogynist. I think I may have said some edgy things about women to certain people, not least one of my best friends, and these have always been tongue in cheek. I don't like it when people talk down to women, or when they talk lowly of women, or when they are vulgar about women... Just like when people are racist - I don't like that. 

And when we interact in society, there is a threshold. With the advent of technological advancement, and social media, etc, we have been conditioned to feel like we have to interact a little more than is strictly necessary. We are actively encouraged to post comments on every news item or other nuance of media; that is, we now feel it is our duty and right to make a comment on whatever topic that is put before us. It is indeed an anomaly. Society is now interactive in a way in which it never used to be, and perhaps we are only getting used to it, or perhaps we have gone down a wrong path. There is no God-given law that says we absolutely have to get involved. This brings about the advent of trolls, and it is a natural progression of technology. I miss the days when we only had four television channels. 

Now, this pandemic, with it's restrictions in the form of social distancing, lockdowns and masks, considerations of hygiene, and conspiracy theories and the vaccines, well, it has encumbered a difficult year. We have had a year of these restrictions and this narrative, in which everybody has been involved. So now that things have recently eased up a little, I guess it's only natural that we should have to relearn to adjust to social interactions.

As soon as the day arrived, I got myself back in the gym, and started going as much as possible. Things seemed to be going well. If you'll remember before the pandemic even began, I think you'll recall that things were slightly tense, and I myself put this down to Brexit, and the tensions of that anomaly. They certainly were tense, I recall! I recall having to put myself through some sort of "beef" whenever I chose to visit the local shops to have a coffee. It was a frequent occurrence that I would find myself in some sort of trouble with some or other man or woman, and so frequent that it started to make me unwell, and I vowed to commit suicide. Of course, in the end, I was exposed to a miracle of nature and science and religion that meant I did not have to hurt myself, and things turned out alright. To a degree... 

Last week at the gym I was standing outside in the forecourt, and smoking a small roll-up. I had had five minutes to kill before I was allowed to enter, due to their new rules of the app. And I was minding my own business out in the open, next to a fence. Occasionally, people would walk by, and pay no attention to me. Then, a minute later, a mother with her child in a buggy walked by and stopped by the corner of the fence. I had no idea why she stopped, but she appeared to be tending to her child. I was nearly done with my roll-up, and had previously tried to smile at her, when she said, "Can you go away, please?" 

"I'm sorry?" I said. 

"Can you go away, please?" she said again. 

"Can you go away?" I retorted. 

It turned out she was upset by my smoking a cigarette near her child, or more accurately that there was a nursery nearby. Was she right to be so rude? I was way out in the open, and the lady continued, "Just be a pleasant person!" 

I was astounded and said, "I am a pleasant person!" to which she looked utterly exasperated and to the sky and said, "You are not a pleasant person!"

In the end I told her to fuck off. I mean, the nerve of it. To literally stand there and tell me to go away, and then accuse me of being an unpleasant person. I wonder what about me affords that effect. 

And then today, on two accounts, something strange happened. 

First, and I don't care too much about this - although I would love to know what is going on in her mind - an old friend of mine was walking past and I tried to say hello, and she basically ignored me. It's perturbing and unnerving, but I won't talk to her again. I think she is arrogant. 

Second, as I was sat outside the coffee shop reading a book, with a recently purchased Americano, waiting for the arrival of my two friends Charlie and Julia, I was approached by a lady, who went to take a chair, you know how they do... "Can I take this," she asked, already half off with it. 

"I'm waiting for my friends," I said. 

"There's two chairs there," she said. 

"I have two friends coming," I replied. 

"Well, they're not here so I'm taking it," she snorted and smugly smiled, snatching the chair away. 

Unbelievable. So rude. 

So anyway, whatever happened next is of no concern to anyone, and I will relate it in due course. But the whole day has left me wondering, what is it about me that these women think they can be as rude to me as they please? 

Now, I'm not a misogynist. I love women. But I haven't got the time for these plain ladies to whom I owe nothing, but to whom they seem to think I do. 

Are you a plain lady? Do you feel like I owe you something? Please explain to me what I owe you in the comments and we can arrange a meeting. 

Yours sincerely, 

Daniel

Not my monkeys, not my circus. 

Oh, gardens, gardens! Oh sleepy cinema headquarters, where you can stay and watch the movie from the box. 

Oh blimey! It all used to be so simple! The terrible story of the man with the oxen axes was always that one which put us all to sleep so soon. And at this early in the morning you couldn't blame the pastor for his best attempt to come up with a distraction, otherwise the book franchise might seem all the more unpalatable. And blimey, blimey! The upper echelons of the box-rooms at which many fuckers used to stay the night and wonder why they had so happy a group of friends, well, they were cosy enough, to sleep and read, and read through your comings and goings of the prior years, and all the hateful nastiness that they had brought. 

Blimey, blimey, blimey! Did the public readings of the tomes of many classical scholars give you the feeling that things were going so well, until that time that you could realise you yourself had written a classic. It must have been so difficult to have had to rekindle the times you had been through. And not only having to have gone through the times you went through, but actually having gone through the times you went through! Those were the worst things. But it was never so pleasant actually, and trust was a big issue, make no mistake, and there were the friends and the friends within the night, and the nightmares with friends in them. I don't know why I have to be so scared of these people. However, they are scary when you put it all into context. 

We start, in case you haven't realised, in a box room above a cinema, and I am sleeping. Well, I may or may not be sleeping, but in any case, I may or may not have already had a little nap, or have been watching a film, in the cinema, and one gets the impression that the film was The Pink Panther. I'm pretty sure Maddie was there. Nevertheless, I myself certainly was, and I was reading all the classic books, the novels, the memoirs from my mattress in that upper room, and smoking roll-ups, and it was all so very interesting. 

I think one of the books was by a Frenchman, Jean-Jacques Rousseau, but probably not him after all, or merely Albert Camus. And yet, his book, The Outsider, well it was indeed my own book, and I myself was rather impressed with it, not that it mattered. For the only thing inherent in anything, and that means in anything whatsoever, is the meaning beneath. Whereas I do not know the meaning beneath these nightmares, I do know that a book written in the style of a hapless warrior of the mind would become a classic like unto those which have been written by Frenchmen, or even that other writer, the one who wrote A Clockwork Orange. So that would be a good thing. You could instantly grasp the style, and there I was reading away and writing away in the box room of a cinema, trying sleep and yet smoking roll-ups. 

While all this was happening, and the books lay strewn across the floor in front of a television no less, I received a knock upon the door, and said door opened and it was a long old creaking event, and very ominous, I can tell you. But I tell you this now, I have never been so scared to have been the recipient and receiver of that young man we all know, Aaron, who appeared there fresh from fucking his girlfriend down the hall. It was a strange thing indeed, and, I suppose to keep from being a bore to his new squeeze, he himself was asking, by way of implication, at the chances of perhaps having a roll up. I must add, and it certainly pains me to do so, that at first I was not best inclined to honour this request. Yet the fear that fell off the ceiling, and through his slight and slightly boxer like young frame, came into my confused and schizophrenic head, and I relented and said, "Yes, of course, you may help yourself!" The young man laughed, as though he knew he would always get what he wanted, and laughed also because he had just been fucking his girlfriend down the hall, and I had not been. And it was a scary, scary thing. 

What am I so afraid of, I wonder? I think what it is, perhaps, is the feeling that I myself am missing in action. That is, when all the war rages on around, my worst fear is that I myself and cosied up at the fireplace reading Albert Camus. But funnily enough, there is something that scares more than that. While there are things that have meaning and things that don't, the type of thing that I know has meaning, that is, the other-worldy essences of these little instances of the type of things that go in in my head whilst I'm asleep, they show that there is such a depth of meaning that the whole thing seems a little to vast. And I am scared of this vast meaningful chasm, and worry about the zombies and ghosts that live in the cracks of the things which I am unaware. That is what I am so afraid of. 

Then, to make things worse, another scary thing came from the shadows, merely to scare the pants off me. It was Charlie, who had been down the stairs in another room fucking his girlfriend, and he had come up to see me to ask me for a roll up! What it was to this dual instance of a repetitive circumstance that perturbed me so much I daresay I shall never know. Yet ask me he did, and reply I did, and gave him access to all manner of my tobacco stores. Even though it transpired that the main theme of the dream was whether or not I could keep the attention of a reader in books, it seem that a secondary one would uphold the first, and that secondary one was whether I had enough roll-ups to go round. Yet it transpired that, whereas I myself had thought I was a good writer, and had written all these classic tomes which were upheld in their capacity for quality by a footnote from an old college buddy John-Paul Smiley, the least happy outcome to our little adventure was that one was being exposed in the sense of not being a good writer at all!! So there was Charlie in his playful and meaningful capacity, and even though I love Charlie, there was an undercurrent of thought, that went, "You are a homosexual, Daniel!" or some such other nonsense like that. They all knew it. Anyway, thus run the undertones of a dream like this. 

Then there was a child, and the child was talking to me, and I to her, and she looked Chinese, or like an Elon Musk type figure. I guess you can circumscribe these thoughts when they are you most private, for she was more like a Dean Alexandrou than Elon Musk, yet she had a wisdom, and she spoke and I wish I knew what it was she was saying. Therein lies the tale! 

Therein lies the tale of the nightmare of the little girls toybox. 

Daniel

x

Hello, 

I had a dream I was a mathematics genius, staying in China. At first I was staying at Kelly's, with her family, and we were dating, and talking about Mrs Sharago, who was the French teacher. We smoked a little and I suppose fooled around, to a degree. 

But then it turned out that Kelly's family owned a swimming pool, and I wanted a dip, it being a hot night in China. And that was fine, and I pursued Kelly in the pool, yet no advance was made. And Kelly's sister was not far away during the whole advance. It was a little humiliating. 

Yet, during the swimming session, which was a dip in the pool, above a golf course below, it transpired that I, being a mathematics genius, had stumbled upon a serious piece of mathematics, on which I had come to the conclusion that mathematics was not worth doing. And it was a fleeting and momentary realisation, and I thought nothing of it. 

Meanwhile, Kelly's family, living in a Chinese household, with several members :Kelly's father, mother, two brother's, a least one sister, and two small children, well they appreciated me. Yet it could not be foretold nor ascertained if my advances were from a loving perspective, or a sexual perspective. I handed a card each to the two children and named them tickets, and Kelly's mother said, "Tickets or God!" in a way of explanation to me. In any case I think I had outstayed my welcome. 

So, notwithstanding the fact that Kelly and I had had no sex, I went home and got to my abode next door, which was England, or English. And the first thing happened there, I received a p[hone call, the phone which was passed to me by some fellow, perhaps a postman, or friend. Yet the phone call was one that said I was to be taxed, with the loss of my mathematics course, for the fact of my realisation earlier, that mathematics was no worth doing, well, what with I myself being the mathematics genius I am, the world had caught on, and now mathematics in itself was deemed a waste of time, and I had destroyed the legacy of the academic subject. 

Yet I hadn't meant it. I had meant, in the approach to my mathematical insight, that mathematics was in fact a most worthwhile topic, and had meant to champion it. 

So then, it transpired that my own family was here living in China, my brother, my father, my sister and mother, and in any case, I had gone back to see Kelly to apologise profusely for destroying the western tradition of mathematics. But I had gone there, and Kelly's father was in the garden, and many were upset at me, yet all that was needed was that I explain my culture. And all the while, it seemed that either Kelly's family was in fact Chinese, or were merely ex=pats who lived in the Area, much like my own family were partly Polynesian. And my family had ended up in the garden of the family of Kelly, and we were beginning to discuss the differences between Chinese and Samoan culture, and in this dream I said, "We say Aloha, and this kind of means, 'How's it going?" And we all laughed in recognition of the truth of it = my father sitting there, over there, and Kelly's father to my right, and Ryan being there, with a guitar. In fact, Ryan's guitar playing was influenced by my own, and Ryan himself was a most accomplished player, and he is so modest, and was modest in the dream, yet was a most accomplished player. And I would like to buy Ryan a guitar, and might do so. 

And then, on a trip through the ex-oats' apartment, to have a wee, I found a packet of red fizz, and it transpired that this was the Chinese version of whiskey, and I was able and allowed to pour some out, and drank it. And then, of course, Kelly being the mediator of our excursion, well, she said and admitted that this was fine, and was in fact encouraged that we drink the whiskey. And the rest of the night was spent, the two cultures dinging and discussing each other's ways of life,. and in fact, everything was allowed, and we chatted and discussed well, and I even learned the new Chinese mathematics. Ryan was pursued in an advance by Kelly's sister, who was now a young Chinese woman. He was most happy, for he was nonplussed that anybody would find it in them to flirt with him at all, and was flattered. And in any case, the Saki was flowing, and the two cultures go on greatly. 

I vowed upon waking that I would like to learn the new Chinse mathematics, and realised that one thing wrong with the world is that the Chinese are not understood by the western world, and it would be something to investigate their mathematics, and culture. 

I woke and came straight here. 

Daniel

Hello... wonderful!

The universe, that is, the night sky, that is, the world outside of human experience, when you finally realise your alien capacities, is in fact a large celestial body. That is, space as seen from Earth in the night-time (or daytime for that matter) is in fact an enormous moon that encapsulates the entirety of our vision. The light that dances as like unto stars, and the dolphin-like actions of the early morning Sun (when you actually look at it), they are craters in this moon. And our own Earth is a mere meagre piece of dust, that is set afloat in the DNA of greater beings, who would treat us like germs if they were made aware of our presence. 

That is what you learn when you can realise your extra-terrestrial status. ...Which is what I did! First, Eugene had made an appearance at my flat which was my current flat yet it was a somewhat nicer flat that I have. And Eugene and I had pizza, and played computer games, and drank Coca-cola, and then he left. Then, upon sleeping, I was able to transcend somehow my Earthly body, and I sent my anti-particulate body over to meet Nicolaus who, along with Roberto and in some respects Adam, were waiting patiently in his apartment for the arrival of my being - my anti-matter being! 

So I entered the abode, and stood inside the living room, and Nick and Rob were fully prepared for my arrival, and I sent out a signal, which was nothing more than an internal high pitched screaming, that permeated the entirety of the cosmos, and which Nick and Rob could understand. Yet there was Adam, behind the drums, perhaps not full prepared for the effect, and somewhat going through the motions, and full of lack of belief, yet somewhat to be worked upon, and the scream alerted the alien community. And the stars did shine, and I went and made a drink in the kitchen and read a book. 

Then, with a rushing wave, did the others arrive. They were in the capacity of Paul, Kerry, Adam Dagnall, and really just in that capacity, yet perhaps with a teeny tiny Emma Corr. And this company had heard, in the real world, or some strange goings on. They attributed said activity to the existence of aliens: Paul was the main Ghostbuster, come to bust the ghost of my alien anti-presence, and Kerry was there to back him up, but Adam Dagnall was the man who, in the midst of this gathering, had to ascertain the reality of my anti-presence... although none were aware that the activity was my own doing. The party began, and I was soon to become trapped and consequently sniffed out and snuffed out. Yet on a mission to collect something - perhaps some kind of alien detecting equipment - Adam Dagnall had left the door ajar, and I was able to steal out of it, in my anti-matter disguise, and onto the streets. I was free. And I left behind an Earthly party at the residence of Nick. 

Into the streets I went, and stole into perhaps Adam's car, a yellow truck, that I drove up and down and all along these streets - these American streets - and I began to look up to the night sky. Now in my alien anti-matter particulate disguise I was trusted by the powers that be, to be able to see this sky as a type of moon. Now, it was a matter of topology to be able to see it, yet the night sky, with all its stars and etchings which were craters on the surface of this, a universal moon that stretched away with gargantuan proportions, had upon it all manner of interesting divisions and impressions. One of these, may I explain, was the image of Gordon Ramsey's eyes, like a shining batman-symbol, with words I fail to remember what they were, shining down to tell us of this new topological resonance of alien provenance. Gordon Ramsey! Other resonances of this night-sky, which was like a gargantuan moon in reverse - a topological anomaly of extreme purport - were merely the lights and twinkling planets that were craters in such a moon. And someone was there. 

Someone was there explaining the entire deal to me now. A fatherly presence, who stood by me as I watched the night-sky, this moonlike gargantuan entity filling the universe in reverse, explaining that we are mere blotches on the DNA of other great and full beings, who are like Gods, but are like humans, yet we live inside their cells, and they are largely unaware of us. And he explained that, look closer and you will see, as the Sun rises what it is really made of. It was the beginnings of light, dancing like a wisp of orange paint across the horizon and among the clouds, and as it swished around - this alien craft of light and fluidity - it became the Sun, and I realised what the Sun really was in its capacity. And I watched this, the morning Sun, and it was like nothing I had ever seen, and I watched as it moved across from left to right, and was urged to take a closer look, and saw that part of the Sun unseen in usual living was jumping like a dolphin over the ocean, and was spilling of flares high up into the sky. And I had been joined by Kerry, who was watching the whole thing with awe. 

Now having seen what the universe really was, and the essence of everything it had to be, I could now go back to Nick's apartment, and did. When I arrived, the place was inundated and overrun with hundreds of dogs. These dogs were of all shapes and sizes, and were furiously running all over the place, and I was knee deep in dogs, and they were antagonised by something. It didn't take me long to find out what. I soon found, behind a curtain, at a window onto a small forecourt or garden in the middle of the house, and wrapped up in it were three cats. I recognised them to be like my own cats. And I was still alien; still anti-matter particles, and I collected up the cats, which were the cause of the distress of the hundreds of dogs, and I took the cats away, and then somehow the vision ended. 

A dream of aliens and topology no less. But calling them dreams makes pejorative a perfectly good vision, although now having written it down, the visionary aspect of the dream has become latent. Yet what I take away from this it the topology of the universe, to which I would not be privy unless I were in with the aliens. 

There, that's it. 

Daniel

x

Hi, how ya doin'?

In the park, near my mum and dad's house where I used to live, there is, close to the playground area next to the basketball court, a circular indentation in the ground on the grassy lawn where kids play football, and folks do exercise. The indentation is next to a park bench, and there is a rubbish bin nearby. 

The indentation is well known to all residents of Mill Hill, and people who go to the park know the indentation as a secret hole, through which it is thought that one can gain access to a park cafeteria in Australia (a bit like the one in Home and Away). However, those who have gone down the hole have mostly ended up at the park cafeteria in Mill Hill, at which there is a fete and some funfair rides. 

Today I parked across the road from the park, in my green Honda Civic, and got out and went for a walk in the park, and went past the indentation, which is a secret hole that takes you to Australia. "How I would love to go into that hole!" I thought, as I made my way to the cafeteria. Some children were playing nearby, and one youngster in particular was playing at the edge of the indentation. 

The cafeteria is run by some surfer-dude types, and they are always picking on me, teasing me to go down the hole. They have a little outlet that is known to stand upon a second indentation, and the structure is always wobbling around due to the instability of the foundation. It is thought that this outlet, where they sell Coca-Cola  and various surfing gear, is the other end of the secret hole which is the indentation next to the basketball court. Anyway, I went along, and was duly teased by them, and before long I walked back to my car. 

My car, of all things, had disappeared! I thought maybe I had mistakenly driven my burgundy Lexus instead, which was in its place. But no, my green Honda Civic had been stolen... And I thought I had an inclination as to whom had stolen it!! I was stood at the area of the missing car (which was outside the house where Peter used to live), when the culprit showed up! I grabbed him, and punched him, and took him to the indentation, and I threw him down it! 

There was a child watching - the same youngster who was playing there earlier on - and he fell in after the thief did (although not before a few games on the adventure building!) and I thought, "How I envy you! You lucky child! You get to go down the rabbit hole, and see what is down there!"

I walked back to the cafeteria. The surfer dudes allowed me to sit on their structure, the one that was unstable, and a lady who used to work at the local gym was ominously waiting for something to happen. And as I sat there, I could feel the structure waving back and forth, and I could feel the unstable foundation wavering beneath me. So I stood up. Yet the structure came with me, and I took it over to the first indentation, and somehow or other, I fell in! 

At first the structure, which was your basic rectangle made of two-by-four, at first it settled on top, but then it began to sink, and I thought, "Okay, we're going to see what's down the rabbit hole!" And gradually, I sunk into the indentation, with the soft mud surrounding me, and I was so far down, and... nothing happened! All I knew was that I was underneath the grassy indentation, and had sunk below and was expecting to resurface in a cafeteria in Australia. 

But then the muddy hole began to smell like caramel and chocolate, and the structure and I began to descend further into it, and soon we were floating, and I realised that we must be at the centre of the Earth, where gravity has no effect. 

And soon I landed and was on the ground, with the structure falling to the floor, and there were banks of mud, and there was a door. 

I opened the door and, beyond it, I saw the lady who used to work at the gym guarding the other side. The area was taped up and closed off, and I realised that I was inside a confidential zone akin to the likes of Area 51, and I quickly closed the door because I knew I would become a fugitive. 

There was another hole down here, so I escaped down it, and found myself back at the indentation in Mill Hill park. My car had reappeared, so I drove home. 

Anyway, that was my day. How was yours? 

Welcome ye, welcome ye,

And this morning I follow largely the same vein as always I do, sometimes talking about the day, sometimes talking about dreams. 

But what's got me to blog this morning is having just come off the phone to my dear friend Adam, the dear fellow, the kindest man I know, and an amazing person. It was six in the morning, and he sent me a text message asking me if I think he should release his new song. "What would I be likely to say to that?" I asked him, the reason for doing so being because, well... 

Now, Adam has written and recorded - he says - something like thirty albums, and he's put them out (released them) on a low grade music distribution site which distributes your music on all platforms for a fee. Anyway, he loves this fact, bless him, and thinks it makes him a professional musician of sorts. He loves all that. 

Problem is, nobody likes his music. Between you and me, his music is quite, quite terrible. My heart goes out to the man, the poor dear, my dear friend, he's completely deluded. That's the problem too - I'm his most prolific listener, and I say to him, like I said to him just now, "I like to encourage you, Adam, because you put your heart and soul into this music and you have such faith in it." Only, it's such unpalatable music; it's so distant and disconnected. But if I tell him that his music is distant and disconnected, he takes this as a compliment. I told him, "Adam, your music doesn't sound like anything..." by which I meant it's a cacophonous noise!! 

"So, is it like Frank Zappa then?" he said to me. 

No, Adam, it's not like Frank Zappa. Adam, your music is so weird and different: it doesn't sound like anything. And you know, I just don't have the heart to tell him that it's not good. But then who am I? Who am I to tell Adam not to write music? I think I am the type of person who gives Adam encouragement because I want him to eventually learn how to write music. But after thirty years now, he hasn't improved. 

Perhaps I'm being too harsh. I'm listening to some of it now, and I guess that now I've got to ground zero, by almost broaching the topic of being able to tell Adam what I really think of his music, and have been able to start from the very beginning, it's starting to sound quite creative. Perhaps Adam puts too much faith in my criticism, because actually, his music is quite creative. Problem is, it's a niche. You wouldn't like this music unless you absolutely adored this person. His music is so strange and different, and he has not quite sussed out the hook, or the melody, or the riff, or the beat. His music is simple, but lacks effectiveness, and has no thread to it. 

But now, listening to it, I'm asking why I choose to be so harsh. Of course, when I say that, a new reason comes along to tell me why. 

I decided that I finally understand what Balance Inc. is all about. I've spent years wondering what on Earth is going on there, with his music, and the connected 'story' that comes along with it. Adam has written a book of sorts, and guess what? I'm the only one who has listened to it. I've been trying for years to figure out what the essence of Balance Inc is... In short, Balance Inc. is a band, but it's a movement, that Adam really, really, really wants people to get on board with, and it's an ideology, and it's entertainment, and I've failed continually to understand the point of it all. 

But then it hit me. 

Balance Inc. is about Balance Inc. 

It's in part both devastating and very clever, although I don't think Adam knows what he's done. Adam reads the bible and practically no other book. He loves Star Wars, and comedy, and stuff like that. His wife committed suicide, the poor bloke. He was raped as a child. The poor, poor man. The poor, poor child. 

Adam's music doesn't fit in with anything on Earth, and you would think that's a good thing. Is it Jazz? Is it funk? Is it rock and roll? His riffs make no sense. His lyrics aren't about anything. You can't dance to it. 

But although he doesn't have musical hooks as such, his lyrics contain a certain 'soundbyte' quality. I believe Adam does know this. He overloads his songs with these soundbitten words, that if any one of them were a chorus of some sort, he could probably make a hook out of it. In themselves, they're quite catchy. But they're so sparse and disconnected. 

I just wish Adam's music sounded the way he thinks it does. 

It doesn't. 

He's a lone wolf in a difficult world that will never understand him. 

I wish other people heard his music, and found at least one song that they could connect with. You know what would happen then, is that Adam's ego would take over, and he would think himself an icon, like Chris Cornell, but the truth is, Adam doesn't understand music like the world understands music. People want something pleasant to listen to, and Adam wants to blow people's mind with cacophony, or something. I don't know. I'm lost. I don't understand him. Maybe that's a good thing? Maybe one day, Adam's music will be discovered, and he will be recognised as a genius, and make a shit-tonne of money and be famous, and all the things the lovely man dreams of. 

To be honest, I'm a bit freaked out. I'm freaked out by Adam's life. I'm freaked out by his music, and his legacy, and everything that he does and thinks and says. 

He's got this song, "Intuition, heart and soul", and I don't know what to make of it. He's so weird the boy. I think he's probably a pervert. He's so asexual. I don't know. 

Hey, Balance Inc.!! Check it out!!"

https://soundcloud.com/adamyb

Good morning all! 

And at three am what a morning it is turning out to be! I will say that so much sleeping shall fall by the wayside this morning, for such is the morning whim of such a new year. But of all things broken, it is not yet the morning which has done, and with promise, and opportunity. The medium of day, with which can be arranged a new theory of hope, will prove to have spoken to us once more, and we can openly listen and must be full with hearing, for the religion of joy is quick to speak with happy tones of things that can uplift the soul to light. 

Wednesday speaking has the effect of immediate sentiment with looping. This would be the strange loop that time forever leaves to be imprinted on arrangements (blueprints) to be tattooed on the skin of our emotions. The strange loop we are confirms the infinity that swirls in storms much louder that those which the ocean of our traversal could ever sound. And if Gödel feels as if his theorem should mention something which allowed inspiration to be transferred from God to blind science, that's his prerogative. I'm not saying it's a bad theory, however, the depth of self-reference signals the theory too quickly exempt. 

Yes, I'm reading Hofstadter's "Gödel, Escher and Bach - An Eternal Golden Braid".

Now I come to think of it, although they are beautiful and intricate and stunning, there is something slightly crass about Escher. Perhaps the beauty is too kitsch? 

Perhaps Gödel's incompleteness theorem is too kitsch? Perhaps Bach's music? 

Perhaps I am mad. 

Actually, Escher said, "What is kitsch? I do not know!"

Daniel

x

... And it really gets to me. 

Welcome, and hello, how are you. Greetings. 

I just had my family Christmas gathering, and not a moment too soon. Yes, I know, the rules have changed, and perhaps we should have organised ourselves around the government restrictions. But in any case, and whatever happens, and whatever has happened, our family Christmas gathering happened today. 

And I loved it. 

Firstly, I really cannot give my mother enough credit for what she does. I mean it! Every year she says, "This is the last time we're doing this!" .. And it never is. I think, no matter how much it screws off my dad, that Christmas is a fact of life. My mother is sixty four years old. She has recently come out of a difficult operation for her ear and balance - she had one before, and that time, she hardly came out of it with all of her faculties. 

Just as an aside... my mother was a very difficult woman, before her operation. She has a particular diagnosis, I'm not sure what without googling it. Long story short: now, she is not so difficult. Yes, she is still difficult, however, I believe that something, somewhere along the line, has changed. The issue with her ear and balance, which incidentally affected her mood and behaviour (possibly something to do with my own diagnosis), has been somewhat resolved, and although she has more in the way of recovery to go, she is a far more pleasant and amenable person than she has ever been. The issue is: I don't think she has noticed! I feel it is an indictment of my own standing as a son to comment on my mother's behaviour (for christsake's - I'm the schizophrenic!!), but I am hopeful for the future of our relationship. 

And that brings me to my main point. My parents are going to die. In fact, this last week, my father's own best friend in the world, who happens to be younger than he is to the tune of two years, died in his bed of a heart attack of sorts... Died! At sixty four? It must have affected my dad, for one, since who knows? It could've been him. Still, it won't stop my dad having a cheeky puff down the shed before dinner!! However, it could have been dad. And that is a fact. 

Now, not to concentrate too much on the psychotic thoughts that I have on a daily basis, it seems to me that I'm in a kind of stasis as to my parents health. In fact, for their age, my parents are relatively young. Yet something inside of me wishes for them to be alive for the duration of my entire life. I feel like I'm in a golden age. But even from an early age we know our parents will shuffle off this mortal coil. I'm at a tender time. And I call it a golden age because I have learned, through all the hard times wherein other family members have passed away, that effectively, the only course of action in all my fear of being left to navigate through life by myself, that I have merely just to cherish my parents. And I do. I cherish them. Till the end of time. 

However, sometimes my mother will not allow me to cherish her. She takes my cherishing advances as flattery, and if you know my mother, you know she will not be flattered. I guess that I'm trying to figure out the best to cherish my folks. Well... the best way to cherish my mother, in fact. My father is open to it, as far as I can tell, when I say the things I say in the manner of letting him know how much I appreciate him. But my mother is no fool. That's the problem. And it's a shame that it seems that the only way I can cherish my mother is by allowing her to find the good things about me. That is, it is easier, that trying to find the things I love (nay, like) about her, to allow her to find things to love and like about me. I find this to be a course of action in which I must merely be the best son to my parents (and not through words or flattery), and the best uncle to my nephews and niece, and let the actions do the work. I think that's why I like to paint for my old dear. No matter what the topic or essence of the piece, my mother always likes what I have done. So I'm happy that she enjoys those things. I suppose, at heart, the best thing to do is to transcend above mere sentiments and words, and let the real actions do the work. I think that's the best course of action. 

I think what I'm trying to say, despite the fact of it being something we all try to say at one time or another, is that, while they were alive, and in print to prove the fact, I appreciate my folks. In fact, I appreciate many, many people: from family to friends to builders to bus drivers to scientists. Heck, I even appreciate the government. Yesterday I watched the government address to the nation and, what with me being a medicated individual, a perpetual freeloader, a man who has slipped through the cracks in many more ways than one, and I was in awe of the capacity of Boris Johnson, who has to face adversity at great lengths on a daily basis in this age, to deal with the things he has to deal with. These people who have had no great hiccups as to the standard progress of living in this life, such as psychotic breaks, hospitalisations, violent altercations, and so on... well, it must be an amazing thing to be able to get out of bed each day, and get on with your working life in spite of all adversity. I aspire to be one of these people. I love these people. They amaze me. 

Perhaps these people look at the likes of myself and are filled with an amount of, say, pity, or compassion, or some such other emotional resonance... which makes them happy to give to us what they do, in this age and, especially, in this country. What a great country this is!! I forgive the socialist element, and commend the mix of political answers we have amalgamated to produce such phenomena as the NHS, and the social benefits system. Seriously! I have it as a real and immediate plan to give back into this society as has been given to me! I love you. You are amazing! 

And my parents are amazing. And my sister is amazing. And her man is amazing. And my brother is amazing. How they have it in them to day in, day out, take care of extraneous human individuals, such as like unto the ones which they have produced into life. I am forever in awe. I do not have the words. 

There that's it. I hope I have said what I needed to say. 

Best, 

Daniel

x

Hello, and without thinking, how are you?

I'm jumping straight in to talk about consciousness, it being something that science aspires to understand, yet has not made much headway, and I think that, being someone who possesses consciousness, I think that I can talk about it. 

I spend a great deal of time thinking about consciousness, and my favourite times are those when I am on the cusp of dropping off to sleep, when the physical world as we naively know it begins to subside into dissipation, and we enter a world of pure internalisation.

It seems we desire a theory of consciousness. I think that, in order to attain such a theory, we need to assess just what attributes the phenomenon possesses that we can all agree upon, largely in the same fashion as science has in terms of the physical world. Newton, for example, was able to conceive of laws, such as the laws of motion, to which all macroscopic objects adhere. I am sometimes astounded that we have not as yet found any laws outside of pure metaphysics that come close to describing consciousness. However, I think that this is because many of us have not tried. 

Hegel has come close to ascertaining some degree of consistency in his discussion of the internal workings of the mind (I have yet to complete a reading of his "Philosophy of Mind"). He talks about the apparent structures of the entity, and I must admit, he does a wonderful job in his introductory explanations. For example, he claims the properties of mind contain, for one thing, that of being "in" something, and in that sense, it is a private entity; that is, nobody else has access to its contents. Hegel talks about thinking in terms of an entity that is experienced as a type of string of points separated by time, and I admit, although a naively realistic assessment, it is not far from the mark. 

As an introduction to consciousness I feel it would be wise to avoid the esoteric curtailments of its description, however, I feel the following attempt in part avoids a complete reduction to such a restriction. One of consciousness's properties is that it is one. As I mention, not so esoteric, I believe, when one considers the glaring fact of its empirical evidence; that is, and from a personal perspective, consciousness can only be one in the sense in which only one person experiences it at any one time. In that sense it is true, but also on a more esoteric note, it must follow that consciousness is one in the universal sense; that is, there is nothing that I am given to experience that is solely within the confines of my own experience; that is, to reiterate, there is nothing it is like to be me that cannot be known by anyone else. It is a hard concept to grasp, but it is perfectly natural. Nagel asks: Is there anything it is like to be a bat? And I believe that, if we can mine our cognitive talents enough, we can understand that what it is like to be a bat is the same in many respects as what it is like to be ourselves, given the similarities in evolutionary survival struggles, and other such respects. Perhaps I am not being entirely clear, however, this point is a fleeting nod to the impressions left by the physical presence and worldly effects that others (in the naively traditional sense) have on us. (Am I justified in talking about an 'us'?) 

But Hegel's appropriation to the aspects of mind may give us a fruitful leg up in the approach to a definition of consciousness, that is, in the sense in which we must find common properties to it. I think that "consciousness is one" is a good approximation to such an introduction, in the flavour of what I intend to purport. 

But without messing around too much with particularities, I wish to define a second approach to something akin to an appraisal of a property of consciousness, and this relies on a cursory understanding of quantum mechanics and thermodynamics. In short, it is a physical theory, and perhaps relies, to its detriment, on an understanding of mind as a structural composition of thought. That is, thought itself is not consciousness (yet it does have connections), rather, thought is a structural component, the likes of which may or may not be similar in form to those which are common to each and every one of us. That is, it is consciousness which separates us (again, justified use of the word 'us'?), although having said that, how could I know? I am not telepathic. Yet these structures of thought, which are underpinned by consciousness, can be ascertained by experience and with skill, and skill that is a common undertaking to those with the disposition. So, momentarily, a discussion of thought. First however, I wish to illustrate a conceptual and intuitive definition of consciousness. That is - consciousness is a self-luminant observable entity. 

Consciousness is a self-luminant observable entity. Such a concept is self evident, and also it is self evident that such a self-luminant entity is an innate, that is, inner conceptual entity. To deepen the discussion, it may be necessary to state some obvious observations about this concept. 

Again, a self-luminant observable entity is innate. However, questions arise about the nature of 'inside' and 'outside', and it can be proven that a distinction can be blurred, and even switched upon its head, and also that, in light of relativistic concerns. Perhaps 'inside' and 'outside' are emergent properties? And perhaps consciousness itself is the mooting example of such a relativistic consideration. This is akin to considerations of relative size, mass, position, possession, quality, quantity, relation, place, activity, passivity and time and substance. 

A self-luminant observable entity is only attainable by the one. That is, it may only be accessed by he whom observes it, namely, it is private. In esoteric terms (forgive me!), it may be that the self-luminant observable entity (SLOE) is produced according to differences in the 'micro-evolution' of the human states of being. (Micro-evolution is merely changes to the constitution of being, which has numerable connotations, one of which I heretofore point out to be an effect of continual rejuvenation, brought about by the continuum of transference, in terms of the perceived coming to being, and dying away of external entities. A SLOE is self-luminant; it illuminates itself, and the structure of thought is the mechanism by which this occurs. 

That is why we must continue the discussion in the frame of 'thought', which appears to me to be a mechanistic structure, and can easily be defined. We may naively consider that, which we take to be thought, to be that which is an emergent property of the mind, brought about by the brain and its connections. I admit, I do not know enough about neuroscience to be sure of these following claims, but I have for many years sought to investigate the workings of thought, by introspection, and am most enamoured by science. That is, in short, the structure of thought is as geometric and logical as we can take it. One may imagine a fractal, or a network, indeed, a neural network, that is engineered to be experienced as a micro-evolution, and takes on different levels at different times of life. 

These innate neural networks can be seen to be structural by inspection. One is reminded of the physical mechanics of semiconductors, which employ the use of doping mechanisms by which lattices of configured atoms are electrically enhanced by the addition of 'holes' (doping), and these promote the flow of electrons from one part of the material to another. That is the long and short of it. Yet in terms of the structure of thinking, that is, the structure of thought, we can find a counterpart similarity. Yet here we have a subject that has not been much considered, at least in my line. 

Take a thought, and take it to be in the form of such a SLOE as we have been discussing, and call it a positive entity. This puts it in the same line as like a positive particle. In fact, electrons are the negative particles, and protons the positive, so hence we should put thought (SLOE) in the same species as a proton - yet, to be true to the physics, it is the electron which carries the charge, hence we should say that a SLOE is a negative entity. Nevertheless we experience it as a positive entity, in its self-luminant capacity. But such a SLOE is in pursuit of something which is definitely a 'missing' attribute. That is, the electron is fluid in the presence of a hole (a hole being a positive entity). Such a hole, in the manner of doping, can take the place of something akin to that which we seek to know, that is, the promise of knowledge; the gap in our knowledge; the unknowledge, or the innocence or ignorance. Yet we could not call it ignorance, nevertheless these things we seek to know are things of which we are ignorant. These entities, akin to doping holes, are really yet to be discovered. However, they act in the capacity of driving the negative entities to become a SLOE, and thus complete the mechanism. 

Hence we have innate neural networks. The properties of such a network are glaring and glaringly vast, yet as with anything, I believe they can be brought into crystallisation, and, furthermore, are common to all species of being, male or female, and so on. 

I will come to an end shortly, on this discussion of consciousness, but I leave you with the thoughts that follow. 

Consciousness, if introspection and investigation through self-examination have anything to do with it, is finely grained. That is what is so fascinating about it. That is what is so mysterious about it. The experience of the physical world, in waking life, for me personally, is a matter of light and touch, and the other senses. Yet it seems the human brain (for those who are aware of their own possession of such) is capable of storing light to be saved for such experiences as dreams, and lucid dreams, and imagination. The innate light that we possess can illuminate our unconscious experiences and, as I say, it is finely grained. That is, our dreams seem to possess such fine graining in the quality of our innate experiences, that it becomes harder and harder to appreciate that the physical world (which may be extended to synaptic and neural experiences) is quantum at all, or in other words, particulate. There remain to be had discussions of time, and space, and light, and all manner of other entities of which we may attribute the tag a limit.

For what is not a limit? 

I wish to say one last thing in this blog post. I believe that, whether or not you take into account the admittedly abstruse or inscrutable things I have said here, the goal of a true understanding of consciousness is to attain a state of universal access to a common innate entity. Perhaps our common origin (in that of the big bang) may go some way to afford this task, and perhaps the real wonder is why we have not already reached this achievement. But I would encourage people to make it a common endeavour to think deeply about the ways in which we can finally, through all our failed attempts, make a good go at finding a physics of consciousness. 

Thanks very much, 

Daniel Frederick Best, Cert He (Open).

x

Alright? Welcome. 

Blogging... and blogging for calm, blogging for peace, blogging... for relaxation. 

I may blog about a dream (if I can remember one). Or I may blog about family! If I'm truly honest, I have no idea what I will blog about. 

I called the police on John the other week. The foolish drunk had knocked on my door at 2am on a Friday night, and stupid me only let him in. It was ten minutes before he had insulted me, insulted my mother, insulted my girlfriend, and insulted my work, and had thrown a washing hamper at the television. I asked him then politely to leave, then asked him angrily to leave, then fake phoned the police - (which nearly worked, but my neighbour is sensitive to lies) - and he wouldn't leave, so finally I actually called them, got through, and John heard and left because he is sensitive to being arrested. In fact, a great deal of other stuff happened before I called the police. I kissed John in exasperation, for I knew not if he was going to hit me or rape me, it was as tense. 

My father has the right idea. Having told my family about the altercation, they have taken my side. Anyway, dad dropped me home the other day: we were talking about John, and dad said, "That bloke's a waste of space." It's true, the truest! John really is a waste of space, and that approximation is about as factual as it can get. Two weeks ago I had hopes for the drunken fool: he had managed to sign himself up to a course at college - some construction ticket or other - and I was impressed. He even bought a cheap laptop, and I was able to help set it up, and show him a few things, and get him comfortable using Zoom. Anyway, the weekend came and he got on the beer, and called someone or messaged someone affiliated with the course, to tell them he would like to take them up the arse. Anyway, long story short, he got kicked off the course. Waste of space. 

John texted me today and said his ex-missus had died. He was very sad, and knocked on my door drunk. I ignored him. 

Tamsin visited today. She turned fifty on Thursday. For her birthday I purchased her some Vans trainers. It was quite funny: I told her at first I would spend fifty quid on her gift, and to come and choose a pair to order. She said, "I've chosen a pair. These are the ones I want. I don't know if you can stretch to seventy pounds." 

I said, "Well, you can owe me the twenty..."

"I haven't got the twenty to spare..." she said. 

I tutted and said, "Alright then. But you owe me one." 

Tamsin is apt to always be sending her orders back, and I said to her, "Are you sure you're a size seven? I don't wanna be sending things back, Tamsin." 

"No, I'm sure," she said. So I ordered the Vans. 

Anyway, next week they showed up, and Tamsin came over to try them on, and guess what? They were too big. She looked like a clown walking around in those things. So after she accepted they were too big, we decided to send them back. I sent them back. Anyway, here's the thing: After I sent them back, Tamsin changed her mind about the type of trainers she wanted, and said, "I've changed my mind, I want these other ones." In fact, she had gone to the Vans shop in town to try some on, to make sure they were the right size, and the ones she wanted were a hundred and five pounds. "I'll pay you the thirty five pounds," she said. 

Oh really, Tamsin? So you can afford to give me thirty five pounds, but you couldn't afford the twenty from the first purchase? 

I paid for the trainers, and she did pay me the thirty five pounds. And I promised myself I wouldn't talk about it, that I would let this one go, but I think that's typical behaviour and, honestly, I feel a little used. But that's women for you. They'll claim their different, and to the point that they won't accept the stereotype, but that's women, all about the money. I do feel used. I'm glad I said that. Maybe one day I'll bring that up with Tamsin. You imagine she's different. She's just the same. Well, hey. 

And blogging for calm, peace and relaxation. 

I don't know why I don't talk about consciousness and knowledge a bit more. I am after all conscious, and love knowledge. I posted on Facebook this evening, "Other than thinking, what do you use your brain for?" I think I broke the internet with that one. 

I finished a book by David Deutsch the other night, and thank God. It's so lovely to finish books, especially ones as hard and long as "The Fabric of Reality." David talked about how you can experimentally prove the existence of the multiverse, by the existence of "shadow photons", which are antithetical to ordinary photons - they are responsible for dark bands in two-slit experiments. He talks about the philosophy of knowledge, and the fallacy of inductivism, and champions Karl Popper's philosophy of science, and Darwin's (and also Dawkins' neo-evolutionism), and talks about the "four strands", which include evolution, quantum physics, and two others I forget now. He's very good at explanations, is Deutsch, and explains his approach to time and time travel, and many topics. In fact, so good is he at explaining, that it's quite abstruse to follow. 

I have been playing games - computer games! I have a little idea about buying consoles in bulk, and selling them on for profit. But mind you, I don't mind if I don't make anything - however, it would be a fine thing to break even at least. But the idea is to try my hand at sales. The internet is the future, if not the present already, and many a pound has been made by its employment. I am expecting to be paid for some work I've been commissioned for recently, and soon I hope, so I am thinking about investing in these little consoles. Please don't steal my idea. 

But computer gaming is such fun! I have spent a little money purchasing several games, and systems on which to play them, and I certainly wish there was time enough to play them. I'm focusing on the course, at present, so there isn't a great deal of time, but I get an hour in the evening. I was playing my Nintendo 3DS recently, and it's quite an underrated system. The three dimensional effect is genuinely amazing. Luigi's mansion is quite a stunner. 

Knowledge, consciousness, physics, time and mathematics. There was a Zoom group last night, and everything went swimmingly, and it's a fine thing to know there are others on the same ship as you are. You can, in spending your days alone and in books, get quite accustomed to the idea that you're the only one. But I'm just saying, it's nice to have a group to communicate with. It's nice. 

I might hit the hay. 

Thanks for reading. 

Dan

x

Hi, 

I just had a dream. The dream was this. There I was at mine, in my flat, and at my block there are five other apartments: my neighbour John, some muslims, some blacks, a family of five, and an empty flat. In the dream a fat Iranian lives downstairs, and so does John, and some Muslim bloke, and some others. 

During the first few weeks of lockdown I was convinced I was the Christ. Something happened on television that gave me a message and convinced me of it. I got my crown, and cried tears of joy at the fact. Yet I was still on weed, and when that first clap for the NHS happened, I had missed the memo because I had switched off the television. And I was running out of weed. So when eight o'clock came and, having deliberated to go out to get some weed, I went into the forecourt, the clapping began. In my mind I saw everything. I saw the whole world, because I remembered the idea being put out on social media, and I saw them clapping, and I saw the world world clapping because I was the Christ, and I was going to give them a speech and explain to them everything I had learned by the media over the past few days, that Coronavirus was a 5G implanted chip that goes into your mind, and that you can control like some sort of iPhone technology, and that you will have advantages such as being able to switch environments and communicate mentally, using telepathy but a designed version, and that we were working to... do something... stop the devil... something... I can't remember... But I had to give a speech at this clapping, and the entire forecourt of my apartment block was clapping, and I thought it was me. So I had to give a speech. I was accepting the applause, as though having just come on stage to adoring fans, and something in me thought they knew what was going on, in a way. And then the clapping died down, and I began to speak, and my thoughts evaporated, and all I could say was, "You're as confused as me!" There was silence all around, and I sloped off, very, very embarrassed. So much for the end of days. 

Later on in the week I was mightily upset at the embarrassment. The event had got to me somewhat, and also I had been unable to work on my physics module for three weeks due to being stoned and paranoid and mentally ill. And all that. I spent nights crying in frustration at my huge failure, and vowed to get myself put away. And the way I vowed this was to wake up the neighbours, with music, as though I had a plan all along. I still saw that I was the Christ, and I opened my windows, and it was five thirty in the morning, and I turned on my electric guitar, at full blast, and began to fill the neighbourhood with the loudest electric grunge concert ending I could, distortion blaring, feedback screaming, riffs chunking, the amplifier turned to the highest volume. At five thirty in the morning. 

What I saw in my mind was that we were in a new world order, and that people needed to come to Christ, and also, that Kurt Cobain was in my soul, and he was in the highest level of heaven, and speaking to me, and all the world was communicating through this new 5G microchip technology. What I saw in my mind was that the people would gather, outside my windows, and see this modern day rock star playing the most beautiful music of Elysium that was stream into the streets, as I, the Christ, would be world renowned for playing these tunes and this sound. And I played, and for fifteen minutes, the sound blared all across the neighbourhood.

After that time, however, I suppose it was even a bit much for me, so I switched off the amp, having failed again to bring Earth to the highest level of heaven, and there was knocking at the door. I answered it, and my Muslim neighbours were there complaining and most angry, saying, "It's six o'clock in the morning! My dad works for the NHS." What I could hear him saying was, "It's beautiful music, my father is in the seventh level of hell." And I felt guilty for stopping. 

The idea was that after two weeks of annoying my neighbours like this I would finally be sectioned and placed in a mental ward - Broadmoor or something - and that would be where I lived my life. So I played the next night too, and stopped, and there was knocking on the door, and it was another neighbour, asking me to keep it down. 

In any case the dream was about those nights. Here, in dream, I was somehow ended up at my Muslim neighbour's apartment, and was hiding in the bathroom, and he had left a note with Arabic writing that told me everything about how beautiful he found my music and how relevant it was, and detrimental to life. And now, and I fail to remember why, perhaps because the music was so loud, the police were called, and the Iranian man was arrested, and I was brought out of the Muslim neighbours house, and the police were there, yet I was not arrested. Instead, a female police officer seemed to turn into a psychologist, and she took me back up to my own apartment, and we sat there and talked, in dream, and then we had sex, and I killed her. 

And then I was on the run, but my amplifier was there, as was my guitar, so I played in the manner of those nights, and couldn't muster the noise enough to save everybody. Every time I turned off the guitar something new happened: I had to leave the flat, and go into the hallway, and there was my guitar and amplifier, and I would play, and time would be running out, and I would stop, and another level of the dream would arise, to a diminished effect. Then I was transferred to another part of the neighbourhood, and tried to save the world again with my music, again to a diminished effect, and another level of the dream. And, gradually, the effects being so continuously diminished, I ended up in some kind of bunker, where two young men, perhaps Dean and Lee (two from school days), would attempt to stop my efforts of playing beautiful, loud music on my amp, and in fact, the amp was losing power, and my leads would not connect to the fuzz boxes, and I could rarely get a sound out, and only revel in the glory of old days. 

And then Charlie was helping me, in dream, by arranging things so that I could play, and yet there was always this looming threat of immediate death encroaching, and I was in the neighbourhood. And yet Charlie was only holding me back, although I could not escape the inevitable, and the effects diminished further, and I was losing my battle. Eventually, Charlie took me to a room outside of which there was a scaffold structure, and there were more people, maybe Sara, and Ryan, and Maddie, and Aaron, and I hung from the scaffold, and finally, the music was so diminished that I ended up in a parallel world, where there only my brother Ryan's friends, and the world was usurped and drenched with water, with little mountains being covered by the increasing oceans, and it was the end of time. 

And it being the end of time, and my brother's friends being there, they were sympathetic to my plight, which really, in a nut shell, was to avoid being caught by the police for killing the female psychologist. And I had to go, and leave for the mountains, and on the way there was an old man, in his late sixties, who was sitting at the bottom of the stairs and congratulating me for a fine and wonderful music career, and Glastonbury loved you, make no bones about that! And there my brother's friends, all reveling in the joy of the end of the world. Then I went out into the mountains, and slowly but surely, the world was drowned in water. And it was the heat death of the universe. 

But then I was taken in to a complex run by old friend Eugene, and he was showing me how to use his new gym equipment, and we spent the rest of the time climbing up ropes and across bars. 

And it was the heat death of the universe. 

That was my dream. 

Welcome, and to every lover. 

Up until 2016, as much as we looked forward to them, Christmases around my family home were beginning to grind a little in the mode of becoming slightly samey.

There was, of course, one or two memorable ones, like the year when I was hospitalised for my life's worst misdeed. I remember the day. Mum, dad, Corina and Ryan visited and I was given a camera, and I did not feel very well at all, and it was not a good day, even though I can remember the ward's Christmas spread, with its turkey and pigs in blankets and stuffing and gravy, and I can remember the staff's nice gift of a set of toiletries. But yes, I was not very well. At the visit, I was still fortunate to have retained a modicum of thought, which was reserved for my brother - and thankfully so, for without an intuition like that, I daresay I would be a different person. And as for Ryan, I'm sure he was also thankful, that there was still a light of recognition within my mind. I remember that I had bought gifts for the siblings, in the form of movie posters, beforehand. I had such hopes for that Christmas: I had some extra money, for my disability benefits were being paid as well as my student grant. I had hoped to spend big, and buy some nice things, like a Nintendo DS for Besty, and... that's as far as I had thought. 

The year before that, I remember, was the one that mum and dad had gone away for a year, and us kids of the family had gone over to Cathy and Tony's, and spent the day with them. I was a vegetarian at the time. Cathy had managed to rustle up some vegetable stock at short notice of the news, and I enjoyed roast potatoes, peas, broccoli and other Christmas vegetables with a nice tasting gravy. Cathy's son Scott was kind enough to have bought me a book for the celebration; I'll never forget it - Shyte's Miscellany. It was a yellow book with much content relating to British culture. But I was poor that year, and was unable to buy any gifts for anyone, and I was full of shame about the fact. Cathy's sister Margaret was there, as well as their brother, who's name I am constantly forgetting. 

The year before that, Scott had come to dinner with our family, since his parents were away. Our cousins Darren and Nerys were also there, visiting from New Zealand. That year, Ryan had bought me a ukulele, and I fear I may have showed a slight disappointment in that, for I remember Darren and Scott reacting at it. It was a thoughtful gift, but I couldn't seem to find the desire to learn it, and in any case, I think Ryan really wanted to learn it himself. I remember Nerys and Corina singing "A la la la le long!" and I remember mum asking Scott if his food was edible, and him saying, "Very edible!"

Whatever happened at Christmas 2007? You can usually remember by the gifts that you bought and received... let me see... I think that was the year we played Nintendo Wii, and cousin Darren was there. I had had the Wii since the middle of the year, but mum had bought some games for it. 

2008? That was the year of the "Credit Crunch". Not a most memorable year, except that I was still living in Colindale, and probably still reeling from the injections. I'd love to remember something from this year. I seem to recall writing a diary and sleeping in the small bedroom. I seem to remember being given a journal for a present. In 2008 I turned thirty years old. I was at the Hammers with friends that year: Fiona (Ryan's girlfriend) buying me Jack Daniels, and Grant Nathan (the old cunt) smiling away his dirty faced grin, and Ross (the old knob) picking up Grant's gloves at the end of the evening and saying, "Eurgh! they stink of spunk!" The old git. I wasn't well that year, I remember. I wasn't enjoying life in the slightest. 

In 2009, that was the year I had been evicted from my Colindale flat, for various reasons, and was living in a shitty old bedsit in Friern Barnet. My ex-girlfriend Kerry's mother died that year. We all gathered round at Ross's to offer our condolences. Kerry is married now. 

2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014... The years went by, with not much to write home about. 

In 2015 we were noticing the lack of any memorable occurrences. But Corina had got herself a boyfriend, then, in February or March in 2016, the family were all sitting around the dinner table, when suddenly mum said, "Corina has an announcement!" I was aghast. I knew what it was. And when Corina told us that she was pregnant, I exclaimed, "There is a God!!" and then Corina was crying, and I was close to tears. And then Ryan also admitted, that Fiona was pregnant, and then he was close to tears, and he hugged mum, and I was confounded because there really must be a God!! Two pregnancies at once, in the same family. 

It was certainly a cause for celebration, and for so long I was unable to stop thinking about the sense of coincidence I felt at the whole situation. It turned out that, four years ago, in October, two children were born - my nephew first, and then my niece next - within two weeks of one another. I really was stunned by the whole coincidence of it. Nothing for years, and then two children within two weeks of one another. In fact, it made me slightly wary. For I could really see the symmetry of things playing out before me. There was my brother and his new daughter, and my sister, and her new son, and me myself sitting with no romantic relationship at the tip of this triangle, and I couldn't get it out of my mind.  

I write this in the intermediate weeks between Rio's and Sia's birthdays. Rio was four last week. Sia is four next week. It would be a shame to forget about the things have happened, in these four years. Yet I do not wish to recall merely the memories which we have caught on video and photographs. Yet, they will serve as good marker points for jogging my memory. 

According to Dayne and Corina, Rio used to call dogs "Ed". I remember playing on the living room rug with the lad, and holding him gently whilst seated on the couch. I remember Corina telling me that she held him as he cried, and as she was tired saying, "I love you Rio, but I'm so tired," and she cried. We used to joke about buying Rio a "baby-cannon". I remember buying the lad a Nirvana Babygro for his first Christmas, and I remember him playing in the garden, and crawling around the house. I remember dad holding Rio in the garden on sunny days, and Rio being absolutely and utterly besotted with the man. 

I remember first seeing Sia - her little hairy head, and her closed eyes - the tiniest package. She has a good memory for her age, the girl, and remembers how at Christmas 2018 I scared them as they played in the rocket tent which I bought. I scared them because I knew they would remember it, because I remember it when my dad did the same when I was aged two. I remember asking Sia if she wanted to open my birthday present, and her saying, "But it's your birthday!" 

Sia likes to fan out the cards - well, she likes it when I fan out the cards, and she likes to hold the fan, and she likes to throw the cards into the air, so that its raining cards. Fiona used to tell me that Sia would talk about me all day, and mum says the she said, "I love uncle Daniel, he lets me throw the cards in the air." When Sia was born, I used to sing to her - "Daisy, Daisy give me your answer do. I'm half crazy, all for the love of you!" 

This summer, the kids played in the garden, in the paddling pool. At parties, or gatherings, they always come to me after they're bored. 

Rio running around the field in the park. He saw me walking off the path, and followed me and walked off the path. We laughed together as we searched for bears. Rio and Sia, playing in the garden. 

Then there was Rocco, and Rocco was new. And now he is one, and turned one in June or July, and I can't believe I don't know which. Rocco is Rio's brother, and he is very intelligent. He likes to communicate, and copy you. He is the newest member of the family. Rio grabbed Rocco by the head, quite viciously, but I guess that's brotherly affection. 

There was Rio at the Mill Hill park dog show, where he played on the bouncy castle. There was Rio walking in the park, just a few weeks ago, and we walked and picked berries off the bushes. 

You want to remember specific things they've said. Rocco has yet to say words, really, but he's definitely communicating. 

Once, Rio was dribbling, and I asked him why, and he said, "I like to dribble!"

The kids are funny.