I've been in Salford for five years now.
Five harrowing years.
I have never been this poor, this depressed, this...hopeless.
I'm no good at it. And it's driving me mad.
It's all going to change. Soon.
And I guess, some part of me will reflect on these days here like the Suedehead video.
He went to see the hometown of his beloved.
I came to drown in his.
I've speculated previously in my blog about which came first, me, as I am, and thus, my attraction to the writing and the music. Or, did Morrissey have more to do with it. I have often said, "He raised me!"
I started listening to him when I was so young, and he's so right about how nothing ever affects you more than the music you love in your formative years. How it sets you on a course. It's like a first love.
That is such a beautiful quote, I'll post it at the bottom of this entry
My admiration for him did open up an entirely new realm to me. All the British music I listened to made me smarter. But no one had as deep an impact as Moz. No one ever will.
People who write their autobiographies at the age of 25 make me laugh. Unless you've won a Nobel Prize, been a Poet Laureate, or walked on the moon, you aren't interesting enough at the age of 25 to sum up your life. Well, unless you're planning on dying.
In fact, that's the only justification for an early issue that I can see sense in, the fact that none of us knows when we'll die. So, you can do a "my life to this point" sort of thing, but it's all a bit like an extended scrap book, really.
This was the perpetual complex I was struck with each time I sat down to write about my life when I was younger. I would think, "Who in the HELL is going to be interested in the squirmings of a fetus?"
"Oh, here is some of my infinite wisdom, I learned most of it in the last three years when I was suddenly a little more humble than I was at 22!"
Please.
Yet, people who've had fewer adventures than me have written books about their lives, and MADE MONEY!
So, my own reservations notwithstanding, apparently there is a market for it. If one can hammer it out on a keyboard and keep a straight face.
I have another 16 years under my belt and I still can't be sure this would be the right time.
I know there is so much more to come. Well, I hope there is.
I don't know if I've said this before, but I'll have to package my truth as fiction anyway.
It is pretty outlandish. Even I find it difficult to believe, and I've lived it!
Others with similarly "out there" stories have echoed my sentiments about how you can be telling a story and then people will get that face you know you probably make yourself when you don't exactly believe what you're hearing. As a result, I don't tell very many people about it, because I find being taken for a liar with no event to support the conclusion, offensive, if understandable.
It makes me wonder if people run into that many people who spew such shit that you have to become a doubter to not feel like you're being taken for a fool.
I only lie about the embarrassing things by omission. I can't be bothered making anything up.
I lie about things like, "NO, I DID NOT DRINK ALL THE COKE!"
(He worries it's going to ruin my health and teeth)
I also lie about things like, "He's had that toy for AGES!" When I buy Tommy something I shouldn't have.
The other regular lie is, "I didn't take the last fag, I swear! You must've forgotten."
I smoked forty ciggies a day when I got here. If I get a whole ONE these days, I'm lucky.
It's a bit like health house arrest.
I'm bent on self-destruction and then panicking, ironically, of course, about my health and mortality.
Half teenaged, half middle aged.
It's my version of a crisis.
It's difficult to be a Goth Mother. I actually backed off all the black when I had the boys, well, in the sense I DID have some dark greens, navy blues, and a few white and pink things.
Spit up shows up so obviously on black, and you can't scrub it off with a wipe, the wipes just ball up in lint and then you have spit up and paper balls on you.
Not at all cool. Very not punk rock.
I have let the sense of the macabre erupt naturally from their genes instead of imposing my own preferences. And it has. Wills was asking me nine thousand questions just tonight about Vlad the Impaler, whether or not people still believed that birthmarks were a sign of evil, when was Alexander the Great alive and taking over everything, what does anno domini mean...he was on a role! He's now 8, as of last week!
There was an incident at school where a kid in his class was stabbing another kid in the neck with a pencil.
(I can't believe this actually happened) He went to tell the teacher and she told him to go give himself a demerit on the demerit board for tattling. He said, "No, that's not right, I won't do that. What I just told you was reporting.
It's going on, right there, (points), and I thought it concerned you!"
Then she sees the boy, and goes to deal with it, but never set Will straight about her mistake.
My Mom was livid.
She said, "I am so glad he's like you in that way! We want to raise thinkers, not conformists!"
Now, that's my bit in "raising" my Mom to be my Mom!
I had a soapbox from which I preached the virtues of non-conformity throughout my ENTIRE adolescence. If your argument cannot handle opposition, YOU HAVE NO ARGUMENT!
Inject a different point of view when everyone seems to be following along too nicely. They may not know where they're heading!
Mom went from a child of the 50's, where everybody just wanted to "fit in", to being fairly well versed in Emerson and Thoreau, and to this day she knows a Morrissey quote when I throw her one!
She says, "if it sounds like something you'd write, I know it's him, because you never quote yourself!"
Haha, she doesn't read this blog, does she?
View attachment 33474
Five harrowing years.
I have never been this poor, this depressed, this...hopeless.
I'm no good at it. And it's driving me mad.
It's all going to change. Soon.
And I guess, some part of me will reflect on these days here like the Suedehead video.
He went to see the hometown of his beloved.
I came to drown in his.
I've speculated previously in my blog about which came first, me, as I am, and thus, my attraction to the writing and the music. Or, did Morrissey have more to do with it. I have often said, "He raised me!"
I started listening to him when I was so young, and he's so right about how nothing ever affects you more than the music you love in your formative years. How it sets you on a course. It's like a first love.
That is such a beautiful quote, I'll post it at the bottom of this entry
My admiration for him did open up an entirely new realm to me. All the British music I listened to made me smarter. But no one had as deep an impact as Moz. No one ever will.
People who write their autobiographies at the age of 25 make me laugh. Unless you've won a Nobel Prize, been a Poet Laureate, or walked on the moon, you aren't interesting enough at the age of 25 to sum up your life. Well, unless you're planning on dying.
In fact, that's the only justification for an early issue that I can see sense in, the fact that none of us knows when we'll die. So, you can do a "my life to this point" sort of thing, but it's all a bit like an extended scrap book, really.
This was the perpetual complex I was struck with each time I sat down to write about my life when I was younger. I would think, "Who in the HELL is going to be interested in the squirmings of a fetus?"
"Oh, here is some of my infinite wisdom, I learned most of it in the last three years when I was suddenly a little more humble than I was at 22!"
Please.
Yet, people who've had fewer adventures than me have written books about their lives, and MADE MONEY!
So, my own reservations notwithstanding, apparently there is a market for it. If one can hammer it out on a keyboard and keep a straight face.
I have another 16 years under my belt and I still can't be sure this would be the right time.
I know there is so much more to come. Well, I hope there is.
I don't know if I've said this before, but I'll have to package my truth as fiction anyway.
It is pretty outlandish. Even I find it difficult to believe, and I've lived it!
Others with similarly "out there" stories have echoed my sentiments about how you can be telling a story and then people will get that face you know you probably make yourself when you don't exactly believe what you're hearing. As a result, I don't tell very many people about it, because I find being taken for a liar with no event to support the conclusion, offensive, if understandable.
It makes me wonder if people run into that many people who spew such shit that you have to become a doubter to not feel like you're being taken for a fool.
I only lie about the embarrassing things by omission. I can't be bothered making anything up.
I lie about things like, "NO, I DID NOT DRINK ALL THE COKE!"
(He worries it's going to ruin my health and teeth)
I also lie about things like, "He's had that toy for AGES!" When I buy Tommy something I shouldn't have.
The other regular lie is, "I didn't take the last fag, I swear! You must've forgotten."
I smoked forty ciggies a day when I got here. If I get a whole ONE these days, I'm lucky.
It's a bit like health house arrest.
I'm bent on self-destruction and then panicking, ironically, of course, about my health and mortality.
Half teenaged, half middle aged.
It's my version of a crisis.
It's difficult to be a Goth Mother. I actually backed off all the black when I had the boys, well, in the sense I DID have some dark greens, navy blues, and a few white and pink things.
Spit up shows up so obviously on black, and you can't scrub it off with a wipe, the wipes just ball up in lint and then you have spit up and paper balls on you.
Not at all cool. Very not punk rock.
I have let the sense of the macabre erupt naturally from their genes instead of imposing my own preferences. And it has. Wills was asking me nine thousand questions just tonight about Vlad the Impaler, whether or not people still believed that birthmarks were a sign of evil, when was Alexander the Great alive and taking over everything, what does anno domini mean...he was on a role! He's now 8, as of last week!
There was an incident at school where a kid in his class was stabbing another kid in the neck with a pencil.
(I can't believe this actually happened) He went to tell the teacher and she told him to go give himself a demerit on the demerit board for tattling. He said, "No, that's not right, I won't do that. What I just told you was reporting.
It's going on, right there, (points), and I thought it concerned you!"
Then she sees the boy, and goes to deal with it, but never set Will straight about her mistake.
My Mom was livid.
She said, "I am so glad he's like you in that way! We want to raise thinkers, not conformists!"
Now, that's my bit in "raising" my Mom to be my Mom!
I had a soapbox from which I preached the virtues of non-conformity throughout my ENTIRE adolescence. If your argument cannot handle opposition, YOU HAVE NO ARGUMENT!
Inject a different point of view when everyone seems to be following along too nicely. They may not know where they're heading!
Mom went from a child of the 50's, where everybody just wanted to "fit in", to being fairly well versed in Emerson and Thoreau, and to this day she knows a Morrissey quote when I throw her one!
She says, "if it sounds like something you'd write, I know it's him, because you never quote yourself!"
Haha, she doesn't read this blog, does she?
View attachment 33474
