Even by the standards of my frosty, shallow heart, the hatred I harbour for moving day can only be called "remarkable." Right up alongside my birthday, Christmas, Halloween, the day we have to put the bins out, the day I have to get a haircut, the annual saturday afternoon when I realise Liverpool won't win the league this season (this, of course, was biannual in 2009) and everyone else's birthdays too (oddly, Valentine's day I quite like). I hate packing stuff, belongings, feeling the double weight of both the materialism it suggests of one's life and also its complexity - the realisation that in fact, you are packing many of your things somewhere short of the organisation you had mentally assured yourself you would get them to. I hate the very word belong-ing, for both its first and second syllables. I don't know how I survived in those years, roughly 2004 and 2006, when 'moving day' occured no less than 6 times! Now, in 2009, even with the ambition of "packing light," the items are too many and their individual meaning too real and nauseating.

I imagine myself as Franklin Wheeler, expecting life to suddenly spring into a particular kind of order on Revolutionary Road - except I am outside the story, I know how this book ends. I am a 21st century man! able to treat such ideas of change and epiphany with all the proper cynicism. Maybe I am Franklin Wheeler, also, when I see a path to security and regularity and I allow only dim registration of the fact that it won't pass through the same post-code as adventure. I am not a romantic, so maybe I shan't let that bother me too much. I can see, however, how hard it is to keep things turning over in more ways than one. I am not April Wheeler, this I know for certain; I might even know what I want, but I could never state it.

I don't know if Revolutionary Road is written in a level way; for me, it has the feel of a spot on Man's Book About Relationships, and it makes sense to have a quote from Nick Hornby grace the back cover. It is beautifully written, it is quietly brutal. It seems not so much to have "something to say" as plenty of things to get off its chest. Its depiction of internal politics, the careful way it allows a hope to become a terror and a baby to become a gambling chip is astonishing. I remember watching Vera Drake and not really "getting it"; a typical example of a story that made sense and was well made but on top of that you're not sure quite what you're watching. From the same era, Revolutionary Road treads a terrifying psychological path and for me much more strongly indicates the need for legal and accessible abortion, without ever making me think that that is all that is needed. Finally, I can't help but admire the way that the book is written, pushing the reader ahead of itself, forcing them to get there a couple of pages ahead, but never 10. That, for me, underlines the perfect psychological inhabitation Yates has of his characters.

So, my DVD collection, such as it was, has become a redux DVD collection, and that's fine. There are airfields to be photographed (even as I bemoan the state of the planet) and hours to be logged. Even though I only saw it last about 10 days ago, I had to bring Falling Down, a beautiful film even in its silliness, possibly Schumacher's best, which concisely shows that our interaction with "real, everyday life" has little to do with mundanity. Armed with a small arsenal of deadly weapons, Bill Foster informs the world he just wants to go home. But also, so close to his destination, he ends up making a deeply human realisation, one of my favourite lines in any film.

"I'm the bad guy? How did that happen?"

And, of course, if you've never been there, we need go no further.

Dear Fellow Shareholder,

Hordes of camwhores! I'm definitely twitching now. Well, before we set off I drank two cups and it's ok, I'm fine but I'm thinking about my button fly and I know that no sane person designed it. Man it's a long way to the cloakroom from the bottom of your house's drive. I'm not running. If traditional ways of losing weight are not for you, forget about it.

If you dream of wearing your "skinny jeans" again, forget about it.

Release your fantasies tonight. Well, ok. I made the tea so weak it's like tea-flavoured milk. It's like chewing on leaves or something. Get hard-on of one passing thought. Lot of protein anyway. Unleash lion inside you! Epicureanism! Give her amorous burst. By the time you get this e-mail, I might be dead. Well, that's the thing ain't it. Stop serving the machines of death, pouring more and more of your vitality into those ghastly treadmills. These screens are giving me a splitting headache. Exhale light jiff yet?

Start day-today! Show your true power helping small poles grow. She'll spread legs if you'll get bigger banyan.

That's the appeal of all the money I never saw the point in earning. Get your own place. I mean, are you gonna bring a chick back to this place? THIS PLACE? Dave's asleep on the sofa only half dressed. The top half. Be proud while naked! Matt and his girlfriend have turned the corridor into a wardrobe. A landfill for linen. Vulcanizer for your hot-stick! Get incredible sizing profit in pants. Got to do something about my sizing profit before I hit 25. Get a place with a garden. Believe in your loveluck! Get hose growth everyday, and do not forget.

I want to shave my eyebrows off, really do it this time. I guess I'll get sweat in my eyes. I could never shave my head but maybe my eyebrows. Maybe photoshop me first to see what it might look like. I don't want to be too much of a freak. Not Barnum-level.

So what if they don't grow back straight? Never saw the use in them, even when I was a kid and I found a use for all sorts of stuff. I still have this shitty statue of Paddington Bear that I painted, his face a thick muddy green and his coat a putrid dark blue that hasn't faded in 16 years. The same fluorescent yellow golf ball nestled in his hand - I have 50 golf balls and 20 golf clubs but I have never played golf.

Apart from some pitch'n'putt 10 years ago. You see what I mean. Stamps with Albert Sabin on them, the Silver Surfer. A mini millennium edition of the New Testament, half the size of a yoghurt pot, that means I go to church at 11.30 every Christmas Eve, and some other things. I have never thrown out a can of deodorant, I don't know if I've even ever used one up, there is no reason to know. I have about twenty 14% full cans of deodorant sat on that shelf and they just migrate further to the back year by year. A decade of underused deodorant, Christmas and birthday (not lately though, hah!) so thanks Auntie J. Underused deodorant - probably people notice. Get a watch your wrist would be proud of. Feel free to PR it.

Our generation never even knew Polio. Honestly, the idea that invisible stuff can strike you down, it's not real is it? Unless you get hit with the virtuous HIV, but that makes sense too. It's comical but we fear it like crazy, we keep track of the 1000s of things that can give you cancer but we don't stop and realise cancer's very much a part of us. Can we avoid it? Sure, but what for?

The inauguration of an online exposition of blathering I am invited to contribute to is becoming ever nearer. The domain has been set. A theme has been tentatively mooted (we intend to take it in turns to pick the topic). Participants are a-quiver.

The theme may be homosexuality.

I don't mean to drama things up from the start, but this does make me feel a bit apprehensive. There's something uncomfortable about 4 straight people sharing their thoughts, however earnest, on homosexuality and issues therein. If there's one thing we straights are meant to have learnt, over the years, from our various thought-crimes against minorities, is that we should speak for our fucking selves, and remember that's all we're doing. I'm not sure there are many things that could be said about homosexuality that fall within my remit.Anyway, that same loss of comfort could well result in some real creativity. Maybe one of us will turn out to be awkwardly closeted - I suppose we can only wait and hope. Maybe it'll be me!

I don't know what I'm going to write about, but I want to keep it to an area where I can add value, and not merely re-hash. Film, music, sport, science, probably, not all at once. I have some half-baked ideas. I would appreciate any advice for reading material.

For fun, here are the results from my music collection of typing "gay" search terms into winamp (this is typically how I start writing anything):

"Gay" returns 3 hits. These are "Totally Gay, Totally Fat" by Oxford Collapse, "There Are No Gay Cowboy's" [sic] by April Fools at Disneyland (from the seminal Jade Goody's Cancer album), and A Perfect Circle's cover of "What's Going On" (this mystified me until I realised the original artist was included in the file information.
"Lesb" returns none.
"Homo" 1. "S.S. Homo" by Audacity. I can only imagine this is meant to be ironic.
"Queer" 1. The Flaming Lips' "Pilot Can At The Queer Of God." From Transmissions, naturally.
"Fag" also returns hits for "sarcofagus" and "snuffaluffagus." With these removed, 7 tracks remain: "I'm Still Your Fag" by Broken Social Scene, and the "I'm Fucking Dead" 7" by Fag Cop, a band name presumably chosen for 2 reasons: i) irony ii) offensiveness.

Man on radio (approximately, you're going to have to trust me to give the jist fairly accurately): "It's very good that Susan Boyle went on the programme and displayed her talent, and impressed a good number of people. It really improved the image of people with learning disabilities. However, once she became famous we needed to take more care of how we treated her, and show more understanding of her condition."

( susan boyle, societal role, liberalism/utilitarianism, on the road, blah, self-indulgent shit )</div>

I try not to fall into a naturalistic fallacy. I like to think I am not that stupid. But I do know that as we stray from stable biological/sociological conformations the stress we come under doubles and redoubles. A happy society of peoples will be in harmony with their material nature - not that we can hope to understand this soon. Yet another argument against design: who would design a race of creatures that could never be made happy?

Take pity on my examiners, not me. Right-click-view-image if you want to zoom in.

Strange numbness in my fourth finger on my left hand. Possible explanations include leprosy and numerous other things. I'm guessing it's leprosy.

Sometimes when you allow your mind to roam it will pick up a tantalising fragment of a song, a few bars, an intro or a particular turn of expression in a long-forgotten chorus. I imagine most people beat their head against the wall from time to time trying to remember when they heard that. If the expression is from a novel or a poem it's far harder to place. Films are maybe a little easier. I stress I'm talking about my own rememberances, not the snippets others recall. Often it takes ages to find these things again, sometimes we just give up (not often, for me), and ultimately the answer is rarely the source of joy that we imagine it will be.

Anyway. Lately I had such an instance and resolved it within 30 seconds. It was from Islands' album Return to the Sea. I am very pleased - this is far superior to the usual struggling.

In fact, lately I've been grasping these fragments far quicker than usual. I doubt my memory is improving, however. It is far more likely that the things I know have been streamlined, so I've discarded much of the more annoying ephemera.

I have been sober for a long time. It suits me and I'm happy enough. I don't miss alcohol particularly, and I don't have any particular desire to go back to it. Especially because the transition back will be hugely self-referential, need explaining, maybe as much as my abstinence has provoked. But I probably will, in as healthy a manner as I can muster. Only for enjoyment's sake though. This was the aim, maybe? To remove the idea of function most of us youngsters attach to drinking?

Highsoc gig tonight: Nadja. This is going to be amazing. Doom-drone from a band that are really globally significant! One of my hopes with highsoc was to put on some gigs that really did mean something, and I think this could be one of those, alongside Grouper, Wave Machines and others. I'm preparing for it to be spectacular and loud. I'm very happy.

Many of my acquaintances have begun blogging. It's a flurry of activity which is fascinating, not least because face-communication has some unwritten rule of ironically poor spelling and grammar and stupid capitalization. So it's nice to glimpse more formal or deliberate writing styles (and inevitably judge? naha). Inevitably we will all fall by the way-side but it's a little period of interest nonetheless. I'm putting more complete 'pieces' on my Blogger account and more fleeting snatches of myself here. Who knows, maybe some bad poetry too?

A new word I have begun using: Masochismo - for those situations where we all feel we must compete for the most extreme disadvantages, workloads, physical pain. Also, Fauxk, as coined by my friend ACH, to describe "folk" music with no actual folk heritage. And sclogosphere, to describe the increasingly-meta science blogging contingent on the net. If any of these catch on, shoot me (this goes without saying).

I have had my first exposure to My Super-Sweet 16. It's the most fantastically gaudy and awful show, really. A nasty twisted core of absurd capitalism runs all the way through it. I suppose it makes me feel tired and rather distant from general 'Western culture'. Not that I've ever found myself complaining about that in the past. Is this meant to be watched wholly ironically? Or can the values presented be taken by some at face value. I don't know which idea nauseates me more.