Funky Town

Meh...
Today is just funky, in the sense of being 'in a funk', rather than in the 'hot disco stylings' sense of the word.
Which is all very well if you know the source of your funk, but if you don't - if it just descends on you mid-morning and refuses to fuck back off as a good funk should, it's just wasted time being funky that could otherwise have been usefully filled by Cracking the Grand Unified Theory, or Securing World Peace, or Finishing The Next Great British Novel, or Making Love To A Beautiful Woman (NB - helps to be married to one. If you're just picking people up on the street, you're liable to spend at least some of your non-funky time getting slapped. Well, you are around here anyway).

Hell, it's time wasted being funky that could have been better applied cataloguing your spice jars, or unpicking that hideous sweater grandma got you for Christmas and burying the evidence. In fact, even sitting around in your underwear, scratching yourself and watching Big Brother is time probably better spent than beggaring about in a big old pointless funk.

It's not, as I may have mentioned somewhere in that couple of paragraphs of verbal diarrhoea (and yes, my fellow geeks, I too am now pondering whether it's still verbal diarrhoea if you write it down. Probably not, I suspect. Literary diarrhoea?), as though I even had any particular reason to feel funky. Walked up to Ma's this morning in 17 minutes, which, considering the consistent, unremitting uphillness of the journey, wasn't bad. Walked a dog that doesn't belong to either of us, for something to do. Went back to the local park, and walked four times around a surprisingly large lake, to give the legs a bit of a workout. Shifted a bureau - as you do, it's a Sunday thing. Think it's in the new Aprocrypha to the Bible: "And on the seveth day, God rested...and then realised he still had to shift that bureau under the stairs...And the Lord said 'Bugger." Checked on my dad, went shopping, threw some of yesterday's empty boxes into storage, and pretty much snapped at every poor unsuspecting person who crossed my path.

Why? Not even remotely sure.
Could, I guess, have something to do with the impending Monday - first in a line of Mondays when I'll have to be out the door at 5.15AM, to essentially cram a weeksworth of London commuting into the space of one day. Not sure though - I've known this was coming since we started this move, and it's one of the two prices by which the move has been made achievable. Most of me therefore wants to slap down this argument in a fit of 'quitchabitchin' irritation.

Could also, possibly, have something to do with the fact that I woke up this morning having had a porno dream. Yeah, I know, where's the bad, right? Guaranteed, if you asked a thousand men whether they minded having a porno dream, you'd be able to count on one, presumably unoccupied, hand, the number who bitched about it. But then most men, when they have a porno dream, don't dream of trying to write the SCRIPT for one, working on the characters, the pro-feminist sub-plot (porn with good politics, fight the power, Sisters!), the arc...of the story development over three or four movies, and feeling the pressure of the deadline approaching. Essentially, most men, when they have porno dreams, don't fast forward through the good bits!

Oh and in case you're wondering, yes, I did manage to get the pro-feminist dialectic in there before the deadline expired. I like to kid myself I'm a professional, even if only in my dreams...If there was a Joseph in the house, firstly, I'd nick his Technicolour Dreamcoat, cos that thing was cool. Secondly, I'd tell him that if he closes his eyes and draws back the curtain, the only thing he'll see for certain is the back of his own eyelids, and thirdly, I think, I'd get an interpretation from him about overthinking everything to the point of robbing it of any spontaneity or joy. This is something I do (I'm thinking you may have noticed?), and right now, it's robbing me not only of joy, but of sleep, of rest, of contentment, of focus and of any awareness of the world outside my own damned buzzing brain.

Y'know what it's like? It's like those science shows as a kid, where they explained that your brain is so amazing that, to hit a baseball with a baseball bat, it does fantastically advanced mathematics about the speed of the oncoming ball, its pitch, direction, spin and aim, then it does fantastically advanced mathematics about where to move the bat to, with what degree of force, based on desired outcomes of a) hitting the ball, b) hitting it in a particular direction and c) aiming to miss any of the other players and not be called out...and then it sends the right electrical impulses to the right muscles to co-ordinate this activity, based on neuronic pathways that have been formed by previous attempts to do this kind of activity - but it doesn't make you THINK about doing any of it. Doesn't bother you with all the calculation, so as far as you're concerned, you just swing the bat and hit the ball into the outfield.

Right now, I'm stuck in a place where I'm trying to do all the math! Can't seem to help it. Everything that should just be natural, that should be rational or instinctive, I'm analysing the piss out of, trying to understand the deeper meanings of things. And of course, as the TV scientist would probably have gone on to explain, if you try and do all the math, your brain's too busy with all the calculation to send the electrical impulses to the muscles, and you feel the pitch whistle by you, and you're out. That's me right now.

Which I guess is probably a better explanation of a funky day than "Meh, I have to get up early in the morning..."

So...I don't know what to tell you. At nearly 4PM, I've ruined a perfectly good and happy Sunday for myself, and probably everyone who's come into contact with me, for no terribly good or cogent reason beyond the confines of my brain. Part of me now wants to bitchslap myself silly. Part of me on the other hand wants to take my lollipop and go and sit in a corner and sulk, so nehh! And yet another part of me wants to Crack The Grand Unified Theory, Write The Next Great British Novel or Make Love To A Beautiful Woman...

I'm in overanalytical mode, I think the Grand Unified Theory's pretty safe for another day.
d's in the kitchen, busily creating order out of chaos. Besides, in this overthinking mode, I'm probably no good to any beautiful woman!

Soooo...

It was a dark and stormy night...