If I can keep you stimulated constantly, either by writing my words or winding wee world castles round your heads or as a street based clown, digesting and conduiting banal reality and creating comedy out of it then I am essentially defensively distracting you and myself.
You know what stumps me? I don't know what from.
I know it's anxiety based but also I recognise within it lies the only peace I've ever known.
You can't go through life as a professional 11 foot disgruntled dancing panto without admitting to yourself a certain grandiose precocious childishness.
When all that dissolves I remind myself that I'm alone, I am entirely poor. I have had no funds at all the last 2 months of my life and I should be dead.
It kinda puts a searingly unavoidable magnifying lense on the question we all ask from time to time.
"Why am I here?"
My pat answer was always "I'm a stodgy potato of a man constantly asking myself 'Am I realised?' "
Well the answer is . "I'm not."
I'm not realised. I have no idea really.
I'm funny but a lot of people are funny. I know funny, a lot less people know funny but there's still quite a few of us.
I'm just thinking aloud here.
Should I produce collective funny? Should I corral all the beautiful flawed folk who create the funny and focus them so that laughter is produced, on the streets, in hospitals, schools and hospices over a set period of time regularly?
I wonder, if I let go, could it work?
Perhaps I could acknowledge that living for free [so far] in a drug rehabilitation farm overlooking the sea is some sort of circumstantial gift perhaps even divine in it's own way .
I lost my mind and this place caught me and gently gifted me a footing.
I accept I have nothing more to lose. I'm not suicidal so I suppose I have no choice. What's to be done of me seems out of my hands. It frankly terrifies me.