dear diary

I am about to finish off some work that talks about diaries, so i have dug out all my old cassettes. Yes tapes, always so unsatiasfactory to hold and look at while you listen to the music. So I am listening to the Smiths and remembering me listening to this years ago in the eighties. I am looking forward to reel around the fountain, always been my favourite.

I got an email from a friend the other day saying she couldn't believe how our lives have diverged. I too can't believe how I got here from that bedroom, that shoe-gazing ... pale and gangly then, and pale and gangly now, but I go live among not-so-technological people in my little shack, and I tell people some mildy important things. When I used to live in CZ to get home after drinking with MM I would have to cross the Labe/Elbe, so often cold and snowing, I with my collar turned up, would unzip my fly and urinate into that one of the major rivers of central Europe, and as my pee mingled with the water, the chemicals, the tributary that seviced the paint factory and was a different colour every day, I would always imagine my self on the map and wonder how the hell I got here. I may be closer to my point of origin now, in this hellhole Palmengrad not so different from UnL ... but I still wonder how I got here, and wonder what will happen next. Some of the things I thought would happen haven't happened yet, and am not sure if they ever will. This may be a good thing, as all it did was make me cry at bus stops.

Oh well, Morrissey is singing 'stop me if you've heard this one before. Nothing has changed. I still love you, only slightly less than I used to.

Too many teenage diaries, the fading empire of bedrooms and I'll leave it at that


ed's note: this may be in fact the new bridge, not built when Ludo was wazzing his way through Central Europe. This must be interpreted as an artist's impression of the scene.