I've gone thick.
No, as in seriously, I am actually extremely stupid these days.
I used to know at least a bit about music, art and books. Now, I have a playlist on my computer shamefully entitled ''top evangelical hits'' and, when I recently participated in a pub quiz, I contributed one answer. ONE. Which actually really shouldn't count as it was in response to a question pertaining to a Disney cartoon about a wizard.
Sure, I was never going to be the next Philip Emeagwali, and it's always been the case that I have been somewhat lacking in the Mathematical department but, in the past that's always been sort of ok: 'Ah, yes, well you see, I'm more a conceptual thinker, me. Creative. Bigger picture stuff you know?' etc... Doesn't sound too bad when you position it like that. A bit shoddy on the old linear-thought side, but with a reasonable noggin capable of a rollicking debate when necessary. What's more, I could pull a Sylvia Plath quote out of my arse at the drop of a hat and talking about Pinter semi-turned me on.
SO WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED.
Because something sure as hell has. And, whatever the reason for this progressive retardation, today marks the beginning of a much needed intervention; the turning point positioned to avert a depressing slide into premature senility.
Some of the accumulated brain goop can probably be attributed to having spent two years working to propagate widespread intellectual despair as a minion of the Public Relations Sector, churning out sordid celebrity tat at a rate of knots as, meanwhile, ability to communicate with any sense of gravitas gradually but almost palpably seeped through my fingertips into the keyboard with the dissemination of each tawdry press release.
At a push, I could try and align culpability with my having spent the past year and a half trying to be a real-life Chapina of the Guatemala streets, getting down wiv da kids from da dump n that. Or, more simply, just drinking too much straight sodding Mezcal and not reading the newspaper.
Nevertheless, whichever way you look at this rather pathetic equation, I can't help but be led back to the uncomfortable conclusion that I only have myself to blame. I have rendered myself as some gobby brer, a former opinion-shaper who now wields about as much argument forming clout as chalk-bladed butter knife.
I hope that all is not yet lost.
Yesterday afternoon I spent five hours in the British Library. The fundamental thinking behind this move being that, via a process of osmosis, I shall absorb my way to greatness. Thus, for the coming weeks I will be endeavoring to base myself within proximity of only the most scholarly individuals or the ''raddest'' of trendsetters.
Furthermore, this morning saw me digging through my pre-travels music collection, sorting through books and listening to old pod-casts of John Peel. Yes, from now on, it's all about art-house films, reading until dawn, sleeping sporadically through daylight hours, wearing trendy specs and scribbling down Keatsian Odes on the back of napkins.
I am clinging fervently to the quite probably delusional belief that it's all in there somewhere, that all that ''stuff'' I used to know has simply been taking it easy, chilling out in the hippocampus but ready to sally forth as synaptic pathways whir back into life. It is comfort derived from this pop psychology which is doing much to sustain my waning self-belief at this point.
Finally, if anyone has any cod liver oil capsules, send it my way. Or, if you is, like, well clever, we need to hang out.
End of self indulgent venting.
A good day to you.
