blurring fact and fiction

So I put myself in the zone for creating/making/writing, to increase input of images, words and sounds. First off to listen to tracks by The Fall because all my co-music-makers have been heavily influence by the band and they kind of are there in my consciousness, but I never knew what they were. so I listen and it's all so familiar, jaunty, off-kilter, repartition, quirky, weird... all the words that have been thrown our way in reviews.. I did sing at a Fall album night, Damo Suzuki, I have a connection with that song, not out of choice, but because I was asked to sing it. That feels a bit lazy, but it's true. The line ' what's that in your paper bag' is great to sing and I will try and repeat the experience of such a line. So I look-listen, easier to find songs on Youtube...grrr... ahhh the half listen... grrr... anyhow, in my half listen, I can see the ladies that Mark E Smith chooses to play tortuous repetitive guitar lines for him. They look really cool, I want to play guitar for all the wrong reasons after watching them. Then I listen to the Yeah yeah Yeahs and I still have a gut reaction of excitement and wonder and pure joy at their melodic fuzz growling guitars... mmmm Y Control pushes my buttons. Then in between sounds I finish reading a strange book leant to me called 'Train Dreams' by Denis Johnson. I wont explain it because it sounds crap in literal description, other-worldly, folks living amongst loneliness, their loud inner voice and some dream-like visions which have a larger impact than reality. Also reading Of Walking In Ice by Werner Herzog, he is a film maker of great note and the book is like a rush of images, again of loneliness, but this time walking across Germany and France, a pilgrimage to a dying friend, he thinks if he walks to see her, it will prolong her life, he writes mostly about the rain and the agony of his feet. He again slips into dream-like states where reality and fact blur. Then I walk into town to get some air: to Waterstones, find Simon Armitage on the shelf.. and read his poems.. I realise that my b-line for inspiration, Mark E Smith and Simon Armitage, both have comforting northern accents but very dark thoughts. I laugh and shudder at Armitage and head back home. I bump into an old friend, an archiologist we call Ghost, we talk about Vikings, he tells me that viking is a verb, and how viking bodies were in fertiliser sacks on the top floor of 'The Garage' in Norwich, not any more though. Back at home, I read more book, then watch the start of One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest. The doctor who first interviews Jack Nicholson, is very good, a very good doctor, then it goes bad. The music is key. I have thoughts of the Small Animal Hospital in Edinburgh and I think about routines, procedures, sterile environments, smells, fear. I was reflecting on my inputs of the day and trying to talk to a friend about a story and I found I was confused by what was real and what was fiction. Perfect.