Friday, 31 August 2007
Undefined never liked them anyway. She stubbed out her unlit cigarette- she across the way like an epileptic fit. The near-by Punjabi illuminated sporadically the redbrick Street and the flickering window display of ‘As the moon glimmered over Worsick’. She had etc. as it traipsed off into faint traces. Her countenance had suddenly shifted, till She strolled passed the flickering Take-away, smiling at the cocktail of cumin.
The indigestion was gone and she made a beeline for the Bridge. She had already picked out one of the pale white Lampposts to stand under and not smoke another cigarette.
Only Fifty minutes ago she had stared (That Guinea at the Bissau jazz &) at the man she loved in the disused Worsick St. Bus Station, not even an hour ago. He told her he didn't love her anymore but maintained the eyes of a saint.
She was a little proud that she didn’t cry.
Sunday, 19 August 2007
x: Yes, it was good. I liked it. But it did taste rather a lot… quite a lot like… coffee.
y: Oh, yes. We like our salmon with coffee. And Poison too. Did you not taste the Poison? Mmm! Poison!
x: Poison? (slightly alarmed)
Thursday, 16 August 2007
Any comment/critique would be helpful, as this is destined for the man.
Alexander. Shit day.
Pause. The sink gurgles. He stares at it.
Alex. Here’s to that!
Lilja. Why must I be such a… (she smokes)
A. (He lies back) Makes life worth living.
Lil. …a pessimist about everything.
Alexander. (mocking voice) Dearest, could you pass me the towel?
Alex. (Squeezing blackheads) There’s this computer program
where you load in all your pictures, everyone does,
and it somehow compares them, analyses them,
works out which ones are of the same person, or
a building or whatever. It links them all together and
builds like, an average, what it looks like from all
those different perspectives. It didn’t matter if it was
a massive digital photo from yesterday, a scan of a
third-hand photocopied newspaper story or a
Renaissance sketch. In the example, they did the
Sagrada Familia, remember, I went there? And even
used movie footage. Then they stuck them all
together and it was weird, all these webs of lines
where, like where all the repeated memories of this
church had ¾ somehow the bones of it coalesced from repetition
¾ and, punctured reality. (a worldwise laugh, Lilja turns on
the hot tap.) I wonder what Gaudi would’ve thought’ve it…
Li. … no hot, again, they cover the whole bathroom in
hair and soap and rotting towels, use all the water, all
the fucking butter, ask me to proof-read, can‘t even
string a sentence together. (She thumps herself on the
thigh, you light a cigarette for her, she takes it without
making eye contact.)
A. Got hit by a bus, remember? doubt he could care less?
L. Couldn’t, you shits. Could-n’t care less. COULDN’T - CARE - LESS.
Monday, 6 August 2007
The fact that a considerable amount of people's time and effort have gone into perpetuating such pranks and genuinely disgusting memes helps build my love of humanity.
You have been rickrolled.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
I had no qualms present as I thieved Sunset Blvd. and The Maltese Falcon from under the dead-eyes of it's starving creators via a loose swarm of like-minded buccaneers. There was not an inch of conscience involved. My eyes continued their involuntary act of descending a steep slope of snow, with a barely controlled flourish. Either for the sheer thrill of the ride and/or to bypass tedious scree, I enjoyed the hell out of it.
I was a new modern man with his fingers on the keys not giving a damn or a penny to/for the third generation black-suiters who wanted my ill-earned hard cash for what is, undeniably, old Bogart. Of course I had a dog by the name which was put down for mauling toddlers, or so I assumed from the euphemism my mother used. Whatever happened to collective culture anyway, it is as guarded as a dictator's tomb?
On a related note there I was treating her for the nervous ailment that had troubled her all these dark months since her husband put to sea, and suddenly I found the equipment all covered in a tepid sort of semolina. 'Aha! by Jehova and all The Saints' I thought out loud, stowing the vibratode in it's hygienic red leather lined beech box, I've heard of this but never seen the like; 'too right' said the wife. Nowadays you can get them in the Argos catalogue.
- "Tyranno" 1918
Friday, 3 August 2007
Remember me to one who lives there.
She once was a true love of mine.
Remember me from one who lives there,
For she/he once was a true love of mine.
A'wonder how many stories window cleaners; and gas men, telephone-line installationists, paper-boys, septic tank-diviners - what sort of stories they tell each other. A'wonder how many variations on the teenager wanking, the au-pair fucking, the cleaner sucking, the dog shitting, the husband throttling they come across and tell their friends in the work. A'wonder if they decide that the stories are boring and start to discuss the changing tastes in wallpaper and dado rails. A'wonder if they have physician-style tradesmen's oathes, or a butler's discretion, never to see and certainly never to tell of.
I'd finished the mackerel and washed down the oil with orange juice when the window cleaners knocked, they wanted paying. What I really needed was an audio recording of 'Scarborough Fair' and 'Girl From the North Country' and a working-class upbringing.
Wednesday, 1 August 2007
In conscience, and for a thousand practical if barely discernible reasons, Pedro felt he could put off taking up his role as protagonist no longer, and so resolved, as so many times before, though earlier in the day, to make a real constructive start. Scratching at the outer recesses of his mind, he pondered a good ten minutes on any specifics there might have been as flesh to his previous resolutions. Pedro drew blanks, it being so early in the day. How does one begin? He thought about Mother Hen, how she left it too late, didn’t seize her chances; limbo’s where she’s lying, half-sleeping. But no, that was all too long ago, and Pedro is young. He hasn’t time for the eyes to look forward, and has nothing to look back on. Where does one begin? At breakfast, perhaps, that can be pinned down, it’s solid enough sometimes. Pedro looked around; what about it? What about breakfast? It’s finished now, and besides it was only toast. And all so early in the day! Best to think afresh, he thought, or not to think at all. Perhaps he could go out walking, not to clear his mind, for no good could come of that, not today, but to meet dog-walkers, shop girls, milkmen, children and tramps, and hold discourse. Things happen when you go out walking, and Pedro had to start somewhere. That’s what he’d do, he’d go out walking. What did Pedro have to say? He had to say something. He’d wait a while, have lunch; he could go out after lunch alright, but not so very early in the day. Have a glass of wine for Christ’s sake!