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ENGLAND ON CRACK: COPPERSTRIPE. It was only on the third day of the job that he began to understand what he was doing wrong. While his colleagues left for lunch, to eat and speak and relax, he would stay at his desk with a pile of old company documents and a pair of scissors, unconsciously cutting out words to create aleatoric poetry, influenced as much by the symbolists as he was by the situationists. ENGLAND ON CRACK: BLOTTER Kyoto was a distant memory now, a fact that I think Rya and I both knew. This was a different world entirely, one passing by from the window of a shrunken train at speeds comparable to that of a dream. ENGLAND ON CRACK: SINATRA. Infested with bored, boring glitches and emaciated romantically, his wayward mind now always focused on specific material desires; as one dream was realised he would carelessly move on to another, freeing himself from all previous interests. ENGLAND ON CRACK: FEBRUARY 2010 The universe (which others call the Library), owned by Liverpool’s Dutch left winger Ryan Babel, is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings. ENGLAND ON CRACK: 22ND JAN 2009 On Trying To Write. Sniffling through the undergrowth. Preposterously fleeing a semi-enemy. Droplets of rain. It’s a quiet suburban park, yet, on this occasion it has assumed an air of danger. ENGLAND ON CRACK: NOVEMBER 2010 Infested with bored, boring glitches and emaciated romantically, his wayward mind now always focused on specific material desires; as one dream was realised he would carelessly move on to another, freeing himself from all previous interests. ENGLAND ON CRACK: JUNE 2010 little and lovely jim bob jim. arched over by weaving amber eucalypt branches. sought allmorning to contemplate the infinite. he slowly but surely imagined one hundred loves ENGLAND ON CRACK: KNOWLEDGE. This is the communication age, they say with certain pride, so this is my excuse for using the Internet on Christmas Day, surrounded by much loved family members engaging themselves in mince pies, oversized platters of various cheeses, novelty socks, and a largely untouched bottle of whisky gifted to me only a few days previous. ENGLAND ON CRACK: PILLARS Feeling immensely but illogically discomforted by his environment, he began typing. Writer’s block is a bitch. His hands moved across the keys, with purpose and ENGLAND ON CRACK: GRAHAM. Graham was sad. His life, as he would so often opine over ale, consisted up to now of a relentless series of adequate events with theoccasi
ENGLAND ON CRACK: COPPERSTRIPE. It was only on the third day of the job that he began to understand what he was doing wrong. While his colleagues left for lunch, to eat and speak and relax, he would stay at his desk with a pile of old company documents and a pair of scissors, unconsciously cutting out words to create aleatoric poetry, influenced as much by the symbolists as he was by the situationists. ENGLAND ON CRACK: BLOTTER Kyoto was a distant memory now, a fact that I think Rya and I both knew. This was a different world entirely, one passing by from the window of a shrunken train at speeds comparable to that of a dream. ENGLAND ON CRACK: SINATRA. Infested with bored, boring glitches and emaciated romantically, his wayward mind now always focused on specific material desires; as one dream was realised he would carelessly move on to another, freeing himself from all previous interests. ENGLAND ON CRACK: FEBRUARY 2010 The universe (which others call the Library), owned by Liverpool’s Dutch left winger Ryan Babel, is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings. ENGLAND ON CRACK: 22ND JAN 2009 On Trying To Write. Sniffling through the undergrowth. Preposterously fleeing a semi-enemy. Droplets of rain. It’s a quiet suburban park, yet, on this occasion it has assumed an air of danger. ENGLAND ON CRACK: NOVEMBER 2010 Infested with bored, boring glitches and emaciated romantically, his wayward mind now always focused on specific material desires; as one dream was realised he would carelessly move on to another, freeing himself from all previous interests. ENGLAND ON CRACK: JUNE 2010 little and lovely jim bob jim. arched over by weaving amber eucalypt branches. sought allmorning to contemplate the infinite. he slowly but surely imagined one hundred loves ENGLAND ON CRACK: DANCE In an attempt to gain a connection with a girl in a bar – unsuccessfully, I might add – I stated that I was starting a dance class. This was a lie. ENGLAND ON CRACK: 22ND JAN 2009 On Trying To Write. Sniffling through the undergrowth. Preposterously fleeing a semi-enemy. Droplets of rain. It’s a quiet suburban park, yet, on this occasion it has assumed an air of danger. ENGLAND ON CRACK: COPPERSTRIPE. It was only on the third day of the job that he began to understand what he was doing wrong. While his colleagues left for lunch, to eat and speak and relax, he would stay at his desk with a pile of old company documents and a pair of scissors, unconsciously cutting out words to create aleatoric poetry, influenced as much by the symbolists as he was by the situationists. ENGLAND ON CRACK: GARY NEVILLE. If in this world we lay the blame on those who grasped accidental success for all of our own insecurities, as the sound of wind outside resembles both nature and machinery, can I go with you to the fountain and throw withdrawn currency into its depths? ENGLAND ON CRACK: JUNE 2009 I was lying on the grass lazily, a can of cheap lager in hand, staring upwards at the passing clouds. Thoughts appeared rapidly about how vulgar they appear against the sky’s faultless backdrop. ENGLAND ON CRACK: FEBRUARY 2009 And on this, the Thursday that follows, I find myself listening to Scientist with nothing specific to do, nowhere specific to go. I am tempted to skip to the bar and read, although I realise, even in my current state, that this sounds infinitely better in theory than itdoes in actuality.
ENGLAND ON CRACK: SMOKERS Sitting in front of a computer screen well into the early hours, its artificial glow gifting my face an unhealthy tan, I suddenly became awfully aware that I was covered from head to toe in human skin. ENGLAND ON CRACK: 2010 In a moment that evolved the pub into a fashion confessional, he admitted to me that his passion for tight-fitting clothing was merely a vindictive attempt to irk the portly. ENGLAND ON CRACK: TRISPIRATION Looking around the apartment for the first time in a long while, it was noticed that both the television and the dog had vanished. Both were still audible, however. ENGLAND ON CRACK: JUNE 2010 little and lovely jim bob jim. arched over by weaving amber eucalypt branches. sought allmorning to contemplate the infinite. he slowly but surely imagined one hundred lovesENGLAND ON CRACK
Bird by Djando Dando. The bird is the word. Lonely Job Rorgan, alternatively known as Josh Rogan, Travis, Bobby Sanches and other shit sat on the sofa listening to some stuff. ENGLAND ON CRACK: SMOKERS Sitting in front of a computer screen well into the early hours, its artificial glow gifting my face an unhealthy tan, I suddenly became awfully aware that I was covered from head to toe in human skin. ENGLAND ON CRACK: TWISTER. Imported Czech lager and indulgent pasta sauce had slowly taken its toll on young Anton, and he conspired shortly after the final jacket button flew off to rid the pounds that had attached themselves to his midriff, his chin, and to some extent his thumbs. ENGLAND ON CRACK: BLOTTER Kyoto was a distant memory now, a fact that I think Rya and I both knew. This was a different world entirely, one passing by from the window of a shrunken train at speeds comparable to that of a dream. ENGLAND ON CRACK: SKY BURIAL. A brief dockside walk brought: Coal burners washed in buckets steam jet warmed, change of watch left boots on fiddler for the mate coming on. Grab the camera, knock ENGLAND ON CRACK: GOATS FROM THE UNDERGROUND. Arlovski, a bitter and shockingly impatient man, had regretfully vowed four years ago to write a novel of genius within the five years thatfollowed.
ENGLAND ON CRACK: GRAHAM. Graham was sad. His life, as he would so often opine over ale, consisted up to now of a relentless series of adequate events with theoccasi
ENGLAND ON CRACK: 2011 Dear reader, as a sun shifts awkwardly on some horizon, I suck seven cough drops at a time and cough. Bloody menthol. Is it not this fiery urge to douse things with piss that keeps your hand clasped in mine? ENGLAND ON CRACK: APRIL 2011 It doesn’t matter that every thought you’ve thought has already been thought, likely by some poor French sod with a crooked hat and alisp.
ENGLAND ON CRACK: UNTITLED your pose is so seductive but your face is counterproductive to the whole idea of lying here together you're so tired you said but I knowi
ENGLAND ON CRACK
Bird by Djando Dando. The bird is the word. Lonely Job Rorgan, alternatively known as Josh Rogan, Travis, Bobby Sanches and other shit sat on the sofa listening to some stuff. ENGLAND ON CRACK: SMOKERS Sitting in front of a computer screen well into the early hours, its artificial glow gifting my face an unhealthy tan, I suddenly became awfully aware that I was covered from head to toe in human skin. ENGLAND ON CRACK: TWISTER. Imported Czech lager and indulgent pasta sauce had slowly taken its toll on young Anton, and he conspired shortly after the final jacket button flew off to rid the pounds that had attached themselves to his midriff, his chin, and to some extent his thumbs. ENGLAND ON CRACK: BLOTTER Kyoto was a distant memory now, a fact that I think Rya and I both knew. This was a different world entirely, one passing by from the window of a shrunken train at speeds comparable to that of a dream. ENGLAND ON CRACK: SKY BURIAL. A brief dockside walk brought: Coal burners washed in buckets steam jet warmed, change of watch left boots on fiddler for the mate coming on. Grab the camera, knock ENGLAND ON CRACK: GOATS FROM THE UNDERGROUND. Arlovski, a bitter and shockingly impatient man, had regretfully vowed four years ago to write a novel of genius within the five years thatfollowed.
ENGLAND ON CRACK: GRAHAM. Graham was sad. His life, as he would so often opine over ale, consisted up to now of a relentless series of adequate events with theoccasi
ENGLAND ON CRACK: 2011 Dear reader, as a sun shifts awkwardly on some horizon, I suck seven cough drops at a time and cough. Bloody menthol. Is it not this fiery urge to douse things with piss that keeps your hand clasped in mine? ENGLAND ON CRACK: APRIL 2011 It doesn’t matter that every thought you’ve thought has already been thought, likely by some poor French sod with a crooked hat and alisp.
ENGLAND ON CRACK: UNTITLED your pose is so seductive but your face is counterproductive to the whole idea of lying here together you're so tired you said but I knowi
ENGLAND ON CRACK: BLOTTER Kyoto was a distant memory now, a fact that I think Rya and I both knew. This was a different world entirely, one passing by from the window of a shrunken train at speeds comparable to that of a dream. ENGLAND ON CRACK: KNOWLEDGE. This is the communication age, they say with certain pride, so this is my excuse for using the Internet on Christmas Day, surrounded by much loved family members engaging themselves in mince pies, oversized platters of various cheeses, novelty socks, and a largely untouched bottle of whisky gifted to me only a few days previous. ENGLAND ON CRACK: GARY NEVILLE. If in this world we lay the blame on those who grasped accidental success for all of our own insecurities, as the sound of wind outside resembles both nature and machinery, can I go with you to the fountain and throw withdrawn currency into its depths? ENGLAND ON CRACK: £EZRA. Across from the water, over a three pillared bridge, within a bar decked with old pine drenched with jazz and ale from past decades, we’d fight and smoke, occasionally breaking from this revelry to ENGLAND ON CRACK: SKY BURIAL. A brief dockside walk brought: Coal burners washed in buckets steam jet warmed, change of watch left boots on fiddler for the mate coming on. Grab the camera, knock ENGLAND ON CRACK: 2010 In a moment that evolved the pub into a fashion confessional, he admitted to me that his passion for tight-fitting clothing was merely a vindictive attempt to irk the portly. ENGLAND ON CRACK: TRISPIRATION Looking around the apartment for the first time in a long while, it was noticed that both the television and the dog had vanished. Both were still audible, however. ENGLAND ON CRACK: NOVEMBER 2010 Infested with bored, boring glitches and emaciated romantically, his wayward mind now always focused on specific material desires; as one dream was realised he would carelessly move on to another, freeing himself from all previous interests. ENGLAND ON CRACK: UNTITLED your pose is so seductive but your face is counterproductive to the whole idea of lying here together you're so tired you said but I knowits in your head
ENGLAND ON CRACK: DATA This is a blog entry. Its only reason for existing is that I wanted to make it exist; I wanted to write something in the naive hope that it skip to main | skip to sidebarENGLAND ON CRACK
NEVILLE NEVILLE
Dear reader, as a sun shifts awkwardly on some horizon, I suck seven cough drops at a time and cough. Bloody menthol. Is it not this fiery urge to douse things with piss that keeps your hand clasped in mine? We can't be sure. I knew a teenager once, he used to wear short pants,a pink vest and a beret. Always. He said Nietzsche would have approved. You should imagine me speaking these words, dear reader, in a kind of dulcet sigh. I am worldly, I am weary but I promise you I am not world-weary. I wear eggshell white trousers and tweed and, to pass the time, I often admonish myself in nonsense French. Is there such a thing as nonsense French? _Oui, c'est une certainement quel pas non?_ I linger in this paragraph as so many have done before me, perhaps they were young scallions full of devilish pomp who fingered the pen as if t'were a source of salvation. I'm typing this as a pastiche, or an homage to pastiche. But, like a weary dutch baker in the iron grip of _une crise d'exententialisme_, I have had enough of Pastiche.No comments:
PHIL NEVILLE.
It doesn’t matter that every thought you’ve thought has already been thought, likely by some poor French sod with a crooked hat and a lisp. And it’s likely that a group of moustached Slavic men in an unremarkable bar have discussed romantic troubles together in a manner of greater eloquence and poetry than our own conversations, and it is also likely that this bar (now half-derelict) has a plaque on its wall stating this very thing. I imagine its owner (two generations on) clings to that past moment like a mother to her newborn. And I refuse to be judged by my desire to always order whisky with ice, since I can casually hold the glass and let the ice melt to make the damn thing more acceptable to my palette (often with no soul noticing anything untoward or cowardly). A noble fan of the arts will feel repressed disgust at another’s claim that they like “oh, everything” when asked, for the noble realised long ago just how many roads remain unexplored (most do not know these roads exist, though I could never pity them for this ignorance). Originality exists in the same manner. I once wrote a piece of startling originality (this is certainly not it). Or, rather, supposed originality, since I immediately realised my mistake and therefore assumed that somewhere, in some time, some forgotten kid thought the same thing. Perhaps he explored the idea's curvature with a sonnet so beautiful that his mother destroyed it, fearing that the kid would leave the family business and venture into the city (overwhelmed by this, the kid stayed in the family business until his death). So much of my consciousness recently has been taken up by thoughts of buying a narrowboat and simply fucking off.No comments:
GARY NEVILLE.
If in this world we lay the blame on those who grasped accidental success for all of our own insecurities, as the sound of wind outside resembles both nature and machinery, can I go with you to the fountain and throw withdrawn currency into its depths? If in this pigsty I build bespoke flat-pack furniture, in direct opposition to the unclean limitations of the space, can we go together with hammers and baseball bats to destroy this furniture after only two months have passed? And, should none of this please either party, why don’t you and I crash without shame an elegant soiree, elbowing butlers and mixing vintage scotch with Sainsbury’s Basics cola, while the vulgar sun sets vulgarly on that bastard horizon? I do not believe in the universal interpretation of dreams. A cloud does not necessarily represent freedom, for instance. I do, however, have faith in one’s own subjective interpretation, assuming, of course, that the one in question has learnt the art of slow reading and not allowed the internet (that devilish internet!) to distract them once more. A cloud to them may represent work, for they might be a pilot. It may represent sadness, for clouds bring rain, and rain, in turn, inspires us to gaze cinematically out of window panes for hours on end. Or the clouds might actually represent freedom, since no soul wishes to fuck with the clouds. I once dreamt of a tiger. The tiger was fluffy to the point of being, for all practical purposes, spherical, and its appearance was cute enough to gather the attention of all in the room. The tiger had a choice: while all watched, it was to decide on a meal. Every meal was merely a plate of meat. One was a pile of tuna. Another was a whole tuna, which for some inexplicable reason had the voice of a large black American woman. The final plate housed the most confusing meat of all: it was a pile of tuna, in appearance the same as the first, but this pile represented Gary Neville, the recently retired English defender. We know this as Gary was standing behind this meal at the time, begging the tiger not to eat it (no one questioned how Gary could be both alive and represented as tuna, including myself). I cannot remember the decision made. Perhaps it does not even matter. The most important aspect of this, as least for me, was that I was the tiger, hopping around, gathering attention, looking impossibly adorable, all the time frustrating and enticing in equal measure as it tries in vain to decide on a meal. Phil Neville was also there, I recall. He recommended that his brother be eaten, much to Gary’s disgust. How I wish this dream description wasfictional...
No comments:
A LOT OF CRAP I JUST DONE WROTE. WARLOCKS, TEMPTRESSES AND PROJECT 14Love
Death
Nothing
Hope
Silliness
Futility
Action
Silliness
A comedy of futile silliness, marginalised by hope and love, with death and nothing overseeing events like a vindictive foreman. Chaotic but with some kind of underlying structure. I have to enjoy writing it, so it’s for you. Your own way to put a gloss on this silliness. It will contain at least one natural disaster that is strangely ignored. ‘It happens all the time,’ they will say. Nature as a global conspiracy. Ideas will flow and interact and then I will act as flawed editor and sift through the rubble and decide what to rebuild or discard or leave as it as according to whim. The writer as the arbitrator of the disaster area. I must take a pick axe to the ego, and the notion of soul. Other stuff can be rebuilt. Like laughter, decency. The disaster is to be an incidental event. So what is going to drive the story. A crazy, deluded story of decadenthalf-love.
Some say that before one decides on an action, one must plan. Plan the action first. Work out the why, the how and so forth. Then, when it comes time to act, just act. Everything has been reasoned beforehand, in your plan, so just act. Pure, unfettered action. I tried this. But then something unexpected always would come along. I’d go out with a drink for friends having planned considerably beforehand and then before I knew I’d be drunk and not only could I not fully remember my plan but I actually ended doing the exact opposite to what I had planned. For example, I had planned that when I felt a slight feeling of euphoria which for me normally occurs somewhere between the second and third drinks, when this time came I planned to leave the pub and take 5 minutes of silent reflection on the streets outside whilst smoking a cigarette, of which I had planned to buy 20, smoke between 11 and 15 (you always have to leave some room for arbitrary spontaneity, even in the planning stage) and give the rest to a homeless man at the end of the night in lieu of loose change. This was not because of some very gradual malevolent masterplan I harboured in trying to slowly poison the lungs of the homeless on our streets, no it was merely the case that as only a social smoker I never like to arrive home with cigarettes. The next day I usually have no desire to smoke but should my will be delicate after some soul bludgeoning transgression of the night before sometime I’ll make the fanciful, wholly incorrect supposition that a cigarette might aid in mending my bruised humanity. That this is not the case I have long since realised however one must take careful steps to avoid the always fanciful supposing of the hungover individual. So I never arrive home with cigarettes. I suppose I should explain that yes, I have no intention to become a full time smoker, so isolating my cigarette consumption to one day periods of excess is a necessary action. Of course I could just not smoke but I have found that my physiology when under the effect of alcohol is wanton to destructive action. As I have smoked in the past and as I know it is bad for me, when I become this man of destruction I must smoke. It is a good thing I have never tried, nor have easy access to very hardcore drugs. Of course I could just not drink alcohol and believe me I’ve tried this a few times. I’ve had some very settled and relaxed fortnights without drinking at all. But it just so happens that all my friends and accomplices drink alcohol and they can get tired very quickly of social events without boose. I have tried to reason with and influence them in the past but their attachment to alcohol is as strong as their attachment to their inhibitions which they hold so dearly one would think that inhibitions were necessary in the make up of a human being. In fact, I still haven’t satisfactorily resolved this so I’ll leave this here for now. Have a think. Anyway, the above really just serves to demonstrate the many tangents one must consider when planning so it is for this reason that, and I’ll warn you now, this piece of writing has not been planned. It could take many forms. It could end here. Or here. But I’m fairly sure there is some kind of useful story to tell soI’ll begin now.
Chapter 1
The Temptress and the Warlock Two magical manifestations of form. The seducer, the confuser, the magician compared to whom Derren Brown appears wholly incompetent. The Temptress and the Warlock share a lot in common but they are a far from ideal romantic match. The methodology and spirit is so similar that should their eyes meet a deap hase of misconception diffuses in the air around them. It intoxicates, more so even than the boose they love, the average punters around them, to dangerous levels. In fact, should a Warlock and a Temptress ever meet eyes in crowded area, a bar, a train station or just a busy street then the atmosphere quickly becomes one of violence and beauty which often causes our average punter friends to go mildly mad and undoubtedly there will be fornication that resembles violence or violence that resembles fornication occurring within minutes. However, these are insular times and our average punters usually have a fairly solid and stable sense of social responsibility and boundary, thus, these fornications often are internalised in the mind. Glased faces are acting out the most hideous transgressions in their opaque noggins. Now, back to the Warlock and the Temptress themselves, what happens to them after this cataclysm of eye-contact? Well, rather boringly, nothing at all. See they are aware, too aware of the dreadful consequence of any union. There have been 5 instances in history of Warlock and Temptress copulation. 3 Occurred in the crasy era of the long forgotten and decimated kingdom of the Icaloons. The first destroyed all infrastructure, transport, money all that stuff. The seconded destroyed trees. Literally, it just destroyed all of the trees. And the third one made everything catch fire and burn to the ground. After the events in Icaloon, the Warlocks and the Temptresses, separately of course, convened and decreed that never again should such a union occur. However the Friday after, a Warlock who missed the meeting due to his grand vanity and belief in some kind of insect god, tempted fate by placing moves on the weakest of the temptresses, the so-called ‘Dumb Betty.’ Dumb Betty was just about wise enough to resist at first, for of course even a shit strawberry is still red with pips. However, the Warlock was truly hideous in his desire and had recently read a great book on dating called ‘How to fuck women’ which contained truths which the average punter could not understood and thus when it received bad reviews in national press, author Derren Brown did heave a sigh. However, the Warlock, let’s call him Nick, did understand and so he used these vile techniques on Betty. Betty eventually succumbed and this is how a present universe started such was the fallout from the reaction of their union. It seems that the more malevolent the Warlock and the more dumb the temptress the greater the reaction. The one that just destroyed trees was resultant from the opposite union. A country-raised Warlock of fairly low intelligence but a shapely pair of buttocks did chance upon the evil Temptress, Hunnifer, well known for her domination of the legal profession. Therefore Icaroon just lost its trees. But, following the 4th union, as I have said, this very universe was created and with it, a new style of human being. The count of average punters in the previous universe of Icaroon and a few surrounding areas yet to be made up, was 25%. The rest were a mixture of types of being which undoubtedly will be elaborated upon further later in the text. In the new universe, we were nearly all average punters. The Warlock population in particular suffered and while the temptresses also lost many of their ilk they survived in enough number to take control of most of the media, legal system and sports teams. The Warlocks simply made do with assimilating into the general population. Occasionally, they would suffer a kind of reverse dementia that would spark memories of their previous existence but it was so fleeting as to be more of an annoyance than a source of inspiration. In their misunderstanding of their true past some went to drastic measures to try and forget every trace. Obviously boose, drugs. But some tried lobotomy, anti-depressants and shock therapy. The only real result of this was a deeper confusion which most of them finally managed to fight off with lethargy, if you can believe that. It will not surprise you to learn that I am one of them. A Warlock. But I remember and I could be the only one left who does. Thus it must becometh myeth mission, to learn my waylaid brothers some truth dammit. This is my mission and mycurse.
Chapter 2
The Temptress doth know the Warlock, but the Warlock done forgottenthe Temptress
It’s time to get a bit more real with this now. Thanks for wading through the previous bollocks reader, honestly you have my gratitude. You probably just waded for wading’s sake but who knows it may come to have some bearing later on, you can decide that actually. Anyway, I hope you don’t think this tone is flippant, that is not the intention and to prove this I will now hide behind a omniscient narrator. Watch as this loses its flippant tone and becomes the story of a woman and a man, with their own respective problems, destined to meet and share those problems and destroy this world in the process and potentially build another one. We will see. Or rather they shall see, the writer thought and proceeded to get on with the matter at hand. That is to say the narrative. Haruka sat at her computer lost somewhat in inanity. Inanity of thought. Her grasp of things as real had gone for the time being so she simply filled that gap with inanity. It was almost a cathartic process, although at times it gave way to a deeper malaise from which it was harder to recover. When the inanity of thought set in, immediately her mind turned to pornography. As in she started to think about watching pornography, not that her mind actually transformed into pornography, although in a sense there is no difference is an example of her usual inane train of thought and she supposed but could never really know that to escape such trains she must watch pornography. She had seen every kind. The artistic and faintly beautiful, to the downright depraved. Which she preferred, as you can imagine, directly corresponded to her mood. It has been established that it was inanity of thought that turned her to porn, but her mood was never simply inane. There was the cheerful inane, where she wanted to frolic and laugh and not think too hard. There was the dark, nihilistic inane wherein she simply wanted to destroy everything and there was the more rational, middle ground inane. Which was just, well, run of the mill. As has already been mentioned, in these inane times she had to take care to not fall into a deeper malaise and as you can imagine it was the dark, destructive sense of the inane which tended to drive her into despair and despondency. Today was one of those days, unfortunately. Although this tripartite analysis is a trifle simplified to be honest, in _general _terms it _tended _to be the case that she exhibited behaviour classifiable within these three structures. Although obviously lines are blurred and so on and all of these senses of inanity could turn into the others at the drop of a hat. So a run-of-the-mill inanity could maybe turn dark if she was wearing pink socks and happened to glance down at their pinkness. Or a dark, destructive inanity might occasionally be placated by her computer screen going blank and her catching her reflection and thinking that perhaps one day someone would really make her fucking smile. Usually though, as will be explained in the manner of a children’s song, when she was up, she was up, when she was down, she was down and when she was only halfway up she was neither up nor down. That doesn’t actually explain it. Her state often stuck, like when you start a video game on a difficulty setting -easy, normal or hard- you usually play the whole game on this setting. And this is sometimes how moods work and it sometimes isn’t. Regardless, she watches pornography. And today she felt destructive, even a little jaded. She longed for another taboo to be invented just so she could see it broken here and now, but she had simply exhausted them all. So that’s when she made the rather snap decision to forge a career inpornography.
The other half of this is, of course, about me. The Warlock, remember? And believe me I’m a work of fiction in no way similar to the utter cunt writing these words. His flippancy and complacency really irks the wank out of me. So much so I decide to adopt a much more flowery tone in order to irk him. Truth be told I only discovered I was a Warlock thanks to Charlie Sheen. He’s probably dead by the time this is being read back by myself or god forbid read by an average punter but still his relentless narcissistic awesome bi-winningness got me going to say the least. So he beat women, I don’t care. In a perfect world they would be no need to beat anyone but some people just can’t shut up. Would I beat up a kid? I can conceive of a time where it may be necessary. Would a beat up a defenceless old woman? I can conceive of a time when it may be necessary. Imagine she was beating up a child for example, or reaching for the doomsday button conveniently installed as a plot device at the end of this novel. Put frankly, I cannot say that there is no possible situation in which I may beat up a disabled, cripply dwarf. To say otherwise would be to lie. I came to a conclusion once. I thought for a while there was real honesty in destruction. To build something means to pile lie on top of lie on top of lie. A sandcastle is a flimsy untruth. A house is a cunt. But the opposite, destruction, is so honest and true. It tears down all the silly crap we’ve made with no thought in mind other than ‘fuck it, wasn’t gonna last forever anyway.’ Because there is no forever, no infinity and destruction knows this. Nature’s sense of destruction is my favourite, because nature really couldn’t give two stuffs. Man on man destruction is a trifle silly to be honest, so it is my way to just sit back and observe lest I get dragged into it and forced to plough fields of lies on the human farm of ignorance. What a terrible sentence. I keep forgetting about the narrative, I’m being bogged down in asides. Always happens to me that. Anyway if I ever do send this to some kind of literary agent all this bit will be in parentheses with a cover note explaining my intentions and the fact that I recognise its flippancy and utter lack of appeal and that I will be willing to cut it. But you know I’ll secretly think it’s the best bit. The bit that isn’t lies. Or isless lies.
I received the phone call at around 4:15 in the afternoon that day. The voice spoke quickly and assuredly in well accented but oddlystructured English:
‘Project 14 regarding. I’m involved now. Contact me please two weeks within. Ministry will be told.’ I could sense that I wasn’t supposed to say anything. I replaced the receiver. This was good news, in a way. Another one in our ranks. I know she had been toying with the idea for a while. I always think I understand a woman’s reason for joining us, but I can never be completely sure. With this one, again, I had my doubts regarding whether it really was the best thing for her. But I suppose she had come to have no choice, no other way out. That’s when they join I guess, when they have exhausted every last strand of hope. For me, it was a different matter.2
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HAS HE?
I always think I will change. But I always revert to the same old way of being. If I finally accept that I will never change, have Ichanged?
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23RD NOV 2008
WHEN THE HANGOVER WEARS OFF, I IMAGINE WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE YOU. I’M ONLY GUESSING. WHAT YOU THINK, HOW MANY HOURS YOU SLEEP, THE MANNER IN WHICH YOU BRUSH YOUR TEETH. I CAN ONLY MAKE A GUESS AT YOUR DETAILS AND CHARACTERISTICS. SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE I’M ONLY GUESSING MY OWN. THIS ARBITRARY EXISTENCE CAN REALLY FUCK YOU OVER. SO INSTEAD OF GUESSING AT ME, I GUESS AT YOU AND THIS IS WHAT I COME UP WITH.VOICES
1
THE THING IS RIGHT, I WOKE UP TODAY AND FELT REALLY SHIT. REALLY BAD. COULDN’T BE ARSED GOING TO WORK, FIRST TIME IN MY LIFE I FELT LIKE PULLING A SICKIE. BOLLOCKS RIGHT? NAH, SERIOUSLY, MY DAD WAS A ROUGH FUCKER BUT HE MADE SURE I ALWAYS GOT OUT OF THE SACK AND INTO THE WORLD. NO MATTER WHAT. TODAY THOUGH I’M SAT IN THE PUB. NOT THE LOCAL OF COURSE, CAN’T HAVE WORD GOING ROUND. NAH, I’M IN A QUIET BOOZER NURSING A PINT. I’M THINKING, I’M FUCKING THINKING.2
I’M ON THE TRAIN. I SEE A PRETTY GIRL AND THEN ANOTHER. THEY MAKE ME SAD. ALL I DO ON THE TRAIN IS LOOK DOWN. ALTHOUGH SOMETIMES MY GAZE WANDERS TO THE GIRLS. BUT I ALWAYS LOOK BACK DOWN. I GET OFF AT MY STOP AND JOIN THE THRONG. SOMETIMES I FEEL LIKE TAPPING THE PERSON IN FRONT OF ME ON THE SHOULDER AND SMILING. BUT I DON’T THINK YOU’RE ALLOWED TO DO THAT. THE THRONG CARRIES ME TO THE OFFICE, ALL THE WAY TO MY DESK. I BURY MY HEAD IN FIGURES AND FEEL OK FOR A WHILE. I LEAVE THE OFFICE LATE. I’M SO STUPID, I CAN’T BELIEVE I HAVE ALL THESE STUPID THOUGHTS. I MUST BE WEIRD AND A BAD PERSON. I GET BACK ON THE SUBWAY. IT’S QUIET FOR A CHANGE. I LOOK AT A GROUP OF HIGH SCHOOL GIRLS AND THEN LOOK BACK DOWN. THESE VOICES I HEAR; YOU’RE RIGHT TO SAY THEY’RE A PART OF ME. MY REFLECTIONS ON OTHERS ARE JUST REFLECTIONS OF MYSELF. 3 SHIT. I’M THE GONNA BE THE FIRST BLACK PRESIDENT. SWEEEET. I REALLY HOPE I DON’T FUCK UP._ COOL IT MAN. YOU’LL DO FINE_. BUT YOU KNOW HUMAN NATURE? OVER THE TOP. THERE ARE NEVER ANY GOOD TIMES; THEY’VE ALREADY HAPPENED; NEVER TO RETURN, EXCEPT IN TEN YEARS TIME WHEN YOU LOOK BACK AT TODAY. _YOU CAN CHANGE THAT._ THEY’LL NITPICK, THEY’LL BLAME ME FOR EVERYTHING. _THAT IS INEVITABLE. YOU KNOW THAT. JUST BE TRUE TO YOUR VISIONS AND LET HISTORY VENERATE YOU. _BUT WAIT A MINUTE, YOU JUST SAID…? _SHIT YEAH I DID. OH I DON’T KNOW, MAYBE I AM FUCKED._ CALM DOWN MAN, YOU JUST HAVE TO BELIEVE IN YOURSELF AND THAT YOU CAN MAKE A DIFFERENCE._ CAN I? DIFFERENCE TO WHAT?_ OH I DON’T KNOW, I’M GOING FOR A PINT. _CAN I COME?_ NO. SKEPTICAL MUTTERINGS I WONDER IF THE SUBTLE NUANCES OF THIS SENTENCE CAN BE CAPTURED IN JAPANESE? CAN YOU USE A JAPANESE EQUIVALENT TO ‘CAPTURE’ FIGURATIVELY? IF NOT, HOW YOU GONNA TRANSLATE IT JACK? YOU HAVE YOUR SYSTEMS OF COURSE. PRECEDENTS, PROCEDURES, METHODS. EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE THOUGH, SOMEONE COMES ALONG AND RIPS ALL THAT SHIT UP. CALLS IT ‘INNOVATION’. WHAT IF THAT HAPPENS TOMORROW JACK? WHAT IF? ACTUALLY, YOU MIGHT CONSIDER YOURSELF SOMEWHAT A TRANSLATOR-MAVERICK, YOU GET THE ‘FEEL’ OF THE WORDS AND YOU BLOODY WELL SAY IT _YOUR _WAY. BUT THAT AIN’T MY WAY JACK, NOT MY WAY. BUT, YOU KNOW, YOU DO YOUR BEST MATE. I DON’T WANT YOU TO START DOUBTING YOURSELF LIKE. TRANSLATION IS NECESSARY, I WOULD HATE IT IF WE ALL SPOKE THE SAME LANGUAGE. AND AS I READ SOMEWHERE (I KNOW WHERE REALLY), EVEN IN THE SAME LANGUAGE, DO OUR INDIVIDUAL CONCEPTS OF WORDS MATCH UP? IS YOUR NOTION OF ‘NOTION’ THE SAME AS MY ‘NOTION’ OF NOTION? IS MY NOTION OF ‘DOG’ EVEN THE SAME AS YOURS? WHO MADE THE DICTIONARY THE KING OF LANGUAGE? HAVE YOU EVER LOOKED UP ‘DICTIONARY’ IN THE DICTIONARY? IT MISSES THE IRONY COMPLETELY. I WOULD LOVE IT IF DICTIONARIES CONTAINED SLY REMARKS: DICTIONARY N WHAT YOU ARE CURRENTLY USING TO TRY AND BE A LITTLE CLEVER YOU PATHETIC NERD, DON’T THINK I HAVEN’T HEARD THIS ONE BEFORE. THE WORST THING IS _THERE IS NO ONE ELSE IN THE ROOM AND YOU’RE LOOKING UP ‘DICTIONARY’ IN THE DICTIONARY._ I CRY FORYOU.
AND WHAT IF I CALL A BATTERY A ‘DOG’? AM I WRONG? YES, YOU SAY. YOU NEED AT LEAST SOME BASIC PRAGMATISM TO AVOID INSANITY YOU SAY. EVERYONE ELSE CALLS A BATTERY A BATTERY AND A DOG A DOG. YOU MIGHT AS WELL FOLLOW SUIT. IF IT’S ALL THE SAME, IT’S ALL THE SAME. YOU ARE REASONABLE JACK. REASONABLE. BUT I’M NOT SATISFIED. I’M NOT SATISFIED. MAYBE IF I STUDIED LANGUAGE, WHERE WORDS CAME FROM, WHY THEY ARE COINED, I WOULD FEEL BETTER. I WOULD MAYBE RECOGNIZE THAT A BATTERY IS A BATTERY FOR X, AND A DOG IS A DOG IS FOR Y. OF COURSE I COULD TAKE THIS FURTHER AND ASK WHY X AND WHY Y, BUT A LITTLE BIT OF EXPLANATION AND SOME SEMBLANCE OF ‘LOGIC’ MIGHT BE ENOUGH TO KEEP ME FROM PUTTING DOGS IN MY GAME BOY. PROBABLY ONLY FOR A WHILE THOUGH.MY ART SYSTEM
SPEND THE WEEK BEING AS PRAGMATIC AS POSSIBLE. GET FUCKED OUT OFF MY FACE ON FRIDAY. WRITE/CREATE ALL DAY SATURDAY. REVIEW IT PRAGMATICALLY IN THE FOLLOWING WEEK. LOVELY. GO TO BED WITH A REASON TO GET UP RIGHTAWAY. ALWAYS.
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19TH MARCH 2009
Whether it’s the old woman in the window across the road (her head, just her head is floating in the window) or some other hidden yet equally disturbing delinquent; I feel like I am being watched. I told myself I was tired before but I’m sat bolt upright now. I was excited and annoyed by opportunity but the annoyance gradually turned to acceptance and after what seemed like an age (but was in fact only around 7/8 months) I emerged and could say that I was ready for things. It was gradual but at the same time it was instant. But some glum philosopher has probably been over that paradox. I wouldn’t know; I’ve only read like two books. One was about the rain and the other was about a wistful, aged philanthropist. The profound knowledge present in the two was of great benefit to me (and still is.) I arrived at the bar quite late but early for me (you.) I came equipped with my manuscript for one of those make-your-own-mind-up-story-novels and I was expecting it to be received rapturously by my friend and mentor, you. You read it but you couldn’t make your mind up and the story died inside you. You said there were too many options, too many possibilities. I said ‘there was only really one.’ She called me to say the band was going to be playing next weekend. It had been 5 years. ‘Where?’ I asked. She hung up. On Tuesday I received a time and a place. On Wednesday I thought long and hard. On Thursday I made my decision. On Friday I met her. The band played, we danced, we moved. The band finished. We said our goodbyes. It had been5 years.
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16TH APRIL 2009
I am currently in the middle of a manic episode. Possibly, maybe, I could, you could, be making it all up. I’m drinking. It’s necessary. Listening to music that holds something I desperately want. This is a manic episode. I must repeat this mantra. I’m off my tits on mania. Things are simpler when it passes. The world is like a big cosy pillow. Or like a buffet, I can take the things I like onto my plate and leave everything else behind. A lot on my plate becomes a positive expression here because I decided what would be on that plate; all so lovely, plentiful. But when the buffet becomes something else, when the bounty offered is blurred, indistinct; when one dish merges into another; when I can no longer tell between that which is good and that which isn’t; when my likes and dislikes become fanciful vanities; that is when trouble sets in. My plate teems with monstrosities. Each creating as many problems as the last, making infinity look like a child’s naïve underestimate.No comments:
11TH SEP 2008
‘HARD FUCKING WORK. THAT’S WHERE YOU START MATE.’ I NODDED IN AGREEMENT. HE WAS RIGHT. THIS YEAR I NEEDED TO WORK. HARD.DUCK POLITICS
IN THE LAND OF THE DUCKS THE POLITICS WAS VERY CLOAK AND DAGGER. NOT THAT I’VE EVER KNOWN EXACTLY WHAT THAT EXPRESSION MEANS, BUT IT CONJURES UP IMAGES OF SHADY DUCK CHARACTERS STABBING EACH OTHER SURREPTITIOUSLY SO I’LL STICK WITH IT. BECAUSE THE DUCKS WERE SHADY, TERRIFYINGLY SO. YOU NEVER KNEW YOUR PLACE IN DUCK POLITICS. LEADERS LASTED A MATTER OF WEEKS, THE CABINET WAS SHUFFLED CONSTANTLY LIKE A DECK OF PORNO PLAYING CARDS. THE DUCK MINISTER WAS A HAPLESS FIGUREHEAD AND COULD RARELY DO ANYTHING TO PREVENT THE NEW TIDE (IN THE POND.) THAT BEING SAID DUCK SOCIETY FUNCTIONED RATHER WELL. THE POLITICS WAS SO EPHEMERAL THAT IT HAD THE EFFECT OF CREATING A BELLIGERENT INDIFFERENCE IN THE DUCK POPULACE. THE VOTER TURNOUT WAS RIDICULOUSLY LOW; A MERE 3%. BASICALLY, THE DUCK MASSES KNEW HOW INEPT THE DONALDS OF DUCK PARLIAMENT WERE AND JUST LEFT THEM TO THEIR FINE MESS; ALL THE TIME PRETTY MUCH GOVERNING THEIR OWN LIVES. THE ONLY THING THE DUCK GOVERNMENT WAS REALLY RESPONSIBLE FOR WAS SETTING THE PRICE OF BREAD AND EGGS IN THE POND SHOPS AND ENSURING THAT ANY DUCK MURDERERS WERE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE. THAT WAS THE ONLY CRIME IN THE LAND OF THE DUCKS. MURDER. DUCKS WERE NICE CREATURES WHO NEVER DREAMT OF VIOLENCE OR ANY OF THAT SHIT. HOWEVER, DUCKS WERE OCCASIONALLY SUSCEPTIBLE TO INSTANCES OF FEVER WHEREIN THEY BELIEVED THEMSELVES MINI-DUCK KINGS AND THEREFORE SENTENCED FELLOW DUCKS TO DEATH, A SENTENCE WHICH THEY WOULD TRY TO CARRY OUT THEMSELVES BUT ULTIMATELY THEIR BILLS AND THEIR SHITTY WING-LIMBS WEREN’T UP TO THE TASK. AND THAT IS THE LAND OF THE DUCKS. I THANK YOU. AND YOU.No comments:
22ND JAN 2009
On Trying To Write
Sniffling through the undergrowth. Preposterously fleeing a semi-enemy. Droplets of rain. It’s a quiet suburban park, yet, on this occasion it has assumed an air of danger. The world, here at least, is off-balance. He scrambles up a fairly steep mound which leads up to the main open space within the grounds*, a chance for safety. His dirt-caked fingers grapple with broken earth while his withered footwear is teased by progress. The only principle he has ever thought to have any kind of meaning was that of putting his complete attention in whatever he was doing at the time. Yet he is struggling now. The pursuer is closing in...The narrative is lost. You are your own worst enemy. Your own best friend. Your own sense of nothing. Your own sense of everything. You recklessly chase yourself down and gratifyingly feed on your own entrails. You want yourself to fail; telling yourself you don’t know what failure is, you don’t know what anything is. Your distrust your own emotions. You are aware that every time the worlds opens up just a little; its your own susceptibility and naivety that makes this so. You are well aware that the pleasures of a closed world are few. You won’t take excuses and you won’t trust in solutions. Smudged crayon on an empty pot of instant noodles. The wayward doodlings of a child. A man being tortured in his own living room wondering what on Earth happened to make his life take such a turn. Fictional moments of media you have consumed over the past few days. Striking moments. At least they stay with you unlike so much else. Ibetter go.
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12TH AUGUST 2009
“ANY KIND OF MORAL CONSISTENCY IS JUST THE STUBBORN REFUSAL TO ADMIT THE INNUMERABLE DEFECTS PRESENT IN YOUR CURRENT BELIEF SYSTEM.” NO HAVING A BELIEF SYSTEM IS THE MEANS OF COUNTERACTING THE NUMEROUS DEFECTS IN SOCIETY AND HUMAN NATURE Aphorisms aside, how are you? I haven’t seen you for a while. Sorry to greet you like that by the way, but that was the thought that motivated me to write this letter and I thought I should share it with you, you know? The quote, it’s a hopeful thing really. I hope we’re both through with all that despair. It didn’t get us anywhere, well, it didn’t get me anywhere. Anyway, the thought struck home and I was inspired to write to you and share with you something I wrote some time ago. I had forgotten all about it, which as you know is rare for me. I happened upon it a few days ago; it was in a folder in another folder called ‘a56ty’ which was within the program files on my laptop not in the documents bit where most of my stuff is. Pretty strange, I know. I really can’t remember what led to its creation or why I went to such pains to conceal it but I’ve read through it want to share it with you. I know we tire each other sometimes and I know it’s hard for us to look at and appreciate each other’s thoughts. Or maybe that’s just from my side. But in any case, you know how hard it is for me to write anything. I know you’ve always been better at ignoring that indiscriminate little nagging voice of dissent to anything we do. That’s why you are where you are now, I guess. But anyway I wrote this, I mean I really, truly _wrote_ it. Let me know if you think it means something to you or whatever, I don’t know. Anyway, write back.No comments:
Hello. Under my thumb. World Cup by Djando Dando He sat there on a bar stool. Drinking a pint of bitter, as he had been doing for 50 years. Not on that same stool in one continuous drinking session, I doubt anyone has ever done that. No, what I mean to say is that he had been drinking bitter for around 50 years. Not continuously, you know, it was his favourite drink. He had been a bitter drinker for 50 years. Not that he was bitter towards the world and so he drank, no, what I mean is…oh I give up. Language is useless. Not to say that it doesn’t have a use…but…ok let’s start again. A man was sat on a stool drinking bitter. His thoughts were on a certain announcement to take place that afternoon. He had recently retired. He had been a criminal defence solicitor. I don’t actually know this, but I presume he came into the profession somewhat idealistic, eager to make a difference and had ended up resenting the grind and the scum he had to cook up mitigating circumstances for. He once told me of a client he had. He was caught by the police in someone else’s house with a television in his arms. Against all the man’s advice he pleaded not guilty. And the man had to defend him. I can’t remember what exactly the man had said in his defence (although it would be good if I did so I might make something up later or ask the man if he remembers.) Anyway of course the assailant was found guilty but I remember the man was somewhat proud of the fact that he managed to procure a more lenient sentence for the criminal. Law is bollocks isn’t it? That’s a snap judgement isn’t it? Bit like judges and that. Haha. Anyway, I was going to write a poignant story about an old, retired disillusioned solicitor who was a bitter drinker but not particularly bitter just somewhat jaded. He was waiting for an announcement on the television regarding something he had invested a great deal of hope into. He remembered an event from his youth. It took place over one glorious summer and it captivated the whole nation. The decade was the 60’s. Those free-love-wheelin’ Bob Dylan times. Wish I’d have been there. But anyway, that one summer was glorious. Not only was music just getting going, people were starting to smoke dope, bringing colour into the modern world and stuff. The nation by the way was Britain. And the summer in question was just past the midpoint of the decade. Have you got it yet? You should have. So he was sat on a stool, drinking a pint of bitter waiting for an announcement. This day he was alone. His old drinking geezers still did the odd job during the day. Some were landlords for students and often had redecorating or rent-collecting to do. Some did other things. Anyway, he was alone. Well, he knew the pub staff well so it wasn’t as if it were antisocial, bitter drinking. The announcement was imminent. Maybe he didn’t himself realise how much he was depending on the outcome. He maybe thought that it would just be a nice thing for him to enjoy in his final days should he make it that far and he was confident that if it was to occur, he would be around. The decision was to be made by a panel, mainly of similarly aged chaps of various nationalities. You wonder how they felt about the whole thing. Of course the nations involved in the decision had no representatives on the panel that would decide the outcome. I am assuming this, but it seems a safe assumption.(I have since discovered this assumption was incorrect…) However, maybe some on the panel had a special affinity for one of nations in the running. Maybe they felt themselves more of that nationality than their actual nationality. That would be hard to prove. I quite like East Asia. If I were to get myself involved in such a panel I would hide this bias from my fellow pannelers. I might even outwardly betray a certain western, patronising attitude towards East Asia. Throw them off the scent at first. But then, I would pretend to be blown away by the proposals from an East Asian country. Say openly that it is very impressive _as a proposal_. As if it were capable of being a separate entity from the proposer. ‘I have looked at the Japanese proposal and must say I am particularly impressed with the transport infrastructure that will be in place.’ I would then try to find the rare honest Johns on the panel and try to dupe them by talking up the _proposal_ as a stand alone thing. After they start to agree with my thoughts on the proposal as a stand alone thing I will begin to make generalised, clichéd racist comments about the countries themselves. ‘Say what you like about the Koreans but they always work hard and get the job done.’ So this is the kind of thing that must go on in panels. Also, there are things such as money which can be passed around. Incentives. Often through loopholes. Fucking law. So I’ll make another assumption. Whether all the members realise it or not, even if they don’t engage in corruption, these panels are hopelessly impartial. Which I think is unfair on the man. The man sat at the stool drinking bitter. If fairness were possible, I think this man deserves it. Well actually what I am saying is that because I like this man and I want to see his hopes realised they should give the world cup to England so he can relive his ’66. But then even if the decision came in England’s favour, he’d then have to depend on a multitude of other things. I can be quite wantonly spiritual so I believe he would still be alive then. I also think England would host a bloody good world cup. I think we do these things very well. But, part of the man’s nostalgia was of course the team’s performance! Now, home advantage and all that is very nice but what if they capitulated under the strain, went out on penalties in the last 16? What a damp squib. It would probably finish the man off there and then. 8 years of anticipation and a past his prime Rooney balloons his penalty off the bar and some nob head Dutchman, Argentinean or heaven forbid German sticks the decider away. Cue tears, heartbreak. It’s not gonna be 66 again after all. The man shuffles back to his house cursing himself for wasting his last 8 years in anticipation of an Indian Summer. This of course is all very fanciful. It’s really about death. Limits being placed on possibility by outside, arbitrary forces. England didn’t get the world cup 2018. Fucking Russia did. This man will never see another world cup in England. Even I’ll probably be at least middle-aged before it could even happen. What about those ageing football fanatic Russians who have waited their whole lives to have the world cup come to the motherland? Fuck them. They’re not my Dad.No comments:
1ST APRIL 2008
NOVEL IDEAS
Write a novel- you never can because all you do is talk about what you are going to do never do it. Japanese boy sitting reading manga against a fence outside Shinjuku station. You take him under your wing, open his life up. But you never do. A fresh bout of Deja-Vu. The story is structured in a series of imagined events which may have occurred if the protagonist would have done what he wanted to do. Culminating in the ironic final chapter about writing a novel. Scenes vary in style and subject matter some are more surreal than others. Style throughout is nonbullshit. Examine ego. Would these things actually happen? Write from the two possible scenarios? Bit clichéd? Focus on the chaos in the protagonist’s mind. Different characters for different scenarios? Possible. Be whitty, with much whitique of pop culture. Argue with yourself. LSD trip scene. Don’t explain much. What stands in his way? Social boundaries? Confidence? Lethargy? Personality deficiencies? Nothing? BLACK TAMBOURINE. Slum it. There is more culture in the slums. A man on a bus once said to me ‘There is more culture in the slums.’ I was eleven so I had no idea what he was talking about, but I’m twenty now. Either way, what he said was irrelevant. I pick up my can of special brew. It’s 9% lager. Strong. Some say it can’t actually be classed as a lager, more accurately it’s some kind of fortified wine, to those people I say ‘meh’. I’ve never been one for arguments, people waste words. They let them dribble down their chin to collect in puddles by their feet. I finish the can. My phone rings. I have no intention of answering it. I answer it. It’s the man from the bus nine years ago. ‘Remember what I said all those 9 years ago?’ ‘There is more culture in the slums’ ‘Yep,’ he coughs, ‘Yep.’ Then something strange happened. I became someone else. Someone completely different, I wasn’t sat on a wooden stool drinking special brew anymore, I was in a dress, covered by an apron, making soup for a family of thirteen. But it felt so natural. So, so natural. ‘Come an get it!,’ I bellowed with such ferocity that the cat swore. Seconds later the table was manned by 13 children, each of a different race. This is getting silly. So I’ll be someone else.Myself.
I pick up a third can, it’s just me and the stool. I often dream about what life might be like if I was someone else, somewhere else. I mean if I’d done a few things differently I might well have been someone else, somewhere else. I went to Japan when I was 20. All the way to Japan. For six months. Doesn’t happen everyday that someone goes to Japan for six months. To live. I saw this child once slumped against a fence outside Shinjuku station reading Manga and Ithought…
HIROSHI
There was a foreigner looking at me. I was scared. My mum says to be careful of foreigners, but I wasn’t sure because my friend at school had a dad who was black and from Africa. This foreigner was blonde with blue eyes. I tried to return to my comic but I had the feeling that they were going to try to talk to me or something so I was too nervous to read. I was right to be scared. The foreigner came over to me. He said in correct Japanese ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ‘Life doesn’t throw up many opportunities you know, but itshould.’
That’s what I thought. So I told this child that. Only I didn’t, only I did. Because life doesn’t throw up many opportunities, but it should. It really should. The child blinked twice, I expected him to run away screaming in terror. But he didn’t he said ‘I’m 16 years old, not 12, and I have never lived a day in mylife.’
I answered him in an honest way. It was important for me to do this.No comments:
Bird by Djando Dando The bird is the word. Lonely Job Rorgan, alternatively known as Josh Rogan, Travis, Bobby Sanches and other shit sat on the sofa listening to some stuff. In his alcohol addled mind he contemplated the virtue of a life lived in complete ignorance. He got up to get some chips from Sam’s Chicken. Sam greeted him unusually warmly which was unusual. He then smoked a cigarette and coughed. He felt like falling in love but everyone around him was ugly. He remarked upon this to Sam who said unusually ‘Everyone is ugly.’ Rorgan didn’t share these sentiments exactly so he left in search of beauty. It was a long journey which only concluded in around 1000 words. His first stop was the Polish supermarket next door but everyone in there was ugly so he bought a can of Lech and left. As he drank the strong Polish lager he glanced fretfully at his environment. North London is gritty and ugly, he thought. He knew he had to take his search further afield. So he went to the tube station and took the picadilly line all the way to Heathrow Airport. Once there he approached the British Airways ticket desk and asked politely for a ticket to somewhere where he may find beauty. The ticketeer responded enthusiastically and offered him numerous choices. He wasn’t in the mood to decide however so he asked the ticketeer to just give him the cheapest one. He had plenty of money in his satchel but he felt this was a good a method as any to decide without thought. He received his ticket and obstinately refused to look at the destination although he would have to find out sooner or later. Or would he? He went back to the ticket desk and politely asked the clerk unusually which gate his flight would depart from. He said 17. So then he put in his headphones and started listening to music. The music player was on shuffle. He passed through security, becoming mildly irritated when being asked to remove his shoes. He hated taking off his shoes. His feet were somewhat misshapen and vulgar. Indeed, the airport security man expressed mild disgust at the sight of them. He was also wearing odd socks as he could never be bothered to put them into little balls after washing them, nor did he wish to spend time in locating pairs from his labyrinthine sock drawer. Who cares if I wear odd socks, he often asked himself. The answer was surprising but not repeatable. After passing through security, Rorgan wedged himself into a narrow booth in a coffee selling place. He ordered an Americano with an extra espresso shot, costing two pounds forty. It was a large one, or venti as they called it in their made-up coffee house language. As he drank the coffee, a new thought occurred to him. Another influence on this train of thought could have been a song of reggae coming into his ears. I think I really will find beauty today was this thought and he became utterly convinced and his eyes gleamed with a steely focus. Coffee was his favourite drug because it was hot and it made things faster. Out of the corner of his eye he saw an altercation between a man and a woman, possibly, probably lovers. The man was insulting the woman wonderfully creatively, using such slurs as ‘You suck off paedos and clowns you vomity slag.’ Rorgan reasoned in his head that due to the woman seeming to be of a sexually mature age the clowns would probably enjoy the fellatio more than the paedos. A rhyme entered his mind. The fellatio ratio. Paedos and clowns. Giant African tribesman and racist BNP banter. What is the ratio of good and bad in the world? Of beauty and it’s opposite? He had a feeling that it was exactly equal but this was probably hopelessly naïve. He imagined a card game from a green felt covered table with 5 notable persons, both alive and deceased. The ones who had died were delighted that they had been afforded the opportunity for a little more life, and the alive ones looked bored. There was money bet on the game. The dead gambled unreservedly, while the alive ones hedged somewhat. The game concluded with a cry from the kitchen ‘Come and Get it!’ the Portuguese Cook bellowed. The dead rose feverishly licking their lips. The alive ones also. Rorgan got there first but was dismayed when he realised that the cook was serving pork stew with a side order of Scottish eggs. I thought I told you I didn’t eat meat he said in broken Portuguese. The Scottish eggs are made from crumbled Linda McCartney sausages so please eat them. Also the stew is made from renewable pigs so you shouldn’t feel so guilty. Satisfied that he wasn’t compromising his ethics he tucked in with gusto. It wasn’t long before he realised he had been daydreaming and when he came to his face was on a plate. A bemused American looked down at him horrified. Dude, you ate my Scottish Eggs. Rorgan, looked up and unusually the American was a female beauty of an indeterminable race. Well, hello there he says. Where are you headed today? I’m Job Rorgan. What’s your name? I’m headed to gate 17 toward an unknown destination and my name is Bird McGyver, she replied. What race are you? Rorgan blurts out. I’m a quarter-everything, she says. That’s convenient, he replies and this story ends with them first talking about their similar taste in artistic matters of art and unusually with them headed to gate 17 with no sense of their destination. When they arrive at the gate they both put in their headphones and listen to music on shuffle being careful to divert their eyes from any screen that may give away their destination. Thus, they boarded the plane but the journey was over,really.
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FOR MOROSE POWELL (IT'S GET BETTER AT THE END) Part 1- Refusing to be in a Class Swallowed in thirty seconds broke numerous world records broke performing seals he opened a tin of beans with his left foot never thought he could actually do it, fuck Part 2- Refusing the Test I'm cockblocking smarmy writers with no idea of the futility of their own detritus who can't be relied upon in crisisBut enough of that
You shouldn't really let the voidfight back
fill it with whatever's at hand words, drugs, dreams of a distantwonderland.
A decent band.
A pretty girl.
Something funny.
Something brutal.
A full night's sleep.A cup of coffee.
An argument.
A long walk.
An excuse.
Denial.
Nihilism.
Jeremy Kyle.
A mentor.
Hope.
A line of coke.
Chase dreams down
Dead ends.
Open up.
Shut down.
Move to a different part of town.Be the clown.
A joker.
Play a hand of poker.You'd go all in
but you can't be sure you're going to winWatch the football
Curse the rat race
log into facespace
Read a book
Write a book.
Throw yourself under a... See they're right when they say it comes from inside But when you're empty, erm, well there's nothing except somewhere tohide
So...
Fill up
To the brim
Decide things on a whim. Tell someone you love them.You might as well.
Anything to break the spell.Try Spirituality.
Try to embrace overwhelming banality. Actually think about what you're writing. Plot with friends to make life more exciting. Realise that tomorrow things will be completely different. Get depressed at this fluidity of self.Pony(sic) self.
Get dressed in a suit and pretend you're a mute. From Sweden. Who is a genius and leader of men. But he just can't explain it. Take a photo of your penis and frame it. Have casual sex in an alley with a scallyCommit a crime.
Jump on a plane. Tomorrow.Just go.
Fuck it. Just sit there. And stare. And stare. At the wall. Stop fighting to care.Marry the void.
In Vegas.
Self-harm.
Stay calm and carry on.Forget about her.
The world's an oyster. It's like you've got the answers but you really can't be bothered to cheat on the testwhy not?
You might as well get top marksIt's just a test.
Girls might be impressed. I don't care who devised the test. I don't care that it's not fair that you don't have to revise like therest
You're not a jesus.
You're not blessed.
You're just another cunt-guest. On this eternal farce-fest-Jeremy-Kyle-Marathon He get's angry while you just sit there and maintain you don't know what the fucks going on The righteous indignation of the Jeremy Kyle He breaks into a sinister smileNo excuses, he says
He softens slightly when he notices the tears in the corners of youreyes.
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DISAPPOINTMENT.
No comments:
LASTING.
In a moment that evolved the pub into a fashion confessional, he admitted to me that his passion for tight-fitting clothing was merely a vindictive attempt to irk the portly.No comments:
SHISHA.
Astonishing at a young age to find out we all see the moon as it was in a past moment: why panic over the technicalities of time travel when its impact is all we see? More astonishing was to find out the sun appears as it was even longer ago. Eventually, ever so slowly, his understanding of this concept built up, albeit not enough to inspire comfort, and he therefore began to doubt _everything_. “How can I believe a statement made in the past? By the time you change your mind I may have only heard the initial promise!” “But, child...” The child was gone, having decided to run fast enough backwards to catchup to the present.
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HYPNOTISM.
Endship
Ossib
Somehow children
Now the night
The wrog chance
Withered they are they areSilence
Fporgoten philosophyNight and the room
Inspect the landcsapoeChance memories
Precarious sVelvet sounds heardAnd my reel you
His quiet hour
The travelling regions of sleepQir ofblight
Fading 60 and faultless See the caprice of rifled lifeSpeech gave way
The stability principle Determined to reach artPassion remembered
Studyoig the sudden
Came hard
A pen and the dictive inkLong held sound
Nobodoy without such a tube could perfromf it Elbow the pribwuilitySettle our pqast
My god
With a woman with a woman ooer and admoration wek oerhaps hse dows Romasnce sinto realities I wiull coe to you oince mor32 a ojeyGft9
Art by way of vines
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It’s not good enoughIt is!
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