All right, first Harry says, Hey, chaps, what time we seeing this movie? My credit's running out soon, and we're like, I think it's around 6.30, though there is a 5.45 session, so I guess it depends on which session would be most convenient, and then he goes, Maybe the 5.45, as I need to get back by 11, but we're like No, we think the 6.30's better, so he's all OK, that's cool. See ya, and we hang up. So I go to the station, right, to catch the 5.29 train, and Tom's already there but he's wearing this black beanie so I thought he was Anh Tu, but when I got close I realised it was Tom because he looked like Daniel Johns from Silverchair, and Tom looks like Daniel Johns from Silverchair, especially that one time when he was wearing white braces with nothing underneath when he answered the door, which is the sort of thing Daniel Johns has been wearing for the publicity shots for the new Silverchair album.
Anyway, me and Tom get on the train which isn't late for once and we sit down and I say the moon must have eaten a lot today but Tom informs me that he doesn't think it's quite a full moon, and I say it doesn't matter if it's full or sort of full because I just said it'd eaten a lot today and that could mean sort of full. Then we arrive at the station and we go up to the cinema and we see Ben in his usual red monkey outfit wearing headphones. We go up behind him as we're not sure if he's seen us yet but we don't really surprise him and he just takes off his headphones. He tells us he's the only one there and Harry just rang him and told him that he was gonna be five minutes late and Tim isn't there. Then Tom says the big building in front of us has nothing on Ben's penis (which is apparently really, really big, although I've not seen it yet), and he says that Ben should lie down next to it so we can compare it but we don't and just get to talking about something else instead. And then Tim comes and we're still waiting for Harry but the session's sold out so when Harry comes we have to go to another cinema.
We get to the other one in time and it isn't sold out so we get our tickets and go in and sit down (from left to right, it was Harry, me, Tim, Tom and Ben on the end). Harry asked me if I'd seen the eBay ad before and I tell him no I hadn't but I laugh along with him like I had and knew how weird it was, and then Tim tells me, as he had told Tom earlier, that the Chaser should do a road test of the ad and die. Then we saw an ad for the new Die Hard movie and Harry says it looks over the top. I ask Tom if he brought his diary and he says no he didn't bring his diary why do I ask and I say so he can mark down Die Hard in his diary, but he says he doesn't need to as he's already written it down in his head. And then we watch the film and we finish watching the film and leave. And we go to the station and there's 23 minutes to our train so we go to a supermarket to eat dinner and I split a four-pack of doughnuts with Tom because I saw some in the movie we watched (I ate the chocolate and pineapple one, he ate the pink and normal one with jam). And we go on the train and Ben says you know how royals are biscuits in [long word I can't remember] but are basically just sugar well this is sugar in [long word] but is basically just air or something, and he says something about those old guys on the Muppet show.
To be continued...
A Million Ways
Today was one of those over-familiar days marked by a noticeable absence of occurrences. Despite it being winter, the mercury was in the slightly-too-hot for most, if not all, of the day, and I was forced to sweat about in little more than a figure-hugging T-shirt and an ambiguous pair of undershorts, an outfit which departed quite drastically from yesterday's chilly wardrobe of German trench and snug Penguin leggings. But gripes with the weather soon proved to be on the extraneous side of the day's events, for early on a thing occurred (let me preserve the mystery for a sentence or two) which was to change my memoirs forever.
I had just finished work on my latest exposé, High Society, about the prevalence of drugs in modern life (I hope no one beat me to that title), when that blasted doorbell (two slugs, last June—I'm surprised it still works) startled me from my chair. Dragging myself to the front door, I was rather bemused to find myself face-to-face with a fellow author. He seemed to be holding an impressive wad of manuscript paper, the visible of which bore the unmistakable stench of laboured prose. Showing the distraught-looking penman in, I asked him the nature of his visit, to which he responded with a resigned glance at the dogged pages in his hand. Knowing all too well what this meant, I plonked him on my comfiest and fetched a vile of bitters. Snatching the glass from my grasp, he thanked me kindly, swug it, and passed out. I picked up his manuscript.
Hold on. He had only written two pages, and a rotten two pages at that. This was hardly the point where you go about abusing the hospitality of your contemporaries—that comes when you hit a dead-end at page 175. The nerve of the fellow. And me too tired to seek revenge.
Some minutes later, I climbed into and had a shower. Despite water restrictions, the experience gave me that lovely feeling that everything was going to turn out all right—providing I significantly re-worked this (the ending in particular) come memoir time.
Bound by Yore
You know, it almost seems shameful. Stubbornly persevering, as evidenced hereon, is not the noblest of pursuits, nor is it worthwhile purely as an exercise in unflappability. In fact it bears a closer resemblance to pop-baiting, as if its continuation is merely a manifestation of vain hope. That being the case (he admits nothing), I'm liable to stoop further into base swipes at base targets, in a bid to appeal most broadly, and most blatantly. This, however, has not expressly occurred as of the yet, and its lack hereof (pardon?) is either a gratifying reassurance (a reassuring gratification, if you like) or the deepest damnation of this undertaking thus far—I can't decide which. But whatever the label, it must be said that the pressures of a stadium are, in that respect, a welcome absence—and horrid either way.
This led to my most controversial stain: a small number of pieces made under slight duress. It is said what's past is past, but they still seem to determine my future, at least in terms of how I'm viewed by the uninitiated. These pieces, however, were not the product of a switch in alliances, and they most certainly were not a temporary batch of propaganda I cooked up to aid my escape. Moreover, they had nothing in them, save for my ignorance, which in any way compromised my loyalty or aligned me with my captors. Though I most definitely regret them, and indeed am ashamed by them [see first sentence, remove "almost seems", replace with 'is'—ed.], I do not feel I should be held accountable for my actions unless stupidity itself has become a punishable offence in my absence. I admit that speaking of unsevere conditions was an unwise act under the circumstances, and revealing my mostly apolitical stance certainly did not help matters. But my err was not malicious in the least, and had I known then the ramifications it would cause, I would assuredly not have gone through with it.
In the end, even my fiercest critic has to admit they were no more ill-willed than any schoolyard prank. Indeed the writings themselves, composed with a friend of mine by way of a mishandled dictionary, were intended to be interpreted as such. Neither of us entertained the thought of them maintaining their illusion for more than a day or so. Certainly we wanted to expose what we perceived to be a growing trend of undiscernibility among the editors that be, who were then beginning to swoon for anything that merely sounded like it could mean something, even if the thing in question was so inscrutable that there was no way of knowing. But we did not, let it be said, aim to discredit one target in particular. We merely intended to undermine that line of thinking as a whole. Thus our grotesque creations, as composite and vulgar as Frankenstein's, made no concession to meaning whatsoever, and were consequently adored by the above. Our point was proved to an extent far beyond our expectations, and by the trial we were beginning to realise that perhaps it had got somewhat out of hand. But surely by now it should no longer be relevant. All reverberations faded long ago, and only in dwelling does the event still exist in memory. The past doth not make the man. If my future is sealed, at least grant me a happy now.
Alias the Eunuch
Boy, water day. Finishing my morning perusal of Harry's loopy French letters, I had set upon breakfast, only to realise that my pantry had been raided by a previous mood, most likely last night's, and was in a state of utter emptiness. Even my pantry-liners were missing. Consequently, my entire morning was spent piecing together decidedly unpalatable scraps I'd retrieved from my fridge in the hope of concocting enough fibre for the day's most important meal. Failing that, and noticing, with more than a touch of dejection, that it was forty minutes into lunch-time, I took to the asphalt and looked for a restaurant.
I found one twenty minutes further on, and it just so happened to contain Ben, who just so happened to be accompanied by a fair-haired lass of distinction. The place was just so happening.
"Hi, Ben and co.," I said. "Good eats?"
Ben winked into bedroom-eyes and indicated his sexier-than-thou companion. I shuddered.
"Eats as in 'eating out'," he said, grinning dully.
"I know, I got it."
"'Eating out' as in cunnilingus," he continued, undeterred.
"I know, Ben."
"'Cunnilingus' as in oral sex."
"Ben—"
"'Oral sex' as in the thing where I use my mouth to stimulate another person's genitals."
"Ben—"
"'Stimulate' as in raise the levels of physiological activity in—"
"All right, I'm off."
"Suit yourself."
I gave Ben an especially icy glare.
"Goodbye, Ben."
"Cheerio."
"And goodbye—uh—I don't believe I caught your name."
"No, you didn't," she said.
"Right. Bye."
The best part of the rest of the day was spent worrying about filth and how to get rid of it. I mean, what if a brilliant professor overheard my exchange with Ben? I dared not think. And when night hit, I found myself incapable of doing anything other than throwing Harry's letters at the wall and watching his handwriting ooze down to the floor. This proved to be a significant social hindrance when two unexpected guests arrived just as I had forgotten to re-kempt the room. Goodness.
The Law of the Low
I was watching television the other day—one of us was perched atop my wardrobe, reaching metallically for a two-pronged reception—and I noticed, for what I deemed the first time in recent memory, a distinct lack of soul-searchers. I was thus unable to identify with any of the preening cut-outs on offer, whose only concerns, it seemed, involved either violence or romance, and often both. Where are all the black-skivvy boohoos vainly scouring the heavens for impossible answers to impossible questions? Where are the open-mike coffee bars emitting badly articulated howls of existential contemplation? This sorry evidence led me to the conclusion that we, the What Is Life? moguls, are a dying breed.
Emerging from deepest concentration, my four-eyed lass agreed, saying that she too had observed the lack of televised kindred spirits. Her explanation, however, differed from mine in that its articulation was at a higher, more feminine pitch and featured shorter, more feminine words, although in essence it was as close to mine as atheism to nihilism. Later, when my mortal coil was being twisted and her rude rhymes censored, we traded brass-knuckle blows (a profoundly humbling experience, I'll tell you) and gave the issue another thorough spray. This time we concluded that if there existed mediated role-models of our ilk, our lifestyles would be stacked and weighed against these creations, and our prided sense of individuality would be compromised. Therefore, we reasoned, television's narrow-minded approach was a disguised blessing for us blessed.
Following that night and its comfortable reassurance, we engaged in a morning meeting at Twee Heads, a small but faithful town in the hills where crime has been completely eradicated. Disrobing, we quickly illuminated the circle of fellows in orbit around us, who were similarly pleased to hear about the sneaky blessing, and set about making ourselves appealing targets. Having acquired both the texture and the taste, this is something I'd recommend to all couples looking to cement their relationship. Case in point: Team Randall, winner of both 2006's Love Of The Year award and the Shower Of Power award, not to mention his recent Indirectly Lowering The Tone victory. And he's a sole-searcher to boot. We may not have TV, but we'll always have this. I mean, the innernet.
Bradwriaeth Am Byth
Though I am yet to be dubbed a boob, I certainly felt one yesterday. Dig: I was in the smoke, scratching away the guilty tingles down my back, when the expository creature—a lady, no less—approached and set in motion the series of events I'm now in the process of articulating. She was the first. Her ears, ninety percent covered by black Welsh hair, were worth each and every attempt to engage them. Her mouth, undoctored and pink, was worth tenfold, for it was where those compelling Welsh vowels escaped. Viewed from afar, I think it is, for a lass, the accent you bang on church windows for.
She asked for directions.
"I think that's—oh—there-ish." But the accompanying finger's scope rendered my answer next to useless.
"Oh. Thanks."
"It's about forty steps down that street," interjected Ben, my companion for the occasion. "Hard to miss, really."
"Oh, thanks very much," she said, turning to the gangly, nerveless créme-hunk
"Yes, it's just there," I added limply. But her gaze was gone.
"Perhaps you could show me," she said—to Ben.
"I'm sorry, I don't accept propositions from attractive Welsh strangers," replied Ben, just as I was hoping he wouldn't say anything with wit in it.
She laughed (heaven knows why) and said: "What do you know about Wales and its strangers?"
"I know Mr. Gruffudd's one, and I know Wales is England's New Zealand, as Canada is America's Wales."
"And elephants are the ground's Wales."
They turned and gaped at my addition. I turned away, liking the New Zealand accent too.
A minute later, they were the sung heroes of the White Album's fifteenth track. No one objected. In a rare moment of malice, I damn near prayed for a semi to flatten that lewd display. Worst of all, and despite my very best efforts, I found myself playing host to a pitched waist. It was hard to go home to a bad fridge after that. I mean, Ben knew I had a thing for Welsh women. That was my only avenue of conversation whenever we spoke. The agreement was that I'd take Wales and he'd take everywhere else. That's fucking fair.
Guided by Vices
Being merely superficial, the too-defined stain on his jumbo briefs was perhaps the least disheartening element in a ferociously contested field. The winner, by a king's margin, was the slyly composite Looks + Leers, which would quake even the sturdiest of timbers and give foul Chinaski a run for his whisky. But let us not underestimate gallant silver: a minuscule profile dwarfing a minuscule talent. Nor, for that matter, the unmistakable overhang of rotting attentions—attentions, mind you, that poetic justice failed to abort long ago.
And so I burnt those ugly homemade gatefolds, wiped melody from memory and detoxined the motherfucker in a long, frigid shower. If a certain lumberer had similar lackings, maybe he would have the same fate. But one hopes that one learns. Still, when pedestals prove to be a trick of the light, it's easy to overlook the cardboard that made it so, especially when the message takes a particularly grandiose guise. They are flesh and guts, after all; they dread a cold toilet seat as much as a warm one.
Yet despite my best efforts (detailed above—ed.), the image of that Is He R— Or What? teacher engaged in unwedlocked consolidation with the world's vilest is still firmly imprinted upon my brain. Hm—: That taller-than-the-other-tall-fellow fellow once told me that asexuality must lend a certain grace to one's life. I thought that rather boring of him.
Alone in the Master Class
Angered and a little ragged, I had thrown the pile of manuscripts, acetates and watercolours at Professor X-Cow—my way of dealing with the too-discerning—and stormed off to my room, deadlineless but conflicted. At that point, I would have been content to have entered an unexitable sensory-deprivation chamber and be childishly spared of the judgement. But I persevered. Scouring the hall for a nervous minute or two, I found him and apologised. As I turned to leave, a metaphorical breeze (or something) blew open a page of my now-legendary Closed Book, and I turned back. With that nervous beating the self-censor does its best to curtail, I attempted to explain myself.
"It's my heart, poured, distilled and honed. If your life and smarts leave it lurched, where does that leave me?"
I failed.
"It's my shoes," he said, and walked off in them.
Actually, that made a whole lot of sense—and I hated him for it.
"This is what I worry about," I pined to weary Harry. "This is my book."
Harry scratched his chin, clearly not in the moment.
"All right," he said, somewhat despicably.
"All right? Is that all you can say?"
"Well, what'd you want me to say?"
"I dunno—something more articulate. I mean, I finally spill my guts to you after you've been nagging me for so long and all you can say is 'All right'."
"I haven't been nagging you. That was the real Harry."
I made an about face.
"Oh yes—so it was," I murmured. "Um—"
"Don't worry about it. It happens once in a while."
"Well, I'm sorry anyway. But listen, what do you think of old X-Cow?"
He laughed and shook his head.
"The smartest guy I know but for his manner," he said.
"I'm not sure if that makes sense."
"It doesn't. It's his job, not his pleasure. He may be the most qualified, but I doubt he gets the most enjoyment out of it. Heck, he doesn't pay for it—why should he?" Harry's eyes went parental. "He's a cultural superiorlist despite his preference for non-statement statements."
"Cultural superiorlism doesn't even mean anything—that's not even a word," I said.
"I know."
"Will you stop that? These arguments don't make sense."
"Undoubtedly, but at least remember King Kurt."
"Yech, no thanks."
"No, not them. The singular one."
"Oh."
Me on my top bunk, him on his bottom, the lights vanished. Not asleep, I grabbed my guitar.
"I wrote a new song, Harry."
"Mmm?"
"It goes like this: 'Fuck you, X-Cow. Fuck you, X-Cow. Fuck you, X-Cow'."
"A love song, then?"
"Yep."
I Love You, England
Dear diary: I have aired you for public consumption on account of your irrepressible profundity, without which the world would surely be the worse. By nature, your highly personal chronicling of the dailies are written without concession to clarity, due, in most, to a then-foreseen lack of audience, but that does not make them any less worth a while in public annals than the countless minutiae-mongers already clogging the drains. Nor does it mean the obliqueness should be scrambled into shape. What it does mean, however, is that your deeply penetrating insights into this condition of ours—you know to what I refer, brothers & sisters: this condition of the human!—is becoming obscured by a sea of gunky prosé, poured daily by giddy globules outstaying their entitled fifteen minutes (already too generous for most, I say!).
But diary—my dear diary—, I'm not simply here to defend your need-not-defending position. I'm here to encoil, for good, around your sickly moist form, your slightly incorrect sentence construction, your two-thirds there grammatical ability, your strict divide between meaning and sound, your profoundly unilluminating points, your inverted ugliness. I'm here to slip, peacefully, into your spur-of-a-bored-moment cavity, cavort, as low-res has taught me, for brief, and wile away. Then, dear, I propose (I will) a more official union—with Ben's blessing, of course. I can see it now: us barely able to control our appendages, a windy, beautiful, bleak hill, Ben clad to the nines, carefully enunciating Do You Takes—we'll be horizontal before he can even leap one foot to safety!
Oh, my dear diary. If I must share you with the world, at least it is from the inside.
Asterix in Athens
Semi-returned from an unwanted brink, I've a true (I assure) tale to weave, one witnessed first-handedly. This time the setting is a palace.
"Sire?" (Here's where I caught wind of the situation, the speaker a small, bell-clad jester.)
"Ah, there you are," said a king of sorts. "Tell me, what is the nature of your relationship with Lord Yansen?"
"My relationship with Lord Yansen, sire?"
"Yourrelationshipwithlordyansensire."
"Well, he's my mentor, sire."
"Your mentor?"
"Yes, sire."
"And what exactly does that entail?"
"Well, sire, it entails him teaching me things what I don't already know."
"I see. And what things are these?"
"Usually, he starts by teaching me how to use the piano, sire."
"And after that?"
"After that he teaches me about acting."
"Pardon?"
"—Sire."
"I see. And is there more after that?"
"Um—"
"Um?"
"Yes, sire."
"Well, go on."
"Yes, sire. After that, he— He—"
"He what?"
"He—"
"He what!"
"...Handles me, sire."
"A fine piece of music, but I don't see what that has to do with Lord Yansen."
Well, you can imagine how this went down with the tour group. I mean, what are the chances? Heck, if I wasn't there myself I'd never believe it. But I was. And I do. And if I lie, may God strike me down.
"Sire?" (Here's where I caught wind of the situation, the speaker a small, bell-clad jester.)
"Ah, there you are," said a king of sorts. "Tell me, what is the nature of your relationship with Lord Yansen?"
"My relationship with Lord Yansen, sire?"
"Yourrelationshipwithlordyansensire."
"Well, he's my mentor, sire."
"Your mentor?"
"Yes, sire."
"And what exactly does that entail?"
"Well, sire, it entails him teaching me things what I don't already know."
"I see. And what things are these?"
"Usually, he starts by teaching me how to use the piano, sire."
"And after that?"
"After that he teaches me about acting."
"Pardon?"
"—Sire."
"I see. And is there more after that?"
"Um—"
"Um?"
"Yes, sire."
"Well, go on."
"Yes, sire. After that, he— He—"
"He what?"
"He—"
"He what!"
"...Handles me, sire."
"A fine piece of music, but I don't see what that has to do with Lord Yansen."
Well, you can imagine how this went down with the tour group. I mean, what are the chances? Heck, if I wasn't there myself I'd never believe it. But I was. And I do. And if I lie, may God strike me down.
My Fat Heart
I was recently sensitive to nonconscious pieces in this collection of ours, usually of little importance in the Scheme Of Things, usually overlooked. Hitherto, my famous sensitivity only extended as far as fleas landing on dogs—gallant compared to most meat-heads, but narrowly confined to traditional notions of consciousness. It's all very well and good to feel that Thin-Skin Sonic Boom—Poor dog, poor flea; poor you, poor me!—for things that are aware of their existence (awareness = sensitivity potential), but when it comes to things of wood and plastic, or gauche or steel, we have more than a little trouble caring. After all, our concern could never be reciprocated, or even acknowledged, were we to extend a hand of empathy their way. Now, this may be an insurmountable barrier to the image-conscious, but for me, it's an admirable challenge to rise to.
My first tentative steps into super-hypersensitivity were easy enough—I envisaged life as a plank and lay on the floor all afternoon—but when I began to think about hammers and axes and nails, I hit a wall. How can I be sensitive if I'm always being bashed by or into things? It was no good trying to convince myself that these thoughts, or indeed any thoughts, never crossed these emotionless objects—logic hath no place in heart! I was beginning to understand why this was such a criminally unexplored area. To cheer myself up, I spent the remaining daylight weeping over collarless Rex and a magnifying glass.
The breakthrough came when I attempted to get to the heart of a pane of glass—As long as I'm not broken, I'm a success!—, which yielded an improbably elating sadness distinct from my knowledge of Facts. Yes, we were both transparent (fragile, too), but I realised that a lack of emotions means that it's up to me to pick up the slack. In the eyes of the world, it matters not who's weeping, as long as someone is. Everybody—nay, everything—needs understanding, needs the feeling that it/he/her is not alone in this hurtling void, that someone is out there, shedding salt for their predicament or offering arms to fall into. And if everyone had that, hey, maybe there wouldn't be so many prob-a-lems!
Paltry in Motion
Though presently archaic, that semi-abbreviated rhubarb cake, given to me by two collaborating friends, was perhaps the most enjoyable meal in a week. The enjoyment dwindled, ever so slightly, when I discovered that the joke I extracted from it was, for all intents, utterly imperceptible, but hell, I was used to that—I don't intend every sensation as fodder for my muse. Now, where was I? Nowhere was I. Apologies: for no reason I can discern, cake turns my sneer inwards. Compensating for the arrogance of temporary contentment, perhaps? No, not that cake—it's past tense for a reason. The present cake is of a different cloth entirely: chocolate, the obscenely moist variety. Scatters the brain, too. Did I mention that?
Having reached this point, you're no doubt wondering what, exactly, I'm getting at. Well, bless you: you obviously aren't from around these parts. Nevertheless, here's a gallant stab at elucidation: cake, particularly the initial rhubarb, has a way of shaking one about in ways that other foods—beef sandwiches, for instance—are incapable of doing, if only for lack of effort. And the mentioned shaking (more metaphorical than physical) encompasses a general lack of straight-down-the-line reasoning and motivation. Have a civilised discussion with cake and I'll have a fit. Case in point, here: inject what you may where you may, but don't expect it to cure the fog.
So, what have we learned? Well, firstly, cake, in this context, is powerless. Well, secondly, cake, in most other contexts, isn't entirely as powerless as it may seem, it being an innocent slice of cake and all. Thirdly, the catch-up, as I now dub it, has the distinction of being utterly indistinct from non-conscious catch-ups quality-wise. The same source bears all, and little can interfere. It's either beautiful or tedious, depending on your ilk. Me, I say it's paltry in motion, twice because it actually means something.
The Myth of Divorce
Gripping my jeans rather uncertainly, I shifted six degrees left. There, in the headlights, an even stretch of asphalt, disappearing somewhere out of eyeshot, revealed itself, suddenly and shockingly, along the curve. Slowly, somewhat surely, I kicked the clutch to Off, and the engine followed. The ensuing silence was marked by a distinct absence of sound—if you discount my grimly impassioned yelps and the roar of other cars.
Newly appointed by the roadside, I made my ingenious bed and lay down, passers-by my infrequent radio, lulling me with inane questions. When the moon and its minions crept inexorably into view, I found my dreams and the night was over. I was on the roadside. The next day's heat was beating up my blanket. Rising with typical morning legs, I climbed back in front of the wheel and grazed some more highway. The mood on such occasions, as all but the dimmest attest, moves towards the bleak, with the odd detour of unprovoked joy providing unwanted contrast. The weather, too, lowers, from sensitivity or cruelty, somehow by design. In such foul spirits, the surrounding political machinations lose their cloaks, and the love of others feels counterfeit. All we can do is drive on.
When a bad mood's rising, the arts dip. You may have noticed, at certain points, that smelling the roses along your walk is as pointless as it seems on paper. I thus hypothesise that emotions, as they are, don't breed discrimination, as is so often thought, but lead to lower discernation. If you view such an opinion with the disinterest of distance (I'm assuming you have no connection with the person in question), you will also no doubt spot this correlation. The falsehood of the previous assumption, as I see it, has nothing to do with the opinion itself; rather, it has to do with its failure to identify the intrinsic link discrimination has with base, some would say crude, logic. Now, this logic is something we all possess, whether we admit to it or not, but the wise among us have educated it—indeed, have evolved it—to the point where its conclusions are as well-informed as we ourselves are. The discriminatory, on the other hand, have not interfered with it one iota, and its ill-informed assumptions remain at the forefront of thought. Education, then, is still the key, as it is in so many other areas. The sooner we realise this, the sooner it will be.
Bobbing for Porcelain
Under uncertain amounts of ocean, reaching for something unattainable, waiting in that roundabout way. That is to say, I've woken up now. The crux, however, is decidedly more trivial, borne, as it was, in a public lavatory. Here's the mood: the sound of a successful flush had just risen from one of the stalls—to this narrator it was merely an ersatz change-room, I hasten to point out—and a gasp along with it. The former, unremarkable under the circumstances, the latter, somewhat discomforting under the same. But it is due to the third sound, roughly four seconds after the second, that I'm here today: "The cistern works!". Suddenly the resentful group of uptights and perverts had common ground. The knowing among us chuckled while the baffled sped up whichever process they were currently engaged in and hurried themselves out of there.
When at last the jubilant alien emerged from the miracle chamber, we were rather deflated to discover it was an attendant of sorts, holding a box of tools. The mood instantly retreated to Soiled and Uncomfortable, and every exchanged glance was promptly returned to its rightful owner. Restoring to the harsh but blessedly un-public-toilet-like sunlight of the intervening street, we scattered to from whence we came and hoped passers-by did not notice our re-entry point. For me, the whence was a grossly exaggerated elephant tusk-cum-seat, where my peers were. For the rest, I care not to know.
I'm fairly certain there's a moral here.
Ill-Expressed But Pleasingly Titled
Thusly begins the retrospective false-start: there's rings beneath my perfunctorily amphibian eyes, inducing extra blinks and caffeinated rhymes therewith (I tried being explicit, but it sounded coyly convenient; you'll just have to put up), not to mention (meaningless phrase) sore gazes at the window and navel, respectively. Details dispensed, we progress: I would have certainly banked on being dwarfed by that knowingly counter-productive hate-monger, from pictures, from intuition. Not so, it turns out. Still, it's regardless in lieu of both the affecting object and the object of affection not being me. The former I diverge on often; the latter I would exchange with, if a likelihood, but not plead in the rain for—not with that fashion. A nip of television for Pub Culture enthusiasts, but not an opinion-brimming filigree for altaring. That status belongs to an unpredictably coloured head on a predictably uncoloured body, who shares a similar plus-half age gap, one guesses. That status, however, is not as a genuine reality—not in a mill. or so. More, someone to know. The difference is in the detail, and the detail makes no difference to me: neither seem really achievable. But hey, I'll take the unknown any day, along with a smile and a wistful liquid.
As a particularly outworldly supermarket drop-out once summed, there's metho in my madness. In this case, as opposed to his, it's metaphorical, representing something profoundly soulful. And I'm in agreement: if ever the 'tunity rose (nouvelle lingo), I'd go far out of my way to call beforehand, no out-blue poppings, no prompt re-stockings. This is gentlemen business. This is gallantry. The rest is down to that abstract white-board cleaner, whose lack-thereof existence is corroding, and a rather strained excuse. Oh but that won't stop good humour. I'll sing for every pleasing sigh they induce, out of key, despite or because of little help from my friends, not caring a wist for the lack of leads, and smile, too. Singing silent tribute, thankful like a good shepherd for all I've gained hitherto on those blessed grounds. Ahem.
Hardly Often
As an awful philosopher/poet once mused, This is where mood twists in on itself, too tired to differentiate its various strands. The book itself (though I hesitate to put it in such esteemed company) elaborated along bland, broadly poetic, vaguely philosophical lines, none of which I'll be traversing, but the above introductory sentence (which took some cleaning up, I should add) does manage to inflict an inconsequential gash of rouge with its aimless stab at profundity. In the correct context, early morning emotions do woozily converge, sometimes to the point of numbness, and if you can tear yourself into the distance, it makes for a grimly amusing spectacle. That said, I don't mean the hitherto simply as context for the following, which would seem like the lowest of excuses in the circumstances. Nevertheless, it must be said that at this point, the more inroads the better.
And so we reach several hours beyond the spawning moment—quite an achievement in lieu of the majority hereon. Things of note? Well, the distant hymn of our nation's face giggling and applauding seems even more revolting from this distant vantage, although that's partly imagination's fault. And, interestingly, that bespectacled loud-shirt has advised me, indirectly, not to tinkle the ivory bowl just yet, lest it lead to problems down the tract. That was a metaphor, by the way. But despite the above's sinewy cadence, little of it links with the further above—a wooze of moods indeed. The gap has torn two distincts.
Though lacking the impressive temporal distance of the earlier two, this third helping (and at this point, I heavily stress that first syllable) has the advantage of circularity—what an ugly word—, and here, adieu-less, it is: the evermentioned and bafflingly dog-eared edition alluded to hardly exists, particularly in a philosophical sense. But that, like Her respective parents' exporting professions, is of no importance of all.
Hip Hip
As of ten twenty-fours ago, your humble narrator reached another notch on his trail—in particular, the one which allows near-guiltless debauchery at the wrong end of the Pacific. His current milestone, irrelevant though it is, grows more impressive by the hour. Physically, too, there's growth: his hair, rather like mine, has decorated itself with a few signifying wisps of white; his face, lacking last year's heavy bristles, has a certain frog about it; and his fingers, here entwined with my own, have lost a good deal of vitality. Suddenly, the excuses require even more invention.
The celebration (suppressed, of course) reminds me of my own, also around this time—give or take ten. Soon this leads me backwards towards what was nearly a year ago. Built too close to the fault-line, memories come flooding back: three parts syrup, two drops wit. Sun! Road! Rain! Temporarily shelved unease! Thank God That's Over With! Cruel me knows it's not even destined to be a footnote. In this respect, him and I are also twinney. Sometimes we even discuss it as if it were the same thing, and in kinder times we might say it's worth its weight in while. As for the rest, it's I Did What When? and assorted distaste, occasionally elevating to true, responsible so-rrow and accountability, fake or otherwise. So what's to celebrate?
As of some minutes ago, the above two narrators were fairly adamant about a lack of candles and hoo-hah, fairly adamant about the humble route.
For Lack of Spine
As a particularly thin and wispy piece of foil for Thou, I could, indeed, rasp lyrical about lacking discipline, overseeing unencounters which I, as him, presumably lean longingly for, or coal-hearted feelings, all things which inescapably drip from his fingers at the first op., but instead I shall take the podium myself for an uncharacteristic outpouring of deep sincerity.
It has come to my attention that my daily veil is infuriatingly opaque, even impenetrable, and though this revelation, if it can be called thus (one always knows, usually), was revealed under a fog of deep intoxication, where such things usually spawn, I know, from tip to toe, its worth is nonethelesser. It's true, in fact. I belong to the world of womb-wisdom.
Reasons I'll save for the appropriate In Person, but I may as well throw up a few Ern Malleyisms while I'm here, dutifully wasting your time: the guard is fiercely loyal, gladly fat and goose-like; the conscious still hold firm, as warily anticipating censors. As for the man in me, well, he needs a woman like you, obviously. La-la-la-la-la-la-la.
It has come to my attention that my daily veil is infuriatingly opaque, even impenetrable, and though this revelation, if it can be called thus (one always knows, usually), was revealed under a fog of deep intoxication, where such things usually spawn, I know, from tip to toe, its worth is nonethelesser. It's true, in fact. I belong to the world of womb-wisdom.
Reasons I'll save for the appropriate In Person, but I may as well throw up a few Ern Malleyisms while I'm here, dutifully wasting your time: the guard is fiercely loyal, gladly fat and goose-like; the conscious still hold firm, as warily anticipating censors. As for the man in me, well, he needs a woman like you, obviously. La-la-la-la-la-la-la.
March Appreciated
Friday: that hypocritic oaf and his sterilised stethoscope peered down at me through blatantly rimless spectacles, a foil, no doubt, for the absence of framed doctrines, and skirted, with a hint of skill, the latest diagnosis. His treatment, you see, was dealt with some confidence, almost smugly, and this latest development was a ghastly stain—must always smell of roses. When it became clear (when I finished wading through his slyly confounded consternation), I feigned a collapsing world (feign fire with fire), crumbling on the tip of the news, and sunk to my devious knees. My tears came easy, despite their artificial motivation, and I searched his sober face for a flicker of remorse.
It being post-February, I had a pleasing canvas of opportunity to brush passed, and the easiest of weather. Early on, I flirted gamely with the idea of spiteful, ugly, expansive notes, a final sprinkle of salt in the freshly opened wounds, but evil was not always my thing. Easy pleasure, after all, is next to worthless. Too, the month was still young. Beckoning buildings, peering piers and soulless sympathy bags awaited my call. Maybe I was wanted after all.
Profusion Be Damned
Eyes feeling decidedly unhealthy, I talked a Ben—well, the Ben, really—off a ledge. The fact that the ledge in question was nonexistent, and consequently nonthreatening, seemingly makes this a nonachievement, but I still think there's a certain pleasure to be had in clearing up befuddlements, even if I'm accepting unduly. Sleep is for suckers.
But I wasn't ready to let the B go so soonly. He is, after all, the only character I've got, and even that never extends beyond the recollection inherent in the name. So I grabbed him, gruffly, by the woollies and asked of him another existential nugget in a line too long to be merely repetitive.
"Desire's of no use, but then neither are desirables. And so, in conclusion, we must first tend our own flock before we flock around with other people's—or, if you so wish, other people. Can I go now?"
All right.
Dear boy. My one-man audience once was brimming with reaction, be it faint, stiff praise, or Never Again prayers. But the handiwork of these fingers slowed, almost to a halt, and never showed, if ever it did, a thing but faint obscurantism—almost to a fault. So the T (as in Om), must, must, must, and yet mustn't and won't, slide his data-entry fingers up the date, if only to cure the air of a two-man community which moves at the least compelling pace this side of fungi.