What Happened Today

As a show of solidarity, I shall break, one time, from tradition, and speak to you from outside the bubble, desnudo. No jokes, no japes—no bloody sleeves. Tonight exclusive the gorge that divides us is bridged by hope and balsa, and we meet me in the middle. Good will, passed from his mouth to my fingers, shall prop us. Cynicism, that useless thing, will writhe unattended in the meanwhile, failing to be heard over cheers and smiles. Hm? Well, I didn't say anything about it being any clearer—part memory, and Harry will forgive the paraphrasing, but it's all in aid of the message. So let it ring.

It was one day at 5.30 when the tide wandered, and the sky put on a show. I sat accompanied. Tomorrow, such things will fade in the light of new hassles. So it's to be. One wonders how one is gonna sing all one's songs when the world's gone wild, and then one wonders why one wonders that. But it's more or less plain: today's a something that won't likely repeat. It's a new world new again, and for the moment we'll care not if it goes backwards after this. Profound thoughts, about as profound as anybody's, sail neatly here, and seem for a moment the epiphany that precedes new happiness.

Sensibly footed, our heroine strolls through the celebration, sense and poise present as ever. Most have the wrong idea about what's being celebrated (please, that was months ago), but not she, the so-called still-hot smoking gun nesting in her evidence drawer. She turns; the butterflies on itchy fabric, not pajama-like, are feared throughout the criminal world, and a car screams away.

Later, in a dorm room, this:
"How do you put someone on a wolverine?" wondered Harry, when the record finished.
"It's probably Smart Arse for something," I said.
His chin disappeared for a moment into the fat of his neck and I took it to be a nod.
"But that Datura idiot is a complete songwriting genius," he added elliptically. "Now I sleep."
And he began to. Seizing the moment, I wrote '1 Fat Australian—I fuck anything' on his bare back then retired alongside. His warmth was pleasing, in a bean-bag kind of way. But I wished to hell he was someone else.

Raw Pomp

Regard this, reader, as a warcry—admittedly forged from laziness and worry, but fixed and full-throated nonetheless. Today I fly the flag of careless halves in the face of considered wholes. And to illustrate I tumble upwards to 3am, piling piece on piece and pomp on pomp, and leaving the job of sorting the resulting jumble not to the reader—I would never impose such a fruitless task upon those kind and loyal and peculiar enough to scan beneath the title—but to the universe. To hell with craft, he cries, thumping a weak paw on the contrived disorder of his desk; then, reciting the thinnest excuse of all, Life itself is a mess! Is it my/our job to sort existence and regurgitate it into a more intelligible—not to mention palatable—form, for those most afflicted by it, or am I simply to reflect it, to effectively say, Well, I don't know any more than you do, but it's a remarkable likeness, no?

My cry is a pose, of course, but a mess does have its virtues, even when the spectre of a tidier version casts its gloom. Time spent refining could be time spent making more messes. And it is certainly easier this way, if only for the smallest party. But stifled potential does emit a uniquely foul stench, and it can be hard to focus when you discern the need for a few more drafts. Too often the Good gets lost in the What Could Be.

The Art For Art contingent are ready with the desperate-sounding but grain-of-truth-holding excuse that any ambition to create order out of what we might loosely term 'All this' is itself a fallacy; at least we—or they—are honest about that. Accompanying this view is the contention that art (no doubt refined to 'true art' in the face of contradiction) is not merely an argument told funny, nor is it a soft essay for those especially allergic to academic propositions. The delicate of disposition might well prefer such an alternative, but Art, they argue (adding the capital as they move in for the clincher), transcends. Ask of an essay what could be; ask of art what is. But calling upon the verb 'transcend' is Patron 101 for escaping the threat of close inspection; in a critical context 'transcend' becomes little more than a fancy substitute for 'It's good, but I can't quite tell you why', but it's spongey enough to scare off would-be contrarians. The better defence, that of questioning the approach and relevance of the study of the arts, is forgotten in the haze.

It is noble, I believe, to curtail the excess of displaced theory, but noble it is not to contemn study for style—style in surface, that is, not service: suspended like a conjurer's tart and sporting an impeccable sheen, but about as transcendent as the same magic trick explained in diagram (TR is for Trope, but let me slip here). It is a funny fact of life that the effort in waxing in one corner roughly equates to the effort in working in the other, and the truly great proponents spin both plates indivisibly, putting the former most to shame. But the question of capacity does enter the picture. Do those who stick to chroming know their limitations, or are they merely too afraid to discover them? Most, I'm sure, would rather not answer that.

The A4A camp has returned, this time with "Art is respite; life is for rubbing your nose in it." But the unfortunate truth is that this formulation is itself the formulation of those who have never had their noses rubbed in anything. Just as you have to have money before you can have contempt for it, you have to have had a truly wet beak before you can claim art exists elsewhere, and even then too many exemptions will loose the proverbial tin of bait. A suitable tome might be entitled 'Whither Frivolity?', and divide post-Auschwitz authors into cowards and noble failures. But then a suitable tome might also be 'Life From Above', where the silliest sit atop the pantheon and the soft essayists scowl indignant—and untranscedent.

What are we left with? Not enough to justify the question mark, that's for surtain. The H in Auden ain't exactly up to defending this stance by example. But if we can't counter the stinging print on its own terms—and we can't—, we can at least call on our youth, where it remains, and tell 'em to fold it five ways and put it where the moon don't shine.

Ben Ben B-Ben Ben Ben...

I'm afraid this time I'm out of jumpers. Up an' Adam, on the Eve of Ben, is now and henceforth fantasy; all I can do, short of gun-point, is make sure my own bucket's filled—and so be it if I molest his memory in the process. Just as there are seven basic stories—nine, if you count more—there are but two basic stunts, both of which have been pulled to completion, and neither of which worked all that well in the first place. The ever-capitalised He, therefore, shall exist only in quotes and misquotes; the horse's mouth is shut, froze by petulant peanut-butter. Sure, his Equus asinus part may be as proud and full-assed as ever, but where himspun wisdom is concerned, you've only my word.

I'll begin with some character references, this one from a thumbing rambler he once shared an onion sandwich with: "Friendly, in a blank sort of way, but not much of a sandwich-maker." His ex, meanwhile, was a little less kind, saying that while he possessed a formidable nubility, the effect of which a malleable woman could not rightly deny, he was also a scurrilous hug-monger with a penchant for loose discharge. "Apparently he found someone smaller than he is," gossiped a crouching snoop. "She's tiny." Ignoring him, I approached his second-best friend, Ollie, with whom he is second-best friends: "He's not a bad sort, really. Well, not always."

Being as this signifies a new approach, I've decided that, rather than quote the man anew, I should start by retrieving some favourites from the archive, a sort of accustoming exercise, if you will.
"Sometimes even existence itself is a bore, and on such occasions I find worming cherished pets the perfect antidote."
From Drills In Liquid, 2006.
"All right, girls, there's boffing in the offing!"
From Dicky Darwin, 2005.
"If there's one thing to be said for man, I haven't heard it."
From Pieces Of Other People, 2007.
And unless the man in question reinstates his pen, there shall be more of this.

Frog Light

Led by the dim glow of eggs on a post-it, I foot forward into the ink. What I outlined, by necessity, was the stage of divers moments, any of which would sink me by contrast were some oaf to flick the lights on. My strategy was transference: imperilling my toes to protect my h—. (For the books, I was twice stubbed, each foot, slight elation on the second.) I twisted the cold. The accompanying rush rang instantly familiar—I had not anticipated that. Then: a small figure by the sink, splashing softly, spied from the threshold; then a rushing, surging, plunging feeling. One moment I was at I'm All Right, the next, I was underwater, the room a dark, shimmering green. I prayed a kind soul would press repeat.

Sally-Anne mislit her cigarette for the fourth time. Her face was everything strangers wanted: soft, sexy, lit. And she spoke with confidence, never doubling back. She met my eyes and I almost smiled. The lighter stuck somewhere in the bushes.
"Got a match?"
"Not this time," I said. Ha.
She turned away and I began throwing pieces of scrunched-up serviette at the back of her head. Most dropped short, but I got a couple of pleasing hits in. Whenever she turned to confront me, I would stare blankly back at her, as if incapable of reading emotion. Then I would throw a piece of scrunched-up serviette at her face. 

I sat backwards on my chair, peering over the brim like a child would. Each male passer-by I marked as my successor and glowered at. But I harboured no ill feeling. Where weeping my gratitude was concerned, I was far from finished. Sally-Anne called my name sharply and I swung around. For once, she seemed to be looking at me for what I was. I had seen that look before—this time I encouraged it. I shifted, feeling the heat. I was wearing the wrong T-shirt for this kind of weather, but it was the worst I could find.

The Decline and Fall of a Showman's Empire

In diminishing paragraphs.

Some, no doubt, have already taken to grand proclamations of the "Death of—" ilk, emerging pale and preying from the shadows of no-talent; Ergo the failure of this petty revolt—for that is what History shall prove it to be—to achieve any of its initiatives is indicative of a greater—This, however, fails to take into account the inherent— until we're quite ready to spit ourselves clean of the matter and have those unfortunate words as the last ones. Aft. all, who's to dispute? Participants put-out, principle players played-out, and profusion off fanning itself in the shade. Add the pissed-off passers-by and you haven't a recipe for much success;— the revolution, my friend(s), is D-E-A-D (long live the revolution), and I suppose I shall have to bear the bulk of the brunt. (Lest you wonder, I suppose because my lofty predictions and assorted nonsenses are freely viewable, and shall remain so.)

Trope: from the past there is no reprieve. Right; why dwell, when something far worthier lowers itself into a late-night bath? Nonetheless, there may be remnants worth salvaging, one of which, also an R-E concept, I'm myself keen to keep in place, albeit less outwardly than before. If we, whomever that now entails, are to justify any of our idealistic exertions, we'd best hope to learn from our failings—and by that I do not mean 'know our boundaries'; boundaries should not and never be known. I mean, rather, that we should fuel future successes on past mistakes. Sure, a first-year might leave it out, focusing only on the direct lead-up to that great thing we'll do, but a third could not afford its omission, and would incur copious red pen were he-her to do so.

Even if no one has my back, even if I tumble down alone, I will tumble. (This thing ain't a ship, incidentally; it's a hill.) Grass cuts and cowards above me, I shall meet the new halfway and tumble again, bypassing once and foil the embarrassment of accidents. Stay, if you will, but I'm pressin' on. Momentum'll get me through if nothing else.

First-Hand, Kodak, Plump

How to tell— Crumbling revolts, denied permissions, margarine flowers (wilting in a champagne glass, as poesy would have it); mouths of black dogs, two losses—the latter street-cred—and deadly dead-night silliness. Quite the mouthful and quite the emergence. One must ask: where oh where is that slender confectionery known most as Ben? The heart is so bloody fond by now it could fuck the chrome off him without even pausing to consider its sexual orientation. Ah, but what a wonder here left in his place! An alien filling those trousers? I know, I know, but it's strewth; my own eyes and all that, spied from a bush, even double-took. And though presently to fry an old dinner, it shall occupy me, as it has, in every grubby fibre, spilling out here as elation, there as idio-horizoneering, in odd beat, hoping the grease will distract the silly thing with the threat of attack. Such is such!

Milked in, I pondered this and concluded—the benefit of being milked in is that you have ample time in which to ponder—, subsquintly to lavish my gratitude on the maker of these moments, the maker of moments; a thank you whichever way forward. The parted menace, incidentally, whose name may or may not begin with a letter that may or may not sit second in the alphabet, remains departed, a whole paragraph on, no matter the reports of his presence. "Sweet me soon" was his last recorded remark, ATTOW. Prophetic? Not really. (And I did, I should point out, see him at a distance on Saturday, walking tenderly to a rotund friend across the way.) It's perhaps unfair of me to impose examination on his circumstance, but I feel the zeit has a right to know, and know now, ATTOR. At any rate, they know now.

Probably the most interesting development, in terms of literary potential, was the August encounter I had with a colleague outside my office. Weathered, possibly a little drunk, he was attempting to nail a Pogo to my door, mistaking it for his.
"You do of course realise—"
"—Yes."
Wasn't the most treasured development, granted—the clicks were firmly elsewhere, however elusive their subject—but there you have it. I have since decided that prudence can go to hell; what's the point, when one day you could wake to find someone drunkenly nailing Pogos to your office door? No snaps, either.

Blues Is King

Sadness and pistachios, at the worst of times. Need I, when knowing, turn off the smile, the stereo and brood, refusing (p)leisure, that is, the self, in aid of empathy? Should, moreover, a good person, a real good one, be physically incapable of merrymaking, in any guise, when there's woe afoot? Surely the thought would never even cross his (oo er) honest-to-goodness mind! Under this brand of reasoning, sound though it may be, the mere existence of temptation could well be enough to forsake you, oh my darling, regardless of give-ins or misgivings, resistance or succumbference. But, drat! Who, I ask you (other than a rival toy company), could remain poed and poffaced at Lands on my bed and sings her tune/to the light of the shining moon?

One's room, that organic collage of purchase and collection, can, in times of trouble (from without), be a positive whorehouse of temptation, damnation ground zero—the guilt of reaching for a Fantagraphics favourite! And let's not mention— Such things betray a light heart, too light, perhaps, to listen. But how can I abstain?— why should I abstain? It must be something altogether deeper, something weak and wheezing at the bottom of my soul, nearing death by distraction. And I don't hear it no more. I hear, rather, the backup singer, strolling up and down the melody, and cringing for future reference.

My eyes are suitably red, my posture slumped, my words appropriate, but that's sleep, habit and politeness, respectively. Not sick enough to forgo the gesture, but not right enough to mean it. And now I'm on the other end, all but pissing out problems, and the scarce words I've got felt as hollow as mine, tear or no. Relieved, I suppose, but unhelped—those words I knew not to seek anyhow. I await, instead, a flying fat thing with a spasmodic diaphragm and a penchant for song, rendered in her harmony. And a stronger man than I—

Something Fresh

Turns out, after all, the reason for the delay, in as much as one can account (being educated, I can account), and with everything—everything relevant, that is—considered, in context, and weighed, is that although, in the first instance, it may strike the average perceptor as a case of lax, nothing more, or perhaps, dare I mention, the dreaded block (hefted to the desk by Calvin himself, no doubt), it is, in honest, an issue of self-suppression, of editing, which, while not exactly quality control, at least not in the way some might hope (vückas), is a welcoming as well as worrying sign, one which may, fingers crossed, lead to a tangible upping in output, worthy output, and maybe even extend our little revolt a finger further. Fingers crossed.

In the next, that is, second, this sort of excusal, which inescapably reeks of I, sir, am never at fault (accused by compatriot, no less!), is rather hard to pull-off, no matter how true it turns out (after all, in as much as one can account) to be, and I rather think I'm under the shovel even mentioning it. Still, it's words, i'n' it? And I dare risk the backlash— or truth. But if you—my accuser (rattling blogspot, if not face-to-face in the rain)—insist on persisting, let me first concede that this is not actually an excuse, Percy; I am not intending, or attempting, to exonerate myself in any washäpperfoam of this unfortunate lapse; an unfortunate lapse it is, and although there are factors which contributed to its being so (yah), detailing them, as I have half-done, is purely an explanatory exercise; the buck stops with me. Hum.

I dare risk, but dare I continue? I will dare. Forgive my haste, my rush; blame my everything. Here's the deal, yo—: this isn't quite my favourite waste of time. That honour, for it is an honour, goes to another trivial pursuit—Sweet is the so-hard-to-come-by melody. And it belongs to the man who so stylishly severed an umbilical cord with a bullet. I'd sit back and wait, only there are few guarantees, may as well swing in with whatever's rattling around in there and fire it repeatedly at the wall, so repeatedly it need not matter whether it actually sticks or not. Bedsides—it wouldn't be me if I didn't.

On the Level

The horrified boy in the shower, on the side of his bed, locked in the toilet, fearing, more than anything else, the Sensible Thing to Do. Tense, heavy-hearted, restless, I crawled and stumbled through a few long days before I did the sensible thing. Thenceforth it had its own momentum, and I was at least spared from plotting my own course of action.
"Shall I take a look at it, then?"
"I'd rather you didn't."
I could just make out a smile forming somewhere inside his greying beard. Sighing, I climbed the patronising steps to the bed and dutifully, though hesitantly, lowered the elastic.
"The right one, just there."
"Hm."
His fingers were cold, clinical; I was numb. He rose, frowning, and I hurriedly shoved everything back into place. My family waited.
"We'll definitely need to do some tests."

The boy moved in the huddle of his family as if a ghost, suddenly detached from the present. The news had put him on autopilot and he could do little but gaze blankly at things. Everything bounced off, and reassuring words irritated more than reassured. The murmur of the engine was the sole point of comfort. When it was finally dark, I was still too hyped to contemplate a theoretical death with anything other than idle fascination. That hyperbolic fear didn't much weigh upon my mind in the intervening time, nor, in fact, did the more realistic fear; everything seemed to sit second to curiosity, even excitement. Consequently, I wasn't exactly sure how to feel when I received the news that the bugger was benign. Still, at least I got a consolation operation.

"I'm going under the knife tomorrow."
"Really? What for?"
I realised my mistake and stalled. Tom honed in, shattering my affected coyness. The school uniforms didn't much help matters.
"It's my knee." I pointed, vaguely. We moved for the bus.

All in all, a nice week or so of attention. I was sad to see him go.

Cause Infâme

Friends, onlookers, cherished detractors, it is time. Here, in all its gory, is the long-delayed, much-hubbubed, ever-mysterious piece which the cats upstairs, in all their 'wisdom', refused to print. Weeks in the making, months in the gestating, twenty-two sodden-earth years in the coming. And it's here, at bloody. So why the wait, why the ballyhoo? Well, to quote the felines in question, Even discounting the proliferation of Cocks, Cunts and Fucks, which takes some doing, this would surely register as your least distinguished effort; and considering that you are the person who once used, or rather misused, four-hundred semi-colons in a single paragraph, merely by accident of style, that's really saying something. We have no choice, sir, but to revoke your fingers for five full days and forbid you from ever reproducing any of the words you used in that piece in any context. Even the conjunctions. Good day.

A work like that, why you wouldn't give it the time of day. We don't tolerate filth for filth's sake, not even the funny stuff. A man must have scruples. I've written a poem. Would you like to hear it?

Sea of blue,
Tree of green.
One plus two
Equals threen.

Sometimes I dream my father's return. Standing at the door, barely able to hold himself up, he'd look just like me, only with ripped clothes and a fatherly moustache. He'd regale mother and I with stories of conspiracy and high adventure, how he simply had to leave us, he had no choice, otherwise the government would have taken us away. A goodbye, even a farewell, was simply impossible, I'm sure you understand. The cuts and bruises and all-round weariness would confirm the story, and we'd prepare him the first good meal he'd had since he left all those years ago. Later we'd all cry around the fire, begging him never to leave again, and he'd promise he would do everything in his power to make sure we— But of course a dream it remains. As I think of it, the filth in front of me, obscured by futile corrections, winds its way back into my consciousness, most unwelcomely. Enraged, I eat it, piece by piece, and, aided by my right index, retch every half-digested morsel of it clean out the window. All things considered, it was an improvement.

Beyond Words

They look at my eyes—gorgeous protuberant things skirted by junkie red—and wonder. I usually have my motorbike and leathers, would, in fact, have them now, only there was a slight laundering mix up, nothing serious, soon be sorted, but it means, for The Time(s), I must go without. Oh, this? Just something I threw together, no thought, didn't even catch a mirror—hardly representative, indeed not representative, probably not even mine. Hm? No, no, no. My flat burned down, bad toaster, it's a crisp, can't even go there. Just boarding at the folks' in the mean. Nice chaps, not my scene, but what can you do? Should spare me visits for a while—We never see you, sprog; I'm busy, you know, still look the same, got a life and all. But the eyes are the truth, these deep windows, not what you deduce, not what I reveal. That stuff's nothing in the scheme.

Here? Oh, sorry. No, I knew that. Just been on a sabbatical, you know—had to, would have had a bloody heart-attack. Plus, you know, don't want to completely ruin the novelty. Not there either? Christ, I am rusty. No, no, it's a good thing. Keeps me on my toes. That's— Ooh. Um, yes, a little too much build-up, probably shouldn't have taken that extra week. Guess I am human after all, ha ha, yeah, inevitable, you don't mind, of course? I— A wh—? Oh, er, I'm giving quitting a go, actually. Just for kicks. Probably won't last, need something to do with my hands. Here, generally, they smile, furrow, and try to drink it all in, reconcile the facts with the eyes. You can even see the doubts niggling their way to the mouth, which flattens into something of a paternal purse to suit. I'm at the window, something in my eye. Christ, I wish I had my wheels. But what can you do? You couldn't spare me a— Oh, you're the best, cheers. 50% interest, I promise. No, I won't hear it. As soon as I'm off leave, I'll— You're sure? Well, all right, but you must let me— No, that's fine. But at least—

Legs are open, carefree, arms behind head, weary eyes, weary mouth, pitch-perfect but for the invisible details. And, perhaps, the cold. I, uh— Well, I was clean out of tissues, you see, and I had to take something. A last resort, really, I'll burn the thing after I— (Almost genuinely weary here.) You know, people think that, but actually it's just that I tend to slouch a lot, and— I turn, affecting repressed passion and close my eyes a moment. A rushing suburb, a bleak sky, white scratches on the window, suspicious smudge. 5-4-3-2-1-0-0-0-0. A slow return, but a good one. Powerful, poised. No words, no details—we're all human here. Look: too weary for tears, and strong, but with a definite sadness, like windows, deep, longing, eyebally. Look.

The Usual Thing

I don't bother with it, myself. And I'd advise you, whomevr, to forget about it as soon as. Yes, ye-, that sounds like some dreary hangover of Addle Essence™—so says you, I'm off (you'll see)—, but, and this is whilst, yes, accepting that as an unavoidable Factor (I'm nothing if not naked), there's much to be said for being a little normless here and there—within reason; much to be said for slumping to the floor with another, hearing I'd walk on my hands through the jungle. Not being pricked by pressing logistic or looming troubls, or little engagements — that's what I'm meaning. Clumping about with no aim or destiny, just steps, not even steady. Howver: don't mistake me for suggesting you go all McGoohan and dash about in liberal triumph, subsisting only by virtue of your indulgence—not 'nless you're similarly prisoned, that is. Nor do I suggest we're caged by institution (ergh). I have the firmest respect for sizzleisation, truly I do. But living in it is no more phlosophical than taking care of bees-knees, you dig? It need not obscure your view. Besides, no law 'gainst slumping. It's too high to get over (yeah yeah), too low to get under (yeah yeah).

And I looked: hair attractively framing face, a small one. And like clockwork I screwed up my mouth, achingly. Then away, appearing to concentrate on something intangible. Complete conceit, mind. Even added a Thinker fist. (This is an example, by the, not a whim.) And gazing backwards to every other face that had stuck, and combing my hair with my fingers and yawning often. Catch me now: coat casually open, cap poised (still wearing it? Yes, you know, till my hair grows and that. Plus winter, you know), that look. Nothing so unusual. Nothing that'd tear open the fabric of sosososososo— sorry, can't say it. So plain, in fact, that the above conjecture seems more a foil for something far less, shall we say, romantic, something, gape, vulnebubble. That's partially the point of the example; I don't mean to deny my namesakemanity—not even to make a point. Well: my grandmother was face down in her breakfast again. I called the nurse. She smiled somehow. Mopping my grandmother's face, she even contributed to a blossoming discussion about that Canadian folk duo. I wondered what was worse: having to wipe someone else's arse, or having to have your arse wiped by someone else. She frowned at my candour, then considered. Good God, she said, realising, I hope I don't get to compare those first-hand. Laughing, I wondered if my grandmother had been dead all these weeks. It hardly seemed to make a difference. You're a vegetable (you're a vegetable). You're a vegetable.

Twosome: falling pointlessly against walls, lying in company, walking nowhere: that's where you think about it all with the right gravity, not to mention lightness. No 'free spirit' troping or blind hedoning; rather, feeling like a good dream, to no detriment to sosososososo— Not taking for granted the ability to eat a good breakfast. No? (Yeah yeah.)

Cross My Heart

Train station, bullied by elements—the wind seemed genuinely intent on dislodging my delicately poised cap—I set my mind the task of solving that great imponderable. (By the way, I've moved to the sheltered part, having decided to risk the inevitable hobo stench; giggling girls, thinking it unoccupied, spy my well-sculpted head in the window and make new plans—martyr spared 'em the funk.) Some chilly minutes pass unassumingly and, despite having my formidable gaze obstructed by unaesthetic beige, I manage to score a few good thoughts. (I have now moved out of the shelter, almost to board.)

The next station is Dennis. Shame. As the train rumbles back to motion (not strictly true—I was too slow in writing that sentence) I find myself making some progress on my self-imposed problem. I was far from a good answer, indeed very far, but I move in obsessions; don't be surprised if I have the thing firmly wrapped by week's end. Plus, I'm a whiz at suffering obstacles. My biological mother once told me that when you hit a wall, whatever its context, go hang at Tabby's and come back tomorrow with fresh eyes. (Tabby was a childhood flame from four to fifteen: a yeasty tomboy with scarlet locks and peppered skin, she now maintains an unpleasant trans-Pacific accent somewhere in Canada, with my poor adolescent heart tucked in a shoebox beneath her bed. "Hoeniger asked about my first love. I said 'Pale, mercurial and devilish; had two loves'—how's that?", a line from her letter, May 24. That's her handwriting; that's the way she writes.) Not having Tabby at hand, I decided instead to have a particularly restful night's sleep when I got home.

Now we're forward some three hours (my errand kept me from chronicling the intervening). My roomy black notebook has given way to a squat yellow pocketbook. I'm already halfway down the page. I should mention that this marks a second journey, having returned home for approximately ten minutes before a gate-crashing opportunity presented itself and ushered me back out into the Cruel. These piling mundanities run the risk of overshadowing my ponderings, but I added a few useful observations along the way, most afforded by lulls. A brief glimpse from a fellow passenger (merely by proximity) and I'm back outside myself, noting, for no particular reason, the onlooker's green caffeinated drink. Now we pause at the neon ferris wheel, Ernst & Young high-rise to my right. I look at my watch: fifteen minutes to Crown. The evening disappears in a swamp-green haze of inferior remakes and sulky companions. Tabby infests my dreams.

Rhapsody

All right, now this one is a little exaggerated—forgive me. The time: nearing ten-thirty. The place: here. The persons: whatshisname (Ben?), Tom and myself. With a gourmet meal—frozen fish and chips, unboxed and warmed by yours truly—settling in our I Guess This'll Do bellies, we organised ourselves for a debate of sorts, filmed from the corner for posterity.
"Never until the mankind making, bird, beast and flower," I began, overflowing with righteous poesy.
Ben smirked and countered: "We are hollow men. We are stuffed men."
Before I could rebuke, Tom strode in between us.
"Drift close to me, and sideway bending, whisper delicious words," he commanded.
"No," I cried, eyes welling with passion. "Praise that the spring time is all—"
"April is the cruelest month," interrupted Ben, calmly. "Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain."
I considered. "Here in the spring, stars float along the void." Come back from that!, my smile said.

"They say that the Dead die not, but remain, near the rich heirs of their grief and mirth."
We both turned to Tom, puzzled at his addition.
"Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow up the white moon's hidden loveliness," he continued. Either he was drawing a very long bow or—
"After the torchlight red on sweaty faces [not unlike Ben's as he spoke], after the frosty silence in the gardens, after the agony in stony places. The shouting and the crying." Curses. I was behind. How could I miss the connection?
"O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies," I wailed desperately. They pounced.
Tom: "Oh! Death will find me, long before I tire of watching you, and swing me suddenly into the shade and loneliness and mire of the last land!"
Ben: "The withered root of knot of hair, slitted below and gashed with eyes; this oval O cropped out with teeth, the sickle motion from the thighs."
I could do this. "Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. I advance for as long as forever is." A pause. Yes. Then:
"And so I never feared to see you wander down the street, or come across the fields to me on ordinary feet." Here Tom lighted on my lap, devilishly testing my liberalism. "For what they'd never told me of, and what I never knew; it was that all the time, my love, Love would be merely you." I shook him off.
"Not from this anger—anticlimax after refusal struck her loin and lame flower bent like a beast to lap the singular flood," I scoffed, composing myself.
"Along the reaches of the street," said Ben, determined, "held in a lunar synthesis, whispering lunar incantations."
"Creeps in half wanton, half asleep, one with a fat wide hairless face."
"And freely he goes lost in the unknown, famous light of great and fabulous, dear God."
"Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn in a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown." Ben's repetition was powerful. We steadied ourselves.

"In the beginning was the three-pointed star," I announced. "One smile of light across the empty face."
"And the dark woods grew darker still. And birds were hushed. And peace was growing. And quietness crept up the hill." Tom had lost some of his fury.
"The host with someone indistinct converses at the door apart." (For the record, I was still in the room when Ben said this—metaphor, perhaps?)
"When I see you, who were so wise and cool, gazing with silly sickness on that fool you've given your love to, your— Shit, I've got to go. It's nearly eleven." Saying this, Tom retrieved his jacket and thanked me for the evening. A premature end (Ben left, too), but a memorable evening. The issue would have to remain unresolved for the moment. For once, I did not mind.

Trite and True

While on occasion I find it fit to, shall we say, contort some of the more insignificant facts of the otherwise Honest to God pieces I put before you (for the record, I always put You before any of the pieces; they are but disposable oddities, dissipating daily in a huff of ill-assembled ones and zeros; you are living, breathing, panting organisms, with, like, eight arms), I am always, without exception*, completely cock-in-pants faithful to the Heart of the Matter—like all true loggers. Not for me the petty twisting of important details; not for me the sandbox realms of pure fiction; and not for me the hazy middle ground of—oog, I feel sick—ambiguity. Like all people who think they're artists, I stand for truth, the truth of experience. It's all very well and good to wave statistics and graphs and pictures of people reading controversial 20th century novels, but that does not pierce the capital-T, my plums; to do that, you need sapient fingers and bad eyes.

Case in point: my sister, Ointment (vindictive nickname rather than vindictive parents), two years my junior, wandered listlessly into the kitchen, curling her hair around a brush that for all intents and purposes was an extension of her hand. Ever the adolescent, she grimaced at me through hoary black lips and bee-lined for the coffee-grinder. For someone with such a vulgar personality, she always looked very doable first thing in the morning, before she had a chance to suffocate her better features beneath leather and buckles. Such a waste. I wondered idly when that godawful phase would end and crossed my legs.
"Where's the milk?" she asked accusingly.
"At the shop." I relished the moment, having earlier been overly liberal in dousing my cereal, and took a sip of very white coffee. She cursed me—Brothers! or something—and I watched her leave, turning back to my paper when the door clicked.

Around lunch Tom popped round, cheerily bearing a bag of jersey caramels (our favourite). We shot down a few hours talking about sex before Tom trudged off home again and I headed to the smoke. After a successful journey, I returned and fixed a homely tuna casserole, the ingredients for which I had collected along the way. I caught the wrong train, though, so it was a little late in appearing. Still, hit the spot. I think a walk would have capped the night off perfectly but Harry had an early start. Ah well. Gives me a chance to catch up on those wacky Petries.

Beau Deadly

It was Sunday; rather unlike today, which is Wednesday. We sat apart, neatly, with the mid-afternoon sun proving no match for the room's frostiness. I stole glances intermittently, she not at all. The eager faces at the window: mid-afternoon mothers. I took four requisite breaths and began.
"My mother and your mother—"
"Yes," she said, nodding wearily.
Silence. I picked up my guitar; silence. I put it down again.
"Still fits," I mumbled, trying to recover some dignity. "So I'm Hugh, by the way."
She looked, briefly.
"Congratulations."
Ouch.
"Goals?" (A strange jump, granted, but bets were off.)
"No. You?"
"No," I lied. "No use for 'em. I would like to write a big-themed novel, though."
She nodded absently, as if dead. Evidently she had no desire to know what my big theme was. That was a joke, too. Despite her manner, I felt a sudden surge of confidence (or carelessness), which I used to position myself next to her on the bed. She was attractive, certainly, but a little severe up close. She'd probably tear me apart if she wasn't so sad.

A while passed. I was restless. Summoning up dumb courage, I closed my eyes and motioned my face to hers.
"What the hell are you doing?" she snapped, recoiling.
I flushed. "I was, uh... I was wondering what your face would feel like... if I stuck mine against it." Worst excuse yet.
"With our parents watching? What the fuck's wrong with you?"
(For the record, mine was making encouraging gestures the whole time.)
"Nothing they haven't seen before," I said. (Ergh.)
Suddenly a knock from the front door. I knew it must be Ben and said as much.
"Who?"
"Ben."
"Who's Ben?"
"He's... Ben."
"Hi, I'm Ben," said Ben, a little later in the narrative. "But you can call me..." He pretended to trail off, then added, "My number is—"
She glared.
"o-4— get about it!" He laughed to a snort. "I'm just playing wi' ja." He turned to me. "Who's the big, fat slice of All Right?"
Dazed, I said: "This is my partner, Millie."
"I'm not your partner!" she screamed, standing up. "And what's more, my name's not Millie!"
"I didn't mean it like that," I stammered.
"Oh yes? Well what did you mean by 'partner'?"
"Business partner?" I offered weakly.
"More like getting-down-to-business partner," interjected Ben.
Fuming she made for the door, then stopped, turning back.
"You're small people, you know that?"
"That's not fair."
"And that's not true," said Ben.
She surveyed us again, curling her lip. "I'll have you know I don't suffer fools gladly."
"Me either," I said, unsure whether to nod or shake in agreement. "But I quite like morons."
"You don't get it, do you?" she continued. "You're not... You've got this fixed image of the world, this small-framed way of seeing things. It's all base desires, nothing more. As if humans exist only now, you know? Lurching from one encounter to another. Love and poetry may as well be foreign languages to you."
"That's not true," I protested. "I love poetry—really. Love it."
"I very much doubt it."
"No, I swear. Look, I'll quote you one."
"Go on," she said, peering skeptically.
I had the grand total of one poem memorised—highly inappropriate but at this point suiting my mood.
"It's an old one, this, from 1704. Chap named William Byrd II, a most underrated poet in my opinion." Both looked at me curiously. I cleared my throat and began, somehow not giggling:

"Gentlest blast of ill concoction,
Reverse the high-ascending belch:
Th' only stink abhorr'd by statesmen,
Belov'd and practic'd by the Welch.

Softest notes of inward griping
Your reverences' finest part,
So fine it needs no pain of wiping
Except it prove a brewer's fart.

Swiftest ease of cholic pain,
Vapour from a secret stench,
Is rattled out by the th'unbred swain,
But whisper'd by the bashful wench."

"Called 'Upon A Fart'," I said. "Good, eh?"
"Hilarious. Good bye." She left.
Ben snickered.
"She wasn't bad," he wheezed, almost foaming.
"Diabolical," I muttered.
The sun had gone by now. Ben began to fidget.
"This has got me a bit... riled-up," he said, without his former confidence. "You don't mind if I—?"
"No, go ahead."
"And you're not, uh—"
"Nah. I think I'll just read or something over here."
Ben nodded.
"Well," he said, standing.
"Yep." I looked up at him. "Uncut?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Contain it."
He nodded again.
"Actually, I don't feel like reading. You don't mind if I sing?"
Ben frowned. "With guitar?"
"No, a cappella."
"Hm."
"What?"
"Nothing, it's just—"
"What?"
"Well, no offence, but... I've never really been all that fond of your voice."
"Really?" I blinked. "How come?"
"Well... You can't sing."
"Oh."
"Sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No, no, it's all right. I understand."
"I knew you would."
"And it'd put you off, would it?"
"It would a bit, yes."
"Fair enough. I guess I will read after all."
"Sorry."
"Nah, you're right. I've been meaning to read."
"OK. Wish me luck."
"Will do."
I opened my book.

Draft Dodging

Belly-up one morning (this one morning), breakfasted stoutly on oats & apricots, thoughts and feelin's swimming, still half-asleep, short two mouthfuls, even leaving a gulp at mug's bottom (to make a rim). Rose, rinsed, showered, scrubbed, caught glimpse, winced. Nosed in cautiously, cursed hairdresser, pulled up socks, galloped, peered again, lost in eyes, furrowed, cleared throat, spoke, monologued, singing. Lost. Smoked clean cotton-bud, loosing it smoothly from its packet. Gazed at window right, then wall left. Alarm. Rose, rinsed, breakfasted. Cracked knuckles, smoothed the page. Waited.

Lunch, lounging. Sang with great gusto and clunky plonking, the latter in tune, neither in time. Shampoo, very thorough. Perfectly dry, cracked window. Needled my way to bed, shut off the light, pulling the covers and fondling the pillow. Light flooded. Alarm. Repositioned pillow, rolled out, palming eyes. Stretched, stumbled, showered. Studied fridge. Methodically ground beans. Pleasing gurgle from stove, shook milk vainly. Black. Hovered fingers. Gazed at window right, looked deeply into the ceiling, not at. Pushed off socks. Fell. Telephone. Speaking? Did you say feelings? No, I don't have any; sorry. Replaced.

The gaggle hollering somewhere inside, I waited, eventually to knock. Hug, hug, hug, like three bullets. Escaped. Hawthorn, eating. Water beating down, not quite warm enough. Two strangers smiled, seemingly genuine. Key shivering towards the lock, missing a third time. Sliding off shoes, suspenders. Porcelain, a brush, needled back to bed. Knuckles cracking, alarm blaring, sneezed, alphabetti spaghetti triptych, conked, Michael Caine, across the page. Escaped. Soap to armpits, singing. Grimaced, winced, laughed. Propped pillow across the table, chatted. Stood back, considered. Unsatisfied. Finished.

Ms. Rose Arrives

Overcast. The Um stood soulfully on a sloshed bluff, gazing down at the cold, bleak plain as if it were a microcosm of all human endeavour. Wind-blasted bastard. Next to him, snapping a distant cliff, sat Mr. Brooke, a pale, bijou urbanite under a dense web of tan pig tails. Clicking a further two times, he slid his delicate rims back onto his nose and frowned. Not the right angle? I didn't much mind. A few yards across, Pub Sneer wandered in two-piece rag and bum-glove, looking lost and impotent. He winced at me weakly, seemingly trying to smile. I looked at him as one looks at an odorous carcass circa lunchtime and continued narrating. (Myself, I hasten, clad in Brobdingnagian pants befitting his heightsake, amphibian features, capped, coated, restless; boyish.)

For the moment, that was it: a less-than-formidable four. We entertained plans of rafting to France to find our fifth, but that had more than a whiff of pipe about it, particularly in the mire of our present. I paced self-consciously, imagining the passage in a future history book. It scarcely seemed worthy of a footnote, let alone a passionate treatise. As if to illustrate my point, Sneer dry-retched himself into a ditch behind me, crowning the manoeuvre with an audibly exhaled orifice. A moment later, the distinct, lackadaisical scent of marijuana drifted up from the hole, ruining the carefully narrated atmosphere—the clot. The sky dimmed slightly. Then thunder. Panning across the Hm, Is It Raining?, I pretended to sigh. This was not the stuff of legend. This was not even the stuff of blogging. I slumped back on my deck chair, sighing for real. It began to rain proper. Amidst the downpour, what started as an almost imperceptible rhythm rose to a hoofed clatter, drawing intriguingly nearer until its source could (just) be made out. By this point, the non-pot-addled among us had gathered on the far side of the camp, peering attentively into the distant sheets. Obscured by rain and fog, it looked rather like a waddling town house.

The cart rolled to a stop. One of the horses snorted—sneezed?—and toyed with the mud at its feet. Silence. (Except the rain.) The purple carriage shook for a moment. A door, also purple, thudded open. After an excruciating delay, a leg stepped out, followed by a waist, a torso, another leg, two arms and a head. The fetching whole was somehow even purpler than the carriage. Approaching swiftly, she smiled away the cold. In—
"Wait," she said.
Yes? I wondered.
"'Smiled away the cold'?"
Well, I—
"What am I supposed to be, a princess?"
I considered this.
"Yes," I said, quoting for emphasis. "Prince-ess. Princess! 'Prince' as in Prince, 'ess' as in... I dunno, 'dress' or something. Perfect."
"You're not calling me Princess."
"All right, how about... Ess?"
"Better."
—her hand she held one of those crass Melbourne Renaissance A4s I had sticky-taped to Flinders Street. The ink was running; I didn't blame it. Still, at least it wasn't Comic Sans or Skia. She kick-started a lantern and held it to her face.
"Hello," she beamed. She looked a little taken aback at our less-than-heroic shapes, but did a serviceable job suppressing her disappointment.
We exchanged the same glance.

Cavity

The blinds were still up, letting the dark in. This was deliberate. I lay there, watching the blue flame lick the kettle in the next room, humming, singing, sometimes shifting to favour the other ear. The stereo was telling me repeatedly to Hold it. Being so enticingly put together, I would have done just that, had I anything to hold. (Initially, I thought the insistent, harmonised command signalled a halt of sorts; only later did I discover it was a determined plea.) Gathering my thoughts into a neat, alphabetised pile, I said (to myself), Here I am, in the bounds of Experience; and though it is mine alone [still in quotes, mind you], it shall soon be the newest addition to that great communal work, What We Know (vol. MMMMCMXCIX or something). Altered, of course [still quoting...]; not merely a retelling, or this-then-this account; a bold new shape, almost irrecognisable, but unmistakably borne from Experience. [End quote.] I paused, suddenly becoming self-conscious. Did I just say that? Did I just say that out loud? The kettle bubbled. I walked over to it in something of a daze, recalling my strange outburst like a drunk recalls some hideous deed. Irrecognisable?

So no one told you that was gonna be this way... [clap, clap, clap, clap]. I frowned, my timing just right. How depressing. The blinds were still up but the effort was beyond me. I fidgeted, like a suspect. Next week's assignment is to have dinner together e-every night and see what changes in your life. I left the room to inspect my bookcase. Standing a half-metre back, not feeling the floor, I watched as titles and authors raced by, sometimes splashing me with recognition, sometimes hurling a crunched can of the altogether unfamiliar. They were swallowing all 52 of my bookmarks. Suddenly feeling ill, I woozed my way outside, wading through small, hyperactive dogs until I reached an aged bench in the middle of the garden. I half fell onto it, recovering only with some effort. The stars were out, of course. I couldn't resist a peek. As usual, they had nothing important to tell me, but they sure looked pretty. One even seemed to wink at me. I winked back, just in case. Feeling unaccountably motivated, I pulled my weakening body up again and pushed further outside, towards a park. I was careless; the littler dog followed me. Fearing an escape, I swiftly whisked her off her little paws and brought her to my chest. In the soft moonlight we had a moment, and I think it answered my question. She wriggled out of my hands and scurried off (thankfully back to the garden). I laughed and followed her, a little more grounded. Oo oo oo oo-oo oo oo-oo oo, said the television. Falling back on the couch, I wished I was drunk, and snow fell through the darkness.

Slight Return

When one—in this case this one—poises the ol' digits over a certain old digital board, he must, as a matter (of course), come to firm grips with what's been writ hitherthen, not only by the self but by the entire conglomerate of grubby fingers out there, and if then he's not sufficiently put-off by the prospect of justifying the spotlight, he must still bear down and come through with the goods, knuckles down, eyes locked. And it was with such hubris—deeply considered hubris, but hubris nonetheless—that I tapped (surprise, surprise) Ben in the shoulder region and steered his formidable gangle my way.

Yes?" he said, glaring as per.
"Nothing," I shrugged. "I just thought, you know, we could get to having an amusing* conversation or something—like old times."
Ben sighed (also as per).
"Must we?"
"Well, I sort of promised I'd do something today, and—"
"But why me?"
"What?"
"Why not one of your other readers?"
We laughed for several minutes before Ben clarified.
"No really, why not The Other, for instance?"
"The Other?" I looked puzzled. (I was puzzled.)
"Yes, The Other."
"Oh yes," I said, unpuzzled, "The Reluctant Revolutionary."
"I prefer Pop."
"Not Pops?"
"No. Just Pop."
"I prefer... Cynthia Rose—or just Cyn."
"Um... What?"
Ben posed a handsome puzzler, all right.
"You know—Starfish And Coffee."
"No."
"Well, it's—"
"I don't care," he said, sneezing. And with that he grabbed onto the side of a van and whizzed off.

Typical. Now I had no one to have amusing* conversations with. Scowling at my shoelaces, I returned home, free from any foreseeable deadlines but burdened by a lack of Ben. I washed dishes—The Gold Experience. Sometime later I remembered. Racing back to wherever that street was, I found the conjured and subsequently abandoned Ms. Rose standing near a bakery, dramatically soaked by a recent shower. She peered down at me angrily.
"Next time," I said, and raced off.

*Adjective does not necessarily reflect the views and opinions of The Times or any of its affiliates.