Friday, October 28, 2005

Daisy from puppy to dog

Daisy from puppy to dog
Originally uploaded by beancounter.
As the sticks hit the edges of the drums to let the blues ebb from the keyboard and Graham slinked longlegged around the room in the style of a dinosaur, I saw Tom and Maya sipping water from a large empty cider bottle with a jagged glass spout, placed my foot on the high hat pedal, and rolled once again. Hit it, Tommy.

The afternoon had been regailed with tales of Apple Day, of chickens bearing their sponge riders with competitive glee. The cider recipts piled up in the plastic case, and before long, the clock had struck nine, and I was free to sit on the benches outside with a fine jug of cider and a dragon fruit. We gathered there, and prepared to wander to 'The Party House', or 'The Void', as the kids were calling it these days.

In Budgens, me and wee little Tom took advantage of a three-for-a-£10 red wine offer, and strolled towards Lewes Road, where we instantly found ourselves in a crowded kitchen with electronica glitching its way around the house, together with Gareth all dressed up in a red blouse and black miniskirt and published play. Sam and hats and a rare glimpse of the Phone Master, who looked at us with great concern as to our well-being. Something was calling me. Where had everyone gone. I ended up taking the mic. O god. And the drums, it would seem. No more playing at being a musician. It was time for us to try and break into the animal graveyard.

Up an eight foot wall and down a 20 foot drop, falling through trees like a vehicle in Jurassic Park. Probably not the best idea. So we made like the laidback horse on the other side. Wizened and bearded! Back to the Void. I think I passed out for a bit at this point. Where did everybody go? Suddenly we were the only people in a deserted house. What time was it. Time to press on.

This time to another house with a basement full of musical equipment. Drum kit, keyboard, guitar. Somehow I hung onto my hat and glasses, but my Rabbi card seemed to vanish into the ether. Into the basement. I play improv muttering jazz. "Then help him!". Finding things to smoke. Me and Tommy make the aforementioned slinking blues number. I play the drums. Tommy finally rids the keyboard of Enya sounds. Upstairs, it's a beautiful day. Teddy is asleep. We go out. Stepping out into the light, not buying any health foods, we find ourselves with bananas for breakfast and a bottle of cherry coke. To the park. I play harmonica to a golden statue who shares my height. Maya wades through a circular lake with stepping stones. Tommy becomes a fusion of bicycle and tree and moustache and fine English gentleman and he rides from his cycle sheds in Preston Manor to enjoy a game of football with eager practicing youths. "Look at that little scamp!". Graveyards. Squirrels. Lying on the ground. A man performing unusual motions on a large area of grass in front of the haha. We rendezvous with Tommy for a picnic. Alex jogs past, bottle of water in hand, hair awry.

A bite of the fruit, some pecanned salt, and it is in a state of hyperactive disorder that I meet Anna at the foot of Southover Street. As my eyes flicker in Pavillion Gardens, I hear about Whale Rider. Sleep. I need to sleep.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Won't somebody buy my ironmongery?

A Crossbreed
Originally uploaded by Dolores Luxedo.
I have to make a living, you see. Pacing the streets, night after night, bearing fine examples of metalwork. A tin of rancid paint is upended, and we skip and slink among the drips. One by one, my companions are devoured by bees. I turn on my heel, and collapse on the spot, only to be carried from the slinky cocktail bar that we failed to get into. The ironmongery lost, and with memories of a battle with an octopus-like creature still fresh in my mind, we ascend the steps in a haze of memory and the working of time.

I think I have begun to find myself a danger to myself. And Dom, Dom is to blame. I have to make a living, you see. Stepping along Meat Street, a true life magazine furled in my hand.

I'm cold, I'm cold.

There there.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Little Yo-yo

Originally uploaded by caterina.
God, it's been a while since something like that happened. Andy, where were you? So I woke up this morning in bed with a true life magazine and a headache. I stumbled downstairs, with a temporary lack of memory. Help the bombadier! "I'm cold. I'm cold. I'm late." Tom Daniel and Rosie were all late for work this morning. In fact Rosie was late to the point of not going. The old people sadly had no cleaning today, and they wept.

So I got the train back from university, semitotics books nestling with Patricia Highsmith cosily in my bag, and ran down Trafalgar Street to the Late Priestern, where I met young Elizabeth for a pint of ale and a chat about her house search and slipping her phone number into the library books of hot boys. Back to her small village near Reading, she voyaged, and Rosanne finished work. Then, suddenly, we were filled with a compulsion to go on some ridiculous pubcrawldrinkingbinge. From the Great Eastern, we decided to go somewhere we had never gone before. as we wandered the streets eating potato snacks, we came across Zoe with a Komedia seeking entourage, and wee little Alex Campbell stalking the streets on a quest for blood and human meat. To my surprise, Rosanne had never been to the Black Horse, and so this was our next destination, where we met a friendly chap called John who told us jokes and explained why he was barred from the Eastern. Then on to the Victory, where an absence of Peculiarberg meant that we had to sip at halves of Directors with Tay-Tay, Joff and Andrea. Then, down to Alleycats, where we fell into the warm welcoming arms of Tommy, Dave the Machine, and Dom-inatrix. I'm not entirely sure what happened next, but we found ourselves weathering a tropical storm in the garden of the Hop Poles, as the rain and wind lashed at the palm trees and failed to wash the list of cornish from the wall.

A death-defying climb later and we were in the Pavillion Tavern, home of Andy's beating heart, and we sat at the sticky tables, sipping at Snakebites and Black, and listening to Indie Rock Music. By now, it was just me, Tom, Rosanne and Daniel, or Papa, Toto, Elbow and Tay-tay, as the residents of Maison Homesweet Flat no. 4 have been dubbed.

And dubbed we were, as we muttered in Spanish. Elbow and Toto are both speeding towards the finale of Catch-22 at the moment. I was well chuffed when that friend of Tommy Withie told me that I reminded her of Yossarian. How cool is that!

I have the most travelled copy of Catch-22. It has been to Japan and back three times, to Spain, to Sheffield, to St. Albans, and currently lives in Brighton. So that's at least two countries that I've never been to. Good going, Catch-22.

Saturday, October 15, 2005

that night on the boat

and the next morning my arms were covered in writing

"JUDAS is watching". My god. How funny. It was only the other day that the fateful night on the boat came up in conversation, as part of explaining my fear of Harpenden, or rather ending up there. Driving along the big long road past the roman theatre and batchwood hall listening to stumbeline and going out for icecreams. I've still got the plastic spoon somewhere.

Friday, October 14, 2005

You see he does not believe I am sick

Hopefully I'm going to be in Latest 7 magazine as a "Guest Poet". This is well exciting. However it's quite a hip-hop slot, so this means I'm going to have to find something that's pretty rap-esque (Rhythmically Applied Poetry, anyone?) without it looking terrible written down, as poetry written for performance often does. Bizarrely this all comes as some kind of coda to the 'Sex Drugs and Poetry' business previously documented here. Secondly, I need a picture of myself. Yes, there's going to be a picture of me in Latest 7 magazine! This is actually and literally the pinnacle of fame.

The other day, accompanied by classical music, I chef for the masses. Mayonnaise flies through the air.

Record Keepers

do we even know he can read?

Clutching a refillable lighter with a picture of a dog on it, a lighter filled with potential; "happens to the best of us I know"

rescuing your winter boots with tissue taped to the insides of your disabled shoes to sooth the summer callous. up and down hills our town is very pretty to prop up the bar like the old days

"gods who crawl up six flights of stairs just so they can climb into bed with the insincere wish for a little pet, a little crossbreed even, something just to whisper in their ears and dance about to keep them entertained"

I think in a way it's a question of conflict, of the onset of surprise. Naturalists who suddenly 'go crazy and start killing whales'. Makes you question their motivation...

even pretending to be seamus heaney can win you prizes sometimes

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Painty Hair

Originally uploaded by goons.
Equipped with bowler hat I left the train and set off across the Scottish Wilderness that surrounded Falmer, muttering to myself. I've now been at university for such a ridiculous amount of time. I make a diving run across Library Square, hit the ground, tumble, and with a spring of my legs, propel myself, in the manner of a big ball of elastic bands rolling onto a bowling alley as the distressed Sheffield Ten Pin Bowling Team look on, I somehow tumble up the steps to the Library, skip, Rabbi like, over the gates requiring card entry, and with my back to sets of shelves, I find myself in the PK 87659-89253 section without much trouble. Onto the stool, and from the top shelf, as I gently push the left edge of the shelf unit, a copy of Description of a Struggle and The Great Wall of China falls into my outstreched right hand. I pretend to be Helen Keller, and leave via the disabled exit, un-noticed by anyone.

Later on, I find myself owning a picture of a kid holding a fish. We don't go to the Free Butt.