Monday, March 26, 2018
Monday, February 03, 2014
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
And forms are filled in, dry and brittle
The thing finishes
The over, the just gone, the signed away
The bricks of the foundation gone
The groundwork bare again, but now disinterred, showing age and tracks
Where there was a house, now there's weeds
He will eat you, his teeth in you, his hips cracking against you.
So - knowing this - you run headlong through the gorse and bracken.
When you find the road, its gravel outlying, you run that much faster over its hard return.
No good: you may be faster; so is he.
His breath is on your heels, the leap to bring you down a potential that is about to be.
Escaping in a minute.
Get your car up the ramp from the waiting ferry. Customs is passed, and you are very relieved that, the weight of contraband is undetected - a freight of tobacco, a bible-coded prediction of selling in car boot sales, along with lamps, porcelain dogs and bootleg CDs.
Different kind of capture.
There's no win in the motorway: up your arse all the way to junction nine; until you swing a turn and they pass you. The little lights of the exit, as you swing, studded along the way.
You run the last length of road. A memory of a swimming pool, a polystyrene float in front of you, as you look through the chlorinated blue before you; to the end where the dry, tracksuited instructor beckons you on, with cupped hands and mimed front crawl.
Flecks of spit run up your neck. The burn of teeth surely follows.
If only I could pull that water in my hands, and catapult myself up on the tiles, then the teeth would not catch, the claws would not pull me back.
Up the fucking motorway one two many times this month. Leave at shit o'clock in the morning in the polluter (new name for van) when it is dark and cold and cold and dark.
Get there, then spend hours measured in least remembered minutes in a bright office. Looking at people. Wondering if they have an inner life (of course they do) or are they just wallpaper (of course they're not).
I do the thing with work, one pointless thing after another, with both joy and dedication (who are sisters if you believe Christians).
Then I eat stuff burnt in the subsidised canteen.
Then I do more worky work. With diagrams. With bullet points.
And I say some stuff which gets listened to ("I'm going to have a piss now") and other stuff that doesn't ("I hate you, I hate you, is that a doughnut?").
Then I'm back in the van, where first I smoke a cigarette, and then I turn the key in the ignition and the fucking oil light blinks, so I ignore that harbinger of engine death, and then I reverse the big dusty van out of the corporate carpark.
Back down the M42, tackle beamer twats for priority on the M40 interchange, lane swap randomly to the M5.
Evesham, Gloucester, etc. longwave radio 4 cuts out under bridges and whines under stretched wires across from pylons.
Into the Michael Woods services just before Bristol, because of screenwash lack, and the slightly white up-crap from the road is fogging my scratched windscreen.
Back out on the last stretch of M5 elastic for junction 15, 16, 17, 18 and off onto to the A4 (which goes to Bath, which is full of cunts). Portway. Home.
190.7 miles roundtrip according to Google. Every mile one inch longer on the way back (and that accumulates).
It's dark and I turned off all the lights this morning.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Well the yak (who I've named Steve) is really wearing my arse out now, but we're just passing the Knuckle.
It's this big black volcanic glass rock that's off to one side of the road (a mile off, and still fucking huge) glinting in the evening slanting sunshine.
It's called the Knuckle (Shlortsi in the local language, so Fusel tells me) because it looks like this big carpometacarpal joint pushed up out of the stony ground round there. Like a giant is trying to punch her way out of the geology.
Nothing grows there (and you have to say that with a mystery whisper) because, hey! it's fucking rock, there's no soil there. (Fusel glowers at this and sucks on his pipe, which I think is full of ketamine, because he's that fucked up with his big-ass moustache).
I'm a happy smiling tourist with a big camera, a hunk of technology I can't use, even here - there's a super-secret rocket base behind the Knuckle, and occasionally you see the contrail of an X-plane full of volunteer about to explode.
Still and all, I can hear the whiny call of plain warblers arguing about politics in the reeds of a stagnant pond (that smells of diesel) just a couple of close Greeks away.
Before off on the holiday (long tome coming, short time going).
Anyway, before I bugger off. I found this from Bertrand Russell:
Fear of public opinion, like every other form of fear, is oppressive and stunts growth. It is difficult to achieve any kind of greatness while a fear of this kind remains strong, and it is impossible to acquire that freedom of spirit in which true happiness consists, for it is essential to happiness that our way of living should spring from our own deep impulses and not from the accidental tastes and desires of those who happen to be our neighbours, or even our relations
Where the bombs in my head go off, one after the other,
And spouting neurone fireworks (touch blue paper and retire to a Spanish villa dotage where wrinkles conspire to make a map of mars on your face)
That's where, in pleasant green hills grandfatherhood, I will look upon my golden retinue of children and children's children.
The perpendicular gothic of the stone beams and concrete arches will be a part (apart) of the defining way (a road to, an avenue between).
All happy then, indescribable joy descends.
Pick the meaning of the preceding, there's something there for all of you.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Wednesday, November 03, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Tuesday, March 09, 2010
Sunday, March 07, 2010
1000 words a day
It may take some time working up to that, but then the figured climb may take some reasoned acclimatisation there
It's not like I can think of anything that would engender 1000 words of coherent thought
Back up and beholden to the reek of conscionable ideals, each less well than the last
That's an overuse of the intellect, right there. Why does it seem that an attribution or situation is any better told by my drunken brother safe in his cups, than me, plying the trade of intoxicated vigour.
I should put a question mark after that, but have run out of cigarettes and alcohol so therefore won't.
Maybe I'll revisit Albonia (link) where I managed to put in all the various wholes that weren't half summed by bright realisation.
Means and averages - Darwin couldn't work out why natural selection didn't average out until it's found the bland answer to grass and tree, or the desert, is the solution: a million miles of altruistic vegetable colluding in succour of light.
Why there had to be spikes of predator, as the Origin of the Species neither explains speciation nor justifies diversity.
This base algorithm of blind science when put up against the rolling eye of omniscient purpose (though purpose for what).
Teleology is opposed to atheism as it seeks to find purpose in the little waves of everything breaking, yet that striving for explanation is in itself a contradiction.
Why bother investigating the panoply of undiscovered purpose if there is a purpose? Surely best to ride along without self-engendered moral compass, as fairy belief moves you on anyway?
Why disinter the ghosts encrypted in tombs of text if all they say is what you already know? What special knowledge of unknowingness marks you out as better able to map ignorance?
Who gives a fuck what the dead sea scrolls say, if all they do is reinforce the shuttered acceptance of mystery still in suburban redoubts?
Why would you give a fuck about the revealed truth, if you believed anyway?>