Come across the leavings of orcs; half eaten things that looked human.
Friday, November 30, 2007
It's easy to see, there's a swathe of destruction through the meat veldt where the trucks have gone through, and I can still hear the growling gears up, quite far, ahead.
Menino is falling behind because I'm running (blind from tears in my eyes, but blurred borders of not-destroyed stick-things keep me on target). Snart fell over on the threshold of his hut and didn't get up, because he's fucked.
It's gone quiet up ahead. I hope they've stopped.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
I got out of the Snart hut, head reeling from pharmaceuticals, and five big green trucks barrelled through the sticks, breaking and splintering animal plants asunder, and in the lead truck, smiling until she caught my eye, I saw Bêbe - and then she looked sick. Then she turned to the driver.
Maybe it's just the drug spin I'm in. Maybe it's wishful fill meant. Maybe it's all of that.
Snart follows me out and says something. Menino is impatient.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Snart gave me this thing I smoked. And lo it was good. Just realised the colour blue is synonym for the weak nuclear force. Fuck, I now have the Big Bang in my ear.
Can't hear too well, but am happy with neutron stars now (they have been woefully misunderstood - all that compression of matter to nano scales is just a cry for help).
Monday, November 19, 2007
I wish and I hope, with no real belief that it can come to pass, that friend's I have made, and yet through fucked up circumstance, have now lost, can come back.
But I know, that's not possible, it's outside the standard deviation, and my deviation is non-standard.
Wish it wasn't so, shall you reap.
What's up with that? Here's me thinking there would be some harmonic alveopalatal fricative going on, and instead I get a name that sounds like the expectoration of a dolphin with a cold.
Anyway, Snart is this screwed up little man living in a hut made from bin liners and despair in the middle of the grey-stick-thing-forest. He wears a T-shirt with a geek message on it, stained trousers and a pair of big black spectacles (in which I see the glint of fire under the metal pot).
Turns out he's from Grutterland, and has that burr in his voice that makes him sound sarcastic at all times. Which me, being from a dimming empire of land-fill and office paper, find difficult to cope with.
More later, when I can get beyond my prejudices (and he smells).
Literally it seems, we're walking through this forest of twenty foot high grey stick things. Apparently a kind of rooted animal (because you can see them moving and they have mouths in the leaf crown).
We're on our way to see someone who may have an answer, and something he's grown in a metal pot that, if I drink it, infused in bad wine, will either get me completely fucked or make me see expository visions. Castaneda would be envious I think - you get what you peyote for.
Off the thrumming train now, somewhere flat, like the Fens, but dried yellow rather than muddy green - just deserts.
I'm standing on a wooden platform held off the ground by oily rope hanging from a massive rusting cantilever that looks like it was once meant to swing, steam-driven, from one track to another. But the other track is wiry weed grown, and I can see bugs the size of my hand scuttling through the scratchy bush.
Menino is pissed off for some reason, hot eyed in the sun. My headache is gone, and the sinus thing is receding. I still have the gun (clean now, but still feeling like a dirt radius in my pocket). I'm feeling taller too, less hunched and sick. Maybe I can work out the thing. Maybe Bêbe's somewhere I can get to.
But really, really, I don't think that's happening now (I'm rehearsing conversations with her that can now never happen: because if they did, well, that would make me psychic wouldn't it? So I try to stop picturing the reunion, because I know each picture won't happen. Fuck.)
Where are you? What's happening with you now? I'm in this land as flat as piss on a plate, with sand and sun and a little nastiness hiding behind everything. And you're not here.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
An eighties hippy: cheese-cloth and espadrilles, pachouli scented and liked a spliff (slate not weed). And she was ginger, and had bright blue eyes. And looked good in an August field, with the sunshine and bees.
I wonder how tired she is now, forty-fucking-something, in a suburban dormitory estate, three teenagers and a fat husband (does something in an office) in her retinue.
Where once it was Nick Drake, small motorbikes, magic mushrooms and hazy friends. Now it's washing up liquid, a little car and endless grey; bitter vodka evenings with strained acquaintances.
Or maybe she's still painting, but now on bigger canvasses.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Sunday, November 11, 2007
Went to Dr. Oesophagus with this complaint and he was no use, told me to get out of his brass and glass office in two small licketysplits and no mistake (fucker).
So I went to the homeopathic wino on East Street (the drunkard who subsists on tiny amounts of meths diluted in buckets of rain) and asked him if he could reconnect the start and end in my bone.
He too fucked me off with dribbling accusations of time-wasting, that he had not heard, because no-one speaks at him no more, of this abreaction I am reporting.
So then I walked up St. Michael's Hill, hoping to see something complete and accurate reveal in steps above the horizon. Didn't happen. Instead I saw the demons laying waste to Cotham Brow (Bristol, UK).
So, still have no ligature binding the start to the end. Bones coming apart.
Eventually found the cure, in the eighties bin of a record store.
Friday, November 02, 2007
The problem is, and one that irks me as I stumble through this fucked up litany of misfortunes (that some monk is now illuminating in a limestone redoubt up some Toswanian mountain, built above the jungle), is that I have a charitable concern that I am supposed to be expressing in every mile of my grand tour.
It's an issue, it's an action plan, that has been off-lined whilst I'm ill and injured in this asshole of a geography.
But at some point I have to call in (on the mobile phone I still have) and mark the miles at 50p per, so that dialysis machine gets bought by the Rhyll Friends Association (who do jam-drives otherwise). So all the old ladies back in the tiny oak-wrapped village will be severely disappointed by my inability to get beyond the shooting and blood thing going on.