Wednesday, January 30, 2008
The new night-time character, who is mainly a prig. Occasionally has a kebab. Sometimes is cross-eyed with drink. And is a nitrous oxide addict.
She's a blast, in that roadside bomb sense.
Can't remember what the natural colour of her hair is, though I suspect it might be that drizzle brown rat type. She's small and thin, and tries to be cool but fails endearingly.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
And it made my head bleed.
And so it goes. Once again.
I wish with an unalloyed fervour (that's a fervour without chrome) that acquaintances would not enthuse me with projects that are little more than wanks.
Because I am credulous, and will latch on to pipe dreams without the editor head intervening. Because I want to believe it. Because it sounds good and feels good (like a space-hopper filled with glycerine, and a transistor radio tuned to radio 3). So I will subscribe.
And then I find out it's just a masturbatory fantasy predicated on money and procrastinated vomit. Good fucking deal. Thanks. Cunt.
Friday, January 25, 2008
I said a lot as I imagined stabbing Fusel. But it was only a walking dream. Like I would get spit between my teeth, and compress my lips, and stop me saying or doing that.
Got a lot of anger there somehow.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
As we we walk (between the grey concrete dormitory tenements and gasometers lowering behind the slate roofs) I have this desire to hurt Fusel.
I don't know where it comes from, perhaps ignorance.
At last I turn to him (on a bridge over a derelict railway) and ask him what the fuck?
He smiles for a pause (which just makes me want to hit him through his face even more). Eventually he says, "there's nothing more, you just keep on keeping on. You just accept the series of disconnected events, one after the other, as they happen."
I am not satisfied with this, and ask him to explain.
"There is no explanation, no deeper levels in life. It's broken anyway. You just carry on doing what you do. And hope it's more than average."
I ask about Bêbe.
"She loved you, but you fell down for her too many times."
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Friday, January 18, 2008
Monday, January 14, 2008
I'm going to murder you
I'm going to kill you
I'm going to stab you right up
It's not like you don't deserve this thing
That I'm going to do to you
I'm going to murder you
I'm going to kill you
I'm going to to murder you right up
It's not like you don't deserve that thing
That I'm going to do
Friday, January 11, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
The big blue van (Mefanwy the van we have, Jean Claude the damn van) is coughing black soot this morning. Which is not heartening, as I have a little love for my VW T3. It's big and strong and barrels up the M5 with aplomb.
But it's not well now, an air filter may be clogged, there's carbon in its stomach that's belched out on cold mornings.
Still, I love the raised perspective without the power steering the van affords me. I look at wankers cutting me up on slip roads in shiny beamers and think, fuck you, this vehicle cost me a thousand pounds, yours cost you your integrity.
Anyway, accelerates like a cow wading in treacle, corners like a walrus, but makes me smile when I drive.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Monday, January 07, 2008
Says Fusel. Like I needed another right angle digression from the case in point.
I'm just having tea with a man I saw killed up a mountain with a bullet in the head, that made his mouth spout blood, and he's not even slightly ethereal. In fact, he's solid and in front of me, filling up the boundaries of his inhabited space with real three-dee thereness.
I ask him how he does that, the being there, drinking from a little cup, when he should be rotting (slowly) somewhere cold.
He doesn't answer and instead does that (irritating) Fusel thing - a kind of peasant condescension, the disdain of the stupid for something not understood. Maybe it's just me, but I think he is a fucking idiot, who can't stay long dead. So I ask him why he's doing the revenant thing. And that's when he says "And then I will stab you in the eye."
This is exasperating, it's meant to be (I think) both ominous and portentous (two words meaning the same thing, surely one should be in redundancy consultancy).
And he drinks his tea.
At some point I think I will start shouting.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
Means nothing; sounds good. "When spiders pretend to be leaves, so they can catch flies. When the letter at the beginning is the first of the word that split the sky and spilt the milk.
"When things conspire, when help is at hand." says Fusel.
Which is no help. He's being gnomic (not gnomonic, he's not a shadow in the sun marking time, that's what my electric clock above the mantelpiece does).
He's just being obscure for the sake of it, fucker.
Maybe that's what ghosts do. Or oracles.
I tell him to drink his tea.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
With only the tick of the electric clock above the mantelpiece marking time. Fusel and I are staring at each other across the dining table (dark brown, lustreless and marked with rings from cups and plates). He's not said anything of any significance yet (and I'm waiting for there to be some kind of significant thing that he should say, after all, I left him dead half way up a mountain in Albonia).
That's not to say I expect him to be forthcoming, he was always close-mouthed at the best of times (and there were few of those).
I ask him if he wants a cup of tea, he grunts. So I go and do the crockery clacking in the kitchenette. Turn the gas back on under the kettle, take the foil cap off the milk, look for sugar in the cupboard above the sink.
"Bêbe sends her love," he says. Which is right out character (for both of them).
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
In that it's just starting and it's already as fucked up.
It's all relative: my small problems are small relative to some newly dead person; but I'm relating this to my own narrow perspective (between two high walls, up a dark alley, with a shut door at the end). Auntie Issue is sister to the father of my whining.
So 2007 was mainly fucked. 2008 is starting in the same key. Need some modal change, and not in a Bucks Fizz way.
It's the 2nd of Januvery fucked up (real month name), cold, bitter, and sleeting. And that's just me.
Already run out of money, already run out of ideas.
Other than that, everything's fine and fucking dandy.