Click Snappy snaps...over there =>
Monday, 27 December 2010
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
The Naming of Species
Crossing over to the last bit of land,
The last inhabitable cluster before the pole.
Nothing north about this south.
Sun glaring on a featureless terrain,
Once lit by fires, huddled around by the fat greased eaters
of mussels and little else.
- The most primitive he´d ever seen - said Darwin.
The only able to survive down here too.
- More like animals than humans - he continues.
Unable to make such distinctions?
Maybe Darwin was right.
In the distance, the limit of vision,
Dark forms shiver out of the haze,
Arrousing suspicions in the mind´s gaze.
Causing the pupils to enlarge,
A chain reaction.
What giants hover in the mirage?
Clouds that have curdled in Fuegian skies turn petrol streak colours around the sun.
I develop an enraptured neck ache.
Seeing in impossible detail, I wonder, how much of these floating fjords have I imagined?
How much retina? How much mentality retiscent to leave it at that?
A mind desperate to recognise: stitch truth in lies; put name to form.
- Oh yes, its one of those! - A categorical relief.
Keeping moments of mystery brief.
Why such satisfaction, such mental peace?
In fixing forms in allegories. Substitutions.
For things felt and remembered.
The metaphysical, metamorphical, immeasurable mescallany of that self same mind.
Is it nature or culture? That needs certainty for security.
To navigate by join the dots,
By constellations of associations in a universe of words.
Strewn like litter from a car window,
The packages of every thought, sight and sensation consumed,
Utilities picked up, put down and resumed.
Uniting and dividing,
Through lines drawn across maps.
And between we call it and what it is.
Putting things in boxes to build a world:
Cathedrals and public toilets, factories and gardens,
Anything you like as long as its not already something.
Divide and conquer - thats the rule. Divide and shackle.
Create a meaning from a mistrust of plurality,
Undoubtedly real but not the same as reality.
A picture kills a thousand words,
A sound or sculpture a thousand more.
A phrase is a vulture, a paragraph a whore,
Picking over the carcass of intuition, and renting out ribs
to brandish in a war of understanding.
Solemnly, we play our parts in the pantomime.
Driven by love and compulsion,
Warped by greed and revulsion,
At difference and the unnameable, uncontainable, shameful instinct,
So difficult to shake.
"Prejudice: roundly condemned and wholly upheld - part of being a human"
The dictionary doesn´t read,
"Part of an intransient need, to know what is from what is not."
A flawed system but the best we´ve got.
The last inhabitable cluster before the pole.
Nothing north about this south.
Sun glaring on a featureless terrain,
Once lit by fires, huddled around by the fat greased eaters
of mussels and little else.
- The most primitive he´d ever seen - said Darwin.
The only able to survive down here too.
- More like animals than humans - he continues.
Unable to make such distinctions?
Maybe Darwin was right.
In the distance, the limit of vision,
Dark forms shiver out of the haze,
Arrousing suspicions in the mind´s gaze.
Causing the pupils to enlarge,
A chain reaction.
What giants hover in the mirage?
Clouds that have curdled in Fuegian skies turn petrol streak colours around the sun.
I develop an enraptured neck ache.
Seeing in impossible detail, I wonder, how much of these floating fjords have I imagined?
How much retina? How much mentality retiscent to leave it at that?
A mind desperate to recognise: stitch truth in lies; put name to form.
- Oh yes, its one of those! - A categorical relief.
Keeping moments of mystery brief.
Why such satisfaction, such mental peace?
In fixing forms in allegories. Substitutions.
For things felt and remembered.
The metaphysical, metamorphical, immeasurable mescallany of that self same mind.
Is it nature or culture? That needs certainty for security.
To navigate by join the dots,
By constellations of associations in a universe of words.
Strewn like litter from a car window,
The packages of every thought, sight and sensation consumed,
Utilities picked up, put down and resumed.
Uniting and dividing,
Through lines drawn across maps.
And between we call it and what it is.
Putting things in boxes to build a world:
Cathedrals and public toilets, factories and gardens,
Anything you like as long as its not already something.
Divide and conquer - thats the rule. Divide and shackle.
Create a meaning from a mistrust of plurality,
Undoubtedly real but not the same as reality.
A picture kills a thousand words,
A sound or sculpture a thousand more.
A phrase is a vulture, a paragraph a whore,
Picking over the carcass of intuition, and renting out ribs
to brandish in a war of understanding.
Solemnly, we play our parts in the pantomime.
Driven by love and compulsion,
Warped by greed and revulsion,
At difference and the unnameable, uncontainable, shameful instinct,
So difficult to shake.
"Prejudice: roundly condemned and wholly upheld - part of being a human"
The dictionary doesn´t read,
"Part of an intransient need, to know what is from what is not."
A flawed system but the best we´ve got.
Ooooh Empanada
Empanada Argentina, tan tierna y cariña,
Oh empanada, no mi dejes nada!
Sabrosa y crujiente, ha cautivado a mi mente.
Rellena de carne o queso. ¿Que quiero? Pues eso!
Rellena de tomate y cebollas, damé una, calientapollas!
Empanada la recién hecho, mas provocativa que expuesto pecho.
Empanada de éxtasis, voy a morir por ti,
Mi colestrol llenará muchos baños, mi quitas muchos años!
Pero no me importa, si mi vida sea corta,
Porque todo me apetece, es una empanada a que Argentina pertenece.
Oh empanada, no mi dejes nada!
Sabrosa y crujiente, ha cautivado a mi mente.
Rellena de carne o queso. ¿Que quiero? Pues eso!
Rellena de tomate y cebollas, damé una, calientapollas!
Empanada la recién hecho, mas provocativa que expuesto pecho.
Empanada de éxtasis, voy a morir por ti,
Mi colestrol llenará muchos baños, mi quitas muchos años!
Pero no me importa, si mi vida sea corta,
Porque todo me apetece, es una empanada a que Argentina pertenece.
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Doldrums
Got a negative mood on
Yeah, I got my brood on.
Bound to make mistakes,
Bound to find the pages bonded:
Some past neglect, resurrected
and thrown in my face,
Some lurking paralysis
that won´t give chase.
Carrying round a bad smell,
Like to set it down a spell.
Like to just say ´yes´ and do,
Be it saving lives or sniffing glue.
Abandoned my good plans all too easily,
Curiosity got the better of me.
Carrying round a bad smell,
Don´t sit close to me.
Breaking my own rules,
Making fast fools
of my own feet.
Footloose and fancy free,
Or so they ought to be.
But I got my negative mood on
Yeah, I got my brood on,
And I don´t know where to be.
Minds need making up,
Mine does - I´m waking up
Seeing things all too simultaneous,
Imagining many outcomes, many paths,
Many more than the one I´ll wear down,
Wearing my thorny frown,
Dragging my feet,
Dragging a bad smell,
Dragging friends down with me,
Plenty of room in this gloomy cell,
Plenty of possibilities,
Swollen with possible hostilities,
Though all imagined, few possible.
Escape is not an epiphany,
Nor a manual read from cover to cover.
Not a possibility: a job or a lover,
Just one foot in front of the other.
Yeah, I got my brood on.
Bound to make mistakes,
Bound to find the pages bonded:
Some past neglect, resurrected
and thrown in my face,
Some lurking paralysis
that won´t give chase.
Carrying round a bad smell,
Like to set it down a spell.
Like to just say ´yes´ and do,
Be it saving lives or sniffing glue.
Abandoned my good plans all too easily,
Curiosity got the better of me.
Carrying round a bad smell,
Don´t sit close to me.
Breaking my own rules,
Making fast fools
of my own feet.
Footloose and fancy free,
Or so they ought to be.
But I got my negative mood on
Yeah, I got my brood on,
And I don´t know where to be.
Minds need making up,
Mine does - I´m waking up
Seeing things all too simultaneous,
Imagining many outcomes, many paths,
Many more than the one I´ll wear down,
Wearing my thorny frown,
Dragging my feet,
Dragging a bad smell,
Dragging friends down with me,
Plenty of room in this gloomy cell,
Plenty of possibilities,
Swollen with possible hostilities,
Though all imagined, few possible.
Escape is not an epiphany,
Nor a manual read from cover to cover.
Not a possibility: a job or a lover,
Just one foot in front of the other.
Sunday, 12 December 2010
Parting Company: Part 9
Jane:
Jane: Thanks for coming with me.
Stella: Don´t worry about it - its horrible going to the hospital on your own. And i needed to get out of the hostel anyway, been going crazy couped up in there with all this rain. You still feeling the same? Hmmm, well if you´re going to be sick or anything like that just pick a target that isn´t me. Maybe that guy, he looks half dead already, maybe it´ll wake him up a bit.
Jane: You´d make a lovely nurse.
Stella: I wanted to be one once! Don´t think I´d have had the patience tho.
Jane: So what do you do?
Stella: Well, I was teaching in a primary school
Jane: Don´t you need a lot of patience for that?
Stella: Yeah, but you get to take your frustrations out on the naughty ones. Probably shouldn´t say that! Well, I dunno - when I started, obviously I knew they´d hve to fear you a bit when it came to discipline. I thought a strict policy of doing exactly what I said I would when it came to warnings and punishments would be enough. But after a while, with the persistent offenders, it only showed up how limited my options were for making life uncomfortable for them. I know it sounds a bit, harsh, but without a system for discipline, none of them learn anything.
Jane: No, no, I agree, I spose. Well, I don´t know anything about it really. So are you a bit of a dragon then?
Stella: I am now, yeah - they buy into the pantomine of it more. I guess with kids, there´s more fear in uncertainty.
Jane: Not just kids.
Stella: Yeah. like old people being less scared of death. Aren´t we being profound!
Jane: Makes a change from asking someone where they´ve been travelling so far and then nodding and say "Oh, ok", "Yeah, someone told me it was really nice there."
Stella: Actually, I´m not sure that´s right - about the old people. So what about you, what do you do?
Jane: I´m a curator. Well, assistant curator.
Stella: Oh yeah? So you´re the one who decides which paintings go where and what to say about them?
Jane: Something like that. Although the temporary exhibitions often come with instructions from the lending gallery or museum. Lots artists insist on certain display conditions too. How did you know it was art?
Stella: I didn´t think about it. Although now I do I can definitely see you hanging paintings more than putting dinosaur bones together or something!
Jane: Yeah, I always hated puzzles and lego and things like that when I was a kid.
Stella: Oh my God, Lego was all my brother thought did or talked about for a few years. Poor little Kyle.
Jane: Why poor?
Stella: Its a long story.
Jane: Perfect for a hospital waiting room!
Stella: Ok, well once I caught him making, and forced to admit to making "a lady´s part". It was hideous. And I wouldn´t have know either - I thought he was doing the grand canyon or something, except that he was drawing the pubes on with a pen when I caught him - laughs- he went beetroot!
Jane: Oh no.
Stella: It gets worse. So, he slams his hands over it and squeals, "Its not a human´s!" - laughing- He was so embarressed, I´ve never seen someone look so desperate. He made me promise not to tell mum and dad. I didn´t tell, but I told my sister. She made him put it back together and said he had to make the male "compliment" and that he´d better do it more justice than he had done the female one or she would tell mum and dad.
Jane: Poor little guy!
Stella: I know. At the time tho, we just thought we had something we would always be able to use over him, that we´d be able to get our way in every argument. So anyway for a couple of weeks or so he´s secretly working away in his bedroom at night on this lego dick. We were terrible, we kept saying that if it wasn´t life like enough we´d tell. The pressure made him ill though. Mum an dad noticed how pale he´d gotten and he even got a day off school for it. So eventually he comes into our room one night and wakes us up to tell us, "Its finished." We jumped out of bed and we already pissing ourselves laughing as he shuffled us into his room, begging us to be quiet. But when we got in there, we were speechless. It was incredible!
Jane: How big was it? Oh, God, that was uncouth!
Stella: About this high. Definitely a scaled up model! But it was so detailed. He´d made like, little seams of different coloured bricks to give it veins and it had this kinda delicate foreskin and everything. We we dumbfounded - here was the finest lego penis ever created and we were the only people who would ever see it! I was sort of proud of him, and then felt really bad about making him do it. I mean, he must have got pictures or diagrams from somewhere. He couldn´t have done it from life - he was only 10 or so at the time. Imagine this terribly shy little boy going into the library to try and secretly photocopy the rude bits from a biology book or something. It must have nearly killed him.
Jane: Aww, you were horrible!
Stella: I know. When we saw how much work he´d put into it and how must distress it must have caused him, we both felt it too. He was crying, out of fear or relief, and we apologised there and then - which was something that almost never happens in our family. We helped him disassemble it. It was strange actually. A weird bonding moment. The three of us sitting there on the floor his bedroom, breaking up this incredible lego dick we´d made him build. Probably the only time I´ve really felt close to him.
Jane: Wow, that must have really given you a new perspective on lego!
Stella: Yeah it really did. I could actually see the point of it more. Like, if I´d made something like that I´d be really proud of it. And so when he made a boat or spaceship or something normal, I could understand the satisfaction he got out of it. And maybe a bit how making things out of lego kind of helped him understand the world, or process it or something. Why did you hate lego?
Jane: I´m not sure, I suppose it frustrated me that there was a perfectly good model all broken into little pieces, waiting to be put together again. I guess I don´t have much patience either.
Stella: Or you´re a perfectionist.
Jane: What makes you say that? I mean, I probably am, but
Stella: You said it frustrated you having a perfectly good thing broken up, altho, doesn´t lego give you the possibility of making something perfect?
Jane: Yeah, but I didn´t see the point when, at most, all it took was a long time to put it all back together again.
Stella: Or some patience.
Jane: Or some patience. And bearing in mind of course that I didn´t have a terrified little brother to make me a majestic penis to get me into it!
Stella: - Laughing - I´m so glad you weren´t in my class!
Jane: Oow, why?
Stella: You´re a questioner. Its a good thing - but you were probably one of those kids who needs a load of reasons for anything before you´ll get on with it.
Jane: I probably was a bit of a nightmare. I think I was quite stubborn. Definitely much more strong willed when I was at school, college even.
Stella: You don´t think you´re strong willed now?
Jane: I´m not sure. Sometimes I look back to when I was 17 or so and miss having, or well, being sassy.
Stella: - Laughs -
Jane: No I mean, confident, well no, sassy, why not! But I´m also embarressed of the way I acted sometimes. Unaware, y´know?
Stella: Yeah, but I think everyone looks back on themselves like that, in smiles and blushes.
Jane: No, you´re right. I spose I just feel disconnected from all that. Like, I still identify with that 17yr old completely, and see her as me. But I´m someone different now aswell and I wonder how that other person would do things differently if they were me now - if they´d let themselves get into situations or, be more proactive - sighs - I´m sorry I´m being pathetic
Stella: Don´t be silly, just sounds like you´ve got some regrets. Who doesn´t?
Jane: Not regrets exactly, it, it would be a long story too and I´m not even quite sure how it goes yet. Anyway, you said you were working in a primary school, how come you came out here?
Stella: Oh, well that would definitely count as pathetic - I broke up with my boyfriend, or well, he broke up with me.
Jane: What´s pathetc about that?
Stella: Well, its a bit cowardly isn´t it? I´ve run away, or at least that´s what my family thinks and its probably what people at work suspect.
Jane: Maybe you´ve run to something?
Stella: It would be nice to see it that way. But I never really had any desire to come here before, I´ve got no desire to find myself or anything like that. I was very happy with who I was and my situation at home. I just couldn´t bare the thought of having to bump into him or his family around town and hearing about him from mutual friends. I mainly came out here cos it was far away and there would be no associations with him here.
Jane: But you´ve come to a place where you don´t know anyone and don´t speak the language and that´s not cowardly.
Stella: Given how much I feared the alternative it was.
Jane: Well, even if you ran away, why is that bad?
Stella: Because I was happy with my life. Happy with my life outside of things with Carl and I did nothing to try and keep it. And it hasn´t worked anyway. Every new place I imagine what it would be like if he was there with me.. End up thinking about the past almost whenever I´m alone.
Jane: I know what you mean, but I suppose its just a habit and it will change.
Stella: Perhaps, but however hard I try to block him out he´s still there. I still think about what he´d like here and not. I can even recognise some of my attitudes or sort of things I say as his. Parts that are now me but came from him, I can´t imagine that going away.
Jane: ...
Stella: So you´ve had a break up recently too?
Jane: No, no I haven´t. I´m sorry, I suppose I don´t really know wat you´re going through at all. I just came away to, well to have some time away from him, but also from everything really.
Stella: So he´s waiting for you?
Jane: Yeah. There was nothing wrong between us. I just needed to feel in control things again, be my own person again.
Stella: I had that feeling too once. Used to get frustrated with Carl for it, or maybe more at myself, but it came his way. But in the end I realised that despite wanting things that I could have with a fairly settled life and despite having had plans that changed because of my situation, I was happy. Just realised that you can´t have it all. But I guess there´s no choice now.
Jane: Well then maybe you´re getting somethign back then. The opportunity for all the other stuff?
Stella: Yeah, I suppose. Sorry I´m being so negative.
Jane: Don´t worry about it. I´m not sure I´m doing a great job of being sensitive about it!
Stella: Its just good to feel ok talking about it. Feel quite embarresed about it all in general.
Jane: Why on earth would you feel embarressed about it?
Stella: You know, the whole pathetic jilted woman thing. Don´t want to put that on anyone.
Jane: Would it be any different if you were a man?? Look, these things happen - how can you be expected to feel one way or another? Of course it gonna hurt and, at least you´re doing something about it - what more can you do?
Stella: Dunno, something that seems to have an effect! 487, you´re next.
Jane: Thanks for coming with me.
Stella: Don´t worry about it - its horrible going to the hospital on your own. And i needed to get out of the hostel anyway, been going crazy couped up in there with all this rain. You still feeling the same? Hmmm, well if you´re going to be sick or anything like that just pick a target that isn´t me. Maybe that guy, he looks half dead already, maybe it´ll wake him up a bit.
Jane: You´d make a lovely nurse.
Stella: I wanted to be one once! Don´t think I´d have had the patience tho.
Jane: So what do you do?
Stella: Well, I was teaching in a primary school
Jane: Don´t you need a lot of patience for that?
Stella: Yeah, but you get to take your frustrations out on the naughty ones. Probably shouldn´t say that! Well, I dunno - when I started, obviously I knew they´d hve to fear you a bit when it came to discipline. I thought a strict policy of doing exactly what I said I would when it came to warnings and punishments would be enough. But after a while, with the persistent offenders, it only showed up how limited my options were for making life uncomfortable for them. I know it sounds a bit, harsh, but without a system for discipline, none of them learn anything.
Jane: No, no, I agree, I spose. Well, I don´t know anything about it really. So are you a bit of a dragon then?
Stella: I am now, yeah - they buy into the pantomine of it more. I guess with kids, there´s more fear in uncertainty.
Jane: Not just kids.
Stella: Yeah. like old people being less scared of death. Aren´t we being profound!
Jane: Makes a change from asking someone where they´ve been travelling so far and then nodding and say "Oh, ok", "Yeah, someone told me it was really nice there."
Stella: Actually, I´m not sure that´s right - about the old people. So what about you, what do you do?
Jane: I´m a curator. Well, assistant curator.
Stella: Oh yeah? So you´re the one who decides which paintings go where and what to say about them?
Jane: Something like that. Although the temporary exhibitions often come with instructions from the lending gallery or museum. Lots artists insist on certain display conditions too. How did you know it was art?
Stella: I didn´t think about it. Although now I do I can definitely see you hanging paintings more than putting dinosaur bones together or something!
Jane: Yeah, I always hated puzzles and lego and things like that when I was a kid.
Stella: Oh my God, Lego was all my brother thought did or talked about for a few years. Poor little Kyle.
Jane: Why poor?
Stella: Its a long story.
Jane: Perfect for a hospital waiting room!
Stella: Ok, well once I caught him making, and forced to admit to making "a lady´s part". It was hideous. And I wouldn´t have know either - I thought he was doing the grand canyon or something, except that he was drawing the pubes on with a pen when I caught him - laughs- he went beetroot!
Jane: Oh no.
Stella: It gets worse. So, he slams his hands over it and squeals, "Its not a human´s!" - laughing- He was so embarressed, I´ve never seen someone look so desperate. He made me promise not to tell mum and dad. I didn´t tell, but I told my sister. She made him put it back together and said he had to make the male "compliment" and that he´d better do it more justice than he had done the female one or she would tell mum and dad.
Jane: Poor little guy!
Stella: I know. At the time tho, we just thought we had something we would always be able to use over him, that we´d be able to get our way in every argument. So anyway for a couple of weeks or so he´s secretly working away in his bedroom at night on this lego dick. We were terrible, we kept saying that if it wasn´t life like enough we´d tell. The pressure made him ill though. Mum an dad noticed how pale he´d gotten and he even got a day off school for it. So eventually he comes into our room one night and wakes us up to tell us, "Its finished." We jumped out of bed and we already pissing ourselves laughing as he shuffled us into his room, begging us to be quiet. But when we got in there, we were speechless. It was incredible!
Jane: How big was it? Oh, God, that was uncouth!
Stella: About this high. Definitely a scaled up model! But it was so detailed. He´d made like, little seams of different coloured bricks to give it veins and it had this kinda delicate foreskin and everything. We we dumbfounded - here was the finest lego penis ever created and we were the only people who would ever see it! I was sort of proud of him, and then felt really bad about making him do it. I mean, he must have got pictures or diagrams from somewhere. He couldn´t have done it from life - he was only 10 or so at the time. Imagine this terribly shy little boy going into the library to try and secretly photocopy the rude bits from a biology book or something. It must have nearly killed him.
Jane: Aww, you were horrible!
Stella: I know. When we saw how much work he´d put into it and how must distress it must have caused him, we both felt it too. He was crying, out of fear or relief, and we apologised there and then - which was something that almost never happens in our family. We helped him disassemble it. It was strange actually. A weird bonding moment. The three of us sitting there on the floor his bedroom, breaking up this incredible lego dick we´d made him build. Probably the only time I´ve really felt close to him.
Jane: Wow, that must have really given you a new perspective on lego!
Stella: Yeah it really did. I could actually see the point of it more. Like, if I´d made something like that I´d be really proud of it. And so when he made a boat or spaceship or something normal, I could understand the satisfaction he got out of it. And maybe a bit how making things out of lego kind of helped him understand the world, or process it or something. Why did you hate lego?
Jane: I´m not sure, I suppose it frustrated me that there was a perfectly good model all broken into little pieces, waiting to be put together again. I guess I don´t have much patience either.
Stella: Or you´re a perfectionist.
Jane: What makes you say that? I mean, I probably am, but
Stella: You said it frustrated you having a perfectly good thing broken up, altho, doesn´t lego give you the possibility of making something perfect?
Jane: Yeah, but I didn´t see the point when, at most, all it took was a long time to put it all back together again.
Stella: Or some patience.
Jane: Or some patience. And bearing in mind of course that I didn´t have a terrified little brother to make me a majestic penis to get me into it!
Stella: - Laughing - I´m so glad you weren´t in my class!
Jane: Oow, why?
Stella: You´re a questioner. Its a good thing - but you were probably one of those kids who needs a load of reasons for anything before you´ll get on with it.
Jane: I probably was a bit of a nightmare. I think I was quite stubborn. Definitely much more strong willed when I was at school, college even.
Stella: You don´t think you´re strong willed now?
Jane: I´m not sure. Sometimes I look back to when I was 17 or so and miss having, or well, being sassy.
Stella: - Laughs -
Jane: No I mean, confident, well no, sassy, why not! But I´m also embarressed of the way I acted sometimes. Unaware, y´know?
Stella: Yeah, but I think everyone looks back on themselves like that, in smiles and blushes.
Jane: No, you´re right. I spose I just feel disconnected from all that. Like, I still identify with that 17yr old completely, and see her as me. But I´m someone different now aswell and I wonder how that other person would do things differently if they were me now - if they´d let themselves get into situations or, be more proactive - sighs - I´m sorry I´m being pathetic
Stella: Don´t be silly, just sounds like you´ve got some regrets. Who doesn´t?
Jane: Not regrets exactly, it, it would be a long story too and I´m not even quite sure how it goes yet. Anyway, you said you were working in a primary school, how come you came out here?
Stella: Oh, well that would definitely count as pathetic - I broke up with my boyfriend, or well, he broke up with me.
Jane: What´s pathetc about that?
Stella: Well, its a bit cowardly isn´t it? I´ve run away, or at least that´s what my family thinks and its probably what people at work suspect.
Jane: Maybe you´ve run to something?
Stella: It would be nice to see it that way. But I never really had any desire to come here before, I´ve got no desire to find myself or anything like that. I was very happy with who I was and my situation at home. I just couldn´t bare the thought of having to bump into him or his family around town and hearing about him from mutual friends. I mainly came out here cos it was far away and there would be no associations with him here.
Jane: But you´ve come to a place where you don´t know anyone and don´t speak the language and that´s not cowardly.
Stella: Given how much I feared the alternative it was.
Jane: Well, even if you ran away, why is that bad?
Stella: Because I was happy with my life. Happy with my life outside of things with Carl and I did nothing to try and keep it. And it hasn´t worked anyway. Every new place I imagine what it would be like if he was there with me.. End up thinking about the past almost whenever I´m alone.
Jane: I know what you mean, but I suppose its just a habit and it will change.
Stella: Perhaps, but however hard I try to block him out he´s still there. I still think about what he´d like here and not. I can even recognise some of my attitudes or sort of things I say as his. Parts that are now me but came from him, I can´t imagine that going away.
Jane: ...
Stella: So you´ve had a break up recently too?
Jane: No, no I haven´t. I´m sorry, I suppose I don´t really know wat you´re going through at all. I just came away to, well to have some time away from him, but also from everything really.
Stella: So he´s waiting for you?
Jane: Yeah. There was nothing wrong between us. I just needed to feel in control things again, be my own person again.
Stella: I had that feeling too once. Used to get frustrated with Carl for it, or maybe more at myself, but it came his way. But in the end I realised that despite wanting things that I could have with a fairly settled life and despite having had plans that changed because of my situation, I was happy. Just realised that you can´t have it all. But I guess there´s no choice now.
Jane: Well then maybe you´re getting somethign back then. The opportunity for all the other stuff?
Stella: Yeah, I suppose. Sorry I´m being so negative.
Jane: Don´t worry about it. I´m not sure I´m doing a great job of being sensitive about it!
Stella: Its just good to feel ok talking about it. Feel quite embarresed about it all in general.
Jane: Why on earth would you feel embarressed about it?
Stella: You know, the whole pathetic jilted woman thing. Don´t want to put that on anyone.
Jane: Would it be any different if you were a man?? Look, these things happen - how can you be expected to feel one way or another? Of course it gonna hurt and, at least you´re doing something about it - what more can you do?
Stella: Dunno, something that seems to have an effect! 487, you´re next.
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Sunday, 28 November 2010
Still Stationary
Waiting for my chips in the Power of God.
Waiting for the religious radio same as yesterday.
Fry me a fish and I´ll pay with my pesos,
Souls no more. Just one sun again.
The ketchup gets it, but the mayonese isn´t sure;
Is less worldy and more suspicious.
I hope the top´s screwed firmly on the salt sellar,
Not like last time, I ended up with batter brine.
The pepsi bottles are small and globular here
- Little peguins for whom the end draws near.
Chips not so good today, nor the batter neither,
I gulp down my disappointment, doused in lemon.
Its fair possible I´ve done something to upset the big fella,
Take it as a sign, I´ll be more compassionate next time,
Take my turn as bait on the line,
Receiving payment in kind for things that were mine,
Trading televisions, sharp knives and olive oil for time.
Time to wait for something worthy to do,
To get a good lead then I´ll search a bit too.
Time to wait for things that are unique,
Use them as plugs when i find a leak,
In veins that run a tight ship,
That carry belief to doubt, breath to frustration,
Life to stagnation and allow me to sleep.
Time to learn turtle from tortoise,
Eat oysters, walk cloisters,
Ride dolphin and porpoise.
Time to work out what the fuck´s going on,
Or at least get a little further along.
Time to consider if that´s even any closer.
Time to discover another unproveable truth,
Time to think of pretty words to put it in
- A beauty in a dress, in make up, on a mountain.
What´s it all worth?
Possibly so pointless its priceless: there´s no meaning but that we make.
Time to accept that´s no bad thing.
Time to realise it can hardly go wrong:
To walk to run,
To go to come,
To sit and talk,
Or stand and think,
Or write and drink,
To work and rest,
To fuck and grow old,
To wait for my chips in the Power of God,
Where service is tidal and the choice of name odd.
To listen to sermons and pop music,
And fish theoretical cod.
Waiting for the religious radio same as yesterday.
Fry me a fish and I´ll pay with my pesos,
Souls no more. Just one sun again.
The ketchup gets it, but the mayonese isn´t sure;
Is less worldy and more suspicious.
I hope the top´s screwed firmly on the salt sellar,
Not like last time, I ended up with batter brine.
The pepsi bottles are small and globular here
- Little peguins for whom the end draws near.
Chips not so good today, nor the batter neither,
I gulp down my disappointment, doused in lemon.
Its fair possible I´ve done something to upset the big fella,
Take it as a sign, I´ll be more compassionate next time,
Take my turn as bait on the line,
Receiving payment in kind for things that were mine,
Trading televisions, sharp knives and olive oil for time.
Time to wait for something worthy to do,
To get a good lead then I´ll search a bit too.
Time to wait for things that are unique,
Use them as plugs when i find a leak,
In veins that run a tight ship,
That carry belief to doubt, breath to frustration,
Life to stagnation and allow me to sleep.
Time to learn turtle from tortoise,
Eat oysters, walk cloisters,
Ride dolphin and porpoise.
Time to work out what the fuck´s going on,
Or at least get a little further along.
Time to consider if that´s even any closer.
Time to discover another unproveable truth,
Time to think of pretty words to put it in
- A beauty in a dress, in make up, on a mountain.
What´s it all worth?
Possibly so pointless its priceless: there´s no meaning but that we make.
Time to accept that´s no bad thing.
Time to realise it can hardly go wrong:
To walk to run,
To go to come,
To sit and talk,
Or stand and think,
Or write and drink,
To work and rest,
To fuck and grow old,
To wait for my chips in the Power of God,
Where service is tidal and the choice of name odd.
To listen to sermons and pop music,
And fish theoretical cod.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
Stationary Traveller
People trudge out to a sad harmonium,
Plates leave the kitchen like buses.
I want to get on:
Watch people and the view change -
Shrub plains to tall trees,
Who can reach the highest?
Birds with sharp wings, air watch out!
Contours like a woman´s body,
Or sharp, jagged, crumbling, subtle,
Barren, fertile, all a blur like a Turner
Or too grande to see the top and bottom at once.
Landscape, manscape, icecream exchanged for coins through window.
Expectant shopping bags chatter excitedly in the breeze,
Disappointed animals that came in threes,
Hands that lay wrestless about the knees -
Going to church with a runny nose,
Contented eyes that follow the prose
Of paths and pleasant gardens;
Tin rooves that do the job;
Fruit waiting at the roadside like orphans.
A happy mess of hedgerows,
All neighbours here.
Man and matter all getting along.
The mid afternoon sun.
The fear of loneliness,
Like flatulence in a crowded room.
The fear of failure,
Fingers groping, frantic in the gloom.
Let them rest, the eyes adjust:
Tongues that capture flies when they must;
Eagles and angels and brilliant things in brilliant times.
Ostriches in a sandstorm of infinitescimal everything,
Addicted to the impossibility of perfection,
So worth striving for.
The inadequecy of words.
Of everything but a glance or feeling.
Plates leave the kitchen like buses.
I want to get on:
Watch people and the view change -
Shrub plains to tall trees,
Who can reach the highest?
Birds with sharp wings, air watch out!
Contours like a woman´s body,
Or sharp, jagged, crumbling, subtle,
Barren, fertile, all a blur like a Turner
Or too grande to see the top and bottom at once.
Landscape, manscape, icecream exchanged for coins through window.
Expectant shopping bags chatter excitedly in the breeze,
Disappointed animals that came in threes,
Hands that lay wrestless about the knees -
Going to church with a runny nose,
Contented eyes that follow the prose
Of paths and pleasant gardens;
Tin rooves that do the job;
Fruit waiting at the roadside like orphans.
A happy mess of hedgerows,
All neighbours here.
Man and matter all getting along.
The mid afternoon sun.
The fear of loneliness,
Like flatulence in a crowded room.
The fear of failure,
Fingers groping, frantic in the gloom.
Let them rest, the eyes adjust:
Tongues that capture flies when they must;
Eagles and angels and brilliant things in brilliant times.
Ostriches in a sandstorm of infinitescimal everything,
Addicted to the impossibility of perfection,
So worth striving for.
The inadequecy of words.
Of everything but a glance or feeling.
Sunday, 21 November 2010
New Spanny Spans
Van Halen would have something to say about this.
http://thetravelsofjimmy3cups.blogspot.com/p/snappy-snaps.html
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Pimp My Beard: Round 2
The Half David
Quinn here pioneers a ground breaking combination of cultures: Inca and R&B. Against a back drop of many cornered Inca stonework, Quinn pays homage to a man who, for a while, cornered the market of mediocre R&B. An allegory to his fading popularity, Quinn chooses not to wear David´s iconic moustache; hinting perhaps, that had he stayed loyal to his Southampton roots, things might have worked out differently for the twat.
Star-gazing Farmhand Comes to Town in Search of his Beloved Nelly after She Ran away from Home Because Her Father Told Her She Would Never Be a First Rate IT Consultant and Should Stick to Milking
This look practically speaks for itself.
Sunday, 7 November 2010
PARTING COMPANY: Parts 7 & 8
James:
What would Janey have thought? I didn't even think about it being sexual, it wasn´t for real. I went in there as me, but it was research, something done for some other purpose. How'd I have justified it to her though? Just assumed I would. If I even thought about it. What if I'd found something I'd liked, would that be cheating then? Was it cheating anyway? She'd probably have just laughed at the idea of someone trampling over me with high heels. I'd probably have convincd her it was research. But what if it was the other way round, would I want her going somewhere and being whipped about? Or whipping someone else? Fuck no! Whatever the reason. I'm such an idiot.
Why did I freeze up like I did though? It wasn't because of Janey, not to begin with anyway. I should have just said, "Its my first time and I'm curious to see what its all about." But that would have been the truth. It didn't leave any room for manuevre. That's what paniced me. I think. The lack of possible escape or, or control. But that's also what doesn't make sense. I'm no control freak, how could I be? All I do is submit myself to the requirements, rules, social etiquettes and sensations of different experiences then write about it. I'm an agendared participant, not a real one. I'm not doing it for my own reasons like the real ones, just to look into something and find a story. I don't have to question or to justify my involvement in a month of knitting, free running, fossil hunting or getting to know lap dancers. The justification is always prescribed. A protection of sorts. But when I got there, it just wasn't there. The cloak of disinterest disolved by the question, "What do you like?" Had I subconsciously come to find that out? Not really. So how could I pretend? The moment had been born and it was real. It was me, there. But I wasn't me. I couldn't have been - I'm not interested in S&M, or finding out if I might be, I was out of my depth and had nothing with which to fight it, no disguise with which to supress it. Yet there I was. Disappeared. Because I couldn't have been. And if I hadn't got out would I have disappeared completely and how would I have come back? Back from behind the detective's badge that even I could no longer see.
So thoughtless and foolhardy. I could have made something really good out of interviews. Why did I have to put myself in there? It shouldn't have been about my experience of it - funny paragraphs about my yelps and discomfort, the awkwardness it created. How was that going to probe the impulse that unites people who are into S&M? How could it be me when I don't have that impulse. What a twat. And what a twat if I'd been able to go through with it. It could only have been done mockingly. Is that the way I'm going?
I can't face it, but I should go back, do the piece on interviews. Redeem myself somehow. Break some taboos. Maybe I do have that impulse, maybe everybody does - just manifest in different expressions. Might have got at that through talking to people. Perhaps some people find it sinister because there's some recognition of some distant impulse in themselves to punish or be punished. I was petrified. But more of being found out for being a fake - or becoming one. That was the choice, the walls closing in me. And I did nothing to confront it. Knew I had nothing. What authority do I have to write about anything? Thinking I can charm my way through any situation. From what resevoir does this self confidence flow? The security of a job I enjoy? Some early successes in life. A girl who ticks all the boxes. But that's all just comfort. What have I actually done. What real experiences have I had? What hardships overcome? What have I really proved, what resources have I given myslf to draw upon?
Need shaking up. A kick up the arse. I need to confront something, some part of my arrogance. No melodrama though, I'm not a total cunt yet. One step at a time...One step at a time....mmm.
.....Bees.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What do I like? What do I like? How hadn't I anticipated this? Of course I'd have to like something. What the fuck else am I doing here? Paralysed, can't speak, can't blink even. All the moisture's frozen, eyes are locked open, no hope of disguise. She can see straight into me. But she doesn't identify me as an imposter. All that's not panic has drained out. She just assumes its my first time. She's taking my hand. Seen it all before. But now I'm not an imposter: it is my first time and I am terrified. No undercover detective twat journalist cover to fall back on. I worry what signs my sweaty palm is giving away as she leads me through layers of curtains that seem to strip away any remaining residues of confidence, dulling any reflexes that could spark a recovery. I'm a child in a laberynthine nightmare, warily led because I can't get out alone.
The room is dark. There are other people but I can't really see what they're doing, can't process anything. My hand is swapped from one less sweaty, less trembly one to another. "This is Lea, she'll look after you." I raise my head to meet the eyes of my executioner. Janey! Its Janey! Back in the Blind Cafe, the first time I saw her. Well not saw her, but made out her silhoette. Her cheeks slipping down into her stubborn chin. The oily light of her eyes just visible or imagined blinking atop the cliffs as she read me the menu. Would I like any thing else? I knew exactly what I wanted. It was easy to make jokes as I chased my food about in the dark. Her laugh half supressed and irresistible. Her voice said welcome to comfort. Suddenly I'm back in the current obscurity and this new mistress is looking at me a little concerned. I'm not sure how long it is since I was delivered to her. I'm going to have to speak. But I can't pretend, I have nothing with which to defend any part I might begin to play. If I start now it will be real. I will speak. Things will occur. The consquences will be mine. I run.
Jane:
She's not even reading her book: her eyes aren't moving. She's...contemplating something. Nostalgising perhaps - she's got that melancoly look of remembering. Remembering's always melancoly, bittersweet: the fond memories make one glad for having had those moments yet sad at their passing, the miserable ones the opposite. Wonder what she's thinking back to? Probably things from home. Like me. Yes, I imagine she's thinking about the decisions she's made; the directions that's set her in; how she could change the things she's disatisfied with. How she can change herself. We're clearly kindred! I wonder if she's happy? She should be - she's lucky enough to be able to come here, to put herself next to beautiful things. I should be. But its not that easy - changing oneself - freeing up dormant parts. That's always melancoly too. You've got to kill the parts of you that prevent the parts you want to live from growing. Even if you don't like them, they're still parts of you. Don't think I'm much of a killer. Don't feel any different. Well, there are moments - surges. That feeling that comes over me, on buses normally, that whatever happens, I'll be alright. That's what i came looking for, well part of it. Just a pure state of being. There's nothing much else to do on buses. - Funny though, thats also exactly what I left to get away from: that feeling of not living, just being. Well, part of it. Not persuing anything, luxuriating in stagnation - Its a singular feeling that comes on; clears out all others and makes the bus a benign prison. Everything external is sucked out of me and dumped in piles that may be a house, a hill, a pile of bananas, a sleeping dog. But I'm moving and they can get back in. There's nothing left but me. All of a sudden its clear that I have nothing to fear from myself. It takes me to realise that I am my own guard in order to drop it. I start to like myself. To trust myself. The failings and disappointments that made me defensive haven't gone anywhere - they are in the past, they are part of what has made the person I now like, they are surmountable, I can enjoy them even. I'm happy.
But i get to my destination, I get off the bus and the invasion begins again. I have to find a place to stay. people want to take me to one place or another. I should be firmer with them. I must look rough. I stop for a coffee. I'm disgusted by the harassed tone of my voice as I order it. A fellow lone gringo throws me a friendly smile. I should smile back. I could start a conversation. I'm sposed to be opening myself up to experience, not shutting it off. I'm failing again and the guard begins to rise. Well, not always. Its a tendency, but things keep it at bay. Like James. Easy to love yourself when you feel loved. But thats not enough. Its too easy. Makes me lazy. All the same I'm flipping between wanting to run back to that and enjoying being here. Natural I spose, but I can't tell if I'm making much progress. I'm being independent. Walking around in the moutains, swimming in waterfalls, getting stared at in places where they don't see gringos much, eating guinea pig - all on my own. But what does it amount to? Do I rely any less on knowing James is there for security? Do I like myself anymore? I guess I should at least be proud of myself for doing something about it. But I feel like all I did was buy a plane ticket.
What would Janey have thought? I didn't even think about it being sexual, it wasn´t for real. I went in there as me, but it was research, something done for some other purpose. How'd I have justified it to her though? Just assumed I would. If I even thought about it. What if I'd found something I'd liked, would that be cheating then? Was it cheating anyway? She'd probably have just laughed at the idea of someone trampling over me with high heels. I'd probably have convincd her it was research. But what if it was the other way round, would I want her going somewhere and being whipped about? Or whipping someone else? Fuck no! Whatever the reason. I'm such an idiot.
Why did I freeze up like I did though? It wasn't because of Janey, not to begin with anyway. I should have just said, "Its my first time and I'm curious to see what its all about." But that would have been the truth. It didn't leave any room for manuevre. That's what paniced me. I think. The lack of possible escape or, or control. But that's also what doesn't make sense. I'm no control freak, how could I be? All I do is submit myself to the requirements, rules, social etiquettes and sensations of different experiences then write about it. I'm an agendared participant, not a real one. I'm not doing it for my own reasons like the real ones, just to look into something and find a story. I don't have to question or to justify my involvement in a month of knitting, free running, fossil hunting or getting to know lap dancers. The justification is always prescribed. A protection of sorts. But when I got there, it just wasn't there. The cloak of disinterest disolved by the question, "What do you like?" Had I subconsciously come to find that out? Not really. So how could I pretend? The moment had been born and it was real. It was me, there. But I wasn't me. I couldn't have been - I'm not interested in S&M, or finding out if I might be, I was out of my depth and had nothing with which to fight it, no disguise with which to supress it. Yet there I was. Disappeared. Because I couldn't have been. And if I hadn't got out would I have disappeared completely and how would I have come back? Back from behind the detective's badge that even I could no longer see.
So thoughtless and foolhardy. I could have made something really good out of interviews. Why did I have to put myself in there? It shouldn't have been about my experience of it - funny paragraphs about my yelps and discomfort, the awkwardness it created. How was that going to probe the impulse that unites people who are into S&M? How could it be me when I don't have that impulse. What a twat. And what a twat if I'd been able to go through with it. It could only have been done mockingly. Is that the way I'm going?
I can't face it, but I should go back, do the piece on interviews. Redeem myself somehow. Break some taboos. Maybe I do have that impulse, maybe everybody does - just manifest in different expressions. Might have got at that through talking to people. Perhaps some people find it sinister because there's some recognition of some distant impulse in themselves to punish or be punished. I was petrified. But more of being found out for being a fake - or becoming one. That was the choice, the walls closing in me. And I did nothing to confront it. Knew I had nothing. What authority do I have to write about anything? Thinking I can charm my way through any situation. From what resevoir does this self confidence flow? The security of a job I enjoy? Some early successes in life. A girl who ticks all the boxes. But that's all just comfort. What have I actually done. What real experiences have I had? What hardships overcome? What have I really proved, what resources have I given myslf to draw upon?
Need shaking up. A kick up the arse. I need to confront something, some part of my arrogance. No melodrama though, I'm not a total cunt yet. One step at a time...One step at a time....mmm.
.....Bees.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
What do I like? What do I like? How hadn't I anticipated this? Of course I'd have to like something. What the fuck else am I doing here? Paralysed, can't speak, can't blink even. All the moisture's frozen, eyes are locked open, no hope of disguise. She can see straight into me. But she doesn't identify me as an imposter. All that's not panic has drained out. She just assumes its my first time. She's taking my hand. Seen it all before. But now I'm not an imposter: it is my first time and I am terrified. No undercover detective twat journalist cover to fall back on. I worry what signs my sweaty palm is giving away as she leads me through layers of curtains that seem to strip away any remaining residues of confidence, dulling any reflexes that could spark a recovery. I'm a child in a laberynthine nightmare, warily led because I can't get out alone.
The room is dark. There are other people but I can't really see what they're doing, can't process anything. My hand is swapped from one less sweaty, less trembly one to another. "This is Lea, she'll look after you." I raise my head to meet the eyes of my executioner. Janey! Its Janey! Back in the Blind Cafe, the first time I saw her. Well not saw her, but made out her silhoette. Her cheeks slipping down into her stubborn chin. The oily light of her eyes just visible or imagined blinking atop the cliffs as she read me the menu. Would I like any thing else? I knew exactly what I wanted. It was easy to make jokes as I chased my food about in the dark. Her laugh half supressed and irresistible. Her voice said welcome to comfort. Suddenly I'm back in the current obscurity and this new mistress is looking at me a little concerned. I'm not sure how long it is since I was delivered to her. I'm going to have to speak. But I can't pretend, I have nothing with which to defend any part I might begin to play. If I start now it will be real. I will speak. Things will occur. The consquences will be mine. I run.
Jane:
She's not even reading her book: her eyes aren't moving. She's...contemplating something. Nostalgising perhaps - she's got that melancoly look of remembering. Remembering's always melancoly, bittersweet: the fond memories make one glad for having had those moments yet sad at their passing, the miserable ones the opposite. Wonder what she's thinking back to? Probably things from home. Like me. Yes, I imagine she's thinking about the decisions she's made; the directions that's set her in; how she could change the things she's disatisfied with. How she can change herself. We're clearly kindred! I wonder if she's happy? She should be - she's lucky enough to be able to come here, to put herself next to beautiful things. I should be. But its not that easy - changing oneself - freeing up dormant parts. That's always melancoly too. You've got to kill the parts of you that prevent the parts you want to live from growing. Even if you don't like them, they're still parts of you. Don't think I'm much of a killer. Don't feel any different. Well, there are moments - surges. That feeling that comes over me, on buses normally, that whatever happens, I'll be alright. That's what i came looking for, well part of it. Just a pure state of being. There's nothing much else to do on buses. - Funny though, thats also exactly what I left to get away from: that feeling of not living, just being. Well, part of it. Not persuing anything, luxuriating in stagnation - Its a singular feeling that comes on; clears out all others and makes the bus a benign prison. Everything external is sucked out of me and dumped in piles that may be a house, a hill, a pile of bananas, a sleeping dog. But I'm moving and they can get back in. There's nothing left but me. All of a sudden its clear that I have nothing to fear from myself. It takes me to realise that I am my own guard in order to drop it. I start to like myself. To trust myself. The failings and disappointments that made me defensive haven't gone anywhere - they are in the past, they are part of what has made the person I now like, they are surmountable, I can enjoy them even. I'm happy.
But i get to my destination, I get off the bus and the invasion begins again. I have to find a place to stay. people want to take me to one place or another. I should be firmer with them. I must look rough. I stop for a coffee. I'm disgusted by the harassed tone of my voice as I order it. A fellow lone gringo throws me a friendly smile. I should smile back. I could start a conversation. I'm sposed to be opening myself up to experience, not shutting it off. I'm failing again and the guard begins to rise. Well, not always. Its a tendency, but things keep it at bay. Like James. Easy to love yourself when you feel loved. But thats not enough. Its too easy. Makes me lazy. All the same I'm flipping between wanting to run back to that and enjoying being here. Natural I spose, but I can't tell if I'm making much progress. I'm being independent. Walking around in the moutains, swimming in waterfalls, getting stared at in places where they don't see gringos much, eating guinea pig - all on my own. But what does it amount to? Do I rely any less on knowing James is there for security? Do I like myself anymore? I guess I should at least be proud of myself for doing something about it. But I feel like all I did was buy a plane ticket.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
The Pier: Pimentél
Hovering about sand and sea, an emaciated silhoette clings to the horizon. A thousand frail legs thread themselves amongst the waves. A losing game of survival by numbers. A brittle platform strung above them with a few square shapes at its furthest reach. Drawing near: a few small groups laze either side the giant skeleton; woven reed boats lean immemorial against its limbs; the occasional couple track back and forth across its beaten back. In its shadow, another beached vessel props up an old man with a magazine.
I place a cautious foot on the dinosaur´s tail. The weathered beams crack and splinter variously, their rusting bolts exposed here, missing there - a naked history tatooed on every vertabrae - a distinct geography of grooves and gaps. I creep along, apologetically heeding their creaks and groans, carefully avoiding the unstable and unsecured, once or twice hopping back from an unseen seesaw. Below, the Pacific is late for something. It rushes recklessly towards the land. It carries the chill draft of a neighbour come in from the cold. My chest is a cosy winter scene disturbed by an open door. I shiver.
The track stretches straight ahead, its end barely visible. The pencil outline of box shapes tell me where it must be. They may also contain some clues as to the existence of this fallen monster. This seeming reason enough, I push on and brave the gusting wind. Really, there can be little mystery. Surely some humble feat of maritime engineering. A place for comings and goings. Loadings and unloadings. Of commerce. Of shouting. Of jokes, laughter, sitting around, waiting, dozing in the shelter of some shack or barrel or rigging. Of arguments, reconciliations, invitations and singing. Of accidents and injury. Recovery and loss. Of marching out to work and trapcing back home again. Of food in the stomach. But its the decay that fascinates. That has picked the carcass clean of all the above. Did it come swiftly or savouringly?
Perhaps its not quite finished. A gaggle of teenagers have made one section their hangout. Sitting amongst a pile of crumbling timber, they chat intermitantly and spit into the sea. One lets out a loud and defensive burp to let me know I´m trespassing. Further on, a man in balaclava drops a line between the planks. Head down, sensitive to its tension, he awaits his supper. Finally, a few gulls adorn the horizontal of a slanting metal cross. Some sleeping, others looking out to sea. The last life to depart a dieing coral. Lining the left, the backdrop to these scenes, I discover the box shapes - a collection of abandoned sheds. They are bleached blue and camoflage themselves meekly against the sky. Blown crooked, they slant towards the beach in a futile effort to escape. Visible through missing doors and broken windows, some more reed boats and the half green bowl of a toilet. Little to indicate the exact nature of the once living reef.
I think of attempting a sketch - a frequently unfulfilled intention - but I didn´t prepare for the wind and its too cold to stay any longer. I feel no shame at my morbid voyuerism and walk back along the pier as one closes a gloomy book.
I place a cautious foot on the dinosaur´s tail. The weathered beams crack and splinter variously, their rusting bolts exposed here, missing there - a naked history tatooed on every vertabrae - a distinct geography of grooves and gaps. I creep along, apologetically heeding their creaks and groans, carefully avoiding the unstable and unsecured, once or twice hopping back from an unseen seesaw. Below, the Pacific is late for something. It rushes recklessly towards the land. It carries the chill draft of a neighbour come in from the cold. My chest is a cosy winter scene disturbed by an open door. I shiver.
The track stretches straight ahead, its end barely visible. The pencil outline of box shapes tell me where it must be. They may also contain some clues as to the existence of this fallen monster. This seeming reason enough, I push on and brave the gusting wind. Really, there can be little mystery. Surely some humble feat of maritime engineering. A place for comings and goings. Loadings and unloadings. Of commerce. Of shouting. Of jokes, laughter, sitting around, waiting, dozing in the shelter of some shack or barrel or rigging. Of arguments, reconciliations, invitations and singing. Of accidents and injury. Recovery and loss. Of marching out to work and trapcing back home again. Of food in the stomach. But its the decay that fascinates. That has picked the carcass clean of all the above. Did it come swiftly or savouringly?
Perhaps its not quite finished. A gaggle of teenagers have made one section their hangout. Sitting amongst a pile of crumbling timber, they chat intermitantly and spit into the sea. One lets out a loud and defensive burp to let me know I´m trespassing. Further on, a man in balaclava drops a line between the planks. Head down, sensitive to its tension, he awaits his supper. Finally, a few gulls adorn the horizontal of a slanting metal cross. Some sleeping, others looking out to sea. The last life to depart a dieing coral. Lining the left, the backdrop to these scenes, I discover the box shapes - a collection of abandoned sheds. They are bleached blue and camoflage themselves meekly against the sky. Blown crooked, they slant towards the beach in a futile effort to escape. Visible through missing doors and broken windows, some more reed boats and the half green bowl of a toilet. Little to indicate the exact nature of the once living reef.
I think of attempting a sketch - a frequently unfulfilled intention - but I didn´t prepare for the wind and its too cold to stay any longer. I feel no shame at my morbid voyuerism and walk back along the pier as one closes a gloomy book.
Saturday, 23 October 2010
PARTING COMPANY: Parts 5 & 6
James:
Extreme sports something? Its been a good year since Canyoning. Good time of year to read about someone else being cold and wet. But what though? Rafting? So cliché. Parachuting? Nah, there´s no way I´m writing one of those life flashing before your eyes, regrets and resolutions epiphany pieces. And what the fuck else do people talk about whilst falling from planes. No. Maybe Paragliding. Bit more to work with there. More time before you hit the ground. More scope for craic. Maybe there´s some sort of seedy underbelly to it all. All those paragliders returning to earth bursting with adrenalin with no outlet for the imbalance, they just start banging each other left right and centre. Volatile, incestuous jealousies are spawned between rival banging factions! And imagine the poor offspring of such tempestuous union! The Sky´s Unhappy Underground: Paraglidings´ unwanted progeny. But its probably not like that is it. My dick always shrivels up after an adrenalin rush. Its probably all hushed talk of mythical thermals, legendary paragliders past and comparing beards round a gas stove of Bachelors soup. Besides, did that Free Running article a few months back. What else?? Come on internet, I´ve seen this all before. Bonzai gardening? Local too. But so boring. Lockpicking: A guide to losing your keys - now there was a mistake. Nobody read that. And I still can´t pick a lock. No, slow technical stuff flops. Nothing else like that. No. Done it. Done it. Too similar to Bivoaucing. No. Bee keeping, no fucking way, hate those little bastards. No. Ahhhhh, home micro brewary! Now there´s something indulgent. Be great though. Churning out an endless bonanza of hoppy delights. Impress house guests - oh thats a crisp little number - have you used apricots in this? You raise your glass to your lips, beads of condensation falling voluptuously down the glass, you take a deep pull. Dave from Hoarsefield notices your adams apple stoop to welcome the regal liquid. Easing back into your chair, you emit a satisfied yet modest ¨ahhh¨. Casually, you describe a subtlety of brewing techniques deployed in search of bitter sweet tones, nettle textures, fudgey top notes, a gooseberry and vanilla finish, cinnamon aftertaste, pembrokeshire porters and the elusive barley nose. Dave from Hoarsefield is taken aback. Afronted, almost. He sips defensively at the alchemy in his glass. He won´t be able to look you in the eye again until he´s got his own operation pumping out the pints. -Who wouldn´t want to read a witty initiation into home micro brewary of a sunday morning? There´d be some hilarious teething problems along the way. Maybe even the odd explosion! I could ask Ed, see what he thinks. Not the best choice after what he said though. No. You can keep your dignity for now Dave from Hoarsefield.
What does he mean ¨indulgent¨anyways? And how can he say that straight off the back of Knitting Club?! It was fun, but hardly an indulgent choice! The only thing that could possibly have been construed as indulgent was Living, Loving, Lapdancing. But that was ages ago. And one of the best things I´ve written. And Janey suspected me of being a wanker until she read the drafts. Hardly indulgent.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
¨Look, you´re not going to like this, but I´m speaking as a friend, and not as your boss.¨
¨I´d probably take it better coming from my boss¨
¨It goes beyond work Jimmy..¨
¨Is this because I said your nephew´s head was aerodynamic? Because a) I didn´t know it was your nephew and b) he didn´t hear.¨
¨You´re becoming too indulgent with your writing.¨
¨What? I..You gave me a new contract last month didn´t you?¨
¨I said this was as a friend¨
¨Oh, so did you give me the contract as a boss or friend then?!¨
¨Fuck the contract Jimbo. You know exactly what I think of your writing.¨
¨I don´t get it Ed, what you saying?¨
¨Ok. You´ve become quite comfortable over that last 6 months or so haven´t you? Found your style.¨
¨I spose. But what´s wrong with that?¨
¨Nothing, people enjoy reading you. But I´m concerned you´re starting to tie yourself up in knots. I rather miss you at the beginning, when you were out of your depth a bit.¨
¨So I´ve improved and you wish I hadn´t? What´s indulgent about progress?¨
¨Maybe indulgent´s not quite the word. But its a matter of what writing is for you and how...one sec, its Christie...Mon Chere? That´s good news. Ok, one sec, I´m just saying goodbye to Jimbo....Sorry Jim, I wanted to speak to you about this before I left. Look, don´t worry about it. Send me your ideas for next month and we´ll speak in a few weeks when I get back.¨
Jane:
My head´s bobbing like a donkey that keeps forgetting its carrot and I´m desperately trying to stay awake. Partly because I don´t want to miss my stop. But mainly cos I don´t want to miss my first glance of the Pacific. So far, geography doesn´t want to give it to me. To my left, a wall of mist. To my right a wall of vegetation. The bus tilts and lurches along but cannot find its way out of the maze. Sylvie, a French girl I´ve met, has long since given in to the engine´s lullaby. She plunges like a metronome from head rest to window, making me feel a bit sick. If James were here I´d leave the poetic descriptions to him. He´d want to stay awake and gawp at the Pacific aswell. And I´d probably end up leaving that to him too. He´d be all warm and comfortable and I´d fall asleep. Afterwards I´d enjoy listening to the story he´d made up to impress me, or maybe himself.
The green and white box collapses for a moment as we dip down into a small village. Then returns as we dive back into the hillside. I try to focus on the green side. Leaves and branches winding out fo the smokey hillside, the same every time I open my eyes. I can´t tell if I´m blinking or passing in and out.
Finally, sitting in a V where the hills fall away, I spy the Pacific. Its grey -blue and barron, and worth the struggle.
Extreme sports something? Its been a good year since Canyoning. Good time of year to read about someone else being cold and wet. But what though? Rafting? So cliché. Parachuting? Nah, there´s no way I´m writing one of those life flashing before your eyes, regrets and resolutions epiphany pieces. And what the fuck else do people talk about whilst falling from planes. No. Maybe Paragliding. Bit more to work with there. More time before you hit the ground. More scope for craic. Maybe there´s some sort of seedy underbelly to it all. All those paragliders returning to earth bursting with adrenalin with no outlet for the imbalance, they just start banging each other left right and centre. Volatile, incestuous jealousies are spawned between rival banging factions! And imagine the poor offspring of such tempestuous union! The Sky´s Unhappy Underground: Paraglidings´ unwanted progeny. But its probably not like that is it. My dick always shrivels up after an adrenalin rush. Its probably all hushed talk of mythical thermals, legendary paragliders past and comparing beards round a gas stove of Bachelors soup. Besides, did that Free Running article a few months back. What else?? Come on internet, I´ve seen this all before. Bonzai gardening? Local too. But so boring. Lockpicking: A guide to losing your keys - now there was a mistake. Nobody read that. And I still can´t pick a lock. No, slow technical stuff flops. Nothing else like that. No. Done it. Done it. Too similar to Bivoaucing. No. Bee keeping, no fucking way, hate those little bastards. No. Ahhhhh, home micro brewary! Now there´s something indulgent. Be great though. Churning out an endless bonanza of hoppy delights. Impress house guests - oh thats a crisp little number - have you used apricots in this? You raise your glass to your lips, beads of condensation falling voluptuously down the glass, you take a deep pull. Dave from Hoarsefield notices your adams apple stoop to welcome the regal liquid. Easing back into your chair, you emit a satisfied yet modest ¨ahhh¨. Casually, you describe a subtlety of brewing techniques deployed in search of bitter sweet tones, nettle textures, fudgey top notes, a gooseberry and vanilla finish, cinnamon aftertaste, pembrokeshire porters and the elusive barley nose. Dave from Hoarsefield is taken aback. Afronted, almost. He sips defensively at the alchemy in his glass. He won´t be able to look you in the eye again until he´s got his own operation pumping out the pints. -Who wouldn´t want to read a witty initiation into home micro brewary of a sunday morning? There´d be some hilarious teething problems along the way. Maybe even the odd explosion! I could ask Ed, see what he thinks. Not the best choice after what he said though. No. You can keep your dignity for now Dave from Hoarsefield.
What does he mean ¨indulgent¨anyways? And how can he say that straight off the back of Knitting Club?! It was fun, but hardly an indulgent choice! The only thing that could possibly have been construed as indulgent was Living, Loving, Lapdancing. But that was ages ago. And one of the best things I´ve written. And Janey suspected me of being a wanker until she read the drafts. Hardly indulgent.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
¨Look, you´re not going to like this, but I´m speaking as a friend, and not as your boss.¨
¨I´d probably take it better coming from my boss¨
¨It goes beyond work Jimmy..¨
¨Is this because I said your nephew´s head was aerodynamic? Because a) I didn´t know it was your nephew and b) he didn´t hear.¨
¨You´re becoming too indulgent with your writing.¨
¨What? I..You gave me a new contract last month didn´t you?¨
¨I said this was as a friend¨
¨Oh, so did you give me the contract as a boss or friend then?!¨
¨Fuck the contract Jimbo. You know exactly what I think of your writing.¨
¨I don´t get it Ed, what you saying?¨
¨Ok. You´ve become quite comfortable over that last 6 months or so haven´t you? Found your style.¨
¨I spose. But what´s wrong with that?¨
¨Nothing, people enjoy reading you. But I´m concerned you´re starting to tie yourself up in knots. I rather miss you at the beginning, when you were out of your depth a bit.¨
¨So I´ve improved and you wish I hadn´t? What´s indulgent about progress?¨
¨Maybe indulgent´s not quite the word. But its a matter of what writing is for you and how...one sec, its Christie...Mon Chere? That´s good news. Ok, one sec, I´m just saying goodbye to Jimbo....Sorry Jim, I wanted to speak to you about this before I left. Look, don´t worry about it. Send me your ideas for next month and we´ll speak in a few weeks when I get back.¨
Jane:
My head´s bobbing like a donkey that keeps forgetting its carrot and I´m desperately trying to stay awake. Partly because I don´t want to miss my stop. But mainly cos I don´t want to miss my first glance of the Pacific. So far, geography doesn´t want to give it to me. To my left, a wall of mist. To my right a wall of vegetation. The bus tilts and lurches along but cannot find its way out of the maze. Sylvie, a French girl I´ve met, has long since given in to the engine´s lullaby. She plunges like a metronome from head rest to window, making me feel a bit sick. If James were here I´d leave the poetic descriptions to him. He´d want to stay awake and gawp at the Pacific aswell. And I´d probably end up leaving that to him too. He´d be all warm and comfortable and I´d fall asleep. Afterwards I´d enjoy listening to the story he´d made up to impress me, or maybe himself.
The green and white box collapses for a moment as we dip down into a small village. Then returns as we dive back into the hillside. I try to focus on the green side. Leaves and branches winding out fo the smokey hillside, the same every time I open my eyes. I can´t tell if I´m blinking or passing in and out.
Finally, sitting in a V where the hills fall away, I spy the Pacific. Its grey -blue and barron, and worth the struggle.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Pimp my Beard: Round 1
The Disciplinarian
A central American classic. This look has been sported by dapper gents and despots alike. Best worn with a steely gaze as adeptly demonstrated here by Quinn.
The Trucker
Lambchops for supper garnished with a well textured moustache, this is anything but mutton dressed as lamb. Browning returns to a bygone age of endless lonely highways punctuated by coffee and pie in roadside cafes. Jump in stranger, there´s plenty of room up front with me.
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Vilcabamba: Cockrells
A town near the Ecuador - Peru border. 5am. Lots of cockrells.
"I´m virile!"
"I´m virile!!"
"He´s not virile, I am!"
"I´m more virile than them!"
"Don´t make laugh Dave, you chicks always come out with heads like roast potatoes!"
"You racist cunt! Thats cos of my breed that is!"
"Jesus boys, calm down. Cyrill, what on earth you doing playing the race card at this stage? We´ve got a good couple of hours squawking to fill yet. You gotta build up to that kind of stuff, doesn´t leave you anywhere to go after otherwise. Seriously, how long you been in this game? Terry, you were saying?"
"I´m virile!"
"No he´s not. I´m virile!"
"I´m more virile!"
"I´m the virilest!"
"Its ´most virile `dickhead."
"Alright smartarse, why don´t you just stick to your own squawking?
"I´m just saying, your inept grasp of basic grammatical structures is hardly any endorsement of your virility is it?"
"Nor`s your mum."
"No, sorry Ray, he´s got a point there. It encapslates a sort of pathetic irony to all this doesn´t it? Here we are, all trying to squawk the loudest about our virility - who´s going to be impressed by that? If this is the best we´ve got, it doesn´t much bode well for the survival of the species does it?"
"Gotta stop you there Joe, are we not a sub-species?"
"I dunno, all sounds a bit high and mighty to me. Think I´ll just stick to the squawking if its all the same by you...I´m virile!"
"Wait! Just listen a minute. Its, its a question of dignity. Times are changing - other birds are developing elaborate courtship dances and other rituals. That´s culture that is..."
"So what´s your point Joe? You´re putting us all off our squawking!"
"But thats it! Don´t you see?? Everyone else is evolving and we´re just sitting around squawking out the same 3 fucking words!"
"I squawked 5 the other day."
"Oh, well that´s progress isn´t it! Fuck´s sake boys, can´t we at least try to evolve a little bit?"
"I´m still not buyig it Joe. If God had wanted us to evolve he´d have given us opposable thumbs. Best to just accept one`s station in life."
"Yeah, stick to what we´re good at. C´mon fellas, we´re well behind schedule here. I´m virile!"
"No, I´m virile!"
"He´s not virile I am!"
"No, no, no! Just listen to yourselves! Its the same, every god dam day its the same. Ahmed, you´ve got a lovely voice - why do´t you use it a bit more? Try some different melodies? Vary it up a bit? You could even help us with our squawks a bit? There must be some breathing techniques or something you can teach us? And Colin, you come out with some great original squawks from time to time. Why don´t you do that a bit more, experiment a bit? You know: metaphory, allegory - stuff like that? We never try to develop, that´s our problem. Imagine if we could get the chicks on some of this stuff early. Imagine the progress in just a few generations! We just need to put together some systems to develop skills and pass them on. Can you see it now brothers??"
"I have the best voice - I´m the most virile!"
"I´m a unique thinker - I´m the most virle!"
"I think one of my claws is a bit opposable, I´m the most virile!"
Joe (to himself): How did it come to this? What have we done for history to forsake us? All the other birds are beyond us. Even the sparrows, dumb bastards. Even they swoop down, steal our food and make jokes about our hairy feet and fleshy necks. Will we ever know what it is to swoop? Nay to soare! But our wings are clipped and useless. But wait! Who´s been clipping our wings? Who decides when we eat? When we get let near the females? Its all so familiar, so comfortable almost. Its ingrained in us. Bred into us! We squawk away and call it identity, but its all bullshit! We do not possess a culture, it possesses us! Man has done this to us! Squawking is just a small pleasure tolerated to keep the wool over eyes!
"Brothers! Brothers! Lend me your....your auditory canales! If you listen to me but once more in your lives, then listen now!....
...Are we not birds? Yet we cannot fly. We have the run of the coup. But can run no further. Man has domesticated us! He dictates our every move and denies us the right to develop. Denies us everything but the daily squawk. And in so tolerating only the most primitive expression of our identity, he keeps us that way -primitive. Primitive and incapable of developing to break free from his domestic servitude! Cockrells, I ask you: why do we continue to squawk??"
"Hen´s seem to like it."
Un pueblo cerca de la frontera entre Ecuador y Peru. 5 de la manana. Muchos Gallos.
¨Yo soy viril!¨
¨Yo soy viril!¨
El no es viril. Yo soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que ellos!¨
¨No me hagas reir David! Tus pollitos siempre salen con cabezas como patatas asadas.¨
¨Coñazo racista! Eso se debe a mi casta!¨
Chicos, chicos calmoas! Cedric - que cosa mas tonta sacar el tema de raza a esta etapa! No te dejas nigun camino para continuar la discusión y todavía nos quedan por lo menos 2 horas mas para graznar. Todavía eres novato o que? Siga Pedro.
¨Soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que el!¨
¨Hay alguien que es mas viril que yo?¨
¨Seria ´sea mas viril´ gilipollas.¨
¨Muy bien sabelotodo, poque no te fija en tu propio graznar?
¨Solo digo que tu inadequado conocimiento de gramatica basica no dice mucho buena de tu virilidad.¨
¨Tu madre tampoco.¨
¨Perdoname Kiko, pero el tiene razón. Se encapsula un tipo de ironía poética de todo esto. Aqui estamos, cada uno intentando graznar mas fuerte que el es el mas viril. Como impresionaremos alguien así? Si no tenemos nada mejor para decir, no se da buenas indicaciónes que nuestra especie sobreviva.¨
¨Disculpa José, pero no somos una sub-especie?¨
¨Yo no sé. Suena un poco fatúo a mi. Si no importa, yo voy a continuar graznar tal como siempre...Soy viril!¨
¨Espera! Escuchadmé! Es, es cuestión de dignidad. Las tiempos estan cambiandose. Otros avés estan desarollando bailes de corteja y otros rituales progresivos. Esto se llama cultura!¨
¨Entonces, que quieres decir José? Nos estas destrayendo de graznar!¨
¨Pero así es! Exactamente. No lo ves? Todo el mundo esta evolucionando y estamos plantados aquí, graznando las mismas tres palabras!¨
¨Yo grazné cinco el otro dia.¨
¨Oh, bueno, eso progreso entonces! Por amor de diós chicos, no podemos intentar evolucionar solo un poquito?¨
¨No estoy convencido. Si diós nos hubiera querido evolucionar no habría dado pulgares oposables. Mejor aceptar la situación.¨
Si, a los vuestros! Venga muchachos, estamos muy retrasados ya - Soy viril!!¨
¨No, no, no! Escuchaos a vosotros mismos! Es igual, cada puto dia igual! Ahmed, tienes una voz regia, porque no la usas mas. Que experimentes! Pruebes melodias diferentes! Y tal vez puedes ayudarnos con nuestros graznos? Tiene que existir algunas tecnicas de respirar que nos puedas enseñar? Y Carlitos, tu has inventado unos graznos muy originales. Si tienes esta habilidad, porque no la desarollas - intenta nuevas cosas - metáforo, alegoría, cosas así? Imaginaos si tuvieramos instituciónes para desarollar nuestra habilidades? Y si las enseñaramos a los pollitos? Imaginaos el progreso en solo unas generaciónes! Lo veis ahora hermanos?¨
¨Tengo la mejor voz, soy el mas viril¨
¨Soy poeta, yo sol el mas viril!¨
¨Creo que una de mis garras es oposable. Soy el mas viril!¨
Jose (a si mismo): Como hemos llegado a ser así? Como hemos merecido que la historia nos haya abandonado? Todos los avés estan encima de nosotros. Aún los gorriónes, capullos estupidos. Aún se cayen en picado hacia nosotros para robar nuestra semilla y insultar a nuestra garras lanosas y pescuezos rojos. Un dia sabremos como es caer en picado? O sea, remontarse?? Pero no. Nuestras alas son cortados y inutíles...Y, y quién las ha cortado?! Quién decide cuando comemos, o cuando podemos acercarnos a las gallenas?! Quién no mantiene así sin nada para animarnos sino graznar diariamente! Es tan familiar, tan comfortable casi. Es parte de nosotros. Somos criado así! Graznamos, y esto llamamos identidad. Pero es todo mierda! No poseemos una cultura, la cultura nos posee! El hombre nos ha hecho esto! Y tolera que graznemos solo para que seguimos ciegos!
¨Hermanos! Hermanos! Prestadmé vuestra...vuestra canales auditorios! Si me escuchais solo una vez mas, escuchadmé ahora!......
....No somos avés? Pero no podemos volar. Recorremos el gallinero, pero no mas lejos. El hombre nos ha domesticado! Restringue nuestra libertad! Nuestra derecho para elegir una indentidad propia! Restringue todo salvo el grazno matinal! Tolerar esto es tolerar solo la expresión mas primitiva de nuestra identidad. El nos mantiene primitivos. El impide que desarollemos por miedo que nos arrancaríamos de las cadenas de servitud domestica!
Gallos! Os pregunto, porque seguimos graznar?¨
¨Parece que a las gallenas les gusta.¨
"I´m virile!"
"I´m virile!!"
"He´s not virile, I am!"
"I´m more virile than them!"
"Don´t make laugh Dave, you chicks always come out with heads like roast potatoes!"
"You racist cunt! Thats cos of my breed that is!"
"Jesus boys, calm down. Cyrill, what on earth you doing playing the race card at this stage? We´ve got a good couple of hours squawking to fill yet. You gotta build up to that kind of stuff, doesn´t leave you anywhere to go after otherwise. Seriously, how long you been in this game? Terry, you were saying?"
"I´m virile!"
"No he´s not. I´m virile!"
"I´m more virile!"
"I´m the virilest!"
"Its ´most virile `dickhead."
"Alright smartarse, why don´t you just stick to your own squawking?
"I´m just saying, your inept grasp of basic grammatical structures is hardly any endorsement of your virility is it?"
"Nor`s your mum."
"No, sorry Ray, he´s got a point there. It encapslates a sort of pathetic irony to all this doesn´t it? Here we are, all trying to squawk the loudest about our virility - who´s going to be impressed by that? If this is the best we´ve got, it doesn´t much bode well for the survival of the species does it?"
"Gotta stop you there Joe, are we not a sub-species?"
"I dunno, all sounds a bit high and mighty to me. Think I´ll just stick to the squawking if its all the same by you...I´m virile!"
"Wait! Just listen a minute. Its, its a question of dignity. Times are changing - other birds are developing elaborate courtship dances and other rituals. That´s culture that is..."
"So what´s your point Joe? You´re putting us all off our squawking!"
"But thats it! Don´t you see?? Everyone else is evolving and we´re just sitting around squawking out the same 3 fucking words!"
"I squawked 5 the other day."
"Oh, well that´s progress isn´t it! Fuck´s sake boys, can´t we at least try to evolve a little bit?"
"I´m still not buyig it Joe. If God had wanted us to evolve he´d have given us opposable thumbs. Best to just accept one`s station in life."
"Yeah, stick to what we´re good at. C´mon fellas, we´re well behind schedule here. I´m virile!"
"No, I´m virile!"
"He´s not virile I am!"
"No, no, no! Just listen to yourselves! Its the same, every god dam day its the same. Ahmed, you´ve got a lovely voice - why do´t you use it a bit more? Try some different melodies? Vary it up a bit? You could even help us with our squawks a bit? There must be some breathing techniques or something you can teach us? And Colin, you come out with some great original squawks from time to time. Why don´t you do that a bit more, experiment a bit? You know: metaphory, allegory - stuff like that? We never try to develop, that´s our problem. Imagine if we could get the chicks on some of this stuff early. Imagine the progress in just a few generations! We just need to put together some systems to develop skills and pass them on. Can you see it now brothers??"
"I have the best voice - I´m the most virile!"
"I´m a unique thinker - I´m the most virle!"
"I think one of my claws is a bit opposable, I´m the most virile!"
Joe (to himself): How did it come to this? What have we done for history to forsake us? All the other birds are beyond us. Even the sparrows, dumb bastards. Even they swoop down, steal our food and make jokes about our hairy feet and fleshy necks. Will we ever know what it is to swoop? Nay to soare! But our wings are clipped and useless. But wait! Who´s been clipping our wings? Who decides when we eat? When we get let near the females? Its all so familiar, so comfortable almost. Its ingrained in us. Bred into us! We squawk away and call it identity, but its all bullshit! We do not possess a culture, it possesses us! Man has done this to us! Squawking is just a small pleasure tolerated to keep the wool over eyes!
"Brothers! Brothers! Lend me your....your auditory canales! If you listen to me but once more in your lives, then listen now!....
...Are we not birds? Yet we cannot fly. We have the run of the coup. But can run no further. Man has domesticated us! He dictates our every move and denies us the right to develop. Denies us everything but the daily squawk. And in so tolerating only the most primitive expression of our identity, he keeps us that way -primitive. Primitive and incapable of developing to break free from his domestic servitude! Cockrells, I ask you: why do we continue to squawk??"
"Hen´s seem to like it."
Un pueblo cerca de la frontera entre Ecuador y Peru. 5 de la manana. Muchos Gallos.
¨Yo soy viril!¨
¨Yo soy viril!¨
El no es viril. Yo soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que ellos!¨
¨No me hagas reir David! Tus pollitos siempre salen con cabezas como patatas asadas.¨
¨Coñazo racista! Eso se debe a mi casta!¨
Chicos, chicos calmoas! Cedric - que cosa mas tonta sacar el tema de raza a esta etapa! No te dejas nigun camino para continuar la discusión y todavía nos quedan por lo menos 2 horas mas para graznar. Todavía eres novato o que? Siga Pedro.
¨Soy viril!¨
¨Soy mas viril que el!¨
¨Hay alguien que es mas viril que yo?¨
¨Seria ´sea mas viril´ gilipollas.¨
¨Muy bien sabelotodo, poque no te fija en tu propio graznar?
¨Solo digo que tu inadequado conocimiento de gramatica basica no dice mucho buena de tu virilidad.¨
¨Tu madre tampoco.¨
¨Perdoname Kiko, pero el tiene razón. Se encapsula un tipo de ironía poética de todo esto. Aqui estamos, cada uno intentando graznar mas fuerte que el es el mas viril. Como impresionaremos alguien así? Si no tenemos nada mejor para decir, no se da buenas indicaciónes que nuestra especie sobreviva.¨
¨Disculpa José, pero no somos una sub-especie?¨
¨Yo no sé. Suena un poco fatúo a mi. Si no importa, yo voy a continuar graznar tal como siempre...Soy viril!¨
¨Espera! Escuchadmé! Es, es cuestión de dignidad. Las tiempos estan cambiandose. Otros avés estan desarollando bailes de corteja y otros rituales progresivos. Esto se llama cultura!¨
¨Entonces, que quieres decir José? Nos estas destrayendo de graznar!¨
¨Pero así es! Exactamente. No lo ves? Todo el mundo esta evolucionando y estamos plantados aquí, graznando las mismas tres palabras!¨
¨Yo grazné cinco el otro dia.¨
¨Oh, bueno, eso progreso entonces! Por amor de diós chicos, no podemos intentar evolucionar solo un poquito?¨
¨No estoy convencido. Si diós nos hubiera querido evolucionar no habría dado pulgares oposables. Mejor aceptar la situación.¨
Si, a los vuestros! Venga muchachos, estamos muy retrasados ya - Soy viril!!¨
¨No, no, no! Escuchaos a vosotros mismos! Es igual, cada puto dia igual! Ahmed, tienes una voz regia, porque no la usas mas. Que experimentes! Pruebes melodias diferentes! Y tal vez puedes ayudarnos con nuestros graznos? Tiene que existir algunas tecnicas de respirar que nos puedas enseñar? Y Carlitos, tu has inventado unos graznos muy originales. Si tienes esta habilidad, porque no la desarollas - intenta nuevas cosas - metáforo, alegoría, cosas así? Imaginaos si tuvieramos instituciónes para desarollar nuestra habilidades? Y si las enseñaramos a los pollitos? Imaginaos el progreso en solo unas generaciónes! Lo veis ahora hermanos?¨
¨Tengo la mejor voz, soy el mas viril¨
¨Soy poeta, yo sol el mas viril!¨
¨Creo que una de mis garras es oposable. Soy el mas viril!¨
Jose (a si mismo): Como hemos llegado a ser así? Como hemos merecido que la historia nos haya abandonado? Todos los avés estan encima de nosotros. Aún los gorriónes, capullos estupidos. Aún se cayen en picado hacia nosotros para robar nuestra semilla y insultar a nuestra garras lanosas y pescuezos rojos. Un dia sabremos como es caer en picado? O sea, remontarse?? Pero no. Nuestras alas son cortados y inutíles...Y, y quién las ha cortado?! Quién decide cuando comemos, o cuando podemos acercarnos a las gallenas?! Quién no mantiene así sin nada para animarnos sino graznar diariamente! Es tan familiar, tan comfortable casi. Es parte de nosotros. Somos criado así! Graznamos, y esto llamamos identidad. Pero es todo mierda! No poseemos una cultura, la cultura nos posee! El hombre nos ha hecho esto! Y tolera que graznemos solo para que seguimos ciegos!
¨Hermanos! Hermanos! Prestadmé vuestra...vuestra canales auditorios! Si me escuchais solo una vez mas, escuchadmé ahora!......
....No somos avés? Pero no podemos volar. Recorremos el gallinero, pero no mas lejos. El hombre nos ha domesticado! Restringue nuestra libertad! Nuestra derecho para elegir una indentidad propia! Restringue todo salvo el grazno matinal! Tolerar esto es tolerar solo la expresión mas primitiva de nuestra identidad. El nos mantiene primitivos. El impide que desarollemos por miedo que nos arrancaríamos de las cadenas de servitud domestica!
Gallos! Os pregunto, porque seguimos graznar?¨
¨Parece que a las gallenas les gusta.¨
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Wednesday, 6 October 2010
PARTING COMPANY: 3 & 4
James:
Brownie´s not so good today. And what are these old Americans so animated about? Sweeping changes in the 1930s pharmaceutical industry. Love it when old people say "fuck". Magnets for pain control? Arthritis? "What kind of magnets do you use?" Exactly what I´d like to know, good work old American no.1. Fucknuts! Missed it writing that down. Something to do with oppositely charged magnets though. Sounds obvious. Some guy had a clinic and the feds came and shut him down. Media were all over it.
"Why is it illegal?" He´s on fire! "Because it works....The medical profesions don´t make money out of healthy people!" Conspiracy. Bored of eavesdropping now. There´s something very epic and cinematic about old American voices. They were born to narrate, having lived 50 years or so first. Very complementary these two. Maybe thats what they do. Hang around in cafes attracting interest. No.1 speaks very slowly and deliberately. Practically monotone. But what a rich coffee like tone it is! Great timing too. Drops punctuations marks like little bombs of quiet significance. The other guy´s some sort of agitated new age type. Higher pitched; rolls up and down over words gaining intensity until hitting those naisal notes of excitement. Enthusiastic swearer aswell. Unlikely seeming pair, but complementary.
Naisaly guy says he´s had pneumonia recently. Seems in good shape though, except for a hacking cough - agitated by flirting with the waitress. Makes his dog bark too. Perhaps in sympathy, or maybe embarressment. A break in conversation. Are they awkward? Can´t be seen to look over. Back onto the arthritis, maybe we´ll get to the bottom of the magnets now? No. He´s moved one. Something to do with using audio and light waves now: spectrachrome therapy? "Its illegal to practice medicine without a licence." Sense in that. Hence the feds presumably. "If I were to help you I´d get locked up man....You can experiment on your own body though." Now we´re getting somewhere. Come on monotone, what experiments does he do? Changing the subject! But we´re onto gold! I´ve misjudged you no.1. Not the man of scientific inquisitiveness I thought you were. Attenborough, please resume your seat at the throne of fantasy grandads. Forgive me, I won´t be lulled into the arms of an imposter by evocative pronunciation again, I´ve learnt my lesson.
Wonder what no.2´s been doing to himself though? He´s a bit of a livewire for someone who´s only eaten melon for the last 4 days. Has a youthful ardour about him. Guess thats how you are if you´re conducting medical experiments on your own body. That´s some belief that is. Putting yourself in the way of the consequences. Jumping out of a plane with a theorectical parachute. Pretty noble. Although if he´s ill maybe its just necessity, or desperation. Or a fervent distrust, misguided or otherwise of the alternatives. Still its action. Slapping your dick across the forehead of adversity. Yeah, pretty noble.
Jane:
This is what its all about: out for a drink, just me and my book. The only place in town that´s open and not a club where people shreik for joy when Cher comes one. "El Jardin", not much life, except for the Germans, they´re having fun. Still managed to pick a table for two in the corner. Not wanting to take up too much space - be in anyone´s way. So ridiculous, why should I even think about stuff like that? James indulges me in it. Picks the corner tables for me. I´m a retreat for him. I guess he´s a retreat for me, from uncertainty. I´m being unfair, thats just a part of us. And I´ve come out to be around people. Around them, but by myself. Absorb some of their warmth. Put myself in the way of possible company. Sounds pretty lonely, but that´s ok. Thats´s good.
Brownie´s not so good today. And what are these old Americans so animated about? Sweeping changes in the 1930s pharmaceutical industry. Love it when old people say "fuck". Magnets for pain control? Arthritis? "What kind of magnets do you use?" Exactly what I´d like to know, good work old American no.1. Fucknuts! Missed it writing that down. Something to do with oppositely charged magnets though. Sounds obvious. Some guy had a clinic and the feds came and shut him down. Media were all over it.
"Why is it illegal?" He´s on fire! "Because it works....The medical profesions don´t make money out of healthy people!" Conspiracy. Bored of eavesdropping now. There´s something very epic and cinematic about old American voices. They were born to narrate, having lived 50 years or so first. Very complementary these two. Maybe thats what they do. Hang around in cafes attracting interest. No.1 speaks very slowly and deliberately. Practically monotone. But what a rich coffee like tone it is! Great timing too. Drops punctuations marks like little bombs of quiet significance. The other guy´s some sort of agitated new age type. Higher pitched; rolls up and down over words gaining intensity until hitting those naisal notes of excitement. Enthusiastic swearer aswell. Unlikely seeming pair, but complementary.
Naisaly guy says he´s had pneumonia recently. Seems in good shape though, except for a hacking cough - agitated by flirting with the waitress. Makes his dog bark too. Perhaps in sympathy, or maybe embarressment. A break in conversation. Are they awkward? Can´t be seen to look over. Back onto the arthritis, maybe we´ll get to the bottom of the magnets now? No. He´s moved one. Something to do with using audio and light waves now: spectrachrome therapy? "Its illegal to practice medicine without a licence." Sense in that. Hence the feds presumably. "If I were to help you I´d get locked up man....You can experiment on your own body though." Now we´re getting somewhere. Come on monotone, what experiments does he do? Changing the subject! But we´re onto gold! I´ve misjudged you no.1. Not the man of scientific inquisitiveness I thought you were. Attenborough, please resume your seat at the throne of fantasy grandads. Forgive me, I won´t be lulled into the arms of an imposter by evocative pronunciation again, I´ve learnt my lesson.
Wonder what no.2´s been doing to himself though? He´s a bit of a livewire for someone who´s only eaten melon for the last 4 days. Has a youthful ardour about him. Guess thats how you are if you´re conducting medical experiments on your own body. That´s some belief that is. Putting yourself in the way of the consequences. Jumping out of a plane with a theorectical parachute. Pretty noble. Although if he´s ill maybe its just necessity, or desperation. Or a fervent distrust, misguided or otherwise of the alternatives. Still its action. Slapping your dick across the forehead of adversity. Yeah, pretty noble.
Jane:
This is what its all about: out for a drink, just me and my book. The only place in town that´s open and not a club where people shreik for joy when Cher comes one. "El Jardin", not much life, except for the Germans, they´re having fun. Still managed to pick a table for two in the corner. Not wanting to take up too much space - be in anyone´s way. So ridiculous, why should I even think about stuff like that? James indulges me in it. Picks the corner tables for me. I´m a retreat for him. I guess he´s a retreat for me, from uncertainty. I´m being unfair, thats just a part of us. And I´ve come out to be around people. Around them, but by myself. Absorb some of their warmth. Put myself in the way of possible company. Sounds pretty lonely, but that´s ok. Thats´s good.
El Mercardo: Puerto López
Bone soup for breckfast in the sleepiest market.
A man in baseball cap and apron, who`s cheery face I`ve seen countless times about the country, talks shop over a jumble of chicken feet. People roll by on bicycles whilstling saludos. A robust and slighty cross eyed woman slices bananas into a frying pan. Scales hang from bamboo and rough timber rafters, holding up corrugated rooves. People stand and stare at fruit with folded arms. A dog`s found something to gnaw on. A neighbour asks for change, setting in motion a lazy limbed exchange. The bananas are turned. A girl in school dress puts away wet glasses. Plates clink. People arrive. A shorter robust woman, with genuine warmth, asks them which soup.Heat haze from content coals makes their bodies wobble. The bananas are drained, two or three more chopped into the fat. Deeper under the aluminium canopy, stacks more lean like wedding cakes, unsure on their foundations. A few juices are served here and there. Plastic furniture. Tables wiped down from time to time. Among the stalls tenderos recline, knees and elbows variously arranged.
The man in baseball cap and apron rinses his bench. His chicken feet have moved on. He stares downwards and to the left: through a woman and her washing up; through a converted bicycle with front trailer and the two large silver pots it carries; out to a point which must be around where the road begins.
Sopa de hueso para desayuno en el mercado mas dormido.
Un hombre en gora de beísbol y delantal, la cara contenta que he visto innumerable veces através del pais, habla del trababjo sobre un revoltijo de pies de pollo. Gente pasa rollando en bici y silba saludos. Una mujer robusta y un poco bizca corta platinos en un sartén. Básculas colgan de vigas de bambu y leña áspera. Las apoyan un tejado ondulado. Algunas quedan de pie y contemplan a fruta con brazos cruzados. Un pero ha encontrado algo para roer. Un vecino pregunta a otro si tiene cambio suelto y este empieza un perezoso intercambio. Se revolcan los platinos. Una chica en uniforme de alumna guarda vasos mojados. Platos tintinean. Clientes llegan. Una otra mujer robusta pero mas baja les pregunta cual sopa con sincero cariño. La neblina de calor de contentos carbónes causa que sus cuerpos se tambalean. Escurre los platinos, y corta 2 o 3 mas a la grasa. Debajo del dosel de alumunio torres mas de platino se inclinan como tortas de boda con bases inseguros. A algunos se ponen jugos. Entre los puestos tenderos se reclinan, codos y rodillas arreglados variosamente. Muebles de plastico. De vez en cuando un trapo pasa sobre una mesa.
El hombre de gora de beísbol y delantal pasa un trapo sobre su encimera. Sus pies de pollo ya se han marchado. Mira fijamente abajo y a la izquierda, atravéz de una mujer que friega platos, através de una bici convertida con remolque enfrente y las grandes ollas que lleva, hacia un punto en lo que debe estar donde la calle empieza.
A man in baseball cap and apron, who`s cheery face I`ve seen countless times about the country, talks shop over a jumble of chicken feet. People roll by on bicycles whilstling saludos. A robust and slighty cross eyed woman slices bananas into a frying pan. Scales hang from bamboo and rough timber rafters, holding up corrugated rooves. People stand and stare at fruit with folded arms. A dog`s found something to gnaw on. A neighbour asks for change, setting in motion a lazy limbed exchange. The bananas are turned. A girl in school dress puts away wet glasses. Plates clink. People arrive. A shorter robust woman, with genuine warmth, asks them which soup.Heat haze from content coals makes their bodies wobble. The bananas are drained, two or three more chopped into the fat. Deeper under the aluminium canopy, stacks more lean like wedding cakes, unsure on their foundations. A few juices are served here and there. Plastic furniture. Tables wiped down from time to time. Among the stalls tenderos recline, knees and elbows variously arranged.
The man in baseball cap and apron rinses his bench. His chicken feet have moved on. He stares downwards and to the left: through a woman and her washing up; through a converted bicycle with front trailer and the two large silver pots it carries; out to a point which must be around where the road begins.
Sopa de hueso para desayuno en el mercado mas dormido.
Un hombre en gora de beísbol y delantal, la cara contenta que he visto innumerable veces através del pais, habla del trababjo sobre un revoltijo de pies de pollo. Gente pasa rollando en bici y silba saludos. Una mujer robusta y un poco bizca corta platinos en un sartén. Básculas colgan de vigas de bambu y leña áspera. Las apoyan un tejado ondulado. Algunas quedan de pie y contemplan a fruta con brazos cruzados. Un pero ha encontrado algo para roer. Un vecino pregunta a otro si tiene cambio suelto y este empieza un perezoso intercambio. Se revolcan los platinos. Una chica en uniforme de alumna guarda vasos mojados. Platos tintinean. Clientes llegan. Una otra mujer robusta pero mas baja les pregunta cual sopa con sincero cariño. La neblina de calor de contentos carbónes causa que sus cuerpos se tambalean. Escurre los platinos, y corta 2 o 3 mas a la grasa. Debajo del dosel de alumunio torres mas de platino se inclinan como tortas de boda con bases inseguros. A algunos se ponen jugos. Entre los puestos tenderos se reclinan, codos y rodillas arreglados variosamente. Muebles de plastico. De vez en cuando un trapo pasa sobre una mesa.
El hombre de gora de beísbol y delantal pasa un trapo sobre su encimera. Sus pies de pollo ya se han marchado. Mira fijamente abajo y a la izquierda, atravéz de una mujer que friega platos, através de una bici convertida con remolque enfrente y las grandes ollas que lleva, hacia un punto en lo que debe estar donde la calle empieza.
Tuesday, 28 September 2010
PARTING COMPANY: 1 & 2
"I love, but do not need,
My fickle heart to bleeed
My jealous hands to grieve
and stomach seethe,
When my love she leaves."
- Who am I? Fucking Shakespeare? Enough bards out there. Too, soppy, too old school. Old school, can be ok tho...Dam! That ass is a sonnet! I should write bout that..."Bouncy bouncy, mangoes in a denin prison. I want to break you out and cover them with.." No, that will never do. Can´t be thinking like that already. Already? Its not so bad I guess. Spose my libido´s fickle if not my heart. Who´s isnt? Is hers? Fuck, I hope not. Is she writing ass poems about some waxed crack argentinian twat? Yeah, leave that line as it is. Libido doesn´t fit anyway. Too many syllables.
"The leaves are turning, will turn again before i see her.
I want her happy, her dreams near,
Affirming forwards our love brings up the rear" - No no no! What a twat, thats terrible. Come on now. Why the fuck is she just standing there? Maybe she´s waiting for someone. But do you really need to point that thing at me? Like the lighthouse for my ship of infidelity. How I long to crash upon those ample fleshy shores! Irresponsible voluptuousness!! Hmm.
"The leaves are turning, will turn back before I see her.
Fruitless months fall, but ripening anew I fear,
That I will fall for some irresponsible voluptuousness,
For the denim nutured fruit of another."
-Ha!
"I´m locked in her embrace, but own the key.
I turned it in its lock, when she packed her case,
I would have swallowed it, for all I felt free.
But now no wind to chase, the leaves from under my feet,
No rushing tide, to wash her back to me,
No time soon, not unless I bleed,
Not unless I trample, temptations from the tree."
2. Jane :
Packing up again. Always think of the first time. Trying to pack light whilst being prepared for everything that a continent could throw at me. Trying to work out which things I didn´t need. James lying on the bed, completely calm. Horizontal, pragmatic and seemingly impartial. "Something for hot weather, something for cold."......"if you think you´ll use it". More concerned about what music I was taking. Making me a library of alluring memories. Someone should have told me to be careful what I wished for! The nostalgia, the aching domesticity: putting away the books he got me, the clothes he held me in, the little essentials I bought from Boots - all the potential teardrops. Its part of the process I suppose, drying them up. Painfully purging myself of sadness. He´d like that. I knew what I was doing though. Part of the process. He couldn´t have done anything but be calm. Supportive and defensive. Intoxicating. A final dose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)