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.
Sunday, 28 November 2010
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
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