Monday, 30 November 2009
He said: Many years ago, when I was in my youth, I lived with an older woman; she was very beautiful and in demand. but I too was beautiful and in demand back then so everything seemed harmonious.
Until I said one night in bed: 'I love you.'
Don't say that she said. It is just a licence for me to abuse you.
why is that? I asked. Although I already knew the answer.
'Because'. She said. 'The first person ever to tell me he loved me then went on to abuse me and I now associate love with abuse and abuse with love... I would rather associate with shallow people who have no real feelings for me because they are safe and I am not obliged to form a real relationship with them.
'But you will get old'. I told her. 'And be alone and unwanted.
'So what'. She said. 'I will just commit suicide!'
'No you won't' I said. 'you will continue to behave as if you were a young woman and you will continue to ignore the people who really love you because they will not lie to you. And the eurotrash company you crave, because you buy into that shit, the eurotrash company will move on to the next generation and the people who really love you will have given up in exasperation.
And of course your father will be dead by then and by then it will be too late.
'Too late for what?' she asked.
'Too late to tell you I love you.'
Friday, 27 November 2009
This is the last time that I saw the thing was when it was being manhandled by a karate expert from Calgary.
It was being given the chop!
Thursday, 26 November 2009
The first time I saw her
She has been unlucky
She was the most beautiful girl in the clinic
The second time I saw her
She had been careless
The beautiful girl in the clinic
The third time I saw her
She was promiscuous or worse
That girl in the clap clinic.
She was the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic
The fourth time I saw her
Stupid me, she is a doctor.
I approached her then and said
You are the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic.
I'm not a doctor
But I feel that is about to change.
We left the clinic hand in hand
Separated by the thickness of a surgical glove.
Later, much later as we lay
Her head on my chest her hair in my face
the scent of hibiscrub filling the white room.
I said I love you
And she said don't love me
I am unlucky
I an careless
I am promiscuous
And nothing has changed.
I shall be there of course. If only to heckle! http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/event.php?eid=197528849848&ref=nf
We wrote to each other once a week. We did this for years.
Bill told me that soon there would be no need of letters (he was what you would call a bit of a geek), that we would communicate electronically through the ether. And would be able to have real time conversations.
I said: Bill. you are full of shit. That will never happen in my lifetime.
We stopped writing soon after that.
I wonder what became of Bill?
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
What do you think Moll? I asked.
It's African isn't it. Nice. she replied. As she sorted through old Christmas decoration catalogues.
She then found a Feng-Shui plan for her appartment. At present I am sitting in the marriage area. Intelligence is in the lavatory... Can't say that I believe too much of this hokum.
Friday, 20 November 2009
She said: Look son. You are 54 years old. You are going to have to leave home one day.
Friday, 13 November 2009
I decline Moll's offer of her pink umbrella and suffere the consequences as I attempt to travel across London by means of public transport; the tube system is truly awful and explains the miserable demeanour of it's occupants.
On the street I no longer get any satisfaction from splashing through the puddles although my preference for Converse in all weather probably has something to do with that. Moll is on at me constantly to get some work boots with steel toecaps...
Surely the toecaps will rust in this climate.
Somewhere near here. She says, passing me an old poloroid of two sisters standing fully and impeccably dressed on a beach.
I glance at the photograph then look again in shock. Moll notices my hand trembling. What is it? she asks.
I am too distressed to tell her that it is a photograph of Tilly and Buddy, daughters of a woman named Agat who had been my muse many years ago . I had once possesed an almost identical photo (probably taken the same day) of the girls.
Agat had traced me and sent the photograph with a note that read:
'The girls at Dungeness.'
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
A month ago he told me he was helping a group of friends make a film.
He did not tell me it was like that.
the film won the jury prize in the competition and now Tristan's arse is the talk of the town.
I said: For heavens sake Tristan, fishing in the Serpentine is illegal.
He said no-one bitched at Marlon for Last tango in Paris.
But Tristan. I replied. Marlon was not fishing in the Serpentine.
For christ sake Tristan you were within sight of the princess Diana ditch. Have you no respect.
Only for my bait dealer. He said.
I sensed the tension that already existed between the Spiders; they may have been ready for life on Mars but they were not ready for fame on earth. We thought it a good idea to write a song together, the mesquite helped we guessed, Mick was already paranoid about being let down and dying in penury, Woody wouldn't stop playing with his sideboards.
David wrote some words, passed them to me. I ripped them up in disgust, handed them back.
Angie shot me a cautionary glance.
David gave me that toothy grin and said: There's something here Jan. He laid out the torn shreds of paper randomly on the coffee table and picked up his guitar...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XXq5VvYAI1Q&feature=related
All I could say was..... David. Put on those red shoes and let's dance.
Iggy came round and said: Hey man there is panic in Detroit. David picked up a notepad and said: Do you spell Detroit with a capital D?
Iggy. I said. I'm bored.
I said: Iggy. I'm the chairman of the bored...http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGDb8X8limY
Iggy said he missed the MC5.
Tuesday, 10 November 2009
What HAVE you been up to dear boy? I ask.
Oh! He replies. This and that, but mainly that... That which results from spending the week foraging for mushrooms.
And what is that? I ask.
Listen. He says: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TgEk4A-t1k8
Saturday, 7 November 2009
I had been walking through Snowdonia for lack of something better to do. One evening I found myself some distance from the nearest hostelry and rather than tempt a broken ankle in the dark decided to make what I could of a derelict farmhouse.
On closer inspection i saw that it was not as abandoned as I had thought and the glow from an open fire lit one of the windows.
I knocked and entered to find a man seated before a hearth lit by nothing other than the glow from the fire.
Good evening I said. May I please join you, I am miles from my destination and it is an unhospitable night. I gave my name and offered my hand in greeting. He did nothing with either; just sat there in silence.
'Careless' he almost shouted some minutes later. I begged his pardon.
Careless he repeated. Then went on: Careless is my name... He turned and looked at me then and gave me an almost toothless grin. He said:
"It was over thirty years ago when I got that name. I've forgotten my given name and my mother died two years ago without reminding me. But thirty years ago not far from this place my brothers talked me into trying some magic mushrooms they'd been picking on the hillside. We lit a fire out there and sat around waiting for something to happen and before long something happened and I began to take more than a passing interest in the flames and hot coals of the fire.
I leant in to get a closer look and as I leant in my teeth fell out into the fire, and being plastic they burst into flames before I could retrieve them.
Careless bugger said Ifan.
Careless bugger laughed Daffyd.
Careless bugger roared I.
That's why I'm called careless."
He never spoke another word that night. But sat looking mournfully into the fire.
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Are they edible she asked.
I tried one.
What happened after that is at best a hazy dream to me now.
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
The house is tucked away in a valley a mile from the road surrounded by rolling grassland and woods. Pheasants litter the garden and sheep dot the horizon. There are deer hereabouts but I have yet to catch sight of one. As I write this a posse of beef on the hoof ambles accross my line of sight and I think of Rusty.