Square I's

I've had the joy of no television for two months now, and I've been loving every unscreened minute of it. Sadly, as is the way with the absence of narcotics, the novelty is wearing off and I have begun to crave the numbing of mind like zombies crave fallout. So yesterday I took the plunge and got cabled. Now images flood us each day, pouring in the tube and spilling all over the carpet, and I breathe easily. It's not just me that feels this unease at the absence of flickering pictures, those that feed us have seen it too. Each day they find new places to install a screen, train stations, taxis, buses, pubs, even toilets... Nowhere is safe. Or dimly lit. And your eye is constantly drawn to that dancing screen, no matter how interesting the conversation is... you... must... watch... pictures. Mmm, shiny glass of wonderlight. It's taken all the awkwardness out of going on a date, there are so many opportunities to view you never have to look at each other these days. You can leave the house, get the bus, catch a movie, drink at the pub, take a piss and get a taxi, all in the chaperone of that transmitted light. Put a television in your bedroom and you're home dry.

The thoughts I had today:

1. There is no bigger turn off than bad poetry.
2. Orange juice in a wine glass is incisively emasculating.
3. I'd be a better person if I stopped answering rhetorical questions.
4. Insisting on the correct pronunciation of imported beers makes
   even the nicest person look like a prick.

you're not here anymore

dress up for me.
what?
dress, for me, please, now.
why? are we going somewhere? are we going out?
pull on your stockings, slide them up to your thighs; slip over a dress and button your coat; zip and buckle your boots and prepare yourself to leave. but stay; then stay, and forever, stay.

Taken for a Ride

I've taken the luxury of a cab, this is rare, usually I'm transported publicly all the way, but needs must, and this one is hardly a luxury - no flipdown seat or soundproof glass, it's more a ford escort strung together with masking tape and pine scent - so what the hell, let's splash out. The guy driving is in full religious get up, he's got the hat, the gown, the beard, and maybe I'm wrong to do so, but I'm expecting a certain kind of decorum, or at least politeness. It's not to be. The first thing he does as we pull away from the station and my last chance of changing vehicles, is to light up. The first of many. The car is filling with smoke, all windows up, and although I can barely inhale, my eyes are watering and I am coughing my breakfast up, I feel it would be rude of me to impose. Fortunately, as we're driving along in this fogged out car, we pass a girl in a skirt shorter than my breath. Over excited, he winds down his window to get a better look, and as a cloud of smoke rolls out of the window he turns to me and shouts, 'Look at that totty!' I mumble an apology at him, like I didn't hear what he said, like I think he said something offensive but obviously I need to make certain before I raise the matter further, that's what like. 'Yeh, some nice birds around here, y'get me?' he leers. Right, I say. What a chicken I am. 'You get taxi's often?' he asks. Is that a line? Is this guy trying it on with me now? Whenever I have to, comes my cold reply. 'Call me,' he orders, 'you got a phone?' And he starts reeling off the digits. What can I do? He's not happy until he sees me punching the numbers in, so I acquiesce, though I make no promises. We pull out on to a fast stretch of road, he slides the window up and dials up the music. Bass pounds through the car, wailing shakes the glass, and it's to this that we pull into the small, quiet, wind-in-the-willows village of Bray. He parks up and people are staring. '£5.90,' he smirks. The music is still pounding. Can I have a receipt please, I say. 'What?' he shouts back. Can I- he turns down the music. Can I have a receipt. Please. 'I forgot them,' he says. What? I reply. 'I forgot them,' he says, bold as brass, 'I'll bring them when I pick you up.' What, this guy thinks he's going to hold me to ransom on this? I stare in disbelief. And right there, right then we have a stand-off. Eye to eye, beard to beard, no give either way. A digit clicks round on his little green LED dashboard clock. No, I say coldly, I would like a receipt. Now. More stand. Who's gonna get off? Finally, just before I am about to cave, he decides he can write one on the back of his card. I step out of the car, and before I've shut the door the guy jacks up the music, flips on another cigarette and with a squeal of his tyres, screeches off. Good riddance my friend, good riddance.

Petit

Imagine a high wire act, the tallest of buildings, the longest of drops, two points connected, joined with rope, a cable, a line, a life line; two in your hands, one on your feet. And your balance, your balance keeping you alive, and you, keeping your balance, nothing more precious, nothing more worth keeping, your breath, your heart, your gaze, all working for the rhythm and flow of each moment. A small tip, a wobble or stutter and life will tumble before your eyes, a few moments of glorious suspension before the sick thud of concrete reality. But what if you don’t? What if you fail to fall? If you transcend the conditions set for you, the human condition, the restraints and restrictions of all those ropes tied and binding. What if you slip those for one moment, however brief, and have that glimpse? And if, so be it, if, then, you shall come fluttering down like a bird, or plunging like a stone wrapped in paper, if that should happen, you shall forever have that moment, that glorious fractious moment, that stretched before you like eternity, perhaps even became eternity. And those fumblers, those weaklings, that die in their bed stewed in their own fetid indifference, they shall cry out to you: 'Save us O dreamer of such glorious vanity, for in this life we have forgotten how to sleep.'

Ok on the couch

o: Have we started yet?
k: How often do you drink?
o: Whenever I need to forget.
k: How often is that?
o: I don't remember.
k: Do you feel more yourself or less yourself when you drink?
o: I feel less of myself.
k: What do you mean?
o: I don't feel my nose.
k: That's not what I meant.
o: Or my toes.
k: Do you like yourself more when you're drunk?
o: I like everyone a lot more when I'm drunk, especially those I hate.
k: I don't think we're getting anywhere here.
o: Do you have anything other than water?
k: Are you sober? Right this moment, are you sober?
o: I hope not. For all our sakes.
k: Well then, I think our time has come to an end.
o: It can be like that with me.

Star Struck

Natalie Portman is one year younger than me to the day. It's a fact I've mentioned before, but hey, it's Natalie Portman! so it's worth mentioning again. I've always kept a little place in my heart lit with a secret hope that one day, some day, I'd be able to share this nugget with her in person. I'd see her at some party somewhere, or coming out of a busy hotel, I'd walk out of a bookshop in Notting Hill and spill orange juice all down her front, something like that. Well, last night, last beautiful night, finally, we were together; in a crowded room, but together; separated by mere feet... and tables and chairs... and about eighty people blowing smoke in the air, but together; in the same room, in the same bar, slipping down beers like jelly, together. It may not sound much, but soon enough I realised I had an ace up my sleeve: I was by the only entrance. Which was also the only exit. Ah, I realised, if I but bide my time, she will have to walk past me to leave, if I but remain, little can stop me exchanging my pleasantry. And so I waited. And drank. And drank. And waited. By the time she walked past, I was on my ninth beer and fourth whisky, and it wasn't until she called back to her friend from the door that I noticed her elfin beauty swaying and swinging in a haze of fuzz by the door. 'Matalie!' I cried, 'Matalie Nortpan! Aaooie! I just pished Matalie Nortpan.'

Fax of Life

For money, and only for the money you understand, I spend a fair chunk of my time loitering in restaurants, doing card tricks like a performing monkey. Although, as I'm well aware, an actual performing monkey doing actual performing card tricks would be far more enjoyable. As a way to earn a living it's a job, not a career, I'd rather be elsewhere, but hell, something's got to pay the rent, and it's a damn sight easier than working for a living. So at work, there I am, waiting to approach a table and show my ten minutes of card tricks which I do fifteen times a night, five nights a week. Do try and look interested. Now you should know, the moment of approachment is very important, pick the wrong time and you might walk in on a divorce, an out-coming, a notice of baby. You have to be careful, so I'm waiting, carefully, scoping out the situation, listening to the family chat amiably away, mum, dad, three boys, when one of the boys says 'we love mum, because without mum, we wouldn't be here.' Oh crap. The dad replies, 'ah yes, but without daddy you wouldn't be here either.' Oh double crap. He continues, 'It takes a mummy and a daddy to make a baby.' Their faces cloud in bewilderment, torn between the blatant fallacy of what their father has spoken and a creeping sense that perhaps they are about to receive some very unnerving news. And right there, in a restaurant at three pm on a Sunday afternoon, Dad explains the facts of life to his ever-eye-widening under-five year olds. And once he's finished, once he's put down the salt and pepper pots used for illustrative and unimaginable purposes, I approach the table, and with their jaws locked to the floor, perform card tricks. Because really, what better to follow the miracle of birth than finding the four of diamonds?

Not Just a Place in Ireland

The chair that never got sat in
Was reupholstered in satin
Still nobody pledged
To lower their wedge
And slowly the satin went slacken

john and VANDERPUT

This is a story about john and VANDERPUT.

john, as you would imagine from his nice, ordinary name, is a nice, ordinary boy; always polite, often humble, leads his life, never grumbles. He likes toast, translated literature, and questions he can answer on quiz shows. Sometimes he goes to the movies by himself, occasionally it’s the theatre. When it’s the theatre he buys one glass of lemonade at the interval, which they give him in a plastic cup.

VANDERPUT is different, a charmer, some might say a rascal. VANDERPUT likes going to places they don't let you in. He drinks two bottles of wine with a girl that he forgets the name of halfway through. He thinks it might be Merlot. He’ll produce a cigarette from behind the ear of his best friend’s sister and vanish it into her naked, upturned palm. VANDERPUT is the one invited to the weddings and the parties, john goes to the funerals.

VANDERPUT does card tricks for a living. Yes, card tricks. Stupid huh? VANDERPUT earns a lot of money doing card tricks for a living. But then he spends it quicker than it comes in. john writes. He sits in his room and writes. john can’t say much about the money, as his writing isn’t exactly setting the piggy bank on fire. Truth is, without VANDERPUT on stage every night, the whole operation would be in serious trouble.

Often john wakes up and finds VANDERPUT passed out on the carpet. john will have cereal for breakfast, VANDERPUT will pour cornflakes in the toaster. john will do the laundry, VANDERPUT will be sick in the laundry basket. And as VANDERPUT sprawls on the couch with a poptart in his mouth, john will retire to the bedroom and clack clack clack his keys, detailing the pain of living with VANDERPUT.

John and VANDERPUT, VANDERPUT and john; the necessary evils of the other's existence, and as the separate lives they lead become more separate by the day, they drift apart remaining too close together.

God Only Knows

I'm a Christian. You might find that hard to believe. That's ok. I find it hard to believe. That's why I'm not very good at it. What makes me a Christian? I believe in God; I believe in Jesus; I’m not too keen on lions; I go to church every week... well, as often as I can you know... not religiously; and of course, most importantly of all, I'm a hypocrite. The things I say, I don't do, the things I do, I don't say. I'm not alone in this, let's lay it out there, most Christians? Utter monkeyfathers! And that would all be very well, if! they kept it to themselves. But oh no. You’d think for a people who’ve found God, and not only that, but He turns out to be a nice guy, they be a little easy going. Not a chance. These guys aren't happy until you have validated their beliefs by accepting them. These guys wanna spread the 'Good News'! Now I don't know about you, but, for me, good news is hearing there's been a refridgeration issue at the Ben & Jerry's factory, and they're giving away spoons. Their idea of the good news? 'You're wrong! You're wrong! You're wrong and wrong and wrong and you're going to burn eternaaa-leeeeeee!! [pa pa pah!]' Not really something to wake up for is it? Let me set the record straight. The good news is this: The primary purpose of each and every one of us is to be loved by an everlasting God, who created us for that sole reason, and all we have to do is turn and embrace that. That's the good news baby. Burning forever in a sea of eternal flames unless you repent and turn to a God you don’t believe in? Save the postage my man.

All Knowing

This irony has got to stop. We wear untrendy clothes like they're going out of fashion. The boys prance around in their ironically ripped-up jeans, ironic porkpie hats, ironic t-shirts with ironic slogans to which we burst out in ironic laughter. The girls don leggings, ankle-warmers, ill-fitting charity shop jackets and weird wollen bobbly green hats that would best be seen under a car wheel. On television we watch the fifty greatest moments of whatever they didn't show the week before, and look on as the presenter shows us clip after clip with a nudge and a wink; we know he knows we shouldn't be watching this, and that makes it all ok. We listen to music so bad it's good, but what is this good badness? We buy so many copies of a crazy frog he races to the top of the charts, and suddenly our taste is defined by him, and we refine our definition of success. We no longer dance with a Saturday night fever in clubs, now we throw shapes like a wedding reception, every step pondered and preened over, dissected and discussed as everyone tries not to try; we do the macarena, the running man, the robot, all in a bid to see who knows most about being least co-ordinated. Television reduces its production values, sets are wobbly, dress sense is deleted, all in a bid to squeeze under the magical umbrella of kitchiness. As long as we know they know we know it's meant to be that bad, all is acceptable. Ah, how clever clever we are all being. But, as we become ironic with our irony, and nobody knows truly what anyone means anymore, or if in fact anyone is any good at anything these days because we're all pretending to be so bad at it, the elegance of truth has fallen by the wayside. The thing is, post-modernism is all very well, but is does get tiresome.

Do Not Disturb

I'm a nosleeper. I watch the ceiling for hours and hours and hours and hours as thoughts rush by and I fail to fall into restless sleep. A friend suggested I put some of those glow-in-the-dark stars up there, so I've something to look at. I think that's a good idea. But not stars. Maybe a glow-in-the-dark Scarlett. I thought it was my room at one point, maybe the feng shui was all off kilter, but I've changed rooms, beds, couches, auras, everything. Nothing helps. There is only one place i can get some decent shut eye: the tube. Without fail, whenever I travel by tube these days, three stops and i'm snoring. Bang! I'm out like a light and coming to with dribble on my chin and twenty pairs of wide-eyes staring at me. I've missed my destination six times this week, and blurry-eyed spluttered awake, cursing the tranquilising tremblings of these tracks. But I need the sleep, and it's filling in some valuable downtime, so tomorrow I'm taking a duvet.

Senses

I feel so cold
On hookers and gin
This mess we're in
       -- portishead

He lies alone with her scent. Even now it's fading. He wants to dwell in it, to let it surround him and envelope, a blanket, a duvet, to warm and recall. He paid the price, it cost him, so very dear. When he wakes in the morning the scent has gone, the vapour evapourated, a memory he can’t bring back for all he tries, and with that loss he knows not who he is. He lies and rolls into the empty space, vacant and alone. And with that scent leaves his love. And with that loss leaves something he never had.

Seeing Red

What if tonight was the night my life changed? The thing with breaks is they come when you least expect them, one chance meeting, one friend of a friend of a friend and suddenly your diary transforms itself and you have enough cash to buy fruit, and meals for two. But tonight the night passes without event, and I find myself that evening having dinner on a roof terrace in some ubercool club in Soho, reflecting as I gaze and glaze over the people. My eyeline falls on a beautiful, porcelain woman, full, soft lips, eyes glittering, a cigarette poised. I drift off in thought as I rest my eyes there, and think briefly, for a moment, this woman looks just like Scarlett Johansson. I pause. And then I think, she looks really like Scarlett Johannson. And then I realise: She is Scarlett Johannson; sitting not four feet away from me. And this is the same girl that, not five minutes ago, flicked her eyes over to me as I showed a friend of a friend quite an exclusive card trick. All it would take is one conversation, one or two words to strike it up, and a new path could unravel before me. But give the girl a break. Let her be and give the girl a break. So I stand up, slip on my jacket, shoot a smile across the night air, and disappear, never to see those eyes again.