Elbow Room

It's one of those times when a girl walks on the train with a guy behind and you just know they're together. They're not touching, not holding hands not even paying each other any attention, objectively they could be strangers, but it's like there is an invisible string between them, where one leads the other follows, they exhibit perfect synchronicity, and wordlessly sit in unison side by side like it's as easy as putting on a shirt. Normally I find this sweet and affirming, but today they have chosen to sit beside me and as the guy relaxes he spreads his legs like he has the largest testicles in the world. It's not just that, he's got his elbows extended too, and spreads them on his descent so as to knocks mine from 'his' side of the armrest. I mean, he knows they're there, and he just knocks them off. He's a good six foot, he's in a pin-stripe suit, and damn, he's got the girl too. Well, I just sit there, I sit there all squashed in, arms to myself and I'm thinking why don't I do something? Say something? Push back, shift my weight, why do I just sit here and tolerate this? Why do I always submit? Why do I fold? And I think, because I am a coward. Like it or not, I am a coward.

Pass it on

At the cinema this evening I met Geoffrey Durham wearing a long blue raincoat and a frown. Geoffrey, that is, not I. I said, hello! Are you Geoffrey Durham? Yes, he snapped, without even greeting my eyes, and off he flew, leaving me with nothing but that one fleeting word. How rude! I thought, I mean really, how rude. Now, I'm not his biggest fan, I'll give you that, I haven't exactly got his picture in my wallet, but I have a fondness for the guy, I'll watch him if he's on, I won't flip the channel, I'll tune in. Not now though, no, now every time I see him on screen I shall remember his nonchalant discourtesy, his cold dismissal and aloofness. And if I watch with another I shall relate this story, I'll tell how he denied me to my face and walked off. And those people I tell will tell five others. And those shall tell five more. Soon everyone all over the world will know the truth. Man, I wouldn't like to be in his shoes.

Updated...
Please Note: I'm wrong, and an idiot. Please read this and this and see how wrong I was.

In The Wrong

I bought a lightshade today. A very exciting home furnishing purchase that I felt took me one step closer to the adulthood I strive for. But it was cracked so I took it back and got another one. Of course, installing it was above me, and not just because I couldn't reach, so my good friend Richard installed it for me. A couple of hours later, it had become so hot the plastic holding had melted, the glass shade was suspended from the bulb, and the filament was glowing red. That's not right I thought. So I turned the whole thing off, packed it away and took it back. All I got was grief. First I was accused of cracking the glass, then misinstallation, then incorrect wattage, socket irregularity and finally stupidity. I sell three hundred before Christmas! he says, You know how many complaints I get? he says, None! Not one! You are the problem! This is all your fault! Here take your money and get out of my shop! He slaps my £26 down and I scrape it from the table in shame. I feel pretty small as I walk out and my heart sinks. Nevermind, I think, Peaches Geldof loves my magic.

My Life in a Sitcom

They put me in a lift. I am a falling body in a glass box.
I try not to let it concern me.

I need to speak to you, I think.
It is very important.
Wake up.

I've always thought people should make more of an effort on the title track of the album. That's the last thought I have before I pass out.

--- ---

Well. I’m gonna get some cash.

Cash?

Yeh. Cash.

Where’r’you gonna get cash from?

Here.

They don’t do cash here.

They do it upstairs.

Oh. Can I come?

--- ---

1. When I walk it feels as though I am falling through myself. It is unnerving. Like someone has tipped the world sideways and I am walking up the side of a glass. Like I said, unnerving.

--- ---

I draw the line at tinned meat. If there is one thing I don't want it is tinned meat. Or aggravation. That's a whole lotta pain in the ass.

Wake up.
It is very important.
I think I need to speak to you.

They put me in a lift. I am meat in a can.
I try not to let it concern me.

Steam

My dry-cleaners hands are smooth and precise
As he folds my suits and slips them into
Cool plastic bags stored below the counter
Smooth and peaceful gestures; movements of such
Soft grace. Total care to prevent creasing
Like the instructions he so carefully follows
As he slides me the bag a thought comes to me:
He must smell consistently of ironing.

Visits

I pulled the notes apart and counted them five deep, I took a taxi and went to her. I could not afford it but less could I afford to stay there. As I walked out I left the door open, left it open for the breeze to blow through, to circulate and cleanse, in vain hope fresh air would do some good. The floor was all strewn clothes and balled socks, the walls were post-it notes and torn photographs, articles I should have read and lists I long crossed through; the place was beyond hope. I nodded to the driver as I got in and mumbled a destination, he looked in his mirror as I looked out, my eyes staring numbly through the glass told him my conversation had all run dry. The waits at red lights, the hum of cars passing, strangers under streetlights with hoods pulled up and plastic bags, these were my companions. I painted scenes for all these bypassers, filled in the blanks of why they, like me, chose to be up at this time. An hour passed and we pulled up, headlights splashed my shoes as I got out, the throb and glow of the night passers background noise to this transaction. He said goodnight as he left, but it was too late for that. As I walked to the door the security bulb flicked on, I read the numbers on the buzzers and sat down on the step. Someone had left some discarded mail by the door. I rang the doorbell and a light came on. This is what being in love is.

mustachio

What's that on the top of your lip? Left over chocolate mousse? A catapillar sleeping? A localised herpes outbreak? Good, as all are preferable to the mustache. What kind of person chooses to have one of these? Hitler? Tom Selleck? Who? And you know they look in the mirror and think, 'Oh yeh! Come to Pappa!' I've never understood them, they unnerve me. The more I look at a mustache, the more wrong it seems. Like when you look at a word for too long, and the letters begin to radiate their individuality and you think, that can't be how you spell children, and you look it up in the dictionary and that looks wrong too, and then you look at the word dictionary and think... no... dictionary? Isn't that like a fascist canary? Well anyway, that's how I feel about mustaches. Especially on women.

This time

First
Imagine a heartbeat. lub dup. lub dup. Blood circulating, pumping, spurting from that central place, screaming its way around the body. We run. Bam-bam bam-bam bam-bam. The heart beats, faster, pacing, flowing.

Now
Imagine a tree. No motion, in silence, in peace, at rest. The consciousness of wood. Thoughts creaking with the daylight, fluttering into night, days passing in flickers and blinks. And now dusknight, daylight, night, day, light, night, a beat, a day, a beat, a night, the expanse of breathing, the synthesis of image, a cycle a heartbeat, a week a breath. And see as we see, as trees see, and see.

And now
Imagine a heartbeat, blood pooling, gathering, rising, flooding, now flushing, gushing, through valves, through chambers, clutching and inflating, contracting and compressing, squeezing until straining point, breaking point, collapsing, deflating, shooting spurting blood from a clenched fist, draining, gurgling, sucking its quenched thirst dry and liquid trickling, ready to begin again; an eternity of motion.

Imagine a heart beat

Angst

If popping bubble wrap is relaxing, surely there should be none more laid back than a teenager with acne?

The Early Start

I ask for toast in the morning; when it comes I am asleep. By the time I wake it is cold and I wear myself out as I lift and replace it with feeble action. I wait for the nurse, a few minutes pass and she comes, I ask for some more. More minutes pass. She brings it in and stirs me, she opens my curtains and lays the toast on my lap. I pick up the knife numbly and stare blanky at the abstract of the metal. She leaves me, and, knife poised, I drift away once more, my mind floating to another thought, a timeless place. I catch sight of my gaze in the knife blade, and I stare loose-eyeballed at my reflection, the sight pulls me back into my body. I raise and lower my hand, I dip, carve and spread with the blade, my arm is a glass limb, I operate it with mere thoughts, I clasp my thick, swollen fingers around the rough toast and pull it to my mouth. It is stone cold.

Heat

As I left the flat this afternoon there was a fire across the street, tearing its way through a house like a dog through newspaper, ripping and popping glass, cracking wood and melting groaning metal. A man was outside, silent, head in hands, caught between inactions. A crowd gathered to mark it, to watch a life go up in flames. We had never seen a fire this close before and stood silent before it, drawing beauty from its strength, reverent before its wisdom. It ravaged and raped without prejudice, without emotion, nonchalantly, as though polishing a glass. Soon after, the sirens came singing its praise, screaming their worship, praising those dancing flames. I walked on. Didn’t stop. Didn’t consider it. Who does these days? As I got off the train later I could still smell that tangy smoke in my nose. The sun hung low, there was a restlessness in the air, a crackling lightness in the evening, like we were waiting for something to happen. Dogs pulled at leads and men walked around with their shirts off. I kept thinking back to before, the roar of the oxygen consumed, swallowed, engulfing those walls with yellow tongues and tearing down all before it.

Light Noise

I heard it six months ago, the sound in Liverpool Street Station. Not merely a sound; a sonic distortion. As I stepped from the escalator it unbalanced me, it disordered my thinking and jammed my cognition. I stuttered and staggered as it sliced through my skull like a melon, turning my head to pulp, compressing it like a boiled egg. I asked a woman if she could hear it, I pleaded with a man to confirm it, I begged a child to assent. All the while this sound, this subsonic whine, beyond the audible, a pitch, a frequency felt not heard, crushed me like a vice. My sight blurring, my thoughts collapsing, I climbed the stairs one by one, each step heavier than the next, my weight escalating, crushing me, until I broke into daylight. And with that daylight it evapourated, the inaudible load. That was six months ago. I went back today and there it still was.

Out of Order

The women I meet are like toilets, they're either vacant or engaged.

i test

I went to the opticians. What seems to be the problem, she said. Life appears flat, I said, dull and uninteresting; I saw a sunset last week, the sky was washed out and listless, birds hung from the trees like paper napkins, the blue was an empty canvas God had brushed the clouds on. No problem, she said, I have just the thing for you. She handed me a pair of 3d glasses. Try these to bring out the world around you, she told me, watch in amazement as flowers and trees pop into life before your very eyes, you'll swear you've never seen anything like it, buses will look like they're coming right for you, you'll duck, you'll scream, life will seem so close you can reach out and grab it; it'll be just like being there.

The Perfect Mother

I am never impressed with hypnotists. So they make a man cluck like a chicken, and a woman bark like a dog? So what? They did that at my drama school. Surely if these powers are genuine, they would be put to better use. Hypnotising babies for example. Little Petey been crying for hours? Fed him, changed him, bathed him, and fed him again? None of it worked? Pass him here... click! out like a light. Wakes every morning at 5am to wail for two hours? Not anymore, snap, and sleep!