We're getting older, and getting heavier. Our reckless lifestyles of binge drinking, smoking, and drug abuse are taking their toll; ageing our bodies beyond their expected values.
She was once eccentric in aesthetics, but time has conventionalised her. Her hair, no longer as spiked, or as colourful, but a tame condition. A smoulder of youth. The time to be silly has passed; she has become the generation she once held in a measure of high awe, and would subsequently come to call her very own friends. Underage drinking and sweaty fumbles with a different boy every week in the local cemetery are no more. The excitement has faded; routine has become a stone pendant that clutches her chest, and is reflected in her eyes to anyone who knows her. Yes, even her clothes now represent the highstreet and not her former clique.
There is a distinction that must be met, as I consider the people of Brighton.
The difference between sleeping with someone to love them and sleeping with someone because you love yourself. I presume there is a genuine substance out there, beneath the ivy of verbatim, that longs to flourish, but cannot. Suffocated by the very ivy it bore.
She is one of a particular kind - able to distinguish between the genuine and false. She sings with the popular, but loves the truthful. She chooses, and she chooses well.
I wonder, if a person "hates people" but interacts with them continually; can they truly hate them? Perhaps they merely misunderstand, wishing to feel the warm breath of intimacy that never reaches them; their skin. An inevitable cycle is born.
The worst eventuality is for a heart to become cold, and lose touch with itself.
Those who sleep to love, love to sleep, and dream. The lovers, and those able to distinguish are liable to become jaded. Effectless, and mourn-worthy. They receive the criticisms of the world; the main extent of the asphyxiation - the words people use to suppress honesty. A lost world beneath the fauna; a beauty, untouched, and unloved, and a bitterness spawned. A hell of sorts, that is too fiery for those who feel the entirety or rawness of a certain aspect of their humanity to venture into. By this, it is then safer to remain in the sanctuary of the eerie brightness of the topsoil.
It takes around 20-30 minutes for the eyes to fully adjust to the darkness.
Tuesday, 14 July 2009
Friday, 10 July 2009
The Daisies.
Florence came into the pharmacy to collect her prescription today. I read the first line of her address, "The Daisies". The daisies was a quaint and curiously fantastic dream of hers; a dream that seemed to fulfil a childhood longing, a longing for a beautiful rose cottage with an obedient and loving husband of 50 years, strengthened by each waking day. A head of flowing sunshine of innocence and hope, an idealistic and sheltered mind, and a heart with one singular ambition.
When looking for a home The Daisies touched her arm in a loving motion. She stirred inside; a half-smile attached itself to her spirit. There would be no other place quite like the charm of living in a place with such a delightfully cheery name. She'd hang baskets of flowers, and water them daily, greeting neighbours with a huge smile as she collected the milk from her doorstep for the first cuppa of the day.
Today, Florence is riddled with arthritic pain and the despair of loneliness. The loneliness of the expanse of the distance between her reality and from the hopes she still holds, like a sweater of the deceased; a lingering scent of what was.
Quietly broken, Florence collected her pills and departed from the store after a well felt thanks to the store assistant. She would return to her number 5 flat and make a cup of tea for herself while dishing out food for her pet cat "Tibby".
Her life centred around the small yet convenient area of The Daisies, Westons pharmacy, and Sainsburys. The world had become so small, yet utterly consuming.
Tonight, she would go to bed early, as she has done for as many years as she cares to recall. The years are now overstretched, and in the same instance, a fast blur of similarity.
The daisies no longer grow.
When looking for a home The Daisies touched her arm in a loving motion. She stirred inside; a half-smile attached itself to her spirit. There would be no other place quite like the charm of living in a place with such a delightfully cheery name. She'd hang baskets of flowers, and water them daily, greeting neighbours with a huge smile as she collected the milk from her doorstep for the first cuppa of the day.
Today, Florence is riddled with arthritic pain and the despair of loneliness. The loneliness of the expanse of the distance between her reality and from the hopes she still holds, like a sweater of the deceased; a lingering scent of what was.
Quietly broken, Florence collected her pills and departed from the store after a well felt thanks to the store assistant. She would return to her number 5 flat and make a cup of tea for herself while dishing out food for her pet cat "Tibby".
Her life centred around the small yet convenient area of The Daisies, Westons pharmacy, and Sainsburys. The world had become so small, yet utterly consuming.
Tonight, she would go to bed early, as she has done for as many years as she cares to recall. The years are now overstretched, and in the same instance, a fast blur of similarity.
The daisies no longer grow.
Wednesday, 8 July 2009
Fabulous.
Moths, dancing amongst silhouetted creases; shadows fluttering between light, an elaborate flitter between sentiment and action. A display past imperfect faces, grammar, substances. A thousand moths, and one.
Naked and true, disappointment, and disappointment, smiling holding hands.
Little angels in rows, saintly statistics aligned in tune with their chorus, a new born. An appointment, arch in shape; ever drifting descent, toward my head.
Great Fall into hole; scratching, fading a silhouette.
A moth flies.
Naked and true, disappointment, and disappointment, smiling holding hands.
Little angels in rows, saintly statistics aligned in tune with their chorus, a new born. An appointment, arch in shape; ever drifting descent, toward my head.
Great Fall into hole; scratching, fading a silhouette.
A moth flies.
Tuesday, 7 July 2009
Fair.
The romantic chance encounter, the awkward hello, and slight rise of the right hand side of my mouth. A burst of red roses and trumpets playing, no. These facets fell down, gargled away and spat out toward the drainage system.
The slight breeze that surrounds us, the gentle warmth of the day, the unexpected feelings inside, they all were vanquished. Swallowed by the mouth of the sticky lips of a slut with all the intentions of the devil and a woman scorned, bitterly retorting after 30 years of entrusting a man with her entire being. Combined together, in fact, in a mish-mash of vulgarity, senselessness and maliciousness.
The worst amalgamation of mistrust; the beauty that one lusts for, and the intelligence that one loves.
When in the habit of knowing more than one should, one wonders whether or not certain revelations should come to light; whose place is it to remove the dusty and stained cloth that conceals the tar-like mess that underlies too many relationships?
I am quite aware, and whether out of spite, or out of the current status quo, I am all too aware. At what point are we able to "be okay" with the master betrayals of lovers - are some lovers never to be 'forgiven'? Do feelings ever truly dissipate? Dribbled out our mouths, with the mess of life, straight into the muck of the sewers beneath us.
Now a far cry from innocence, and the entangled sexual lives of the gay community, who is there left? It is now I begin to understand how someone like A-O can be so peculiar around the concept of liking another person. Two former lovers, sleeping together, and possibly with others at the same time? Could you imagine? This is of course not fact, nor speculation, but it is from the current initial point I begin to comprehend and build vignettes about the trueness of no desire due to persecution and disregard for another's feelings. How does one pick oneself up after such events? Truly shattering.
Each relationship, each person, slowly crumpled like pieces of paper.
I am unsure the creases can ever be flattened out.
There are too few bodies, minds, and hearts that remain sacred enough to immerse myself with. It is probably time to admit defeat, defeat to the grand city, culture, and apathy.
A sewn thought.
The slight breeze that surrounds us, the gentle warmth of the day, the unexpected feelings inside, they all were vanquished. Swallowed by the mouth of the sticky lips of a slut with all the intentions of the devil and a woman scorned, bitterly retorting after 30 years of entrusting a man with her entire being. Combined together, in fact, in a mish-mash of vulgarity, senselessness and maliciousness.
The worst amalgamation of mistrust; the beauty that one lusts for, and the intelligence that one loves.
When in the habit of knowing more than one should, one wonders whether or not certain revelations should come to light; whose place is it to remove the dusty and stained cloth that conceals the tar-like mess that underlies too many relationships?
I am quite aware, and whether out of spite, or out of the current status quo, I am all too aware. At what point are we able to "be okay" with the master betrayals of lovers - are some lovers never to be 'forgiven'? Do feelings ever truly dissipate? Dribbled out our mouths, with the mess of life, straight into the muck of the sewers beneath us.
Now a far cry from innocence, and the entangled sexual lives of the gay community, who is there left? It is now I begin to understand how someone like A-O can be so peculiar around the concept of liking another person. Two former lovers, sleeping together, and possibly with others at the same time? Could you imagine? This is of course not fact, nor speculation, but it is from the current initial point I begin to comprehend and build vignettes about the trueness of no desire due to persecution and disregard for another's feelings. How does one pick oneself up after such events? Truly shattering.
Each relationship, each person, slowly crumpled like pieces of paper.
I am unsure the creases can ever be flattened out.
There are too few bodies, minds, and hearts that remain sacred enough to immerse myself with. It is probably time to admit defeat, defeat to the grand city, culture, and apathy.
A sewn thought.
"When it is darkest, men see the stars".
I hadn't really any idea that today was Michael Jackson's memorial at the Staples Center in Los Angeles, USA. This blog goes against most of what I feel appropriate to discuss; fame, stardom, the act of idolising mere people, but much within the same vein it is exactly appropriate for the larger topic at hand: Humanity.
I can't help but feel that within the next 50 years there will be no more of these 'stars' to mourn for. I have always felt that mourning for someone you did not know was practically vulgar, and self-gratifying. Contrary to this belief, I feel on a personal level I mourn for the essence of my childhood that he was a part of. My mother used to play "HIStory" every Saturday as she did the house cleaning, and of course, I would listen, but detest this involuntary attack upon my audition. Perhaps too, we mourn for the general sense of loss of someone who, despite being no more personal to us than a myth, or phantom, was an icon and presence within our lives for such a great time. And when I say "our" I mean even vicariously from those around us.
When I left my house today the sun had begun to shine, but by the time I was in town I could feel a deep downpour was coming. Needless to say, I was soon drenched head to toe, dripping, but holding my head high. I did not run, I did not scream - I walked calmly. Liberation. A thunderstorm in July.
I got inside, and dried myself off, changing my clothes, to see that people had begun watching MJ's memorial. I reluctantly switched onto CNN/Facebook's coverage. I suppose it is captivating to watch a single person surrounded by millions. How the words, music, and actions of a person can influence and affect the world. I caught up to Lionel Richie's performance onward, but replayed what I'd missed after the memorial.
It was both touching, and offensive to hear so many thanks toward Michael for opening the doors to African-Americans, and people of all manner of race and creed. Only offensive in the sense as it appeared at times to be somewhat of a rally, instead of a mourning. There are numerous forms of discrimination and yet race was only the real kind mentioned. To reduce a person who can longer speak in response, is perhaps, a little disrespectful. In any sense, it got me thinking about love, fear, hate and the spectrum of human interaction despite differences. I have never disliked any person because of a trait other than personality differences, but then, would it not be a better quality for me to possess to be able to appreciate and surpass the truth that some people are not my kind of people, and not become bitter over it? The trouble, I suppose, resides in the very nature of the 'dislike'. If we are inherently opposed, how are we able to overcome this? An integral part of this answer must surely be by leading by example. I could make the first move with several people in 'making amends' - even for troubles I have not propagated, but, I do not, because I do not want to. In this non-action I lead by non-example. A foul example.
It is easier to categorise people into groups: you need only look at Facebook et al to see this, we have embarked on a pixelated mission to organise and arrange our life and friendships into visibly neat little categories. "Friends", "University friends", "Family", "Partners", "Ex-partners". It is perhaps comforting to be able to do this, and a major part of Internet obsession. We de-humanise people so it is easier to hold grudges, gossip, and hate without due reason.
Recently I have felt that younger generations must be psychologically completely differently predisposed. What effects does growing up with the Internet have?
I have my theories. When you hear about the good one man, now lost, attempted to achieve, you can't help but take stock of your own life, and if you do not automatically do so then perhaps you should take a longer look in your fragile mirror.
Nothing I have said is novel, but I hope people find some truth within it.
I guess, my question is: Will people in future even try?
With no real recollection of the video, after the memorial the first song I listened to was "Stranger in Moscow" on youtube.com.
On the way home, in the rain, I had a packet of "Walkers" Salt n' Vinegar crisps in-hand and a homeless man asked without asking for some of them. I gave him a few from my packet. After I had walked a while, I realised I could have simply given him the entire packet itself.
Now of course, in time, these songs will adopt an even greater emphatic concern for my weary mind and heart.
I was wandering in the rain, mask of life, feelin' insane, swift and sudden fall from grace, sunny days seem far away, Kremlins shadow belittlin' me, Stalins tomb won't let me be, on and on and on it came, wish the rain would just let me..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Here abandoned in my fame, Armageddon of the brain, KGB was doggin' me, take my name and just let me be, then a begger boy called my name, happy days will drown the pain, on and on and on it came, and again, and again, and again...Take my name and just let me be..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Like stranger in Moscow, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, I'm livin' lonely, I'm livin' lonely, baby, stranger in Moscow.
I can't help but feel that within the next 50 years there will be no more of these 'stars' to mourn for. I have always felt that mourning for someone you did not know was practically vulgar, and self-gratifying. Contrary to this belief, I feel on a personal level I mourn for the essence of my childhood that he was a part of. My mother used to play "HIStory" every Saturday as she did the house cleaning, and of course, I would listen, but detest this involuntary attack upon my audition. Perhaps too, we mourn for the general sense of loss of someone who, despite being no more personal to us than a myth, or phantom, was an icon and presence within our lives for such a great time. And when I say "our" I mean even vicariously from those around us.
When I left my house today the sun had begun to shine, but by the time I was in town I could feel a deep downpour was coming. Needless to say, I was soon drenched head to toe, dripping, but holding my head high. I did not run, I did not scream - I walked calmly. Liberation. A thunderstorm in July.
I got inside, and dried myself off, changing my clothes, to see that people had begun watching MJ's memorial. I reluctantly switched onto CNN/Facebook's coverage. I suppose it is captivating to watch a single person surrounded by millions. How the words, music, and actions of a person can influence and affect the world. I caught up to Lionel Richie's performance onward, but replayed what I'd missed after the memorial.
It was both touching, and offensive to hear so many thanks toward Michael for opening the doors to African-Americans, and people of all manner of race and creed. Only offensive in the sense as it appeared at times to be somewhat of a rally, instead of a mourning. There are numerous forms of discrimination and yet race was only the real kind mentioned. To reduce a person who can longer speak in response, is perhaps, a little disrespectful. In any sense, it got me thinking about love, fear, hate and the spectrum of human interaction despite differences. I have never disliked any person because of a trait other than personality differences, but then, would it not be a better quality for me to possess to be able to appreciate and surpass the truth that some people are not my kind of people, and not become bitter over it? The trouble, I suppose, resides in the very nature of the 'dislike'. If we are inherently opposed, how are we able to overcome this? An integral part of this answer must surely be by leading by example. I could make the first move with several people in 'making amends' - even for troubles I have not propagated, but, I do not, because I do not want to. In this non-action I lead by non-example. A foul example.
It is easier to categorise people into groups: you need only look at Facebook et al to see this, we have embarked on a pixelated mission to organise and arrange our life and friendships into visibly neat little categories. "Friends", "University friends", "Family", "Partners", "Ex-partners". It is perhaps comforting to be able to do this, and a major part of Internet obsession. We de-humanise people so it is easier to hold grudges, gossip, and hate without due reason.
Recently I have felt that younger generations must be psychologically completely differently predisposed. What effects does growing up with the Internet have?
I have my theories. When you hear about the good one man, now lost, attempted to achieve, you can't help but take stock of your own life, and if you do not automatically do so then perhaps you should take a longer look in your fragile mirror.
Nothing I have said is novel, but I hope people find some truth within it.
I guess, my question is: Will people in future even try?
With no real recollection of the video, after the memorial the first song I listened to was "Stranger in Moscow" on youtube.com.
On the way home, in the rain, I had a packet of "Walkers" Salt n' Vinegar crisps in-hand and a homeless man asked without asking for some of them. I gave him a few from my packet. After I had walked a while, I realised I could have simply given him the entire packet itself.
Now of course, in time, these songs will adopt an even greater emphatic concern for my weary mind and heart.
I was wandering in the rain, mask of life, feelin' insane, swift and sudden fall from grace, sunny days seem far away, Kremlins shadow belittlin' me, Stalins tomb won't let me be, on and on and on it came, wish the rain would just let me..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Here abandoned in my fame, Armageddon of the brain, KGB was doggin' me, take my name and just let me be, then a begger boy called my name, happy days will drown the pain, on and on and on it came, and again, and again, and again...Take my name and just let me be..
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
How does it feel (how does it feel), how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel, how does it feel (how does it feel now), how does it feel, how does it feel, when you're alone and you're cold inside.
Like stranger in Moscow, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, we're talkin' danger, we're talkin' danger, baby, like stranger in Moscow, I'm livin' lonely, I'm livin' lonely, baby, stranger in Moscow.
Saturday, 4 July 2009
Montauk.
Just over 2 days after seeing the "red star" in the sky for the second time in my life.
I was mostly tired, half frustrated, watching "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind". They were in Montauk, USA, and I was in Brighton, UK. I picked up a book I'd purchased from a charity shop with Leila, "The Pearl Bastard". Where should feature? Yes, Montauk.
The most interesting thing I found from Montauk was this:
It has little relevance for me, but, the coincidence was interesting enough.
I was mostly tired, half frustrated, watching "Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind". They were in Montauk, USA, and I was in Brighton, UK. I picked up a book I'd purchased from a charity shop with Leila, "The Pearl Bastard". Where should feature? Yes, Montauk.
The most interesting thing I found from Montauk was this:
It has little relevance for me, but, the coincidence was interesting enough.
Wednesday, 1 July 2009
If in my garden I am trimming words and sentences.
I sat happily sipping away at my Glenns vodka and lemonade at my desk, as a file finished downloading. I watched people I know sucking cock as part of a living, and Laura Marling sang:
"He went crazy at 19, said he'd lost all his self-esteem, and couldn't understand why he was crying". It was just another incident where the associations appeared all too convenient. I can't say that I judge people for doing it, although, in reality my judgements upon it are probably more than transparent. I feel it is a shame; it leads me back to the point that the actions you make now lay down the foundations for subsequent relations, and the dismissal of other potential relations.
I'm wearing a cloak of prose. That is my action, and fashion. Others prefer to declare their insanity by means of undressing, eating, snorting, abstaining, cutting, working, and an innumerable amount of other actions and non-actions that as a whole, comprise our destruction and salvation.
It was 8am as I sat on Vikee's bed, bearing all. We hadn't slept. I set out the history of my lovers on her bed, and the actions involved. I told my story, my version, my feelings and thoughts. Too often people fall victim to being the slave of gossip, rumour, and the idleness of non-thought. I feel one of the biggest sins of life is to lack individual thought - denying yourself the freedom to unchain yourself from the poison people spew. You are not so ignorant, really, we know when people are lying or exaggerating, but the entertainment is so intense that we lay ourselves down; a meal for the talker, on a deliciously sticky web. There is no single correct version to any story; there is an intolerable ocean of facts, both unsaid and vocalised, living in disarray, crashing into one another.
These waves have crashed.
So now, I stand before tabula rasa. The clean, the unknown, the unhad. We are so 'happened' to at such tender ages, how is it that people can find the strength now to overcome the troubles they hold so dear to them?
I am quite positive that the world has not changed in the thousands of years man has roamed freely and captive. Yes, we now hold more information about the land, sea, and space around us. Our neighbours and relatives and the insides of our heads, but any one person from 2009 could be associated with any one person from 1009. An identical or uncanny resemblance with regards to mannerisms and personality.
We still behave erroneously, and destructively; we are logically illogical. My time may be cut short; the mistakes of poisoning my body, destroying the space I fill, given to me over 21 years ago now. I can't help but feel every person I have known, whirring around my head - I do not forget. I can't help but feel the next 1000 years will yield similar results.
Knowledge may very well be power, but the effects of the world, and living within it, still remain. I'm watching things revolve in an ever so slight way; the truth, slowly revealing its face to me from behind its smoky mask. It is exciting, but what will become of me when I stand face-to-face with the nightmare? The nightmare of knowing all of what you don't want to know. I can hold confidence in a cup, and drink from it, I can sit quietly, and notice, but how am I to speak up in a room filled with white noise exuded from every soul that has, is and will be? We are each a blip; a glitch in existence, we already were - we are not. Ultimately, very few of us exist. We become the abstract at conception. What greater pity can be had than for the living dead?
"He went crazy at 19, said he'd lost all his self-esteem, and couldn't understand why he was crying". It was just another incident where the associations appeared all too convenient. I can't say that I judge people for doing it, although, in reality my judgements upon it are probably more than transparent. I feel it is a shame; it leads me back to the point that the actions you make now lay down the foundations for subsequent relations, and the dismissal of other potential relations.
I'm wearing a cloak of prose. That is my action, and fashion. Others prefer to declare their insanity by means of undressing, eating, snorting, abstaining, cutting, working, and an innumerable amount of other actions and non-actions that as a whole, comprise our destruction and salvation.
It was 8am as I sat on Vikee's bed, bearing all. We hadn't slept. I set out the history of my lovers on her bed, and the actions involved. I told my story, my version, my feelings and thoughts. Too often people fall victim to being the slave of gossip, rumour, and the idleness of non-thought. I feel one of the biggest sins of life is to lack individual thought - denying yourself the freedom to unchain yourself from the poison people spew. You are not so ignorant, really, we know when people are lying or exaggerating, but the entertainment is so intense that we lay ourselves down; a meal for the talker, on a deliciously sticky web. There is no single correct version to any story; there is an intolerable ocean of facts, both unsaid and vocalised, living in disarray, crashing into one another.
These waves have crashed.
So now, I stand before tabula rasa. The clean, the unknown, the unhad. We are so 'happened' to at such tender ages, how is it that people can find the strength now to overcome the troubles they hold so dear to them?
I am quite positive that the world has not changed in the thousands of years man has roamed freely and captive. Yes, we now hold more information about the land, sea, and space around us. Our neighbours and relatives and the insides of our heads, but any one person from 2009 could be associated with any one person from 1009. An identical or uncanny resemblance with regards to mannerisms and personality.
We still behave erroneously, and destructively; we are logically illogical. My time may be cut short; the mistakes of poisoning my body, destroying the space I fill, given to me over 21 years ago now. I can't help but feel every person I have known, whirring around my head - I do not forget. I can't help but feel the next 1000 years will yield similar results.
Knowledge may very well be power, but the effects of the world, and living within it, still remain. I'm watching things revolve in an ever so slight way; the truth, slowly revealing its face to me from behind its smoky mask. It is exciting, but what will become of me when I stand face-to-face with the nightmare? The nightmare of knowing all of what you don't want to know. I can hold confidence in a cup, and drink from it, I can sit quietly, and notice, but how am I to speak up in a room filled with white noise exuded from every soul that has, is and will be? We are each a blip; a glitch in existence, we already were - we are not. Ultimately, very few of us exist. We become the abstract at conception. What greater pity can be had than for the living dead?
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