Here it goes again…

I wrote a book last night made from cutouts of old newspapers. It was a masterpiece. But I used too much glue and now I can’t open it.

The flat is darkend by twilight and sinful intent as I worm my way through the hallways and people to reach the living room. The soft glow of candlelight beckons me to the floor where you lie with your suspenders pulled tight and corset over flowing with tantalising flesh as I take my prize. The joy of the work is long and sweaty, and just before I climax I pull out, because something’s changed. Your face is no longer smiling but sneering with lust and no hint of love. I realise with horror that it wasn’t you all along, but a relic of a life dissipated by winds. The curtains catch fire and I retrieve her thong from a lampshade and throw it at her. The heat arcs round and tongues of fire carry it to the feet of another relic of the past, one who looks at me with wrinkled, degrading eyes and tuts with her hissing teeth.

The room’s burning now. I push the fire to one side like a curtain and exit the living room to the wide expanse of the hall. Your brother is there and he wants to hit me more than he ever wanted to hit your father, and I can see the hate and rage building up in his eyes as he stands and glares at me, asking for my advice on schoolwork. I push him to the side and he falls through the fire, laughing. I run and run but I can hardly move. Fleets of girls beset themselves upon me, grabbing and screaming as I struggle with my mollasses movement. They’re all too young and too naked for me to look, but they keep screaming so loud that I cannot push them out.

When I wake I’m sitting in the middle of a university lecture. My brother is sitting beside me drinking from a hipflask and shouting glaring truths to the dead lecturer. He smiles a wicked smile at me and I grab him by the front of the shirt, lifting him off the ground with both my fists balled into the shirt that’s running with animals. I ask him to stop shouting, to tell me what this means, to tell me what to do.

And he laughs. He throws his head back and utters a devlish laugh that disconnects his face from his jaw and sends his head cascading to the ground. The gurgling from his exposed throat causes his tnogue to writhe like a snake and I drop him to the ground, and there you are, smiling with your hands in your pockets and a cigarette being held aloof by an ornate red holder. The forest around us is burning and the embers drift between us like snow and coats the ground only to be disturbed by my footprints as I walk towards you. I reach out to touch you but a blazing flame erupts between us and I wake up in my bed dripping with hot, sticky sweat and choking back on the terror and sadness.

Gondry wrote in Gael Garcia Bernal’s voice, saying that in dreams, emotions are overwhelming. And that they most certainly are.

There’s an empty bowl on my bedside table and a cup of coffee growing on my desk. Tags litter the floor, overlapped only by frills of black and white. The peanut butter is almost gone and the eggs are out of date. There is little tea to speak of. The bed sheets (unchanged) lie rumpled and folded in the smallest chance that memories could escape.

Come home.

Ahhh. I love experimentation, don’t you?

Godfuckingdamnit it’s one of those things where I try and try and try my sorry little heart out and when ive got it right oh when i think ive got it oh so fucking right something comes along and the world tumbles from my fingers and shatters in the lonely dirt and BY FUCKING GOD AM I SICK AND TIRED OF PEOPLE AND PUTTING ME DOWN when im reading two very different but identical pieces of paper that insult me in two very different but identical ways yes theres a place and time to nudge and smile and say the truth but fuck me if you didnt dig and dig and hack and drink glorious red and yes one was for business one was for pure cold hearted business where the hacking and slashing was all for one and one for all but one was sly and one was deep and fuck it if i can be bothered with the whining and the repetition and the happier than happy smiles that snake from overly red lips as you shout naively into the world that YES YES YOU ARE A WHOLE PERSON when in fact you cannot be and you will not be until you wake to the rampant cynicism through the course of history and see for yourself that the world is not bathed in red or black and your reason for thinking ends and dont think ive forgotten you oh yes you with your business eyes and business tongue that has left scathing whip marks across my ego and im sick and tired of people putting me down for my confidence for my vanity for my egotism because they are so wrapped up in their little insecurities that they cannot bear to see someone who smiles in the morning and knows who they are and what they want and i dont want to become one of those people wondering who the fuck they are on a sunday morning because i know yes i know and i know with my smug little smile and my styled hair and purposefully unkempt stubble because fuck YOU if you take that away from me and disrupt my red hearted vibration through life and i am down but i will be up and if you dare take that away from me again i swear to fucking god that i will make you pay your pound of flesh.

So there’s a ghost in my psychology class, who slinks and stalks and glides in the way the ghosts tend to do. What is also does is sit and take lecture notes, which I’ve never really seen a ghost do before. Not that I’m frequently visited by ghosts or anything. Her curls cascade down her back as her pen scratches ominously on the paper. I try and leave the lecture hall early occasionally to catch another view of her face, but her eyes flow from my gaze and she goes as quickly as she comes. I tried sitting beside her once, expecting her to notice me and look at me, but she just stared stright ahead and took notes on the cerebellum. I packed my notebook into my bag and when I looked up she was gone again.

I know it’s not the ghost I think I’m seeing. Her eyes smouldered with the fires of hell and this ghost leaks black ink and smiles with the beginning of spring. Even so, a quick glance at her roots my feet to the ground and makes my jacket creak with the heaviness of old wood.

(How’s that for a metaphor, bitches)

And dreams are plaguing me again. I fall into a deep drunken slumber and my mind is running with images that won’t stop screaming no matter how hard I yell. Not all of them are bad though. Sometimes there’re flowing fields of green that ripple under my feet, and I wake up before the sky darkens and ruins it all with solid rain.

Sharkey and George crime busters of the sea do doo do do doo doo dooo, whirls round and round in the demented merry-go-round of memories that sing soprano purrs and lick with velcro tongues. Cancer runs in their family, winning first place with her as it hit the heart that thundered every time my fingers touched the electric skin of her nubile body. There was rasping and breathing and starving as I stood far away holding a roll of selotape and laughing they’re over his eyes, he can’t see hearing i’m going to kill you when you get this off me replying then i won’t help you take it off then will i? and she was falling on a needle with eyes fluttering with the beginnings of a dream suddenly silenced. Her sister went many years ago and I sat on the couch and cried my sorry little heart out but this time I put my feet up on the balcony and toast silently to the night before downing the whisky in one. She was the one who liked Felix cat food i hear a friend say I used to lift her up and spin her around when I was a kid I replied and all the while my brother is stumbling around with his hands selotaped over his eyes yelling over our laughter as we held each other up straight. She used to run behind the washing machine and once fell into the bin, the swing top spinning comically as a gentle mewing erupted from the base. And now she’s asleep in ashes and cooling away in the wind.

And that’s how it goes.

I decided to be practical yesterday and took a walk round the Necropolis in Glasgow. There was a dense fog and crows harked within the gray curtain, making me feel genuinely spooked as I made my way between the ancient gravestones. My shoes were damp with dew, and I stumbled a few times as I tripped over more than one gravestone hidden in the undergrowth. I smoked, and when I was finished I spat into a tissue and stuck it into my pocket. It wouldn’t have mattered much though. The occasional crackle under my feet told me about the broken vodka bottles and a few used Johnnies here and there told me more than I wanted to know.

I was researching for a story. It struck me a while ago that you can’t write something with only half knowledge of it, making up the rest as your pen flows with ink. Most of the good books I’ve read have included in depth detail into the most arbitrary of subjects. I bring up the examples of Fight Club with bomb making, The Black Dahlia for police politics, and Amsterdam for both orchestra composing and newspaper editing. So I was researching grave digging.

There was the strangest gravestone that I came across though. To be perfectly honest, I fell across it. The sun managed to pierce the fog for a moment and I was so dazzled that I completely caught my foot on the stone, sending me falling to the ground with my knees hitting off my assailant. I turned over and examined the stone to find a worn down slab of marble in the shape of an open book. Saying it was made of marble is a sheer guess though. The stone was so whithered by rain and age that it had turned a rough gray, and it was half buried under rich smelling earth and grass that played in the breeze. From the pages of the book I could only make out four words; “Sabell” and “also their family”. It made me wonder just who I was standing on.

Graveyards always give me a strangely surreal feeling. I’m alive, and you’re not ha ha ha isn’t it funny? No probably not, but its still humorous that I’m standing with two feet firmly planted where your coffin is buried. I wonder what your life is like all the way down there surrounded by earth. No one would really come to visit you, you know, since you died about a hundred and fifty years ago. What do you look like?

Hmm. Sounds like the makings of a good story.

Yesterday I saw Mike type out line after line of PHP coding, and I swear to God it seemed more like poetry than anything thrown at me by Byron or Heaney or Shakespeare.

Hence the post yesterday. I felt like experimenting.

The segment concerning Promap is a relic from my old blog. The rest is new.

(don’t judge me too much. i was young)

FOR THE LOVE OF FUCKING CHRIST.

FUCKING PROMAP!

(a post written two years ago is found in the dreary wastelands of a search engine that races its min d with arbitrary worrrrds a nd comes up with mag-ick)

(wanderers stumble across such a treasure and th-black-ink that they know what it means)

(they do not)

I would like to remind any and all visitors to this site that this post from an old personal blog which was written in August 2005.itellthembutdotheylistenohtheydonot.

(and so, two years after this post was created, these wanderers scrawl one final message before the wi nds of life dis-murder_mystery-solve them)

(and i cannot answer them)

the memories are stored in everything that you can imagine_ smell especially, but not limited to that_ i heard someone say a phrase and my mind was flung to huddled in front of the breakfast club and eating peanut butter raw from the

and smiles and sunsets and grumpy eyebrows that furrow and smile and shine and feel of silk and god that silk

but enough distractions.

I’m liking this.