Monday, 22 June 2015

Keeping In Touch

The new exciting lunch facility is worth a visit mate yeah. At the entrance you're given a disposable tunic. At the exit you're hosed down and congratulated by a woman with a tattoo of a pricey cupcake somewhere on one of her legs. Before the exit you sit at a picnic table, attacking strips of gifted carcass with your hands and teeth, euphoric slop squirting down your neck and wrists, thinking about Europe.

Sunday, 14 June 2015

A Seal Around The Top

My appearance at the lung-judging festival was a year overdue. I knew this from the notes on the bottom of my repeat prescriptions, which had said bold and ineffective things, involving the words "must" and "essential", the last few times I'd collected my medicine from the chemist. I'd correctly assumed that the doctor wouldn't refuse to give me any, but hadn't thought the nurse would leave a voicemail full of antiseptic concern. We need to measure the capacity of your pipes. Your graph is full of gaps. Help us. Help us. But the last two times I'd done this I'd had index fingers wagged at my eyes, because I'd told them about how I inhale the fumes of burning money. And I find being judged to be a waste of my time. So I went with reluctance. But there were no fingers, I was surprised, just a flat statement of the capacity, four or five hundred lung-units, and I was weighed and measured, and found to be seventy or eighty of one thing, and a hundred and something of something else.

Thursday, 4 June 2015

Only So Much

I combed my brain to get out the crumbs and see what they all added up to. I sent the unnecessary cake away to be assessed, hoping its irregular texture might mean it's tremendous.
I watched a spider disappear into the new Thee Oh Sees album.
I read R. Adler's account of her experience of reading a P. Kael book and began to think I should think more about what I'm doing with all these words.
My role at work changed and now instead of putting people in rooms I put numbers in boxes. The boxes change colour when they're satisfied.
Barbaric fluctuations in the thickness of the five-pence piece cause frowns above the coin tray.

Friday, 8 May 2015

Spring Club Offers

I'm defending the house against furniture. The place I once ordered some from now seems to think I won't last a week without buying some more. Like it's bread. To entice me into another purchase of a lifetime they send me pictures of rooms it looks like no-one lives in. Small fluorescent paragraphs outline the tragedies associated with failure to spend. I didn't buy this sturdy and fragrant end table and now I have tuberculosis. / There's nothing made of oak in my kitchen, I have completely lost my mind.

Monday, 4 May 2015

Folded Arms

I finished Don Quixote and thought: now I can start reading again. This was an unfair, dismissive, glib, ungrateful thought, but there it was at the front of the queue, ahead of: it was great, fine, it's over, I recommend it, unless you don't like books, because they make you tired, because at school their launched corners hurt your skull, it's not going to help you out of your predicaments, I dunno what is, it's none of my business, there's nothing we can do. The donkey was my favourite, probably. If you only read one 400 year-old elongated piss-take this'd be the one. And obviously make sure you choose a translation that's lucid, supple, clear-eyed and bulbous, or you'll be wasting your time. Like if you're picking a biography, or the history of a place, or the life of an idea, you'd better make sure it's magisterial. If it's not magisterial it has no value at all.
I saw a book cover today that told me to GIVE IN and read the book it was covering. GIVE IN. Like it had me at gunpoint. I slapped it onto the floor and instructed it to reconsider its approach. The bookshop's staff escorted me to the pavement.

Saturday, 18 April 2015

A Burbling Old Sausage

A small delay while I had my chakras resurfaced. It took a while to find them, first, and then there were complications, as you'd expect, but I was eventually able to trouser a queen's pittance by flogging the full set to a wispy gentleman who insisted both he and I knew what we were on about. I didn't really believe him, but that doesn't mean he wasn't right. It took a few weeks to sharpen all the scissors and marinate the doctor's hands etc, and after the operation I woke up in a season of necessities where it rained capital letters and the wind tied knots in space and the internet completely froze over not entirely unwelcomely. So I was able to finish another book-length heap of sarcasm, and when I say finished I mean I stopped bothering with it and moved on to other nothings, and when I say book-length I mean short but double-spaced. I pressed the sequence of buttons that turned the file on my computer into a cardboard-coated rectangle on my doormat, next to and on top of all the adverts for potential politicians, all of us repeating ourselves, and I'm not sure what I'm doing but what they seem to be doing is using dead language to kill hope. Not really, no not really, no really. It's a lot more colourful this time, isn't it, with all the new squabblers blinking at each other and the hairy clown interrupting your morning flapjack to tell you voting's daft, and what would be much better is I don't know, I haven't read his book because the front cover highlights and reverses the word love within the word revolution, which indicates amongst other things a lack of terrific ideas, although I'm willing to believe he didn't scoop all his language from the mouths of boring corpses like all the people on my doormat did. And a Monty Python keeps e-cajoling me in bold yellow underlined writing to make a donation to the least credible mammal in existence, which will enter me into some sort of tombola that may result in a dinner date that neither of us or anyone else has ever, to my knowledge, expressed the slightest interest in.

Saturday, 28 March 2015

By The Minute

I went to the higher education facility to watch four women dance in salt. It was in the next town over. It was about rituals and saturation. I left work at lunch and on the top deck of the first bus I ate a meal deal and all its packaging and the bag it came in and the change from the fiver. The next town over had been straightened and polished since my last visit and I could see my face in the pavement. I spent one pound seventy nine on two books and went to catch the second bus. It drove with its door open, and when it turned to face the way it came I began to suspect I'd assumed too much about my ability to follow basic instructions. I told the driver all about my problems, using small words that fit through the holes in the perspex. I'd meant to catch the fifteen but ended up on the five. I was now late for the thing I'd set off two hours early to be early for. He cackled and burbled and said he hadn't been this amused since he found out his energy provider was the French government and he'd been giving them four or five pints' worth of his sterling every month for the honour of electrifying his hard-working British hovel. He said he couldn't help optimistically remembering that this didn't used to happen when we lived in the past like total idiots who knew nothing about how things were going to have to be in the realistic future. He naively syringed his memories of the public ownership of essential services into my astonished ear canals, then immediately realised he'd have to bury the bus with himself in it under the nearest rugby pitch to atone for this heretical sharing of fact. By this time I was disgracefully late, so I told him I couldn't stick around to help but that I hoped I'd never see him or his opinions again. The third bus took me to the higher education facility, where I crept obnoxiously into the theatre in time to see four women kneeling on a bed of salt scooping air into their mouths.