asses all areas.

A friend of mine recently asked me how I decided what I wrote about in my blog. Actually, those weren’t her actual words, her actual words were;
‘What the fuck makes you think your life is so interesting that other people will want to read about it ?’

Which I prefer.

It’s a good point though – I don’t imagine my life to be any more compelling then say, yours or theirs, and I’d have to be a completely complacent numbskull to think otherwise. Similarly, ‘writing about things’ is no more specialised than keeping a diary or telling an anecdote – it’s just in the telling of – which is a more complicated and pertinently pretentious way of saying;
‘It’s the words you use’.

With this in mind, and in order to keep things simple so that my weekend addled brain doesn’t collapse under the weight of it’s own sleep deprived synapses and because even just typing these few lines has given me the kind of bewildered expression more commonly seen on my face when trying to solve a mathematical problem (and here I mean any mathematical problem - from equations and fractions and algebra to deterministic finite automata string searches.) I’m going to save writing a ‘proper’ blog till tomorrow or at the latest, next week.

Sooooooooo, coming up soon - Tina as a transformer made of cardboard, what Finch had to say when we watched Battles together and why you should never, never assume that your friends think the way you dress is cool.

p.s – Something for you to watch instead - this band have made my year – I’m in love with their singer. I’m in love with the way their sound is that of sunshine seen through slowly melting honey. I was so in love with their Glastonbury performance that I saw them twice.

story 7: what the ducking hell ?

*a note on this. i do not know what i was doing or what i was aiming for when i wrote this. i should be clear-headed - i haven't smoked or drank for a couple of days (maybe that's why) and i've been sleeping better than usual...so i don't know what went on here. it's messier than a crime scene. i do like it, in a way. but i also apologise...*

Her looks were average, but she had the legs of a duck. Slightly bowed, flat footed and webbed toed. The skin on them was scaly and tinged a vagrant orange like a boiled sweet sucked to a sliver on the tongue. When she moved the anatidae limbs caused her to stoop slightly, feet splayed slightly outwards, her rounded buttocks twitching and swaying in a neat waddle. There were soft downy feathers on her upper thigh in tawny browns, and no matter how often she plucked them they always grew back, bristling through the livid skin.
I can help you, he’d told her as she’d waddled through the park one morning. Trust me I’m a surgeon.
He was too, Dr Evern Dem Swiss no less, the swizz, the cheat, the fraud. Lara had looked down at her squat limbs, no thicker than a child’s arms and nodded tearfully. She had never dreamt of being any different but now that Dr Evern Dem Swiss had planted the seed of the idea it sprouted inside her gut with probing blind tubers. Seven days later she had arrived at the home of Dr Evern Dem Swiss, her feathered appendages tucked neatly beneath the folds of a long skirt.
The good Doctor had opened the door carrying two long, painfully sharp looking knives. He struck them purposefully together, drawing each wicked blade along the other with a metallic whicking sound. They had greeted each other, and as Lara had stepped through the door she noticed the smell of damson plums, rich and cloying.
Jam ? She’d asked.
The doctor had shaken his head. Plum sauce he’d answered, and furrowed his brow. To go with the pancakes.

looks like I picked the wrong time to start worrying…

…five in the am to be precise. perhaps it’s just the restlessness, the lying awake, the night on the cusp of dawn, or perhaps it was the dream i was having about david bowie (married to each other, kept dogs, lived in small terraced house, hid from photographers, cleaned his sparkly platform shoes etc,) but as soon as i woke up i knew, knew, that i was going to start worrying; upcoming job interview-what if i say the wrong thing or swear (likely) or spit while i’m talking or get distracted? moving house, moving counties, leaving friends, money – there is never a good time to worry about money granted, and i never have enough anyway, but money worries are always floating in the flotsam of my thoughts, waiting for a passing anxiety tide to drag it in – work, the Book, do I drink too much ? must cut down smoking, what if my dead leg means i’m paralysed ? did I switch off the gas ? by the time my alarm kicks off two hours later i’m such a neurotic wreck that i turn up for work looking like marty feldman with hair by tina turner.

at this juncture i found the recent photograph i'd taken of perranporth beach (left) and slipped reality aside for a moment. ahhhhhhhhh.

that aside, i made a small detour through town today - it was sunny and i’d two hours to get to work on account of my feverish morning – and found myself on an entirely new street which appeared to have sprung fully formed out of the ground between my place and the train station complete with flats and a sainsburys – i think it was under development prior to my going to cornwall and been completed and polished while I was away. i made my way through the deserted, eerily quiet new street, glancing in the windows of the new flats as i did so (at least those on the ground floor, i’m not the bfg)….how cosy they looked, mellow lit kitchens, espresso cups on the side, in another a pair of slippers lurked beneath a table and then i realised, with something like dawning horror that they were all fake – it was like westworld except without yul brenner (pity) – and the most sinister thing i’ve ever seen. no-one is making tea, yet there’s a pot and a cup and saucer on the table, even a bowl of sugar. phantom feet have kicked off slippers underneath a table and in another cosy, spotlit-yet-empty flat i passed there was a row of three orchids lined up in order of diminishing height. the most sinister thing i’ve seen in a while (reena and finch I hope you get back in time to see it in the grey light before people actually move in) and i urge any-one with spare time on their hands to go and view a ‘show-home’- if you don’t get a shiver at the stylised ‘features’ and lived-in touches then you are either (a) ill or (b) steven seagal (i.e soulless. dead eyed. inanimate).