17th November 2020
Day 3? 5? of being in a bathrobe. It all melds into one, where the passing of time is irrelevant.
Marked only by my DREAM role, via a text from one of the agencies.
Put up as someone of interest among the crowd. Ah, all that training in ALRA, fulfilled! Headhunted now, my time has come where the future beckons as a Hallmark card.
Can’t even think of anything that I’ve done today. Will go out later to celebrate a friend’s birthday but can’t exactly write about that can I? Not when it hasn’t yet happened, this salient key to life right now. And doing it after, pissed, bike wobbly, headbutting the keyboard -ain’t nobody got time for dat.
nvb vbmn bvcmnnnnnnnnthedggdgmmmmmmm
Or can’t I? Here’s how it goes. We meet up near the river, I bring a bottle. We chat the opening niceties, progress into the lergy situation, than as the alcohol flows into gossip, then celebrity gossip it gets a bit more knees up Mother Brown. We talk about sex. Someone falls off an embankment, we chase a swan, I vomit.
Mirrored in a puddle I notice the Shard is on fire, from a freak sparkler, and come back to all you good people to report it. You heard it here first.
That does actually ignite a long buried memory suddenly.
Picture if you will through the mists of time. When Cai Guoqi did one of his firework installations across the Thames in 1999. Sold as a spectacular in which a blazing dragon was gonna breathe fire across brooding waters, swoop over the buildings and climb the central tower on the world’s largest modern art gallery, which thousands came to watch.
It was instead just a very, very long line of firecrackers looped across the river, then popping up the big chimney like Xmas lights on a tree. And at the end, it set fire to the Tate. We watched a sizeable blaze take hold on the upper balcony (flames over a storey high) for about 5 minutes before thankfuckfully it dwindled out or some blue elephant pissed on it. It was never reported.
Or the time I really believed I could open the plane windows and grab a cloud and it’d be fluffy.
I can’t be bothered to write any more. I mean man, what’s my motivation? Maaaan?
So where next on this winding journey of the mind?
To regale more down memory lane? Another diatribe down Politics Boulevard? Or a Youtube offering from Cell Block JZ? How trite.
There really isn’t more to it right now. I think I’ll watch people playing a computer game.
Or a reaction to someone watching someone playing a computer game. Life is but a dream. Like Inception.
I think some poetry is in order for times like this, to reflect and be still, and see a perspective too long shuttered by the ever un-present.
Yes, a little light haiku for the soul. It takes distance to see where one is standing, these instances of life’s stages, where one marries expectation with reality. -So many memories like the sun on a dusty bureau.
I was your favourite.
Sweet, honeyed tones in my ear.
But then you threw me.
Mrs Brown! Such smiles.
Storytime, upon your knee.
You I once shat on.
You Said You Had A Big One
Slapped on the keyboard.
`1QWZ2A34ERS5XTD6CFV8GBH9N0NP-PJK,,,LM..;//’”’]== By your bedside I see
An old Blackberry.
Life fuck my life fuck.
My life fuck my life fuck my.
Life fuck my life fuck.
Hello! I am back. Shard not on fire.
Said I can do it.
No! don’t need the train.
Vomit in my spokes.