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[08 Nov 2006|12:08am] |
Between the pumping of bass and the thumping of lights, I found him, knees buckled and arms on the bar, cradling his dreams and sleeves lashing about in slivers of Corona. I tried to hoist him up, god knows I tried, but I couldn't do it. Only he could do it.
I said it'd get better, i'm not quite sure how..but I believe it. I don't believe anymore in fate being kind or of the seas crashing in the right direction, the pull of the moon brining her back...I told him and I rested my hand on his shoulder, told him he'd be alright.
And he will. I know he will. I told him through the intrusive bar air and the shunting of eighties beats that when I let the silver melt I knew I could forget. I told him it gets easier with every day and, now, while he's still young, he's got ten years on me. While he wept and he craved and pined, I drifted off and gazed into the lights of the pumps, wondering where i'd left me all this time.
Was I saying the right thing? Of course I was, but you never know when you're just at the door of recovery yourself. Love does that to you. Was I successful? Could I have remained friends? The lights went up on us a long time ago, and the lights went up in the bar, but am I stronger now? Am I right to have thought the way I did, to write the things I did?
My words fly forth and he sinks into the bar..I don't know but I know I helped in some way..just my one brush with the stars helps me think straight. She and he and she and I may never be okay with one another, but the fact remains,
Our hearts are in the right place.
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[08 Nov 2006|12:18am] |
Somebody out there must like me.
Every so often, a virtual hug comes my way. Somebody is thinking of me, while i'm in that bar, alone. Somebody is creating me in the wind, somebody is casting a sillouhete of me into the canvas and somebody is forcing my outline into the wall.
Whoever they are, they appear to know me, of my peculiar notions and of my rough edges, my coughs in the morning without being there, without knowing, without meeting. They've slipped into my winter coat and curled a snaking arm around my waist without seeing my eyes for real.
Snow? I was there, dancing barefoot amongst the candy canes on the trees and the red bloom of the roses that prick and poke the little heads up through the flakes. Up through the blankets, she grows, she tames my thorns and tickles my hide and she's palpable.
She gives me no attention, yet gives me more than I could hope for. She is the glimmer in the dull sand, the tearing of the cloth, she is the little wind that carries the soles of my feet fowards. She is the second and the new, she is calm yet brittle, astute yet scattered and she's got black hair in her face, whipping and sticking as the rain wets her skin.
She is nobody you know, but I know her.
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[08 Nov 2006|03:11pm] |
D.B.C Pierre is on Five live. How about that. He's the author of a book I was once given at a particularly memorable time. Vernon God Little was it's name. He's a good scribbler.
Work was orthadox at best. Though not orthadox in the crap sense, for once. I was out twenty minutes early and I am grateful for that.
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[08 Nov 2006|07:14pm] |
A small exercise to assist in my writing some homeowork.
About eleven years ago, I got my first job, and as it turned out...the worst of the two I have so far had. I actually quite like that fact. I did it for three months, until such a time that I became deliberately so crap that they kept moving me to more and more menial tasks until they finally got rid of me. I think on that final day I screamed myself sick with happiness.
It was a hellish crawl. I had to arise at five in the morning, five in the fucking morning every day, six days a week. I had to leave the house and shamble to the outside of the New Inn, where I would wait not knowing whether to yawn or cry as the sleep in my eyes was obliterated by the cruel sun. I think it is that which is responisble for my utter and unending hatred of all that is summer, and i've not quite got over it since. Compared to that, my current job is a peach. I would wait and the minibus would trundle around the corner to ferry me ten awful rattling miles to Deal Salads, which was situated in the middle of fields with no hope of escape. Like Alcatraz but with salads. I would stare mournfully through the sun-blasted windows as I was driven inside and knew I wouldn't escape again for another nine hours, by which time it would be four. The trip home would take another half an hour. By which time it would be five. At five I would have nothing to do but try and sleep. Remember how I talk of insomnia? Well, here it had particular resonance, as I would try to sleep early to wake up in time for work the next day. As it took me fucking HOURS to sleep anyway, I would have to literally go straight to bed. At about six.
Then i'd wake up at about twelve, because I can't sleep all night. I would be hot, tired, weary and not at all in the mood for doing anything other than staring at the ceiling. Worst time of my life, really. I could happily have buried a hook in my chest. I would get up, swig a bottle of milk before realising it was off, and spit it out, ready to hurl myself through a window.
Then i'd go back to bed and try to sleep. Not worth it, at the most a couple of hours. The sun would cheerily blast me awake at about three and i'd groan myself over to try and bury my head under the covers. No good, sunlight gets you wherever you are. No autumn grace, no whispering fluttering sleep, no leaves and no beauty. Just a tumbling sigh and a cracking of light in my head. The sweat would acre up on my brow and i'd have myself up, yet again, to that godforesaken fucking factory.
Deal Salads was at least cooler inside than out. It was a big partitioned group of warehouses with sickly blue and white walls..bright big airy rooms and the scent of lettuce, onions, and carrots and things all providing a messy aroma and an odd frission of the sterile and natural. I began in the horrid big white packing room, where we were to stand for about three hours in a fucking line, shovelling tomatoes and lettuce and pasta and things into small plastic cases, without being able to move. It was like being a battery hen, for Christ's sake. I was then moved to the lettuce rinsing part. After that it was the prep area, where I would have to peel hundereds upon hundereds of carrots.
And then I was moved again, to the tray wash, the worst. I had to stack baskets, all day, from the back of a tray wash, on huge wooden pallets, and then move the sodding things into the freezer room so that they could be filled with yet more crap. Jesus H Christ, i'm glad i'm not there anymore.
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[08 Nov 2006|11:42pm] |
I read briefly tonight a piece of writing I wish I could, wish I had the tools to fashion, wish I could still have the blood and soul to write. It was about meeting someone you've never met, and it hit because it's precisely the kind of thing I was so adept at doing a year or so ago. It was sublime, beautiful and moving.
It's nice to see others having that kind of feeling about someone and the words to say it. I wonder if I myself have in the heat of summer and of heartless day lost the way and the will to love and to express unconditionally. I hope I haven't.
Though I did feel that way last night, about someone. I always have, for a long time. It's the most warming and bracing thing i've had for an age. She's someone i'll never likely meet, given as she lives in a far flung province, and I live..well..here. She's a flummoxed sweetheart, a bright young thing, a fission of wayward emotion but pin-sharp emotion. She's a lot like me, unable to grasp and to affix clarity in any real area of her heart, but this makes her bristle with verve, exitement, wide eyes and sparkling wonderment.
She's the hispanic genius. If only she knows how richly I admire her growth and development. She apportions some of her writing to me, but it is not so. She has bundles of potential. The only thing perhaps I have done is implant something of a relaxed and calm sea in her storms. If so, long may this influence continue.
I could love her, definately. But, as i've learned, it's not easy to carry out such things at a distance. I am however uttely in awe of her. I would love to hang my hair around her face, touch lips with her in the faintest of ways..to stroke her eyes with a chilled breath. It may never happen, but hey. Something of life is built in what ifs, and fantasy.
I failed to carry out my promise of school work tonight. I am too bundled up in being a drunken schlameal. I had a few whiskeys, which as you can possibly ascertain is my loquacious drink. It brings out the flow in my fingertips. They cum words, they spurt text. They literally orgasm writing.
Perhaps I should switch from the heavy and lumbersome Murphys to this for a while.
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