This is about distribution of fiction.
Archive for October, 2009
The shadow of the ghost of the idea of Ian Curtis looms large over a pocket of North London. He remains unaware that perga paper and print will disrupt his intentions.
“Look, just don’t go listening to Joy Division.”
An overnight reappraisal of “Heart Swells/Pacific Daylight Time”: Instant transmission of intelligent heartbreak.
“You are thinking about a too-recent history,” she said “But you don’t have to worry that much about the future.”
“Heart Swells/Pacific Daylight Time” is a song of two faces.
Empty, fill furniture, move furniture,
The shape of the watch hanging, reflecting sunlight, losing battery
There’s a Polaroid Press entry written after a date in Canary Wharf where I remark that buildings don’t reflect the trauma of the financial sector, they seem oblivious. It is telling that I wrote this just days before being dumped.
Of course, Temptation’ was playing.
The beginning of the end involved table-tennis.
The Lady’s Mum made a coffee I couldn’t refuse. I became quickly hooked.
The boy winds up on the W3 again, watching the weather. It is colder now, and wet.
Julia’s image, hidden by a gas-mask, clawing at the sky. I liked the angles of her pen, rough-hewn and feathered.
Morley and the legends around the table over breakfast at Veselka’s: A “Nighthawks” for those arch-spined, close-sighted, Peel Sessions listeners.
The artist, all angles, reached for the sky.
Did you wonder where I went?
She wasn’t playacting.
I met Marc later. I like to think if we’d met years earlier then we’d have thought about our futures on the stony shore of Southend, and laughed about it later.
Much of it passed uneventfully, and that seemed good.
The Lady threw away stress with a baseball. Occasional snow and tombstones formed an unseasonal backdrop.
Mirrors, clammy hair, scattered towels, pumps out the door, hand to the wall, the cold, snatching privacy.
When I’m home in her house it all makes sense.
What he doesn’t notice is the heart-outline of his latte foam, swiftly covered as it is by a plastic lid. She loves him, if only for a second.
Am I the son of Xtie?
The last time we could have crossed paths E- wasn’t there, appropriately.
“Hey, Gareth, I’m a mate of Kieron’s!”
Would I still well up to think of ‘To Build A Home’ had it not been for 2008?
Winter dragged, that year.
Winter dragged, that year.
And I started to focus, body wrecked by some torturous poison, dripping with sweat on a cold November night, legs buckling and stopping me shifting even a yard while I clutch at bags and vomit. And this focus brings with it gasps for air, whole leaves of spinach plucked from my nasal passage, bile and couscous pouring forth, frothing, and I wished the focus would pass because in this clarity, in this precision, in this ecstasy of pain the only thing I can hear beyond my heartbeat is The Lady waking up and saying “Can’t you do that somewhere else?”
Stressed, teeth ground: The Lady wore earplugs at night.