Several names, some familiar, The Girl at The Crossroads is forever and after best known as The Girl. The Idea of Kate Jackson approves.
Archive for November, 2009
And it all comes together because the noise is too much and the distance is quite short and the view is pretty and the booze is cheap and the company feels good and he should have kissed her anyway.
“Can I have a hug?”
“I wonder if sometimes we all seem trapped in versions of Let’s Get Lost,” says Morley to the lot of us, breakfast at Veselka’s long since over. He pushes the salt around the table “It would be beautiful, wouldn’t it? Some detemporalised, black and white collection of ideas, loose connection, the shape of a man’s life through a medium.” “Maybe,” Johnson responds, “but haven’t we all already written that?”
Quinns and Sheret, wandering Hackney. There’s something pleasantly gormless about the pair of them, enough so that a young mother is moved to nickname them The Lost Boys. There is probably mileage in that.
There are stops, if not a route: New York, Montréal, L.A., San Diego.
In a basement club hiding undercover Kohl and Shambles sit amid the Coven. A ways away The Girl enters, stands with the next generation, waits for an introduction.
Echoing, forever and always, back and forwards though time and space and stuff; a room full of people yelling to ‘Song 2’.
Mirroring Veselka’s, but boozy; Webb, Jones, Bridle, Sheret.
Someone, somewhere, thought The Charles Lamb Pub would be a good idea. And they were right.
“Oh, I always pronounced it knee-ill-ism. Or Neilism.”
Like a beacon on the internet: ‘Get Excited and Make Things’. Time to plot.
“Paper is for wimps”
Sitting by the water’s edge I’m listening to Marc talk about things he’s seen. It’s not pleasant. I can’t imagine how hard it would be for him to tell me this in his own home. We start to think about the future.
L.A.T.E.R. that week.
What’s that Orwell line about re-writing history?
I start this project around this point. I can’t remember why, now, but I can point at the things that led to that moment. I had been asked by someone slightly crazier than I deserved if they might find themselves as a character in The Polaroid Press, and that horrified me. I wanted to put autobiography to bed, to think about it on such a demanding basis that I was left with fiction, and stories, where I hadn’t got any before. The problem is that it worked, and I am left unfinished with a too-recent history to consider.
Sat in Covent Garden, thinking about Veselka’s, he begins a work-year.
The idea of Kate Jackson features a little in this narrative, but she perhaps demands her own story. In that would be a chapter relating to the thunder and lightning she launched at the Astoria, and another about the cut of her cardigan on the cover of Plan B. There may be a passage on the restraint she feels in the vision of Erin O’Connor, and another about the power of “Nostalgia”. She will make it clear, by the final chapter, that the things worth dwelling on in life are the lived experiences, but at the very end she’ll imagine another world and dwell on that anyway.
We arrive during shift change at the crossroads. The idea of Kate Jackson is retreating, just a beret speck in the sunset. Her replacement has no name.
Dancing to ‘Canonball’ ought to come a little later, but I will forget that and instead write about ‘Brother Sport’.
“Friendly, but dull.”
The boy kicks around London. There is, really, a sense he should not be here.
In reference to ‘Dig Your Own Hole’: I’m unlikely to write as much as I ought to.
The delayed Auteur, morley, Doctor Gonzo and Mister Johnson have been waiting a long time for the boy with the skinny tie to arrive. They had almost finished breakfast at Veselka’s, and empty dishes and bottles clutter a table, showing hints of discussion in the residue. It looks like ideas, mostly, with borscht and waffles.
Chelsea to Slope, he enjoys what he knows of this town. Greatcoat kicking at his heels he stumbles at Bleeker and Broadway, nabs a Morley in L.E.S., dances with go-go’s at Trash and drinks away a slower year. He then walks through the doors of Veselka’s.
As lights explode in the sky every measure against pressure changes fail. A pop, a bubble, a nightmare headache; still and all the plane does not crash.
I consider this a victory.
I spent much of Christmas day alone, feverishly jabbing refresh to punch through the lag and be entertained. I was too cold to laugh, but knew a-change was a-coming.
Dark eyes, she cornered me in a sentence: “Come to New York with me. Really, come to New York with me.”
This goes somewhere now. I have been a lot of places, in a short time, and it is important to get it down. There is a distinction I want to make between the meditative process of getting to this year and the year itself. The year starts, like so much else, in New York: I have almost found Veselka’s.
This is about the idea of fiction.