Archive for December, 2009

three hundred thirty four


“I came away to kind of think about myself, think about what I wanted to do next, maybe make something on the way.”
“Yeah… it sort of happened, not as expected though…”
“Yeah… yeah”
And we don’t have to say much more to get that it’s been a strange few months for both of us. When we both go home it’s going to be to something temporary, a stop gap, and it might be a couple of months before we get ourselves together.


three hundred thirty three


The Girl has abandoned the crossroads, and wants to build a home.

three hundred thirty two


Somewhere Marc is thinking about the future. I’m beside the sea.

three hundred thirty one


Echoes of Greenfield on meeting Katie (whose breasts are famous on the internet); starting to know the people I think I’ll know forever. Of course, all this way above the docks at San Diego, a vista of parking lots and heat.

three hundred thirty


friends are nice but this city makes me dislocated and sick and I don’t feel the need to stay here any more I want to be taken to ink and paper and booze and the bit where I make new friends and speak to people whose words have sat in books in boxes for something less than a lifetime but a little more than a shopping trip

three hundred twenty nine


Jeck is too fragmented and beautiful to make it onto a coffee table.

three hundred twenty eight


No snow.
We’re walking up the mountain, hours before more flights, and surrounding us is the snap-sparkle of a thousand tiny fireflies. It’s breathtaking.

three hundred twenty seven


Somewhere I stumbled over the headstone of an ex-, or someone like her, and got distracted by Animal Collective.
(open up your, open up your, open up you throat)

three hundred twenty six


There really is enough Whiskey. Quite the embarrassment.

three hundred twenty five


“I’ve been thinking a lot about The Idea of Kate Jackson”

three hundred twenty four


Storm roiling through St. Laurent, they appear to be on a houseboat. It is good. Stevie Wonder leers in the distance, gurning slobber attracting vicious interference.

three hundred twenty three


A little shot of energy from the Far East, that a Lost Boy thinks of as sacred; ‘I know I’m not at rock bottom if that stays sealed.’

three hundred twenty two


Somewhere around Parc I begin to relax.

three hundred twenty one


An idea in the shape of a decade where forgetting what you were and pretending this is the fully formed article that existed forever is, essentially, as common as breakfast.

three hundred twenty


To our eternal disappointment The Idea of Kate Jackson does not appear at a table in Veselka’s, clear of our breakfast dishes, set to stand atop it and belt out “Nostalgia”. H.S.T., crown King Gonzo, passes me the flask and I’m away after one huff.
A lot of ideas as we make for the door. He tells me I should do the things I have to until they hurt.

three hundred nineteen


Field agents; assets; resources; friends; co-conspirators; the right team for the right job.

three hundred eighteen


In a moment’s notice images change context; Adam Cadwell’s pencil creates upheaval, repositioning The Idea of Kate Jackson into a position of power she wholly deserves.

three hundred seventeen


Marc throwing stones in the water, “What are we doing? I mean it, what are we doing?” and I’m thinking ‘What do we want to do?’ And I’m not sure either of us know, but the sea is a good place to think about the future, talk about the past and throw stones.

three hundred sixteen


A little less B. S. Johnson, a little more ‘notebooks targeting the collapse of artistic writing, pointing knife-like at the throat of my to-do-list’.

three hundred fifteen


Somewhere over the Atlantic there are two hundred ‘zines making their way to the house of illustrator Ben. Somewhere in MontrĂ©al Aanand and Quintin are making new lives. Somewhere in New York Matthew is falling in love. Somewhere else in New York there is an awful lot of booze gathering.

three hundred fourteen


Oh, toner.

three hundred thirteen


Persistent references to The Auteur’s ‘Fear of Flying’ do me good. There’s spit and spite and special restraint there, all of which I would like, some of which I would argue I need.

three hundred twelve


Bouncing between Sutphin Boulevard and a hotbox. Sweat and tears. Mostly sweat, for all the right reasons.

three hundred eleven


And, yes, the water’s running into his shoes, but Coney Island looks great in the rain.

three hundred ten


Somewhere in the sky she’s curled up, head in his lap, her mind somewhere else altogether, her foot throbbing in pain. Metal sky bucket fling them toward America.

three hundred nine


Of course, every trip will always be shorter than expected.

three hundred eight


Harried: The Girl books flights not long after The Boy.

three hundred seven


I probably aim at North America wondering if, each time, I might bump into Lottie.

three hundred six


Letter from me to Lottie:

You wouldn’t even know me anymore. I mean, I wouldn’t you, but sometimes it’s a few seconds before you realise the changes time’s made.
So, I last saw you something close to eighteen years ago. We were children. I think it was San Francisco you were heading towards, I’m not really sure. I stayed in Hedge End. Not sun tan my end, that much is true, and school changed a lot too. I haven’t got that Turtles poster anymore. I haven’t got those Thunderbirds bedsheets (I wish) and I haven’t got that micro-machines goodbye present you left me. I don’t live in that house anymore. I don’t wear shorts, or baseball caps, and I don’t have a uniform. And I’m older now too, which counts for something, right?

three hundred five


So, the faded ghost of Ian Curtis reminds The Boy that he never quite made it to North America.

three hundred four


Cut, again, way too close.