And I’m thinking about breakfast at Veselka’s and fractured biography and The Idea of Kate Jackson and why narrative shouldn’t be restricted and all my fictions. And I’ve got a pint to my lips. And Bridle’s got more ideas than time. And Webb kicks me into gear with the phrase “beginnings matter”. And I think they really do. And so, what next?
Archive for January, 2010
Gillen has this line, inspired by a scientist, wherein motivation is found with the question: “What’s the most significant problem facing your field?”
And, you know, if you aren’t doing something about it then you’re part of the problem.
“Have you seen my tie?”
That line, that line I keep hearing, that phrase I write in my bones and bleed: “What next?”
You know, I fucking hate Italo Calvino.
Thompson’s heading Downtown. The Auteur’s fucked off long since to tear up the meatpacking district. Morley’s sidetracked by a beam of light coming from a street corner in Williamsburg a river distant. I’m left outside of Veselka’s with Johnson, after Nick & Norah melt inside.
“Telling stories is telling lies.”
“Lies aren’t always bad things.”
“I never said they were.”
And while he pitches uptown I’m left on the corner of four points wondering where to head. Little lines I should have said come back to me about cultures we dip in and out of, about channels we create. I’ve populated a landscape with the shape of some people I never knew, some of whom I can’t know. I’ve wound up being more honest with them than I expected. How did I start a story here?
And in the first few moments of the new year there is snow.
That’s the moment Warren turns and says “Matt, if you had funding you’d be in control of half of London by now!”
Mark’s fingers, bitterly cold, grasping the digital strands left by a decade departed. I’ve written the 00’s away in a spate of Doctor Who and poptimism, and he’s done what’s been asked of him; lone flagbearer for the Festive Ten.
Confession: in one of the most painful moments of my life I used a Doctor Who quote, letting the words “You were brilliant” slip from my lips. It’s a strange moment, over a year later, when I realise that the death of the Tenth Doctor rocked in exactly the same way. I wanted to go for a huge walk and cry in the rain.
Somewhere I hear The Idea of Kate Jackson whisper the words of VV; “I want you to be crazy ’cause you’re stupid baby when you’re sane.”
Pete Doherty died in the early months of 2005, I’m sure of it.
For a time I accidentally find myself earning money by doing what I want to do.
Powered by robots, slowed down by ink, stalled by budget. Poor girl.
Marc and I should throw more stones.
You could say I am the son of Tom Humberstone, Paul Gravett, Kieron Gillen, Warren Ellis, and most of their ideas. Bridle would call the conception something like ‘bookake impregnation’ before adding his own spit to the mix.
You shouldn’t say that sort of thing though, because it leaves an unpleasant taste in the mouth.
His arrival is unassuming and soft, and he brings with it such overwhelming concentration and chaos that you imagine he has been around since you first stepped up to the counter clutching Young Justice. He comes to define comics as much as Joy Division define music. For a long time he was a missing element, alluded to and mentioned but unseen for the most part. He is brilliant. Everybody needs a Humberstone.
Second, Humberstone changes the game.
For the first time in a long time he felt like he hadn’t broken The Rule. Aimee would be proud.
Unknown Pleasures revolving: “You’re at home aren’t you?”
First The Girl and I build a home.
First The Girl and I consider the merchandising opportunities.
First The Girl and I run away to Oslo.
First The Girl and I get too drunk and fight fences
First The Girl and I find a cave, then a houseboat on stilts.
Morley picks up my tab at Veselka’s, and I hope to repay the kindness in future. “Don’t worry about it. There are far more important things to worry about, I’m sure you’re aware. For example; think about where Simon Cowell was when Kylie regenerated. Ask yourself what shape a new Damon Albarn might take. Stare at the sky and throw stones in the water while drumming up rhymes about why none of it would work if Eno hadn’t written ‘An Ending (Ascent)’ or if Bowie hadn’t sung ‘Heroes’.”
I’m usually somewhere in England, dreaming.
All the hayfever in the world.
We are now far too close to now to have any perspective.
Denver International airport is now my most hated location in the world. Surrounded by empty nothing, perched between endless space and void. Made of boredom and strip lights. Just shit.
By this point the shadowplay ghost of Ian Curtis is something less than present, something further from the inside of the front of the head than perhaps he had been.