Archive for January, 2010

three hundred sixty five


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?


three hundred sixty four


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.

three hundred sixty three


“Have you seen my tie?”

three hundred sixty two


That line, that line I keep hearing, that phrase I write in my bones and bleed: “What next?”

three hundred sixty one


You know, I fucking hate Italo Calvino.

three hundred sixty


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?

three hundred fifty nine


And in the first few moments of the new year there is snow.

three hundred fifty eight


That’s the moment Warren turns and says “Matt, if you had funding you’d be in control of half of London by now!”

three hundred fifty seven


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.

three hundred fifty six


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.

three hundred fifty five


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.”

three hundred fifty four


Pete Doherty died in the early months of 2005, I’m sure of it.

three hundred fifty three


For a time I accidentally find myself earning money by doing what I want to do.

three hundred fifty two


Powered by robots, slowed down by ink, stalled by budget. Poor girl.

three hundred fifty one


Marc and I should throw more stones.

three hundred fifty


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.

three hundred forty nine


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.

three hundred forty eight


Second, Humberstone changes the game.

three hundred forty seven


For the first time in a long time he felt like he hadn’t broken The Rule. Aimee would be proud.

three hundred forty six


Unknown Pleasures revolving: “You’re at home aren’t you?”

three hundred forty five


First The Girl and I build a home.

three hundred forty four


First The Girl and I consider the merchandising opportunities.

three hundred forty three


First The Girl and I run away to Oslo.

three hundred forty two


First The Girl and I get too drunk and fight fences

three hundred forty one


First The Girl and I find a cave, then a houseboat on stilts.

three hundred forty


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’.”

three hundred thirty nine


I’m usually somewhere in England, dreaming.

three hundred thirty eight


All the hayfever in the world.

three hundred thirty seven


We are now far too close to now to have any perspective.

three hundred thirty six


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.

three hundred thirty five


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.