| The time I like best is 6am when the snow is 6 inches deep which I'm yet to discover 'cause I'm under the covers fast, fast asleep. |
Thursday 30 April 2009
The Time I Like Best - Roger Mcgough
Bangfaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace
Bangface. Where all your prospects come to die. And you have a totally reckless amount of fun along the way. :)
Thursday 23 April 2009
Short story.
Laughing In The Demon's Face.
That year, I'll always remember, was the year we let the mighty river between us run dry. Once... hah, you'll never believe me. But there was a time, once, when we slept next to each other, and in the safety of the night our breath would intertwine, and speak silent soliloquies of simple bliss to the air that our bodies warmed. Yeah, there was that time. There was a time once, before the river ran dry, when the subtext of our every conversation was I love you. How was your day. (I love you) Mine was good too. (I love you) We should just stay in bed today. Yeah? Yeah, yeah because... (I love you)
Yes. Once upon a time before time killed me and you, we walked round in a daze. Day-to-day life was an uneventful sleep but you were pure dreamtime. There was a time when we made the mundane magical and explored space in our heads, there was a time when obstacles were obsolete and singing seemed natural, there was a time when we were invincible, there was a time there was a time there was a time.
And now... well now even idle conversation seems a hopeless utopia. We've been left alone in a room together, god knows how because we didn't intend it. And I know, I know what you're thinking about, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did. I don't say that of course. Instead we exchange trivialities. Each statement seems to fly from our lips to the middle of the room and then fall, pathetically, weighed down by history. So we stop. I glance at her and she looks at the floor. Wretched silence fills the room like a black hole. It's grotesque.
"I'm so sorry" I say, and it's the first sincere thing to pass between us for months.
She looks up and gazes at me for a time unmeasured. My throat tightens. And then... and then the floodgates open and our river runs again. We talk. We talk! We shout and scream in fact, and sob, and then talk some more until we're both weary with the effort of it, and collapse, breathing shakily. Nothing more is said. Eventually we slip away into sleep, leaving the morning to bring what it may.
I'm half-woken the next morning as she climbs over me on her way out. Our eyes meet as mine flicker open and she pauses. Then whispers, I forgive you. She leaves and I fall back to sleep hoping and praying that it's true.
A few days later, we're walking together quietly. I reach for her hand, and she hesitates but then smiles and takes it. We interlace fingers.
dance!jump!sing! pursue your dreams with wild abandon pick flowers and learn to yodel do cartwheels for no reason spit at adversity live with soul wide open and eyes glazed at the beauty of the world and all it's contents. Laugh in the demon's face.
That year, I'll always remember, was the year we let the mighty river between us run dry. Once... hah, you'll never believe me. But there was a time, once, when we slept next to each other, and in the safety of the night our breath would intertwine, and speak silent soliloquies of simple bliss to the air that our bodies warmed. Yeah, there was that time. There was a time once, before the river ran dry, when the subtext of our every conversation was I love you. How was your day. (I love you) Mine was good too. (I love you) We should just stay in bed today. Yeah? Yeah, yeah because... (I love you)
Yes. Once upon a time before time killed me and you, we walked round in a daze. Day-to-day life was an uneventful sleep but you were pure dreamtime. There was a time when we made the mundane magical and explored space in our heads, there was a time when obstacles were obsolete and singing seemed natural, there was a time when we were invincible, there was a time there was a time there was a time.
And now... well now even idle conversation seems a hopeless utopia. We've been left alone in a room together, god knows how because we didn't intend it. And I know, I know what you're thinking about, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for what I did. I don't say that of course. Instead we exchange trivialities. Each statement seems to fly from our lips to the middle of the room and then fall, pathetically, weighed down by history. So we stop. I glance at her and she looks at the floor. Wretched silence fills the room like a black hole. It's grotesque.
"I'm so sorry" I say, and it's the first sincere thing to pass between us for months.
She looks up and gazes at me for a time unmeasured. My throat tightens. And then... and then the floodgates open and our river runs again. We talk. We talk! We shout and scream in fact, and sob, and then talk some more until we're both weary with the effort of it, and collapse, breathing shakily. Nothing more is said. Eventually we slip away into sleep, leaving the morning to bring what it may.
I'm half-woken the next morning as she climbs over me on her way out. Our eyes meet as mine flicker open and she pauses. Then whispers, I forgive you. She leaves and I fall back to sleep hoping and praying that it's true.
A few days later, we're walking together quietly. I reach for her hand, and she hesitates but then smiles and takes it. We interlace fingers.
dance!jump!sing! pursue your dreams with wild abandon pick flowers and learn to yodel do cartwheels for no reason spit at adversity live with soul wide open and eyes glazed at the beauty of the world and all it's contents. Laugh in the demon's face.
A teacher of mine once told me...
that life was just a list of disappointments and defeats. And you can only try your best and I said well that's a fucking cop out, you're just washed up and you're tired, and when I get to your age well, I won't be such a coward.
Monday 20 April 2009
I think...
That at the moment, I have something great in my life, and I probably don't realise how great yet. :)
Two short stories.
Bridges made of string and prayers.
And then it’s just me and him sat there in that room, with only the smell of cigarettes and a loud silence for comfort. Shit. What are we going to do, what are we going to do, what are we going to do. Is he going to say something or what? Should I say something? Perhaps, but you can’t tell with him you see – his face hasn’t betrayed any sign of emotion for years now. What’s going on underneath the white beard, the old glasses, the cataracts, and the tatty shirt? It must be something. Something. But perhaps not, perhaps it’s all mushed into nonsense over the years, and that vacant stare really is vacant. His gaze does feel distinctly tinged with sadness. But wait, his old, cracked lips are parting, with heartbreaking effort.
“…”
Nope, nothing, just a stale breath… I think there was something, though. I realise that I desperately hope there is, and that he manages to throw his bridge across the chasm that’s cut into us, gradually. He’s trying again. It’s a bridge made only of ropes and prayers, but if we’re to reach each other we have to walk it.
“…Listen.”
And I get up and walk over slowly, eyes wet. Deep breath. Kneel by his chair, and wait. Listen.
Stale Bread.
The first arrows of sober dawn sink into the bedroom, and Melissa is talking about God again. I’m not listening though, not while the white rind of last night’s sin is still caked on her nostril. What a laughable prophet she makes. Who is she even talking to? Tom and Anna are asleep, arms lazily draped over each other like drunken comrades in some domestic war. Roxanne and I are arranged into the shape of a cuddle, but any effort put into this endeavour has long since ceased, now we both float around idly in the no-mans-land between sleep and waking; Mel’s evangelical slogans are thudding dully against my skin. After a while Mel trails off with “I just think, you know, that life, like, has to have a point, and what point is there if there’s no God?” It’s a weak ending even by her standards. Slowly, she turns her head round so that our eyes lock in an unfocussed kind of way, and after a while I let my gaze wonder to the rest of her – her eager blue eyes, blocked by a few stray strands of sandy-blonde hair, and her small and delicate hands in particular. “What do you think, Matt? Matt… Matt.” At first the name just reverberates around the empty corridors of my mind without registering, but then I am jolted from my drug-assisted reverie. “Mmm, what? Sorry.” My voice sounds growly, I probably haven’t drank enough. I go and get a cup of water, and as I come back in she does this little feminine sigh and says “What are your views, on the whole god thing? Did you listen to what I was saying?” I look at her through dilated pupils, and I tell her it’s all bollocks and she should learn to fucking think. She starts crying.
No, of course I don’t, what do you think I am? A monster? Honest? Instead, I let Roxanne gently down onto my bed, clamber over to Mel and idly play with her hair, saying “I’m not sure, you know… I think everybody finds their own way.” She buys it, of course, and practically purrs with appreciation. I’ll bet she thinks I’m deep and sensitive now. I look around the room and listen to her tuneless babbling, and think to myself, this is all just fucking cold tea and stale bread.
Few years later, I realised I was an arsehole. And the only stale bread was mine.
And then it’s just me and him sat there in that room, with only the smell of cigarettes and a loud silence for comfort. Shit. What are we going to do, what are we going to do, what are we going to do. Is he going to say something or what? Should I say something? Perhaps, but you can’t tell with him you see – his face hasn’t betrayed any sign of emotion for years now. What’s going on underneath the white beard, the old glasses, the cataracts, and the tatty shirt? It must be something. Something. But perhaps not, perhaps it’s all mushed into nonsense over the years, and that vacant stare really is vacant. His gaze does feel distinctly tinged with sadness. But wait, his old, cracked lips are parting, with heartbreaking effort.
“…”
Nope, nothing, just a stale breath… I think there was something, though. I realise that I desperately hope there is, and that he manages to throw his bridge across the chasm that’s cut into us, gradually. He’s trying again. It’s a bridge made only of ropes and prayers, but if we’re to reach each other we have to walk it.
“…Listen.”
And I get up and walk over slowly, eyes wet. Deep breath. Kneel by his chair, and wait. Listen.
Stale Bread.
The first arrows of sober dawn sink into the bedroom, and Melissa is talking about God again. I’m not listening though, not while the white rind of last night’s sin is still caked on her nostril. What a laughable prophet she makes. Who is she even talking to? Tom and Anna are asleep, arms lazily draped over each other like drunken comrades in some domestic war. Roxanne and I are arranged into the shape of a cuddle, but any effort put into this endeavour has long since ceased, now we both float around idly in the no-mans-land between sleep and waking; Mel’s evangelical slogans are thudding dully against my skin. After a while Mel trails off with “I just think, you know, that life, like, has to have a point, and what point is there if there’s no God?” It’s a weak ending even by her standards. Slowly, she turns her head round so that our eyes lock in an unfocussed kind of way, and after a while I let my gaze wonder to the rest of her – her eager blue eyes, blocked by a few stray strands of sandy-blonde hair, and her small and delicate hands in particular. “What do you think, Matt? Matt… Matt.” At first the name just reverberates around the empty corridors of my mind without registering, but then I am jolted from my drug-assisted reverie. “Mmm, what? Sorry.” My voice sounds growly, I probably haven’t drank enough. I go and get a cup of water, and as I come back in she does this little feminine sigh and says “What are your views, on the whole god thing? Did you listen to what I was saying?” I look at her through dilated pupils, and I tell her it’s all bollocks and she should learn to fucking think. She starts crying.
No, of course I don’t, what do you think I am? A monster? Honest? Instead, I let Roxanne gently down onto my bed, clamber over to Mel and idly play with her hair, saying “I’m not sure, you know… I think everybody finds their own way.” She buys it, of course, and practically purrs with appreciation. I’ll bet she thinks I’m deep and sensitive now. I look around the room and listen to her tuneless babbling, and think to myself, this is all just fucking cold tea and stale bread.
Few years later, I realised I was an arsehole. And the only stale bread was mine.
sigh.
Time was away and somewhere else,
There were two glasses and two chairs
And two people with the one pulse
(Somebody stopped the moving stairs)
Time was away and somewhere else....
Time was away and she was here
And life no longer what it was,
The bell was silent in the air
And all the room one glow because
Time was away and she was here.
Friday 17 April 2009
This list wins. :)
I like:
Being fed grapes.
My bed.
Parties.
Whiskey.
Drugs.
Reading.
Writing.
Swimming in rivers.
Philosophy.
Trying stuff out.
Smiling because of internal glee rather than external circumstance.
Smiling because of external circumstance.
The colour red.
The book 'The Catcher In The Rye'.
My friends. (I will talk about you all properly soon.)
Remembering that life's a dream.
Socialism.
Sleeping.
Skinny.
Did I mention that I like red? 'cause I well do.
Frantic snatched moments of perfection.
In-jokes.
Doing the right thing.
Doing the wrong thing if it's fun.
Social experiments.
Quoting.
Shakespeare.
Quoting Shakespeare.
People.
Eating.
Kissing.
Dancing like no one's watching, which is code for dancing badly and loving it.
Singing, especially when you manage to sound vaguely bearable.
The film I Heart Huckabees.
Being reckless and out of control.
Jack Kerouac.
Tickle fights.
Pillow fights.
The colour red.
Things that are temporary.
Hugs!
Skins.
Jacob. (Who should come under friends but I can't resist)
The smell of fresh bread, a girl sleeping next to me and cut grass.
Being irresponsible.
London.
Plans, hopes and dreams.
yeah. :)
Being fed grapes.
My bed.
Parties.
Whiskey.
Drugs.
Reading.
Writing.
Swimming in rivers.
Philosophy.
Trying stuff out.
Smiling because of internal glee rather than external circumstance.
Smiling because of external circumstance.
The colour red.
The book 'The Catcher In The Rye'.
My friends. (I will talk about you all properly soon.)
Remembering that life's a dream.
Socialism.
Sleeping.
Skinny.
Did I mention that I like red? 'cause I well do.
Frantic snatched moments of perfection.
In-jokes.
Doing the right thing.
Doing the wrong thing if it's fun.
Social experiments.
Quoting.
Shakespeare.
Quoting Shakespeare.
People.
Eating.
Kissing.
Dancing like no one's watching, which is code for dancing badly and loving it.
Singing, especially when you manage to sound vaguely bearable.
The film I Heart Huckabees.
Being reckless and out of control.
Jack Kerouac.
Tickle fights.
Pillow fights.
The colour red.
Things that are temporary.
Hugs!
Skins.
Jacob. (Who should come under friends but I can't resist)
The smell of fresh bread, a girl sleeping next to me and cut grass.
Being irresponsible.
London.
Plans, hopes and dreams.
yeah. :)
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