Two posts in one day, it's almost as if I've got a history essay to do. Here's a little video of Jack Kerouac reading from On The Road. I made the mistake of reading through the comments as well, which is never advisable on any site where people express their own opinions. But then again, that's just my opinion.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
Teeth Like God's Shoeshine
I think my recent exploits with codename: 'Dave the homeless' must have given me some bonus Karma points. Win. Anyway...
I came home the other day and washed the taste of whisky, tobacco and conversation off my stale tongue. The walk home had been a chain smoking affair. My mouth was dry. The juicy conversation had been extracted from it. Now there was nothing to say. There was nobody to say anything to. A frost had settled in on the ground. A glistening blanket that made a satisfying crunch underfoot. I looked at the now seemingly soft tarmac and saw a frost coated leaf. No... I saw the word leaf, covered by the word frost. I wanted to take the leaf home, but knew the frost would fade in time. I imagined a disappointed magpie. Nicotine coated my brain and wrapped the alcohol up underneath. Lonely cars passed me at speed. Pointless descriptions of the moment. I've said too much.
And that, my friends, was a true story.
I came home the other day and washed the taste of whisky, tobacco and conversation off my stale tongue. The walk home had been a chain smoking affair. My mouth was dry. The juicy conversation had been extracted from it. Now there was nothing to say. There was nobody to say anything to. A frost had settled in on the ground. A glistening blanket that made a satisfying crunch underfoot. I looked at the now seemingly soft tarmac and saw a frost coated leaf. No... I saw the word leaf, covered by the word frost. I wanted to take the leaf home, but knew the frost would fade in time. I imagined a disappointed magpie. Nicotine coated my brain and wrapped the alcohol up underneath. Lonely cars passed me at speed. Pointless descriptions of the moment. I've said too much.
And that, my friends, was a true story.
Friday, 12 February 2010
Rebirth Through Adaptation
Darling, you look delicious.
Dear Blog,
There's this man I sometimes see on my many walking adventures across town. He's homeless. I always put some change into his small black hat, that sits in front of him, which would otherwise remain empty. There's something about him that I find intriguing, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. I would imagine his name is Dave. I think Dave suits him. He's remarkably tidy compared to the stereotypical tramp image that is evoked when someone mentions the word homeless. He has grey bristles covering his jaw, but even this doesn't seem unkempt. It seems to suit him, I think. His hair is the same colour, but very short, like his beard and is receding. Occasionally he sits in the underpass I walk through every day, with a quiet dignity that I highly respect, his hat out in front of him. I paused beside him before, whilst struggling to remove some change from my wallet, and he began to talk to me. His voice sounds like the voice of a dad. He looks like a dad a bit. He discusses the weather with me. The weather is of no real concern to me, the temperature drop that sets in as the evening draws on means nothing to me. I am, after all, only pausing by him for a brief moment, before I continue to walk back to my house, turn the fire on and waste away in front of the television.
I saw him again the other day, but as I struggled to remove my change for slightly longer than usual, he talks to me for longer. And more seriously. He has a packet of biscuits in front of him, unopened. I imagine he savours them for before he retires to sleep. Wherever he does sleep. I imagine he rations them out and chews slowly. Patiently letting his saliva melt them away before swallowing. I smile at him as I crouch down to put my change into his still empty little black hat. I tell him to look after himself. Like an order. Like a child. Like he's some kind of pet. I feel stupid immediately for saying it, but he smiles back and says, "You too." He then thanks me. Not for the change, but for stopping. For treating him like a human. As I place my wallet back into my jean pocket and step away from him he adds, "God bless." I find his faith strangely Romantic and turn to reply, "You too," before putting my headphones back into my ears. I then walked home, sat in front of the fire and watched television.
Dear Blog,
There's this man I sometimes see on my many walking adventures across town. He's homeless. I always put some change into his small black hat, that sits in front of him, which would otherwise remain empty. There's something about him that I find intriguing, but I can't quite put my finger on what it is. I would imagine his name is Dave. I think Dave suits him. He's remarkably tidy compared to the stereotypical tramp image that is evoked when someone mentions the word homeless. He has grey bristles covering his jaw, but even this doesn't seem unkempt. It seems to suit him, I think. His hair is the same colour, but very short, like his beard and is receding. Occasionally he sits in the underpass I walk through every day, with a quiet dignity that I highly respect, his hat out in front of him. I paused beside him before, whilst struggling to remove some change from my wallet, and he began to talk to me. His voice sounds like the voice of a dad. He looks like a dad a bit. He discusses the weather with me. The weather is of no real concern to me, the temperature drop that sets in as the evening draws on means nothing to me. I am, after all, only pausing by him for a brief moment, before I continue to walk back to my house, turn the fire on and waste away in front of the television.
I saw him again the other day, but as I struggled to remove my change for slightly longer than usual, he talks to me for longer. And more seriously. He has a packet of biscuits in front of him, unopened. I imagine he savours them for before he retires to sleep. Wherever he does sleep. I imagine he rations them out and chews slowly. Patiently letting his saliva melt them away before swallowing. I smile at him as I crouch down to put my change into his still empty little black hat. I tell him to look after himself. Like an order. Like a child. Like he's some kind of pet. I feel stupid immediately for saying it, but he smiles back and says, "You too." He then thanks me. Not for the change, but for stopping. For treating him like a human. As I place my wallet back into my jean pocket and step away from him he adds, "God bless." I find his faith strangely Romantic and turn to reply, "You too," before putting my headphones back into my ears. I then walked home, sat in front of the fire and watched television.
Thursday, 11 February 2010
Archive It Everywhere
Part one of my novel is currently in the editing stage, just an interesting update and that. Anyway, here's a little poem for ya eyes...
785 aka Girl:
I hate fates cruel insistence
On forcing me to hide behind,
This man made sea wall.
Yes, I never learnt her name
Courage in the name of sweet love,
That girl on the beach.
Sometimes I wish I was Ezra Pound.
785 aka Girl:
I hate fates cruel insistence
On forcing me to hide behind,
This man made sea wall.
Yes, I never learnt her name
Courage in the name of sweet love,
That girl on the beach.
Sometimes I wish I was Ezra Pound.
Saturday, 6 February 2010
Venezuela is Realised
Here's a short extract from the novel I'm currently writing. It's mainly description so it doesn't give too much of the plot away. Don't want no one stealing my ideas or nothink. I'll keep you updated on how it's going. Just give me a couple of years to finish it, yeah?
It was now time for the band to play. They stepped out on to the stage to a cheering crowd, clapping enthusiastically and greeting them with whistles and shouts; the air was already filled with excitement. A feeling of anticipation, a feeling of almost importance added to the atmosphere- the stench of beer. The hushed shouts of friends into each other’s ears, the sound dampened by the sound technicians insistence on playing inappropriately loud music between each bands set. Finally, he faded the music out, giving way to a brief moment of nothing, of serenity, the crowd silent in obedience. The silence penetrated them all; it only lasted a second, but stayed with them forever. When the first strings were plucked and the first notes tapped, when the first chords were played, the first time the pedal hit the bass drum, the first time the mic exploded with a sudden flurry of words, the crowd didn’t go wild, mosh pits didn’t erupt in the middle of the room, the walls didn’t collapse out of sheer energy, the floor didn’t give way from strain. They merely rocked their bodies back and forth, mostly in time with the music, although a few people couldn’t manage it. They changed the pace and style of their movements with the music, allowed it to flow through them. The whole room was focussed entirely on the sounds resonating from the speakers and subs that adorned the sides of the stage, facing out towards their subjects, who now lived by the sweet harmony being generated from them and would continue to do so until the band had finished playing.
They moved through their set list with such energy, the music literally flowing forwards, washing over the crowd, cleansing them from the worries and woes of their week. This was a reason to live. This was the meaning of life- to see art before your eyes, to hear it, to be part of it. This wasn’t like the nightclub; this wasn’t girls breaking guys hearts, guys breaking girls hearts. This was completely different. There weren’t different groups of people here. This was one movement. A collective of people who were not only out to have a good night, but wanted to experience a feeling. A feeling better than anything alcohol, or any other drug, could provide. The music was a drug in itself. The crush of the bass on the ribs was brutal but addictive; the crescendo of the guitars and the vocals, climaxing together in harmony. The drums laid down the beat to the music and to everyone’s mood, as the tempo sped up so did their hearts, until they almost exploded. Lungs were intoxicated by the atmosphere, drowning in exhilaration. And after they had finished playing, the crowd stood still, lying down on the air behind them. Muscles weakened, adrenaline flowing, pure ecstasy filling the creative parts of their minds and brains. The band exited stage left, gleeful smiles across their faces. Smiling not because they were pleased with their performances, not because it was “a job well done” as they were told backstage, but because they had felt what the audience had felt- perhaps more so. The whole room had been banded together; even Leo and Theresa were one and the same during the twenty minutes or so of musical heaven, of creative bliss.
It was now time for the band to play. They stepped out on to the stage to a cheering crowd, clapping enthusiastically and greeting them with whistles and shouts; the air was already filled with excitement. A feeling of anticipation, a feeling of almost importance added to the atmosphere- the stench of beer. The hushed shouts of friends into each other’s ears, the sound dampened by the sound technicians insistence on playing inappropriately loud music between each bands set. Finally, he faded the music out, giving way to a brief moment of nothing, of serenity, the crowd silent in obedience. The silence penetrated them all; it only lasted a second, but stayed with them forever. When the first strings were plucked and the first notes tapped, when the first chords were played, the first time the pedal hit the bass drum, the first time the mic exploded with a sudden flurry of words, the crowd didn’t go wild, mosh pits didn’t erupt in the middle of the room, the walls didn’t collapse out of sheer energy, the floor didn’t give way from strain. They merely rocked their bodies back and forth, mostly in time with the music, although a few people couldn’t manage it. They changed the pace and style of their movements with the music, allowed it to flow through them. The whole room was focussed entirely on the sounds resonating from the speakers and subs that adorned the sides of the stage, facing out towards their subjects, who now lived by the sweet harmony being generated from them and would continue to do so until the band had finished playing.
They moved through their set list with such energy, the music literally flowing forwards, washing over the crowd, cleansing them from the worries and woes of their week. This was a reason to live. This was the meaning of life- to see art before your eyes, to hear it, to be part of it. This wasn’t like the nightclub; this wasn’t girls breaking guys hearts, guys breaking girls hearts. This was completely different. There weren’t different groups of people here. This was one movement. A collective of people who were not only out to have a good night, but wanted to experience a feeling. A feeling better than anything alcohol, or any other drug, could provide. The music was a drug in itself. The crush of the bass on the ribs was brutal but addictive; the crescendo of the guitars and the vocals, climaxing together in harmony. The drums laid down the beat to the music and to everyone’s mood, as the tempo sped up so did their hearts, until they almost exploded. Lungs were intoxicated by the atmosphere, drowning in exhilaration. And after they had finished playing, the crowd stood still, lying down on the air behind them. Muscles weakened, adrenaline flowing, pure ecstasy filling the creative parts of their minds and brains. The band exited stage left, gleeful smiles across their faces. Smiling not because they were pleased with their performances, not because it was “a job well done” as they were told backstage, but because they had felt what the audience had felt- perhaps more so. The whole room had been banded together; even Leo and Theresa were one and the same during the twenty minutes or so of musical heaven, of creative bliss.
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