Tuesday, 22 September 2009

Surrealist Turned Sprinter


The whole surrealism gig wasn't really panning out for Vincent Moore. Ink on cushions. Early mornings spent reading or else contemplating sink fuzz. Scribbling inane shite in his notebook with a self-satisfied, vainglorious half-smile. The dog slumbers peacefully, the dishes are washed. What kind of man was he? This is what he often asked himself.
A girl walks past with her own wee dog, a girl he'd dearly like to make love to, he decides.
If he ever spoke to her on this bright wintry morning he'd surely blurt out some feeble boasts.

What would impress her?
The idea occurred to him quite spontaneously.
An athlete.
A runner.
A sprinter.
A fucking, a...

He trailed downwards (upwards?) into a reverie.
No more vague gestures. No more books hung on washing lines.
The dog slumbers in its basket.

A pair of tennis sneakers were the closest thing he had to suitable running shoes. He donned green canvas shorts and a grey t-shirt. He appreciated the absurdity of...

You can meet me on a virtual reality scrabble board. Here are the details. We'll take it from there. If you manage to beat me.
There's a tradition waiting for ye he told himself in between examining his chest.
And now I'm -
The dog is outside barking.
Why did you do that?
As I say we'll see, see how it pans out and -
Maybe you can come over to my house and my mother will cook us cheese pasta.

It was brisk, a brisk morning. Enough with these pseudo-romantic reveries already. He rubbed his hands together. Time to sprint.
He walked to the dew damp park. Sunlight glistened on the grass.
The chime ebbs away, gracefully. The time slips away, a weight of melancholy.
OK enough surrealist shite. He rubbed his hands together. A hot bath. No. A sprint.
Birds chirped and tweeted. As they are wont to do.
And what do you think about
And what do you know about
Was there a tradition here he was engaging with or entering into or else was he
He was essentially a meek man. A meek, humble man. His downfall perhaps.
Shifting boxes in the attic. Yellow.

A wasp snarled past. A pedestrian ambled past.
Savage humour.
What did ye say ya cunt?
Nothing I was just murmuring to myself incomprehensibly. He cackled hysterically. Below mesmeric skies.
No-one else thought the potato resembled a heart but this didn't faze him beneath sweet suicidal skies.

I don't know, all these mind melds. Eternal loathings, disaffections.
Grinding tedium. Coffee angst, whimsical ennui.
He tittered ruefully and abruptly began to sprint.

A moment later he stopped. He felt ridiculous. Keep going, he told himself.

The signal was disintegrating. The picture was distorting, fading. Press releases leaning on leather poufs. Oh god, keep going, coffee angst.

What the fuck do you think you're doing, the imaginary shrill faggot demanded to know. Vincent silenced him with a swift sock to the mouth. He blew smoke from the pretend gun barrel of his finger.

The woman with the dog. He accosted her and whispered to her. Only kidding. This is what he wanted to do.

Whilst tweaking his nipples his neighbour came to the window, tapped the glass, and shrieked.

and then shrieked speak these words.

Is that a command or a description?

I don't know, All these games I just... I'd like to... I'd love to...

The silence of the devout.
The coy irreverent cackle of the misty eyed freak.
My thoughts are too loud. How do I go about turning the volume down exactly?
A flowing script, a freezer.
A fucking, a -
A severed sentence. An abandoned thought.
A few sips of hot coffee.


Thoughts connecting, falling into place. Thoughts absorbed by his mind. Falling snow. Breathlessness.
The sky was the colour of those ink capsules Vincent used to have for his fountain pen when he was in school.
Snow wasn't falling.
Safety sought.

He was a fatalist and it was problematic. He used fatalism as a crutch for his laziness and indolence.
Sprint to the supermarket he commanded himself. It was a sunny day but it wasn't exactly warm.

Embarrassment was preventing him from becoming a sprinter. He was so damn self-conscious, it was
The doorbell sounded. He went and opened the door. Nothing, no-one there. Fucking kids, infants fooling around. Trying to befuddle him for the purposes of their own glee. He heard them squealing and shrieking distantly. He imagined pinning them down and shitting on them.
Awful thoughts, cancel these awful thoughts

"You sad little navel-gazer," an imaginary spectre chided him.

Auburn, somber. Autumn dusk glint. Night street machinery. The pegadrift, glimpsed. The supreme form.

Sometimes he got unduly perturbed. Sometimes his nose bled. Sometimes he sucked viral blood fingers.
Fatigue was problematic: Captain Beefheart mathematics. Hearty gravy gurgle.
As you can see his surrealist impulses still bleed through. Which is ultimately why he failed as a sprinter. He showed up to a race wearing a scuba diving outfit, po-faced and pensive.
"Hello slaves," he announced and promptly shat himself. The stench was distinctly unpalatable.
Door hinges and madness.
A sun induced migraine, sinister ennui.
These were prosaic yet vile images he had to contend with. He was happy to be apart. Perversely.

It was good to note the rapid movement of the clock from the complacent comfort of the couch as he scribbled his asinine shite on a spiritually insignificant Friday night. The tender ache of his flesh was, for once, comforting rather than disconcerting.
This couch was severely comfortable, he decided.

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