Saturday, 27 February 2010

The Dripping Internets

By 2666 the humans had all disappeared. All that remained were their networks, their electronic configurations waiting to be interpreted by alien visitors.
All that data, unobserved for eternity now. All that fleeting beauty, grandeur and turmoil.
Infinite labyrinths of horror and madness.
Ruined libraries with network routers still intact.
The endlessly trickling sadness of pornography.
Parasitical skies over heaps of slag.
Ruinous eyes observe vehicles emerging from howling tunnels.
Violins. November. Dark wood.
Vile things. Vile occurrences. Secrets. Jokes. Smoke. Laughter. Ruins and vistas.

The secret internet is a vista of ruinous hard-ons. Pulsing data, whirring devices. Smoke emanating from semi-erect penises.
Secret knees.

Drenched pussies and faces wet with gore. Novels.

Things hovering in the skies. In her eyes. Vacuum cleaner turmoil.

Thanks Very Much For Those Few Kind Words - A Sitcom

Theme Song - 13th Floor Elevators

Montage of shots of Gordon and his Grandpa including:
Gordon grinning guilelessly at something off-camera, Grandpa laying beside the deactivated electric fire endeavouring to warm himself, Grandpa violently losing his temper in slow motion, Gordon typing and gazing at a laptop screen, shots of 36 Blossom Terrace, Grandpa wandering around in the snow partially dressed, Grandpa tucking into a jar of marmalade with a cutlery knife.
Also starring Anya: shot of Anya mixing up egg mayonnaise in a bowl, shot of Anya grinning guilelessly at a bewildered looking grandpa.

Setting: Interior of 36 Blossom Terrace
Grandpa shuffles into the kitchen, humming a tuneless drone. Anya turns from the worktop where she has been preparing egg mayonnaise in a ceramic bowl.

ANYA: A wee egg...
GRANDPA: What's that Aggie?
ANYA: Am no Aggie, Am Anya
GRANDPA cackles mirthfully.


Setting of spare bedroom. Gordon is sat before a laptop typing rapidly. He pauses and gazes at the screen, emitting a prolonged sigh. Grandpa shuffles in and watches his grandson speculatively.
GRANDPA: (in an earnest tone) What time do you want to get up in the morning?
GORDON: (murmuring lethargically) I can't be bothered getting up.
GRANDPA: (suddenly frenzied) You lazy fucking idiot!
(Hysterical audience laughter)


Dining table. Grandpa is slowly and carefully devouring a seafood dish. He has the countenance, posture and mannerisms of a young child. He reaches for a nearby jar of marmalade set amongst other condiments and turns the jar in his hand, studying the label in silence for a full minute. He then removes the lid, utilizing his cutlery knife, begins spooning the marmalade into his mouth. Anya appears from the kitchen.
ANYA: Right Bobby, that's for putting on yer toast in the morning, no for eating out the jar.
She confiscates the jar.
GRANDPA: Oh, is it?
Anya disappears into the kitchen again and, after a moment, Grandpa retrieves the jar and studies the label again for a full minute. He then removes the lid and repeats his earlier consumption procedure.
(Subdued audience chuckling)

Interior of spare bedroom. Gordon is sprawled out, dozing restfully. Anya enters the room and rouses him.
ANYA: Where's yer grandpa?
GORDON: Downstairs.
ANYA: Naw he's no.
Shot of Gordon and ANYA descending the stairs, smiling self consciously at the camera (also all dialogue is delivered with deliberately stilted amateur awkwardness). They booth stoop to dress their feet with shoes.
Cut to an outside shot of 36 Blossom Terrace. Gordon and Anya emerge into the brilliant glare of the snow. They trudge to the gate and look up and down the street.
Cut to a shot of Gordon jogging along the pavement with a solemn or bored expression. The camera follows alongside him then turns to reveal he is nearing Grandpa who has evidently wandered off for some esoteric purpose.
Gordon dials a mobile phone.

GORDON: I've found him.
Grandpa cackles mirthfully

Kitty Lost, in the Rain

He sat in a booth, sipping urgently at a beer, snatching greedily at pockets of euphoria. His friends played pool nearby. He breathed deeply and tried to relax, tried to ignore the gnawing feeling that something was deeply awry.
He was at a bar in Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a classic pre-gentrification dive that was now a tainted hipster enclave. He scanned the crowd, testing the hipness of the clientele against his own. A hipness that was painstakingly acquired and precisely measured.
He patted his finger in some spilt beer and then dabbed the liquid around his eyes. He wanted to appear emotional, intense and out of control.
Outside the rain was incessant. Had been for the whole month of June. He dabbed beer on his eyelids and imagined that he had AIDS. Damaged. Edgy. Volatile.
His friends: a short haired black lesbian and an effete, nervy web-designer. They completed their game of pool and then came and sat next to him.
Something was wrong. It could no longer be denied. It was most apparent in inconspicuous and abstract ways. A suddenly distant gaze. Boredom barely concealed by gnawing, apocalyptic humour.

Something lost forever in the rain...
He snapped out a profoundly melancholy reverie and decided it was time for a therapeutic trip to the bar. A Bud and a shot. He stood and drank them at the bar then ordered the same again. He returned to the table feeling a glimmering surge of stupefaction. Quite rejuvenating really.

Down Against It

The name of the group Jock was reviewing tonight was Malaysian Malaise and he didn't much care for them. The usual bunch of solemn art jesters in lurid purple or magenta t-shirts, tinkering with electronic pedals and devices, summoning what they perhaps felt was some deeply religious and ecstatic current of drone. The whole thing was too self-aware and codified to really carry any weight.
Jock watched elements of the sparse, rapt audience with subdued disdain and then took a long drag on his beer. Beer was a funny thing. Oftentimes a man could harbour a profound yen for the stuff and then, upon acquiring it, recall that it tasted helluva bitter. Yet oddly compelling. Then two or three beers later the taste was re-engaged to the familiar flowering of stupefied pleasure in the feckless recesses of the mind.
Malaysian Malaise turned slowly to their respective amps and then abruptly shut them off in tandem. Silence and then a smattering of enthusiastic applause from a fervent few.
Jock took a few minutes to finish his beer and then rose from his seat near the bar. He had been commissioned to conduct a brief interview with Maya, the only female dronette amongst the other droners of Malaysian Malaise.
He located her in a room which was lit and decorated in the style of a classroom amidst vintage analogue phaser pedals and tangled patch cables. In the background the drifting sounds of Double Jonathan, the next band onstage, became apparent.
Although she had the appearance and surface demeanour of a neurotic hippie chick, Jock discovered Maya to be a warm and alluringly luscious lassie. He wanted to linger near her indefinitely but sensed a gradually accumulating evasiveness on her part. Desperate to stem this, he offered to buy her a beer and went off to the bar. When he returned with two bottles of Brahma he was sad to find she had dispersed. He sat alone in the empty, overlit classroom and quickly drained both bottles. Then he returned to catch the end of Double Jonathan's self indulgently abstract set.

Pulsing glimmers of euphoria in the deep, howling, blackened void of the universe.

Jock caught a bus home and sat near two irreverent kids with slim fit jeans and asymmetrical haircuts. One held a freshly gripped skateboard deck on his lap.

He preferred to dance at home, alone, his socks shuffling on the carpet. Such was his preference.

Thursday, 18 February 2010


When I come into the house Niggerlilly gazes at me imploringly, beseechingly.
Her wants me to take her out walking.
I am too lazy or too busy looking at jackets on the internet.

The jovial, mild mannered Canadian that sits across from me got a new i-Mac. (at work I am speaking about now). I plan to write a story about this incident. He carried it back from John Lewis looking harried and weary. He also seemed bewildered as to why the boss had bought him it. I couldn’t help smirking at everyone in the office. I observe everyone. But I am too quiet. They single out quiet people.
I drank too much at the weekend. I got drunk last night. Today is Friday. I feel good.

I left work at 8pm tonight. I immediately caught a bus.
I want to buy a saxophone. And a drum machine.

I’ve just added another (albeit small) section to the novella I’m working on. It’s entitled the Sad Tale of Stevie and Niggerlilly. Yes, I may change the title. Writing is really difficult. It is such an ineffable art. Good writing is like observing smoke slowly curling on a winter’s morning. Or a hypnotic walk through an echoing tunnel.

Earlier I wrote today is Friday. I was mistaken. It is Thursday. I have been confused a lot as of late. Potential side effect of drunkenness. I was supposed to meet with (NAME CENSORED) this week. But I lack enthusiasm to do such a thing. Isn’t that awful! I’ve been meeting (NAME CENSORED) instead who is twelve years my senior. And who lives with her ex boyfriend. I can’t visit when he is around. No, it’s not an ideal state of affairs.

Went out dancing on Saturday night. It was predictably sucky and shitey. (NAME CENSORED)’s cousin and sisters danced around like lobotomised goons. I had to get exceptionally drunk to maintain. Which was frowned upon for some reason? I theorize that everyone was just jealous of the euphoria I was afforded via intoxication. An absurd theory, aye, mibby. But Ahm entitled tae it.
No idea why I lapsed into dialectical Scots there. Mibby cuz I’m extremely bored? Oh aye, that’s probably it.

I had the mother of all nosebleeds on the bus on Monday night. Me hand and face were wet with gore. Everyone studiously avoided looking at me apart from a sweetly concerned teenage lass. Her wanted to take care of me, methinks. Clean me, soothe me. A tender young lass tender in her years with soft thighs shut up shut up shit.
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