Reading your angry, distraught and depressed message in France: cinema bar, Black singer, ‘got the world on a string’. Solo piano plonks melodiously, bluesy and heart affirming.
Spent morning on the dunes after a night of downpouring, so flowers sprung and sprouted. Mauve edged with white, vascular white streaks on each of the five petals. Profusion clumped next to Atlantic detritus. Leaden clouds, lazily scudding overlooking tiny fried eggs of flowers. Yellow hearts with snow white petals, bees humming collecting pollen to DNA further appreciated profusions.
A large black beetle staggers across the sand, whilst the tide ineluctably pulls against the pine littoral. Silly little bugger gets washed out then back again; illegal immigrant urge surging its minuscule black heart, eh? I do the decent thing, after all I’m a bourgeois Englishman abroad, so I picked it up and placed it in a drier spot. I desisted from the kiss of life, I’m not sure it would have been appreciated: do you, old man?
The café dog just shit by the bar and its irate female owner picked it up, slapping it a couple of times about the chops. Startled, maybe frightened, the dog began yelping, bitch in whelp banshee high on poteen abuse. Owner, emulating Sarah Eckstein, is finger popping and snare drumming. Crescending cacaphony, symbols too high pitched American whine, and the pooch, taking its cue, reprises too. Angry owner, “is this four legged hairy child about to ignore me?”, damn, it’s Mac the Knife, trust it’s not a precursor, hugs kaynine torso close to her body and carries mutt outside.
End of canine tragedy, but did she check kack transference; either by odour, or physical marks on her clothes from its anus? France: love it.
A beautiful woman sits cross legged, insouciant on a bar stool, dressed French black – head to toe. Misplaced left banker, Two Maggots habitué, missing Paris and muttering dark curses on the newest petit Napoleon, Herr Tsarcozy. She looking at me, lips pursed, stroking her French conk. Barefooted, bud haired, brown eyed and eager to take erections.
Miss Dog Exterminator signs a petition – I need to suss that one out – and swigs a long class of blonde beer. The fanny here could keep one busy and way from self abuse for a very long time, old fruit.
Now, darlink, your email. What’s new? Managerial strangulation seeps and eddies its way into the healthy bodies of all good things, worming initiatives from them. Now we’ve succumbed, unable to fight back. The upside world down; celebrities lauded for little talent, all form and no content. Tick the boxes, don’t rock the boat, praise the unpalatable, worship and elevate the faithless. Sing to vacuity, piss on the values and the valuable ones who maintain the system through selfless heroic acts into daily drudge of balancing conforming to idiotic diktats whilst sticking to their own non-conformist values. Pah! Ain’t life complicated an’ fings ain’t what they used to be Mikhail Kropotkin.
Your manager likes, loves, praises, worships you because you do the shitty jobs, deliver, keep her lazy arsed intellectually enfeebled brain connected to what she should be doing. You’re a star in an ever decreasing academic black hole. Besides the African persons you mention, grasp this truth; if Russia was Upper Volta with nukes the (F)UK is Darfur with city banks and much we take seriously is Tom Foolery’s illusion. Check the OECD repot in the state of kids in our ‘blessed country’ as Blair termed it.
Never understood the importance of cultural differences then refusing to accept the consequences. Sure, we take our culture with us; the MO’s, the third world woman beating threatening village primal throwbacks from shite ridden corrupt regimes; they carry their genus and progeny.
Imagine a clump of diaspored traders trying to create a new nation/society, as your lot did? God almighty, it would fragment into family and tribal hostilities from day one. Difference means understanding the realities, warts, scabs and oozing pus, of their cultures, including the antithetical elements of them. As well as the positive ones.
Why do we assume birthdays should be celebrated? Datum lines as we attempt to mark our own passing mortality. Worship your own progress and the efforts you’ve expended to be you. Birthdays are for kiddywinks.
If one could self hypnose how pleasantly constructive and delightful our meaningless existences would be. God and her profitesses redundant, wise words binned, struggling with moral dilemmas reduced to celebrity bin bag trash. Say the words, convince yourself you are born again, renewed, empty words over-riding personal history, relationships and bitter experiences. I should coco old bean. Maybe I’ll write a book on the virtues of being oneself authentically. Stay your distance and age, but be like the universe; cut into different planes, levels and galaxies. We all are constructed from light years astral strolling at will, picking and choosing. To us our world is years, and trillions of light years away from the universe’s reality. Who cares; live and be the time you are in and enjoy.
I’ve started to write a new story, banging out 1400 words yesterday. Starts with a suicide to set the scene/plot for exploring suicide bombers. I’ve made notes and have a rough idea where I want to take it. I’ll keep you posted old chap.
Scrap the stale, my old mucker and mate. Eat fresh bread, devour thick crusts, dip them in the rich yolk of life. Just do what you are. Bin the laden books, listen to me instead!
The more defective the ego the more ‘friends’ one needs to influence; think of dictators in this light and feel the revelatory vibes lightening your heavy cock wilting load. Honest injun.
Yes, named identity is difficult. We bring new life into the world expecting it to conform to what we ensnare in our names. Using your father’s monica was always going to be primally fraught. You’re a man Abe, your own salvation is ready to drop into your palms one day soon.
Daughter finished Finals with great sense of relief; all that effort over three years ended by a couple of hours mania. Sounds like copulation after childbirth. She’s already sussing out medical schools and has an open day at UCL later this month. Your turn, with twice my drama, will cum around soon enough.
Punters playing chess, ‘tis time to fend once more into the breeches of time’s codpiece. Farewell old friend, till next time I bullshite my words over patrimony’s good taste.