Years ago in Paris I did a great deal of drinking and talking with a guy called Antoine. He was a good looking man, an aviator, philosopher and writer.
Whatever comes to mind before I alter it with the overpaint of time. Mostly satire, poetry and fiction but occasional unreliable fact, as all facts seems to be today. From deepest Notting Hill. London.
Sunday 28 February 2010
changing the face of hippychick philosophy.
Years ago in Paris I did a great deal of drinking and talking with a guy called Antoine. He was a good looking man, an aviator, philosopher and writer.
Saturday 27 February 2010
Abomination and Art
Lyin' to me was the only honest thing she done.
Uncomfortable moments, candour, nudity and irony
Friday 26 February 2010
The things we do for love
Wednesday 24 February 2010
Dysfunction
These were the words rusty used to begin another strand of his story. He went on:
'Years ago, maybe ten or so, my mother called me up and asked if I knew of a man called Tom North. I said no and asked why.
She told me that 'Tom' was my half brother, he had been the child of my fathers, born before he had met my mother. He had been put up for adoption and my father mentioned him to no-one.
Until a letter arrived, a letter which my mother opened, Asking my father if he would meet him. My father refused. Denying all knowledge.
My sisters met the guy a couple of times, knew of his whereabouts. I asked one of them for his details but she refused to give them to me.
She told me that our family was far too dysfunctional and introducing him would do him no favours.
Later she told me that his details had been destroyed in a house fire.
That was the last I heard of Tom North'.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
As best we could
We got to talking about our childhood; Rusty told me this tale:
'I never did have a successful childhood. I never had a successful relationship with my father. He was a bully and a tyrant. I could never be good enough, I always let him down, I underachieved, I rebelled.
I walked away in my teens. I survived as best could.
Until, in my 40's I visited him with my sons. We made attempts at conversation. As best we could.
Then, one sunbright afternoon, as we sat in the garden watching my young sons play he said: "I envy you son. You have a relationship with your children that I never had with mine".
He died shortly after that.
But we had made our peace.
As best we could'.
Monday 22 February 2010
Meeting Mr Bounce
Time to pay Mr Bounce a visit, I think.
Confusing reality with fiction
I never name real people in the blog unless it is to promote a film, artist, musician or writer. I do not put up photographs without express permission.
All my characters are fictitious and invariably some characteristic of a person known to me will creep into my fiction. My muses (of whom I write often) are nothing more than figments of my imagination and often are inspired by Muses of the past; Jeanne Hebuterne, Dora Maar etc.
As I am a figment of Tristans imagination it makes sense to me that all of my characters are based on him; Rusty and Flluente are obviously alter egos, Moll, Mona, Babs, Lula Mae, Ruby and the ballerina are his fantasy women all of whom could not possibly exist.
I sincerely apologise to anyone who has been offended.
Sunday 21 February 2010
Tony and old friends.
The film I saw last night at a BAFTA screening 'Tony' (by Gerard Johnson) was great; proof that something fine can be made on an almost non existent budget. It is a real British film that does not rely on the gangsta genra guy ritchie porn. It is a surprising take on the serial killer thriller. Peter Ferdinando was especially good in the lead role.
Go and see this film if you can or buy the DVD from HMV.
http://www.tonythemovie.com/uk/index.php
I very rarely push anything but I think this is worth it.
Yesterday I spoke (for the first time in over 40 years) to an old friend. Worth getting old for!
Saturday 20 February 2010
BAFTA schmoozing.
I'll let you know about the film tomorrow.
Wish me luck.
Good advice and lightning.
Keep on sparking.
Killing happy things
Surely we should be killing and eating the unhappy battery chickens, putting them out of their misery leaving the free range birds to continue their blissful existence.
Killing happy things seems cruel.
Thursday 18 February 2010
Palatial memories, Patti Smith and Make-up.
How offensive of me. I should have just as rightly written: dinner last night with the editor and her husband.
The meal punctuated an evening which had started with me filling their bath with sulfuric acid. The acid was something of a success as was the dinner.
I insisted tthey listen to Patti Smith's cover of Smells like teen spirit; another success.
http://www.youtube.com/user/Tristanmarcu#p/f/30/M_ciiCyxOJA
On the walk home I mused on the fact that to the Muse make-up was a weapon, make-up was a lie; it was all made up.
Wednesday 17 February 2010
Rust in peace.
Accessing poetry.
The merciless bitch
Hey dude, why so down
and you're looking fucking white man
things are cool
stuffs happening.
I met a chick, hot as hell
mix of goth and EMO
she took me to her grotty flat
did MDMA and vodka
she spiked my drink
I think we fucked
I really can't remember
Then I woke up here man
in the gutter
I've lost my wallet
and my Bloc Party ticket
Bitch
Art, lies, nothing.
Maugham was a shit but a great story teller. Whenever I think of that man It confirms in me the need to separate the artist from his work.
I have the same issue with a muse; she was a great muse but not a great human being. Every word she spoke was a lie but such was her own self belief that her lies were utterly convincing.
Her beauty was so great that even when her lies were exposed she was forgiven especially by those people living simillar sorts of lies.
I thought I could cure her of her lying by letting her see that she was loved for what she really was. 'I'll try to stop lying'. She lied.
That muse caused me to produce some of my greatest work. But after she had gone (she got fed up with the truth; it wasn't comfortable) I went to the canvases and notebooks to review my work.
There was nothing there.
Sunday 14 February 2010
Lost things and loved.
Friday 12 February 2010
Missing the muse.
Missing my muse but not missing the human being that my muse used as avatar this most recent time. My inner therapist is pushing me to turn to my inner woman for inspiration but she is such a slut that I fear that she could only inspire filth.
I am 'house sitting' for friends for a couple of days; feeding the livestock (3 cats, 1 chicken) and warding off burglars. The chicken eyes the feedbag hungrily not noticing how I eye the chicken hungrily. However such is my frailty I fear that I would come off worse if it came to a fight.
Wednesday 10 February 2010
Another string to Fluentes' bow.
He calls it Tech Mex!
Tuesday 9 February 2010
Brian Patten, the Stranglers and the Roundhouse.
A year or so ago I had a beer with Hugh Cornwell of the Stranglers; I told him of that night and of my decision.
'You made the right choice'. He said.
ttp://www.brianpatten.co.uk/One_another_s_light.html
Poetry, George Best and Rock n Roll.
Nonsense.
Poetry has been around since Man's earliest grunts while Rock arrived with Bill Hailey and others in the 1950's.
Rock has for a while rather flashily stolen the ball and monopolized the pitch (like George Best crashing a sunday game in the park) But rock will burn itself out from decadent excess; the poets will kick the ball into touch for a moments silence before getting on with the game.
Once again a Nightingale will dazzle on the wing.
Sunday 7 February 2010
They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.
Out of control
Saturday 6 February 2010
Tin Pan Alley
He promises me that he will keep it lighthearted.
I shall of course be going to lend my support.
This weekly event is organized by Andreas Grant and is Where it is at as another generation might have put it.
Friday 5 February 2010
Haunted
It occured to me that I have already returned here from a previous life in order to haunt myself...
I certainly seem to know how to scare myself witless.
Monday 1 February 2010
Metaphors and venison pie in the Cow Notting Hill
The other thing we got talking about last night was 'the bullet in the balls' as a film metaphor for homosexuality or for a man being dominated by a woman.
We ate very good venison pie and drank too much beer and it was one of those nights when everyone turned up and the Cow became a party and I soon forgot all the stuff I was going to write so I'm having to make do with writing about the stuff i forgot to remember..
The Cow
book on a pub table and Lula Mae.
I'm reading Cormac McCarthy's Cities of the plain at the moment and last night in the Cow it got us onto a whole raft of topics including Hemingways sexuality and how hollywood addressed 'the love that could not be named' in the old days. Rock Hudson of course appeared in the conversation as did Heathcliffe and sad old M Bovary.
No mention of Brokeback Mountain though.
The book also got me thinking of Lula Mae in her gingham chaps... I hear she is on her way to Tucson Arizona.
A woman from chicago picked up the book and asked questions about McCarthy, whom she had never read. I of course waxed lyrical.
Friends and the bag woman.
I will however mention all my good friends who have helped in this time of need. Thank you.
And 'Heads'... I'm back.
Thursday 28 January 2010
How it is
I'd rather be alive and hated than dead and patronised.
You would not believe the shit I am having to go through at the moment so that Moll the bag lady can
maintain her reputation.
Please have patience. I will be back.
Wednesday 20 January 2010
Wednesday 13 January 2010
Postcards from Rusty. No. 23
He tells me that nurse Caz has left him for a snake oil salesman from Tupelo. He is returning to England.
Correct toothpaste procedure during courting.
she watched with burgeoning affection as I squeezed the toothpaste from the middle of the tube while I thought to myself; 'how much time will pass before I am admonished for squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and nagged into squeezing from the end.
give me a cuddle, she said some time later, not a hard one but a long squeeze. so I squeezed her round the waist and told her that she would always be my toothpaste tube and that I would squeeze her for ever. All the while thinking to myself 'how long will this last.
And sure enough one day she pulls away and says: 'Dont squeeze me like that, if you squeeze me in the middle I'll be obliged to nag...
If only you were a foot fetishist, then you'd squeeze me right.
So I never squeezed her in the middle again and over the years the 'waist' which I had squeezed Into her dissapeared and she became tube shaped from all of my foot squeezing.
The only physical contact we have now is her monthly pedicure.
I noticed the other day that she squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and has always done so.
I daren't point this out to her.
Natural history.
Jannie, I never had a teddy bear as a child. I had a sea lion.
I didn't have a teddy bear either. Or a sea lion... I had a rock, a black rock.
I found it in the shed by the kitchen door when I had first started to walk. I took it into the house and very quickly formed an attachment to that black rock but my mother took it from me and threw it on the fire.
I cried for a while at the loss of my only friend but soon returned to the shed near the kitchen door and found myself another 'friend' with which to play. my mother equally as speedily threw that friend on the fire.
This process continued for some weeks until I was fast enough on my feet to get ahead of the fire whereupon my mother started putting the black rocks into a basket beside the fire place. She called me 'Mummies clever little helper' although I could not see how it could be construed as clever to burn all of my friends.
Since then I have found it impossible to form lasting relationships.
but i am known for my splendid coal fires.
Tuesday 12 January 2010
Window shopping and lardy cake.
Sunday 10 January 2010
Molls 60's acid flashback.
The end of the lighthouse keeper.
Orthodoxing Day.
Saturday 9 January 2010
Hogmanic tumbleweed.
The start of the new year heralds the arrival of of the mysterious urban tumbleweeds that plague our streets for a week or two. The local authorities will do their best to clear the damn things away, but not before they distribute their seeds in the minds of small children and romantic adults, ready to germinate at the beginning of December.
Perfection and striped shirts.
Thursday 7 January 2010
A train intrudes... But slowly.
But hey ho, upwards and onwards. it is time to bring out the dunkirk spirit, dust off the old stiff upper lip and head towards the light at the end of the tunnel...
Probably an oncoming train though...
fortunately this is England and any oncoming train will be glued to the track by snow and oncoming nowhere, in any way other than abstract wishful thinking, for the forseeable future.
A good time to play 'chicken' then!
Sunday 3 January 2010
Saturday 2 January 2010
Blocked.
Blocked. Unable to write, focusing on the block which compounds the problem.
I hope the new year brings inspiration... Anything will do.
Thursday 24 December 2009
The torture of a tortoise.
Linford is a tortoise.
I was told that Linford is not allowed to hibernate, much to his chagrin.
Mrs x tells me that it is important that the little fellow stays awake for his first winter otherwise he might develop some problems. I would imagine that keeping a tortoise awake against his wishes is going to cause some pretty serious psychological problems let alone the foul temper.
Mrs x went on to explain that she gives it hot baths regularly as well as allowing the children to prod it, sing to it, dress it up and decorate it.
I took a look at Linford; he did not look happy.
just very, very sleepy.
But, on the bright side he is one of the very few tortoises to have seen a christmas tree or felt the splot of a snowball on his shell.
Wednesday 23 December 2009
Cabin fever, murder and flight.
Being housebound with only the bag lady for company has led to the inevitable; we are at each others throats. Neither of us will dare drop our guard lest the other attacks with a broken bottle or carving knife.
I hear her late at night sharpening things. There is a book on poisons open on her bedside table. Open at the chapter on nicotine poisoning.
She is Googling 'hit men'.
I believe there is some kind of symbolism in her choice of flatware that she bring my lunch on.
I for my part am hoarding apple pips having read that they are (in large doses) deadly. How I am going to get her to consume 8 Kilos of the things is something i have yet to work out.
I must escape... I thought of going to France but the Eurostar trains have all broken down, B A is on strike, the airports are all closed due to asuggestion of snow and traffic is at a standstill on the roads.
I must find refuge!
Saturday 12 December 2009
Cauliflower, corporal punishment and coke.
There was a cauliflower in the coldbox so I decided to make cauliflower cheese. I thought it a good one; made with a good bechemel sauce, bacon and 3 kinds of cheese. Then sprinkled with breadcrumbs and parmesan and baked in the oven.
Moll (who's tastebuds have deserted her) thought it bland and inedible.
To me it called up my schooldays and was redolent of headmasters (Eric Forrester) study as he brought out his cane for the first and only time in our relationship.
'I am going to have to give you six'. He said. 'It will I am sure give you no joy and hopefully an amount of pain. On the other hand I shall derive a great deal of pleasure from it'.
My crime? My crime was to have written CUNT in weedkiller on his lawn a few days earlier. Is it my fault that I am dyslexic and was only attempting to demonstrate my knowledge of early British kings.
I feel sorry for the kids these days who have to explain FCUK to their dyslexic teachers. But at least the teachers are not allowed corporal punisnhment and they must look after their pupils as they are probably their coke dealers as well.
Is it not ironic that it is now our educators who have the learning difficulties. They have problems understanding that there is no point in an education any longer.
Best to keep drones in the dark.
Irony in a pig factory.
Ironically he has been forced back to working in the American pork products factory on the outskirts of his village.
'So'. said the overseer when he went back to work in the pig fat rendering vats. 'I see you are no longer waving Fluente but merely drowning'!