A very contented kitchen

jim Morrison, modigliani and Patti Smith

Babs calls from Coeurd'Alanes Idaho, I think she has the wrong number, I think she thinks she is talking to Rusty.

She says; I read this in the paper today, listen to this...

PATTI SMITH SAID: Actually, the first time I visited Pere Lachaise cemetery was when Jim Morrison was still alive. It was in 1969 and I was 23. I went to honor the painter Amadeo Modigliani and his tragic lover Jeanne Hébuterne, who lies in the grave right next to his. Back then I wanted so much to look like the models in Modigliani's paintings...

Then Babs says; Didn't that old bastard Nieupjur Know someone called Hebuterne?

I am lost for words, I hang up trembling, thinking of a muse long lost.

The secrets of magic

Check out: http://tristanssecretsofmagic.blogspot.com/ It is where I put all the stuff that will not fit in here... It is the repository for the work that I read at events.

A bicycle named desire

The Wall.

Sometimes you just have to walk away.

Bridges i have lost shoes from. No.2

Hemingwaying

Asked the other day by a colleague and collaborator how best I would describe my writing method/style.

I replied that I write the story then I hemingway it; pare it down to the bare bones.



then I hemingway it again.

Sometimes my stories vanish completely.

Punctuation

the pedant of Canada questions my use of punctuation or sometimes non-use of same.

Let me tell you, my little pedant, punctuation is the the spawn of the printer and and did not exist before Caxton.

Therefore I feel entitled to use it where and how I fancy?"

What is so hot about DJ's

In the 70's the DJ was the sad bloke turning the records over at parties because he didn't have a bird to snog.

I faked my own death and then helped cover it up!

My last words

I am dying, I can feel it in my bones. I lie. I cannot feel it anymore.

Tristan says he will take over and manage the farm so to speak. He has my memoirs (such as they are) and promises to put them in some kind of order.

I am reminded of Aldous Huxleys last words: 'LSD intravenous', or something like that.

Gin intravenous... Thats more like it.
Gin; memories of my father I never knew before I killed him, my mother who self medicated on the stuff, the men who bribed me or drugged me with it when I was a teenager. Gin; oblivion for the women who needed it before that.

And of course the gin-trap that is life.

I cannot extricate myself from this trap and rather than gnaw my leg off to free myself I will quietly drift away in order to sleep that most peaceful and dreamless of sleeps where not even a muse can wake me.

I cannot be bothered anymore.

The most beautiful woman in the clap clinic

Happiness and absolute sorrow flow from the same wound.

I have, as usual been witholding information from myself.