Greed

A foot fetish explained.

I, like a lot of people come from a broken home

But ours didn't break when the old man left

It broke much much later than that.

When the old man left things were hard

Mum worked in bars and pubs, did cleaning; anything she could find to keep us.

We lived in a one bedroom flat

Mum slept on the sofa in the living room

My sister and I slept in the same bed in the tiny bedroom

Head to toe.

I spent twelve years in that bed with my sister

Head to toe

I came to know her feet intimately

I knew every inch, every pore, every crease, every nail, every callous.

I learned to tell the seasons by the colour of her toes

I learned to tell her moods by the colour of her polish

I loved her feet

They were the first thing I saw in the morning

The last thing I saw at night.

We did everything in that bed together

Head to toe

Homework, super Nintendo, reading, hobbies, laughing, crying

I taught her to whistle

She taught me to knit.

I gave her hand knitted socks each Christmas

She whistled in admiration.

She taught me chiropody

I taught her reflexology

I gave her pedicures for her birthday

She cured my acne

I loved her feet.

Then one day, mum was out and that awful thing happened

The police called

There had been an accident, a girl , thought to be my sister had been knocked down by a truck

Would I go, in my mothers absence

To identify the body.

At the hospital the body was still in a bed covered by a sheet.

The doctor pulled back the sheet to reveal the dead girls head.

I exhaled with relief and said: No this is not my sister

My sisters head is at the other end of her body.

She never did come home though. Not after that.

But I found comfort in her shoes.

Rusty, tumbleweed and Envy.

Another postcard from Rusty. It was mailed from Envy, Texas but I imagine he has moved on from there. He writes:

Tumbleweed; that symbol of the Hollywood Western did not in fact arrive in North America until the 1870's. It arrived from Russia mixed in with flax seeds.

Did the Russians do it on purpose? http://www.ebaumsworld.com/video/watch/921218/

Studio talk

Jolyon my studio assistant was in a garrulous mood last night and we sat up late talking. 'Have you ever been in love'. I asked him.

He said: Many years ago, when I was in my youth, I lived with an older woman; she was very beautiful and in demand. but I too was beautiful and in demand back then so everything seemed harmonious.

Until I said one night in bed: 'I love you.'

Don't say that she said. It is just a licence for me to abuse you.

why is that? I asked. Although I already knew the answer.

'Because'. She said. 'The first person ever to tell me he loved me then went on to abuse me and I now associate love with abuse and abuse with love... I would rather associate with shallow people who have no real feelings for me because they are safe and I am not obliged to form a real relationship with them.

'But you will get old'. I told her. 'And be alone and unwanted.

'So what'. She said. 'I will just commit suicide!'

'No you won't' I said. 'you will continue to behave as if you were a young woman and you will continue to ignore the people who really love you because they will not lie to you. And the eurotrash company you crave, because you buy into that shit, the eurotrash company will move on to the next generation and the people who really love you will have given up in exasperation.

And of course your father will be dead by then and by then it will be too late.



'Too late for what?' she asked.

'Too late to tell you I love you.'

Lost coat update

That bloody coat has got lost again.

One expects to lose kittens or small children. One expects to lose wives, girlfriends, patience, ones temper, ones bearings.

But how can a coat lose itself with such regularity. I can only assume that it is careless.

This is the last time that I saw the thing was when it was being manhandled by a karate expert from Calgary.

It was being given the chop!

Romance

She was the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic

The first time I saw her

I thought

She has been unlucky

She was the most beautiful girl in the clinic

The second time I saw her

I thought

She had been careless

The beautiful girl in the clinic

The third time I saw her

I thought

She was promiscuous or worse

That girl in the clap clinic.　

She was the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic

The fourth time I saw her

I thought

Stupid me, she is a doctor.

I approached her then and said

Doctor

You are the most beautiful girl in the clap clinic.

She replied:

I'm not a doctor

I'm unlucky

I'm careless

I'm promiscuous

or worse.

But I feel that is about to change.

We left the clinic hand in hand

Separated by the thickness of a surgical glove.

Later, much later as we lay

Her head on my chest her hair in my face

the scent of hibiscrub filling the white room.

I said I love you

And she said don't love me

I am unlucky

I an careless

I am promiscuous

or worse

And nothing has changed.

BEAT

Tristan will be performing at Marquis Andreas Grant's BEAT at Peter Parkers Rock n Roll club. 4 Denmark Street, Soho. Tuesday 1st December. 7.00 - 11.00pm.

I shall be there of course. If only to heckle! http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#/event.php?eid=197528849848&ref=nf

Penpal

Years ago I had a penpal. His name was Bill and he lived in America.
We wrote to each other once a week. We did this for years.

Bill told me that soon there would be no need of letters (he was what you would call a bit of a geek), that we would communicate electronically through the ether. And would be able to have real time conversations.

I said: Bill. you are full of shit. That will never happen in my lifetime.

We stopped writing soon after that.

I wonder what became of Bill?

facebook

She thought he thought she was unfaithful, Watched her like a hawk

She complained as she poked her Facebook lover

Who poked her back

Unknowingly

from across the room

As he poked his facebook mistress

A fairly typical dream scene

Auto maintenance and feng-shui

Moll asked me to accompany her to her weekly Auto maintenance class. I will not be doing that again. Arriving home I remembered that I had been sent a link some time ago: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UpTpJc0RGPo Thanks Heads!

What do you think Moll? I asked.

It's African isn't it. Nice. she replied. As she sorted through old Christmas decoration catalogues.

She then found a Feng-Shui plan for her appartment. At present I am sitting in the marriage area. Intelligence is in the lavatory... Can't say that I believe too much of this hokum.

Domestic scene.

He said: I am fully aware of my shortcomings. I know I have no ambition, no money, no hope of money. I know I'm unattractive to you, that I'm no good in bed (not that you will let me into your bed) and I do not dress stylishly enough for you. I know that my friends are not people that you would choose as friends. My taste is not up to much and I eat crap food.I drink too much when stressed and do not deal with things the way you would. My friends tell me to move on. Find another woman. One that doesn't treat me like shit. but I say I love this woman and they say 'I give up'. I say 'we are both getting older, have idiosyncracies that no-one else would tolerate for more than three months. We are ideally suited.'

She said: Look son. You are 54 years old. You are going to have to leave home one day.

Rain, pornography, coincidence.and Dungeness.

The rain is relentless.

I decline Moll's offer of her pink umbrella and suffere the consequences as I attempt to travel across London by means of public transport; the tube system is truly awful and explains the miserable demeanour of it's occupants.

On the street I no longer get any satisfaction from splashing through the puddles although my preference for Converse in all weather probably has something to do with that. Moll is on at me constantly to get some work boots with steel toecaps...

Surely the toecaps will rust in this climate.

Moll is posing for another artist. Typical; she knows I am blocked, unable to write, yet she dresses in loose clothes (so as not to leave elastic marks) and heads off for Mayfair in order to inspire another.

I walk her to the underground station and on the way she finds a couple of discarded photographs lying damply in the street. Is this where you found the pornography the other day? I ask.

Somewhere near here. She says, passing me an old poloroid of two sisters standing fully and impeccably dressed on a beach.
I glance at the photograph then look again in shock. Moll notices my hand trembling. What is it? she asks.
I am too distressed to tell her that it is a photograph of Tilly and Buddy, daughters of a woman named Agat who had been my muse many years ago . I had once possesed an almost identical photo (probably taken the same day) of the girls.
Agat had traced me and sent the photograph with a note that read:
'The girls at Dungeness.'