As best we could

Rusty arrived in London out of the blue yesterday. We met for a beer in the Cow. Meeting for beer in a pub is a British habit I am adapting to well.

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'.

Meeting Mr Bounce

In the light of recent events I felt it neccessary to take legal advice.

At a reading a few months ago a man had sidled up to me in the lavatory, Whispered: 'If you ever need legal advice' and handed me his card.

Time to pay Mr Bounce a visit, I think.

Confusing reality with fiction

Someone has been interfering with my blog, deleting stuff and adding material. I have got rid of the offending items and I hope this will be the end of it!

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.

Tony and old friends.

Yesterday was an excellent day, a rare thing this year.

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!

BAFTA schmoozing.

This evening I am off to BAFTA headquarters in Piccadilli to watch a movie made by a young film-maker Gerard Johnson (score by his brother Matt of The The). I intend to schmooze like buggery in order to improve my standing in the film industry.

I'll let you know about the film tomorrow.

Wish me luck.

Tulips

Good advice and lightning.

If you really love something let it go.

If it aint come home in a couple of months track it down and kill it.

Rusty left that on my voicemail. He said he saw it on a bumper sticker in New Mexico.

He'd been visiting the lightning field.

He added: Tremendous electrical storm here last night; dramatic lightening echoing around the amphitheater of the mountains, a spectator sport with thunderous interludes but not much rain.

Keep on sparking.

Killing happy things

I am told that I should be eating free range chickens, they live happier lives apparently; get lots of exercise and fresh air.

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.

Palatial memories, Patti Smith and Make-up.

Dinner last night with the professor and his wife.

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.

Rust in peace.

Rusty called this morning.

He is giving up show business he said. What he meant by that was that he was giving up hanging around burlesque stage doors waiting for Babs.

He is moving to New Mexico with Lula-Mae in order to write that novel.

'Which novel?' I asked him.

'You know Jan'. He replied. 'That novel I ain't never going to get round to finishing'.

'I've got one of those'. I told him. 'Yup' He said. 'That's where I got the Idea from'.

Accessing poetry.

I am concerned that younger generations find Classical poetry inaccessible. To that end I have taken liberties with ' La belle dame sans merci'.

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.

Boy did it rain yesterday. I haven't seen rain like that since I last read a Somerset Maugham story.

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.

Lost things and loved.

I lost a cat yesterday.

The black and white one. It was not here in the morning, clamouring to be fed alongside the brown one and the grey one.

I phoned a friend to ask what I should do. She said there is nothing you can do, just wait and she will return. Cats are like that.

Sure enough the black and white cat was here this morning, looking a bit tired but well enough.

How I wish a lost, well loved friend could be returned to me as easily.