Uncomfortable moments, candour, nudity and irony

Jolyon my erstwhile studio assistant came round today for a bit of advice.

I sat beside him on the sofa and patted him on the knee saying; 'Jolyon, what is the most embarrassing moment in your life?'

'Right now' He said.

Maybe I should have got dressed before he arrived but sometimes you just don't know when you are going to be surprised.

sometimes stuff happens that you have to deal with, naked or not, and nakedness, like truth, never hurt anyone except clothed prudes and liars.

I hate ironing, never do it, waste of time and always reminds me of an airline pilot i know who irons his y-fronts.

Rock and Roll, read into that what you like.but Ironing y-fronts can lead to scorch marks and scorch marks on underwear can be easily misconstrued, especially in a poorly lit room...

See where I'm going with this?

I can't.

The things we do for love

Before I left I painted Moll the bag lady's toenails.

I painted them red while thinking of Titian..

I have no idea what Moll was thinking.

I guess I'll never know.

Dysfunction

'A spooky feeling is creeping up my spine.'

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'.

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'.