Money

I am sitting here with a man who earns $5oo,ooo a year, he is the unhappiest man I know yet I do not know how to respond to his unhappiness.

You cannot buy that kind of unhappiness. It buys you. It pays you a salary with expenses. It fills your phone with vacuous numbers. It surrounds you in the bars you trawl. It courriers over your hangover regular as clockwork. It greets you with the words 'good bye'.

I've said 'Do the math. How long can you live on a beach for?'

He said Is that with Russian whores or without?

I got up, walked down to the edge of the water and stared out over the horizon.

Not a ship in sight.

Portobello scenes.

Who is the girl in the red dress?

Stockholm syndrome and the BBC.

A funny night spent sitting in the Cow reading Gunter Grass and watching a very drunk girl, fresh from a funeral in gold stilettos repeatedly falling off her stool and looking as pleased as punch for all that.

And meeting a film maker friend to discuss future projects.

Stockholm syndrome cropped up in the conversation and we talked about marriage and how one half of a marriage or the other was suffering from the syndrome.

There is a film to be made here.

I met a splendid woman from the BBC.

It occurred to me that most employees of the BBC are suffering from Stockholm syndrome.

Another imaginary overheard conversation.

I'm not in love with you anymore. I love you but I am not in love.

Funny. I'm in love with you... I don't love you. I don't even like you but I'm in love with you!

Mapping the muse

She is my North, my South, my East, my West. My new found land; my Detroit.

Apologies to metaphysicians everywhere.

Zen and toad licking.

Rusty called tonight. He spoke about his new pet, a Mexican toad, said he'd been licking it.

I told him I was a little depressed.

He said:

The only way you can fall now is up... Let go.

Your kind of gravity only exists because you believe in it

And if you take 'IT' out of gravity you get gravy.

You can do a lot of sensible thinking on the back of a rodeo horse.

Or licking a toad.

Relationship day in the real life section.

The title comes from a one time muses blog.

I posted a comment saying that it sounded like a title for a gloomy 'British poem'.

I write this as the CFO of an international corporation sings James Taylor songs and Joni Mitchell and Carol King and plays the harmonica and I wonder at this strangest of friendships and feel as comfortable as I have felt whilst writing in the midst of company..

A happy creative environment but bonkers for all that and I think about the idea of prose moving into something that is almost recognisable as poetry in the way that stilted acquaintance blends into friendship. nothing rhymes yet there is something lyrical.

We learn most about people by getting to know them slowly and keeping an open mind.

And not bullying them

And not letting them bully us because we want to be popular or liked

And not bullying ourselves into distance from other people

Friends dribble into our lives.

Or by osmosis creep in.

Into

Relationship day in the real life section.

Then come and go unconditionally with a bagful of memories

and an invitation to return

on relationship day

In the real life section.

Come back: The happiest meant words possible to say

And the happiest to hear.

Tristan called round tonight. He said he had had enough.

I believe him.

Missing.

Sitting here, eating a pot of chocolate ice cream, Missing

It suddenly dawned on me that 'missing' is just another word for looking back.

It also means insecurity.

missing is just having a hole to fill.

Like a grave.

Spiders from mars.

I am reminded of a meeting years ago.

I had met a young man in Marine Ices in Camden, his name was David Jones but he told me he was thinking of changing his surname to knife (like in Bowie I said) he thought about that.

Anyway I took him to see my old pal Siggy Spielman who lived up the road. I told him about Siggy before we got there:

'Siggy plays guitar'. I told him

I also told David that Siggy reckoned he had a spiderplant from Mars, judging by the way it grew.

'Are you ok?' David said.

Hunky Dory David. Hunky Dory.

Eurotrash bag lady, desire and Tennessee.

Tristan sends me a text message, I am the victim of textual harassment. He thinks he is clever.

He sent me a poem. I am tempted to send him a blade from a grass cutter (poetic in joke)

Oh glorious eurotrash bag lady

My heart soars, a skylark.

Under sumptuous silks from Dior

Lie grubby pants from Primark.

I knew at once you'd be trouble, bubble of bliss be it may

Bubbles burst...

I'm too depressed to write any more and cannot be bothered to trawl any more wheelie bins of desire.

'A wheelie bin named desire' Now there's a thing. I remember telling Tennessee a long time ago that it would be a good name for a play. He just kept looking at my biceps and sippin his julep.

'You could be a contender'. He told me.

Portobello Road.

I have no idea what was going on here but they look happy.

Hooray, high fashion and tarted up bars.

OK sorted.

Having picked up the new computer courtesy of good friends we adjourned to the Portobello Star; a recently refurbished Portobello Road boozer. Normally I am anti the stylification of local boozers but the Star as it was was un-enterable to all but the most hardened of drinkers and it's new incarnation is welcome.

We discussed the impossible nature of 'haut-couture' shoes of the Lady Gaga variety currently filling the glossies.

I would like to say that I am left cold by it all...

Strangely I find myself hot and bothered by the alien footwear.

But not as hot and bothered as Lady Gaga's feet.

I took myself home for a steak pie and a large vodka.