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.

Milk, Bukowski and Laughter

A friend calls from canada and asks: 'What are you doing?'
and I say I am drinking milk and reading Bukowski
and she laughs and it is that laugh, you know,
the laugh of someone you really like
and straight away you want to make her laugh again
not to make her happy so much
as to make her laugh again
so you can listen to it.

And when she hangs up I think of poetry
and what defines poetry
and the word metaphor screams
'As if writing a shopping list of metaphors is enough

to make a poem!'

the ghosts of spoons

I said to mona: How anyone can have an intellectual conversation about spray painting spoons beats me. but we seem to manage it.