I met her at a party. she asked me if I was the hosts brother.
I laughed and said no! I'm his father.
She said you dont look old enough
I told her that I had impregnated his mother when I was 15 years old.
She looked concerned.
I said it's all right, we get on well and he gives me a cupboard to sleep in upstairs and feeds me scraps from the kitchen.
she looked concerned.
I told her it was alright. I was lying.
She said why do you lie.
I said it is what I do for a living. I am a poet.
she then held my hands and quoted strindberg in swedish.
I have had more fun listening to paint dry.
Thursday 17 September 2009
Paragliding between peaks.
He came over for a beer this evening, he was depressed and listless; post event blues he called it.
I said why do you do it.
he said it is not a matter of choice any more. I have to do it. but each time it gets easier.
How is that I asked.
He said: Each event is like a hill. at first a small hill, steep but not very high. you climb to the top and it is a struggle. you spend a couple of hours at the top of that hill and then fall, tumbling down the other side. Landing with a bump. you look behind you and all you see is the wall you have fallen down, you look ahead and all you see is an endless plain but there is no option other than to start walking.
eventually after a few days you see in the distance a purple haze which in time makes itself known as another hill; larger this time and more challenging but your pace quickens and you relish the challenge of climbing it.
But again, after a couple of hours on the peak you fall to the plain on the other side and the long trudge repeats itself.
After a number of ascents and falls you learn to take a paraglider with you and instead of falling to the plain below after an ascent you glide towards the next peak landing closer and closer with each flight. Eventually you soar from peak to peak
making good use of the thermals that rise from the plain below.
I said why do you do it.
he said it is not a matter of choice any more. I have to do it. but each time it gets easier.
How is that I asked.
He said: Each event is like a hill. at first a small hill, steep but not very high. you climb to the top and it is a struggle. you spend a couple of hours at the top of that hill and then fall, tumbling down the other side. Landing with a bump. you look behind you and all you see is the wall you have fallen down, you look ahead and all you see is an endless plain but there is no option other than to start walking.
eventually after a few days you see in the distance a purple haze which in time makes itself known as another hill; larger this time and more challenging but your pace quickens and you relish the challenge of climbing it.
But again, after a couple of hours on the peak you fall to the plain on the other side and the long trudge repeats itself.
After a number of ascents and falls you learn to take a paraglider with you and instead of falling to the plain below after an ascent you glide towards the next peak landing closer and closer with each flight. Eventually you soar from peak to peak
making good use of the thermals that rise from the plain below.As long as you refrain from soaring, Icarus like, too close to the sun you can maintain this momentum... A series of ecstatic flights between heights, your ears filled with your own whoops of joy.
Nothing gets better than that.
Nothing gets better than that.
Tuesday 15 September 2009
An imaginary overheard conversation
"She never uses my name. I will phone her and she will never use my name. she will call me darling or sweetheart or love but never my name. it is as if she cnnot be bothered to use my name or she has forgotten my name."
"Thank god we have never spent a Christmas together; imagine the horror of recieving a gift with a tag that says: whatshisname or the bloke I live with. Imagine your lover ringing your friends to ask the name of the man she sleeps with. Imagine her phoning your mum to ask her the name of her son.
I would love her to use my name just once.
but she won't
She hasn't forgotten it... She just didn't learn it in the first place."
"Thank god we have never spent a Christmas together; imagine the horror of recieving a gift with a tag that says: whatshisname or the bloke I live with. Imagine your lover ringing your friends to ask the name of the man she sleeps with. Imagine her phoning your mum to ask her the name of her son.
I would love her to use my name just once.
but she won't
She hasn't forgotten it... She just didn't learn it in the first place."
the lonliness of the long distance blogger.
In blogging regularly one creates a rod for ones own back. one becomes a slave to the blog.
It is a lonely, thankless task (occasionally brightened by the odd comment from a reader).
However it is encouraging to note that this is read in far flung corners of the planet and that people return to it regularly.
Feel free to comment or even email.
It is a lonely, thankless task (occasionally brightened by the odd comment from a reader).
However it is encouraging to note that this is read in far flung corners of the planet and that people return to it regularly.
Feel free to comment or even email.
The most difficult question
This morning at 8.27 my telephone rang, waking me. I could not get to it in time. I missed the call. I did not recognise the number.
At 10.00 I redialed the number and before I had time to speak a childs voice said: "Daddy". That was all, nothing more, just "Daddy".
I was thrown into confusion, I was thrown back in time. My mind filled with the image of a four year old child, walking through a meadow high above the river Dart. A four year old child who asked: "Are you my daddy?" The easiest question to answer but hardest question to be asked.
At 10.00 I redialed the number and before I had time to speak a childs voice said: "Daddy". That was all, nothing more, just "Daddy".
I was thrown into confusion, I was thrown back in time. My mind filled with the image of a four year old child, walking through a meadow high above the river Dart. A four year old child who asked: "Are you my daddy?" The easiest question to answer but hardest question to be asked.
This morning all I could say to that child was "I'm sorry".
"I'm not your daddy. I'm sorry."
"I'm not your daddy. I'm sorry."
Essential listening
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/console/b00mj7nc
Don Letts on Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove. check it out.
Don Letts on Notting Hill/Ladbroke Grove. check it out.
Monday 14 September 2009
Sunday 13 September 2009
holiday romance
Baltimore, Ireland. 1970
We talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
while the other kids drank to their pledge
We walked to the beacon
then out at the beacon
held hands and then
went to the edge
she told me she loved me
I told her my fears
we talked of red roses
we talked of Sorrento
Her name was Penelope
the same as my sister
which smacked of incest
each time that I kissed her
On the well rounded bottom
of an overturned inflatable
and all was in reach
but how far was debatable
down there
down on the beach
Under a mans checked shirt
we talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
we parted agreeing no contact was best
On a postcard weeks later
she wrote of red roses
she wrote of sorrento
she wrote of red roses on a card from sorrento
Without a return address.
We talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
while the other kids drank to their pledge
We walked to the beacon
then out at the beacon
held hands and then
went to the edge
she told me she loved me
I told her my fears
we talked of red roses
we talked of Sorrento
Her name was Penelope
the same as my sister
which smacked of incest
each time that I kissed her
On the well rounded bottom
of an overturned inflatable
and all was in reach
but how far was debatable
down there
down on the beach
Under a mans checked shirt
we talked of red roses
we talked of sorrento
we parted agreeing no contact was best
On a postcard weeks later
she wrote of red roses
she wrote of sorrento
she wrote of red roses on a card from sorrento
Without a return address.
Saturday 12 September 2009
Another Event
It doesn't seem like ten minutes since the last one but we are at it again.
Tabernacle, Notting Hill this time, tomorrow night. come and see. should be interesting.
I think tristan is going to be in a bright place.
Tabernacle, Notting Hill this time, tomorrow night. come and see. should be interesting.
I think tristan is going to be in a bright place.
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Thursday 10 September 2009
Lyric for a punk jesus christ superstar
Gabba gabba ho sanna
gabba gabba hey sanna
Gabba gabba sannah sannah ho
Gabba gabba sanna hey sanna
Gabba gabba hosanna
Is it true nancy
that you died for me
Gabba hey
Gabba ho superstar.
Tell the clash to be quiet
I anticipate white riot
this common crowd
Is far too loud...etc
gabba gabba hey sanna
Gabba gabba sannah sannah ho
Gabba gabba sanna hey sanna
Gabba gabba hosanna
Is it true nancy
that you died for me
Gabba hey
Gabba ho superstar.
Tell the clash to be quiet
I anticipate white riot
this common crowd
Is far too loud...etc
gosh thats hard work. Tim Rice really earned his squillions.
Memories of Bob Marley
A delightful young lady has just planted on my right wrist, via her 'john bull printing kit' a little black mark that will allow me to check out Lee Scratch Perry later this evening. The black mark burns.
I and I are delighted.
Viagra and the photographer
I tend to wear a lot of blue these days. I think that i am being subliminally driven to this by the colour of my Viagra which i am encouraged to take by my various muses.
I am particularly pleased with this jacket and converse ensemble.
As i was sitting in the gutter outside the Portobello Gold my old mate Daevid Baley came along.
Hello I said, any chance you would take me photo Dave?
He said: 'No problem matey'. he took my camera, fiddled with the settings for affect and took the above.
A particularly fine example of his work. I think you will agree.
Wednesday 9 September 2009
Hastings with Warhol
Back in the sixties andy came over to britain; he needed to get away from the lime-light and assassination attempts ('these fifteen minutes of hell' he would call it).
I took him down to Hasting to get away from the pendulum that London had become.
Andy always enjoyed going some place where he could take his wig off and not be recognised.
We often walked on the beach, photographing the fishing boats and talking about shit.
One day I said: 'Andy, why don't we do some screen prints in strange colours?'
And he said: 'Yeah cool'
So we did... That is what it was like back then.
I took him down to Hasting to get away from the pendulum that London had become.
Andy always enjoyed going some place where he could take his wig off and not be recognised.
We often walked on the beach, photographing the fishing boats and talking about shit.
One day I said: 'Andy, why don't we do some screen prints in strange colours?'
And he said: 'Yeah cool'
So we did... That is what it was like back then.
jim Morrison, modigliani and Patti Smith
Babs calls from Coeurd'Alanes Idaho, I think she has the wrong number, I think she thinks she is talking to Rusty.
She says; I read this in the paper today, listen to this...
PATTI SMITH SAID: Actually, the first time I visited Pere Lachaise cemetery was when Jim Morrison was still alive. It was in 1969 and I was 23. I went to honor the painter Amadeo Modigliani and his tragic lover Jeanne Hébuterne, who lies in the grave right next to his. Back then I wanted so much to look like the models in Modigliani's paintings...
Then Babs says; Didn't that old bastard Nieupjur Know someone called Hebuterne?
I am lost for words, I hang up trembling, thinking of a muse long lost.
She says; I read this in the paper today, listen to this...
PATTI SMITH SAID: Actually, the first time I visited Pere Lachaise cemetery was when Jim Morrison was still alive. It was in 1969 and I was 23. I went to honor the painter Amadeo Modigliani and his tragic lover Jeanne Hébuterne, who lies in the grave right next to his. Back then I wanted so much to look like the models in Modigliani's paintings...
Then Babs says; Didn't that old bastard Nieupjur Know someone called Hebuterne?
I am lost for words, I hang up trembling, thinking of a muse long lost.
Tuesday 8 September 2009
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.
Monday 7 September 2009
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.
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.
Sunday 6 September 2009
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?"
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.
Saturday 5 September 2009
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.
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.
Friday 4 September 2009
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.
I have, as usual been witholding information from myself.
Wednesday 2 September 2009
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!'
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!'
Tuesday 1 September 2009
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.
Sunday 30 August 2009
Nietzsche and the cow
I am told by an American friend that a philosopher friend likes nothing more than to hang out at the cow with his new best friend and discuss Nietzsche.
Reminds me of the time I hung out Fritz and talked about the Cow. I seem to remember telling him about the goat.
Fritz took notes.
Bizarrely a horse looked into the bar.
Reminds me of the time I hung out Fritz and talked about the Cow. I seem to remember telling him about the goat.
Fritz took notes.
Bizarrely a horse looked into the bar.
The man who brought his own hill
Carnival inevitably brings to mind Hein; the man who brought his own hill.
Hein; a big man, Travelled through the traffic of Notting Hill on a skateboard... He had the right; a native of Venice Beach California and a veteran of those gnarly breaks.
he sailed serenely over the horizon of Westbourne park road like nothing more than a clipper under full sail. his outrider was a German Shepherd.
Hein never had to put his foot down to push... He always brought his own hill.
A few years ago he had one of those momentous parties that are still talked about in the Cow, especially at Carnival. but, like the sixties, If you were there all you can remember is that it happened. I ran out of memory cells on the Sunday afternoon, the rest is a shadow at best.
Hein also was the man who gave me my first gold disc; it hangs on my bathroom wall, something I had always wanted... I had been round at his house with people and some beer or wine and needed to use the loo. there on the wall was a gold disk. It shone.
I told Hein that I had always wanted one of those in my bathroom.
He went to a cupboard in another room then handed me a gold disc for the first Stray Cats album. I could have wept.
A big man; Hein.
Hein; a big man, Travelled through the traffic of Notting Hill on a skateboard... He had the right; a native of Venice Beach California and a veteran of those gnarly breaks.
he sailed serenely over the horizon of Westbourne park road like nothing more than a clipper under full sail. his outrider was a German Shepherd.
Hein never had to put his foot down to push... He always brought his own hill.
A few years ago he had one of those momentous parties that are still talked about in the Cow, especially at Carnival. but, like the sixties, If you were there all you can remember is that it happened. I ran out of memory cells on the Sunday afternoon, the rest is a shadow at best.
Hein also was the man who gave me my first gold disc; it hangs on my bathroom wall, something I had always wanted... I had been round at his house with people and some beer or wine and needed to use the loo. there on the wall was a gold disk. It shone.
I told Hein that I had always wanted one of those in my bathroom.
He went to a cupboard in another room then handed me a gold disc for the first Stray Cats album. I could have wept.
A big man; Hein.
The first whistle
I awoke to a deathly silence; no busses, no people, no noise. It was the retreat of the sea prior to the tsunami. The lull before the storm.
Then inevitably there it is, rising over my aural horizon; the first whistle of Carnival.
It is followed of course by others, then hooters, then the first drum beats slip into my consciousness. It is as if Ghengis Kahn, Attilla the Hun, Vlad thhe impaler and Stalin have massed their collective hordes and are marching on my place. WHY PICK ON ME?
I have a choice... Get out there and party like its the end of the world or remain holed up above it like a first world war balloon observer at Ypres.
Friends phone me for battle reports.
I tell them that I love the smell of Napalm in the morning.
Then inevitably there it is, rising over my aural horizon; the first whistle of Carnival.
It is followed of course by others, then hooters, then the first drum beats slip into my consciousness. It is as if Ghengis Kahn, Attilla the Hun, Vlad thhe impaler and Stalin have massed their collective hordes and are marching on my place. WHY PICK ON ME?
I have a choice... Get out there and party like its the end of the world or remain holed up above it like a first world war balloon observer at Ypres.
Friends phone me for battle reports.
I tell them that I love the smell of Napalm in the morning.
Friday 28 August 2009
Carnival
Hurricane Carnival is about to hit us. The barriers are up and houses and shops barricaded. The lull before the storm is spooky and not a lull at all; walking home last night I came accross a massive steel band in All Saints Road. Fantastic!
The atmosphere is already palpable.
The only thing for me to do, once I have decided I am staying for it, is to decide which parties to attend.
Notting Hill this weekend is either the best place in the world or the worst.
Babs would love it.
The atmosphere is already palpable.
The only thing for me to do, once I have decided I am staying for it, is to decide which parties to attend.
Notting Hill this weekend is either the best place in the world or the worst.
Babs would love it.
Cycling without a stabiliser
I no longer have any stability in my cycling.
This was drummed into me yesterday as I multi-tasked my way down Westbourne Park road, the wind was strong, gusty, gutsy and fickle; of course reminding me of the nurse. I realised that the wind is no friend to the cyclist.
I mentioned this to a friend who said that there were cycling courses available. I should go on one she said.
I said that I was an autodidact and autodidacts don't do lessons.
she said I have a lot to learn.
That is the only thing I'm on this planet for. I said.
Which planet I'm on is a mystery to me.
This was drummed into me yesterday as I multi-tasked my way down Westbourne Park road, the wind was strong, gusty, gutsy and fickle; of course reminding me of the nurse. I realised that the wind is no friend to the cyclist.
I mentioned this to a friend who said that there were cycling courses available. I should go on one she said.
I said that I was an autodidact and autodidacts don't do lessons.
she said I have a lot to learn.
That is the only thing I'm on this planet for. I said.
Which planet I'm on is a mystery to me.
Sunday 23 August 2009
Frieda and Tumbleweed socks
I invited frieda for breakfast in the square and was delighted when she said yes.
we spent hours discussing feet (a subject close to my heart) at some point in order to illustrate another point she removed her boots and socks, leaving them lying on the flagstones.
A sudden breeze caught her socks and sent them skittering away like nothing more than knitted tumbleweed.
A french lawyer let down her hair at a nearby table shook her head and then dazzled the sun.
Frieda then informed me that she was in fact a multi-millionairess with houses around the world and an island in the Seychelles.
'Why say you are a pediatrist'.I ask.
'I just love feet Jannie'. She replies.
we spent hours discussing feet (a subject close to my heart) at some point in order to illustrate another point she removed her boots and socks, leaving them lying on the flagstones.
A sudden breeze caught her socks and sent them skittering away like nothing more than knitted tumbleweed.
A french lawyer let down her hair at a nearby table shook her head and then dazzled the sun.
Frieda then informed me that she was in fact a multi-millionairess with houses around the world and an island in the Seychelles.
'Why say you are a pediatrist'.I ask.
'I just love feet Jannie'. She replies.
Saturday 22 August 2009
The event and coming clean
I had better come clean.
I had rather more to do with the Event at Cafe Ravenous than I let on. I was in fact the producer and promoter of the thing, this I had done in order to give Tristan the opportunity to have his night of Glory (if you can call it that) and to create a little buzz of excitement in a stagnating Portobello.
Murray, Noel and Sam were the real stars along with Ali and Charlie from Ravenous. All of whom (and many others) ensured that Tristan had the night of his life.
It will be interesting to see where he goes with this.
I had rather more to do with the Event at Cafe Ravenous than I let on. I was in fact the producer and promoter of the thing, this I had done in order to give Tristan the opportunity to have his night of Glory (if you can call it that) and to create a little buzz of excitement in a stagnating Portobello.
Murray, Noel and Sam were the real stars along with Ali and Charlie from Ravenous. All of whom (and many others) ensured that Tristan had the night of his life.
It will be interesting to see where he goes with this.
Nurse, passport, coffin.
The nurse had taken my passport when she left. I suppose she wanted some sort of memento and it did contain one of the better photographs taken of late.
Rusty called yesterday to tell me that my passport had mysteriously been found under the nurses bed.
'What the hell were you doing under her bed?' I asked as the penny slowly dropped.
'I was looking for an escape hatch'. He replied.
'The only way you'll escape that woman Rusty is in a coffin'.
Rusty called yesterday to tell me that my passport had mysteriously been found under the nurses bed.
'What the hell were you doing under her bed?' I asked as the penny slowly dropped.
'I was looking for an escape hatch'. He replied.
'The only way you'll escape that woman Rusty is in a coffin'.
Friday 21 August 2009
Wednesday 19 August 2009
Tuesday 18 August 2009
More cycling tales.
Cycling and the pub do not make good bedfellows. 
Grey and moody sky
Under a grey and moody sky I cycled, full of brio yet unsteadily fast, homeward. While distracted by thoughts of Lula-mae, marooned in Limbo Nebraska (pop 47) a bollard leapt into my path.
The bollard won.
Bruise
Days later I noted that the bruise resembled uncannily that grey and moody sky.
Monday 17 August 2009
Sunday 16 August 2009
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