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!
Sunday 14 March 2010
Another imaginary overheard conversation.
I'm not in love with you anymore. I love you but I am not in love.
Saturday 13 March 2010
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.
Friday 12 March 2010
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.
Tuesday 9 March 2010
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)
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.
Monday 8 March 2010
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.
Friday 5 March 2010
Disaster
Beer all over my computer.
Funny that! I was celebrating.
I will be quiet for a day or two until I resolve this.
Thursday 4 March 2010
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Wednesday 3 March 2010
I've seen the future.
i have this idea for a futuristic movie thats why i'm using lower case and bad punctuation because its the future and the world has gone to pot
anyway it is about the last englishman to have a job
he becomes very famous for being the last englishman to have a job
he becomes so famous that he is in constant demand for interviews and public appearances
so much so that he is sacked for absenteeism
he is replaced by an ironic imigrant
Tuesday 2 March 2010
Poetry in an unsatupon chair.
I once came to the conclusion that a chair, when not sat upon is a meaningless object; a non item in search of something to do.
It dawned on me that, if I wrote something meaningful on the chair it would create a purpose for the unsatupon chair. I wrote a schmaltzy, cheesy poem (about loss of a woman) on strips of paper then pasted them onto the piece of furniture.
It worked. When sat upon the chair was a chair, when not sat upon the thing was a poem.
The problem was that each time I read the poem(which was often) I would burst into tears. The memory of the lost love was too much.
I eventually chopped the chair up and fuelled the fire with it; another use for an unsatupon chair.
It dawned on me that, if I wrote something meaningful on the chair it would create a purpose for the unsatupon chair. I wrote a schmaltzy, cheesy poem (about loss of a woman) on strips of paper then pasted them onto the piece of furniture.
It worked. When sat upon the chair was a chair, when not sat upon the thing was a poem.
The problem was that each time I read the poem(which was often) I would burst into tears. The memory of the lost love was too much.
I eventually chopped the chair up and fuelled the fire with it; another use for an unsatupon chair.
Monday 1 March 2010
All gong and no dinner.
There are many ways to skin a cat.
But why? What's the point, there are no uses for a skinned cat that I know of. You cannot even eat them.
And then it dawned on me: It is the skin that is important. the packaging is the desirable thing, the contents are just packing material and worthless.
Retreat and jelly sandwiches.
Retreat from what? I asked him.
From the truth. He replied.
He went on to tell me about a pub in Brinkworth that did a great peanut butter and jelly sandwich (he had had one for lunch on his way down there). I never could understand the concept of that particular Americanism. I told him.
That's rich coming from a native of the land of marmite, he said.
'But i'm a Dutchman rusty.'
Silver sofa surfer.Work in progress.
A bird of passage, wandering albatross
sleeping on the wing
or perched precariously
on the cliff face of others hospitality
Sunday 28 February 2010
changing the face of hippychick philosophy.
Years ago in Paris I did a great deal of drinking and talking with a guy called Antoine. He was a good looking man, an aviator, philosopher and writer.
He showed me the rough draft for a book he was working on, provisionally called the little prince. He asked me to read it and give him my opinion.
I found the book a little twee and the philosophy simplistic.
when we next met I told him this ( I am a straight talking man ) and went on to suggest a few modifications.
I remember suggesting that the little prince, when lost in the desert, uses his remaining bullet to shoot down Jonathan Livingstone seagull. Later, after eating the bird, the prince dies of food poisoning, putting a generation of hippychick thinkers boyfriends out of their misery.
Antoine did not like that idea to much.
I did not tamper with his aeroplane whatever anyone says.
Saturday 27 February 2010
Abomination and Art
A friend asks me: 'Have you been to Westfield yet?'
I'm a bloody poet, what on earth would I want to go to that place for.
Lyin' to me was the only honest thing she done.
The one advantage of having a tooth knocked out by an angry woman is that one is able to get much bigger lies out between ones teeth.
The gaps in my teeth were never big enough for the kind of lies I had been cooking up.
Hey if you have lies inside you, let them go, exorcise them, go to liars anonymous if you have to but let them go
Freed Lies, unlike sheep, will not come home wagging their tails behind them. they just keep on moving on.
they finally come to rest in a country and western song.
If that's resting in peace then I'm a Dutchman!
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.
Friday 26 February 2010
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.
Wednesday 24 February 2010
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'.
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'.
Tuesday 23 February 2010
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'.
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'.
Monday 22 February 2010
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.
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.
Sunday 21 February 2010
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!
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!
Saturday 20 February 2010
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.
I'll let you know about the film tomorrow.
Wish me luck.
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.
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.
Thursday 18 February 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday 17 February 2010
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
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.
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.
Sunday 14 February 2010
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.
Friday 12 February 2010
Missing the muse.
Sitting in the Westbourne surrounded by Meeja types talking about scandinavian golf clubs by the sound of it; Norwegian woods.
Missing my muse but not missing the human being that my muse used as avatar this most recent time. My inner therapist is pushing me to turn to my inner woman for inspiration but she is such a slut that I fear that she could only inspire filth.
I am 'house sitting' for friends for a couple of days; feeding the livestock (3 cats, 1 chicken) and warding off burglars. The chicken eyes the feedbag hungrily not noticing how I eye the chicken hungrily. However such is my frailty I fear that I would come off worse if it came to a fight.
Missing my muse but not missing the human being that my muse used as avatar this most recent time. My inner therapist is pushing me to turn to my inner woman for inspiration but she is such a slut that I fear that she could only inspire filth.
I am 'house sitting' for friends for a couple of days; feeding the livestock (3 cats, 1 chicken) and warding off burglars. The chicken eyes the feedbag hungrily not noticing how I eye the chicken hungrily. However such is my frailty I fear that I would come off worse if it came to a fight.
Wednesday 10 February 2010
Another string to Fluentes' bow.
Fluente Maiales writes from mexico; he's had enough of the pig factory and is reinventing himself as a rock musician. He tells me he is fusing electronic sounds with traditional Mexican folk music.
He calls it Tech Mex!
He calls it Tech Mex!
Tuesday 9 February 2010
Brian Patten, the Stranglers and the Roundhouse.
Years ago, it must have been the70's, I, along with friends now long forgotten came down to London to see the Stranglers at the Roundhouse in Camden. On the way in I noticed a flyer advertising a reading Brian was doing downstairs that same night, To my friends horror I went to hear Brian Patten while they pogo'd upstairs.
A year or so ago I had a beer with Hugh Cornwell of the Stranglers; I told him of that night and of my decision.
'You made the right choice'. He said.
ttp://www.brianpatten.co.uk/One_another_s_light.html
A year or so ago I had a beer with Hugh Cornwell of the Stranglers; I told him of that night and of my decision.
'You made the right choice'. He said.
ttp://www.brianpatten.co.uk/One_another_s_light.html
Poetry, George Best and Rock n Roll.
They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.
Nonsense.
Poetry has been around since Man's earliest grunts while Rock arrived with Bill Hailey and others in the 1950's.
Rock has for a while rather flashily stolen the ball and monopolized the pitch (like George Best crashing a sunday game in the park) But rock will burn itself out from decadent excess; the poets will kick the ball into touch for a moments silence before getting on with the game.
Once again a Nightingale will dazzle on the wing.
Nonsense.
Poetry has been around since Man's earliest grunts while Rock arrived with Bill Hailey and others in the 1950's.
Rock has for a while rather flashily stolen the ball and monopolized the pitch (like George Best crashing a sunday game in the park) But rock will burn itself out from decadent excess; the poets will kick the ball into touch for a moments silence before getting on with the game.
Once again a Nightingale will dazzle on the wing.
Sunday 7 February 2010
They say that poetry is the new rock n roll.
Write about a rock star
write about his vices
write about his fall from grace
his mid life crisis
write about a rock star
dress him up in sequins
rock n roll ain't a world
in which Joe Meek wins
Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll
write another poem buddy go buddy go
Write about the cocaine
do a line of cocaine
talk about the cocaine
talk about the cocaine
talk abou... Oh buddy
push the needle on
and write about a rock star
sing it when you're done
sing it to a techno beat
badum badum badum
(guitar solo)
Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll
write another poem buddy go buddy go
Write about a rock star
fuck about with rhythm
rip your verses into strips
then mess about with em
write about beat writers
take it out on the road
sing about street fighters
and unpack your heavy load
Yeah poetry is the new rock n roll
write another poem buddy go buddy go
sing another poem buddy go buddy go
kill another poem buddy go buddy go
It's all write muse. I'm only dissin' my ho for attention.
Out of control
I spent the day yesterday having the longest lunch imaginable discussing Bono's role in Irish future heritage (there's a thought) and afterwards renewing old friendships, rebuilding bridges and extinguishing burning boats.
I did find time to write down (really on the back of an envelope) the chorus for a song:
Lying to me was the only honest thing she done
Lyings with me she aint doing now she's gone
After a night in watching romcoms
She went out to buy some condoms
Now it's 10 past 12 at the 7/11 of love
Saturday 6 February 2010
Tin Pan Alley
Tristan will be reading some of what he calls his 'stuff' at BEAT on Tuesday night. It starts at 9.00 pm
He promises me that he will keep it lighthearted.
He promises me that he will keep it lighthearted.I shall of course be going to lend my support.
This weekly event is organized by Andreas Grant and is Where it is at as another generation might have put it.
Friday 5 February 2010
Haunted
Talking with a friend the other day we pondered upon the possibility of Returning after death in order to haunt someone.
It occured to me that I have already returned here from a previous life in order to haunt myself...
I certainly seem to know how to scare myself witless.
It occured to me that I have already returned here from a previous life in order to haunt myself...
I certainly seem to know how to scare myself witless.
Monday 1 February 2010
Metaphors and venison pie in the Cow Notting Hill
What the hell. I'm going to take a cavalier attitude to puctuation today. The Italian girl wont like it but there we go.
The other thing we got talking about last night was 'the bullet in the balls' as a film metaphor for homosexuality or for a man being dominated by a woman.
We ate very good venison pie and drank too much beer and it was one of those nights when everyone turned up and the Cow became a party and I soon forgot all the stuff I was going to write so I'm having to make do with writing about the stuff i forgot to remember..
The Cow
The other thing we got talking about last night was 'the bullet in the balls' as a film metaphor for homosexuality or for a man being dominated by a woman.
We ate very good venison pie and drank too much beer and it was one of those nights when everyone turned up and the Cow became a party and I soon forgot all the stuff I was going to write so I'm having to make do with writing about the stuff i forgot to remember..
The Cow
book on a pub table and Lula Mae.
I had forgotten what a catalyst a book on a pub table can be.
I'm reading Cormac McCarthy's Cities of the plain at the moment and last night in the Cow it got us onto a whole raft of topics including Hemingways sexuality and how hollywood addressed 'the love that could not be named' in the old days. Rock Hudson of course appeared in the conversation as did Heathcliffe and sad old M Bovary.
No mention of Brokeback Mountain though.
The book also got me thinking of Lula Mae in her gingham chaps... I hear she is on her way to Tucson Arizona.
A woman from chicago picked up the book and asked questions about McCarthy, whom she had never read. I of course waxed lyrical.
I'm reading Cormac McCarthy's Cities of the plain at the moment and last night in the Cow it got us onto a whole raft of topics including Hemingways sexuality and how hollywood addressed 'the love that could not be named' in the old days. Rock Hudson of course appeared in the conversation as did Heathcliffe and sad old M Bovary.
No mention of Brokeback Mountain though.
The book also got me thinking of Lula Mae in her gingham chaps... I hear she is on her way to Tucson Arizona.
A woman from chicago picked up the book and asked questions about McCarthy, whom she had never read. I of course waxed lyrical.
Friends and the bag woman.
The desire to write is back... but what to write about is a problem. I could write about the fraudulent Moll but that wouldn't be fair... Yet.
I will however mention all my good friends who have helped in this time of need. Thank you.
I will however mention all my good friends who have helped in this time of need. Thank you.
And 'Heads'... I'm back.
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