Scallops.Botticelli and nurse Caz.

A difficult day.

Tristan's Event at the Tabernacle has been cancelled, a double booking fiasco. not his fault. He now has to go back to scratch and re-plan.

Nurse Caz left six scallop shells on his doorstep today.

I sense that the scallop shells are more important than the cancelled event.

Looking at him now I see disappointment as if he were looking at Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus' but seeing nothing but an empty shell.

I know Tristan. the Event will take place in it's own time and stuff will happen.

And nurse Caz will say hello... Probably.

Patti Smith - We're gonna have a real good time

Virginia the milliner.

Virginia the milliner makes a nice hat

in terms of accomplishment that's about that

A hat is a hat and a hat is a hat

There is nothing much else to Virginia than that.

Neil Young - Harvest Moon (with lyrics)

Question answered.

Many years ago and I mean a long time ago (something over 4,000 years if the Old testament is to be believed) chickens (indeed all birds) did not lay eggs.

They, like mammals, gave birth to almost fully formed offspring. Not an easy thing for a chicken; you try pushing a broiler through your letterbox.

Until one day an incredibly stupid bird was born, a bird that could not distinguish between seed and grit. She would spend her days pecking at anything remotely seed shaped, much to the amusement of the other birds.

They mocked her something rotten, even the birds across the road would come over for a closer mock.

All to no avail, she carried on doggedly; she had true grit, that bird.

Until one day she met a mate. Or rather she became the victim of avian lust and (with grit between her teeth) she conceived.

21 days later, on her newly made nest, rather than forcing out a bird shaped thing with much grimace and cluck, she smiled, sighed, then eased out an egg. which out of ignorance she sat upon for a couple of weeks (A well earned bout of maternity leave) before the egg hatched to reveal the cutest thing imaginable.

The other birds looked on in disbelief and envy until, when hunger took them, the scuttled off to find some grit.

Yes! The chicken came first.

London spring.

A beautiful London day. A blue sky that still constantly amazes after such greyness.

This evening I walked down Portobello Road without a coat without a care but with great attention to detail.

music squirting from the bars and hardly a word of English in earshot but many smiles.

the view from my window where I write is straight out of Blade Runner... Vehicle lights on the Westway, the trains and tubes below. The planes are back; they slide behind the tower blocks on Harrow Road.

Police sirens cut with precision. The busses roar as they turn into Chepstow Road.

London is a great place to be.

The unzipping of the sky

While it was all very pleasant having no aeroplanes overhead for a week I did enjoy watching the first arrival unzip a perfectly clear sky.

The excitement didn't last long though.

The poet at work

St Georges Day poem.

Why St George who was St George

a Roman legionnaire

Caught in the crossfire of sectarian bickering

sanctified by papal spin doctors of divinity

Brought here

A souvenier

By returning crusaders

Like some plastic Eiffel tower

To England's green and pleasant land

A rallying cry for Shakespeare or

A cry for god's sake

Engerland, Harry Redknap and Boy George.

Better the dragon

The undead, unspun dragon

The dragon alive in every English heart

Avoiding bad press

And 3 way debates

Finding Jerusalem

In England's green and pleasant land

Eyeing up the true symbol

Not for him the oak or the rose

But

The Cow

Rip it's horns off, wipe it's arse... And stick it on a plate.

Dragons

I spent much of today researching St George in order to write a poem to recite at a party tomorrow night (St Georges day).

I'm going to write about the dragon instead.

Meat Loaf and plagiarism

The theme of Meatloafs new album:http://www.aceshowbiz.com/news/view/w0001702.html is identical to Tristans Short story called 'Arc of a diver'. First published in May 2009: http://tristanssecretsofmagic.blogspot.com/2009/05/arc-of-diver.html

Shame he couldn't give Tristan a credit.

He tells me he is taking legal advice.

James Auden Photography

http://www.jamesaudenphotography.co.uk/

Hippies

Ashtrays and dead strawberries.

You can learn a lot about a man from the state of his ashtray

This is the ashtray of a man who kills strawberry plants even though they are on the kitchen windowsill. What on earth crossed his mind as he looked at them dying each time he washed up.

A friend suggested that he drank straight from the bottle or can and therefore never needed to wash anything.

The state of the ashtray confirms that.

Ruby.

Many years ago, after a divorce, well meaning friends would suggest 'suitable' new partners for me.

In order to avoid these embarrassing meetings I invented Ruby.

Some months later invention became reality and 'Ruby' entered my life.

Be very careful about what you wish for.

http://tristanssecretsofmagic.blogspot.com/

Clear skies.

Clear skies over England again.

On a normal day there would be a dozen planes in sight at any one time.

Where have they all gone?

I must buy a radio.

In pursuit of lost shoes.

Forthcoming attraction...

Eyes

Tristan, B.E.A.T, Hoxton.

Tristan is doing some of his stuff at B.E.A.T at McQueen in Hoxton on Tuesday the 20th.

http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=108995149139489#!/event.php?eid=114404488578959&ref=ts

I shall be going along to offer support.

Mary spanking Jesus.

Max Ernst

Lay-by picnic.

It always amazed me as a young man that most of my friends could find their 'niche' at such a tender age without exploring all the possibilities that life had to offer.

It's like picnicking in a lay-by just outside an enchanted wood.

I have been wandering that enchanted wood for the past 40 years.

I think I have found the place to sit for a while and feast.

When the bliss seed germinates and the next Event.

What a delicious day.

Took myself to Gusto in Westbourne Park Villas for breakfast. Surely the best almond croissants in London and the cannoli (?) are to die for; the most seductive things on the planet.

Now lunch next door at the Westbourne. A poets life is bloody tough sometimes.

We finally have a date confirmed for the next Event; it will be on the 18th of May at the Tabernacle, Notting Hill. I will post the flier when it is made. We have a fantastic line up.

Tristan promises to talk about love (or what love becomes when the bliss seed germinates) in dark places.

Can't wait.

Birthday Poem

I sit here at my loom

Penelope to my own Odysseus

unpicking life's tapestry by night

embroidering by day

Constantly on the lookout

for a white sail on the horizon.

Is he with Circe or Calypso tonight?

Tristan and Isolde, Guinness and oysters.

A very strange incident on Friday night:

I was having a beer with Tristan at the Cow; listening to one of his monologues when he suddenly stopped mid story, approached a young woman who had just passed us and demanded 'Who are you?'

She replied. 'Isolde'

'Amazing'. Said Tristan. 'I've been waiting 55 years for this.

'Why? Who are you?' She asked

'Tristan'.

'Oh fuck off' She replied. walking off.

I guess she hears that all the time I said to Tristan in order to mollify the situation.

Tristan celebrates 55 years of picking at the loose threads of life's tapestry and remedial embroidery tomorrow...

We shall celebrate with Guinness and oysters.

How it is.

I said: Tristan, that is how it is!

You hope for too much.

They hope for just enough.

But it is never enough really

And too much becomes too much.

I guess he can wait a little bit longer...

Beer, women and loss.

I met a friend yesterday. I say a friend but she is really a friend of an ex and therefore an ex friend.

She was on her bike in Portobello road but circled back to say hello and chat for a moment and she glowed and I said you look wonderful and she said yes I am falling in love then she wheeled off again in front of a police car she was glowing more than the lights on that car and her siren sound was more pressing. And she, on the whole was far more arresting. Aint love wonderful.

I went to have a beer to think about that...

I loved that beer while I missed the woman... We miss them when they are gone.

Fucked if I know whether they ever miss us.

Probably.

Hopscotch, bunny boilers and Mondrian.

Easter leads me to think of bunny boilers.

I thought that frightening until tonight when a friend showed me the easter eggs lovingly ( and suspiciously) perfectly made by his girl friend; they had messages on them (exquisitely written in melted while chocolate; as good as if Mondrian had marked out your hopscotch squares on the pavement) which kind of spooked me.

The messages read(subliminally): Die you bastard!

But he is a chocoholic. I know he will ignore my warnings and fall in love.

One day he will fill the cracks in the pavement with alcohol.

The pitfalls of bearded snogging and Lucky 7.

I know I've been lazy. It has been easter and all that that entails; there has been no one on the streets and no observations to make. I did however have a fantastic lunch on Monday cooked by the woman who wears the trousers in Notting Hill. Fantastic for many reasons(as well as the food being brilliant) including the fact that no-one needed to introduce cocaine into the equation. Met some new friends there... Good.

I'm also trying to organise the next event; venues are tricky people to deal with, they think that they are the stars. I'm the promoter. I'm the fucking star; oi no brown m and n's babydoll.

I have however been considering the pitfalls of gay snogging among bearded men; specifically the velcroic nature of beards... What on earth do you tell your wife when you arrive home in the early hours of the morning (after a drunken snog in the alley behind Lucky 7) with a bearded scotsman stuck to your face?

Does a bucket of cold water work?

In my case I would say: Darling, I was snogging this Scotsman behind Lucky 7 and his beard got stuck to mine... Working on the assumption that none of my wives have ever believed a single word I say, they would dismiss this as poppycock and look for a thoroughly red blooded and heterosexual explanation involving booze, football, rock n roll and Russian tarts.

Lucky 7. Westbourne Park Road. London W2.

Hope I get a free portion of fries for this plug.

Somehow I doubt it.

The muse is dead.

Long live the muse.

Something to talk about.

With converse you always have something to talk about.

Let's talk about Vans

Great American literature.

I've given up on Bukowski and given up on Kerouac too.

Gone back to Cormack McCarthy. Reading 'Child of god' and blown away by the way McCarthy's lyricism can convince me to feel compassion for the most despicable of human beings.

This man is the greatest living writer in America.

Sad things can be funny and funny things can be sad.

the other day I watched a blind man try to walk down the street with a disobedient guide dog. That dog was exploring every tangent, every smell, every piss smeared tree and every food stain on the pavement.

The blind guy was dragging at and cadjoling his seeing eye dog. And getting very pissed off in the process.

Is it fair to see humour in this.

Tonight I asked a very beautiful young woman what she would like to drink. she said she would like a pint of piss coloured beer.

I'd like you to think that I'm making this up... But I'm not.

There is a point to life and when you find it it is wonderful.

Notting Hill bull shit.

I have truly had enough of the bullshit that surrounds me.

OK. I live in Notting Hill. That does not mean that I have to put up with the shit thrown my way.

Went to the Pelican tonight to hear some music. I'm sure the guys involved were well intentioned but it was crap.

I voiced my opinion, which I think is fair enough.

Then I got shit for being honest. One should never be honest at friends gigs, because if a mate is playing you tell the world it is good.

Hey like friends like being lied to. I don't think so.

It was appalling.

I enjoy immensely being told the truth... By people I respect.

Especially if they are buying the beer.

Happy Easter. I wish I had gone to see 'Tony' instead. Fuck I've plugged it again.

Milliners crossing

Gerard, who is a film maker; made a film called Tony (oh fuck, I've just plugged it again) said to me this evening that I should put the following on the blog:

You know that film called Millers crossing, It's got hats in every scene. If you CGI'd everything out of it save the hats and the dialogue you'd have a really cool film.

milliners crossing.

You bet we were drinking.

Canned bums.

Tristan calls.

He says to my answering machine: 'Hey Jannie, that film featuring my bum is going to be shown at Cannes. I've been invited to go over there. Never thought my bum would make it in the movies.

Nurse Caz (who had a role in the film) said my bum was too thin and scrawny but I reckon it will appeal to the effete French sensibilities.

I need a holiday, haven't had one for years. It is also an opportunity to meet up with some people I've yet to meet. Talk soon.'

Bukowski, ice hockey and nobility.

He said:

Your aspirations are noble but irrelevant.

that shut me up.

For a while at least

Then I realised he'd been watching ice hockey all night

sucking on beers the way Bukowski liked to talk

noble but irrelevant

I felt good.

Noble even.

Scared dog in the alley.

No muse.

Yet I sense a muse creeping up on me. I can feel her breath on the back of my neck.

Hackles rise.

I am a scared dog in an alley

Overjoyed by the fear I sniff on piss stained things

Glad to tear open a binbag of creativity

and then worms

With the muse

etc etc etc

Stats

The guys here are talking basketball stats.

I never thought I would ever write that.

But stats is stats and stats never lie.

I'm writing about stats and that is a stat.

Slam dunk.

Hugo and IS

Sitting at home dealing with stuff that needs to be dealt with.

A professor in Massachusetts reminds me of how it is as an artist... 43 years ago in his kitchen I saw a burnt toad in the hole hanging on the wall above a door. That was when I first realised that art could be anything you wanted it to be. I have been burning sausages ever since.

I remember he was a schoolboy then and then he wasn't and then he was in a band to die for and then he wasn't and now he is a professor in America and what is the future tense of wasn't?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JFU_1h7io0Y

Isn't I know is present; Isn't is in the building.

But what happens after isn't

Isn't has left the building... Ladies and gentlemen I give you... IS

Marycigarettes.

Dinner last night with Marycigarettes: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMIQ2tFPqKA

He is a star.

salt on chinese food.

Why has no one done this before.

Eating my sad bloke meal for one from a local supermarket (I will not advertise); chicken chow mein if you must know. I thought there was something missing, something that soy sauce could not provide.

I sprinkled on a little salt.

My last remaining taste bud exploded in a cacophony of exultant delight. I was gobsmacked.

Tomorrow I shall try tomato ketchup with spring rolls.

This must be what they call 'fusion'.

A bag lady's murder attempt (in your dreams), Papal bull and show business.

A busy month looms.

I am putting on another event in May at the Tabernacle in Notting Hill; again a mix of spoken word/poetry/music. Details will follow soon.

I find the whole process of putting on a show quite exhausting but exhilarating. Well worth the effort though.

Tristan phoned yesterday to tell me that he had dreamt of the performance; while he was on stage Moll the bag lady stepped out of the audience and attempted to stab him with a kitchen Knife. She was disarmed by security staff and dragged away cackling.

'If I'd died' He said 'It might have made me a star'.

I told him that there is a Papal Bull which states that no man may be martyred as a result of a woman's actions. Whatever she may have done to you you will never be considered a saint.

'That I do know'. He replied.

Rusty, bones and repercussions.

This morning I visited Rusty in his garret for a coffee and donuts.

He ushered me in, showed me the coffee pot then sat down at his kitchen table which was strewn with what appeared to be human bones. He started whittling one of them.

'They look very much like human bones Rusty' I said. 'What are you doing?'

'Yup' He replied. 'They sure is. I was going through the family closet and found em there. I'm making a marimba'.

'What on earth for?'

'Well Jan, I've been writing a family history for some time and it recently occurred to me to put it to music seein as musicals are all the rage these days... And then I thought what better instrument to accompany the story than a marimba made from skeletons found in the closet'.

'Scary'. I said.

'Not as scary as the story'. He replied as I poured the coffee into black and white mugs.

Messy

St Patricks night at the cow... 1,300 pints of guinness sold.

Another sad day.

My ex father in law and grandfather to my daughter died today... RIP John.

What makes the day doubly sad is that it is my grandsons 6th birthday. I often amazed at lifes grim coincidences. This is the second this year.

Advice

You know when I want somebody to not do something, you are my guy.

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.