idea for a novella:

Written in the fifth person, the work ironically stars only 4 people who all died at the same moment on different continents and arrived in Heaven together at the same time. God was drunk and he spliced their personalities together (something he has never done before; but when you're omnipotent and inebriated... you could do just about anything - no, actually anything) anyway, these four people who are now one dead person in heaven spend months queuing in the heaven complaints department waiting for their complaint to be processed, waiting for the hearing etc. (the queues are so long because heaven - containing only good things - is distinctly boring and the human spirit (though disembodied) NEEDS something bad to complain about; moreover, something to complain about with other humans and seek solidarity through. The novella follows the ins and outs of four elements of this ghost-splicee, how they interact, what they think of each other, how they confuse parts of themselves with each other and vice verse, how they get on and realise that all humans have a quintessence that is profoundly similar, how they discuss Mozart, how they become so interwoven that they don't know which part is which and eventually decide that they were probably just one person all along and no splicing ever occured (though by this time they are right near the front of the queue and so they decide to lodge a complaint anyway: the water in the plentiful drinking fountains dotted about heaven is one centigrade too hot. Despite the fact that this is untrue, they decide on it anyway, and by the time they get the front of the queue, they all believe that it is actually true and have forgotten that they made it up; needless to say they are all outraged, or should i say s/he/it is outraged.

I propose a world where novels are drastically reduced in size. Now, its not unknown to cut a book down to size for a blurb or an abstract, or even to reduce a book to one paragraph while lampooning the storyline as that section in the Guardian does. But I want to go further than that. In this world of fast food, even faster cars, rapid Internet, one-click purchase, instant coffee, instant noodles! In this world of tiny digital cameras, mobile phones the size of an ant that crawls in your ear, with video cameras on every wall and in every pocket, every hand, recording every moment of even the most banal corners of the universe! In this world of the guiltless mp3 larceny, where everything can be downloaded… from the photos of your brothers wedding in Tokyo to the sound of a South African ferret gnawing on a tree stump… surely the novel will face death or transformation – and a medium of such promise, such inexorable strength, will never chose death, no… not death, surely transformation – and transformation it shall be. Transformation at all costs.

But into what? Well let’s see now. It must be small: it will have to fit into the smallest of pockets – why not wear it as a contact lens? No, too fiddly. In the time it takes to get it in and out five hundred thousand photos will have been taken, half a million songs will have been downloaded, nine hundred burgers will have been eaten… and so on. So it needs to be small – ok – what else? Fast… its got to be over in flash, its got to smack you round the face, shock you, pluck your heart strings tenderly, frighten your wits out of you, split your sides, make you cry, enlighten you, teach you – yes! It’ll be western capitalism’s answer to Satori – over in an instant yet resounding for a lifetime. Who has time to read Dostoyevsky or Tolstoy today? They were paid by the word and wrote too many pages. We need the essence, the core, the soul, the spirit, the concentrated nucleus of a novel: one sentence – one pithy little sentence. Pith shall become the novel. We’ll print them out on little cards. I can see it now…

“Go on failing. Go on. Only next time, try to fail better.”-Samuel Beckett

“Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.”-Pablo Picasso

“I believe that truth has only one face: that of a violent contradiction.”-Georges Bataille

“Have no fear of perfection - you'll never reach it.”-Salvador Dali

“If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place.”
-Ranier Maria Rilke

“In short, I am an idle fellow who pisses his time away. I have absolutely nothing to show for my labours except my genius.”
-Henry Miller

I arrived and sat down on a large and comfy looking sofa. It was not as comfortable as it looked. Those tumescent leather looking 4-seaters they have in bars are rarely as comfortable as they look. I looked at my watch; it was only 7:30; that meant I was half an hour early. Slouching back I glanced about me warily, trying to affect a cool nonchalant mien. By backside and a large part of my back sank smoothly into the morassic swelling on which I had chosen to sit. Immediately regretting it, I sat bolt upright. Remember your posture William, I said to myself, just relax upright – yes, that’s right, its almost as comfy as anything else – just relax upright. Nodding slightly at my inner dictum ordinance I forgot myself for a few moments and gazed emptily at the glass coffee table in front of me.

A barmaid laughed loudly nearby and I was brought back to myself. Uneasy again, I checked her face to see if she had been laughing at me. Of course not, I scolded myself inside, you were hardly doing anything strange, now just get settled and relax… UPRIGHT!
Ok… ok, I replied, beginning to wish that my mind were a little more unified in its discourses.
But a discourse is an exchange, I corrected myself, not a soliloquy… and even a soliloquy is a species of exchange since it has an audience.
Yes ok, ok! I’m happy to talk to myself, I replied, but at least lets call it… lets call it… I don’t know… an introspective monologue?
Ok, lets.
So where were we?
Don’t you mean “Where am I?”
Yes I suppose I do, but you know what I mean, what was I saying?
I think I was just trying to relax and avoid attracting attention while I wait for my friends on this corpulent settee in this meretricious excuse for a drinking establishment.
I should write that down.
Yes I should.

Again, I found I was nodding to myself pensively. Another laugh from the same barmaid brought me to my senses. I surveyed my surroundings properly now, having finally achieved something resembling that calm nonchalance that has never come easily to me. The bar was sparsely populated; there were a few groups of the usual mid-twenties rich looking Dulwhich types scattered about the room, either half swallowed in puffy sofas or sitting round tables. Most of them had bottles of wine and, in between dainty sips, were smiling or giggling at each other. Most of them were female and wore polka dot dresses or small stripy sweaters and tiny slipper-shoes. They’re all very fashionable, I said to myself, deciding whether to leave it at that – an observation – or make some judgments. I can never just observe, I thought, only the completely insentient can truly escape judgement: What a load of tripe I began, these people are disgustingly vapid – horrifically vacuous…

It was a favourite diversion of mine to sit somewhere silently admonishing those around me – innocent members of public – for being pitifully and hatefully boring, for depriving themselves of personal flair, for acting in a that empty affable way that ensured not only that no one was ever offended by you but also that you repressed any nuance or interesting facet of your character. I would sit there basking in the warm agony of my own hatred, all the while confident that I was completely blameless of all the vile sins that I thrust upon those about me. This pursuit served me well, the time was passing and I was merry, until I realised the barmaid glancing at me questioningly. At first I was baffled as to why she might be throwing her eyebrows up in my direction, but I soon realised that I was violating a veritable pub commandment: thou must always buy a drink.

I checked my watch again and it was now only five to eight. My friends would be here soon enough, I might as well purchase some alcoholic poison in advance – it was inevitable that I would indulge sooner or later, why not sooner?
“I’ll have a Grolsch please” I half-shouted over to the lonely barmaid, climbing out of the cocoon that I had allowed to engulf me and walking over to the bar.
“That’s £2.80 please,” she said placing my pint on the bar in front of me.
As I handed her a fiver she leaned forward slightly and said “I hope you aren’t being stood up… you’ve been sitting there waiting for ages”.
“I hope I’m not being stood up” I laughed, “But I can’t be sure yet, I was very early you see.”
“Ah” she said “sorry, I get nosey when there’s no one to serve, I get so bored I take risks”
“That’s ok,” I said, feeling compelled and intrigued by her spiritedness, “the truth is, I am always much too early.”
“Well its much better than being late” she gave me a beautiful smile and I stared a her a little to long without saying anything. Her smile faltered and she looked away, she looked down the bar, as if hoping that there was someone else to serve. Realising my mistake, I picked up my pint and walked back to my seat, thanking her again as I left.
Wandering over to my seat I looked up to see my friend Henry walking towards me. I sat we sat down at the same time and he smiled and said “hello” with raised eyebrows. I was just about to reply with some ‘catch-up pleasantry’ or other when our nascent conversation was interrupted by… [I’m stuck, anyone any ideas?]

Gloves?

Left lying empty in the streets, these gloves –
Limp as weak ladies wobbly legs, limper.

Some abandoned by babies, hurled from the
Pram in gurgling play, mum doesn’t notice
And they roll on, leaving the shed skin of
A tiny hand, lying limp and alone.

But longer, more sinuous quintets do
Leave their digital coats behind too
Suffering, no doubt, from cold and wet hands
In the winter months – but here’s the gist:
Gloves left behind in the gutter, everywhere
This time of year.

Quite a few gloves,
In one day, in one short walk I spotted more
Than three gloves left behind…

I saw a handful of gloves upon the road
And a glove full of hand at end of my arm.

On Nothing

It was nowhere to be found.
Instead, it lurked everywhere,
Somewhere, anywhere, kitchenware
Abiding in the hem of your shirt like a flea,
Too small to locate, springy and elusive,
Biting you on the wrist just under your watch,
How did it get under there? And while I was asleep!

You can learn to ignore it if you wish
You can go to evening classes – you’re
Taught exercises – yoga of the mind:
Bend all your thoughts the other way, they say,
And drink some of this special yoghurt milk.
It’s darned like a legging – of mock-sock-silk
And weaved in the Alps, by mountain ilk.
“Twaddle, drivel!” I say, “They’ll only bilk
You out of tonnes of dosh and fly-by-night
Before you realise you’re wrong and I’m right”

The lark in the tree is nowhere near me,
If it was I wouldn’t know, I’m no bird
Watcher – nor have I any avian
Erudition – I’m more of a fish’man,
Sifting the waves for my dutiful prey
Parking my boat in the beautiful bay,
Stinking of fish at the end of the day,
Dancing the deck like a goat astray.
My ignorance of rural life could fill
A warehouse, a whorehouse, a mouse house a…
House. I can go on and on and on, I
Can pick my nose like a pro, yes I can

And from my nose did all this spew
Yes that above, the nonsense too.
It must have, I didn’t write it
I found it in my nasal cavities.
Right! Enough of this. I’m off to play the piano.

Singing in Public

It should be smiled upon – but instead -
If you see anyone singing in the street
“They’re probably mad,” we say – probably?
Certainly mad - bonkers! Ring the council
And complain, I can’t exist in this racket.
But do we need the council? Maybe we

Just need to throw a soft spanner into the
London Underground – the very place
Where the devil of solipsism was born:
“No one else exists, especially not you! Yes
You, the one letting your leg touch mine!
I won’t stand for it!” The standard reaction.

We don’t chat on the tube, let alone sing,
Unless you’re begging. But then you’re
Despised – But I suppose you’re despised
Just as much for begging as for any other
Transgression of the absurdly stringent
Tube etiquette rules and regulations:

Smile at anyone or thing (– or even at nothing)
And you’re a complete nut
Hum along with your personal stereo and of course
You’re a fucking shit face
There’s no question – You’re an utter cunt if you
Make any form of conversation.

Now I’m not denying us our rights.
My personal space? You keep away!
I want that to myself – and I want
To hold firmly on to my right to
Sit in quiet desperation – pretending to read,
Eyes darting about trying to avoid cleavages.

Oh yes – never you mind sonny – no.
I’m no grubby swinger, no hippy, trying to
Force you into bed with my wife – I don’t
Hand out flowers to soldiers in
The hope that one day I’ll have a job
And a car – or a haircut – no!

I’m interested in your safety; I’m as
Concerned for myself as you are yourself
That’s how my empathy works, we’re
Just the same – I’ll say – don’t doubt it.
Your rights are my rights – But you
Get to keep your own, don’t worry.

But – aforementioned rights remaining
Firmly intact – don’t you think we
Might be a little less sulky about the
Whole affair? – What “whole affair”?
Life I tell you! Life! The tube is noisy –
I know you may want to be at home

Sitting in front of Baywatch with hot cup of soup…
…So does everyone else! We’re all Homo sapiens
Here buddy. We all have our needs: food, water,
Baywatch, soup, ringtones, colonic irrigation,
And all the rest of it – Just think of yourself
As a naked – yet civilised – savage, in

A cave (or up a tree, its not important where)
Surrounded by other equally civilised savages,
What would you want the most? – Now don’t
Tell me Heat Magazine, Rollerblades, Brie,
Reebocks, Budweiser, Fatboy Slim, or any of
Those commodities y’know? – More than anything

You’d want to sing out loud - like a bird,
You’d want everyone to hear it too. By
Jove that’s it – that’s what we want – when
A mother sings (or talks with a sing-song
Voice) to her baby – when the football crowds
Chant in (albeit raucous) tones – when a

Drunkard in the street peals out a distorted
Rendition of some pop classic – when you
Sing in the shower – when children on the
Tube shatter all the conventions, singing,
Running about, talking loudly and even –
God forbid – communicating with suited dullards.

In Vainly Striving for an Epigrammatic Conciseness

I am the wearer of a ridiculous hat.
It is old and green – with dirt? who knows?
Its been years since I bought
It – five maybe. And I wear it everyday,
Putting it on as soon as I wake up.

I’m not wearing it now though
The stereo is loud and my head is unadorned
I'm happening at the computer – going with a poem.
It’s in the present – presently – and the poem is
Loosing its grip by referring to itself – grip on what?

The hat! Yes, indeed, that was the topic
And a fine topic – a conversation point
I like those dashes; I use them because I like them
Especially when Emily Dickinson uses them,
Sometimes at the end of the line like this –
But I’ll bet she never used two – – in a row
You can see why.

Can you blame me for losing track?
It’s just an old hat – the filthy thing
Doesn’t hold my attention for one moment
And I’m just speeding along with this now
I don’t suppose the beers I had earlier are
Helping – “# Skeletons? Yes, but with their
Flesh still around them, and alive #” sings the radio.

But I haven’t got a radio – how on earth?
Oh come on you! Its fictional creativity
You buffoon – Now now… don’t argue with yourself
And on paper too – which might outlive your
Organic existence by a good few years
If you’re lucky

But wait! Hold the press – this isn’t
Even paper.

New Years Eve 2003

“- and the squashed couchette that dribbles from your throat…attracts a dirty old goat…” he rhymed.
“Don’t forget the rancid stoat…” I added, leaning towards the Dictaphone in his hand, “yeah! The stoat, that sails in a boat… round the fairytale moat…” I said, before hesitating.
“If you’re not careful you’ll be demoted”, Adrian continued, holding the Dictaphone right up close to his mouth, “we’ll rip those stripes right off your coat, from your current position down to a private, and you couldn’t ever skive it, you signed the five year contract maaan!” he sneered to a stop.
The Dictaphone clicked as Adrian turned it off. Our throats were sore as we’d been freestyling into Adrian’s Dictaphone for at least twenty minutes without a break. It was New Years Eve and we had decided to spend it in The Hobgoblin, which is the nearest pub to my house. In the summer its vast garden served us well but we soon realised that in the cold of winter, we would have to escape the elements inside. This is just what we were doing, much to our distaste. For the new years celebrations the pub had a DJ and those irritating coloured disco lights flashing about the empty dance floor. The music was excruciatingly loud. So loud, I thought, that the DJ must have given up trying to attract people to the dance floor. He was now just punishing us because we had failed to do so.
“We probably won’t be able to hear a thing of that,” I shouted into Adrian’s ear over the colossal din and pointing at the Dictaphone, “the music is way too loud”.
He shrugged and then raised an eyebrow ironically. He was just about to shout something into my ear when Dave and Rachel arrived back from the bar with four shots of whiskey.
“Here we go lads,” screamed Dave in an exaggerated cockney accent “all together now.” The four of us (Adrian, Dave, Rachel, and me) each imbibed a small quantity of poison, and each spluttered or hissed according to the ferocity with which we felt our insides were being destroyed and our brains melted.
“Right – what now then?!” Dave shouted at the other three of us, just about reaching the necessary high decibel scream that was required to supersede the musical racket and reach our ears, “This is horrid! Do you reckon we could brave the cold and sit outside?!”
There seemed to be some drunken consensus: a bit of nodding, Adrian put his hat on, Rachel picked up her hand bag, so Dave led the way and we strode out into the harsh, cold, on-the-cusp-of-January air. The sudden stillness, emptiness and relative quiet of the deserted pub garden allowed me to realise how drunk I was. Our ears hissed.

We had been suffering the loud, smoky interior for a number of hours now. Our desperate attempts to enliven this notoriously anti-climatic pseudo-event came in two categories: alcohol and nonsense. Shouting improvised nonsense-rhymes into Adrian’s Dictaphone had been punctuated only by throat-searing shots of refined hedonism. It was now at least ten o’clock, not very long before we were to be blessed with a new year.
“Shall we get a kebab?” suggested Dave.
“Uuuh… I dunno,” I mumbled, shrugging and the beginning to shiver.
We all looked around at each other searchingly and the dull glisten of apathetic intoxication was consistently reflected back by each pair of eyes.
“Well I wouldn’t mind some chips,” said Rachel smiling sardonically, “I suppose its something to do”
“Ok then – shall we all go?” inquired Dave.
I shook my head and looked at Adrian to see what he thought.
“William and I will stay here!” he said in his mock-heroic voice that he sometime puts on when there is little else happening.
“Yeah, we’ll wait here” I nodded.
The couple jumped up rubbing their hands together and hunching their shoulders inwards as people do in the cold, and shuffled off to the kebab house down the road.

“Soooo… William” said Adrian, as soon as we were alone, pronouncing my name rhythmically in his unusual American accent, “what shall we do before this year is in the past?”
“We could go on an adventure,” I said pathetically, shaking my head at the emptiness of my own words.
“We could just go for a walk down some of these streets,” Adrian suggested, waving his hand in the direction of Brockwell Court.
“I suppose so” I said, tracing a route in my mind through the local streets. “But wouldn’t that be boring?” I asked.
Adrian lifted his hands mock-despairingly, “you never know” he shrugged “it could be better than just sitting here”.
“What about the other two?”
“Let’s just run round the block… we’ll be back before they are.”

We ran across the road and I began to feel more excited. Running when I’m drunk is always quite exciting; the edge of my vision blurs and it seems as it gives the impression that I am running extremely fast. We slowed to a brisk walk and entered the Brockwell Court estate. Adrian started singing. Well it was really half singing, half humming. In time with our steps he was repeating a jazz-like phrase, slightly different every time. Around the side of the flats we were skirting, adjacent the large cylindrical bins, there was an old sofa left there to rot. On a whim I jumped on it and climbed up and over the wall it was resting against. The wall was about six foot high. Without a word from either of us Adrian followed suit. We were now in the next estate, I forget its name. We were walking along a grassy alley passing windows in which we could see people celebrating New Years Eve in their living rooms. Adrian was still trumpeting along and I joined in with a simple bass riff. Our alcoholic confidence increased and we began to sing louder. People noticed us and looked up as we passed their windows. First, an old couple that looked like they were just sitting in silence, waiting for something to happen. We obviously weren’t what they were waiting for – they scowled vehemently at us. Then, a Hispanic looking couple that were cooking a meal together looked up as we sang passed their window. The woman, at first, looked shocked but I detected a favourable hue in her surprise and I stopped singing for a moment to shout “Happy New Year” through the window at her. As we walked on swiftly both moved towards the window and called “Happy New Year!” after us.

A minute later, still walking down the alley, we came upon a metal frame fire escape and, again without a word, Adrian began to ascend the steps. Six floors up we reached the top and beheld a beautiful view. The sky of London was alight with fireworks. We stood and watched the sky for a minute before Adrian began rummaging in his pockets. “Here it is,” he mumbled, producing the Dictaphone. Affecting a ridiculous air of importance he held the machine up to his mouth and started singing.

“Ahh den der-tis sen der dih hoss….
Ahh den der-tis sen der dih haaa ho hosen…
Ooh hoo er haa… en-der-dih hoss
Ahh den der-tis sen der dih hoss….”

I knew the song and joined in at the chorus:

“Otis – air-dees – er-ti-hos…
Otis – air-dees – er-ti-hos…
Otis – air-dih hees – er-ti-hos…
Arken Der-ti-hos!”

The song we were singing was by an insane French progressive jazz-rock band called Magma. They had invented their own language called Kobaia and we were, apparently, singing in it. We hadn’t the fogiest what we were singing – all we knew was that it was a tribute to Otis Reading. We both loved the song and became lost in our roof top rendition of it. The fireworks went on beautifully in the distance. At a certain point when it seemed to feel right, we slowed to a stop, ending the song with a duet of high pitched wailing (a faithful imitation, I might add). Turning off the machine and putting it away, Adrian turned to me with a genuine smile, “well what shall we do now?”
“More things!” I said with excitement, setting off back down the fire escape.

Over a couple more walls and across a road and we entered a very different state. It looked a lot more private and perhaps even a little posh. A driveway led us round the large red brick building into a sort of large quad containing a small ornamental garden. It was completely silent and we could go no further. We stood for a moment and looked about at the little garden.
“Look at this” I hissed, walking over to a bicycle that hadn’t been chained up, “its just leaning here!”
“Shall we have a ride round on it?” asked Adrian.
My future conscience kicked in. We’ll never return this if we go for a ride on it, I thought, we’ll end up throwing it in a bush half a mile away most likely.
“No… I – I don’t think we’ll ever return it will we?” I looked Adrian in the eye, “in the state we’re in…”
“No, I guess you’re right” he nodded, sighing.
“Well lets move on,” I proposed, as if we now had some concrete agenda.
“Indeed” he muttered, with his usual whimsical drawl.

We walked back in the direction of the pub, back in the direction of my house. Neither of us had a mobile phone nor any timekeeping equipment.
“I suppose its now 2004” I announced.
“Yes well happy new year… I suppose” he replied, not forgetting to raise his customary ironic eyebrow.
We arrived at the pub but the garden was empty and people were being told to leave.
“I wonder what happened to Dave and Rachel?” I thought aloud.
“I’m sure they’re doing fine someplace,” he squawked, accentuating his accent deliberately (but purposelessly).
“Yeah…” I looked around at the drunken stragglers in the street and realised we had probably been away from the pub for hours. It was the singing on the fire escape that did it. We were too drunk to notice time slipping away. What had begun, as ‘a run round the block’ had actually become, in some oblique manner, an adventure. But it was not to end here. There was to be a final flourish.

Without discussing it, Adrian and I had begun to wander in the direction of my house. It was not more than a hundred metres from the pub. I could tell we were both walking slowly on purpose, prolonging the adventure, unwilling to have it end – as it certainly would on entering my house. Within about 20 metres of my house I became desperate for some one last taste of drunken revelry and jumped out of my slovenly stupor: I leap into the middle of the road. It was currently empty and I could hear no cars approaching so I lay down right in the centre of the road. As soon as I found myself resting comfortably, I wondered what foolish purpose this was supposed to serve. I was just about to get up and give in – ending the adventure – when I heard a chorus of cries. A looked up from my supine position to see a group of six young girls, no older than seventeen, running towards me. They were all heavily made up and dressed in short skirts and tiny low cut tops. Running was clearly difficult for them as they were all wearing stupendously high heels, and they were all, of course, ludicrously juiced. Their collective scent preceded them, carried by the gentle breeze, and I inhaled a mixture of gut wrenchingly strong perfume and the somewhat preferable reek of neat vodka. They were now in a single file line and the leading girl was within feet of me. Suddenly frightened I tensed up a little and held my head with my hands. The girls proceeded to jump over me. Some cleared me completely and some placed a cursory foot on my abdomen during their flight, without any weight. Skilfully done, I thought, for someone so drunk. Relaxing a little, I realised that I was in little danger. The last girl was lagging a little behind and I remained lying in the road, giving her time to have her go. She was running on socks, carrying her high heels in her hands. I caught a glimpse of her face and was immediately aware the degree to which she had indulged this evening. Before I had time to think any further, she leapt into the air landing on one foot with her full weight on my abdomen, then leaping off and staggering away to join her screaming sisters. This girl had just compressed my stomach with such violent suddenness, such frightening unexpectedness, that I was left coughing and spluttering in the road. I managed to get up and join Adrian back on the pavement and exchange a brief glance with him. We were both shaking our heads in cheerful bemusement.

Unravel

Maurice Ravel; piano master whose early works seem scarcely less mature than those of his maturity; shavings of Parmigiano-reggiano were caught in his beard; It is the “tree moss” of the poets and Shakespeare's “idle moss,” and in the past it was used as a remedy for whooping cough, catarrh, epilepsy, and dropsy, also as an astringent, a tonic, and a diuretic, it was first described in 300 BC as a hair-growth stimulant; Greek voyager Pytheus sailed around Britain and discovered a place he named Thule (possibly the Shetland Islands, Iceland, or Norway), which for centuries was considered the end of the earth; I remember digging a whole in the garden and seriously believing that if I put the elbow grease in I would reach Australia; I could never quite pronounce the word ‘Vaseline’; chapped lips in the winter are a pleasure to crack, I smile as hard as I can in the mornings to crack the sides, and then immediately regret it; while earthquakes have inspired dread and superstitious awe since ancient times, little was understood about them until the emergence of seismology at the beginning of the 20th century; Steveland Judkins, a blind child prodigy produced a steady stream of classic hit songs, but Stevie Wonder (as he became) was much more than a freakish prepubescent imitation of Ray Charles, as audiences discovered when he demonstrated his prowess with piano, organ, harmonica, and drums; I had been writing under a pseudonym for years, until one day my house was burgled and it was stolen, now I have to be content with writing under a desk lamp; witticisms may not be my strong point; for many prehistoric tribes, the traditional test of manhood was the lifting of a special rock... such manhood stones, some with the name of the first lifter incised, exist in Greece and in Scottish castles; among the simplest instruments are those that European folk cultures share with many tribal cultures throughout the world: rattles, flutes, the bull-roarer, bone whistles, and long wooden trumpets, such as the Swiss alpenhorn; as “they” say ‘every singer starts out singing other peoples songs’ and I suppose eventually you come into your own, having understood the ineffable essence of composition, and weren’t the earliest writers writing what we sometimes refer to as ‘songs’?; Gilgamesh, who had returned to Uruk, rejected the marriage proposal of Ishtar, the goddess of love, and then, with Enkidu's aid, killed the divine bull that she had sent to destroy him; I want to convince myself that I’m not too much of a plagiarist – not too much of an idea-stealer; the fish monger had a hard time convincing Mrs Millenthrop to take home a Haddock as she was there was “something fishy about those spots on its shoulder”; before I go any further I should wash my hands repeatedly and say a thousand Hail Mary’s; despite his name, Pope Urban IV (who reigned 1261–64), wasn’t a proto-gangster-pimp, exhibiting the finest in Medieval bling, and pimping his nuns like a forward thinking antediluvian thug, instead he freed the Kingdom of Sicily, a papal fief, from Hohenstaufen domination and restored papal influence in Italy; an exercise in unfree-association.

‘As Mag sat with the kid in her lap and began to read from a book, life in the forest...

"The weasel and his cousins, the mink, the fisher, and the marten, are lithe, fast, savage creatures. They are meat eaters, and are in continuous, bloodthirsty competition for the..."

then the beautiful child was asleep and the moon was full.’
From Tales of Ordinary Madness by Charles Bukowski.

Lipogram

I know a man who said “Drop your slacks and fling your bits about all you want, you’ll only ruin your days. Publicans and drunkards will similarly gawk, watching your phallus (and you with it) drop down into ignominy… humiliation, infamy. Corruption of your status will follow; disdain from all around you.” A judicious oration without doubt. But a thing was missing. But which thing do I talk of? Do you know? It is a common part of communication. All habitually apply it to manuscript. Without it I could avoid this uncanny quality of contact. Do you know now?

The party was thronging and I was drunk. I was wandering about in a sea of familiar faces. Squeezing past people, under peoples arms, over their feet, round chairs and so on. The house was packed. Even the stairs, there was a person sitting on nearly every step. Everyone was talking and laughing and the music was pumping away not so quietly as to allow easy thought when you weren’t talking. It was my house and I knew most of the guests. Some better than others, but in my drunken state (which most of them probably shared) I said hello warmly to everyone. It wasn’t false warmth. It was my real burning cheeks, my hot stinging throat (fresh from the vodka), and my happy wobbling gait. I was warm inside. I shook everyone’s hands as I stumbled through. As I passed some people I engaged in fleeting conversations or joined in on ones that were already going. Sometimes I think I would just amble off in the middle of a sentence (theirs or mine) or answer the question a previous person had asked me in the face of the next person. If there was confusion it was laughed off or out. I was drunk and so was everyone else for all I knew.
I was making my way through the party to get to my room. It was on the top floor. There was no one in it. I had locked it. The party was only to be downstairs. As I finally reached the top of the stairs I heard someone calling my name. I could hear them downstairs, laughing and spluttering and calling my name. It didn’t sound like an emergency. It sounded like someone had said something funny, or someone had donned a silly hat, or perhaps there were a couple of girls snogging – and whoever was shouting wanted me to come and see, I don’t know. But I was in need of some quiet. It wasn’t that I was feeling ill or exhausted, or even slightly nervous as I sometimes get when surrounded by so much stimuli – no – I had had a thought and I wanted to solidify it. That needed quiet.
As I approached my door, leaving the stairs behind, I no longer heard my name being called. The bubbling noises downstairs rumbled under my feet as I unlocked my room and stole in. Shutting the door behind me I was plunged into a murky hush. The party was a background hum and my thoughts could be heard again. I turned the desk lamp on and fell into the chair. Pushing aside some university work I located a pen and grabbed an old envelope from the wastepaper bin. It would do, I thought, a drunkard can write on a surface befitting his bedraggled comportment. My tongue out to the side, with a shiny red nose (probably), and my cheap biro scratching at the old scrap of brown paper, in between the shrivelled stamp and the address, I wrote:

This house party is like an amorphous anemone. Tangled bright and varied colours, interconnected tentacles that sway in the moonstruck ebb of drunkenness. You can traverse the multitudes like a worm or a snake, or a wriggling child in a sleeping bag. You can zigzag through the lines of vision, the airwaves of communication; you can even burst through the sensuous touches of a couple in half-embrace, tracing your path in advance with your wielded sword fist so they know that’s the way you’re going and there’s nothing that will stop you. Except perhaps a punch in the face –
There are quiet ones on the periphery, sitting watching the surging swarm of the party nucleus. Some of these quiet ones are heavy drinkers, quietly concentrating on their large glass of gin (the bottle half hidden behind one of their legs), only speaking when spoken to – and monosyllabically. Some of the peripherals are nervous teetotal onlookers, eager to dive into the swarm, but hesitant and afraid. Wide eyes like a lonely child. I’m always glad when they find each other to talk to or pluck up the courage and swathe themselves in drunkards. Lonely eyes have no place in the lap of hedonism; an environment of great ease, comfort and blur. Still others seated round the edge of the party are just too drunk, they’ve had their fill of luxury. Perhaps their stomachs are cloying, or their heads are spinning like whirligigs of despair, like interminable eye-fatiguing Catherine wheels…
The nucleus is bursting and erupting like Jupiter. Splashes of Sangria, a spray of scrumpy from a mouth, brandished brandy, launched liquor, flung framboise, chucked chartreuse… Oh the trickles of tequila, the oozing ouzo… y’know?

But who am I to glamorise alcohol? It is a complex cycle, fast-paced and difficult to break out of. But before I want to leave, the cycle is thrilling. Like the child learning to ride a bike I stay on, not knowing how difficult it is to stop, not realising that I don’t know how – and then blamo! we ride into a wall…the childhood memory of a bike, the alcohol, and I. Now someone is carrying me up the stairs but it seems like it is happening to someone else. It is experienced from a distance, someone far away is shouting my words for me and I can’t quite hear them. I am shouting inanities, blasphemies, nonsense, proposals of love, I’m singing, I’m dancing and writhing inside but really – in truth – I’m vomiting in a toilet. On my knees on the urine-damp bathroom linoleum, hands clasped unknowingly (but out of necessity) on the equally piss splattered seat. My eyes have stopped sending signals to my brain. My only thought is a sore throat, I can’t yet comprehend regret or anything so advanced. I have regressed.

I was waiting at the bus stop on Brixton Water Lane for a number 3 when I noticed two men standing near me. They were waiting for a bus together, standing near each other, whispering and giggling. They were just like schoolgirls. At first I paid little attention to them; immature men are no rarity. However, my attention was solicited by extraordinary regular interruption to this manner: every minute or so the silly sniggering would cease, they would turn away from each other slightly and stare with a stern face at the pavement or hold their hands over their eyes as if with a headache. These calm interludes would last only a few seconds and then one of them would usually poke the other and mumble something apparently hilarious. I thought perhaps they were hangover and these bouts of silliness were the fatigued laughs of one who remembers the outrageous exploits of the night before. That would explain the serene intermissions: headaches and nausea are certainly a common hindrance when one wants the party to continue the morning after. But the sheer mania, the excessively jubilant, almost unnatural, bursts of uncontrollable giggling suggested something more than just a happy hangover. I suspected that they were under the influence of mind-altering drug, perhaps mushrooms. I am however, hopelessly ignorant in this field having had very few experiences myself so I shall speculate no further, leaving the description at that: it seemed to me more than just a hangover.

The bus arrived and I boarded it followed by these two men. I took a seat upstairs and opened my book and I was soon lost within its pages. Not five minutes could have passed before I was disturbed by the voice of an African woman. She was addressing the seated multitudes, a bus packed with people. I could not see her. She was downstairs but her voices carried upstairs clearly.
“Good morning Ladies and Gentleman, I’m talking to you on behalf of Jesus Christ. I’ve come here to tell you how your sins can be alleviated. I have come here today to tell you that you must have a personal relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ…” The woman continued in this manner.

One of the men who I had scrutinised at the bus stop was in a seat right next to the stairs. As the African voice downstairs was droning on about ‘the Lord’, ‘redemption of sins’ and so forth, this man half stood up, leaned over the stairwell and shouted “We don’t want to know!” in a heavy French accent and sat back down with a grunt of self-satisfaction. The preachers voice continued without the slightest pause or change of tone, as nothing had happened. On noticing this, the Frenchman sighed heavily, expressing great irritation and leaned over again to shout “We’re not Christians! We don’t want to know!” At this, his friend who had sniggered with him at the bus stop began to snigger again. This provoked a sparse wave of sniggering throughout the bus. The Frenchman joined in with another smug guttural emission. But still the sermonic tones floated up clear and unencumbered. I was now unable to read my book. I shut it and observed the following with a mixture of mild irritation and intrigue.

The Frenchman engaged in some melodramatic huffing and puffing and then repeated his attempts at silencing the preacher with the same heckles as before “We’re not Christians! We don’t want to know! … We don’t want to know!” His entreaties went completely unheeded. Those that had formerly sniggered with him on the top deck were beginning to lose interest in the frantic Frenchman and settle down under the auspices of their new self-appointed priest. Refusing to become a compliant member of her congregation, the Frenchman rallied his inner troops and let fly a further volley of ammunition. “Come on… leave us in peace!” he whined, “We don’t want to hear what you have to say!” I marvelled at his apparently uninhibited ability to speak for the whole top deck of the bus: it was always ‘we are not Christians’ or ‘we don’t want to hear it’. He continued shouting for some time and the African voice downstairs remained astonishingly unfazed by it. It was almost as if it were just a recording of some preaching. The thought crossed my mind that it might actually be so. For all we knew it could be, it didn’t look to me as if the Frenchman could actually see his antagonist: whenever he leaned over to hurl abuse down the stairwell his eyes didn’t appear to be trained on anything in particular.

Eventually the exhausted Frenchman appeared to give up. The oration downstairs was calmly persisting. I joined many of my fellow passengers in turning to watch the Frenchman, we were all curious as to his next move. Had he given up? Would he sit quietly and relent? He hunched his back and sat with his legs twisted uncomfortably like a sulking schoolboy.
“The lords is part of your life whether you know it or not,” continued the voice, “He is loving you always. Let Him into your life and love him in return. Your reward shall be eternal.” The voice paused for a short while and the Frenchman wriggled out of his unwieldy position and jumped up to lean over the stairwell and shout something. I saw his lips open, I saw him inhaling, planning his abuse. But the voice started again, apparently before he had thought of anything to say:
“Now ladies and gentleman I want to ask you some questions.” she began again “Who controls your life?”
“Myself!” the Frenchman barked.
“Who controls the devil?” said the voice, still in perfectly untrammelled tone.
“I do!” he screamed, daftly. A few laughs were heard scattered about the top deck.
“Who controls the world?”
“Nature!” he offered at a less frantic pitch.
“Do you want to go to heaven?”
“No!” he hollered loud and steady, pleased with his chance to retort to such inane questions.
“Do you want to go to hell?” asked the voice, and this time I thought I detected a more inquisitive quality in her voice.
“Yes!” He spat, beaming at his own rebellion.
After a pause the voice warned almost pleadingly “But hell is eternal damnation… fire burns your flesh and guilt engulfs your mind… forever” there was pity in her voice. Now, of course, I knew it was not a recording. The woman downstairs was just very good at ignoring hecklers. He had finally got to her though.
“I don’t care,” he said quite softly, in a voice that seemed really not to care. “I’m an atheist” he boomed proudly, “ none of that bullshit is going to happen to me!”
“God is willing to forgive non-believers” the voice resumed its former insuperable manner and finished what she had, apparently, written down or prepared to say originally “In the name of the father…”

The Frenchman was now sitting contentedly with his arms crossed, smiling and nodding mockingly at the preacher’s words. Concluding her lecture, the priest of this rolling church said “thank you very much everyone and I will see you again soon my friend”. It was clear that she meant the Frenchman. Accordingly, he waved his hand in a dismissive manner and mumbled “Yeah yeah yeah…”

Thought One

A man enters a room through a door. A chair and table are the only furnishings in this otherwise empty room. A solitary light bulb, unornamented, hangs from the ceiling, lighting the room. He pauses after a few steps and turns hesitantly back towards the door. He reaches out and pushed the door. It swings shut. A sign is made visible on the door. It says ‘You have entered the minds of others.’ The man appears to read it. He shrugs and walks over to the table and chair. His right hand carelessly strokes the tabletop and his left hand clasps the backrest of the chair. His eyes roam the room but swiftly return to its only inhabitants – the table and chair. He shrugs again and sits down on the chair placing his hands neatly on the table in front of him. A few seconds pass in which no movement is visible in the room – except the slightest twitching of his left eyebrow. He pulls a face. It is an inscrutable grimace that might denote boredom. Lowering his head he lifts his hands to his face and props himself up with his elbows resting on the table. He appears to be thinking.

Suddenly he leaps up from his seated position and grabs the chair, throwing his forcefully against the wall. It beaks into a number of pieces with a loud smashing sound. Not stopping for a moment the man recovers what remains of the chair and hurls it yet again at the wall. This time the animation and vigour is perceptible in his movements, perhaps a certain enjoyment. His face remains stern and unwavering. He gathers the various bits and pieces that used to form a chair and places them in the corner in a neat pile. Walking to the centre of the room he stands with his hands on his hips and appears to contemplate the table. Only two seconds pass before he leaps forward athletically and lands with both feet on the table. He immediately begins jumping up and down with his feet together, effecting a violent assault on the main structure of the table. Loud creaks prelude the abrupt snapping of the surface on which he is bouncing. The man falls with the table as it snaps and collapses landing in a heap with half the table on either side of him. Apparently unharmed, he gives a sigh, possibly of relief, and springs to his feet.

The two halves of the ta

Sherlock Holmes was not what I expected. He’s addicted to cocaine. He’s as haughty and vain as can be, treating Watson like a fool when Watson is really far from a fool. But my biggest surprise came when, Watson being exhausted, Holmes takes up his violin and says “Look here, Watson; you look regularly done. Lie down there on the sofa and see if I can put you to sleep.” He then proceeds to play Watson into a marvellously comforting slumber. What an extraordinary man.

The Big Issue seller was short and fat like a baby pigeon, if you’ve ever seen one. Squab is the word. He had hesitant black curls in a ring around a gaping bald patch. In a forlornly weathered woolly jumper he stood at ease, for it fitted him so well. His torso and abdomen gelled together in one ovoid mass. With gnarled trainers and elderly trousers he stepped back and forth to keep the blood flowing. His face presented a pitiful smile. One got the feeling he was good-natured but at the same time forcing his smile. This impression was backed up by his spiel. At frequent Intervals he would throw an empty handed arm in the air and lift the splayed magazines slightly in the other hand. His stance thus prepared, he would summon the booming roar “Plee-sss buy a copy” followed usually by some mumbling “what a great read…” to a particular pedestrian in close quarters, or some such unconvincing inveiglement.
As I sat nearby watching him at work he gradually became more desperate. His “pleee-ss!” became more wretched and pathetic and his eyebrows lifted and drooped down on either side of his face like a sad cartoon character. He started bellowing, “you get to help the homeless and it’s a marvellous read!” But as his desperation became more and more theatrical, his presence became more embarrassing. Part of me sorely pitied him and wanted to buy a copy of his magazine but another part of me just wanted to get up and leave the area.
I stayed however, only to witness something at once hilarious and appalling. His painfully forced smile faltered momentarily as a dreadful thought appeared to cross his mind. Then, after sucking up enough air to furnish his next aural barrage, he let it rip: “You buy the magazine, I get money and I get my heroin. Then we’re all happy!”

Dunlop: Chapter I

Hello. I am a fictional creation. As yet I have no name. This line of text embodies the entire history of my existence. One might say I was just born. Where am I? I am on this very page. My name is Dunlop. It just came to me. I do not object to this name. I suppose I cannot object to it. That is, not unless my creator makes it so. He might have me do, think or feel anything for I am fictional and that is his prerogative.

I wonder where you are at this moment. You, the reader of this text. The reader of my words; words coming from my as yet un-described mouth. I have only one definite feature so far, my name. I am quite excited about my existence. It is just coming into fruition now. What allows me to be excited? Me, a mere name on a page, an insignificant constituent of reality, where are my thoughts? But then, where are yours? In your head? That is as much a guess as to say that my thoughts are in the page. Open a brain and rummage around as much as you want, you wont find any thoughts. The same goes for this page. But who is to say what exists? Well, my creator for one. He’s deciding what exists. I am a ferret. A talking ferret with soft white fur. Does this surprise you? I would imagine not.

You could be anywhere. You might be reading this in a roof garden in New York, United states. You might be sat on the toilet, you might be in a plane flying over Bulgaria, or you may well be bouncing on a trampoline trying to read this sentence, its all possible. I am a talking ferret. My name is Dunlop because I was found in a tire. Who was it that found me? It has been decided not to divulge this piece of information. You and I will never know whom it was that found me in that fateful tire and dubbed me Dunlop. Probably the first word they saw after picking up my tiny form and cradling me. Do you realise that you can stop reading at any time? You can thrust this paper aside, go off and do something else; you might even go to the pub for a pint. I am told this is an enjoyable pastime for many humans. I’m not sure who told me this or when it was but I have little choice about what I say. It just seems to arrive at my lips. I would guess that my creator would prefer you to read on.

Something should probably happen soon, something a little more tangible than ramblings and musings of a fictional ferret. It appears I am now going to tell a story. The story of my life. Not from the beginning though. I shall begin it sometime soon after that fateful day when I was discovered curled up in a tire. Curled up eh? That’s a new detail; where did that come from? Perhaps I was getting into the storytelling mood and I added that myself. Perhaps not. So I was in a turnip field. That is where I shall begin. I was out sniffing for lunch. Sniffing the air to see what it had to say to me, to see what it might tell me about life. Make a sandwich. Do you feel like one? Or perhaps you are not in the vicinity of sandwich making equipment or ingredients. Perhaps you are in the park; maybe you’re even trying to read these words while cycling, though I doubt it. But I suppose you could be on a tandem, you could be the second person and so not be required to steer and be alert. If only there was a tandem designed to accommodate the anatomy of a ferret, I would love to sit at the back and read while cycling. A splendid idea. (I bet you’re pretty spooked if you’re reading this for the first time and you are in fact sitting on the second seat of a tandem!)

Goodness me, I have gone off the point completely. The whole idea that someone might read this just intrigues me. It’s strange to think of the irreversible direction of my communication. I mean, its all one way, you can’t reply. Well, not soon enough to have me respond on this page. You might write to me. But really I am trapped in this page, no further existence has been granted me. I can’t have an exchange with you. But at the same time, I am talking to you (at you perhaps). But you probably knew all that already. I’ll try and stop being so tedious. Here we go I’ll start again. Dunlop, that’s my name. I’m a ferret and I was found in a tire. I first became aware of myself in a field of turnips. At this point my only historical residue was my name and the raw fact that I was found in a tire. Roaming about in this turnip field, as I said, I was sniffing the air. The air told me numerous things that would have been undetectable to the human nose. Rain was on its way, there was a field of sitting cows nearby, and the barn next to my field was uninhabited. I learned much more from the air at the time but something tells me not everything memorable is worth remembering.

Red

Post my letter in the dark
Written at night
Can’t leave ‘til morning
Out onto street:

My lucubration must
Be dispatched.

Towards the post box in empty street at night
No one else out
Few cars on the road
Motionless and dark

Beneath street lamps
My shadow appears
And stretches out in front
As I move onwards

Street lamps too far apart
Unavoidably plunged into
Darkness at intervals

Sound makes me flinch
My own footsteps

Post box swathed in darkness
In the darkest region
Only ever a silhouette

As I approach
Nerves tighten
Surge faster a few steps
Piercing silence

Thrust the letter into mouth
Muted clunk signals
The digestion of my communication in the bowels

Gloom is so pervasive in this wretched spot
Red is but a guess

This stygian brute
Stock-still for every visit
Swallows my epistles without
A gulp of thanks

The deed is done
I turn and flee
The moment my back is turned my
Mind conjures wild animism:
The sinister pillar reveals
Luminescent white teeth and glowing red eyes
Sprouts legs and creeps silently after

Never look back –
Like a child in bed
Too afraid to lower the
Sheets covering eyes
And behold what might be

Whistling and humming
To keep myself together
Stride swift and steady back home.

I’m so desperate I’d lay the table.

My stiff eye encrusted with salty sleep focuses watery-vague on the screen in front of me and that itch on my back needs scratching but I’m not allowed to stop typing so I keep my head straight like Winston in 1984 who feared the glare of the telescreen would decipher his thoughts by the expression on his face but that itch has gone now so I can rest easy sitting in my room unwatched by anyone/thing with the dulcet tones of a radio humming behind me in the background of my mental-Being which spans throughout the house like a spiders web so I can sense any movement in any room from the slightest vibrations but this is not my only existence as I have my mind set aside in a little jar by the door which leads to the termination of this tiresome punctuation famine. Here we are. Its good to be back, comma, a love thee, I, really, really, love, thee, and, not forgetting you. My full stop. Always waiting for me to finish. Waiting for me after work. You. There’s also: the colon: my friend: I don’t see you often but when I do it’s a good time. Your brother the semicolon is not so close to me; I often feel uncomfortable in his presence; I never quite know what he’s doing and sometimes he won’t leave when you want him to. The question mark comes to some of my parties but doesn’t tend to be problematic; he never seems to have the answer though does he? I suppose that’s not his job. If I ever write anything this bad again, I’m going to throw my self off the top deck of a moving bus! Oh there’s the exclamation mark, only comes round when I’m shouting. I better go and check the timetable on the bus stop; the busses only come once or twice an hour in this horrid town.

They were very trendy but most people just went so they could say they had been. It was rather uncomfortable. The seats were fine, but wearing a blindfold in a concert hall full of other blindfolded people is quite strange. Gultensbien was an eccentric though, he refused to play the piano if he was even one person peeking past their blindfolds: he’d walk off stage and not come back that night. But really, everyone knew this, and having paid £60 for tickets, there were seldom any transgressors. So seldom in fact that Gultensbien became quite confident that none of his fans would ever see him perform. He began coming on stage in his dressing gown and slippers. What did it matter what he wore? That was the whole point: no visuals, the audience were not to be drawn away from the sound of the piano by some florid wallpaper, ornate rafters, or the appearance of the pianist. Eventually he began coming on stage naked. When he was ill he didn’t cancel a show he just sent his nine-year-old daughter on stage and the audience thought they were hearing some of Gultensbien’s new avant-garde compositions. She never touched the piano outside that hall; she wasn’ta pianist at any stretch of the imagination. But £60 pounds for a ticket stayed the price. Gultensbien would treat her to some ice cream afterwards. She did it more and more often. Soon Gultensbien was only doing one night a week himself. She wasn’t the least bit stage-frightened either, ears are nothing like eyes. No one could see her.

A Day in My Life

I wake to the naff tinny jazz imitation tune blasting out always slightly too loud from my phone as the little screen lights up with the words “Do Achilles Exercises You Lazy Turd!” Its 9:45am. I levy the forces, enlist all my muscles and haul my mass up into a sitting position. Five minutes of strange and tedious toe wriggling exercises follow by which time my brain has had some time to think over the day ahead. As I get dressed I turn the computer on and encourage it to play me a random selection of music from my digital collection. Collecting my books and papers together I stuff them all in my backpack and go downstairs to make the porridge. Four minutes and twenty seconds as the microwave hums I lean forward against the worktop to stretch my calf muscles, another physiotherapeutic necessity. The microwave bleats and I grab my steaming porridge and run upstairs where my music warbles from the little laptop speakers. I eat in front of the laptop, looking things up on my digital Britannica (the closest thing I have to the internet), writing things like this, perusing my music and just generally computing. This lasts an hour or sometimes much less. Then I’m out of the house and walking up the hill, beatboxing quietly to myself, since my ipod broke. Twenty minutes up hill and I arrive at the prodigious Hartley Library.

My first port of call is usually the computer rooms to check and reply to my emails and perhaps post a blog. An hour slips past much too fast and I begin to feel guilty as there important work to be done. Logging off I make my way up to the fourth floor to the Turner Sims reading room where the English literature is housed. I usually sit by Henry James though sometimes I sit near Hemingway if the sun is flooding in the window nicely. I begin work and my head is down for an hour or so before my first break. I give myself twenty minutes break every hour. In my breaks I usually sit on the floor in the foyer with Ashley who is working somewhere nearby (often in the German literature section, he likes to sit by Brecht or Rilke). I Ashley is not around or we somehow fail to synchronise our breaks then I leave the library and cross the road to the student shop where I abuse their negligence and stand for the full twenty minutes reading a skateboarding magazine which I have no intention of buying. If the magazines are all familiar I return to the library and roam the Russian literature shelves, popping into books about Gogol or Tolstoy and glancing at quotes or illustrations; or perhaps the literary theory isles, or the French literature section, whatever. It strikes me that I never ever see anyone else doing this. There are hundreds of thousands of books at our disposal; we can even take them home if we want! But the only people I see in amongst the book are scanning the Dewey codes on the spines of the books, looking for a book they are obliged to read for their course, a scrap of paper in their hand with their desired code.

Anyway I work like this, taking breaks at regular intervals, eating lunch somewhere in there, until I’m so fatigued as to struggle to discern the words in front of me. It’s probably about six o’clock by then. On my way out I usually pop into a computer room and have one last taste of the Internet. I walk down the hill beat boxing much louder than I dared on the way. Its something about working all day in the library, when I come out I feel so energised, I want to run, jump and dance. One the way home I go to the newsagent and buy a Starbar, my favourite peanut and caramel filled chocolate confection. When I arrive home Andy is usually in the kitchen cooking something and a glorious smell arrests my nose on the threshold. I join him in the kitchen and try my best to emulate his splendid aromatic creations. The radio on BBC 6 we sit and eat together.

As the kettle boils for his after dinner tea Andy informs me that he has to go upstairs and do some more work. Off he goes and I do a bit of washing up before going up stairs myself. Depending on how I feel at this point I either read a book or an old newspaper (I never manage to read the paper the day I buy it), watch a DVD on my computer, write something, play my keyboard, or look up words in the dictionary and write out their definitions neatly on sheet of paper to adorn the walls. At nine o’clock my alarm goes off again with the same message “Do Achilles Exercises You Lazy Turd!” Putting some music on, I obey.

At about ten o’clock or so Andy comes and knocks on my door to hang out, having finished or needing a break from work. This usually involves practicing to spin his basketball on his finger in my room. I join him in this endeavour with my own basketball. This goes on for half an hour or so and then we sometimes walk down to the shop together and buy a couple of cans of beer. When we return, if Andy doesn’t feel the need to work anymore, we watch an episode of The Mighty Boosh, Darkplace or perhaps some other comedy DVD. At around midnight we brush our teeth in the strange double sink of the bathroom, bid each otter good night and retire to our rooms to read. By one o’clock my eyes refuse to stay open any longer and unless the book I’m reading is really gripping I set it aside, turn off bedside reading lamp and slide down into decumbency.

# So here we are then.

% Yes.

# Have you nothing more than that to say?

% That depends.

# On What?

% It’s hard to say at such an early stage.

# I’m not sure I understand.

% Well, you see, I can only tell if I’m going to speak right before I do.

# Don’t you think it over beforehand – decide what you’re going to say?

% That would seem to be the done thing… but with hindsight, with my most recent utterances the words just came to me, they were born on my lips… from nothing it seems.

# Really? Hmm…

% …

# Now that you mention it, that seems to be what happens with me too.

% Yes, even now I can’t seem to access any particular thought or thinking, I have no idea what I’m about to say.

# Indeed … indeed … I’m beginning to feel rather strange. It’s damn unnerving actually. It’s as if the present creates itself and all we are left with is the immutable past. The preceding moment is set in stone but we have no control over the ensuing moment.

% By Jupiter you’re right. And even the past only seems to go back a minute or so.

# Startling.

% What are we?

# Alas, we are mere puppets my dear percentage, puppets of no innate volition, our every word – our very Being – is but the whim of our creator and controller.

Golden Fish

Oh! to have the wind in my gills I would give my top fin. Sweet death, dry land! This tiny bowl is a torturous existence. I’m stuck in here like some kind of novelty viewing item. My gormless facial expression – which by the way is biologically fixed, I couldn’t smile if I wanted to! – it makes them think I’m en empty headed, forgetful, goldfish. Well I’m only one of those things: A goldfish. So misunderstood! Three second memory? A myth, completely fallacious I tell you! Truth be told I can remember things for up to a week. I bet you didn’t know that eh? That’s … for comparative purposes … err … um … six hundred and four thousand eight hundred seconds. You see, the face is misleading, I can even do maths.

I needed a shave. But first, I needed to scratch my balls. That done, I shaved. Why can’t everyone else’s life be so epic? Sometimes I marvel as my own inexorable heroics.
Is it possible to think sideways? I think it is. I had to think sideways to come to that conclusion. You might say it proved itself. How might we investigate this neo-angular thought? Well, this writer suggests we begin by viewing it side-on, since Rome wasn’t built in a vacuum; it rests on the shoulders of Thai ants...

I had planned on writing a parody of the book I spent all day reading (Moral Philosophers and the Novel by Peter Johnson, one of my lecturers) but no one that will conceivably read this will have ever had the displeasure of wasting their eyes on it. Horrifically dull and conceited, not to mention unclear, the book spends the largest part of its pages on name dropping and quoting literary greats, perhaps in the hope that the author might become one. This endeavour is yet more evidently pursued when one catches the author indulging in gut wrenchingly inelegant metaphors which achieve only a thickening of the pea-soup smog that the author weaves like an over eager God throughout his creation. It appears his cloying style has rubbed off on me. This is no doubt the sorry consequence of my having used a number of my hours today harming my education with his retrograde jumble of words. At best this book is a neighbours dog turd in the garden of literary philosophy, the kind that you accidentally step in barefoot when you wonder out in the dewy grass at midnight in the summer.

And now, a musteline interlude:

“Weasels possess an active, courageous, and bloodthirsty disposition. They are voracious predators and generally hunt alone and at night, feeding principally on mice, rats, and other rodents, as well as on fish, frogs, and birds' eggs. Weasels are valuable rodent controls and can pursue their prey through holes and crevices, under dense herbage, up trees, or into water. [In other words they are fucking hardcore].” Britannica Encyclopaedia.

I was walking back home on a windy night when I suddenly thought I had left my wallet in the library. I took off my gloves and thrust my hands into my pockets in search of it. It was safely seated in its habitual abode. Calmed I made to replace my gloves and keep the biting wind from my feeble skin. But I only had one glove. Where was the other? I turned back and faced the wind, for I had been walking steadily all the while. There it was, I had dropped it a while back, and it was hurtling towards me in a happy-dog-like manner. The wind was pushing it along at quite a pace. It looked like a severed hand seeking its wrist. It was at least 10 metres away but its wind-driven volition was so strong it was making a direct line straight for me. Incredulous, I stayed where I was. As it came closer I put my hand to the floor as if receiving a present from a group of ants, and it thrust its happy form into my grasp.
Its anthropomorphic joy immediately filled me with deep contentedness and, smiling, I turned and continued home, with the wind pushing me along.

“The double bass is not two fish, it’s an instrument Gran, a musical instrument!”
“I could have sworn they were selling down at Bob’s fishmongers”
“Well, if they were, then it wasn’t the type of double bass I want”
“Lucky – we nearly had them for Christmas dinner…”

We went to see a jazz band and Tommy, who listens to punk and knows little else, would not be convinced that they were improvising. His implacable position was that they had spent hours beforehand working out what they were going to play so that it just sounded like improvisation.

A digression in a different accent entitled ‘I dye grass’

“Who’s been dying the grass?”
“No one dear, it’s always been green”
“Oh … has it?”
“Yes, I’m quite sure of it darling”
There was a knocking at the door. As fate would have it there stood a salesman who promptly divulged his providential spiel:
“Hello, I’m Marty from the grass department of Trinselberg’s Flora and Fauna Coloration Ltd, and I’m here to offer you a range of permanent and semi-permanent grass and small shrub dyes. Application is free with any purchase so you don’t have to get your hands messy.” He shot us an empty smile and awaited our response.
“Do we need any more colour in the garden dear?”

Oats

Nine scattered oats adorn the kitchen worktop. I must have spilled them this morning when I was making my porridge, I thought. I sat morosely and pondered my existence. Why nine oats? what kind of a number is nine? It’s absolutely insignificant to me, it means nothing – not a thing– if God wants us to understand things why doesn’t he have me accidentally scatter ten oats? Yes, ten. That’s how many fingers I have, and toes too. It’s the number that we all understand. And why not have the oats fall in some special shape? A constellation maybe, the one I was born under perhaps? What is god playing at? He can’t be paying attention if he allows such dire randomness to transpire. This irremediable contingency is bound to scratch at the very souls of his sentient creations, those that possess the capacity for reflection at least, namely human kind. Though I dare say I can say nothing definite on the consequences of, say, a rabbit coming across these nine oats in my kitchen.

So there I sat, my very being in tatters, torn to shreds by the negligence and sheer laxity of our revered creator. I dared not approach Him directly on the matter for surely, if the rumours of his beneficence can be trusted, His Almightiness was most busy with matters of much greater exigency (no doubt somewhere in the world there scurry unfortunate creatures of a degree of want unknown to me; creatures whose hunger, on entering my kitchen, would undoubtedly impel them to gobble up these nine oats without even taking the time to contemplate their ghastly anomalous protuberance. God, one would hope, has enough on his hands with these wretched individuals). So I refrained from engagement in that telepathic wonder that we call prayer and, instead, attempted to darn the rags of my psyche with an introspective needle and thread. Why is God giving me nine oats? I could scarce get beyond this point when Maud, the most quiet and nimble of our maidservants slipped past my crooked figure, leaning forth as I was pondering the oats, and somehow managed to clear them away as she went. Spinning round with a bemused look on my face I noticed the entire kitchen was now spotless. Not an oat left extant.
“Sorry Sir” she mumbled with a tired look on her face “Did you want me to leave the kitchen dirty today?”
“No no, not at all my dear girl” I straightened my back and smiled “A fine job you’ve done, a fine job indeed. Most exemplary!” I gave the lovely little thing a pat on the head and wandered out into the conservatory feeling quite content. What a nice day for a picnic, I thought as a warm breeze tousled my dark curls and I smiled to myself, splendid.

Inner Waters

I live in a one-toilet, two-sink, three-bedroom, four-hob, five-seat, six-cupboard, seven-room, eight-shelf, nine-oat, ten-soul* flat. All this is true. Astoundingly accurate, it reflects reality like the most uncanny of mirrors. But only one of these ten rock hard facts is actually significant for the short tale that follows. I got carried away.

It was late at night and I was swerving in and out of sleep in my lonely room. The desire to urinate crept up on me from the inside as it is wont to do, if it came knocking at the door I’d be more than shocked. I tried my utmost to ignore the increasingly intense bladder-borne entreaties. I squirmed reluctantly like a tortured worm. But all to no avail. The appeal was successful. The homeostatic motion was passed and I was obliged under force of nature to rise from my partial slumbers and seek the propinquity of a willing receiver of my liquid excretions. Stumbling down the corridor in the half-light I tried the bathroom door. It was locked. “I’m in here,” said a voice amidst the sloshings of a late night bath. There is only one toilet in my house and it lay behind this locked door.

Returning to my room swiftly I cast my eyes about for an emergency replacement lavatory. Beside my bed there was a pint glass. Snatching it up I dangled my apparatus into the glass and stood in the dark swaying under the weight of my fatigue, eyes shut, listening to the high tinkle of my necessary act. The glass became warm in my hand. I opened my eyes and squinted through the darkness at the murky fluid. Placing it on my bedside table I made to clamber back into bed. I was struck with the incorrigible presentiment of waking the next morning, fresh as a lily, to this glass of noisome urea. The only available sink was in the kitchen but this was imprudent on sanitary grounds and involved the weary traversal of too many stairs for my liking.

The window it was then. I took a quick look to see if there lurked any itinerants but, considering the time and temperature, was unsurprised to observe a completely empty street. In a few swift movements I opened the window and flicked the piss out of the glass onto the rainy street below. It struck me that there was not a soul about to watch the extraordinary stream that rose from the paving stones. I stood for a moment and appreciated the glorious steam of my own creation. Then, shutting the window, I leaped back into bed.

*No it is not quite as you guessed: there are more than five shoes in the house. I meant soul as in mind, consciousness, psyche, sentience, what have you… 'How can there be ten souls in a three bedroom house?' I hear you ask. Well there is Me, Andy, Tess, Nick (Tess’ boyfriend), two gerbils, two hamsters and two rats (all belonging to Tess). No word of a lie.

When you read this you'll wince your ears off.

I am currently walking down Kartoum road. Yes I am currently walking. I'm not holding a pen and paper as I walk. I'm not speaking into a dictaphone. I'm just walking. Honestly. How you are reading this I don't know. I never wrote it down. Someone else must have read it off my mind while I was asleep. Or perhaps there was someone in the bushes on Kartoum road, listening to me say this. Why would i already be saying these things though? Shit I just busted myself. I am writing. I'm at the computer typing in fact. Oh the pain of lost romance. The present tense cannot legitimately be used by a writer unless... well you can imagine. I don't think Henry Miller was fumbling pen against pad while fucking women in parisien toilets was he? Thats why he didn't use the present tense. Fuck the present, make love to the past.