Friday, 26 November 2010
Monday, 22 November 2010
although I don't know
who am I
i have no idea
who I am
what is life
is it anything
why do i
do the things i do
i don't know
She buys notebooks in packs of three from a local newsagent and fills them up with poems and short stories. Her dad worries about her from time to time because she is so introverted. Sometimes she writes poems about hating her father because he spends so little time with her. There are paintings from her very early childhood in which her depiction of her father is a scrawled black angry scribble, compared to a smiling mother, happy house and rolling younger brother. She would always draw herself holding a book.
Ellen is checking her email. As she checks it, one of her friends sends her a message through gmail chat. They have this conversation:
tracy: hi ellen - your dad's on tv. the other two presenters r so fucking hot. can your dad get me to meet them?
ellen: haha that is sick.
he can't get you to meet them.
you are a slut, tracy.
tracy: haha i would like to have sex with the small one
he looks like a rat
like a man-sized rat
that is hot
your dad is hot
ellen: fuck you
tracy: fuck you
Monday, 15 November 2010
Sunday, 17 October 2010
Wednesday, 25 August 2010
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Tuesday, 17 August 2010
Thursday, 12 August 2010
John is talking about drinking in a pub.
'Drinking is OK, but I will never do it again because I am so drunk that it feels uncomfortable.'
Processing these words, bored. There is a pint of Guinness on the table. There is a glass of Bailey's next to the Guinness. The Bailey's is there as a joke.
'Drinking is making me feel so drunk.'
Smelling fried food. The smell of fried food. The smell of Guinness. The taste of Guinness. Swallowing Guinness. Can't be bothered. Bothereding. Bothering. Not bothering. Not being bothereding. Impossible to be bothereding. It is not possible to be being botheredering.
Speech: Can't be bothered.
John has finished his drink and is looking like he wants to drink some more.
'I feel so drunk that if I drink anything else I will be so drunk that I may get sick. I am going to buy another drink. Do you want another drink?
Nodding head. Finishing Guinness. Looking at the women in this bar. None of the women are a woman that used to live with someone who didn't call the landlord when he was meant to.
There are women here with the same parts as that particular woman. They wear the same clothes. They seem to not speak an identifiable language. They feel perfumed. Feelings of physical lust intensified by alcohol. Women torment man by their existence and his inability to understand or speak to them. Legs not trembling. There is a hand resting on the table and lightly stuck to it. The table surface is covered in a thin layer of ash, from many years ago, when smoking was allowed in here. The ash is covered with fluids. There is no Bailey's or Guinness left in the glasses on the table. More Bailey's and Guinness arrives as John sits down.
'This drink is going to push me over the edge. I am thinking about propositioning a woman this evening. I find it easier to that when I have had a drink.'
Boredom. Thinking about scrapheap challenge. Thinking about the female presenter of scrapheap challenge.
Speech: I miss my ex-girlfriend.
'Time heals everything,' Says John. 'Time heals all wounds.'
Speech: Time doesn't heal cancer.
Wednesday, 11 August 2010
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
Monday, 9 August 2010
i hate fosters
my favourite drink is 'woman's milk' and vodka
me: a call it
the 'extra white russian'
me: human milk + vodka
DJ: oh my god Soc
me: it's common to drink woman's milk in england
DJ: shut up
me: do you not do it in the states?
DJ: you lie
me: much sweeter than cow's milk
DJ: such a liar
I'm asking Ani
me: look it up
DJ: I don't believe you
me: it's true
you should try it sometime
it's really delicious
and good for you
this is insane
my mind is blown
me: most restaurants have like a 'milk section' on the menu
i can't believe you didn't know this
DJ: I'm shocked
you drink milk that comes from a person?
Thursday, 22 July 2010
11:32 PM DJ: super powers
I'll go try to acquire them, I have to run for a bit anyway
be back in like 25 minutes
me: let's have a conversation
and then i will post it on my blog
ok let's go
DJ: oh no
you are going
DJ: can we do it in 25 minutes?
me: no way
time is money, babe
11:33 PM DJ: I will hurry
me: no way
me: this is going up
you 'bailing' on me
when i needed you most
in my hour of need
i hate you
DJ: ok, you've convinced me to stay
Monday, 19 July 2010
Friday, 16 July 2010
i am really happy with the way the story looks.
i am waiting for a printer to arrive. i am sitting by my window, eyeing up every roughly van shaped vehicle that goes by, thinking, this could be it.
they have all driven by.
a really large lorry stopped in front of the row of houses that i live in. a man got out and started unstrapping the thick fasteners on the side of the canvas of the container.
i thought, 'this can't be it, coming in such a big lorry.'
the man got out a parcel that was the right size to contain a printer. i kept thinking 'this isn't happening'.
he took the parcel down the road to somewhere else, fastened up the clips again, and drove off into the rest of his life.
i am still waiting.
i was hoping that at the end of this blog post i could say, 'i know it seems crazy, but the parcel came while i was typing the post up.'
going to stop now.
Thursday, 1 July 2010
Wednesday, 23 June 2010
Friday, 18 June 2010
Friday, 11 June 2010
On the other side of the village it was the day of the fête. The day when the villagers got together each year and admired each others endeavours. Large vegetables, plump chickens and show gardens. Everyone could smell Jasmine and everyone could see the sun shining down heartily from above.
Mrs. Williams was pushing her pram rustically along the meandering paths into the centre of the fête. It was a twin pram, but she only had one baby! She used the other part of the pram to put her groceries in sometimes, or whatever it was that she needed to carry. It was practical. Once, Mr. Renfield, an old gentleman who was losing his sight, had patted a sack of potatoes in the pram and said 'They grow up so quickly, don't they?' to Mrs. Williams. She hadn't had the heart to tell him that he thought a sack of potatoes were a baby!
Little Willie Williams was crying in his pram. He needed some milk from his mummy, but she was too concerned looking at all of the market produce to notice his lovely shrieking and whining. He took in large gulps of air between each yell but was too young to appreciate the sweet scent of jasmine and roasting chickens. He just wanted his mummy's milk.
Mr. Fox the grocer had noticed Willie William's whining. He had really excellent hearing and a good ear for a tune. For a second, he thought that wee Willie William's whining sounded like a section from Mozart's Overture from Don Giovanni. He chuckled in his head at the thought that a baby might accidentally replicate the work of a genius, then stopped himself as he thought 'But Mozart was a child prodigy, wasn't he?' Rather than think too hard about this, he went back to chopping up the pork in front of him. A pig's head grinned up at him from his refrigerated counter. The pig's head was oddly attractive, even though a grim muslin of death was draped across it. With an almost silent thud, a bullet smacked into the forehead of the dead pig. No human noticed.
It was a good year for vegetables.
A few people commented that they had never seen leeks as big as the ones on Mr. Lewis' table. Some were nearly two feet long and as green as emeralds. Mr. Lewis used a special fertiliser for the leeks. No one knew, but the secret ingredient was chicken beaks. This meant, he often thought, that he might be tricking vegetarians into eating food that was raised on meat. He had once thought about running in a local election. His slogan would have been 'Raised on meat.' Even though he was a vegetable farmer, he made sure that he ate meat with every meal. He had a strange belief that the meat would make him more potent sexually, and he often imagined his sperm to be made from the ripped tendons and muscles of the animals that he had devoured. He thought sometimes that he would break into a church and change 'The meek shall inherit the earth' to 'The meat shall inherit the earth' in all of the bibles. No one in town knew about these weird quirks of his character.
Mr. Renfield was tottering through the fête, not recognising anyone until they spoke to him. His eyesight had become very bad in the past two years. There was a tiny noise and Mr. Renfield was shot through the head by the sniper on the other side of the village. He fell to the ground. Blood came out of him and he was dead. No one noticed from the fête and children and parents skipped around him like he wasn't there.
Two children, Martin Blossom and Emmy Large were holding slingshots and aiming at targets at a stall at the fête. The targets were shaped and coloured like the faces of clowns. Little Emmy Large fired off a shot at one of the clowns and hit him, square in the forehead. 'I got him!' she cried out in delight. The owner of the stall, Mrs. Peters leant over from behind the counter and gave Emmy a prize. The prize was a lovely cuddly bear. As she leant over, she was shot between the eyes by the sniper. The shot went straight through the bear's head and into Mrs. Peter's head. The bear fell into little Emmy's arms and she skipped off with delight. Little Martin Blossom looked up at Mrs. Peters slumped across the counter for a second, smiled and turned and skipped after his little friend.
'We are so lucky with the weather today. Do you remember last year it was raining and we had to do most of it inside the church?' said Mrs. Williams.
Mrs. Williams was talking to Mr. Lewis, the vegetable grower. They were having a passionate extra-marital affair that no-one in the village knew about. They met each Thursday to have passionate intercourse behind Mr. Lewis' shed. It was the day of the week when wee Willie Williams was at play group all day, Mr. Williams was in London for his weekly meetings, and Mrs. Lewis was doing her hiking club. The sex was so passionate that occasionally the next door neighbour, Miss. Pond, thought that foxes were fighting, making a sound like possessed babies, crying with voices like the devil. Miss. Pond was a Christian.
Miss. Pond would masturbate and then feel guilty about it. She was a Christian. She was a lonely lady. No-one in the village knew quite how lonely and guilty and horny Miss. Pond was. She was not at the fête, she was at home masturbating and saying her prayers. She was the only resident of the village who would survive that day.
A bullet flew from the barrel of the sniper rifle and swerved slightly in a breeze to strike Mrs. Williams temple to the left of its intended target. Her head exploded. Parts of her skull and brain flew apart and got stuck to Mr. Lewis, her lover. Mr. Lewis carried on talking to Mrs. Williams' body as it fell dramatically down on top of her baby in the pram. Wee Willie Williams was crushed and then suffocated by his mother's dead breasts. He was a happy baby until he died. He never became a professional footballer. Mr. Lewis was, shortly after this, shot through the head by the sniper. His body landed on top of Mrs. Williams, making it look like they might be having sex, or kissing.
Martin Blossom was with little Emmy Large round the back of one of the stalls at the fête. He was trying to steal her cuddly bear. The bear had a hole in its head. 'Give me the bear!' said Martin. 'No, it's my bear!' said Emmy. Martin jumped at Emmy, scratching and biting her and trying to kick her. Emmy ripped away from Martin and started to run. They were both killed by the same bullet; it flew through the air and ruptured their skulls one after the other. They were two young people, spread-eagled gracelessly on gravel ground. Their blood stained the bear. It was the colour of a rose.
One by one, the rest of the inhabitants of the village were shot by the sniper. Three hundred human beings were shot and killed. They were all shot through the head, in the most humane way possible.
A lark rose from a bush and beat its way upwards into the sky, emotionless. The lark did craps all over the bodies. The sniper turned his gun on himself and shot himself into a million pieces.
Saturday, 15 May 2010
Sunday, 9 May 2010
Monday, 3 May 2010
he is scottish which is pretty exotic!
i also recommend just reading his website and then linking to it and then sending him a load of money although i am not sure in scotland whether they use money or if they just trade in rancid batter that has fallen off a fish or whatever (joking!)
Monday, 26 April 2010
there is air exiting my body
i am aware of the air
i am breathing in and out and pressing the buttons on my keyboard with my chest
i am writing rpenapeoaonenpoaeir with my chest
someone comes into the room
the person says something to me
i carry on sighing quickly in and out
the person puts their hand on my shoulder
i sigh and sigh and sigh spofijoweijgoiejodsigj
my head is polishing the table by moving around on it
my arms are lying on the table beside my computer
i am moving up and down in a way on the table
the person is watching me and saying
you can't carry on like this
it is later and i am downstairs eating my food
i am holding a spoon up to my mouth and letting the food drop down back onto the plate
the person watching has their head in their hands
i am looking at my reflection in a pool of water and i say
i just don't know what to do
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Monday, 19 April 2010
'i am afraid of dying'
here is a description of my second novel:
'i am afraid of dying' is a novel about a great guy living the kind of life everyone would love to live. he meets loads of other great guys and has ten million incredible experiences along the way. everything he does is wonderful and every moment of his life is a primal and uncontrollable split second of ecstatic existence.'
here is what i think about my second novel:
my second novel is either a lot better than my first novel or totally unreadable. this is really what i think. it feels a lot more ambitious than my first one.
i am about to create some artwork for 'i am afraid of dying'.
'i am afraid of dying' is currently around 10,000 words long - i imagine it being around 60,000 words when it is finished. maybe 70,000. it might be a lot longer also.
Saturday, 10 April 2010
Monday, 5 April 2010
me: i am about to start the interview
Crispin: hi there
me: so what's your philosophy on life?
Crispin: my philosophy on life is 'everyone is a person and in some way they are trying their hardest'
my philosophy changes every single day, this morning i went to the shop for milk and i said 'this is amazing'
yesterday i sat on a swivel chair and tried to make myself as small as possible and felt disappointed with myself
isn't that great?
me: how do you cope with feelings of inadequacy and despair? (a lot of people suffer from these feelings)
Crispin: i don't suppose i cope with them. generally i think 'it would be nice to have something to look forward to' and i envisage something i might be able to look forward to. for this reason i am glad i like sports, even though i know it is a waste of my life to watch sports
me: what's better, football or cricket? and why?
Crispin: i think football is better. the reason for this is that football is mroe of a 'soap opera' and a soap opera is a good thing because of something to do with narrative tropes and early experience of time passing, urgency, and death (also: pets). also the acrobatic and physical feats of football seem, on the face of it at least, more impressive than those of cricket. although i do enjoy cricket
me: did you know that the shuttlecock is the fastest hit projectile of any racquet sport?
Crispin: i had no idea. that is very interesting. what is 'jal-alai'? i think that is home to the fastest projectile in all sports.
"Unfortunately for Jai-Alai, Badminton has taken over the title, a shuttlecock has been recently clocked at 332 KM/H or 206 MPH."
that's a quote from an internet source
that i just found, after i tried to 'prove you wrong'
me: tell me a bit about wewillallgosimultaneous. e.g - why you started it? why you keep it going? what you have on it etc
Crispin: it's a blog. i started it because i got my first ever story accepted by an online publication, eyeshot, and i thought i should have a link to which people could be directed from that. i only realised much later on that eyeshot was actually quite a prestigious place to be published, and it's still one of the main places from which traffic comes to my site
i started out putting writing and things on there, but i don't do that much any more, for no apparent reason. i feel bewildered answering this question. i don't know why i have a blog
me: sorry - i am trying to ask 'difficult questions'
i don't know why i have my blog
maybe i do know, but i am embarrassed, scared to admit it
what sort of music do you like, crisp?
Crispin: oh - what would be embarrassing?
me: oh dear - looks like this is being turned back on me, the 'anonymous interviewer'
Crispin: i don't want to do that, i am sorry
me: well - i just want everyone to tell me how good everything i write is and that i am a great guy
that's mainly why i have the blog
Crispin: oh right, i see. it would be a good idea for you to get that great novel of yours published, though
me: and that seems embarrassing for me
Crispin: that's not embarrassing, at all. everyone puts pictures of themself on the internet and wants to be called 'very handsome' etc
it's ~better than that, for sure
me: i feel that maybe it's something that shouldn't be admitted though?
don't know why
it's not ok to admit that you want people to love you in a straightforward way?
Crispin: i think everyone admits that
Crispin: i mean i am surprised you think it's embarrassing
me: maybe i am behind the times or something
Crispin: i thought you woere going to say something about teenage girls
me: i am maybe a little oddly sensitive or austere
Crispin: you are austere
me: i am easily embarrassed i think
so what sort of writing do you like to read?
Crispin: you are not austere
there isn't a sort
Crispin: i am thinking very hard
me: what's your favourite book of all time
Crispin: sorry - i was thinking, that seemed dismissive
i am thinking very hard about what i like
i'll stop asking silly questions
i will qait
Crispin: i don't have a favourite book
everything i want to say sounds utterly ridiculous: "i like things that seem themselves"
just as an example: your writing is good because i can't compare it to something else
and also it seems 'in line' with what i imagine to be important in writing
which is to do with newness and not being a scaredycat
i think that seems like a good answer
Crispin: also it's to do with engaging with what is happening somewhere recognisably 'irl'
well that's good - i am glad. i am reading lydia davis' collected stories currently and she seems really excellent
'incredibly strong writing' or whatever
what are you reading recently?
me: oh man
i just read the easter parade
Crispin: i haven't read that
me: by richard yates and then i read dazed and aroused by gavin james bower
the easter parade is among the best books i think i have written
Crispin: oh he is your pal
me: i mean
me: i didn't write it
Crispin: i was trying to figure out how to mention that
Crispin: i think you didn't write the easter parade
me: i think i know which books i have/haven't written crispin
Crispin: i am glad you have written a book
i am looking forward to the 'great british novel'
me: oh dear
it's not going so well
Crispin: 'great britain'
i am sure it will go fine
me: let's get this interview back on track
Crispin: ok sorry
i am worried that i am in a dour mood
do you want to stop
Crispin: so my answers are not fit for publication
me: i am really enjoying it
me: it seems excellent
Crispin: i am very happy, i just feel like a sourpuss
me: we are having an odd, 'academic discussion' of sorts
instead of saying
great guy, babes, etc
i like it
when did books stop looking like that?
me: seems like a nice break every now and then
Crispin: bloody photography
me: i know
Crispin: 'the bird room' i kept thinking "WHICH ONE IS THIS GIRL ON THE COVER MEANT TO BE?!?!?"
me: i totally agree
Crispin: wouldn't have happened to yatesy
me: the edition i have has a picture of two girls on it
I DON'T WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK THE CHARACTERS LOOK LIKE COVER DESIGNER
Crispin: cover designers are imagination perverts
me: how do you feel rejection digest (your great new collection of incredible fiction) is going?
Crispin: ahhh. close to our hearts. at first it seemed like a really brilliant idea, and i was so happy that we decided to do it.
'almost immediately' there were some comments on htmlgiant which seemed to totally dismiss the idea as being unoriginal, although there were some supportive comments too
after that, i felt unsure of 'ourself' for a while
then we got into a good rhythm. it seems ok at the moment. i wish we had more submissions.
me: i have felt oddly 'unstoppably positive' about the whole thing
Crispin: feel like i didn't need to say anything before the last line
i have noticed your unstoppable positivity
it's really good to see
i think i am feeling a bit 'down' with writing in general. i feel unable to achieve anything i am proud of currently.
me: that's a real shame
Crispin: it's ok - it's my fault
me: it's odd, it feels like your website is an incredibly exuberant celebration of culture and oddness, and it makes me feel as though the sensibilities you have indicate that you are a creative force that is 'inextinguishable'?
Crispin: that's nice of you to say. i think ... actually what i was about to say starts to become hamfisted pop psychology very quickly...
the important thing is i really do think everything is great, and that's why i can't write at the moment
i don't have any idea of what language can convey the thing i am trying to say
me: do you want to go away somewhere on a writing retreat where we discover a new way of writing?
Crispin: i like exuberance and effort and hope but i don't feel like 'hyperexuberant' language is right
haha - but i think you are able to write well with the style you have
do you think you are 'ripping anyone off' ever?
is that a dangerous question/
me: no it's not dangerous
but the answer is going to be a bit 'poncy'
when i write, i do it very quickly and it comes very naturally (if it's any good). i don't think about ripping anyone off. i don't think i am ripping anyone off. it feels like it is the only way i can write - it feels like it is just me and no-one else. i often feel like i am completely lost in a trance when i write the things that i am happiest with.
that is a terrible, garbled answer
Crispin: that doesn't seem garbled at all
i wonder why you think that... that seems like a very true and enviable answer
me: i just worry about everything
Crispin: haha - you shouldn't worry about that
like i said before, i think your writing seems to come from a recognisable but not obvious place, and that is one of the reasons i like it
that answer is 'in line' with how i feel about it
so that's important.
when you said poncey i thought you were going to talk about ALL WRITING IS A TISSUE OF QUOTATIONS
i'm glad you didn't say that
me: oh god
i don't know enough to quote fro anything
Crispin: fro comb
me: way to 'ruin the interview' crisp
me: it's quite hard work, thinking hard about yourself
Crispin: yes. i wonder if i should do it more. or less. or if i do it the correct amount
it is 'not answerable'
me: i think that's right
Crispin: i ruined the interview again
i think it's going 'exquisitely well'
Crispin: are you going to buy an 'ipad'?
me: i think maybe i wish i was obsessed with wanting to do something that doesn't require any introspection. like winning masterchef or something
no - i am not going to buy an ipad
i don't have any money
me: do you want to get one?
i wish i had one
Crispin: not at all
one of my main failings is that i basically 'hate' that sort of thing
everything that makes me think i am being encouraged to spend money
me: p.s this interview is going to cost you $300-$400
Crispin: that's ok - i am charging it rejection digest's company card
me: on a serious note, shall we get a credit card for rejection digest?
i think we need one
Crispin: we do need an ipad actually
for 'market credibility'
no-one will submit to us unless we have an ipad
me: if we had an ipad i think steve jobs might probably promote the website to everyone who wears black polo-necks and skinny jeans.
Crispin: 'target audience'
whenever i select a story i think about black polo-necks and skinny jeans
Crispin: have you ever worn a poloneck?
my dad bought me one when i was young
it looked ridiculous
it was a black polo neck
they are the "worst item of clothing anyone can wear"
Crispin: i think certain kinds of 'puffy waistcoat' might be worse
i have a vivid image of someone in a poloneck and puffy wasitcoat now
Crispin: intense douche
he looks a lot like you, crisp
Crispin: oh wow - and the photographer definitely doesn't want anyone using any part of that picture without permission
me: i know
it's worth a huge amount of money, that photo
Crispin: i have a pricey face
me: do you think that that is enough interview now?
be back in 2 - 3 - 5 mins
Crispin: 4 hours!
if you haven't won i am really sorry. the overall standard of the entries was (as far as i know) very good. i did a lot of laughing and thinking, 'wow, that's great' while i was reading them.
also please remember i have never run/judged a competition before. so i have probably made a terrible mistake. there were many more entries into the negative review section of the competition, which makes me think that all of the readers of this blog are 'haters' and only want to wish never-ending doom on the rest of the universe.
anyway, here are the winning entries.
When I first imagined Chris Killen's novel The Bird Room, I have to admit I was a little cautious. It brings to mind a bird being trapped in a room doesn't it? Flying around like a mad thing all over the place. This scared me. Plus i'm allergic to paper. Nevertheless I bravely donned my reading gloves and began to preconceive the words.
First things first, this is an incredibly powerful book. I vomited all over page one, by the second chapter i'd begun to ejaculate uncontrollably from the penis and during the final chapter I was weeping from the mouth whilst my Grandad slipped in and out of his beloved coma, his frail being only being able to mouth the word 'kipper' at passers by.
As I pulled myself together I started to ponder what i'd just imagined to read. Suddenly words meant nothing to me. What's a bird?
Some may say it sticks a bit too closely to the plot of Mighty Ducks but for my money there's a new Bible in town. It'll be a long time before i'm able to eat toast on my own again (you'll know what I mean after you've read it). Huge recommendation.
By Alex J. Nuttall
‘the bird room’: oh no you di-ent!
This is a review of ‘the bird room’ by ‘chris killen’. Seems like a book aimed mainly at whiny douchebags.
When I say ‘mainly’, I mean ‘90% entirely’.
Also lacks urban (i.e. black) characters
Disappointment re lack of urban people offset somewhat by promise of detailed descriptions of birds.
*drawing of something*
Obvious racist overtones of not having any urban people is ‘getting me down’.
I physically stop reading this book as I suspect that if there aren’t any birds in it by now, there probably will not be any birds in it by now. Ditto: urban peoples.
This book is clearly autobiographical to the max, and on this basis, ‘chris killen’ seems to be mentally ill with sadness and inherent racism.
By Richard Owain Roberts
congratulations to the winners and i am sorry to all of the other entrants. the stress of running this competition means that i am probably never going to run a competition ever again.
Wednesday, 24 March 2010
i want to give away these two copies, as i already own a copy of the book. they are no different to the english version except they have a completely different nationality.
there are some things about these two copies that are very special.
1. They are signed by Chris. They are the only American versions that he will sign because he is unlikely to go to America to sign any more of them.
2. They are annotated by Chris. In one copy the annotations are about the sections of the book that Chris is most happy with. In the other copy, the annotations are about the sections of the book that Chris is least happy with.
here is what you have to do to win this 'unique' prize.
1. Decide which book you would like to win.
2. Write a fictional review of the book, without having first read it. If you would like to win the 'happy' book, write a glowing review. If you would like to win the 'least happy' book, write a 'scathing/blisteringly devastating' review. Keep the review under 500 words.
3. Send the review to socratesadams at gmail dot com by Friday the 2nd of April.
4. Wait until the the following Monday for the result.
these copies are excellent, premium-grade copies of 'the bird room' which is, in itself, a premium-grade novel.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
Tuesday, 16 March 2010
Wednesday, 10 March 2010
I am afraid of dying.
I am sitting and looking out of the window. I think that a sniper is going to shoot me at any second. There are football fans staying in a hotel over the road. They are whistling out of their window at a Chinese tourist at ground level and then getting their knobs out and laughing at the Chinese tourist. Their knobs are flailing about all over the place. The Chinese tourist is looking at the knobs waving about and thinking, 'What a dreadful place.' I feel sorry that he is being treated like this. Who wants to have a football fan's knob flailing about near them? The football fans are both pissing out of the window all over the place. The piss is landing near the Chinese tourist and he is moving back and thinking, 'I don't want this piss to land on me.' The knobs look like little fleshy tumours. The football fans are jumping up and down and hugging each other and pissing on each other and they are singing great football songs to each other. They have put on some music and are prancing about. The Chinese tourist is looking up at the prancing football fans and thinking, 'I wonder how long it is before anyone realises that I am lost.' The traffic is getting quite a bit thicker. There are people getting out of their cars and getting into fights with each other because they are in such a bad mood at the end of their day. A man in a Mercedes Benz car is assaulting the bonnet of a man's Audi car. He has ripped his shirt off and he is jumping up and down on top of the car. He has taken his tie off and is erotically asphyxiating himself on top of the car as he jumps up and down. His penis bursts out of his trousers and then it ejaculates all over the windscreen. He is still jumping. The football fans look at the man and start jumping more. They piss and piss all over the ejaculating man. The man in the Audi car gets out and starts having sex with the man who has been bouncing up and down on his car. There is a crowd of people watching. The Chinese tourist is taking pictures and thinking, 'These pictures are not for my personal sexual use.' Two students are walking next to the cars and they are carrying guitar cases and singing to each other while taking drugs. The students are saying about the fact that they are independent thinkers. The two car owners are lying tenderly in each others arms. They are curled up like wonderful life partners always loving each other. A man walks by in a suit. He is smoking ten cigarettes. He takes one puff from each cigarette and then drops it on the ground. A tramp is following him and picking up every cigarette that he drops. The tramp puts the cigarettes out by carefully grinding the end of the cigarette into the pavement. He is moving more slowly than the man. The suit man occasionally looks behind himself and shakes his head. I look back at the Chinese tourist. He is lying on the floor and the two football fans are pissing into his mouth. There is a small flood beneath the football fans balcony. The streets are filling up with their piss.
I turn away from the window and walk into the kitchen. I am going to make a cup of coffee. I take the coffee from the pouch in the cupboard and pour it into the correct part of the coffee machine. I put the machine onto the hob, after filling it up with water. I wait. I am drinking a delicious cup of coffee. I check my e-mail. There is an e-mail from one of my friends who is trying to persuade me to invest money into a scheme. The scheme is something about money being easy to make. You just put all of your money into something and then you get more money. Everyone is doing it these days. It is so god damn easy to make a load of money. All you need is a load of money to begin with and a great friend to make all of your money with.
I take a trip down to street level. I bob between arguing and fucking people and make my way to a café. Inside the café is the barista. Barista is what you call the man who makes you a coffee. I order a coffee. The barista quickly makes me a cup of coffee. I have a sip and then let the coffee fall out of my mouth onto the saucer of the cup. The coffee is a joke. I say to him, this coffee is a fucking joke. He looks taken aback. I say, I just made a coffee that was one hundred times better than this. I made it with a domestic coffee machine. I don't even have a gaggia brand coffee machine. Then I chill out and say, don't worry I know you tried your best. I don't pay and then I get out of there.
I go back home and reply to my friend saying that I don't have money to invest in his idea but that he should get in touch with some other people because even though I don't have much money there is a chance that other people might have some money. I try and make it as clear as possible that I am not exactly the same as everybody else. It's difficult.
For dinner I eat a huge amount of food while watching a variety of televised events.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
Monday, 8 March 2010
People walk past and some teenagers are playing music on a mobile phone. There's the sun. It's not a warm day. A breeze makes it colder every now and then.
The teenagers are laughing and joking together. I think about what the teenagers are made of.
The teenagers are strutting around and smoking joints and cigarettes. They are wearing hooded tops and are having a great time all together. The male teenagers are looking at the female teenagers and vice-versa. All of the teenagers want to have violent and passionate intercourse with each other. Seconds and minutes pass by at the normal speed.
I am part of a rambunctious and vibrant scene that is typical of life. The park is bisected by a concrete path. I think about lying down on the concrete path and pressing my face up against the path to make myself warmer. Concrete is usually warmer than the air that surrounds it.
It is dark and rich and thick and wonderful. It smells wonderful.
Human beings love concrete and everything else that is like concrete. They like tarmac more than anything else. All human beings wish that their entire house was made of lovely rich and thick dark tarmac. All human beings want to have sexual intercourse with warm and lubricated tarmac.
The bullet hasn't come yet. It is a matter of time before the bullet comes and knocks my skull apart and my brain falls out. I look straight ahead and try to do an impression of someone who's brain has been blown out of their head. I don't move my face at all and look straight ahead. I think about my brain flopping around on the floor like a fish. I think about my brains gills being useless outside my head. My head is full of blood, by the way.
When it finally gets shot apart the blood will fly all over the place and splash all around.
There is a small chance that the blood from my brain will drown some kind of insect, maybe a low crawling insect. Stupid insects I think. I wonder what kind of insects eat blood. Probably snails. A group of snails will eat all of the blood and move towards my brain. My brain will become their leader and make all of the decisions for all of the snails from now on. They will carry it around everywhere and it will get to make out with all of the hot female snails. My brain is a snail.
After a long time waiting I begin to get restless. I think that maybe I should go back to the office.
It is one thirty and my lunch break is over.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
Saturday, 27 February 2010
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
2. you have to buy a country cottage worth £450,000 before you are allowed to write anything
3. you have to have an IQ of 140 before you are allowed to write anything
4. you're going to be miserable and lonely and self critical and just suck it up ok and get on with it and get used to thinking constantly about yourself and making other people want to love you it's just who you are and you can't change it and it's part of your creative juices ok god
5. keep writing no matter how bad what you are writing is. keep writing forever and then fall over dead
6. whatever you do don't connect to the internet it is just soooooooo distracting
7. 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, 2 hours work, 2 hours sleep, repeat 3000x
8. never break your routine
9. be flexible routine
10. above all else be a great guy and go to loads of keg parties. don't forget you're alive!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
He thinks that he has not developed over the years.
David walks from one side of his modern kitchen to another and then he walks back to the other side.
He walks back and forth many times.
He is thinking about the past. These thoughts were provoked by his experiences on this day, with Susan, in the corner of the studio.
David moves into his bedroom. He lies down for a second. He lets his hand drop down beside the bed and then he hauls his whole body over the side of his bed so that he is lying on the floor. The floor is wooden.
He reaches under his bed and fumbles around for a while, trying to find something. He carries on fumbling. He can't find what he is looking for so he begins to crawl under his bed, head first. He thinks, 'God.'
It must be dusty under that bed. It never gets moved and nothing ever moves inside it.
After around twenty seconds of commitment David emerges from the bed. He is holding a tray of what look to be tiny cassette tapes. He moves around so that he is sitting with his back to the bed.
The tapes are all marked. They each have a date on them as well as a few words of description. The descriptions are things like, David and Norman on Women, David and Norman on Tourism, David and Norman on Beauty, etc. The descriptions are written in small, scratchy, black, upper-case handwriting. The tapes are carefully stored in historical order. The dates on the tapes are all over ten years old.
David looks through the tapes until he finds a tape that's description says 'David and Norman – Smoking'. He takes the tape out of the tray and ejects it from its container. There is a small voice recorder in David's bed side table which he puts the tape into.
David sits still at his desk and presses the play button on the voice recorder. The sound of almost silence plays from the small speakers of the recorder. It sounds like someone breathing out softly, forever.
David sits at the desk and removes a large cigar from his pocket. There is the sound of a lighter clicking into flame on the recording. David echoes the recorded action in real time. He smokes. He tries to breathe in and out very quietly so that he can hear the recording as clearly as possible. He wants to hear every tiny nuance and fold in the sound. He feels like a detective, pouring over case notes. Every now and then, he feels like he hears someone inhaling particularly ferociously and he feels happy. He feels like with the aid of this recording he can remember each individual breath and sucking in of smoke. He is thinking that he can remember exactly how it felt to breathe the smoke in on that particular day and how his body felt and where he was sitting in the hut and exactly what he could see from his eyes and the tiny subtle sounds he could hear with his ears. His memory of that time feels so utterly complete. He thinks that the memory of that time is the most important thing in his life. He thinks about Norman.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
As I approach the two people I think, 'Please don't say anything to me.'
One of the two drunk people burps and then sneezes. He burps again. He drinks more of his strong beer and then burps.
I am very near them now.
The man who was burping slowly turns around. He is looking at me and standing aggressively.
He says to me, 'Party in number 41 tonight?'
I live at number 41. I try and smile at the man, but it is difficult when I am so scared.
As I walk into my home, I can feel the blood pulsing around my body.
I pace around for a while, thinking about the people.
For the whole night I sit up in my bed, unable to sleep. I think about the two people waiting outside my home. Waiting to follow my every move.
My groceries remain, uneaten, on the kitchen table.
Tuesday, 2 February 2010
i have something up at 'for every year', crispin best's insane collection of stories.
you can easily check it out by clicking here
i hope you like it!!!!!!!! x 100000000
Sunday, 24 January 2010
when i get that feeling i want sexual healing
when i get that feeling i want sexual healing
when i get that feeling i want sexual healing