Monday, 28 December 2009

It's 0137 or maybe it's later. And from the hot tub it feels like a summer night, but in reality it's winter. And the sky is clear, and open, broken only by the stressed, tangled branches of deciduous trees. And it's star lit, and we watch as occasional planes flash red and white like commits above. And we're talking about all those crazy parties we used to have, and all the girls we've slept with, and not about the boys we've slept with. And BM sings the tired tiger song, and somewhere from the wood on which the hot tub fringes an owl cries, and the undergrowth bussles, and our voices are carried by the cool night wind, and rising steam.

And a few hours pass, and the drinks run dry, and the lights across the valley fade, we make a run inside. And it's not late enough to sleep, and in a moment of London Preppyness we watch Miami Ink on DMAX. Which we've been pre-recording for a number of weeks now. And after the fifth episode finishes I notice a bottle of crème de cassis, and immeditatly crave a Kir Royale. And spend the next fifteen minutes hunting for a bottle of Moet et Chandon, and eventually give up and go back to Miami Ink. And as the sun comes up, and the hills unroll it's so unlike winter and so much like a summer gathering, that we're disorientated. And we all vow to come home, only for the company in those prime beach months.

Saturday, 26 December 2009

It's no secret that two of my favourite things to do are 1) Demand to be woken with only the finest English teas and 2) read text messages from people I like. And honestly there probably should be some mention of vodka in there too. And whilst I'm doing these activities this morning I am interrupted by my brother, who is shouting about something insignificant, which just makes him seem more hopeless than he already is, and makes me look more perfect than I already am.

And some how I end up looking through the photographs on my mobile gallery, and here is a description of what they are composed of, and you may or may not ever see these, depending on my level of boredom when I eventually find my bluetooth device:

18/05/2009 (Photograph 20)
A mirror photograph taken in the changing room of a department store. The focus, a man, wearing rolled up white chinos with a brown vintage leather belt, and a lime and fuchsia (detail) Slim fit Ralph Lauren polo.

03/07/2009 (Photograph 40)
A photograph of a piece of graphic art, which on inspection is an invite to the Hampton Court Palace flower show. The typography is presented in such a way that it takes the form of a root vegetable. It should be noted, that typographical art is this years must do.

05/07/2009 (Photograph 42)
A shot of Gilchrist & Soames (London) Sea Kelp shampoo that the chambermaid has placed where Gilchist & Soames soap should be. The shot is taken in a London hotel, which shall remain nameless. A simple reminder to actually purchase soap.

18/07/2009 (Photograph 45)
A piece of graphic art displaying an advert for 'Handmade glass gifts' in a gallery, Bath. The piece makes use of typography as apposed to other graphic elements.

20/07/2009 (Photograph 50)
A man cradling a box of Perfekt muesli in Waitrose. The use of type is quite appealing.

27/07/2009 (Photograph 54)
'A Good pinch of oregano'. A photograph of a male hand holding a own-brand box of Waitrose Oregano, of attractive colour and layout.

28/10/2009 (Photograph 95)

An white envelope, in which one thousand and two hundred and fifty five pounds sits, counted and banded, in twenty and fifty pound notes. The inside of the envelope is blue splatter design and encompasses a blue logo.

03/11/2009 (Photograph 99)
The walls are clad with an Ash Grey tile. Approximately 250 by 100, with white grout. A treated pine door, with chrome fittings inhabits the right hand of the screen. Whilst on the left, light is reflected off of a small silver hand dryer, and small 'Half' sink, with chrome fittings. Location, Liverpool.

11/11/2009 (Photograph 101)

A small ginger/black/white Guinea pig sits behind a cage. A remember that today is September the 11th.

25/11/2009 (Photograph 104)
A 'man' wearing a red lumberjack shirt, with long sweaty hair, is french kissing an attractive blond girl in a night club, Bristol, whilst lights flash in the background. This photograph is later printed and pinned to a studio, for all to see.

27/11/2009 (Photograph 106)
An illustration of a ethnic stick man, holding and pouring a vile of acid over his head, with the letters T and N floating above.

01/12/2009 (Photograph 107)
Platform. C Words. Carbon, Climate, Capital, Culture. A sign from a small art gallery, Bristol. Underneath the title a blurb describes how the artist, an African woman, is sick of western Capitalists. Lets see how well her less economically developed country survives without capitalist intervention.

01/12/2009 (Photograph 108/109/110/111/112)
Various graphic art from the said gallery.

14/12/2009 (Photograph 115)

A sign that reads Dylexia Action. Outside a Dyslexia Action clinic.

17/12/2009 (Photograph 122)
Dylan poses in a High Visibility jacket, sporting a pink glove and scarf combo. Whilst cleaning the windscreen of a pastel blue 1.2 Clio.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 123)
A lady, wearing a purple White Stuff cardigan, ices a wonky Christmas tree cookie, in what appears to be a small kitchen. The icing is lime green in colour.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 125)

A man is listening to 'A Tiny Christmas > Driving Home For Christmas: Chris Rae' whilst decorating a wonky Christmas tree cookie with stars and silver pearls. He is wearing a red, nondescript checked shirt, over a white Henley. Both with tentatively rolled up selves.

18/12/2009 (Photograph 128)
The photograph depicts a display of alcoholic beverages, above an Geogian mantel piece. Two 35ml bottles of Chamboard liquor, two 750ml Luksusowa, one 250ml bottle of Jacob Creek Shiraz.

24/12/2009 (Photograph 130)

And the photographs that are missing, quite possibly, never existed.

Thursday, 24 December 2009

In The Water I Am Beautiful plays as I dive into the pool and by length 21 mother is already baking in the kitchen, and by length sixty four the playlist has skipped to '101 Slightly Enjoyable Christmas Songs', which I guess is fairly fitting, but somewhat irriatting. And I pull myself out, and lounge on poolside watching as steam rises from the warm water, and condenses onto glass.

And from the kitchen the usual christmas songs play from Radio Four, and I remember that this year, thirteen stores haven't gift wrapped my gifts. And so I have decided that if the stores can't be bothred, then neither can I. And leave the pile of unwrapped presents somewhere for someone else to deal with, and usually this tactic works quite well. And by far, the best christmas song to date, has to be Wham, Last Christmas, which has been covered numerious times by bands such as Jimmy Eat World, and so on and so forth. And really, it's more that just a christmas song, but I digress.

At 1132 I am 'escorted' on the way to retrieve some items from a friend. And much of the morning is spent being followed by this silver saloon. And honestly I'm not entirely sure who organised this escort and for what reason. Perhaps icy roads? And I feel like I'm practically under house-arrest. But eventually in the afternoon negoiate freedom, and so take the oppertunity to cruise the rest of my coast line, and much like the pervious days, it is barren, the spray of the ocean giving the shore a faux snow like covering.

And later I remember that I have stored two 'Display' cases of Grey Goose in the loft, and so attempt to find them, and when I eventually do, the bottles are dusty and heat has distorted one of the geese and the liquid inside looks even more undrinkable than it already is. But who am I to let it waste, and so place the bottles in the cellar amongst cases of Perrier table water, a gift for whomever is lucky enough to be seated with it.

Tuesday, 22 December 2009

Few things have changed since Autumn, albeit the weather. And the trees. Which instead of being a mellow orange, are now whipped bear by the winter. And a blue sports car now takes the place of mine. And in a sudden moment of realisation it occurs to me that I was bought up in the equivalent of a beach house. Pinned geographically by seven or so beaches. Kept warm, even now, by the golf stream. Warm enough not to be snow covered, yet cold enough to turn the earth to granite.

And on the wall of the bedroom in which I stay, Churchill. Who stares through a pain of glass, blankly at the imperial desk. Eyes animated by reflections that rise and fall accross his face. And the hardwood floor, cold, and smooth. The walls, ebony, matt, absorbing northern light. Which falls, cut by venetian blinds, from thirteen degrees in the sky.

On the horizon clouds roll through woodland. Forming low laying mist. And it is to this that I drive. Where I change for a '96 Defender, Blue. Gateback. And in the frost we cruise the coast, deserted, and lifeless. Until we retire. The snug, oak panelled, lined with photographs. Last Summer, New Year, Graduation. An Alpaca rug. An open fire. Freshly cut wood.

And I realise this beach house, is more than a home.

Friday, 18 December 2009

And as I carefully fold the remaining wearable RL items, and place them in my auburn Antler, UK case (the Vuitton is for Europe) I suddenly realise I've forgotten the Luksusowa. And reconsider my life.

Oh, hello Christmas my old friend.

Friday, 11 December 2009

From the terrace of the old Library someone calls my name. And I don't notice. And instead turn away, as the rain falls endlessly onto the pavement. And countless cars race past causing the water to surge at my feet. And the rain running down my cheek is sticky,sweet, and smells of product. And somewhere, possibly inside my head, the Eurythmics, Here Comes The Rain Again is playing.

Skipping the queue at the rank someone who I've never seen in my life, jabs me on the shoulder, and I close the carriage door. And they bang on the window, and their mouth is moving but I only hear the rain falling on the roof. And the door locks, and a small amber light flicks on behind me. And the words which fall from my mouth are entangled with condensation and bar names, and eventually the driver understands what I am saying and the car jerks into the a motionless line of traffic.

And in the forty five minutes that I sit in the back of the cab, the fog lifts, but the rain carrys on, and I'm thinking, is it raining with you?

Wednesday, 9 December 2009

So I've spent most of the day feeling sick. So I stop drawing the threads on the screws of this technical drawing, and spend a few minutes laying on the floor. Whilst Paula Cole tells me how he make her feel like a sticky pistol. And I stare into my mirror and mime a few of the words and then decide it's probably best to go and buy some cake.

And so I decide to walk to Starbucks, and as I'm walking it's really cold, and I pull the hood of my royal, blue summer, Ralph jersey up. And I'm thinking, this hood is pretty cool, I mean, it's pretty big and that's pretty cool. And then at the counter I order a latte, even though the coffee isn't that great, and I tell the woman to get me some cake, and she does. And then I walk home.

And on the walk home I'm thinking...mainly about feeling sick, and it's pretty shit, and then I start to think about my health and then I remember I haven't actually been to the gym in like, I don't know, six months? And its ok really cos I can't afford a four hundred and fifty pound membership, but then I cant really afford a six pounds coffee with a piece of cake. And I cant really afford to do anything much.

And then I get home, the handyman opens the door and I just stare at him. And when I eventually get to my apartment, I realise my coffee is cold, so I find a place for the cup on my mantel, with the piles of books. And then I lay on the floor and I just can't bring myself to finish drawing the threads on the screews of this office block...and so now I'm thinking, if I don't draw them, they wont get made, and if they don't get made then they wont be put in the building, and really, without these screws lots of people could die. And it's all a bit to much to think about, especially at four in the afternoon. So I have a nap.

Wednesday, 2 December 2009

When I wake I find myself entangled in my Nimbus designed bed clothes. And my luxury king is cold and empty, much like my apartment. And my head is congested and gripping,and I'm pretty sure that its not self inflicted. And my eyes are more tired now than when I retired, and I pull the vanity mirror off of the bedside table and admire the structure of the face staring back. And one must say, he is rather attractive.

In the dinning room the air is chilling, crisp and a window is thrown open, despite the weather outside. And my bare chest is constricted by the wind, which is lifting a fragrance from a decanter and throwing it around the room. And I notice the door ajar, a indication of life whilst I slept. And realise, it's been two days, fourteen hours and fifty seven minutes since I last saw my house mate. But who needs house mates when you have...jesus? Finding the coffee on the sideboard I begin making a pot for two, realise that I am alone, and in a disheartened mockery of John Humphrys I exclaim "I've Started so I'll finish."

And whilst checking my email, and then facebook, and watching people outside. It becomes apparent that my day will become one of cleaning, and drawing, and cleaning. And the book that I am semi reading, whilst taking a phone call, is telling me of the techs that I must draw today, and honestly, I'm not the slightest interested. But one must press on. Drawing is a career. And after saying goodbye to the caller I don't hang up, and instead listen to the beginning of their new conversation with whomever accompanies them. And I wish for someone to accompany me. But then remember I've got Jesus. So it's ok.

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

So I get up, and don't talk to anyone. For perhaps an hour or so and in a coffee shop I pretend to be mute. To avoid awkward conversation. And I find this all rather entertaining.

And it's not until I reach the meeting point, an art gallery; at which I arrive early and stand around for about twenty minutes.

That I first talk. And the first words I speak are a lie. And they are 'My driver dropped me off'. And I'm not really bothered, because I'm still finding this entire game highly entertaining, and I don't, and never will, know these people. So that's ok.

And on the walk to the second gallery, I just stop in the middle of the pavement, wait for thirty seconds and slip into a shop. And then I go home, and its all very funny, to me at least. And when I arrive home I've successfully filled enough time in the day to:
a) feel guilty about wasting time
b) receive a parcel