Thursday, 28 January 2010

I've spent the last week in a Garden city on the South-coast. Wearing the same outfit. Red skinny jeans, a limited edition white print t-shirt accessorised
with black three d wayfarers and a vodka stained light charcoal hood, which I occasionally swap for a plumb cardigan. And today I'm wearing the plumb cardigan. And as I'm sitting in the winter sun, smoking a cigarette that someone placed in my pocket, and drinking a black coffee I catch my reflection in window. And my eyes are thick and black and my hair, styled, but messed up, my lips split dry. And my headphones lead the eye to my waist, which is looking lean and prefect. And the soundtrack to this coffee is by Simon and Garfunkel. And this truly is the best of times, and although my head feels like shit, I'm actually looking fucking amazing, perhaps even better than my reflection tells.

And luckily someone is around to take photographs, and if I were to show you a photograph that would sum up the trip it would be this:

And because life can't be all rosy and sweet, my return has shown that my days are mundane and numb. And if it weren't for the three week old Evian water that I found yesterday morning, in my bedside cabinet, I'd probably be dead. Or on a massive come down. And right about now both of these options seem enticing.

Wednesday, 20 January 2010

Tuesday at the clinic, I receive a repeat. And I notice four people I actually know, and awkward is a word that couldn't even begin to describe. And after dispense I walk to Starbucks, where I sit at a table. And the coffee which I get for free was never warm. And has spilled from the cup onto a napkin. Staining the white sheet brown. And I think about my teeth, and stare at their reflection in my communication device, whilst Latitude tells me that all contacts have left the city. And I contemplate driving down to the coast for a couple of days.

And those couple of days come and pass, and with the absence of company, I simply stay behind glass for the duration. And eventually when I feel the need to go outside, it's not all that great. And in a photo I find, a boy wearing a Black t-shirt with an MTV logo on it, and in the background is an Oman beach, and it reminds me to book so some sort of flight. And I add a comment which reads 'Where is this must have from?' And it's been four days and still no reply.

And in a twist of events which probably involve boredom, small orange tablets, and gin, I'm watching Five-hundred Days of Summer. And basically what the production team have done is taken a rough outline of my life and watered it down into five hundred, less dramatic days, and the likeness is uncanny. And really there is not much more to say other than, watch it or something.

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

I'm talking to a friend on Tuesday, in a Starbucks somewhere near a station. And he is telling me about the time he listened to Radiohead for about eight months of his life, including most of a spring, summer and autumn. And I'm thinking it's pretty cool, and that I want to achieve something this cool. And so far I've listened to the song Nude 42 times, and have 6 hours 9 minutes and 44 secounds of songs to go, not including the Greatest Hits.

And to allow Radiohead to take over my life I'm playing songs from Ok Computer whilst I'm standing in the shower, and the water is spitting above, and I notice the tiles are no longer white and I go to touch them, and I'm standing there leaning against the wall, just standing, doing nothing. And it's pretty good. And I can feel the blood in my veins. And on the other side of the wall length window snow endlessly falls, lifted on the wind, silent and fine like rain. And somewhere in the background No Surprises plays, and I want to go outside, like this, and stand under the street lamp, and feel the snow sting my chest, arms, shoulders.

Monday, 11 January 2010

The night just wont end. And it might be the gin I've been drinking or it might just be that it's extremely difficult to sleep in these conditions. But either way, the shivering wont stop and my mind is racing. Filling with images from years ago, and some not so long ago, and thoughts of stupid events, and money, and the trust fund that's run dry, and trust, and exams and travelling and all manner of things.

And basically I've been popping Doxilamine Succinate like there's no tomorrow, and hell, I've even tried snorting it. And what's left of the powder, dashed across my desk, keys, credit card, egg shell blue. And Radiohead rhythmically floats from my flat pannel low watt crappy speakers, and fills the room. And a fan heater sends convection towards the ceilings. And I use the hair-dryer to warm the bed. And the snow from Siberia never comes. And eventually I start to lose focus, and sink. And at 0401 a car alarm wakes me, and radiohead at still playing, and I crave Ribena, and at 0847 my house mate returns, and at 0903 leaves again.

And I eventually force myself to wake up at 1028. And make a coffee for breakfast, and eat the foam for desert, topped with chocolate. And when it comes to reading some official documents, my head starts to race again, and I watch as the cars outside, a BMW 3 Series, and a Citron of some sort, struggle up the street, and I start to think about snow, and how it's formed and suddenly it's 1239 and these documents ain't gonna read themselves. So I head to Starbucks.

Thursday, 7 January 2010

And in the song Walls by up and...erm gone band, All Time Low; Who have recently received a lot of airtime. The opening verse goes a bit like this, at some point: "Take off your shirt, your shoes, those skinny jeans I bought for you."

And I'm thinking if:
a) I had them on in the first place
b) Someone asked me too.
then I would happily do as the man says. 'Cos I'm not one to rock the boat.

So in a moment of quarter life crisis/self-reflection I decide to buy some shirts some shoes and some skinny jeans...for myself. And so I log onto a UK (Nondescript) store, punch in my credit card details and add a few items to my basket. And after about forty minutes and three hundred pounds I've finally reached the checkout.

And if this where a real store, right now I'd be asking to have these items gift wrapped. But its not, so I don't. And instead as a little treat I opt for 'Next day delivery(Order Before 1400)' and it's actually 2034, and whilst I wait for about three days for these items to arrive I am simply going to pretend that time only exist for people who worry about it, and they usually don't have much left.

Monday, 4 January 2010

And there is no sea air to keep the cold a length. And like my lips the pavements are cracked with ice, and the weather, more like Prague than Bristol. And I pull furniture away from radiators, and plug in extra heaters, but with no avail.

And in the place I shelter the cold dampened sheets remind me of that winter. The storm. How we stayed in bed for hours. And how you wore T-shirts of a particular brand to impress me. And the skill it took to sleep two to a single. And how my house mates thought we so alike. And how you called me little one. And even though by beaches, the South winds brought only cold, no golf stream. And how we cruised the parade, the satellite navigation, which spoke only French. And the windows, to which our breath clung. And a terminated contract. And how we parted in London Victoria. And those three students on the train, drinking wine, talking profanities. The lanes. And the way I brushed your forearm on the tube. And how simple things were, and how complicated I made them. And Bat For Lashes vibrating above our room. And City and Colour at the station terminal. Screens or orange digits. And the night the police called. And the last of the September nights that we spent in the marina. And your smile. And our now infrequent conversation.

Saturday, 2 January 2010

The roads are iced, empty, and the journey probably not manageable, but for old times sake I take it one more time. And on that drive, the song Bring Me Your Love, City And Colour, frequents my head, and in a turn of events, which involve some illegal driving plays out of the system.

And I drive through the flood defence of the sea wall, and down onto the pebbled beach. And as my wheels choke on the stone, I knock the gears out. And I just sit there. And I pull a blanket over my legs, and turn the heat up, and just watch as the waves crash down. And my gaze is broken when a flash of hunter lamps cross my dash, and on the concrete ramp above a 96' Defender waits. And the blinding light fades out, and from the defender, two figures approach, and climb into back seats. And we watch as the waves crash down, surrounded by each other, and ice cracks as someone pours a drink, and smile crack as conversation flows and We Are Kings plays out, slightly drowned by the heaving vents.

And the sky is clear and once again afloat with stars. And as I pull into the drive, the south westerly winds rock the bare trees, and no Rooks fly, and no dogs bark. And it's all pretty barren. And in the tub we've been discussing life for the best of three hours, and its hard to see across the valley tonight, on account of the 104water which is creating more steam than imaginable, and actually it's hard enough even seeing across the water. And we talk of new years, and new year 2011, and eventually 0103 rolls round, and we decide we should make a run for inside. But a light snowfall transforms the run into a reluctantly brisk jog, and inside the fire roars, as feet tingle, and a kettle boils.