Sunday, 28 February 2010

I'm staring at a blank screen, and the images that are running in my head, are reluctant to construct into coherent prose. And I guess this is writers block. And the cursor is still flashing, beckoning for movement, for characters to be produced.

And I find myself in the back of a new silver Fiesta, and the lights in front are glaring in the evening hue. The Hendrick's I've consumed causing a momentary loss of focus. And it reminds me of that night it felt like the south of France. The car pulling up curbside, unloading luggage, whilst the unusually thick, unusually warm May air hugged our bodies.

Only, the driver is smoking a Mayfair Smooth and the car moves freely though the empty Sunday streets. Cruising to a couple of apartments. Where some people enter and others exit the vehicle. And the smooth, freeness of the drive reminds me of similar journeys, comforting and grounding. And for the first time in several months, I feel at ease. At home.

And as the evening fades to night, and the Fiesta's red lights merge into the grain of the city, I'm dropped at the Church cornering my apartment. I have an inclination to go inside. But don't. And instead walk to my front door. Inside my shirt is pressed and folded, and tomorrows outfit, for a Stoli laced dinner has been composed, and is waiting in my dressing room.

Wednesday, 24 February 2010

The rain, so light and warm, yet heavy enough to push creators into sand, before burning away. The walk through the dunes, through campus. Dark cloud replaced with patches of long evening sun, hidden by falling dusk. The surrounding woods. Music from across the courtyard. Music from the room which we shared, Feist. The light in the kitchen, unshaded, attracting insects, bringing the smell of cut grass on their wings. A poster on the Jade wall. The click of a kettle rising to boil. A taxi ride. A cool night-wind channelled by the linear street. A hospital. The spring rain. Fresh, clean.

Days filled with coffee and magazines, cocktails and shopping. A suitcase filled with designer clothes. High-street,low-end boutiques. A cashmere jumper. Mcdonalds. Foam gathering in the fountain. The old city, the castle. Two litre, cinema Cola. A shop which sold steroids out back. Vitamin supplements, three days grace from the gym. Abandoned warehouses. Steel works looming across the bay. An apple striped shirt. Sand on our feet, your back. The view of home across out stretched sea. Long nights. Your taste, your touch. A photograph, memories. The night fires. Grey Goose. A train journey. The riverside. A hospital.

Friday, 12 February 2010

So I wake up after a string of nightmares, mostly about drowning. And a wave of apathy washes over me.

Outside it's mild, and dark. I'm wearing slippers, and a hat. A hat which I last wore in 2005. And I'm walking and its 2103. And as I'm walking I'm listening to Sometimes by City and Colour, and I haven't listened to this album since last summer. During that week where we drank gin and swam in the pool, and lay on the concrete floor in the sun, tanning. And the mildness reminds me of those late September nights and I'm thinking of the summer to come.

And a rented house in London. And for a week, or maybe more, depending on how long I can last we'll watch Secret Diary of A Call Girl. As the open windows channel the evening breeze past the morning papers on the table and into the room, carrying the smell of melting tarmac. And by night we'll stay out drinking in bars, and coffee shops, or walking the streets until dusk or maybe even eight or nine in the morning, and then we'll collapse and sleep all day. And eventually MTV will win us over.

And by the time this scene has played out I'm sitting on the door step, smoking a cigarette. And I can't inhale, so I stub it out. And go back inside, and close my eyes, and as I walk up the stairs I wonder what it would be like to be blind. And I lay down.

Sunday, 7 February 2010

And the chill makes it around two degrees, and the lack of sleep makes every step an effort. An attendant peals back the cage, and white-light from under the street level floods through the stairwell. And by the ticket machine I glance in to an office, but your not there. And I'm on the complete opposite side of the city. Victoria, South-bound, is dead, and delayed by two minutes. And eventually one station becomes another, and then nothing more than a vast flood lit hall. The steps on which we first met, empty, and the windows behind, towering shadows. And platform seventeen, and that moment three years ago, seem so distant that they become almost irrelevant. But because of this I'm reminded of you. And I'm no longer sure what exactly it is I'm reminded of.

Saturday, 6 February 2010

From the bed that I'm lying on the ceiling wont stop spinning, and is no longer white. And in the en suit a five hundred pound ice sculpture, that reads "21 Prince ___" is slowly melting. And a phone, on loud speaker, projects screaming from a club, and I just can't party like I used to. And in the taxi, the driver wont allow the sculpture in the boot, and a police officer turns a blind eye as it's rammed into the back seats. And someone is cutting powder with a Nectar card, on a drawing desk in a bedroom, and passing around a twenty. And from the en suit someone shout laughs 'This is dedication'. And a bouncer thumbs a tag that is pinned on my chest that has an address written on it, and the words 'Return to' written above the address. And someone is taking photos, and flashes are blinding.