Jeremy felt an overwhelming surge of apathy and walked past his office block. His programming usually just allowed the cruise-control function to take hold, then after an hour's mundane blur of routine he'd feel himself plummet down into his office chair. Today though, there was some kind of system malfunction. The strong apathy surge must have dislodged something. He kept his head down and hoped not to be stopped by any of his colleagues walking in his direction.
Cruise-control must have been contaminated, infected or tampered with in some way, because just as his feet and hands usually did the things that led him to his office swivel chair, today they led him to the train station. Still his mind hadn't seemed to contribute to the decisions his body was making, he just followed where his feet led.
Barry Island, the departures monitor said, two rows down. Five minutes. Never been there before. Why not? he thought. Swathes of office workers were filtering through and out of the station: some zombified, some possessed by a freakish will that made it look like they weren't dreading the day. But most zombified.
Jeremy moved against the tide, expecting to be caught by someone, shouted at. Nervous and excited (excited! Barry Island, what’s wrong with me? Lots, an answer came), he almost expected interrogation from the man on the other side of the counter. - Young Persons day return to Barry Island please, he’d said. How dangerous, how exotic! Surely he'd be caught? - One pound forty five. Very reasonable, Jeremy thought.
The only person in his carriage, Jeremy trundled slowly out of the city and through suburbs and small, pleasant commuter belts he never knew existed. The cruise-control systems must have to be even stronger for people from here, who worked in Cardiff. Especially for those who drove. A stoned-looking old conductor punched Jeremy's ticket without a flicker of acknowledgement of the person it was attached to, then tottered on down the carriage. He thought his apparent incongruence might have caused a glance here or there - wearing a good suit, posh shoes, collar and tie, on a Monday morning just after nine o clock, on his own, on a carriage destined for Barry Island (there couldn't be a lot of offices there) - but even on alighting and stepping onto the beach, dogs didn't so much as sniff.
Why were people who walked with dogs called dog-walkers? Jeremy mused, walking down the beach. It was a pet muse when he walked aimlessly and dog-less. It wasn't like dogs couldn't actually walk without humans. Why the inequality? Why weren't the pairs ever referred to as human-walkers? Why weren't people who jogged with their dogs called dog-joggers or dog-runners? Why are the dogs or humans in the equation at all? They're all just walkers, surely? Unless they run, or jog, or do that walking fast thing that looks ridiculous - what was that called?
His shiny black formal shoes sank into the wet sand, clinging to the soles and making walking an effort. Sucking and splatting sounds as they plunged in and out. Specs and splodges of wet sand flicked up the back of Jeremy's trouser legs. A terrier scampered past, chasing a ball. Its owner - a sprightly looking middle-aged lady - strode past (dog-strider?) without looking at the suspiciously suited man she was sharing the beach with.
Jeremy reached some rocks where the beach ended and began clambering across them. His footwear wasn't well suited and he looked in fear at the gruesomely draped seaweed, beckoning broken ankles or serious injury of some kind. He precariously wobbled his way around it, not the most elegant of climbers. In ensuring utmost care, he clumsily slumped onto his behind to drop onto the next layer of rocks, when a simple bold step was all that was required. He found a large, smooth rock, only pimpled by the odd limpet, and lay down resting his briefcase under his head. The wind blew with constant steady strength, (inspiring an odd kind of respect, Jeremy thought), the sea lapped, seagulls cried and the now far off terrier barked.
He identified a large vehicle reversing inland by its insistently blaring siren. The cruise-control demons were banished. Jeremy pictured his empty desk, monitor off, chair neatly tucked in, and he smiled. Sunshine pierced a cloud and kissed his face. Barry Island wasn't entirely unpleasant, as long as you didn't look inland or mind brown sea. He closed his eyes.
Something jolted him - he was bleeping. Had he finally found the controlling bug inside them all? Was it drawing attention to itself so the malfunction could be corrected? Would he imminently be set upon by a team of government agents who'd pop a needle in his arm? Or, was... no. The briefcase shrilled under Jeremy's head. He opened his eyes and squinted at the bright sunshine. Sitting forward he un-flapped the case and plucked out his phone. OFFICE - Calling... it told him. Jeremy impulsively threw his phone seawards. It bounced once off a rock and bleeped so abnormally highly that Jeremy actually felt a momentary twinge of regret - like he’d just kicked a dog - then it sank satisfyingly into a rock-pool, which was probably against some toxic waste littering law. Phones and all the stuff inside them were particularly bad for the environment, Jeremy remembered hearing once.
He clambered his way over the remaining rocks to the next beach. A bored looking, grey-haired lady sat on a rock, dreaming out to sea. Jeremy was half-tempted to start chatting to her as he passed - unlock the secrets and skeletons of her long and dramatic life. Or say good morning, at least. But he didn't. And she showed no sign of seeing him. Nor did a young couple who he passed walking across the next beach, enveloped in each other. His feet sank more on this sand, and his shoes clearly showed smears of sand and one deep long scratch from a rock, or perhaps a limpet.
Another thing Jeremy considered, watching a young child run past him chasing a ball, was that he was dead. He could go for days, even in the week when he was at work, without speaking to anybody. At times, he thought it might come as more of a shock to learn he was alive. Even in some minor way. A smile from a stranger, a thank-you to a held open door, an acknowledgement from a polite motorist. Either he was dead; people (or at least all the people he ever came into contact with, without any exception) were generally not very perceptive, caring or humane; or he just might be entirely uninteresting: to look at, listen to, share oxygen with. Now there was a thought, Jeremy thought.
He wound his way back around, over the headland in the direction of the station. Marvelling at the constancy of the sounds, he sat on a bench and looked out at the brown sea. The expanse of beach he'd walked on a few minutes ago looked huge. He must have looked like a speck from up here, as those people down there did then. But he was still a speck up there, to them down on the beach. Always a speck. New terriers buzzed round like radio-controlled cars, the lucky fools.
Leaving his briefcase on the bench, he walked to the edge of the cliff at the tip of the headland. Feeling the three pounds fifty five pence change in one pocket, and his keys and wallet in the other, Jeremy idly rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, toes over the edge. The apathy surged once more and combined with an urgently strong gust of wind, forced his balance further forward. Why not? Jeremy thought, without trying to think of a reply, encouraged by the elements. ‘Timber,’ he casually announced to himself. Just before impact, mid-air, feeling the coins in his pocketed left hand, he realised he'd been short-changed. Bastard, Jeremy thought, finally.
Dogs barked, the wind blew gusty, the sea lapped, seagulls cried and Jeremy's head exploded against limpets and rock with a hollow thud.
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
Sunday, 16 August 2009
Snooze ripples
You were aware of having to wake up soon and not wanting to. Through your dreamy fuzz you half wondered what the weather was going to be like and whether you could take your bike to school.
You’d been dreaming about holding hands with a nice girl again. You didn’t know who she was but that didn't matter. She showed you attention and affection. Unfortunately she wasn’t with you in bed because she wasn’t actually real.
You woke but you didn’t.
In your bed but not. Hearing wind and rain spatter against your window, you shivered, still without opening your eyes. Then you were awake. Except you weren’t.
Everything seemed familiar and comfortable. But it shouldn’t have been. You’d never been there before in your life, although it all felt normal enough. You were aware of the other people in rooms nearby, people your age but not related. It was pissing down outside. How were you going to get to school? Biking in would be quicker than walking, but you’d get wet. There was the bus, but you hated the bus, the people. The stress of making the decision was too much. Then you got confused.
What time was it? The red LCD display of your clock radio (but not really your clock radio) said one thing, said it was time to get up and begin the day. But surely it was still way too dark outside? It was still very dark, nightime and raining. Was it really just the clouds making it that dark outside? It was a day that wouldn’t inspire the most vivacious, annoyingly cheerful, life-loving person to get up.
You walked across your room and pressed the button to start up your aged television. It clunked, struggled for a second, then revealed the breakfast news. Two people sitting on a sofa, smiling. The time in the bottom corner of the screen was two hours earlier than your clock radio said it was. Why was that? You trusted the television over your clock radio - it was controlled by someone else so it must be right - so you flopped back into bed, surrendering, allowing it to envelop you in all its swallowing glory.
You sank back into an unconsciousness which you’d never actually left. Soon after, too soon after, so soon after that it was surely plain wrong - your clock radio went off, you joined the radio newsreader reading news mid-sentence and involuntarily tried to compute what he was saying. You stopped trying as quickly as you’d started. Aha, reality, you were sure of it this time - although you had been sure last time too.
Now you were amused at how real your dream had felt, surprised to feel disappointed that the horrible, grey wintry weather of the dream was complete fiction. You’re bored by this interminable summer sunshine which everybody is commanded to unconditionally love. It bullies you into being outside, feeling like you should be outside even if you don’t want to be outside.
Still lying there, you wondered, only for a second, how and why you were so convinced this one was your reality. If you’d have pressed the snooze button and turned off your clock radio right then, slunk back into unconsciousness, would you have emerged shortly afterwards, teleported into another alternative, more real feeling reality you were convinced was your own?
Then if that one wasn’t ideal, if you never woke up in a bed flanked by beautiful girls, happy with yourself and your life, then you could just try again.
And again. Until? You found it, you died, you compromised, you gave up? So would you try that, just keep hitting Snooze until..?
No, you decided. Your mum would get pissed off and you’d be late for school.
You’d been dreaming about holding hands with a nice girl again. You didn’t know who she was but that didn't matter. She showed you attention and affection. Unfortunately she wasn’t with you in bed because she wasn’t actually real.
You woke but you didn’t.
In your bed but not. Hearing wind and rain spatter against your window, you shivered, still without opening your eyes. Then you were awake. Except you weren’t.
Everything seemed familiar and comfortable. But it shouldn’t have been. You’d never been there before in your life, although it all felt normal enough. You were aware of the other people in rooms nearby, people your age but not related. It was pissing down outside. How were you going to get to school? Biking in would be quicker than walking, but you’d get wet. There was the bus, but you hated the bus, the people. The stress of making the decision was too much. Then you got confused.
What time was it? The red LCD display of your clock radio (but not really your clock radio) said one thing, said it was time to get up and begin the day. But surely it was still way too dark outside? It was still very dark, nightime and raining. Was it really just the clouds making it that dark outside? It was a day that wouldn’t inspire the most vivacious, annoyingly cheerful, life-loving person to get up.
You walked across your room and pressed the button to start up your aged television. It clunked, struggled for a second, then revealed the breakfast news. Two people sitting on a sofa, smiling. The time in the bottom corner of the screen was two hours earlier than your clock radio said it was. Why was that? You trusted the television over your clock radio - it was controlled by someone else so it must be right - so you flopped back into bed, surrendering, allowing it to envelop you in all its swallowing glory.
You sank back into an unconsciousness which you’d never actually left. Soon after, too soon after, so soon after that it was surely plain wrong - your clock radio went off, you joined the radio newsreader reading news mid-sentence and involuntarily tried to compute what he was saying. You stopped trying as quickly as you’d started. Aha, reality, you were sure of it this time - although you had been sure last time too.
Now you were amused at how real your dream had felt, surprised to feel disappointed that the horrible, grey wintry weather of the dream was complete fiction. You’re bored by this interminable summer sunshine which everybody is commanded to unconditionally love. It bullies you into being outside, feeling like you should be outside even if you don’t want to be outside.
Still lying there, you wondered, only for a second, how and why you were so convinced this one was your reality. If you’d have pressed the snooze button and turned off your clock radio right then, slunk back into unconsciousness, would you have emerged shortly afterwards, teleported into another alternative, more real feeling reality you were convinced was your own?
Then if that one wasn’t ideal, if you never woke up in a bed flanked by beautiful girls, happy with yourself and your life, then you could just try again.
And again. Until? You found it, you died, you compromised, you gave up? So would you try that, just keep hitting Snooze until..?
No, you decided. Your mum would get pissed off and you’d be late for school.
Saturday, 15 August 2009
Celebrity cabs
Half of them don’t believe you, of course. Just think you're mad so they smile politely, younger girls in groups on buses might titter, giggle like. Bored blokes in pubs raise their eyebrows like they couldn’t care less.
Thing is, I think it’s interesting. Didn’t much at the time, but now, looking back, it’s one of the things which stands out in my life, my time spent doing that. It’s the kind of thing I reckon people are likely to have their attention caught by, turn to me, give me a second chance, reassess their judgement about my appearance or whatever. When I tell them that, then they’ll change.
Course it don’t happen like that. Hardly ever, in fact. They giggle or turn away, or are offended by the fact I’ve tried chatting to them. Or they just look bored Whatever. Jog on, grandad. Maybe I don’t sell it in a convincing enough way, or it just doesn’t sound believable. Not when I slur it or mumble, or don’t speak it clearly enough.
What? Well, loads of stuff, since you ask. Drove the taxi away in The Apprentice, didn’t I? Every booted out candidate for three series, right from the start. You never saw me, but I was always there in that cab. With the crew and whatever sorry git had been fired by Sir Alan that week. Sometimes they’d be crying, couldn’t quite believe it, or like they suddenly recognised their own weaknesses like. Others would be angry – they were the funnier ones: convinced Sugar had made a mistake which he’d pay for. Like he gives a stuff.
Never actually watched it. Can’t have realised how popular it was at the time or I’d have blown my trumpet about it more then. The cameras and what-not ‘d pile in first, facing the opposite direction. Then whoever it was would follow, looking a bit shellshocked by it all, trying to look proud and together, like they didn’t really mind all that much. Just a game. I knew them for what they were though.
When the cameras piled out and it was just me and them. I could look in my rear view mirror, see into their eyes – which avoided mine; the hurt. Before I dropped them off somewhere central, one of the big stations, then watched for a moment as they pulled their suitcases off, alone.
Like I tell them, if they’ll listen, it wasn’t the best one anyway. Not much compared to those speedboats, hoiking the losers off them tropical islands. There were several different series for that, never kept track. One was Love something; gobby tossers. Others were for kids, much younger, but still like, “young adults” or whatever they call em. Hardly like they looked innocent, most of em. Time in the sun, driving speedboats between tropical islands a few weeks of the year. Yeah, that was the life.
Always think perhaps somebody might recognise me from those few summers spending Friday nights standing outside the front door where we’re going. Of course, most attention’s on the baboon who’s being evicted - no offence like - when they launch themselves swaggering and slobbering into the press and fans, and Davina. She’s lovely. Just down to earth, like, y’ know? I just stood there, made sure the doors opened and whoever it was had enough brain-cells to walk through the door and down the steps. Some of them even said hello, good bye or whatever: the few with self awareness that they were still a person who could relate to the likes of me. Still, I was on the telly a bit in that one. Nobody recognises me now, from this seat. They’re all looking at you. I prefer it that way.
Cowell’s minder on the X-Factor Pop thingy for a few series too. Yeah, that was fun: always guaranteed a handul of total headcases there. And I played a bit in the Strictly Come Dancing band. The odd bit of percussion when they had a drop-out. Didn’t matter that we rarely got the recognition. The dancing was the point of it, wasn’t it? The whole spectacle. Lovely.
So yeah, you might say I’ve been exposed a few times to the limelight. Just in the background, but there or thereabouts. Enough to get a sense of it. I’ll tell you what, I think you’re best off out of it altogether, to be fair.
But you know, good luck anyway. -Oh, there you go. Sorry love, it’s open now. Knock em dead.
Thing is, I think it’s interesting. Didn’t much at the time, but now, looking back, it’s one of the things which stands out in my life, my time spent doing that. It’s the kind of thing I reckon people are likely to have their attention caught by, turn to me, give me a second chance, reassess their judgement about my appearance or whatever. When I tell them that, then they’ll change.
Course it don’t happen like that. Hardly ever, in fact. They giggle or turn away, or are offended by the fact I’ve tried chatting to them. Or they just look bored Whatever. Jog on, grandad. Maybe I don’t sell it in a convincing enough way, or it just doesn’t sound believable. Not when I slur it or mumble, or don’t speak it clearly enough.
What? Well, loads of stuff, since you ask. Drove the taxi away in The Apprentice, didn’t I? Every booted out candidate for three series, right from the start. You never saw me, but I was always there in that cab. With the crew and whatever sorry git had been fired by Sir Alan that week. Sometimes they’d be crying, couldn’t quite believe it, or like they suddenly recognised their own weaknesses like. Others would be angry – they were the funnier ones: convinced Sugar had made a mistake which he’d pay for. Like he gives a stuff.
Never actually watched it. Can’t have realised how popular it was at the time or I’d have blown my trumpet about it more then. The cameras and what-not ‘d pile in first, facing the opposite direction. Then whoever it was would follow, looking a bit shellshocked by it all, trying to look proud and together, like they didn’t really mind all that much. Just a game. I knew them for what they were though.
When the cameras piled out and it was just me and them. I could look in my rear view mirror, see into their eyes – which avoided mine; the hurt. Before I dropped them off somewhere central, one of the big stations, then watched for a moment as they pulled their suitcases off, alone.
Like I tell them, if they’ll listen, it wasn’t the best one anyway. Not much compared to those speedboats, hoiking the losers off them tropical islands. There were several different series for that, never kept track. One was Love something; gobby tossers. Others were for kids, much younger, but still like, “young adults” or whatever they call em. Hardly like they looked innocent, most of em. Time in the sun, driving speedboats between tropical islands a few weeks of the year. Yeah, that was the life.
Always think perhaps somebody might recognise me from those few summers spending Friday nights standing outside the front door where we’re going. Of course, most attention’s on the baboon who’s being evicted - no offence like - when they launch themselves swaggering and slobbering into the press and fans, and Davina. She’s lovely. Just down to earth, like, y’ know? I just stood there, made sure the doors opened and whoever it was had enough brain-cells to walk through the door and down the steps. Some of them even said hello, good bye or whatever: the few with self awareness that they were still a person who could relate to the likes of me. Still, I was on the telly a bit in that one. Nobody recognises me now, from this seat. They’re all looking at you. I prefer it that way.
Cowell’s minder on the X-Factor Pop thingy for a few series too. Yeah, that was fun: always guaranteed a handul of total headcases there. And I played a bit in the Strictly Come Dancing band. The odd bit of percussion when they had a drop-out. Didn’t matter that we rarely got the recognition. The dancing was the point of it, wasn’t it? The whole spectacle. Lovely.
So yeah, you might say I’ve been exposed a few times to the limelight. Just in the background, but there or thereabouts. Enough to get a sense of it. I’ll tell you what, I think you’re best off out of it altogether, to be fair.
But you know, good luck anyway. -Oh, there you go. Sorry love, it’s open now. Knock em dead.
Thursday, 13 August 2009
First thoughts
You realised slowly that you had in fact dreamt it, that it was just a dream, even though you were still within the dream when you realised. Oh good, it can’t be real, you figured, understanding somehow that it was a dream and that you were still asleep.
Those few horrific moments continued to plague your sleep, returning and replaying. And haunting. Even when you turned over and shook yourself into a momentary consciousness, attempting to finally shake it off - to begin a new, unconnected dream - even after that it returned.
Again and again.
The gunshot. A dangerous fizz, deafening crack, deadening splut.
You’ve never liked her much, your mother’s friend. Every time you meet her you try to like her, but always end up feeling annoyed with her. You think she believes herself magnificently entertaining to everyone who speaks to her, and anyone who disagrees is an idiot. You don’t agree. Still you appease her and wish her no bad feeling because she and her placid husband are good friends to your parents.
So when you saw the bullet enter the side of her head and the blood immediately seep out in ribbons as she slumped over, her head thudding on the desk for good measure, then you were shocked and scared. Possessed by an internal intense terror and punishing responsibility. What were you doing there? In that scene? You never found out, you had no role to play in it, a fly on the wall. And it was just a dream anyway.
So why were you still feeling guilty? Because, what if she was actually dead, somehow? Don’t be ridiculous, you told yourself, knowing you wouldn’t check.
When your day began, when you were eating your toast and brushing your teeth, back the memory poured. Insistently levering its way back into your mind. A harrowing blood-red washing across the freeze-frame.
And at inopportune times throughout the day. When you were in a meeting attempting to form a response (your reply took longer than normal and you knew your colleagues were wondering if you were all right). When you were bored, trying to terminate an unnecessarily detailed phone call.
Fizz-crack-splut.
Part of the shock was that it was unexpected. The scenario wasn’t highly likely. The woman you don’t like who would never be wrong about anything, she had been accused of a motoring offence. In a police interview room with here were two officers and her alleged victim, a quiet young asian man. None were injured.
She believed he was at fault and reacted incredulously towards anyone who couldn’t understand this, shrieking melodramatically. Why they were even in a police station interview room in the first place was never clear. You had no physical place in the scene at all.
The silent young victim nonchalantly pulled out a gun and shot her - FizzCrackSplut - before lying his weapon down on the table and allowing himself to be seized by preposterously calm, unshocked police officers.
A short scene with little, if any intelligible dialogue. Aside from her dramatic remonstrations, the others were sombre, dutifully playing out the scene you orchestrated from a far off place. Then the dramatic climax, and you’re not even sure if it would have sounded like that as you’ve never heard anything like it in reality: simply pieced it together from films.
Then an abrupt cut. You next find yourself chatting to two police officers on a bridge over a motorway. They’re not surprised when you retell the story of what just happened. In fact, they predict what happens before you’ve even reached that part of the story. That happens a lot in your dreams. You can never surprise anybody you speak to.
On the bus to work in the morning, the images were still fresh, replaying themselves with a vile vigour. You couldn’t remember doing anything that would have evoked such a dream. No thriller novels or war films. The back of the woman’s head four seats in front could have been her’s. Except it wasn’t, because she lives hundreds of miles away.
A postscript to the dream shortly afterwards doesn’t remain as vivid but is the last connection before your mind escapes the chain of this dream and sets you free. She is alive. You saw her in another scene where you had no physical presence, on a lush, long grassed hill where she frolicked with children and a dog. It felt like heaven. This is where she went, this is where you sent her after flippantly designing her assassination, you evil person. You left her there and floated away. It’s not that postscript that you remember though, is it?
FizzzzcrACK~splut.
Eventually it slides away from prominence in your mind.
That is, until you settle to sleep again tonight. The newly relaxed state of your body and mind chillingly reacquaints you with your first thoughts of the day. You shiver, turn over, shut your eyes tight, try to pack the images away.
And now you sleep.
Those few horrific moments continued to plague your sleep, returning and replaying. And haunting. Even when you turned over and shook yourself into a momentary consciousness, attempting to finally shake it off - to begin a new, unconnected dream - even after that it returned.
Again and again.
The gunshot. A dangerous fizz, deafening crack, deadening splut.
You’ve never liked her much, your mother’s friend. Every time you meet her you try to like her, but always end up feeling annoyed with her. You think she believes herself magnificently entertaining to everyone who speaks to her, and anyone who disagrees is an idiot. You don’t agree. Still you appease her and wish her no bad feeling because she and her placid husband are good friends to your parents.
So when you saw the bullet enter the side of her head and the blood immediately seep out in ribbons as she slumped over, her head thudding on the desk for good measure, then you were shocked and scared. Possessed by an internal intense terror and punishing responsibility. What were you doing there? In that scene? You never found out, you had no role to play in it, a fly on the wall. And it was just a dream anyway.
So why were you still feeling guilty? Because, what if she was actually dead, somehow? Don’t be ridiculous, you told yourself, knowing you wouldn’t check.
When your day began, when you were eating your toast and brushing your teeth, back the memory poured. Insistently levering its way back into your mind. A harrowing blood-red washing across the freeze-frame.
And at inopportune times throughout the day. When you were in a meeting attempting to form a response (your reply took longer than normal and you knew your colleagues were wondering if you were all right). When you were bored, trying to terminate an unnecessarily detailed phone call.
Fizz-crack-splut.
Part of the shock was that it was unexpected. The scenario wasn’t highly likely. The woman you don’t like who would never be wrong about anything, she had been accused of a motoring offence. In a police interview room with here were two officers and her alleged victim, a quiet young asian man. None were injured.
She believed he was at fault and reacted incredulously towards anyone who couldn’t understand this, shrieking melodramatically. Why they were even in a police station interview room in the first place was never clear. You had no physical place in the scene at all.
The silent young victim nonchalantly pulled out a gun and shot her - FizzCrackSplut - before lying his weapon down on the table and allowing himself to be seized by preposterously calm, unshocked police officers.
A short scene with little, if any intelligible dialogue. Aside from her dramatic remonstrations, the others were sombre, dutifully playing out the scene you orchestrated from a far off place. Then the dramatic climax, and you’re not even sure if it would have sounded like that as you’ve never heard anything like it in reality: simply pieced it together from films.
Then an abrupt cut. You next find yourself chatting to two police officers on a bridge over a motorway. They’re not surprised when you retell the story of what just happened. In fact, they predict what happens before you’ve even reached that part of the story. That happens a lot in your dreams. You can never surprise anybody you speak to.
On the bus to work in the morning, the images were still fresh, replaying themselves with a vile vigour. You couldn’t remember doing anything that would have evoked such a dream. No thriller novels or war films. The back of the woman’s head four seats in front could have been her’s. Except it wasn’t, because she lives hundreds of miles away.
A postscript to the dream shortly afterwards doesn’t remain as vivid but is the last connection before your mind escapes the chain of this dream and sets you free. She is alive. You saw her in another scene where you had no physical presence, on a lush, long grassed hill where she frolicked with children and a dog. It felt like heaven. This is where she went, this is where you sent her after flippantly designing her assassination, you evil person. You left her there and floated away. It’s not that postscript that you remember though, is it?
FizzzzcrACK~splut.
Eventually it slides away from prominence in your mind.
That is, until you settle to sleep again tonight. The newly relaxed state of your body and mind chillingly reacquaints you with your first thoughts of the day. You shiver, turn over, shut your eyes tight, try to pack the images away.
And now you sleep.
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
Faltering stamina
My stamina with the whole self promotion thing might be flagging somewhat. It’s not helped by feeling generally uncomfortable with attention, yet having to shirk that feeling.
It’s not my natural habitat, but I’ll do it if called upon – which isn’t a great approach for somebody starting out. You need that labrador-like energy and zesty willingness to hurl yourself into stuff and bleat on about how brilliant you are to anyone who’ll listen.
If you can deliver as well, that helps, but ostensibly it often seems to matter less.
Just not sure I can be arsed even trying to do that anymore, the shouty twittery thing. I’m finding it a bit of a drag maintaining the will keep checking my work Twitter feed and all these relentlesly moving and shaking people of apparently indomitable positive spirit who I suppose should be termed my peers.
Am I falling out with the subject of my trade – that is, if I was ever “In” with it (for there are plenty of things in this short life which interest me much more), or am I simply tiring of the loudest people who work in it because I have too much time to listen to them? Both perhaps, maybe one slightly more than the other.
Either way, I’d just like a job please Preferably one with decent conditions, flexitime, 9-5 if possible, not too many outside demands. One which ensures I don’t starve and I can still live in relative comfort, even if it won’t afford me lavish wheels, expensive champagne and posh Mayfair clubs.
Don’t think I’m going to be VC of ReallyImportantStuff at GoogleSoft anymore, and I don’t care. But now I’m getting financially twitchy and a bit mad, so I’d like a job of some kind please.
It’s not my natural habitat, but I’ll do it if called upon – which isn’t a great approach for somebody starting out. You need that labrador-like energy and zesty willingness to hurl yourself into stuff and bleat on about how brilliant you are to anyone who’ll listen.
If you can deliver as well, that helps, but ostensibly it often seems to matter less.
Just not sure I can be arsed even trying to do that anymore, the shouty twittery thing. I’m finding it a bit of a drag maintaining the will keep checking my work Twitter feed and all these relentlesly moving and shaking people of apparently indomitable positive spirit who I suppose should be termed my peers.
Am I falling out with the subject of my trade – that is, if I was ever “In” with it (for there are plenty of things in this short life which interest me much more), or am I simply tiring of the loudest people who work in it because I have too much time to listen to them? Both perhaps, maybe one slightly more than the other.
Either way, I’d just like a job please Preferably one with decent conditions, flexitime, 9-5 if possible, not too many outside demands. One which ensures I don’t starve and I can still live in relative comfort, even if it won’t afford me lavish wheels, expensive champagne and posh Mayfair clubs.
Don’t think I’m going to be VC of ReallyImportantStuff at GoogleSoft anymore, and I don’t care. But now I’m getting financially twitchy and a bit mad, so I’d like a job of some kind please.
Tuesday, 11 August 2009
"Monkeys!"
"Monkeys! Monkeys!"
Knock-knock-knock
“Monkeys! -MONKEYS!”
I walk past this chap, a suit, who's just parked a respectable car. He’s screaming “Monkeys!” through the letterbox of an indistinctive terraced house, between fits of knocking. It’s about eleven at night but he doesn’t look dangerous. As I pass, I can’t resist.
“Some kind of password?”
My question takes him by surprise and he checks over his shoulder at me, smiles.
“Top secret, mate.”
I smile back, nod knowingly, don’t break my stride and walk by, chuckling.
Next thing I hear footsteps, quick ones, coming in my direction. I check over my shoulder. It’s him again, he’s panting.
“Here, mate, you gotta help me. It’s.... it’s.....”
“What?”
“My fish.... my fish have died.”
“Not your monkeys?” I say, half smiling, slightly nervous.
“No.”
“Your fish?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
“How many is that?”
“TWO!”
“Two of your pet fish have died?”
“Yes.”
“Am I missing something?”
“You really don't get it do you?”
Despite his words, he’s still not aggressive.
“Er... no. What are your monkeys then?”
“S’what I call them. My little monkeys. They like to know when I'm getting in so they can wake up, come to the surface and greet me.”
“Ahh.”
“So I call through the letter box to let them know I'm coming. See?”
“Right. And you need my help because......?”
“They’re DEAD GODDAMIT!” he screams, then folds in two, hands on knees, weeping.
“Ok,” I try to think on my feet, “calm down. You wait here and I'll go get someone who can help.”
“Thank you,” he sobs at me.
Feeling strangely terrible, I sit him down on the wall of someone’s tiny font garden on the next terraced street to his. I leave him with his head in his hands crying like a baby and set off running, rather fast, up the street.
And I just go home.
I have to work late again the next night and reach a certain point on my walk home before deciding to take a different route, eliminating the road of the previous evening’s event. It only puts two minutes on the journey.
I turn down another, different but similarly indistinctive terraced road to find a woman stooped down to the letterbox of a house, hollering in a very strange pitch:
“Chinchillas! Chinchillas! ChinBLEEDIN’CHILLAS!”
I cross the road, then cross back after I’ve passed her. Before I turn the corner at the end of the street I check back and she’s still there. She looks a little old, stooped but animated. Big, crazy, frizzy hair slopping about everywhere, witchlike.
Madness.
It’s raining so I take the bus home from work the next day. We’re stopped at lights. I stare vacantly out of a window at a house. Someone is at a door shouting into a letterbox. I involuntarily snort at the coincidence, then he turns and meets my eye. He looks cold, tall, and very hard. A shivery fear waves through me before I remember I’m on a bus and he can’t touch me.
I get home and find the three letterbox weirdos on my doorstep.
“Um, hello” - me.
“...”
- No reply, I try to get round them to my door, feeling that same unsteady fear hacking its way through me once again, but pretending it isn’t there. They don’t let me pass. I give up, feeling like a bullied child and turn to the man who was unhealthily attached to his goldfish.
“How are your fish then?”
“DEAD!” he yells back. His eyes incensed, my stomach churns. The mateyness has apparently been extinguished from our relationship.
“Ah, right.” I look down and away, then at the second lady, “Chinchillas, eh?”
“You-diddnt-even-care-to-ask.” She speaks so fast and in such an abnormally high pitch that it takes me a second to work out what she said.
“Ah, no,” I say, smiling appealingly, “I was tired, you see and -”
“Worrabowt me?” the third one asks.
“I...I don’t know. I mean... what about you? I was on a bus. What was I supposed to do!?” I say, a mite too exasperated, instantly regretting my tone. He’s a large chap.
“Just get off the bus,” he says matter-of-factly. His companions nod their heads in agreement, like this was the obvious thing to do.
“But it wasn’t my stop and... - Look, this is just plain silly. Please excuse me.” I try to get to my door again. They’re like a wall and I bounce off.
“Well,” I say, quite exhausted now, “what do you want?”“A question you should ask yourself.” That was the fishman.
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re your, your...,” he stumbled, not the brightest, “-What are we exactly Mildred?”
“Look I’m sorry,” I say, impatient and suddenly feeling brave, “but I’m going to have to call the Police if you don -”
“-Lissen to er.” It’s the really big bloke, and he says it quite nastily so I don’t argue.
“Okay, sorry.” Mildred the witch steps forward a pace. She smells of onion.“Fing-is-youre-crap-really-en-you?”
“...”
“I’m sorry?” I gather myself well enough to reply.
“And we’re here to help you.” - Fishman.
“Ah, that’s nice of you. Can I ask how?”
“Yip.” - Stinky Mildred.
“...”
“Well, how?”
The fishman steps forward and puts an arm round me. I feel decidedly uncomfortable about this but the big chap frightens me, so I accept his clasp.
“You'll be changed from now on.”
I’ve had enough, I’m starting to think wacko religious sect, but I’m still not sure why they’re preying on me so specifically. So I get cynical.
“How? Some radical life changing experience? A new way of life? Three ghosts?”
They all look at each other and smile unnervingly.
Then stinky crazy Mildred witch creature comes up to me, puts her two bony hands on each of my upper arms and shoves her ugly boggle eyed face in mine:
“Nope. None-a-them. Yer-gonna-be-a-fish!”
I only have a moment to smile, then I get that sick, helpless falling feeling in my gut. My legs shrivel up, wiggling unnaturally and absorb into my torso, which seems to be reducing too, turning orange and feeling wet. And there’s laughter. Incessant, freakish laughter bellowing into my eardrums until I feel my ears close up and fuse with my head. Which is now slippery. Then nothing, no sounds at all. I feel elevated, and see a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like...
Ooh look, a blurred view out to pavement.
- Like when look... glasses.
View... out. Glassz.
Vew(?)
Glob.
Knock-knock-knock
“Monkeys! -MONKEYS!”
I walk past this chap, a suit, who's just parked a respectable car. He’s screaming “Monkeys!” through the letterbox of an indistinctive terraced house, between fits of knocking. It’s about eleven at night but he doesn’t look dangerous. As I pass, I can’t resist.
“Some kind of password?”
My question takes him by surprise and he checks over his shoulder at me, smiles.
“Top secret, mate.”
I smile back, nod knowingly, don’t break my stride and walk by, chuckling.
Next thing I hear footsteps, quick ones, coming in my direction. I check over my shoulder. It’s him again, he’s panting.
“Here, mate, you gotta help me. It’s.... it’s.....”
“What?”
“My fish.... my fish have died.”
“Not your monkeys?” I say, half smiling, slightly nervous.
“No.”
“Your fish?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“All of them.”
“How many is that?”
“TWO!”
“Two of your pet fish have died?”
“Yes.”
“Am I missing something?”
“You really don't get it do you?”
Despite his words, he’s still not aggressive.
“Er... no. What are your monkeys then?”
“S’what I call them. My little monkeys. They like to know when I'm getting in so they can wake up, come to the surface and greet me.”
“Ahh.”
“So I call through the letter box to let them know I'm coming. See?”
“Right. And you need my help because......?”
“They’re DEAD GODDAMIT!” he screams, then folds in two, hands on knees, weeping.
“Ok,” I try to think on my feet, “calm down. You wait here and I'll go get someone who can help.”
“Thank you,” he sobs at me.
Feeling strangely terrible, I sit him down on the wall of someone’s tiny font garden on the next terraced street to his. I leave him with his head in his hands crying like a baby and set off running, rather fast, up the street.
And I just go home.
I have to work late again the next night and reach a certain point on my walk home before deciding to take a different route, eliminating the road of the previous evening’s event. It only puts two minutes on the journey.
I turn down another, different but similarly indistinctive terraced road to find a woman stooped down to the letterbox of a house, hollering in a very strange pitch:
“Chinchillas! Chinchillas! ChinBLEEDIN’CHILLAS!”
I cross the road, then cross back after I’ve passed her. Before I turn the corner at the end of the street I check back and she’s still there. She looks a little old, stooped but animated. Big, crazy, frizzy hair slopping about everywhere, witchlike.
Madness.
It’s raining so I take the bus home from work the next day. We’re stopped at lights. I stare vacantly out of a window at a house. Someone is at a door shouting into a letterbox. I involuntarily snort at the coincidence, then he turns and meets my eye. He looks cold, tall, and very hard. A shivery fear waves through me before I remember I’m on a bus and he can’t touch me.
I get home and find the three letterbox weirdos on my doorstep.
“Um, hello” - me.
“...”
- No reply, I try to get round them to my door, feeling that same unsteady fear hacking its way through me once again, but pretending it isn’t there. They don’t let me pass. I give up, feeling like a bullied child and turn to the man who was unhealthily attached to his goldfish.
“How are your fish then?”
“DEAD!” he yells back. His eyes incensed, my stomach churns. The mateyness has apparently been extinguished from our relationship.
“Ah, right.” I look down and away, then at the second lady, “Chinchillas, eh?”
“You-diddnt-even-care-to-ask.” She speaks so fast and in such an abnormally high pitch that it takes me a second to work out what she said.
“Ah, no,” I say, smiling appealingly, “I was tired, you see and -”
“Worrabowt me?” the third one asks.
“I...I don’t know. I mean... what about you? I was on a bus. What was I supposed to do!?” I say, a mite too exasperated, instantly regretting my tone. He’s a large chap.
“Just get off the bus,” he says matter-of-factly. His companions nod their heads in agreement, like this was the obvious thing to do.
“But it wasn’t my stop and... - Look, this is just plain silly. Please excuse me.” I try to get to my door again. They’re like a wall and I bounce off.
“Well,” I say, quite exhausted now, “what do you want?”“A question you should ask yourself.” That was the fishman.
“I’m sorry?”
“We’re your, your...,” he stumbled, not the brightest, “-What are we exactly Mildred?”
“Look I’m sorry,” I say, impatient and suddenly feeling brave, “but I’m going to have to call the Police if you don -”
“-Lissen to er.” It’s the really big bloke, and he says it quite nastily so I don’t argue.
“Okay, sorry.” Mildred the witch steps forward a pace. She smells of onion.“Fing-is-youre-crap-really-en-you?”
“...”
“I’m sorry?” I gather myself well enough to reply.
“And we’re here to help you.” - Fishman.
“Ah, that’s nice of you. Can I ask how?”
“Yip.” - Stinky Mildred.
“...”
“Well, how?”
The fishman steps forward and puts an arm round me. I feel decidedly uncomfortable about this but the big chap frightens me, so I accept his clasp.
“You'll be changed from now on.”
I’ve had enough, I’m starting to think wacko religious sect, but I’m still not sure why they’re preying on me so specifically. So I get cynical.
“How? Some radical life changing experience? A new way of life? Three ghosts?”
They all look at each other and smile unnervingly.
Then stinky crazy Mildred witch creature comes up to me, puts her two bony hands on each of my upper arms and shoves her ugly boggle eyed face in mine:
“Nope. None-a-them. Yer-gonna-be-a-fish!”
I only have a moment to smile, then I get that sick, helpless falling feeling in my gut. My legs shrivel up, wiggling unnaturally and absorb into my torso, which seems to be reducing too, turning orange and feeling wet. And there’s laughter. Incessant, freakish laughter bellowing into my eardrums until I feel my ears close up and fuse with my head. Which is now slippery. Then nothing, no sounds at all. I feel elevated, and see a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like when you look through strong glasses.
And there’s a blurred view out onto the pavement like...
Ooh look, a blurred view out to pavement.
- Like when look... glasses.
View... out. Glassz.
Vew(?)
Glob.
weekend films: Doubt & Moon
Saturday evening I watched Doubt, a film starring Meryl Streep and Philip Seymour-Hoffman, which disappointed. An adaptation from the stage which arguably should not have happened, despite terrific performances in isolated, quite confined scenes which would have worked just as well in their own right, it was staid and static and unfilmy. Especially on a television. It also suffered one of those hugely abrupt endings when I swore we must be leading into the big, climactic third act - given the Hollywood heavyweights.
It was in stark contrast to the film, Moon, which I saw the next day, starring - pretty exclusively, Sam Rockwell. How much of a weight must have been on that single actor's shoulders? Again confined in setting - he's either in his spaceship, moon buggy, or on the moon's surface - but not once does it seem limited or bore. Possibly due to its direction and always compelling performance, as well as the general difference of such a setting, the film didn't seem to dip once. It may have even been because of its tight, claustrophobic confinement - which was at the heart of the film.
On my way into the screening of Moon at Wandsworth, I was handed a flyer and asked a few questions by a lady in the lobby. Would I like to go to an advance screening of a film there on Thursday and give feedback afterwards? New thriller starring Helen Mirren. Ooh, let me check my diary... Should be interesting.
It was in stark contrast to the film, Moon, which I saw the next day, starring - pretty exclusively, Sam Rockwell. How much of a weight must have been on that single actor's shoulders? Again confined in setting - he's either in his spaceship, moon buggy, or on the moon's surface - but not once does it seem limited or bore. Possibly due to its direction and always compelling performance, as well as the general difference of such a setting, the film didn't seem to dip once. It may have even been because of its tight, claustrophobic confinement - which was at the heart of the film.
On my way into the screening of Moon at Wandsworth, I was handed a flyer and asked a few questions by a lady in the lobby. Would I like to go to an advance screening of a film there on Thursday and give feedback afterwards? New thriller starring Helen Mirren. Ooh, let me check my diary... Should be interesting.
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