Lines drawn, continue

 

Twisted

Norman Wisdom visits Albania, orphanage, miserable looking kids. One scene is him outside with a kid sitting on the side of the dusty road, all shabby and dirty. He hands the kid a cuddly toy, pats him on the head, the boy, expressionless, doesn’t know what to do, neither does Norman…I go, in voice of the kid “I don’t need no stinking teddy bear, I need food, look at me, I need a home…I’ll be dead by tomorrow.” All the while, in my utterly sarcastic, twisted way, I laugh out loud at the whole miserable fucking thing.

What I wrote on my Tumblr blog

I’ve decided to Unfollow everyone. Simply because I find it too distracting from my own thoughts. It’s becoming a bit too much like facebook, constant, trivial. It’s not what I did back on blogspot, nor what I want my blog for. Not a glorified facebook. As much as I find it interesting/entertaining, I need a place for my own thoughts, uninterupted clarity.

Anyone who bothers to follow me, or likes a post or two will have the curtesy of getting their blog read by me. But I like the anonymous solitude of a blog, and will try and keep it that way.

She's as cold as ice!

Here, feel this…sticking my hand up his sweater
Jesus! he cries jumping up, pulling away, rubbing the spot
She’s as cold as ice!
All over baby! The extremities! Even my knees…with a look of confused wonder, I point a frozen finger to the neglected nodes…looks…
…looks…
The extremities! Throwing his arms up, T-Rex style in mock outcry
So, what’re gonna do about it? I ask
Er…..
Rolls my eyes and goes to my room. Strip and slide into double duvet bed, position my ipod and go surfing safari…

The World Rolls Round

“The world rolls round for ever like a mill;
It grinds out death and life and good and ill;
It has no purpose, heart or mind or will.”

—	The City of Dreadful Night ~ James Thompson The words live http://youtu.be/8zsdMRWaqOA Crimson Petal & the White ~ Michael Faber ~ BBC adaption

Saturday Night 'Conversation'

A few weeks ago, when summer decided to go in a blaze of glory...

Theres a fucking racket going on across the road, girls in high pitched voices (apparently evolutionary mating behaviour), guys low occasional murmurs. I open the window not knowing where the fuck it was coming from. Unfortunately the ditzes see me doing this and make a move back inside. I do hear some convo before they do, and my god, what shit comes out when people are trying to get laid. The girls talk non stop, without thought, the guys standing there agreeing with all the inane drivel that spews out. I thought, fucking hell, why don’t you just cut to the chase. Spare me the fucking bullshit.

Must have scared them off 'cause I haven't heard anything since. Good, now I can get some fucking sleep.

Researching...for fun! (or boredom)

Some residue from my Jonesy of HBOs Carnivale obsession... I was sitting eating a sandwich not really paying much attention to the radio in the background. They were going on about the possibility that a disgraced US athelete may be allowed to compete in the 2012 London Olympics, a guest came on, some sports guy from Texas who mentioned a baseball steroids scandal a couple years back. I took note of it, but not really being a sports fan (if you don't include a bias towards Arsenal, or the FIFA world cup back in the 90s), aswell as being a lazy arse couch potato, you would have thought I'd had no interest in looking into it. Plus I'm not an American, even more reason not to give a shit. Well, I don't know if it's boredom or what, but a couple of days ago I randomly typed in 'drugs baseball'...voila! A load of articles came up, I start getting some of the gist of the story...and I keep going, and going, and going further into it...I might write some sum up of my 'findings' from a complete outsider pov, may be interesting. Just giving the grey muscle some exercise (my performance enhancers come in the form of a daily dose of Omega oils and my itunes playlists). I'd always enjoyed doing the research more than writing the essay it was for...so

The way women look at men

You know what I mean. There's something about the way certain men move, the way they carry themselves, swagger...it doesn't happen very often. Jonesy (Clayton Jones) from HBOs Carnivale (seriously flawed but interesting series). The dirt, the sweat, the grease, even the spit (he was a baseball player). I now have a thing for men in baseball caps. The guy had a limp (messed with the wrong people), shit even the way he limped was a turn on. Another, really strange turn on, was the headless horseman from Tim Burtons Sleepy Hollow. My god, the way the guy wielded that sword, damn! Whoever was in that suit did more that swing a blade...who would have thought, a headless man? Goes to show, looks ain't everything. As you might have discerned, I like manly men, I don't go for pretty boys. The rougher, dirtier, the better. Hell, you don't even need a fucking head. LOL!

No joke

A funny thing I heard the other day, can’t remember what was being said but it was something to do with relationships between men\women: Men think they’ve scored if a woman just speaks to him…bloody hell, you’d think it was a joke but it’s fucking true. The look on these guys faces when you talk to them, it’s like they’ve won the lottery. Hilariously sad…and a bit creepy.

You could end up leading a guy on without even knowing it. It’s true what they say, there can’t be a truly platonic relationship between the sexes, whatever the friendship they’ll always be this thing in the background.

From experience, I have agree.

Dissatified

Dissatisfied. Theres a weird almost sickening, uneasy, pissed off feeling today. It ended with total dissatisfaction. Words just didn't come out, words I wanted to say, things I wanted to do. Bloody hell! I'm so fucking pissed, like I'm coming down from a high, more like falling with a dull apathetic thud. I'm so fucking bored!

High Expectations

Nice arms & random

Weird movement next door, 4am without fail, getting paranoid. Covered the air duct with old paper wrapping from parcel. Next door bathroom, hear no water running for years now, but shifting?

Stupid hair. Won’t do what I tell it!

Obsession with cut out tops, 1960s. Blown £30 on a t-shirt with holes! Well pleased.

Found some new photos of him. They make me smile. Well pleased.

Arranging some of my old music for a NYU film. Credited. Can’t wait to see the finished cut.

Sleeping in new underwear. Only time I do wear underwear. Well pleased.

Nice arms shame about the rest.

Brown or green eyes? Can’t tell from here.

Some words I heard

you can't tell the heart,

the heart hopes, most of all where its hopeless...

Men, Misery, Ecstacy, Hands

Because first base doesn’t exist for me, I have to bypass convention and skip, with precisely planned procedure, straight to homerun. After the deed is done, the moment is satisfied, it can be nothing more than this I’d say, and resign all emotion. Be dead to life. Reject it because there’d be no future, not one envisioned by him anyway.

If he’d want it then I’d comply, but with such doubt and pessimism I’d sell him to anyone who’d he want, or want him, sell him with a bleeding piece of my heart and the bitter sweet reassurance that I was right. Engineering my own fucking misery.

Ermine Mews Laburnum Street London E2 8BF

A dream has been renewed once again. Fading in and out. A waking, conscious dream, completely real, completely reasonable and relived over and over. That moment of intense anticipation before, the savoured ecstasy, and after, eyes are opened and nothing exists but ourselves.

A new place now. Snippets of reality shifts the dream to this place. But it's unfamiliar. It was empty and solitary before, and the moment could be taken. But what of this new setting? Real, the risks are so real now. Now theres no excuse, no reason. Does the dream shatter back into nonsense?

Theres only one way to find out...

The Beach

What would be the normal reaction to a soft sandy beach, clear blue sky and glorious sunshine? My heart sank when we walked up to this scene.

The playing field was wide open. People on every stretch of sand. I hated it. Yet I loathe myself for having such thoughts. A roller coaster, trying to enjoy it but underneath feeling completely depressed, shifting from jokes in a conversation to the happy bare skin around me. It’s why I stay away from sun+people=misery. I don’t want to feel self-conscious, yet this is exactly where people go to do just that. It’s the casual strutting, the playing field. Everyone wants a piece of paradise, some winter day dream, some scene from a film with a happy ending.

We went to another beach (pebble) last year in early autumn. A deserted, flat and gloriously bleak one with only a massive power station, a small compound of battered wooden huts and a few boats. There was not one soul to be seen. Maybe that’s what I wanted then, but it was stupid to expect that on a day like this.

The sun was getting to me so a friend lent me a spare pair of shades. Good thing too, otherwise it would have been really obvious I was pissed. I hate talking to people wearing these things, because you can’t read their eyes, like they’re not being genuine or hiding something. I was trying to hide my loathing. But the sun…was too much in our exposed stationary spot.

No doubt, this is pure envy. More than that, it’s the feeling of absolute freedom from your body, completely uninhibited, that I will never know. Without a care or thought. How I envy that. The joke is, I’m no prude at all. God, if I had it, I would flaunt it. My strutting is without a future, it’s all I have, there’s no first base on my field.

Unattractive Mannequin Men

I went to town to post something, it was a warm spring day, people were out and about. Liking my fashion, I noticed what the young and trendy things were wearing; their new spring clothes they had been waiting to show off. There’s been this trend for very clean-cut hair and casual summer tailoring on men - straight from the catwalk. I don’t remember a time when men’s fashion was so literal, blatant and contrived. I’m not sure where it comes from, who started it? But, I can’t think of anything more unattractive as a vain, self-conscious man. On another chilly cool day a few weeks ago, I saw a guy in full summer clothes, pastel coloured casual suit, turnup hems, no socks, and those deck shoes everyone’s been wearing (since last summer!). This was down Camden town, not fucking Milan.

Seriously, it’s like they looked at some fashion mag and went out and bought the whole outfit, down to the hair product and even measured the length of stubble to finish ‘the look’. And it’s not just a random few; it’s like every other twenty-thirty-something. A few years back and I would have thought he was probably gay, in the fashion business, or a hairdresser (which, if you follow stereotype, would have equalled the same). When I come across one of these fashion victims, my heart sinks and I think to myself, there goes a good looking man, spoiled. Guys, please don’t try so hard, at least don’t make it so fucking obvious that you love yourself, you just look fucking gay (no offence to my gay friends).

I can just see them now, a bunch of them trying to out-do each other, going to the mens toilet and checking themselves out in the mirrors. You guys were so cool and you didn't even know it...Fuck, what happened to London guys?

From askmen.com:

what is a fashion victim?

Below are three definitions of the term "fashion victim."

The first definition comes from Karin Eldor, a fellow fashion correspondent at AskMen.com. She describes a fashion victim as "someone who takes all the trends of a given time and ends up looking like a store mannequin; in a word, absurd."

The second one is courtesy of a friend of mine, who I consider a sleek dresser. To her, a fashion victim is someone who:

a- only purchases brand-name apparel;
b- is a compulsive shopper;
c- will only consider wearing an item that is "the latest trend," regardless of whether he can pull it off or not.

I found a third definition on a fashion website while researching the expression. The definition states that a fashion victim is "someone who buys an outfit that is perfectly in style, but when he wears it, he looks perfectly ridiculous."

my definition

According to yours truly, the term "fashion victim" encompasses all of the above and more. A fashion victim is someone who wants to be trendy so badly that he'll buy whatever the fashion authorities claim is stylish (at the moment) and then combine it awkwardly, giving him an over-the-top style and making him stick out like a sore thumb... not a good thing.

If you spotted a fashion victim on the street this summer, he'd be wearing a pink or yellow T-shirt, white knee-length pants with a pastel colored belt, white and pink flip-flops, and a pair of metallic shields (those sunglasses that look like protective eye gear). The lesson? If you want to look cool, don't overdo it.

A fashion victim is also someone who can't put himself together, whether his threads are worth $50 or $5,000, because he tries so hard to look hip. Don't get me wrong, looking sharp does require a certain amount of effort, but ultimately, your clothes have to fit right, and suit your style, image and personality. Remember, it's not about the clothes you wear -- it's about how you wear them.

In the end, these guys just lack personality and any individual style, making them deeply unattractive and sad.

Le Cuir A Paris - Couleurs

No longer just a bored or simply interested spectator, we have become author, actor, part of the performance. Giving into spontaneity, we allow ourselves surrealist dreams, ramblings and infringements.

We have digested the natural and outraged the virtual.

We create as part of a group, or as a solo initiative. We swap the "I, me" for the "I, us". We throw the dice up in the air without knowing the result.

Our references jostle and pile up, thrusting us into tomorrow. We add a zest of dissidence and lots of irony, to dive headlong into a season that we want to be measured, joyful and impertinent.
Archaic Garden

Archaic Garden

So we cultivate an archaic garden where primitive joins forces with antique. Where archaeologists decipher hieroglyphics that speak of Gods, of man and plants unknown.

Forbidden fruits and flowers bear forgotten names: Kumquat, oponce, papyrus, tuberose, rosewood.

Nestled in shadowy niches, worn mosaics hide behind twisted and dried branches of ivy. Collapsed columns and arches form a mound of worn stones, hiding fossils.

Colors
The range is whitened, stony, mineral or delicately fruity. The softness of faded, evanescent, light and serious colors.

Underwater Variation

Ebbing and flowing with the tide, we swim "under-current".

Dive into abysses, explore the ocean depths. We discover marine flora and fauna, submerged cities, buried amphora and pots.

A mysterious world, an aquatic and amniotic bubble. A stormy summer's day, bright with magnetic lightening, the horizon plunging into the ocean.

Colors
The range delves into the blue, and extends to an aqua green. Sea anemone pink is enhanced by inky blues and purples. Navy and brown darken the landscape. White soap bubbles refresh the saturated atmosphere.

Tropical Dramaturgy

Wild nature plays all its cards, calling on Rousseau to lure us into a game of paradise lost with all its misleading tricks.

Pretty green vines encircle us, exuberant flowers are giant to better devour us.

The beaks of multicolored macaws pinch the cheeks of lost Janes.

Colors
The range is solar, incandescent, spicy and suffocating. Yellow singing at the top of its voice, uninhibited parrot green, the orange of Tibetan monks, the entire spectrum of reds from purple to salmon pink. Bushy brown, deep blue.

Enchanted Picnic

Folies in Versailles, rave party in Schönbrunn, Murder in an English garden.

Jacques Tati on vacation in a golden carriage.

Pretty DIY by Lewis Carroll, Fragonard gate-crashes the camp site.

Hansel and Gretel sample molecular cuisine. Technical research and reasoned ecology show their impertinent sides.

A festival of glamorous and fun materials. The dawn of artificial preciousness.

Colors
The range sets your teeth on edge. The neon colors are whitened. Jelly pink is transparent, the pastels are over-bright. The brights are on fire, tempered by a reasonable grey and a measured beige.

Shadowy Shores

A static place, metaphor of elsewhere. An undefined place between Cyrene and Cartagena, between Libya and Syria. Desert of sand, desert of sea, wreckers, pirates, warriors from another era. Alternation of ambiguous shade and dulled light. They illuminate, or dissimulate, the decks of ships run ashore, rusty anchors, ragged sails, driftwood, soft-shell crabs and tortoise shells.

Colors
The range is tinged with vegetal colors. Bathed in red, boat hull; dark navy, hut; strong green, canvas. Or lightened colors, bleached by the salt, faded by the sun and the sea.

See the words: Le Cuir A Paris

American Pastoral

Then he saw Dawn at Upsala. She'd been crossing the common to Old Main where the day students hung out between classes; she'd been standing under the eucalyptus trees talking with a couple of the girls who lived in Kenbrook Hall. Once he followed her down Prospect Street to the Brick Church bus station when suddenly she stopped in front of the window at Best & Co. After she went inside the store, he went up to the window to look at the mannequin in a long "New Look" skirt and imagined Dawn Dwyer in a fitting room trying the skirt on over her slip. She was so lovely it made him extraordinarily shy even to glance her way, as though glancing were itself touching or clinging, as though if she knew (and how could she not?) that he was uncontrollably looking her way, she'd do what any sensible, self-possessed girl would do, disdain him as a beast of prey. He'd been a US marine, he'd been engaged to a girl in South Carolina, at his family's request had broken off the engagement, and it was years since he'd thought about that stone house with the black shutters and the swing out front. Sensationally handsome as he was, fresh from the service and a glamorous campus athletic star however determinedly he worked at containing conceit and resisting the role, it took him a full semester to approach Dawn for a date, not only because nakedly confronting her beauty gave him a bad conscience and made him feel shamefully voyeuristic but because once he approached her there'd be no way to prevent her from looking right through him and into his mind and seeing for herself how he pictured her: there at the stove of the stone house's kitchen when he came trundling in with their daughter, Merry, on his back--"Merry" because of the joy she took in the swing he'd built her. At night he played continuously on his phonograph a song popular that year called "Peg o' My Heart." A line in the song went, "It's your Irish heart I'm after," and every time he saw Dawn Dwyer on the paths at Upsala, tiny and exquisite, he went around the rest of the day unaware that he was whistling that damn song nonstop. He would find himself whistling it even during a ballgame, while swinging a couple of bats in the on-deck circle, waiting his turn at the plate. He lived under two skies then - the Dawn Dwyer sky and the natural sky overhead.

But still he didn't immediately approach her, for fear that she'd see what he was thinking and laugh at his intoxication with her, this ex-marine's presumptuous innocence about the Upsala Spring Queen. She would think that his imagining, before they were even introduced, that she was especially intended to satisfy Seymour Levov's yearnings meant that he was still a child, vain and spoiled, when in fact what it meant to the Swede was that he was fully charged up with purpose long, long before anyone else he knew, with a grown man's aims and ambitions, someone who excitedly foresaw, in perfect detail, the outcome of his story. He had come home from the service at twenty in a rage to be "mature." If he was a child, it was only insofar as he found himself looking ahead into responsible manhood with the longing of a kid gazing into a candy-store window.

Naivety about sex

I was surprised when a friend said she laughed when watching a particularly notorious graphic sex scene in a film. It seemed to me to be very naïve, immature and simple about sex or the act of. Ok, maybe it was because she watched it with her boyfriend and they weren’t really in the mood for something a little more serious than the normal fare. But, knowing her as a person whose had several serious relationships, no stranger to sex, it really shocked me that she couldn’t understand or appreciate the characters and the deeper reasons why people do the things they do.

Most sex on tv/film/media is exploitative and gratuitous. Maybe people are so used to seeing it in the context of shallow, undeveloped characters and stories that it becomes just that, something shallow, laughable and trivial. The film is known and only probably watched because of that scene. It’s sad.

When I first saw it, I didn’t know anything about the film, only that the lead actress won an Oscar and made a cringing acceptance speech. When it came to the scene, it made perfect sense in the context of the characters lives. There was nothing gratuitous or manipulative about it. There’s sometimes a tendency to dismiss the act of sex, and just cut to the morning after, or do it in way that wouldn’t show much. ‘Tasteful’ is the word they use, make it beautiful. This wasn’t, there were moments of ‘ugliness’ and it’s a better film for it. No ceremony, no flattering lighting, god they were even both drunk! Sounds bad doesn’t it. It wasn’t. I surprised myself too…I found it oddly moving. I didn’t see the sex, all I saw was humanity at work. BTW the film was Monsters Ball.

I bow to Mr. Forster for having the balls to do it, and the actors for going ‘there’ and bringing it.

Whisper Hits

Remember this post?

Men, misery, ecstacy, hands: High on Words & Letters: "A few years back I discovered a strange quirk of mine. I was working and a supplier was writing an invoice. I watched without any expectatio..."

Well it seems I'm not alone...not only that, it's more than the writing that does it, it's the sound of the pen/pencil, the tapping, shifting of the hand, the paper:

On News Years Day

First forced to watch Pacific series, 1pm, at lunch time. Who the fuck does this?

Second a smashed bowl

Third a whack on the arm with a large vacuum extension

Fourth justification for this

Fifth hearing laughter downstairs from something on tv as if nothing has happened

Sixth typing this

Seventh told to get on with cleaning the dishes

Eigth obvious guilt ridden behaviour & pathological lying to yourself

Ninth expecting the fool to run away or act as if nothing has happened to diminish behaviour

Conclusion nobody gives a shit, everyone is full of shit.