I love to be camping in the rain. The patter of the drops on what once would have been canvas makes you feel safe (till you remember the chance of lightening) and warm (if you remembered to bring suitable clothes or a warm sleeping bag).
I want to move away from being a runner on films. I want to get named crew positions.
Challenge:
Think of your last 3 birthdays and try to remember how you celebrated.
When she smiles
as light as day
the angels sing
halleluiah
and fall from
their clouds
Amended 15 May 2005
Looked
saw
found
met
persuaded
explored
enriched
enraged
displeased
Amended 15 May 2005
I’d like to travel across America on a Greyhound.
Better start saving for a large supply of dog biscuits.
Spring is coming.
A year ago, preparations were underway for a trip to Brighton. Staying in a guest house on the sea front, almost, near the Pier that didn’t burn down.
It was hot. I have pictures of the trip (tenuous link via Photo menu on the left), including a visit to Shorham (sp?) airport and to Saltdean lido, a wonderful art deco building.
Brighton itself was good. Beth Orton played at the Pavilion theatre, during a day in which had included an unexpected meet with a friend of mine, JP, and several pints. That was top. He was visiting his brother. We went to a haven of cool whose name I’ve forgotten, until it was time to leave them in order to get more food.
The place rocks. I want to go back. Soon.
He had never written the words.
Written in the style of a spider dying slowly across the page, nonetheless he knew that he’s never written the words. The words that she had shown him when they went back to the hotel room. The words in a ten year old diary, a book that he’d forgotten about, and that he’d thought lost or thrown years ago.
It didn’t make sense. Sure, all of the names were true but there was something that he couldn’t place that just didn’t seem right.
Em turned and mouthed something at him. No reply would be right. If he asked the matter it would be another tirade. If he didn’t – well, he’d get one anyway.
“Sorry?”
She put the tin of sweets on the dashboard of the hire car, from where it promptly slipped, spilling the sticky tablets and icing sugar across the floor of the passenger well.
“Slow down!” She reached for the hand brake.
“I wasn’t going…”
“You were! Stop driving like an idiot. Just because you..”
She stopped as the car went into a skid.
The side of a truck.
Silence.
What is it with builders?
I need one to build a new staircase, and to fit a kitchen and make some general repairs. Nothing outstanding. But some good money for basic work.
And yet… yet I can’t get the bloody work done. Its driving me mad. The house feels like a prison, no-one I speak to takes it seriously, and the builders continue to fail to turn up. I’m at the point now of moving out, selling it as it is, making a massive loss, because I can’t take it any more.
They come to you with their
oh so grand
ideas
to complete
for completion
and you
with your common look
stare back
don’t stand up on your own
and attempt the impossible
Convention is the ability to remove individual thought.