Isolate. Hide away. Deny name when called. Abuse, avoid, destruct. Again, louder. Ignore the olive branch. Think of nothing, constantly. Refute the positive. Notch up the days. Don’t learn. Don’t change. Compound thoughts. Self obsess. Portray one aspect as a whole. Desaturate. Drown out life. Live in white noise. Hurt friends with rebuke. Embrace guilt. Risk everything.
Repeat.
He mapped out his life with a personal survey of ordnance
“Helps me find the way home,” he said
“In the dark, the scars are like a Braille A to Z”
I asked about street names, but he declined to comment, instead focusing on a new paring knife
“This was from the cutlers in town. I’m going to use it for the side roads. Easier to control, see”
After that night I didn’t see him in the pub. I wonder if he’d only gone in because he was lost?
Amended 19 November 2020
On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave me
away
in a raffle
On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
a love letter
copied, from one she had sent to someone else
On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
Five gold rings
(of burned skin, from well aimed coffee)
On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
two nights out
(locked from the house)
On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me
An invitation to bed
on my own.
Trying, it seems, to be a cross between Catch me if you can and Shooting Fish, this is a jolly romp (TM) that pits a loveable rogue who is in trouble with a gangland boss (see note) against the less intelligent, and more self-obsessed, members of London’s art world. Its good fun, although the unwitting appearence of a wedding ring on the finger of one of the male cast members during a close up suggests either that a significant proportion of that character’s story was cut, or that there was a continuity issue.
Note: Copyright Rentaplot.
They say that history repeats itself. Who am I to argue. But I didn’t know it would be the case.
Did Wales, this year.
Walked about near the edges of the car park, almost onto the grass.
Looked at the hilltop walks from behind glass.
Saw Castles, though, took pics, ran about.
No more following of the little red man. Oh no. That was in the past. But marvelled at the walks on the walls, and how we managed not to fall.
The house was friendly, a welcome vision not seen outside the mind or pictures for 15 years. The plants were bigger but the gate was the same.
The smallest house in Britain was at the same town as the guest house. Both nice, but more space in the chartered room.
My mobile phone liked it so much, it stayed even after leaving to come back to this place.