Travelling home on the 42 I'm all weighed down with shopping and other bags. I aim myself awkwardly in the direction of those two sets of seats facing each other towards the back where I plan to have everything unwind and spill off while I collapse. I'm shot in that direction when the driver accelerates off from the stand firing me down the bus with the little extra help I hadn't planned, tho' If I were a bus driver, I suspect I too would enjoy this cavalier driving style, upsetting the trajectory of newly boarded fares with a wry smile, although unfair to spill aunt Vera off her heels. I like the 42 because it has that single seat up beside the driver, although no street cred' can be extracted from either sitting here or choosing it above all others and I delude myself - this choice is no sign of decrepitude. But it offers the grandstand view I like. It's not that I cannot picture each and every vista with my eyes closed, but that Tower Bridge thrills me each and every time I cross it, and in winter time at night, it is fairyland lit up.
As I sit I catch a corner of the shopping bag - some cod, bluberry juice, a fruit salad, some soup - a loud click and I think, oh shit, the chocolate, I've cracked it. Never mind. We course down Bishopsgate and swing left at the lights into Houndsditch. Barely anyone on the bus, a chap behind. Strange that on the bus rich and savoury smells of supper should fill the air, and whet my appetite for tea. Also wet, my jeans I notice, from behind. Examination reveals I'm now sat in a growing pool of chicken & corn chowder, thick and sticky, half of it still fills my carrier. The top has popped off my tub of soup, the chocolate is in tact, but I am soaked. And now a delicate maneuver. I can't stay sat in soup (it looks like sick) and if I get up to leave, the embarrassment of it ! At this point I have to make a choice, at the next stop, I will quickly rise, alight and allow the evidence of my embarrassment disappear into the night. I press the bell, gather up all that's mine, and poised, tense, prepare to rise. The bus comes to a jerky stop, and I quickly get up, my carrier slops more gloopy mess along the aisle and I hop off, stressed, relieved, and in a sticky mess.
On a low wall, I try to rearrange my luggage, the carrier is all amuck and needs discharging into another, my work bag, my precious Nikon D70 SLR camera... is... where ? Not here. Accompanying the sticky goo - to Denmark Hill I think it stops - I've left my Nikon on the bus. I feel blind.
If you are lucky enough to find, in an expensive, protective camera bag, my treasure, I hope you will enjoy my snaps and allow this lovely lens and body to hone your own photographic hobby. Stood alone and lost by this little wall, the horror and sadness of it all could not ring louder and my fingers smell of chowder.
quench
I receive a cheerful and polite email begging me to reveal my author's identity to quench an outbreak of speculation.
I politely quench an outbreak of emails and beg the author to speculate upon the cheerful revelations I have identified.
I politely quench an outbreak of emails and beg the author to speculate upon the cheerful revelations I have identified.
aphrodite
Waking, the room bleached with the loveliest light, sharp low-slung rays of winter sun, I stumble down-stairs to gather up the curtains in roughly managed knots. They hang from butchers hooks twenty feet up, drawing them open or shut is no real solution - the knotting I like, it represents an honesty with the calico from which they're hewn - a rough and basic cloth which diffuses light rather than stops it fast and through age, tatters, so revealing use. An autobiographic fabric then. I stop to regard this brittle picture. No finer etched scene could more bewitch than the sun-kissed winter garden. Skeletal, deplete of succulent summer blooms, it aches with a portent not seen in other seasons. Like my diary - here are the taut and urgent signs of the paths we've followed and those we pave.
Blind and swaying is the impotent agapanthus upon whose tall slender stalks aloft are borne it's spiky green needles where remain the cellular papery sheaths of seeds now spent. Her exotic umbels of soft blue flowers held high in summer pierce the eagerly awaited season as the architect of love pierces the hearts of those committed with his double-edged sword. The agapanthus is no stranger to loss and living, winter or spring. From the Greek 'agape' = love, and 'panthos' = flower, she is the lovers trope. Scuttling below her juvenile cousins the pretty chives with all but ochre stems tremble hysterically like granny's tea-pot hands, pitifully shaking loose the last remains to her success, wantonly gobbled where they fall by the morbid robin. Beside these wintery corpses the evergreen rosemary, dark and dense, waits patiently, growth held in check, for the spring release of her pale blue trusses. Says Ophelia: 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance'. The rosemary does not forget. What wedding bouquet or funeral wreath is complete without the warm heady scent lent by rosemary who in these couplings affirms our loves anticipated, our loves spent.
The rambling rose, primitive wild forbear of the floribunda, whose spring-time glory is spent in one immense juvenile eruption of flower and scent, here lies dormant, it's thousand scarlet hips and quivering yellow leaves the narrative of last summer's dawn. But look, the wretched thistle leaves are spreading, veined and arrow-headed on lance-like stems, they crawl across the garden's floor. Once picked by the deceitful Aphrodite to ensnare her mortal Phaon upon it's prickles, the thistle is the fairy-tale sign of love. Look closely in spring-time and you may see the bronzen-striped and speckled wings of Aphrodite Fritillary, fluttering upon the thistle's treacherous bulbs, she deceives her wooers by emitting scents that reproduce those of other flowers.
Like the uplifting notes of garden blooms and woody things we mix in our concoctions to attract a mate, this Aphrodite stinks too but she shags the mortal and divine: Adonis, Hermes, Phaon, Zeus. I bet her tongue does not thicken to a lump or beneath her skin breaks out a subtle fire, but perhaps she is a liar.
Blind and swaying is the impotent agapanthus upon whose tall slender stalks aloft are borne it's spiky green needles where remain the cellular papery sheaths of seeds now spent. Her exotic umbels of soft blue flowers held high in summer pierce the eagerly awaited season as the architect of love pierces the hearts of those committed with his double-edged sword. The agapanthus is no stranger to loss and living, winter or spring. From the Greek 'agape' = love, and 'panthos' = flower, she is the lovers trope. Scuttling below her juvenile cousins the pretty chives with all but ochre stems tremble hysterically like granny's tea-pot hands, pitifully shaking loose the last remains to her success, wantonly gobbled where they fall by the morbid robin. Beside these wintery corpses the evergreen rosemary, dark and dense, waits patiently, growth held in check, for the spring release of her pale blue trusses. Says Ophelia: 'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance'. The rosemary does not forget. What wedding bouquet or funeral wreath is complete without the warm heady scent lent by rosemary who in these couplings affirms our loves anticipated, our loves spent.
The rambling rose, primitive wild forbear of the floribunda, whose spring-time glory is spent in one immense juvenile eruption of flower and scent, here lies dormant, it's thousand scarlet hips and quivering yellow leaves the narrative of last summer's dawn. But look, the wretched thistle leaves are spreading, veined and arrow-headed on lance-like stems, they crawl across the garden's floor. Once picked by the deceitful Aphrodite to ensnare her mortal Phaon upon it's prickles, the thistle is the fairy-tale sign of love. Look closely in spring-time and you may see the bronzen-striped and speckled wings of Aphrodite Fritillary, fluttering upon the thistle's treacherous bulbs, she deceives her wooers by emitting scents that reproduce those of other flowers.
Like the uplifting notes of garden blooms and woody things we mix in our concoctions to attract a mate, this Aphrodite stinks too but she shags the mortal and divine: Adonis, Hermes, Phaon, Zeus. I bet her tongue does not thicken to a lump or beneath her skin breaks out a subtle fire, but perhaps she is a liar.
aching
Should tenderest love betray it's name
And beg my hand to marry
I'd render up my heart aflame
I've fallen for Prince Harry
And beg my hand to marry
I'd render up my heart aflame
I've fallen for Prince Harry
robin
We have recently received unreliable evidence suggesting that our robin redbreast beloved of Christmastide has persistently and perniciously deceived us in his twitterings and titter-tattle, in his endless demur posings for that sycophantic card, and his coy modeling for a place between Santa and the fir-tree atop our white-decked cake.
Whilst concluding the Christmas whirlwind this afternoon with my father and Aunt Vera in Raynes Park over cold duck and a fanfare of pickles, I winced at the multitude of black macabre eyes staring out from Christmas card after Christmas card, and which had become the consort for my every negotiation at the luncheon table: another dollop of piccalilli, a slither more duck, another spring onion... they've got to be eaten, they'll only go to waste, the birds won't eat them! These pricked eyes belonged to Robins on a five-bar gate, Robins afluff in a holly bush, Robins in the falling snow, and they shined, oh how they shined, from every place where cards displayed themselves.
The evidence presented suggests, in contradiction to our fondly held beliefs, that the robin leads a contrary life of savagery, sex and sinning. Photographic evidence presented confirms the gratuitous social blood-bath preferred by this creature and his inability to maintain normal relationships or build lasting bonds.
The mythical tale of this robin attempting to pluck the piercing thorns from the crown of Jesus, so staining his pretty white breast or his quenching the souls of sin in the fiery pit with droplets of water carried in his bill, so colouring his pretty white breast with the scorching red flames of hell, only go someway to explaining his appearance. And here we look to the holly bush for a sign. It is my firm belief that as this creature bothered our saviour on the cross at Calvary he acquired an unquenchable taste for this sweet holy blood. God looked down upon the sight of this little winged chap in disbelief that such a creature could have fluttered from the ark, and banished him - right there and then - to his own thorny den, the holly bush. Where this robin took to perch blood dripped from breast to bow and held in globs where came to rest, as warnings of this creatures foul demise, they formed as holly berries, there before our eyes.
So don't be deceived by card or sketch this little bird is such a wretch !
Whilst concluding the Christmas whirlwind this afternoon with my father and Aunt Vera in Raynes Park over cold duck and a fanfare of pickles, I winced at the multitude of black macabre eyes staring out from Christmas card after Christmas card, and which had become the consort for my every negotiation at the luncheon table: another dollop of piccalilli, a slither more duck, another spring onion... they've got to be eaten, they'll only go to waste, the birds won't eat them! These pricked eyes belonged to Robins on a five-bar gate, Robins afluff in a holly bush, Robins in the falling snow, and they shined, oh how they shined, from every place where cards displayed themselves.
The evidence presented suggests, in contradiction to our fondly held beliefs, that the robin leads a contrary life of savagery, sex and sinning. Photographic evidence presented confirms the gratuitous social blood-bath preferred by this creature and his inability to maintain normal relationships or build lasting bonds.
The mythical tale of this robin attempting to pluck the piercing thorns from the crown of Jesus, so staining his pretty white breast or his quenching the souls of sin in the fiery pit with droplets of water carried in his bill, so colouring his pretty white breast with the scorching red flames of hell, only go someway to explaining his appearance. And here we look to the holly bush for a sign. It is my firm belief that as this creature bothered our saviour on the cross at Calvary he acquired an unquenchable taste for this sweet holy blood. God looked down upon the sight of this little winged chap in disbelief that such a creature could have fluttered from the ark, and banished him - right there and then - to his own thorny den, the holly bush. Where this robin took to perch blood dripped from breast to bow and held in globs where came to rest, as warnings of this creatures foul demise, they formed as holly berries, there before our eyes.
So don't be deceived by card or sketch this little bird is such a wretch !
recompense
Stop it - I know, I know - you thought now it was put to bed. Just one more mention - bare with me - then I promise - I promise that it will soon be over, however, there is still one more post to follow this on the giddy seasonal merry-go-round.
I realised today that all Christmas cards fit into one of these fourteen categories:
a robin - holly gate perch
a forest - pine tree silver birch
a stocking - swollen hanging stripy
a fireplace - bedecked with ivy
a bauble - single photo drawing
a snowman - discretely thawing
a star - above to guide the people
a church - with stars behind a steeple
an angel - white from head to toe
a santa - sleigh bells chimney snow
a kitten - sycophantic awful
a pine tree - indoors outdoors baubles
a snowy European village - silhouetted gates and fences
a West Bank town-scape - no recompenses
Tidy yours now with my simple filing guide.
I realised today that all Christmas cards fit into one of these fourteen categories:
a robin - holly gate perch
a forest - pine tree silver birch
a stocking - swollen hanging stripy
a fireplace - bedecked with ivy
a bauble - single photo drawing
a snowman - discretely thawing
a star - above to guide the people
a church - with stars behind a steeple
an angel - white from head to toe
a santa - sleigh bells chimney snow
a kitten - sycophantic awful
a pine tree - indoors outdoors baubles
a snowy European village - silhouetted gates and fences
a West Bank town-scape - no recompenses
Tidy yours now with my simple filing guide.
fowl
Oh dear. It seems the collapse of Pauline Fowler into freshly fallen snow has escaped my earlier Christmas chronicle. The winter had the same effect on the little swallow who fell dead at the feet of The Happy Prince. What's wrong with these birds ?
denouement
Boxing Day soundtrack: I sit, motionless and still. From the kitchen - voices, mostly mother's shrill bleatings, arguments perhaps? No, not arguments, just pressing, snagging voices which rasp the stillness. These sounds certainly resemble arguments but in fact are the shifting fissures of mother's well-worked marital intolerances exercised for Boxing Day upon husband Jeff. No, we don't want the ordinary set of cutlery as today is a special day. Which glasses will we use - no - not those - put the champagne glasses out in the kitchen for when the guests arrive - no - not on the table. Other sounds too, less brittle reassuring sounds which I cling to - a fire cracking in the grate, the intermittent resonant hum of cars passing, a motorcycle's distant moaning increasing in pitch until, momentarily, it screeches passed, the tone now softly fading as it speeds away. These other noises evoke the peace-giving sound-scape of my traffic-drowned Bermondsey flat which I am now longing for with a kind of mental and physical decline.
Boxing Day story-board: An old couple, tweed cap, a scarf and stick, peer blankly over the garden wall at the newly turned clods then inspect the twinkling red lights that Jeff has strung through the silver birch. The odd jogger. The living room & dining room windows both framed in clear fairy lights, the Bassett's Allsorts, the Quality Street Celebration, unshellable walnuts, an 'emergency car hammer' (random Christmas gift - what's it for?) those sounds again: where did you put the instructions for my oven? The requirement for elaborate Boxing Day catering demands a new facet of the kitchen's repertoire of appliances. The echo: 'I don't know' elicits an exchange about uninvited rummagings in the drawer where these leaflets should be left for such eventualities.
Festive sketch: I still posses a romantic nostalgia for Christmas. This I can evoke by reading Dickens 'A Christmas Carol', immersing myself in the trappings of folklorish children's tales of the season, inhaling the fresh woody aroma, released by the central heating, of the Christmas tree, the exotic pungency of cloves stuffed into oranges... oh, perhaps there should have been a section above marked Olfactory Moments, never mind. In contrast, my family's reality is a tangled marriage of the incoherent. No resolution, normality or catharsis can be offered here.
Like the mole stumbling upon his long forgotten home, I long to skuttle down into the burrow of my London apartment leaving the blathering flummery of Christmas afroth in the deep dark wood above.
I seek denouement.
Boxing Day story-board: An old couple, tweed cap, a scarf and stick, peer blankly over the garden wall at the newly turned clods then inspect the twinkling red lights that Jeff has strung through the silver birch. The odd jogger. The living room & dining room windows both framed in clear fairy lights, the Bassett's Allsorts, the Quality Street Celebration, unshellable walnuts, an 'emergency car hammer' (random Christmas gift - what's it for?) those sounds again: where did you put the instructions for my oven? The requirement for elaborate Boxing Day catering demands a new facet of the kitchen's repertoire of appliances. The echo: 'I don't know' elicits an exchange about uninvited rummagings in the drawer where these leaflets should be left for such eventualities.
Festive sketch: I still posses a romantic nostalgia for Christmas. This I can evoke by reading Dickens 'A Christmas Carol', immersing myself in the trappings of folklorish children's tales of the season, inhaling the fresh woody aroma, released by the central heating, of the Christmas tree, the exotic pungency of cloves stuffed into oranges... oh, perhaps there should have been a section above marked Olfactory Moments, never mind. In contrast, my family's reality is a tangled marriage of the incoherent. No resolution, normality or catharsis can be offered here.
Like the mole stumbling upon his long forgotten home, I long to skuttle down into the burrow of my London apartment leaving the blathering flummery of Christmas afroth in the deep dark wood above.
I seek denouement.
bicker
Having barely begun this missive I feel somewhat humbled by the whirlwind of emotive seasonal ramblings already posted hereabouts by one or two or three individuals who's creative capsule has provided entertainment and warmth over the last month or so. This Christmas story, whatever it is, has always been consumed by the medium of it's recital, from the idle Christmas skuttlebutt of three zoroastrian kings as they camellled back to Iran following their exhausting journey to see that kid, a scene endlessly unfolded before us on greeting cards depicting showy frocked blokes atop camels, pointing and waving sticks at the searing light of that bloody glitter-glued star. As history catapults the story-telling forward into the twenty-first century the immaculate message has become a celebration of recital, for the sake of telling alone and consequently it's blogging now provides the antithesis of the first tongue-tied gassings of those Judean shepherds as they tramped back to their flocks, perhaps on donkeys, once the fuss was all over in the town of David.
Christmas for me is now studded with the ranting repertoire of Den & Angie's divorce,
with Arthur Fowler's unhinging,
with the trampy old angel in It's a Wonderful Life,
with Dougal's "Perfume is a woman's present isn't it Ted ? Yes Dougal, God designed it so we wouldn't have to put any thought into it at all",
with Blackadder's "There's something in the bottom of this stocking for you Baldrick, I've made you a fist, it's for hitting, and what's wonderful is you can use it again and again",
with Dawn French's "Yes, you've got a mince pie stuck up your bottom, but you're in luck, because I've got some cream for that",
with Brian's mother "Do you do a lot of this praying? So he's the son of God is he, king of the Jews... so that's Capricorn is it?",
with Shane MacGowen & Kirtsty Maccoll's "You scumbag you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas your arse, I prey God it's our last", and
with Matt Dillon, in the latter, because he's Matt Dillon.
Here enacted, with a kind of tiptoeing adolescence, out of place in this arena characterised by self-prophecy, Catholic confessional and the need to be discovered, perhaps coupled with one of the following - excitation, panic, despair - I plot my own meandering course around the ghostly marshmallow sentimentality of Christmas present, in no specific order:
find refuge to be alone / drink enough to fall asleep so blanking out the plaintive pleadings of niece and nephew, kith and kin and The Snowman / enjoy a bottle of great wine in preference to knocking back all the cheap bottles that someone brought back from a £60 booze-cruise to Calais / ignore Delia's advice to stop and relax at 9.30am in order to have a cup of coffee and tidy the house having already prepared the lunch arrangements / remain seated in order to avoid stepping on a new ipod nano and breaking it / distract mum from hauling out the Playstation dance mat for another years exertions / remain seated in order to avoid stepping on the giant Amazonian ants and breaking their delicate little legs off before they've all been eaten up.
Against the glass the rain doth beat and bicker - merry Christmas.
Christmas for me is now studded with the ranting repertoire of Den & Angie's divorce,
with Arthur Fowler's unhinging,
with the trampy old angel in It's a Wonderful Life,
with Dougal's "Perfume is a woman's present isn't it Ted ? Yes Dougal, God designed it so we wouldn't have to put any thought into it at all",
with Blackadder's "There's something in the bottom of this stocking for you Baldrick, I've made you a fist, it's for hitting, and what's wonderful is you can use it again and again",
with Dawn French's "Yes, you've got a mince pie stuck up your bottom, but you're in luck, because I've got some cream for that",
with Brian's mother "Do you do a lot of this praying? So he's the son of God is he, king of the Jews... so that's Capricorn is it?",
with Shane MacGowen & Kirtsty Maccoll's "You scumbag you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot, Happy Christmas your arse, I prey God it's our last", and
with Matt Dillon, in the latter, because he's Matt Dillon.
Here enacted, with a kind of tiptoeing adolescence, out of place in this arena characterised by self-prophecy, Catholic confessional and the need to be discovered, perhaps coupled with one of the following - excitation, panic, despair - I plot my own meandering course around the ghostly marshmallow sentimentality of Christmas present, in no specific order:
find refuge to be alone / drink enough to fall asleep so blanking out the plaintive pleadings of niece and nephew, kith and kin and The Snowman / enjoy a bottle of great wine in preference to knocking back all the cheap bottles that someone brought back from a £60 booze-cruise to Calais / ignore Delia's advice to stop and relax at 9.30am in order to have a cup of coffee and tidy the house having already prepared the lunch arrangements / remain seated in order to avoid stepping on a new ipod nano and breaking it / distract mum from hauling out the Playstation dance mat for another years exertions / remain seated in order to avoid stepping on the giant Amazonian ants and breaking their delicate little legs off before they've all been eaten up.
Against the glass the rain doth beat and bicker - merry Christmas.
twiglets
Those giant ants have shown scant disregard for the manic spirit of the season remaining almost aloof in a quiet corner of the kitchen. They prefer to hide out in a bag than show empathy with their menacing 1954 mutant post-nuclear Cold War cousins debuting in the film Them ! They're almost comatose.
Just you wait 'till Christmas day, I tell them, when they replace the twiglets in a vintage cut-glass dish placed on auntie Vera's nest of tables.
Just you wait 'till Christmas day, I tell them, when they replace the twiglets in a vintage cut-glass dish placed on auntie Vera's nest of tables.
8>
Three last minute gifts I found in Fortnums: giant toasted ants,
- rare delicacy of Amazon indians
- the worlds largest ant
- nutty bacon like taste
some twiglets and a box of after-eights.
- rare delicacy of Amazon indians
- the worlds largest ant
- nutty bacon like taste
some twiglets and a box of after-eights.
cheap
Such a chilly day for Christmas shopping. I meet Jean-Noel for lunch at Scotts, lets say to warm up, hoping this lavish distraction will bolster the arduous task ahead. He has meetings and a broken phone to replace on Oxford Street, ungh, and I plan a one-stop shop at Selfirdges, ungh, to cover all bases.
The restaurant fills... it's early days. We eat at the counter and digest the carefully measured parade of diners ushered passed us to their tables. The room is almost serene and chinks with the reassuring rhythm of well oiled things. As this lunch represents for the two of us something of a seasonal event we drink some Champagne and totter off to Oxford Street with a merry step. This is perhaps the better appraoch but does not represent a great way to shop cautiously.
I have in my wallet a handsome wad of Selfridges vouchers received as a gift from my employer and use them to enable the filling of three carriers. I come away from the store considering whether my purchases now inherently represent the act of giving twice over, and are therefore deeply endorsed with the gesture, the gifts having been purchased themselves with a gift.
Or, on the contrary, can I no longer claim giftship (as it were) of these thoughtfully chosen items. Are both little Chloe and my mother now receiving unexpected gifts from my boss ?
Cheap !
The restaurant fills... it's early days. We eat at the counter and digest the carefully measured parade of diners ushered passed us to their tables. The room is almost serene and chinks with the reassuring rhythm of well oiled things. As this lunch represents for the two of us something of a seasonal event we drink some Champagne and totter off to Oxford Street with a merry step. This is perhaps the better appraoch but does not represent a great way to shop cautiously.
I have in my wallet a handsome wad of Selfridges vouchers received as a gift from my employer and use them to enable the filling of three carriers. I come away from the store considering whether my purchases now inherently represent the act of giving twice over, and are therefore deeply endorsed with the gesture, the gifts having been purchased themselves with a gift.
Or, on the contrary, can I no longer claim giftship (as it were) of these thoughtfully chosen items. Are both little Chloe and my mother now receiving unexpected gifts from my boss ?
Cheap !
victuals
I'm heading off to mother's for Christmas who lives down by the river in Buckinghamshire. Having considered my Tesco Christmas shopping list it's clear that much has yet to be purchased, not withstanding:
coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater
ecstacies indeed. Hopefully there will be space in my little boat to pack it.
coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssandwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater
ecstacies indeed. Hopefully there will be space in my little boat to pack it.
black & white
The hard-drive in my 5 year old powerbook gave up on Thursday. Instead of starting up it now grinds quite audibly and nothing else happens... well, it makes a beep now and again and that's about it. Grinding and beeping and getting quite hot. I figured it wasn't worth fixing. The battery is all but dead, it has no airport card, the case is dented all over, sometimes it takes a few goes before it boots up, and it has a small crappy memory. Slow.
So today I bought myself a new MacBook, available in black or white. Happy Christmas.
Of course I clicked on that Photo Booth icon as I guess everyone does and sat staring at myself in the silly photo booth window, fiddling with effects to create grotesque self-portraits: an alcoholic's big sore nose, ugly otterish teeth, a sqaure head, one eye bigger than the other. I switched off the effects and took a few shots, perhaps for my address book or, I don't know, something else.
I realised that with no effects the images were still grotesque, even though I'd actually lied and selected the chic 'black & white' one, hoping that my self-portraits will be potent with a Richard Avedon-drenched glamour.
Best stick to Word then.
So today I bought myself a new MacBook, available in black or white. Happy Christmas.
Of course I clicked on that Photo Booth icon as I guess everyone does and sat staring at myself in the silly photo booth window, fiddling with effects to create grotesque self-portraits: an alcoholic's big sore nose, ugly otterish teeth, a sqaure head, one eye bigger than the other. I switched off the effects and took a few shots, perhaps for my address book or, I don't know, something else.
I realised that with no effects the images were still grotesque, even though I'd actually lied and selected the chic 'black & white' one, hoping that my self-portraits will be potent with a Richard Avedon-drenched glamour.
Best stick to Word then.
scott's
An inaugeral dinner at last at Scott's. The food is as compelling as the art - Dublin Bay prawns, Fiona Rae, Gary Hume, Michael Landy and Peter Peri, is on display.
sizzler
It's my aunt Salina's eighty-fourth birthday party. We have a family dinner at Rima Tandoori restaurant in Redbridge. When he passes our table the manager asks if the food is good. He passes often. The dishes are all the same colour. Some are thicker than others. They taste similar. One of the dishes we've ordered, however, differs audibly from the others - it sizzles - so providing variety.
The menu is divisible acoustically.
The menu is divisible acoustically.
perfume
At work this evening a colleague asks me what I'm wearing, he means what do I smell of. "Is it Jupe?" he says. It's not, and besides, I don't know what Jupe smells of.
When I took my bath earlier today I discharged into it an experimental elixir - black pepper, pachouli, ginger...
No future need, then, for aftershave. I have become a perfumist.
When I took my bath earlier today I discharged into it an experimental elixir - black pepper, pachouli, ginger...
No future need, then, for aftershave. I have become a perfumist.
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