Finally

Finally

Everything; In Transit

Everything; In Transit

Blood

Where is my blood right now? All the blood I have ever made and used and bled.

Some of is in the ground, spat out probably or stained on metal. Some of it is in other people, which is weird and unpersonal. Some of it's in me at the moment, only some of it though.

I don't know about the rest of it.

Where is all the blood I once made?

Karloff Asks A Question

Hey Adam, what's that photo you keep on your wall?

That's where I was born.

I never found out where I was born.

Me neither. That reminds me of a story.

Surprise: Content

Two days off sick plus the weekend, that's four days of not working and two days of throwing up.

Having a fever causes great dreams. I was sailing, and the sea had atlas markings like a giant compass and grid lines under the water. I sailed all the way to Georgia and saw the tanks rolling past the coast but they were made of paper.

Interesting!

I'm not in the swing of writing yet so I'm really forcing myself. I guess this is step one, maybe tomorrow I'll write a bit more.

I suspect that this pattern was generated for a very special reason.

Perhaps the dead will walk the earth.

Metaphorically speaking.

It's vanity, you sexy bitch!

Alright, internet?

Tomorrow, work will be different. I can see it now. I'll get up and beautify myself more than ever. Then I'll rollerskate to work blasting techno at the innocent and forcefeeding them Jerry Cornelius novels, I'd explain to them in a very patronising manner that I am smarter than them and then ask vague questions like "Why are you here?"

The walk only takes about 15 minutes (I'll allow myself 25 though, injecting my new lifestyle into people might take a little while.) But then I'll arrive at the office and I'll kick the door down to reveal myself glammed up like nothing before. Full make up with green and blue shimmering eyeshadow and pink lipstick. A bright yellow Flying V held over my awesome waiste length summer dress. Under this, I will probably where some drainpipes and black cowboy boots.

The intensity of my rock and roll haircut will cause the new guy (tomorrow will be his first day) to freak out and quit. "How did he get such mat texture and hold? Is that his real colour? it's so messy yet so shiny and awesome." He will undoubtably say to himself.

At this point I start my lecture on how to effectively 'fuck the system' which will be demonstrated in the form of a rave anthem, composed at my desk with a loop player and a microkorg.

Then I'll probably throw a TV out of the window and then engage in various occult activities.

After that, I'll have to do some work though.

A short note to a girl, scrawled by a boy who is not as troubled as he likes to make out.

I turned your life into a novel suitable for a depressed young male like myself. I thought that having an interesting life story was more important that you having the life you wanted. Drama is so passé, man.

In regiments of orange glowing street light, I could only really address your distorted silhouette on the wet, black asphalt. Your hands are blue from the cold, like a cartoon and you've only got 6 nails left. I wonder, will I ever be attracted to a girl without a mental illness? Staring at your eyes, I wondered briefly if you reflected me in that sense, then looking black at the floor I decided that the silhouette is a much better metaphor for this. "Shadow am I, a question of a person but no said reply." I'll try to remember to write that down when we get home.

It's not that you take up all my time... but if the writing is alive, then what are you?

In my adaptation of your life I decided that I was going to get the main characters to break up at the end, but instead I decided that I wasn't a very good fantastic writer. The glamour and romance of being broken hearted was appealing in an very noir sense, all I really wanted was an excuse to self destruct and then methodically rebuild all my demons.

There's nothing rock and roll about falling apart. Everything that I had was not revealed to me in a sudden wave of realisation. It was, in fact, found at the bottom of a beer glass. What would you do next, I asked myself, if you let it all go again? Give yourself another new name? Move country? Change your sex? Look at your protagonist, you didn't need to write someone so perfect, she was already there.

So before we went home that night, we had to wait. "Why won't you look at me?" Followed by "I'm nervous." Followed by "Your hands are freezing." Followed by "What are we waiting for?" The timing wasn't perfect, but considering the odds I couldn't really have asked for more. Under the warm suburb glow of the street light, it started to snow, and so I kissed you.

And that's why I said it. Since you ask so nicely. What do you mean 'The End'?

After 5 unpublished blog drafts, I have to wonder why I'm not writing to you.

Ninty Nine
Karloff tells of a dead girl he met.

I'm going to have to assume it was 1998, so I'd been dead for fourty years. She died when she was 20 in 1980 so it worked out that we looked the same age even though she was six years old when I drilled a hole in my head. Kind of sick if you think about it man, it was quite an age gap. But you should have seen her face, you'd forget about that. I'm telling you, I didn't even care about the bullet hole.

Sublime. The smoothness of her skin, her green eyes, the gentle drip of her wound. Fuck man, I'm not a poet, but you get the idea.

She was lying on her back in the middle of a book store, smoking a cigarette. She had the soft magnetism of a girl who hadn't slept in days, you know what I mean? I think she was surprised to see me. A lot of people die but not many of them stick around to watch everyone else cop it. Anyway, I went over and lay down next to her, she was looking at me but she didn't smile which was unnerving, but she kept looking like she was waiting for me to answer a question she hadn't even asked.

"You don't read."

"I'm in a bookshop, aren't I?"

"That's what I can't figure out..."

"I read comic books."

"Aren't you a little old?"

"I'm about 50... So yeah. Smoking will kill you you know."

And then I got a smile, which was a huge fucking relief actually.

"So what do you read?" she evetually said,

"...The Invisibles," I said, as if it was actually really obvious. And then she let out like a half-laugh and said.

"I guess that was actually really obvious."

Maybe she can read my mind, I thought to myself. And then I picked her up and we both went out and got pissed.

You know what Karloff, don't let anyone tell you that you're not a master story teller. That's the best tale of true love I've heard in months.