I'm fairly certain that Keith Richards lives inside his guitar. Music is always there, he's just pointing out the obvious with particular movements of his hands like a child holding up an arm to a sky and a rainbow.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
Superman caught me in the act of playing Mouse Trap by the fire. I was smoking cigarettes, eating Dale Biscuits and listening to The Rolling Stones bent as Atlas over the old board game trying my hardest to assemble the bright plastic pieces into something but there's nothing more confusing than a box full of bathtubs, ball bearings, plastic diving men and cardboard cheese.
I wanted to wash off my my red lipstick before we left for the cinema cause I've come to believe its the lipstick of doom but I didn't have time to explain with Superman standing in the doorway asking "Of all the things on our list of things we have to do before going is that really a priority?". I guess not, lipstick of doom is not a priority when the doom is imagined. I offered to drive in my shitbox of a car and I wasn't surprised when Superman said no, what was surprising was the song playing on the stereo in Superman's car. I liked it, I said that sounds happy but then the vocals started and I punched Superman right in the arm even though he was driving, such was the level of my surprise.
Superman told me he was making me a surprise but I wasn't expecting that, he recorded the song that we wrote and you know what, it sounds good. At the cinema Superman put massive headphones on me so I could listen to the song, I had a grand old time walking and dancing around right through the foyer and the cinema until I became confused by ads for stupid things and had to take the headphones off. Shine A Light was a privileged shifting of context and perspective. Its not every day you get to be on stage feeling every small electric zap of communication shooting between people who've been living inside each other's songs for so long that I don't remember myself without their music. The Rolling Stones don't sound how you think they sound.
The fire ate time again and nobody went to sleep before 4am. I slept fitfully, acutely aware in each waking state that everyone else was deep in slumber, Superman and the cat curling around each other like the world was a cardboard box. There were crepes, bananas, dizzy spells and supermarkets in the grey morning. I walked slowly in a dream shuffle pushing back spinning black balls of illness trying to infiltrate my equilibrium while the sky sat squat and monolithic, even in Newtown.
The rest of the day passed quietly, the Dr Who television marathon painting atmosphere while I paced and sat and stared and pushed my writing forwards one word at a time. Superman read away at his own work until Grizelda produced food for us all. Unfortunately we went and saw the Sex and The City movie, everyone cried, except me. I was furious and someone let the beast out of its memory box. Nothing ever turns out the way I expect it to. A shiny movie rammed with shoes and a girl who wears pearls with pyjamas is not supposed to hook down the sky and drape it over your head but that's exactly what it did, for a short while.
Artboy wants to meet me for coffee and I haven't been talking about it to anyone, except Ron, in a short and misguided online chat. The problem with Superman is that he listens, responds and generally makes more sense out of things than three of me strapped together holding out books of science. I am more used to walking around banging into things until I find my own way but don't misunderstand me, I'm not complaining about the lack of bumps on my head. A nice cup of tea, a little sit down, a chauffeured trip for tobacco later and I was lying on the lounge thinking this is alright.
Superman turned off the lights, lit a candle, put Sigur Ros on the stereo at top volume then laid himself down on the floor. I was the tiniest bit skeptical at first, needing as I did to reassemble things into shapes that made sense but nothing turns out the way I expect it to. Don't tell me sound can't be pixels cause I watched them last night through the pink of my eyelids stacking one on top of another in wave forms and human shapes and the good blue bricks of focus until everything was back where its supposed to be. I need to thank Superman for popping into my life and rearranging things, I'm not sure how but one of these days I'll manage it.
Comments
Miranda had an awfully furry bikini line. I was with Samantha on that one.
I don't get fashion but I do think its fun to wear a ball gown and pyjama pants whilst drinking tea and typing, just cause I felt like it.
i do know your take on hair removal but surely miranda's national forest was a deterrent?
national forest = bad but i refuse to use hot wax also.. prefer less painful methods.
Sometimes i get a surprised when i come across a boy who likes to over maintain his nether regions.
I too was deeply saddened for days post 'The Sex"... I missed my peachettes very much! … Carrie is incessantly frustrating in her natty ways... but ahh the fashion, what an excuse to flow and gush... and mr big… I have such a soft spot for him… but alas leaving me lamenting my single ways as age beats its drum against my wooden heart
Narnia on the other hand.. cried and cried
hormonal overload
lots of love, very hairy and wanting cake