This month first bloomed in the green-gold fairgrounds of sleepless nights, twinned in a week of pre-delirium. We stood in a packed sports bar and watched three screens simultaneously, everyone’s face a spectacle of something other that was going on beyond offsides and angles and penalties. Indulgent love of epi-bro culture. Finding that tiny jubilance inside you. Running round with the lights off, spouting catch phrases that kill and kill. I say the same name again and again, without meaning to. Am I winning.
Closing time and proximate whisky. What swills and feels wavy, later, at the top of the street. I hold ice in my gums for the numbing.
Imagine a toothache so rich in pain it was like cradling some other entity within yourself.
So the paths seemed windier than usual and trailing my way into whatever would happen and the ascent and the lights that seemed stranger. Cradle your toothache into some kind of coda, a pause that leads to return. The portholes of naproxen, dihydrocodeine, paracetamol, ibuprofen. Appetite collapses and the mouth is a metallic pool of pain. Send one thing away to endure. Circle around, forget about yourself. Forget your body. Learn to make of my carpet a turquoise pool, our belligerent drift which quickens to pulse. I lay very still and bit my lip. Learn not to cry when people are kind, learn to accept gesture in itself. Walk in the back roads of Finnieston on some green afternoon, everything lush and wilted with rain.
So it warms again.
Salt rinses make me sad for the sea.
These train rides between cities and the way the light looks at eight of an evening in late July. The soft yellow gold of fields to be harvested, trails of meadow lines read as braille. We talk intermittently. I close my eyes to a faint remainder of presence. It is difficult to remember what’s happened, bundling into a part song of falling. Walk back along the Clyde, swallow a letdown that ricochets through all buried traits, read as you walk. Walk as you read. Chance encounters that mean things.
To be sent home early, to feel over-brimming with all this salty, incorrigible water. Cancer season comes to an end.
I say whatever weird thing pops into my head. This is the way we are now. It is light at six in the morning, we sit at the table among fag paraphernalia and sketch each other’s souls. So ever to read glitches between us in negative space. I walk home alone and the daylight tastes so beautiful and I am so dizzy from twice cheating the diurnal within the same week. When we message, we use only the choicest emojis. Wouldn’t you like a vial of mercury?
I told him I was seeing. I was seeing.
My head in my throat, forehead to forehead. Is it the sweat, the seemingly interminable beats? The club is like the cabin of a ship, sloshing with heat and bodies. I spill out in cold night. I write this looking at the rain outside, which is utterly vertical and soft, drooping the branches of trees I can’t name. The sky is a greyish egg white, clearer towards centre. It matches my mood quite perfectly. I fear it will melt.
The colours in the takeaway were ravishing, erratic. I could not take my eyes off the shreds of meat. The singular tomato.
The rain was welcome. It gushed bright cold to my skin as I peddled, the canal adjacent to my trail. Catching my breath on the hot chest feeling, which later would become a pang, a harp string pulled too taut. A minor chord that needed to settle. It takes awhile to settle into your own body, to learn its game. The rain was good, the rain was silver and dazzled the leaves. I cycled to Lock 31 and back again twice in a week. I wanted to compare each experience. The fact was a shift in my flesh, a chorus of moving blood and water.
My sweaty hair smelled of the sea. I like that the seagulls leave when it rains.
Maggie Nelson writes: ‘How many ways are there / to get saturated in another’s mind?’ & I wonder. She is writing about a canal too, but really she is writing about desire. Canals don’t flow though; canals are relatively static. Something of undercurrent draws them along?
The pale sweet scent of coconut oil and misplaced nostalgia.
The Forth & Clyde Canal is so unlike the Clyde, this great wide luminously masculine river. When the song came on and I thought of the boy who drowned. I like to look at the lights on the Clyde at night, feel quite dark in myself and proximate to history. Feel everything dimming. Feel muscular for merely being there.
But then once I saw the Clyde in the afternoon, it was buttermilk.
Maryhill becomes a sort of fairyland, the unseen space around the canal, the outcrops of houses blending into Anniesland. I stick to the line, the gravel, the pace. Trust in my breath. Clusters of teenage girls pass by on their mobiles.
Sometimes I hallucinate the phone ring of my childhood home.
Keep sleeping in and savouring escape. The trick is to get to bed before five. To keep yourself stable.
The weeks slip away like vulnerable sand flats.
I drink things that are orange and icy and strong. I try to recall that hullabaloo of pain. A wedge of it bright and red.
Drawing is a warm sweet vortex where I drag myself deep into greens and blues.
Layering long stints of techno over the same routes. It gets heavier. I walk into the headlights of cars without meaning to. They keep playing Darude’s ‘Sandstorm’ in Byres Road Tesco, the inchoate vertigo of a broken decade. Later I dream the stores were empty as they were in the snow days. Water everywhere, sloshing the hours and ankles, not a drop to drink. Remember when everything caught glitches, sounded through the tinniness of a Motorola phone, those metallic wee speakers, resounded twice over on the plexiglass of a bus stop?
Everyone’s cold suburbia closes. You just shut the skylight, ignore the rain.
When you are away I sort of half live in the other place, but then already between myself.
Is it the circles below my eyes, below ugly tungsten light? The intimate work of a visceral distraction? Too many bowls of soft cereal?
Craving the expanse of the sea, releasing my cuts, wanna lose all time + memory.
Salt rinse, salt rinse; salt and cloves.
Find a note on someone’s jotter at work: get cunt fae spar. It will take a while to parse this. Fae spar get cunt, cunt spar get fae. Ye olde spar will get yae. Forget the star.
There is a fight and a fire and over and over I write things like, gratitude, gratitude. Plug sockets sparking.
Resist the tinny in the fridge. Do magick. I think maybe I am tired and scared of the present. The piano sounded lovely. With my window open, I could hear someone warming the keys. Notes for a genuine summer, notes for a situation. Then breathe. Bryan Ferry is sound-checking from the bandstand, you can hear the distant, phasing groan. It is almost August.
Death Grips – Black Paint
03 Greedo – Jealous
Cold Cave – You & Me & Infinity
Fred Thomas – Good Times Are Gone Again
The Twilight Sad – I/m Not Here [Missing Face]
Hand Habits – Book on How to Change
Pavement – Harness Your Hopes
Mush – Luxury Animals
Black Marble – A Great Design
Sun June – Discotecque
Emily Isherwood – Calibrate
Hana Vu – Crying on the Subway
Laurel Halo – Sunlight on the Faded
RF Shannon – Jaguar Palace
Amen Dunes – Lonely Richard
Lucretia Dalt – Edge
Ride – Chrome Waves
Oneohtrix Point Never – Monody
Gang Gang Dance – Lotus
Beach House – Black Car
Womensaid – Magick!
Wooden Shjips – Eclipse
Phoebe Bridges – The Gold (Manchester Orchestra cover)
Galaxie 500 – Tugboat
Judee Sill – Lopin’ Along Thru The Cosmos
Aphex Twin – aisatsana