Playlist: October 2018

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This month of intense transition, brisk walks after dark in a state of delirium. This PhD is all over me. My screen is so white and it glares all day. The moon is so white it’s almost offensive and so is the carton of milk which sits by the homeless man at Charing Cross. He rolls cigarettes and watches the traffic. I rarely see him smoke, but he is often rolling, and watching. Rolling and watching, as if the two were entwined and utterly necessary. I am watching too as I walk, but I walk fast and make of all features a blur. I run out of routes. I take the park at night to see the stars spread out on a sky of blue velvet. Nothing is nameable this way. It grows colder.

My feet look for a path but often find the grass instead.

Days pass, immersing myself in the journals of Gilbert White for a sense of the seasons, and how they manifest in the Earth. All the dead leaves of centuries swept. Then also Derek Jarman’s garden, so lovingly noted in Modern Nature.

To have such connection to the land, documenting its events. White:

Baker’s hill is harrowed-down after these great rains: it was no easy matter to subdue the clods at all. Some of the olde elders round the garden are almost leafless. Wallnuts are this Year innumerable. The white-apples are fit to make pies. Grapes, peaches, nectares very backward.

This is in August. Arboreal fruits and other riches. I ate a lot of apples in August, because there are always apples at conferences, nestled on paper-linings. In air-conditioned rooms, you crisply attend to knowledge. Something tart and sweet that activates the acid of many collective stomachs.

Mostly White’s journal compends the minutiae of fruits and vegetables grafted and grown and harvested in the garden. Little discoveries named in both English and Latin. The beauty of regularity and daily rhythm. But there are glitches: talk of ‘vast rain’ in the night, eerie events that just happen and remain unexplained —

A great light seen, & a vast explosion from y S: about a quarter past nine in the evening: the Cause unknown. It shook peoples houses very much. It seems to be meterous.

(White)

I write this on a Sunday morning, just as the bin men are creating a cataclysm of the garden. On Wednesday morning, the cleaners come early and the sound of the mop hitting the wall wakes me up from insomnia’s half-formed slumber. I dwell in these rhythms of other people’s labour, and consider my own, fingers on keys.

I have been thinking about data and how we access climate change as both event and ontological condition. What kinds of data do I attend to on a daily basis? I do not check the fluctuating air quality of my city, although Google allows you to do this. I rarely check the weather, at least beyond a cursory search as to whether to prepare with waterproofs or not. Checking the weather reminds me of the days of the week and all I have to do, and how the days are just units and thus the struggle of cramming things into them. I stay up very late because I am anxious about the days ahead, the things I am supposed to do in them. I remember a period of my life where I’d stay up all night all the time with friends, and when they’d lament the loss of their imminent day I’d say, no but this is great, it’s like cheating time! I did not realise they would sleep through the day, while I would ride wild on a sleep-deprived high, seeing the world as through frosted glass. The wee hours came, then the sun, and they would roll cigarette after cigarette in televisual flickers.

Summertime draws to a close, and dusk acquires a drama of light that demands photography. I skirt around Park Circus, following the curve of the streets, the incline. Ruffles of deeper darkness. How many memories are concentrated at the top of Kelvingrove Park, with the lights spread in ribbons of gold and red and glimmering distance. Collect my intensities, try not to think too hard. The air in my lungs reacts and is hot and sweet. The clocks go back and what a pleasure it is to flip straight to 1:01 again. Where does the hour go that is lost? It shaves a little light off my evening, for which I lament. Last year I was working until 3am when the clocks went back, and I was scared I’d have to work the extra hour unpaid. This is something we never talk about, the impact on those who pull night shifts. Luckily, there was a system. But customers did not understand. It got to 2am and we were kicking them out and they demanded we stay open till 3. The way it was on their phones, which automatically reset in electric synchrony. We were open till 3am that night; just on retro time, the time of before.

So tired I fall asleep with the light on, my face in some book. The luxury of curling into yourself and disappearing until all the dreams come.

The moon this week was consistently incredible. As in, cloaked in a halo of rainbow; magnetic, amphetamine rush of staring at it. Walk walk walk with the moon above, so below. The white pools of light that fall on the street. It gave me this charge or energy. I couldn’t sleep because I was full of the moon. Some lunar reaction inside me. I wanted to be more alone.

A friend describes my poem, ‘A Beautiful Video’, as ‘an autumn harvest of internet trash’, which I like a lot.

Adulthood means getting your bike fixed, over and over. Testing the brakes. It means learning to say no to things. It means being responsible for this and that. The ontological condition of email, with its beautiful intermittence — the sway of send and arrival. Kindest of wishes. I have been trying to start a letter all week but there are so many things I want to say to you. It’s been so long and I have no idea how you’re living. 

It hurts to write ‘now’, like the lostness is already always.

On Hallowe’en, I’ll see Grouper play in Mackintosh Church.

The month began with me listening to Leonard Cohen, and ended in electronic abyss.

Spooky as the air is, filling the wood.

In my diary I seem to write a lot, ‘I feel sick at the thought’.

This is the month I leave my job of five and a half years. I have a lot of separation anxiety and maybe one day I’ll be back. Strange to have such emotional dependence on a place and its people. To measure yourself against the pace of its shifts, the demands of others. To love and love and love unconditionally. I miss everyone already; I did the very moment I set foot in the door for my last shift. We played a game of flexibility and were lovely to everyone, got good tips. A table of Texan tourists, the last people I served, told me: ‘you’re so pretty…you’re like as pretty as this glass of rosé wine’. The wine in question was our house, Angel’s Tears, so I said, ‘and I’m as sad as the tears of the angel’, to which they laughed uneasily. They meant it earnestly and I checked on the menu and a large glass was £7, so I am happy that my apparent attraction matches my second-favourite number. It was a cheap thing to say but I kinda liked it. 

There have been these twangs in my chest, like someone pulling the strings of a harp too hard. I have not been sleeping too well.

Maybe I don’t miss the lush excesses of summer’s end, but I miss the extra light.

The way it feels to cycle downhill in freefall, giving yourself to the traffic, choking on the fumes of the cars around you. Red light upon red. Watching a film about homicidal ants. Messy situations and Skype conversations. Virtual reality and the value of objects. The enchanted beings appear on Byres Road, glitter-eyed at the crossing. Have written a sonnet a day for a week.

When I write in my diary it always begins so tired, so tired, or a variation of. I feel like I’ve done everything and nothing, and there’s so much still to do, to write into.

I watched The Garden until five in the morning and my eyes burned red all through the day. Something extravagantly eccentric about the manner of epic. Rub salt.

Erase yourself for rain and call it extinction. People have a lot of things to say on the matter.

So I sit here polishing pairs of shoes. At least I have something to walk with.

Begin again ordering rounds of Guinness. Almost asleep in the taxi, river-cross, the motorway morning orbits a thought. The mattering treacle of darkness. The air so cold it is almost sticky. When you see the abyss but take it anyway. This is such a soft short story to write in the library.

I lost my keys in the litter and leaves. I lost something in the hills, along time ago. Finding the words to say it.


~

Pinegrove – Rings

Angel Olsen – California

Red House Painters – Grace Cathedral Park

Sharon Van Etten – I Wish I Knew

Half Waif – Every Animal

Big Thief – Capacity

Karen Dalton – It Hurts Me Too

Haley Heynderickx, Max Garcia Conover – Slow Talkin’

Fleet Foxes – Icicle Tusk

Kiran Leonard – Working People

Leonard Cohen – The Partisan

The Innocence Mission – Lakes of Canada

Cocteau Twins – Summer-Blink

Arthur Russell – Losing My Taste For The Night Life

Sun Kil Moon, Jesu – You Are Me and I Am You

Oneohtrix Point Never – Love In The Time Of Lexapro

Lo Kindre – Torment Of One

Hiro Kone – Outside the Axiom

Low – Words

Mazzy Star – Mary Of Silence

Sibylle Baier – I Lost Something in the Hills

Nico – Afraid

~

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Review: No You Without – Melanie Letoré

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Separation is something that passes through your body. It happens on scales that feel biological, because at once so intimate and distant, clear and mysterious. The vertigo sensation when you see a diagram of the heart, or someone’s face fading in the moving window of a train. When I learn the words for things I can’t articulate. When someone says Brexit or mentions faraway disasters, or power lines being laid deep under the sea. Scientific processes that I can’t reach. Separation, transmission, event repeating. A curiosity towards ominous energies. I’m not just talking about the endless, five o’clock stories, beamed through radio waves. Brexit is as Brexit does. Most analogue hour. How many of us woke up that Friday morning, after the fact, with stomach aches? The undigest of all our country, rent broad and familiar on all the news.

~

As history seems to be compressing, rapidly, in a chaotic present which seeks to smooth with legislative violence the rich diversity of our past, stories of migration and change become vital.

With vague direction, I walk over the motorway bridge twice to get back to Glasgow  city centre. The trees in Kinning Park are singed with vermillion; it’s early October. I ascend the footbridge, just slightly hungover. The sight of the traffic fills me motion again, after a night of luxurious slosh and dark of stasis. Screen light and honeydew shoegaze. Cars are barely there, but they go places. They leave a carbon trail behind. Watching from the sun-drenched bridge, I carry my stories and see them swept up in lines I can’t manage. Later, I try to write. I am looking for a flow, a sense of circuitry. The sentences whir.

Then I step into the exhibition. There is the clarity of photography, more like a series of windows. Windows I see inside windows. The glass steams up in certain types of feeling, translated as light.

~

The themes of the recent Lightwaves exhibition at Street Level Photoworks, featuring the work of Mat Hay, Josée Pedneault, Bertrand Carrière, and Melanie Letoré, are moving histories: those of heritage, migration and the storytelling inherent within. I have a special familiarity with Letoré’s work and practice, having served as her hospitality comrade back in 2016 and since then having worked with her on a personal project: a weekly Google doc record of our lives and thoughts, sprawled in text, image (art & photographs), questions, lists, poetry, fiction and essays. The name of our project remains tendentiously secret, a bright hard candy. Keeping a ledger with someone who I tend only to encounter IRL on chance occasion (gliding bikewise down the motorway, drinking OJ in basement bars) feels a bit like an odyssey. An orbit of thought. Each week we find out more about each other’s pasts, our present fears and desires, our personalities. It’s a bit like trading journals at weekly sleepovers, except there’s the sense that each post on our shared document is less a private thought and more like something that needed airing, that needed figuring out in the shared forms of writing and visual expression. Writing as performative output, the act alone a delectation. I love the sense of sisterhood that comes with this kind of sharing, like when I was wee and my cousin and I would read each other’s palms and tarot, tell our futures.

I proposed the project to Melanie after many months of following her blog, Rectangledays, whose premise is the daily post of a fresh photograph. The blog goes back several years and serves as a sort of photo diary, a luminous archive of many little windows into moments in time. Some I recognise from the days we worked together at the restaurant: pictures of a decimated wedding cake, a lonesome chair in a stairwell, a bunch of crutches propped against the fence, another colleague’s bloodied toe, wadded with cotton. I love these photos as a testament to the physicality of hospitality, the importance of objects and tools (knives often feature) to our work, the endurance required: poor Shelby with the bloodied toe, acquired on a wild night out, would’ve hobbled along serving tables with her injury, no complaints, shift after shift.

It’s a total treat to see Melanie’s work in an exhibition context. Stories that maybe she’s written about in our ledger come to life in the distillation of pictures in a bright clean room. Privacy rents a very public space. The other photographers in the exhibition have their work blown up, pressed across the white, whereas Melanie’s are much smaller, identical in size, sitting parallel on a wall. The pictures are thick, giving the impression of little books, the three-dimensional aspect implying that the story is more complicated than the image allows. The image contains itself, and then the negative space of all these stories, quietly sporing. Much of her work is about shining a light on the intricacies of identity: Melanie’s grandparents migrated from North America to Europe in the 1950s, and she herself has moved from childhood Switzerland and found a home in Glasgow, as an adult. Her work feels like a dialogue with the everyday world around her, and maybe the people back home, the family who live their own lives many miles away. Photography as postcards without text on the back. Or maybe photography captioned with invisible ink, ink that only some people can see; others parsing their own specificity from the image. That’s the beauty of Melanie’s work: it’s tender and personal, but there’s a humanist impulse in there somewhere too, rent with a complexity that asks us to think about where people come from, how they live, where they touch the lives of others. Feelings, adventures, intimacies, routines, leisure and food.

A certain nourishment. I feel privileged to have access to some of the thoughts behind these images. Reading Melanie’s writing, I find myself adrift on all these planes of migration. The title of her exhibition, No You Without, comes from Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost. When told of the Wintu in north-central California, who use the cardinal directions rather than the words left and right to capture their bodies, Solnit writes, ‘I was enraptured by this description of a language and behind it a cultural imagination in which the self only exists in reference to the rest of the world, no you without mountains, without sun, without sky’. With this perspective, we realise our own contingency in the context of a relatively stable world. Recently, I’ve been wondering about where the ‘you’ is situated in my own poetry, who exactly it is I’m addressing. Who is the ‘you’ in a photograph, what kinds of hailing occur when we look at a portrait, or perhaps a landscape. Where are we situated and within whose vision. There’s a piece in No You Without where a woman, I think in fact Melanie herself, has awkwardly levitated her body by propping it between two counters or surfaces. I’m struck with the fact of the body suspended so precisely this way, making a new morphology of her being. Like when you are a child and find ingenious ways to get across a room without touching the lava-strewn floor, or like lying upside down for too long and seeing how precarious your sense of space is. When you are forced to appreciate gravity, pressure, connections. The objects that make us by dint of negation.

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In Melanie’s images, I seek fresh orientations. These are subjects which reflect process rather than point; they are a document in the quest for self in a sea of myriad reflections, a very real sea which threatens with its sweep. I see red ribs of meat, black curls through black curtains, a strand of hair overlooking an island, the pinching of elbow flesh, a rainbow, the gnarled remainders of landscape’s heap, two boys rolling around on the beach. Each image demands its own sense of scene, of identity in place. I have a sense of capturing, that one slight second that splits and releases: the clouds come in, the flesh smooths back, the rainbow ceases to be.

While the images do not document explicit ‘narrative’ as such, it’s clear there’s an intimacy threading between them. I wonder if we are encouraged to pick up the images and study them, the way you might lift family photos off the mantelpiece, stealing a look at the back for captions. In the exhibition notes, it’s suggested that the migration of Melanie’s grandparents to Europe, and all their associated trauma, comprises ‘another layer to her search for identity’. What we lose or leave behind. What we carry with us. A memory of blue, of sky, of something that represents the not-knowing, but nevertheless the feeling. That which comes, regardless of narrative or language. I planted a thought. Photography bears the visual seeds.

I’m reminded of a passage in Sophie Collins’ book small white monkeys, one that Melanie and I have discussed often:

Patterns of shame can of course be inherited, be broken, halted, but mostly they are carried on through, like mottos, or emotional heraldry.

Maybe we carry something of what our parents and grandparents taught us, or experienced. The learned behaviours, observational ticks of outburst or repression. Frequencies and cycles of confession or pain, the arguments which pixelate our childhood memories with varying degrees of trauma. A traumatic tartan, stitched to the furniture of our daily lives; a ravelled print of practices and patterns of thought and feeling.

We find ourselves reenacting the affects of others, those we are close to. Mostly, we don’t mean to. There are just these things we remember, ticking away in our brain and blood.

Such memory persists like a stick of brighton rock with the motto carried through, except you can break off the stick at any point, you can shatter the neat black letters. The rock of the shards tastes sweet and mint, is cleansing.

But it sticks to your teeth. Shame sticks also.

You can cut yourself on your own quick memory.

When I learn the words for things I can’t articulate. Surely ‘emotional heraldry’ captures this miasma of maybe incalculable feelings I might attribute to family experience? A coat of arms to bear, whose pattern is fading before me, or intensifying within me. Heraldry, inheritance. Jewishness on my mother’s side, ethnicity unrecognised, religious cycles and traumatic pasts; a kind of implicit migrancy that is only tangible in visiting. Stories my nan tells about ancestors whose names are like keys to dust-filled chests, mildewed letters, somewhere deep and distant. But then livable: a trip to Amsterdam, family graves and suddenly the pulses of history might glow in my veins. That heat is a shame. Peeling yourself from the easy determinism of ‘family’ and then finding family wherever you read. Recently I was struck hard by this essay by Daisy Lafarge on maternal approaches to poetics, or looking to whatever texts provide a sort of mothering supplement, rich with emotional truths. The wrestle with essentialism, with forms of belonging. I am someone’s daughter when I read a poem or look at a photograph. Sometimes I am otherwise lost. I am that altogether vulnerable.

I guess I’m an immigrant too of sorts. Moving from England to Scotland at a very young age, being acutely aware of my Englishness and thus playground shame because of the markers of accent, and yet proud at the difference, to be different. Melanie’s photos teach me to sympathise with other kinds of present, and presence. They are fleeting and insouciant, playful in one sense, but otherwise make me want to stockpile and archive with a kind of serious fever. I want to know everything about the people in these images, scour their diaries and ask them their names. But I also want to leave them alone, up on the shelf where their lives can be quiet and still, and yet somehow heard, in the seeing. Maybe an image is a kind of speech; it allows us to separate, and to parse our connections. To halt in the flow of feeling, to carry a place or a person; to illumine.

~

Lightwaves is on until 25th November at Street Level Photoworks, Glasgow.

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Playlist: August 2018

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Into the mist, the buildings recede. The capital is a liminal city, I catch it between seasons and then hardly. What is it I catch exactly. Skeletal trees made blossom of meadow then gold. There are so many reasons to draft excruciating messages, what lingers as a flicker, moth glow of the station. The soft, ersatz rills of bank adverts, faux sincerity, another piano warble that wants the drain. I stand in empty rooms without presence. Her voice fills the box which is lined with velvet. There is an immense sucking away, a vacuum of hours and days, leaving only the tarnished jewellery.

I am so nervous sometimes, the tips of my fingers are fire again. The pungent scent of truffle oil will always be late summer, hovering at a bar, asking questions with my eyes. Smacking my head off of marble. Are these boxes recyclable? These bleeding nights, where light is like having your eyelids prised, is infected television. What are you here for, the drunks want knowledge. Slats in the blinds you can’t blackout. My dreams grow vibrant, flower in narrative. They stole the chairs. And what we have is this whole psychic thing. I set alarms in the middle of the afternoon or evening, in case consciousness catches me otherwise. Time out of time. Envision those months, those hours, as monolith blocks of structure unsound. Pull out the fragments and I’ll give you a secret. There are graphics I haven’t learned to translate yet, files sunk down with encrypted names.

Sketching in bed, I can’t say much. Words are bleach, they erase the delicacy. There are so many songs I love with Ohio in the title. Nine minute jam version, scour YouTube comments for ethereal clues. Accidentally open on a page I like, it took a long time to pull away. Whose colour and noise?

This song reminds me of when I was we all were he was she was, the song is just there, it’s There, you know? When I was wee.

A twisting into. The colour black is pretty much perfect. It’s never the shade of the sky in a city.

The nauseous trypophobia of all these drawings. Sticky lineaments, filigree. Blonde. It’s Glenfiddich, it’s raining just slightly, it’s handing over the money saying This feels slightly mafia. Marfa. Judd’s boxes. A whole array of aluminium gleaming, and so instead walking the perimeter, and so instead dwelling upon reflection itself without reflection. Smoothness. A million healing frequencies, a night bus, a burst of starlings in the morning mist. I lose myself slightly, drifting home at six. Someone appears as pure apparition; double denim, listless. My ears still full of the roar.

Wanting to peel my own skin off. Metaphorically or not.

It strikes me that time is a liquid. If liquid could strike. I listen to the rain and it comes out my pores, the shimmery feeling. In the dream I am trying to pass through a kissing gate but the metal touches and electrifies me. I’m obsessed walking home, obsessed with the thought of walking home. It’s like walking to a place you call home but the dwelling is really the walking. The thought before. I still taste the salt. Cycling in rain till my skin is dripping. Yellow trousers peel off as sticky leaves. Summer is over. A close friend tells me her pining is done with, finally, but nothing feels like a new beginning. When they met IRL there were tears. To be more vocal. That is such an email album. Checking between beats. Rachel Goswell’s misty eyes in the 1990s, when television was always already wistful.

Caught the moonlight all eerie on the spire of that church. Have pulled some evil tendon.

Miss lushly abundant summers of yore. We stay up all night until morning matters. I grow yellow and luminous green inside, it’s like being arboreal and offered the light as wicked. Everything we’ve said since is canopy shyness.

You look so nice!
You look so nice!

Tiny ember orange of an errant fire made down by the river. A fire the kids lit up in Yoker. I cycle to the ferry and back but there’s nothing to catch but the wind in my ears. A shout.

Ate a cereal bar, changed my sheets.

All pale light and song, golden hour I love you.

The chefs have filled the bowl with yokes: which seems obscene, counter-evolutionary.

Tom McCarthy is a Gemini.

Bed-time is regularly six am. Am here at six. Am slathering Thorntons brownies with 70p tubs of peanut butter. Am communing with other vagrant insomniacs, minds in the night that lack bodies. Green lights flicker between times, to click. Palm oil guilt.

He sends me these videos of crystals, turning them so the lovelier facets catch the light. He’s in a deep house bunker, lost in New York. Too wasted to drive home &c. I’m taking five pound notes off strangers and orchestrating the delivery of chips and pakora. I’m sinking further backwards where the sun can’t hit. I get the bends from the steam in the kitchen. I picture a five lane highway, looping a mobius strip of traffic. The glass washer rumbles like something undigested, deep beneath the slurring sea.

Is it yet time to insufflate those memories? Pop six pink paracetamol into his pocket.

We sat on the bridge among midges and listened to Fleet Foxes play at the bandstand. I’d never really felt so pastoral. Remembering pennies in the shrine for wishes. Meet you at the fountain in an hour.

I guess I’m still learning the art of surrendering.

He was taking tiles off the ceiling and rinsing them individually under the sink.

This is or isn’t fiction. I wish flexibility upon the bones.

All violence in the novel is just ornamental. There’s a spark I want, what dwells between the red and mustard and is all of our walk home hunger. The obscener white light of the takeaway where I point out a single, iconic tomato. The houses that collapse around us don’t matter. Everything afterwards is pure saturation.

Living room volleyball.

Rooms for living I’d not noticed before.

These rooms we once lived in, then miss as friends.

Leith Walk is endless, its illusory scent of the sea.

Whoever else is fleeing just slightly, now utterly craven and wasting.

There are blackberries when you come off the main road, shrivelled already.

Dole out the blackberries. The rose of my tongue is a thorn.

Containment of plastic.

I see signs now, I see them at night. This is a specific, special sort of sadness but it lacks boundaries.

It spreads into everything.

So it stands for adversity, so it’s a symbol.

Isn’t it fortuitous that we met on the train, sharing the value of green and gardens? The infinite forest a blueprint of youth. I wanna visit Sweden, it’s almost like I’ve been already.

She is always so hurt over something.

A cocktail of tequila and cold-brewed coffee. My mother’s birthday, the rain.

Remember before dawn, remember the rain. Remember what you said was a French hour because it was incredibly lonely without reason or meaning the word ennui maybe and I thought of the video for Jeff Buckley’s ‘Forget Her’ and that bluer version of Paris and twining phone cord round fingers in public toilets and wanting to be anywhere but a station. Don’t fool yourself. Drown in pdfs about the Anthropocene, stolen bread rolls, enthusiastic lovers of hip hop. Lay on anonymous floors. The hormonal fog is clearing. What she said of the fight in the dream, You were reluctantly laughing the whole time.

The man playing cello in a tunnel in Kreuzberg.

I hide where the till makes its interminable bleep, the red light demand of a rip.

A day you can fall through, fall for, filmed in super eight. My eyes become lakes when she says we’ll miss you. When she’s been one of several mothers to me.

O, Mazzy. Star of the sea.

The pleasure in being there. The pleasure in everything. I don’t think I’ve eaten a cherry all summer, but it’s been pretty sweet all things considered. Spit out the days as pips you’ve chewed.

Little miss midnight.

There are these hours that belong to a shift. Finish at four, back in at twelve; like everyone owed hours after work with which to wind down. Life behind bars, bar night. Back into what, reality? These amnesiac hours, shaved from our lives. I have no recollection of what happened between five and eight, why once again I did not sleep until after the dawn. The rest smoke on balconies, watch infinite game shows. I go back into work and it feels like the middle of the night. With every plate lifted, every circuit of the bar, there’s another unbalancing. Did I leave at all? Is this all just continuous?

When I talk too much and lose all my words.

The mist is all over, this turquoise reply is just a memory. Missing, misty.

There’s a lilt in the dark if you want it.

~

The Jesus and Mary Chain – April Skies

Sisters of Mercy – Lucretia My Reflection

The Twilight Sad – I Could Give You All That You Don’t Want

Lau – Far from Portland

Mogwai – I’m Jim Morrison, I’m Dead

Jesu, Sun Kil Moon – Beautiful You

Alice in Chains – Nutshell

Khruangbin – White Gloves

Frankie Cosmos – Caramelize

Teenage Fanclub – Sparky’s Dream

Free Love – Pushing Too Hard

Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith – Abstractions

Grouper – Opened Space

Oneohtrix Point Never – Sticky Drama

Tim Hecker – This life

Aphex Twin – T69 collapse

Vatican Shadow – Luxor Necopolitics

Gaika – Born Thieves

ANOHNI – 4 DEGREES

Clinic – Harmony

Helena Hauff – The Smell of Suds and Steel

Autechre – turbile epic casual, stpl idle

Huerco S. – Cubist Camouflage

Sarah Davachi – Evensong

Sun Kil Moon – Carry Me Ohio

Mazzy Star – Still

Nick Drake – Time Of No Reply

Nico – It Was A Pleasure Then

Observations of Sky

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Observations of Sky

[Exercise in which I recorded the sky over nine days upon waking.]

10/3. The sky today is a grey recalling opals. Something of a swallowing grey, an inversion of light. An all-consuming, elderly grey. It feels smooth enough to resist osmosis and yet it manages to yearn its way into you, needling the soul. A grey that knows mortality, even as it gapes its ceaseless ugliness. A grey you’d pearl into a necklace, then hate it.

 

11/3. The sky today is the slightly off-white of old furs, you know the kind that’ve been festering in vintage shops a little too long. Demographic time-bomb. Once clean bleached, now a bit lossy on the gleam front. You couldn’t picture Kate Moss starrily circling a red carpet in this kind of white. It’s sorta depressing; an off-white mother’s day. Facelift.

 

12/3. The sky today is white again, but the kinda white with a glow behind it, promising future glimpsing blue. Maybe that’s an audiovisual effect of birdsong, deceiving me as to the premise of spring. The sky is a white that goes on forever. You have to lift yourself up mountains to see where it breaks into greys and golds, watercolour perimeter slowly blurred.

 

13/3. The sky today is spread with the aquarellist promise of blue. It is still early, before 10am and there is hope for sunlight later in the day. It is a true March morning, the kind I remember from beautiful hangover walks two years ago, savouring the fact of my company and an energy I’m sure I didn’t deserve. Spiralling & dashing like a girl again, not needing a drop of anything. The clouds are faint but everywhere, leaving the blue slightly mottled beneath and I think of canopy shyness–left faintness of yesterday’s rain which I missed anyway, being inside all day. Imprinted silhouette pretty. It is hopefully a blue for opening daffodils.

 

14/3. The sky today is grey again. This is the unmistakably fatty grey that speaks of climatic sickness. It is grey going backwards, clustering soot upon styrofoam. Some elements clicked together to make a nasty residue, spread like paté or peat across where clouds might be; but no gaps in between, no alterations of colour. It is all the same grey. It is all of a thickness, bubbling. I wonder who clutches the knife to prise it.

 

15/3. The sky today is grey again, but imbued with a stony blue within it. Tricky to explain, a certain weight. Completely opaque. Maybe algaeic. Can hardly imagine it ever breaking again, breaking to blue. I find myself longing for that Frightened Rabbit b-side, and the line, Well the city was born bright blue today. Clacking my feet upon fresh pavements; the westerly smell of warm tar, marijuana. Maybe I’ll wake up soon to that topsy-turvy, luminous feeling. It is like somebody took wax and ripped off the beams of sun, so all that’s left is the gluey residue, sweat-stained and delirious between earthly dimensions.

 

16/3. The sky today is a discharge grey, clotting so gross into its own thickness. It has not broken for days beyond sprinklings of rain. It is a turgid and bodily grey, waiting to burst. It is a hundred mixed-up medical metaphors. I listen to the pale road roar and the twinkles of sparrows. Mostly the sky is just grey though. I watch a video of people kissing inside cellophane.

 

17/3. The sky today is much more blue. I dream I bought cornflower underwear. Oh, this blue. Powdery and fragile, but blue nonetheless; you can see it made out against white patches of cloud that are not quite summer white, cotton white, but white of a sort. It is such a relief for this briefness of blue. Blue you might achieve something in, except I am so tired I succumb to rested eyes, closed lids, the watery exhaustion that leaks between lashes like a great whale expelling its plankton, mistaken plastic.

 

18/3. The sky today is heavy as a belly about to give. It presses down, sags with white. I hope somebody administers a drip to silently remove its snow. Through the back entrance, back to heaven. I cannot handle any more snow. Never mind silent spring, what of invisible spring. All the frost and snow crushed out the crocuses. Will I even see a single row of good daffodils this year? I fear I won’t. I am reading Dorothy’s journals for practice, or some sort of vernal supplement. Of course more skiffles start drifting, but it wasn’t supposed to snow after 1am and now it’s 11:11, the witching minute, and I can’t help but wish for a flourishing kinship. The sky will resolve its millioning creases into further whiteout loneliness, so I make do down here, terraforming my future.

Vegetarian Weather

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Short story written over the past three days in a bout of illness, in-between working Christmas shifts that veered between the hectic and dead, drinking quantities of whisky and waking up to sunlight and ice-beams.

The waves here are not like other waves, on other shores. They seem to billow backwards, suck lines of bright froth back into themselves. This town is bordered by a self-consuming ocean, so there’s no other way to go. A bulimic rhythm of prolonged fulfilment; nourishment interrupted. You try to look out but the horizon devours what darkness might lie beyond as within. Everything is overcast. Even in summer, people lick pastel ice-creams to a backdrop of failed, VHS-flicker grey. The sky shivers and glitches with rain. I was on a train once and a drunk man had slept through the changeover and there were no more trains to the city till morning. He asked how to get back from the port, what time the last bus was, was there still time to get a cab from my town, and I said there was no time here. No time at all.

People have been stringing up lights for weeks, but now we are used to the change it’s as if they’ve been here forever. Blue and red, mostly, like sirens; like morse code blinking in darkness. When I was a kid, I used to lean against the harbour wall and watch the lights, spotting a pattern that made sense. I’d write out words with sticks in the sand, trying to parse the lights. Now I see the decorations, the decorative function, and it’s more or less fully tasteless. I have seen how the city looks at this time of year, the city where silver and gold are everywhere. Then there is the town, the red and blue; the spent fire and the melancholy.

Mother washes dishes until her skin blisters. I have bought her gloves for Christmas, year after year, but she refuses to use them. She enjoys some sort of searing, primitive contact with soap and water. They say she is the best kitchen porter the hotel has ever known, and even when there was a corporate takeover, they let her keep her job. She sings festive carols to piss off the chefs, who love her so much they say nothing. Every year, a bottle of ginger wine for a bonus. She hates ginger wine, but accepts graciously. I’ll admit, I inherited little from my mother.

I am guilty of staring at the sign on the church: CHRIST DIED FOR YOUR SINS. One time the minister caught me and he tried to hold my wrist and look up with me, like we were having A Moment of Glory. I remember his stories from school, trite morality tales about betrayal and friendship. Blood trumps all. My mother once had him for tea, and I mean this pretty much literally. She ate him up with her eyes while my father supped lentil soup in silence. She wanted him to say, I suppose, you are all good people. But the minister merely thanked her, politely, letting breadcrumbs sift through his fingers into the soup, like this was a perfectly normal thing to do. I don’t suppose it’s right to crave forgiveness or bliss from a minister. At least my sins are pure, like the sharp silver of restaurant cutlery.

When people pass each other on the street, they nod. Sometimes, a thrusting remark about the weather, a painful stab at some petulant vegetable. The chat doesn’t stick. But still in its smallness I polish it.

The grocery store is selling handmade Christmas wreaths, which smell of true pine. I don’t know what truck brought them in from the forest, came west with the logs and the spindling needles, the twigs of fir and gauze of twine. It’s maybe a job I’d want when I’m older. The driven coastline, the smell of the pine. For now, I gather up trash from the beach, all the stuff people forget about. I glue it together, leave sculptures in the community arts centre for the children to prise apart with sticky fingers. Father once mumbled something about college but never mentioned it again. Sometimes I can sell them, in tourist season. You lay down a blanket and drunk people will come talk to you, like you’re some sort of guru. I imagine my tacky statuettes in homes across the district, mournful little symbols of emotional debris. Luke used to walk along with me, picking up odd bits. We shared a vision, which is more than you can say about most brothers and sisters. I hope people smash them, my sculptures, in the middle of arguments; I hope they instate a sort of catharsis.

Sin. Waves. Sky. Signs. I used to work in a café serving Battenberg cake to gossiping pensioners, whose tongues would loll out like soft bits of dough, even when they were catatonic and staring at the lashing waves, crumbling onto their laps the pink and yellow. The town devours itself, sloshed and watered by endless tea. Scandal is rare and thin, mostly a case of mystery fire, a missing dog or crooked insurers. Once, two men moved in together as lovers but that was diffused by the presence of their pekinese, who used to come snuffling into the café so even the old folks were won over, nursing their social phobias for other occasions. All these dogs kept coming from nowhere.

I feel the presence of others as generally tepid, unwanted. I went to school a couple towns away, got that bus every morning or walked out before it had even reached my door. I’ve never needed eduction to remind me of a world beyond. I only had to look in the weathered face of my father as he returned each time from fishing, the crinkles in his eyes like a tiny clam had nestled in each pupil and was sucking the skin in for energy. Anemone. The way he plodded in the door with such reluctance, trailing sand and silt in his wake, interrupting my mother’s ordered domesticity with the thick, ineluctable lore of the sea.

“Heavy waves out west,” he’d say mysteriously, chewing a lump of bread as if in each crusted pore was the bloom of an oracle. Mother would shuffle a deck of cards, clink the dishes. Oh baby don’t make me cry. She attended bridge nights on Wednesdays at the Schooner, she kept herself busy. Our tiny bungalow was always polished to a sparkle, as if she was afraid the deceased grandparents could tell whether there was tarnish to the silverware. Father doesn’t talk much, doesn’t touch our lives. He helped assemble the tree with usual obligatory gruffness, then retired to his almanack and chewing tobacco. When Luke died, he didn’t say a word for months. He disappeared on trips that got longer and longer, as if trying to make his reckoning with the sea. If I drain you, will revenge be complete? Do fishermen respect the sea? Great shivering nets of metallic shoals looped in and deported up north, a great operation exchanged between strangers with a fetish for the slivery, salty heaps of lamé. He used to keep a logbook of all the good stuff he’d caught, would bring home glistering samples of mussels and carp for tea, but now he throws it all back, unless it’s for work. Does the minimum necessary, but still brushes with death. Don’t we all…

I sometimes think, god if I went away would I miss this place? I picture myself stepping off the train with the arrogant smile of the rest that leave for places east, for the city. Coming home in summer wearing neat tight suits and smart-person glasses. How small the town would seem, a dolls house of trivial troubles compared to the vast expanse of the city, where I’d make my fortune studying law or medicine or working in some department store where all the women wear Chanel and talk as if talk were merely unfettering. The delicate unravelling of a silken scarf, the spritz of expensive everything. In contrast to such gauzy dreams, the town, I fear, is inscribed with too much of me; I need to keep an eye on it. The sedimentary deposits of my human existence, time made language. All the rocks with my name scratched deep by shards of flint and granite. If I came back, this would all seem impossibly empty. The cave where I gave my first handjob, to a boy who smelt of liquor and mint. I still remember how slowly his breath synchronised with the rhythmic lisp of the sea, quickening with the gulls that squawked and circled ever closer, concealing each blood-warming grunt.

I stopped eating meat after Luke died. The smell of fish near enough killed me, so I slept in deliberately each day to avoid the hour when the men came onto the docks with their morning haul. I burned so much incense in my room that Mother was concerned I was having a religious awakening. I grew what they call lithe and thin; I honed my time to a solitary point. Luke used to run along the beach at dusk, but he’d always bang the sand out of his trainers before stepping in the house. He shared Mother’s sense of boundaries, territory. He used to talk about the nesting patterns of gulls. Recursion, he said, was the order of birds. They knew to come home, and when. There was something magnetic, a tiny program inside their skulls.

We still don’t have his body. It never washed up; the sea hasn’t returned it, the police packed in the case a year ago now. The other boys talk solemnly and seriously about moving away: getting out of it all, the mess and the memories. I’ve drank with them down the Schooner many a time, matching them pint for pint as we flick peanuts across the table and wish we were children again, reminiscing our games on the lips of the bay. When Adam kissed me in the freezing sea mist of six in the morning, clutching me like a piece of driftwood that had wound up on his porch, I felt as though I were pressing into the deepest history, its secret flesh. I felt that final capsize, that upsurge of tide. I was glimpsing what I had missed, the darkest moment of shock and extinction. He pinned back my hair, deftly, when I vomited onto his mother’s petunias. He said ‘good girl’ after we slept together, and I was a waif in his tangle of sheets, hardly the siren I supposed myself to be. He said ‘good girl’ but he was only two years older. It was like none of us knew what to do anymore. When I asked him what the last thing Luke said was, Adam couldn’t tell me. He said they were quiet, they were fishing—that was all. They didn’t talk much at sea, like that was unlucky. The focus was always upon the catch. I stopped visiting that house on the border of town, stopped going anywhere beyond my room. I was folding myself inward, like the waves that brushed the skin of the shore. I pictured twenty black pills like black bits of bladderwrack and swallowing my mother’s precious tonic. Every day felt like a new kind of bruising. I’m not there yet. 

I still remember my first lobster. How I had slipped apart the lock of the cage, the lobster pot, to see this gangrenous thing with terrible black eyes that twitched erratically from side to side. Mother used to tell me the chef at her work would go around clacking lobster pincers near all the waitresses’ bums, until one day a woman called Meggie, the old restaurant manager, thumped him in the face and he had to finish service with his nose bleeding into the sauce. “Be more like Meggie,” she’d say sometimes, scrubbing a wine stain out of Father’s trousers, like that was lust itself. You have to twist off the legs, the claws, break at the joints, scoop out the meat from each fat claw. Iron-rich. I watched the blood-red thing die a death in boiling water, could hear a sharp hiss that sounded like more than steam. What else you had to scoop out: the long dark intestinal tract, its tangled, bedraggled remains of a life. An Escheresque recursion, a spiralling fold into self. I wonder what lobster hunger feels like, the in-suck of clams and asterisk starfish. How it feels to enter that deep, freezer sleep, among the ice cubes and packets of plastic-wrapped, soldered meat? Father clapped me on the back when I held out the shell; when later, tactfully, I stuck my fork in, needling around for the richest flesh. My body knew appetite, knew what to look for. It tasted good and strong. Now I see those orange buoys and I wonder what starving thing is perishing underneath, ready for consumption. I reset my computer because the internet never works. We are out at sea here, lost in our mutual devouring. Nobody comes to fix the signal. Nobody questions my diet at all.

My breath still sours on the windowpanes of strangers. There is no time in this town, not even at Christmas where the hours bleed together like the masses of plastic that gather along the shore. I pass the minister, who quips about the weather. Overcast as the darkness that meets us all. He doesn’t understand the patterns, the names of the clouds.

Sometimes I still see Adam. He stripped me till I was thin as cirrus, in smoky entrails of evening light. Boxing Day and I looked out with the blankets scratching my shoulders, the horizon grey and wasted. I could see Father’s boat trailing in at the dock, the shape of his cap against the grey. My skin looked grey. Something a teacher explained once, glassels: those stones that look shiny and lovely under the water, but dry a dull, disappointing matte on land. I was back in the house on the border of town. I left a little ornament, a piece with old speakers, all copper wires twanged into ersatz smiles. It’s the creepiest thing I ever made, maybe. Luke would’ve hated it; would’ve snapped it apart, made food for the waves. Sometimes we go backwards, return to the place. I think of him most when splitting vegetables, drinking Mother’s ginger wine, scrolling through Facebook on delayed connections. It’s different, now that you’re not around. I grow fragile with anaemia, spend time trying to name your fate. There’s a toast to be made to the absent, a manner of feedback; but all of that pain was already in the weather. You just had to notice.



 

Frieze Patterns for Vice City

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+0
a literal event in vast depths the mirror
of something monstrous, an atrocious
place now lengthily reproduced
they increase copulation, troubled
the origin abominable became dinner
in polemic, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pages
conjectured before observation
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiction all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
region of the index, volumes
on volumes a set examination
aback in the house on last pages
they recalled contradictions or mirrors
and spellings, agreed to event
the banal conjunction of men and reality.
+1
a literal eventuality in vast deputies the misadventure
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placebo now lengthily reproduced
they increment copulation, troubled
the original abominable became dinosaur
in police, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pageants
conjectured before observatory
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fictionalization all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
register of the indian, voluntaries
on voluntaries a set examiner
aback in the houseboat on last pageants
they recalled contraltos or misadventures
and spenders, agreed to eventuality
the banal conjurer of manacles and realm.
+2
a literal evergreen in vast derbies the misanthrope
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placement now lengthily reproduced
they incubator copulation, troubled
the originator abominable became diocese
in policeman, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pageboys
conjectured before observer
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiddle all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registrar of the indication, volunteers
on volunteers a set example
aback in the houseboy on last pageboys
they recalled contraptions or misanthropes
and spendings, agreed to evergreen
the banal conk of managements and realtor.
+3
a literal eviction in vast derelicts the misapplication
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placenta now lengthily reproduced
they incumbent copulation, troubled
the ornament abominable became dioxide
in policewoman, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pagodas
conjectured before obsession
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiddler all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registration of the indicator, vomits
on vomits a set excavator
aback in the housebreaker on last pagodas
they recalled contraries or misapplications
and spendthrifts, agreed to eviction
the banal conker of managers and ream.
+4
a literal evidence in vast derivations the misapprehension
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plagiarism now lengthily reproduced
they incursion copulation, troubled
the orphan abominable became dip
in policy, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pails
conjectured before obstacle
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fidget all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registry of the indictment, vortexes
on vortexes a set exception
aback in the housecoat on last pails
they recalled contrasts or misapprehensions
and sperms, agreed to evidence
the banal connection of manageresses and reaper.
+5
a literal evil in vast derivatives the miscarriage
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plagiarist now lengthily reproduced
they indemnity copulation, troubled
the orphanage abominable became diphthong
in polish, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pains
conjectured before obstetrician
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fief all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regress of the indignity, votes
on votes a set excerpt
aback in the housefather on last pains
they recalled contributions or miscarriages
and spermatozoons, agreed to evil
the banal connoisseur of mandarins and reappearance.
+6
a literal evildoer in vast derricks the miscellany
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plague now lengthily reproduced
they indent copulation, troubled
the orthodoxy abominable became diploma
in polisher, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable painkillers
conjectured before obstruct
it told me to confess with some undocumented
field all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regret of the indiscretion, voters
on voters a set excess
aback in the houseful on last painkillers
they recalled contributors or miscellanies
and spews, agreed to evildoer
the banal connotation of mandates and reappraisal.
+7
a literal evocation in vast dervishes the mischance
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaid now lengthily reproduced
they indentation copulation, troubled
the oscillation abominable became diplomat
in politician, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paints
conjectured before obstruction
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fielder all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regular of the indisposition, votings
on votings a set exchange
aback in the household on last paints
they recalled contrivances or mischances
and spheres, agreed to evocation
the banal conqueror of mandibles and rear.
+8
a literal evolution in vast descants the mischief-maker
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plain now lengthily reproduced
they independence copulation, troubled
the osier abominable became dipper
in politico, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintboxes
conjectured before occasion
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fieldmouse all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regularity of the individualist, vouchers
on vouchers a set excise
aback in the householder on last paintboxes
they recalled controls or mischief-makers
and sphinxes, agreed to evolution
the banal conquest of mandolins and rearrangement.
+9
a literal ewe in vast descendants the misconception
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaint now lengthily reproduced
they independent copulation, troubled
the osteopath abominable became dipstick
in politics, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintbrushes
conjectured before occupant
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiend all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regulation of the inducement, vows
on vows a set excitement
aback in the housekeeper on last paintbrushes
they recalled controllers or misconceptions
and spices, agreed to ewe
the banal conscience of mandrakes and reason.
+10
a literal ewer in vast descents the misconstruction
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaintiff now lengthily reproduced
they index copulation, troubled
the ostrich abominable became direction
in polity, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable painters
conjectured before occupation
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiesta all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regulator of the induction, vowels
on vowels a set exclamation
aback in the housemaid on last painters
they recalled controversies or misconstructions
and spiders, agreed to ewer
the banal consciousness of mandrills and reasoning.
+11
a literal exam in vast descriptions the misdeal
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plait now lengthily reproduced
they indian copulation, troubled
the otter abominable became directive
in polka, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintings
conjectured before occupier
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fife all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rehash of the indulgence, voyages
on voyages a set exclusion
aback in the houseman on last paintings
they recalled contusions or misdeals
and spikes, agreed to exam
the banal conscript of manes and reassessment.
+12
a literal examination in vast deserts the misdeed
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plan now lengthily reproduced
they indication copulation, troubled
the ounce abominable became director
in poll, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pairs
conjectured before occurrence
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fig all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rehearsal of the industrialist, voyagers
on voyagers a set exclusive
aback in the housemaster on last pairs
they recalled conundrums or misdeeds
and spillages, agreed to examination
the banal consensus of man-eaters and reassurance.
+13
a literal examiner in vast deserters the misdemeanour
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plane now lengthily reproduced
they indicator copulation, troubled
the outbreak abominable became directorate
in pollutant, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pals
conjectured before ocean
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fight all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
reign of the industry, voyeurs
on voyeurs a set excommunicate
aback in the housemother on last pals
they recalled conurbations or misdemeanours
and spins, agreed to examiner
the banal consent of mangers and rebate.
+14
a literal example in vast designs the miser
of something monstrous, an atrocious
planet now lengthily reproduced
they indictment copulation, troubled
the outbuilding abominable became directorship
in pollution, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable palaces
conjectured before octagon
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fighter all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rein of the inebriate, vultures
on vultures a set excommunication
aback in the houseplant on last palaces
they recalled convalescents or misers
and spindles, agreed to example
the banal consequence of mangles and rebel.
+15
a literal excavator in vast designations the misery
of something monstrous, an atrocious
planetarium now lengthily reproduced
they indignity copulation, troubled
the outburst abominable became directory
in poltergeist, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable palates
conjectured before octave
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fighting all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
reincarnation of the inequality, vulvas
on vulvas a set excrescence
aback in the housetop on last palates
they recalled convectors or miseries
and spines, agreed to excavator
the banal conservation of mangos and rebellion.

Playlist: September 2017

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  📀🍂💋

Late night listening to the sound of the planets :::soundtrack::: Adult Sadness Vol. 2. The sky is a dark green borrowed from a pen I once had that smelt quite rotten, not unlike the algae in the Queen’s Park pond you can’t touch because it’s poison bloom. A sign tells you. Underuse of racing ink. Toy cars with ferric metal. Lungs clotted orange. Weather for ducks. Earnest shrills in the steam//screwed repression. The feathers in my window shiver in the draught and there are many fibrous villi around my ribs that stir, muscle and sinew twitching.

Maryhill is lovely in autumn, all brick and scaffold, all concrete and leaves. Struggle of unfolding, furls come slowly their upward petals turned sunward for silk in lieu of caress. Lights glimmer vague at dusk but among rust and green there are delicious marbles of red, tiny gleams. Tin cans in windows. Glass reflects this wool coat, its pale blue shape containing my body. A scratch, diskette release. Let me know what you think of winter; it’s something I suspect we’ll disagree on. Church bells ring in distances, always three minutes out of sync. 1,2,3 (!) My alarm clock feels ornamental, like the inessential flourish of an amateur artist. Precious, the ephemeral perfection of certain ~simple~ things. Sufjan singing amethysts and flowers on the table and the gathering of leaves in dry cold fingers. A honey-tinged moment of regress. When she died we built a house out of sticks and acorns. They say they won’t break your bones. Most of us snap limbs climbing trees. Karmatic trauma of perilous branches, the wounded arborescence conveying refuscent regret.

I am sorry we both suffered. Tinge of tears: mostly the sting of decayed mascara, delayed asterism of accounts, of admin. A sort of mourning when you peel at the bark with your chipped fingernails, the roughness because you never learned to file. You liked black paint, the name ‘Lamp Black’. Technically I would stand at filing machines with a block of mahogany and a terror in my gut that I might shave off the first flesh of my knuckles if I was not careful, if my attention lapsed for a second—which of course it was liable to do. Cloud patterns, sand particles, root of palm. The tender, meaty abrasions. A leaf in the window. A fudge of trunk. A windmill pirouette in split sycamore seedling. A man at a gig with a fidget spinner, reenacting the gleeful vacuity of a faraway childhood. He likes the repetitive beat, has a fiend in each pupil. In a dream I did nothing for days and loved it.

They shoved yellow bricks on the topsoil, building a road. Composed monotony of Sunday morning, purplish as old Cadbury wrappers, melting to grey in the blinds, the unfinished business. The city got thinner; people lived off vegetable scraps, acidic drinks. The lovely vodka was tonic for the soul. Add cranberry and stir with three wishes. Lime dash, cheap taste of the bitter quarry. Trust me, this can all go away. Tartly. The beauty of how easy it can all go away. Close your eyes and reach for the dead, a charnel miasma of dark and brilliant matter. Check lunar spells, the pulpy, rhythmic etcetera. The smarted tongue of demethylated plasma. The visceral, cavernous depths of Nick Cave’s deranged baritone, the dripping blood that seeps between two tunings. My face without water. Apocalyptic nothing. Dawn skin, imitation foundation, polished silver. Wasn’t it some ride w/ flashing lights and a siren that shredded the nerves in your spine? Things recall home. A patience.

Find myself besotted by violins and even bagpipes for the first time in my life—something about the possible soaring. The violet sublime of imaginary mountains, 23 minutes from KO to summit. Duplicity. A very weird light on the river amorphous, the narrow rapture that glimpses distance. Glasgow is O so grey and so close(d), except for special streets where sky can be seen. Washed-out autumnals, palette of eyeshadow crushed upon absent downs. The baby fly drawn to the white screen light. Flicker of water. Cradling. Give it your interest, invest in gifts. Conduct flowcharts, erect monumental spreadsheets. Working for eloquent pennies and smiling at genuine occasions, deferring the plunge of a vast anxiety.

Chance encounters with beloved people. It’s getting chilly; I notice the wisps of gold on your fingers. Tiny clatter of teaspoon, agreement. Just the want of nourishing. Can I help you with…? Careless loungewear. Languidly envisioning bike rides and the sweet nicotine of his neck, maybe not present or else a taurine sunset burst harsh on canals. Walking hours just for circling. Euphoria of autumn, the crapulent auroras of thought. Remember me here and here alone. Deepen the nauseous voices with chlorine, the temporal wound of music which eked out several nights, no grace. Brain fog(?) / darling the chosen cottage was swamped in starlings. She wants it! In my milky cocoon I slip into sea. A truly invisible misery that flourishes with absence of sunlight. Yet these have been glorious days, phantasmic fall. Lagoons of jewelline, arboreal beauty. How far the pretty trees seem, so close to fading. These are the first weeks. A new leaf being this fragile contusion, gilded with flavanols.

September a full month, fat on Lindt-rich dusks, transitioning through ending. (Un)start a record. What we write being less than unwanted dreams of childhood bedrooms. A still-written diary, a remark of childish handwriting. Sometimes the sound of the lock recalls being young and waiting at a table with homework, the dog snoring. Absence wafts through floorboards; the city flats have hallways that smell of spices and home-cooked food. The luxury of illusions. Homegrown squash from the neighbour’s garden; a generous, ministerial grin. Star Trek boxsets. Subway blasting ersatz fumes of bread. Give us our (daily) bread, your most aesthetic cucumber shred. Flour turns to flower in the whirl of a trip, slappy hour calyx. Fetishistic love for cigarettes; loathed tobacco discount nausea. Too long among clouds of nitrate, butane. Stealing the stuff in bars when hungry, letting the soothing crunch give seconds of life. Keep walking, look focused. Be watery, light. Release apophenic reactions to overwhelming reverie. Let the glassy-eyed night remain hypothetical, lull your throat with cinnamon tea. Play for 2hrs+ and expect no refunds.

A coruscating, honest energy; a heartbreak falsetto. Be mine, be mine. It’s a love-heart candy or Spinning Coin song or a leaf trampled wax-red in the rain. The gleaming of  complexions fed on beta-carotene. Waiting for the top to stop, its twirl collapses the triplet realities. Trap pop and unripe nectarines, paring of skin. Wake me up when. The haunting/ed seventh circle. Shellac memories comb trellising mystery. The Lynchian roar of Mercury’s industry. Chewing dates for luck, mulling imminent (Pause) the solitary red-berried rowans at church. Each apparition of Sebaldian land: the Suffolk coast, the labyrinth; the breathlessness of melancholics. Krapp’s remembered lighthouse, Sarah Palmer’s ceiling fan. Again, the twirling. Things that keep me awake, the static turning geometric shapes. Cyclonic diagrams of elsewhere tornados. Gently, side to side, a new tossed pound from the mint. A fresh pack of gum going stale in the rucksack. Suspense! Many day trips or nights you hoped might go on. Graveyard hookups. Rain lashes, splashes, makes it deluge a cache of murmuring sound, of hypnotic water, a lariat looping nutritious conditionals. I listen in sleep, I fall asleep to rainymood and its ambient coolness unsettles the sheets, loses the cookies. Precipitation is a quality of the tongue, without moving a lively swill of ice, of breezy smiles. Full in the no-going, the onward falling. Tell me your everything. Swaying skeletal trees are absurd. If you were in a flat and on someone’s floor and the furniture spoke to you. Be mine, be mine. September’s coming soon / blinded by the moon. Things which trigger the shifting year. Seasons are an art form in letting go of an Earth; molecular moves manifest as scent, burnish, colour. Smoke gets in your eyes, the squint-making light. Rush of the somewhere tap, free cold water, accompanied nights.

Close out. Pluto a drone in the back of my mind, the x-rays made of millioning crystals, lattices cut on the frost of midnight. At what time, the secret ossified entry beckons. Baudrillard winks with a follow me, as if he knew the currency of emoji. Emotional seduction. I say it in loathing, stuck on the affluent salt of my copper-hued cravings. You are an apple pie with a crust of ashes, you are the zone of the saddest parties/pastries. Someone taught me Jupiter’s salad of flames, or gestured towards her salubrious eye. The sky retains that tip of fire, spilt ink of other-terrestrial planes. Sonorous longing, your favourite spooky IPA. We need a holiday and a coffee, a combined electricity of homeostasis. Human profusion: a pool of Buckfast, VHS reels, vacant pleasures. Layered bodies, microbials enmeshed. SmoOoo00oth. Hatched exactitudes coke residue lumps of OCD. All good people are slowly leaving. New ecosystems persist less algorithmic than ferns, but equal to measure of possible lushness, the spiral and point of rising life. These addictions enriched with chromatic schemes of arguments and gin, or whatever the superlative spice. A price on each arrogant lacquer, a month out of season, already stewing. Braeburns juice the pallid enamel, keep us up stung without sleep. Tell me I’m leaving.

*

Car Seat Headrest – Drunk Drivers/Killer Whales

The Pastels – If I Could Tell You

The Delgados – The Past That Suits You Best

Roddy Woomble – Every Line of a Long Moment

Savage Mansion – Do You Say Hello To Your Neighbours?

Spinning Coin – Albany

Angel Olsen – Special

Frightened Rabbit feat. Julien Baker – How It Gets In

Jane Weaver – Modern Kosmology

Four Tet – Lush

Gross Net – Citadel Ghosts

Slowdive – Trellisaze

LCD Soundsystem – black screen

Bob Dylan – Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right

The Horrors – Gathering

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds – Push The Sky Away

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