geronimo

Trying to find something to puncture up through this plateau, add a little colour to the place. Imagine a moor -- are you thinking of it? -- heather twined together, looking purple on top but tangled and impenetrable down to their roots; add a slight breeze, and clouds overhead. Imagine a bird, just one, bellowing as it disappears. Hold that thought in your mind. Now just wait and imagine the person that will come up -- wait for them, the inevitable -- and they will say something like, "It's so quiet here it's noisy." Then, as you are only imagining, you won't feel any guilt about kicking them in the teeth for being so downsighted and glib.

Unfortunately both you and the imaginary person are correct, and this is the peril of a Sunday afternoon. Kick. Teeth. Won't happen again.

Observations for the day:
- Typing, however ferocious, is not real exercise.
- No one person has enough to fill up a blog, unless they dig up all their shameless thoughts or effect a mode of hyperactivity: "Man I did three skydives today and it was like... woosh!... the first time, wind parting my hair into some wholly new style that could definitely become all the rage. And, and, dude, can you think how liberating it is, just to be falling, not held up by anything, man but still totally fixed for a few minutes. I don't believe in God but that was a gift from gravity! ... ... ... The next two jumps were, like, quite ace too. We, like, shouted something different when we jumped out. Honestly how clichéd is Geronimo!?"
- Missing the working week when it is only hours away proves I have a sad existence, but at least I'm not living for the weekend (otherwise I'd have to kick myself in the teeth).

If I go to watch an Italian film on my own that will be fine. That will take up time unspendable, until I can use up the whole week and then go to London.

Midweek.

There has been no reply from Bagpuss. It is a wait seemingly interminable, but which folds down conveniently into a space no bigger than a rolled-up cagoule. Needless to say I crave attention for my blog, even if it must be in the form of personal abuse. There was a time in Paris where he was to meet me for drinks, and then didn't. When he eventually sent me a telegram it was an intellectual contrivance far beyond my means or drug-intake to understand, and so I took it as abuse.

There are times, my dear, when things do not turn out as planned; grandest ambitions for pastis over our beloved Seine bridge round about sunset (what shite, what were you thinking?). So rent usunder like Stanley & Livingstone in that putrid novel of yours we are. I have been drinking, but I do have your copy of Naked Lunch. Stole it. Fuck off. Telegram!

This was very much his style back then, even if I have just paraphrased it off the top of my head. So yes, I am teaching myself not to be overambitious, particularly where bizarre twisted hopes are dependent on someone else. My putrid novel continues to astonish me (I read back over the last thirty pages today): Dr Johnson had a thing about cats, I learnt, and so now they will appear in every scene. That aside, there are minor gaps to paste over and the words THE END to write in capital letters, just like that.

The weather continues to be indifferent, mooching. One of these days we shall come to blows, and I'll joust him with my titanium umbrella.

The queen is dead boys

Good morning humanity. I have deemed all those people caught up in the fad of microblogging to be too smug by half. I cannot condense myself down like the glorious drippings of beef and red wine and the noble triumvirate of stock vegetables and then drizzle. And so I am restarting my blog, worrying less about pictures and more about the spelling. My old blog is called oculardexerity, because it is only a word I normally type sixteen times a day, so the once my spelling of it needed to be right, it wasn't.

In other news, Bagpuss is dead.

I did him in.

He came round one evening in Paris, gillswigging the ol' Vieux Papes and half a gauloise hanging off his lips. That dropped and set fire to the carpet. Then he made himself an omlette. I fled the country, with nothing to defend my honour save a kitchen knife wrapped in our finest tea-towel.

So he is dead: "He was found out?" "Yes, the doctors found out the Bunbury couldn't live, so Bunbury died." He is in Paris somewhere, I don't doubt. So far I have had a postcard and an e-mail and a Facebook message, the last of which told me to fuck off.

I will post him the link to this blog. If he can resist replying, that means he is actually dead.

Today I was stuck on a bus, the smallest in the world. I sat talking to Dante, who rated it highly -- or lowly -- especially when his iPod ran out. Dante is a sucker for twee indie pop. Camera Obscura occupies the third cirlce of hell. For tea there was monkfish. I christened him Thelonius, then had him with potatoes and mange tout. I did.

Wind is in the west, a barometer gives no accurate indication of my mood, and the music is Grizzly Bear. I have only heard the new album, not stolen it.