Monday, 28 April 2008

“What a scummy man”

I have ‘Mardy Bum’ playing over and over in my head. It’s been playing since some time on Saturday evening. What a catchy little riff. We had a good night at the Red Room, and thankfully, this time I remember a bit more of it than I do from the previous occasion. Otherwise I’d be very concerned and wondering why my body is stiff and a little achy…

I am not on the whole remorseful, how could I be when I knew full well what I was doing, and the end could plainly be seen before it began?

Also to be thankful for is the fact that in less than three weeks I’m leaving the country and in doing so, a few memory triggers that I should just rather forget. But it’s my silly romanticism that keeps getting in the way. Hah! Love!

I don’t want to forget though, and I wont forget that last time, the white lines, the watery eyes of the big man, the bright glare of the early morning, I wont forget the druggies bed and that I slept. We all need affection and a friend…I have a restless desire only for the drama of romance and of the reconciliation that comes with it. The beauty, and then the sword, tears, pleading and…release. The drama was legendary, but it is time for new reminiscences.

Reading up about the lovely Miss Pamela Courson, it turns out she was a quiet child, a bit of a recluse who didn’t mix well with the neighbors children. Which brings me to a thought on childhood. We make excellent children, we play, we daydream and frolic the hours away, our imaginations aimless and free, drifting to wherever they may take us; however, as adults we just can’t cut it. We turn to narcotics, booze and inappropriate partners, loving the abuse we receive at their hands. Then, at the age of 27 take just a little too much heroin and it's all over.

Tuesday, 22 April 2008

It's like Billy Corgan all over again.

Another evening watching Pete and Carl on Youtube…kinda sad I realize but it’s too cold to even consider going out. Ah, what is about dirty rock stars, mmmh, British ones at that?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7xg5MAQ3dAU&feature=related

I'm doomed.

Saturday, 19 April 2008

The close.

Looking outside my window, the day is grey, a little cold and threatening to rain some more. It matches my contemplative mood. I’m not down at all, just kind of thoughtful. I’m thinking of the deceit I’ve seen and the games…I’m curious, but I wont let on. I’m thinking about the more recent past too. It’s not easy to not let my mind wonder at these things. But it is less difficult for others to remember.

I must get ready to go out. More blog to follow...

Oh but before I sign off, this poem often comes to mind, I learned it by heart years ago.

"The Expiration"

So, so, break off this last lamenting kiss,
Which sucks two souls, and vapours both away;
Turn thou ghost, that way, and let me turn this,
And let ourselves benight our happiest day.
We ask none leave to love; nor will we owe
Any so cheap a death as saying, "Go."
Go; and if that word have not quite killed thee,
Ease me with death, by bidding me go too.
Or if it have, let my word work on me,
And a just office on a murderer do.
Except it be too late, to kill me so,
Being double dead, going, and bidding, "Go."

- John Donne -

Monday, 14 April 2008

To be taller and thinner.

I’ve become a serial blogger.

The thought came to me earlier, it’s not a new thought, just one that crops up every now and then. It goes something along these lines:
Generally, on the whole, women make very poor rock heroes, poets and by and large anything really noteworthy. (I may get a public flogging for this statement) I’m been pretty hard on my gender, but it’s fairly accurate I’d say. We’re only ever really noted if we are particularly beautiful or a totally out of the ordinary great and unusual singer. So this is my predicament…I’m not beautiful and I certainly cannot sing and even if I were a poet, I wouldn’t write anything that would go down alongside the likes of Dylan Thomas, John Donne or William Blake (may I add Pete Doherty in there?). Consequently, if I cannot be an arm piece to a brilliant musician / poet, it’s best I continue to dress like a boy and day dream of them from a distance. I’m just not Kate Moss, nor a 19 year old Brazilian model with fantastic bone structure.

And so, I've decided to become all emo and dramatic. This is my tragic and dramatic look, can't you tell? Sigh.




Oh bother.

I'm feeling a little tense this morning, I think it started when my replacement had the impertinence to park in MY PARKING SPOT…I mean flippen hell, I’m still here for another 2 weeks dammit. It just wound me up, I’m not usually petty I don’t think..I think maybe it comes from weeks of been felt up at my desk finally coming out in a rage over my spot. You know, misplaced anger issues. I think she may be avoiding me a little now. Ah well.

Today, that means from 9 o'clock onwards, I will try and be patient, charming and gentle. I will not be a bitch to the new lady (where is this anger coming from I wonder?) I will get all of my work out on time. I will not spend the better part of the day perving over dirty rock stars. What good intentions for a monday morning.

Right then, best get to it.

Sunday, 13 April 2008

Little unexpected pleasures

We had a pleasantly different Saturday night. It was pretty awesome really, and also quite unexpected. Nols, Sandra and me went to the St Pauls church in Mulbarton where the Drum Café came to us and gave us an hour of drumming for half the usual price. We drummed until I was convinced I’d broken my thumb bone, but since it didn’t swell I was reassured that it would be fine. Then we listened to the band play and giggled whilst sitting on the floor on cushions drinking coffee and sharing chocolate chip and ginger biscuits. We proceeded on to News Café and drank non-alcoholic daiquiris. Such lovely people and I’m a little sad that I will be leaving them all just as I begin to kinda like them and actually get up the courage to strike up conversations with them.

The doom and gloom has begun. At various intervals either Sandra or Nola would look at me, become all somber and say something sad. Shit I’m going to miss my friends. I do love them dearly and I’m not sure how I’ll cope without them. How will I be able to judge if I’m dressed like a total dork, dancing like an idiot or going for a bloke who is either a) married, b) a total arse, or c) gay? Ugh.

Thursday, 10 April 2008

Back in the pokey.

Today it is real. Talking to John earlier today and discussing all of the places I’ll visit and see brought it all home to me, and I’m really excited and rather quite happy. I’ve been listening to Dean Martin, munching on chocolate until my vision blurred (should that concern me?) and trying to decide what I should pack…yes, five weeks in advance.

Oh…poor Pete has been chucked back into prison. Sigh. For a ‘genius’ he seems to be fairly silly in not been able to avoid been thrown behind bars again. Definitely scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one I know. Still, one should always be in love, and this way it’s totally safe and he will never break my heart.

Tuesday, 8 April 2008

Buggering off...

After one hell of a tense day yesterday, I finally received the phone call to say that I am going to England. Instead of the relief that I was expecting to feel, I just felt the same as I had up until that moment: edgy. I went home, got into my pjs, ate a delicious supper, went to bed and lay there unable to sleep for hours. When I eventually fell asleep I was plagued by the most bizarre dreams…something along the lines of been the ‘other woman’ to a long haired, Hugh Grant look-alike who was in actual fact a truck driver who drove from England to Japan daily. Wtf, I know.

Today was better. I had a fair amount of people on the other side of the phone who say that they prefer my voice and who seem to be at least a little saddened at my imminent going away. Thank goodness for small blessings ‘ey? It brightens my day to know that someone in Harrismith who has seen me all but once will miss my mindless chatter. I feel that maybe I do mean something to at least a handful of friends…one who will cry for me on this side, and one who is counting the days until I fly in to Gatwick, travel weary and smelly. Why is it that I expected a little bit more though? I’m not sure what I was expecting, certainly not a carnival of party people coming to wish me well and send me off with gifts and kisses…but something…something is just missing. I suppose it was just me, working myself into some appalling frenzy and it ended up an anticlimax.

I am excited, but it isn’t real just yet. I’m going away. And for fear that I make myself cry, I am going to blog about something else. But first…isn’t it pretty?? My very own visa…such a small piece of bastard paper that made me agonize for so long!

So tonight I am lying on the couch with blankies, chocolate, Bridget Jones and Mark Darcy. It’s British, I’m a customizing myself to the new culture…I’ve learned so far that unless a man looks at you the way that Mark looks at Bridget: chuck him, leave him on the street in broken glass and his own blood…slimy Daniel Cleaver. Very fancy-able though…hmmm.

Friday, 4 April 2008

My replacement

The title gives it away. This past week I’ve been sharing my office with ‘the new lady’. It would be alright if the only thing I’d have to do is keep my “explicit lyric” music down a notch or two…but it’s more than that. At regular intervals throughout the day I get charged at, her arms are flung around me, she presses her cheek to mine and asks me if I’m alright, if I’m crying, if I have been crying or if I’m about to start crying?? Well, yeah…keep that up and I’ll be in tears in no flippen time, now leave me the hell alone. I’m not sure what all of the concern is about, does she WANT me to cry?

But no, I ought to be more gracious and tolerant, she’s had a rough patch and I should be more kind. I did, however, warn them that I thought she might be a little on the touched side, but they wouldn't listen...and now I fear for the future of my little front office...it was a happy place. Alas.

So in conclusion…next week I will contentedly continue to belt out “What a waster, what a fucking waster, You pissed it all up the wall, Round the corner where they chased her” along with dodgy, dirty Pete. What a poet, what a rock star.