{THE PILL BOX } spacer
spacer
spacer
powered by blogger

{Friday}

 
11 - 12 FRUCTIDOR
11:23 - 12:55 - 2:12 am

A-H YES!!
ONE OF THOSE GEORGES BATAILLE MOMENTS IN THE CITY
WHICH I'M SURE EVERYBODY ...


OK.
My emotional state as an a priori, the set up to this sight gag:
... let's say ... a ping pong ball on a shoot of water, like you see at certain fun fairs ... ?

I went further than I knew ...

West End: I've just spent a marvellous evening with my friends C. & E.; have divested myself of all manner of emotional perplexity, clouds, subtext, narratives you wouldn't believe {and which you're never going to catch me even hinting at here ... even if they explain everything to come ...

Tottenham Court Rd. Late.
Choice, then: do I wait for and get the 29 bus or take the easy option and go Warren St for the easy Victoria Line home?

Tube.

So: on to the tube.

I unwrap my reading matter:
Mr S: The Last Word on FRANK SINATRA

- but my eye is caught by and some sidereal side of I. far more interested in the couple opposite ...

{So far so common, I imagine: yes?}

Two girls/women.
Young; but ... I don't know.
I really don't know.

One: femme, long blonde hair, conventionally attractive, in my estimation perhaps pretty far gone pissed. Pleading intermittantly with her ... partner? Friend? Girlfriend? {What does that mean? What can that mean?} Well dressed. Rosiness round nose and cheeks. Voloptuous. Nice blouse: Bridget Riley goes Top Shop.

They're arguing.
About what?
About somebody.
That much is clear.
She isn't worthy. So and so isn't ...
Disagreement.

The other: opposite.

{You should know, reading this: I'm still pretty wasted myself, even as I write/record this. No gap. Don't wait til morning. Record it all NOW.}

I can't take my eyes off the Other One.
Imagine Brett Anderson in the first weeks of Suede's first flush, except ... except a 1,000 times ... more naturally, less affectedly sexy. Feminine but not femme. What do I call her? Girl? Woman? Other? All cliches.

She spreads her corduroy legs ... w-i-d-e.

Slouchs.

Between corduroy waistband and black shirt top: that girl stomach. Not "fat" {don't be a pillock, be an aesthete}, just that lovely natural woman stomach: the way it should be.
God, I love this.
I find this, her, magnetic.
Not in a "she's my type" way, but in a Perfect Pop Star way almost: you know, I want, but I don't know what I want. And that wonderful undertow suggestion that even if you did get even a private minute of what you "want", here, it might just sneerily destroy you.
Or disdain to: whichever would perplex you most.

That un-fake-able "x" factor, simultaneously diffuse and razor sharp on your eye's membrane. {I'm reminded of certain photos from a book I'm currently reading: Syd Barrett ... in his mid 60s prime, an image he put together with a GIRLFRIEND. Two become one. Not girl. not boy, just ... AH: I SEE.}

I'm interesting
You think I'm interesting
Like the Apocalypse*


Absolute magnetism here, but not ... desire; or not the disastrous kind of desire that leads to jealousy, say.

Incinerator this is not about sex
It's about a personal slant
You like to watch me I like to disappear.


A thousand times over in my long London life I have sat right here in this spot: pissed, enchanted. And wanting to just SPEAK UP and say: you are beautiful, and your beauty adds to the total bounty of wonder and ... {I wonder: am I pissed? You know how you're safe and secure and soberish in a friend's house ... revealingly articulate even ... and then suddenly ... in the Outside ...}

Thinking: this person is PERFECT.
On their OWN terms.
The difference here is - I feel disinterested {my heart, for instance, is elsewhere, already} ... this is more like a WORK OF ART. Short ink black hair. Short sleeved black shirt. Hipster corduroy pants. Dub shoes. And her white face and her IMPATIENT eyes ... oh, honey, you take me back 24 years ... {yes, yes ... I remember now ..}

And I have sat on tube trains, pissed, a thousand thousand times, at this time of night, constructing POETRY in my head to declaim to such faces, such bodies, such ATTITUDE.

But ... I never say anything.

I keep stretching my ears to try and radar in on their argument ...
I keep snatching gazes at the Other's face, 'tude, bod.
She slouches, legs WIDE; till her {girl?}friend tells her not to: specifically tells her to reign one leg in.

I am SMIITEN; but smitten like ... like seeing Anna Karina in VIVRE SA VIE. {TEARS in the cinema ...}
It feels monochrome. Vivid.
Her imperious disinterest, slouch, refusal to argue with the messy, pissed, pleading {girl?}friend.

This is GLAMOUR. I understand.

The tube bumps toward my stop: Finsbury Park.
End of my poetry lines.

Destiny stealth locomotive desire
Say what you mean


I probably have an idiot grin on my face; weight lifted off my mind by looong talk with gooood friends tongiht.

I love the world again.

I want to ... BE NEW.
Mark it.

The train stops.

Will I finally do it?
After 25 years?

I swing towards the sssshh suddenly OPEN door ...
... and then, my hand on the pole, I could swing either way, we can swing either way, RIGHT NOW, towards the scarey NEW or the lipshut old, I suddenly stop, idiot joy in my veins, BATAILLE IS MY GOD, the heartbeat feeling of "ah ..." is my goddess, the city is my monkey rung, i WANT nothing from this moment, idiot joy NOTHING, so I lean in, and say, quietly polite: "Excuse me... ? I think you are awesomely beautiful .. .and powerful." And then swing away, out the door, not even waiting for a reaction {also: the doors will shut soon ...}

* ** ***

But when I do the (f)an dance ...
I'm all the red in China ...


*** ** *

S-w-i-n-g out like Audrey Hepburn or Anna Karina in a Sixites flick.

And then fall flat on my arse.

I swing from the train .. and FALL FLAT ON MY ARSE.
New shoes. Skiddy surfaces. {Really: I'm not that pissed.}

A lovely passing hip-hop kid asks me if I'm alright?
{Pissed old fart.}

And then ... I BURST into JOYOUS laughter all the way home.

I have already decided, without ANY thought: I love every element of this: the more I think about it: how perfect every element seems.
How necessary.

The words I proffer.
{Oh, so cool!}
The falling flat on my arse.
The genuine offer of care/help {from this genuinely concerned - You alright mate? - young hiphop kid - the kind of kid I have maybe lately maligned on this page.}

All - all, taken together, propel me into the higher regions of happiness and unfettered joy and hysterical laughter.

Not one bit of this should be changed or denied.

I lean in: I see her face {young? no. old? no. plain? no. pretty ? no} up close and I say:
"Excuse me, but I think you are awesomely beautiful .. and powerful."

I have no idea, in a way.
I have no idea what effect
I have no idea whether I should have.
{Is there an ethics of pissed compliments?}
I have no idea ...
period.

I FEEL WIDE OPEN

I don't know, but I just know I have bitten my tongue for years and now I finally don't.

A basketball game in progress in my heart.

So high, so low.
TIME OUT.

The secrets that you want to know are yours not mine
Longing may kill me I can't keep my mind
On my distractions my drugs or my dreams
Say what you mean


OK?

AH, who knows ...

*** ** *

All quotes: {thankyou S.} Sam Phillips.

posted by Ian 8/29/2003 02:13:00 AM

Comments: Post a Comment
spacer