Interlude.

May 22, 2011 § Leave a comment

Order has not been restored, although Indie and I have become much closer. Last night we filmed ourselves dancing about the room, wearing two of his great wooden African masks – I shall try and upload them, for it is very funny. I am glad we have become close, although it is a little like the blind leading the blind also. We are both so in thrall to the intoxicants, the drink, the smoking. I try as hard as much as I can to abstain from these things around him, as he is trying to be in recovery. Now, his eyes are becoming alight and curious again, like an animal once abused who has finally found a safe home.The thought of his lost love causes him great pains, and we have spent many nights talking until the birds begin to sing about the mysteries of love.

Jette is having a little fashion show at an alternative club tonight, it is a wild place, and there are many painters including myself who exhibit there and perform poetry and things on certain nights. The barman is gruff and sulky, a great bearlike man who I do not think really likes any humans; but the people who run the evenings for bohemians are most easy to get on with. Phi in particular is smiling always, he has a great shock of hair and is wearing thin bright purple jeans all the time. Mattias is in tweed nearly always, a pipe or french cigarettes upon him, and the smoke curls out from under the rim of his trilby, as though his face is formless and demonic in the half light of the bar. He wears his straw yellow hair as though it were a second hat, and has a curious monotone way of speech as though his tongue were of lead.

Why I am here, what I am doing.

May 19, 2011 § 2 Comments

England is a beautiful country. Of course, there are many beautiful countries in the world, I would love to see the great mountain forests of America, and the vast red deserts and rock formations of there and the Australian Outback. I would love to sail down the pure Arctic rivers, past the little villages on the edge of inhospitable icelands. I would love to be in Italy, and marvel at the ancient hills, dusty roads with their shivering poplars and olive trees. Oh, to travel, the most marvellous thing!

I love capital cities so; Prague, where the Winter is biting cruel but yet still full of tourists jauntily sipping the hot, sugary wine in the charming and beautiful Old Town. I love Krakow, Paris, Dublin not so much, but still good, and now London. What a crazy city London is, what a lovely, vital, filthy, immense, dangerous sense of history, as though it were lead, weighting and warping  the air around it. The many books I have read of historical (if perhaps, a more  fictional) London are full of wonder, how it has swallowed up all the towns around it, fed its monster with villages and suburbs. The great river, dirty and ancient; with its ships and barges bringing fish and meat and all things from the coast to the leaning tenaments. The cramped alleyways, single glass panes streaked with grime, little cellar theatres and gin bars and green parks frequented by very hardy birds.

I am here because it is not life to remain always in the one place – whether in body or in mind. If a person’s body cannot travel, can their mind wander plains unknown even on this Earth? I wondered with my legs when they were bad what I might do, but resolved to travel the world anway, even if it was on two sticks. But what about the people who need to carry the oxygen and things? Or are paralysed from an accident? How is travel happening in their spirit? I do not know.

My life was stifled and small in my home place. The air is freer here, there is not the sense of  oppression I am feeling often. In London, you can be anyone! You can be artist and political and say what you think! You are not subject to the law of a country run by religion – what a silly thing this is – to use any church and its ancient ideals as the seat of government in a modern Earth. The things I am doing here are simply to be true. I know that I am not destined to be great artist, or writer  – but I can hope that by expressing all these art things that are the bedrock of my soul, that my seconds here are more meaningful and devoted to happiness than not. In my art also I am coming closer both to other people and to God, and this cannot be a bad thing.

Cracks in the wall.

May 3, 2011 § Leave a comment

Jette has been very cynical about the wedding. I showed her the few photographs I took of my beautiful friends being married in an ancient pagan way, in a wild place, and she has turned up her nose, and sniffed, and declared to me that marriage, even that which is most unconventional, is ‘bourgeois’.

Now, this is making me quite angry. I do believe that marriage is a wonderful thing, the pledging of shared lives, love sealed with a kiss before the world. Even Picasso was married three times, and prince of bohemians Modigliani took his tragic muse Jeanne as his common-law wife. I am telling her this with a shrug. I am not ashamed to say that I often do not like Jette very much – she is keen to pounce upon the things she cannot have or understand and declare them silly and worthless, without knowing so much about them. Perhaps she is simply never wanting to get married herself, perhaps she would love to but does not think she will ever find the person and this makes her bitter and venomous as a little snake in a clenched fist. I do not know.

Then, she flies into a rage because she has bought some jeans from the internet, and they have sent the wrong size again, so she will have to post them back and fill out forms and wait. I am clutching the photo of my smiling friends in my hand as she talks, and feel the childish impulse building within me. I stop her, I spit hypocrite, saying that buying expensive jeans online is much more bourgeois than marriage, and that maybe the universe is telling her she does not need so many clothes.  So now she is not speaking to me.

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