Ave Maria - "I don't want a lot for Christmas"
It's the song of the evening. "So far betrayed." It's a night of forcings. Him to be comfortable and not just watch, she to dance and get out of bed; he to smirk, too much. It's a night of not-being-able-to-feel-like-were-living-out-of-cliches-or-at-least-hyphens-and-to-feel-like-we're-living-our-age-and-not-like-ten-or-some-odd-years-behind. As I've said, I'm not good with change, but God ... I love watching change at times ... "he said i was getting fat ... he said no one was going to fancy a girl with thighs the size of big tree-trunks." I love watching things waste away and watching things bulge and break. It's, really, really, really, more "theoretical", or some inexplicable shit than wanky high school cutting.
I got a letter from my grandmother, on my father's side. It's a hailing of sorts: hail old age, hail bitterness, hail being-right-all-along, hail told-you-so. Always better on the-other-side, hail the LU and 'butler-ing': the RADA. I can never tell if the 'other side', to her, is Irish or American ... perhaps it's simply 'notEnglish'. There's this really lame metaphor I used when I was in high school. My father was more wealthy, and would take me with him when he visited his family in Cornwall, near Arthur's birth-place. I wore a red-thread around my wrist .... it was a blood line ... there was some pathetic nationalistic Heaney poem or something ... (the ellipses are the stammering awkwardness of admitting some pathetic teenage-tactic to feel closer to something not entirely touched). The red thread, all Arab Strap aside, was the connection to my, much poorer, much more emotional, Irish family, to whom I feel some actual connection. And, I mean really, not poor, not some actual class connotation thing - he owns fucking woolen shops around the Gaeltacht preying on green-trash tourists, as would be the likes of me, were I not his nephew.
All I can really remember about Galway, or at least his shop front, is its brilliant (as in, bright, not smart) orange front, and the fucking seagulls that dove from the top of the church in town to our heads as we went to spend money on poorly-woven woolen-wear. The church was, apparently, where one of Christopher Columbus' ships preyed to find the New World. How's that for an island defined through exile?
There's something tenuous about memory, or at least wishing to be-there-again. Old zip codes coming to mind, other than the few significant times when meaning has nothing to do with what I'm saying, and has more to do with the feeling of putting out a cigarette an inch too short of the ashtray, accidentally, oh so accidentally, without barbs, on the desktop. There are no barbs on your sides, I know.(!!) "With all do respect, Sir, they were bad policies." God damnit, no mismeaning. But still wishing we could be there: old husbands, lovers and wives far more significant to our 'SELVES' (speaking of sad symbols that make us who we are today, and make the other respond to ... those who are US in sad and alarming ways) than the present, and with music far, oh so far, too quiet, trying to be as loud as it was then, and dancing afraid, in front of her, in a way it never was in front of strangers. There were bonfires which made it feel so much more significant. Burning always leads way to dance in a way that drunkenness always leads way to meaningful photography. Too fucking scared in front of things that should make once comfortable, oh so more comfortable than any other. (where the hell else should one else be comfortable?) Dancing is always easier when it needn't matter ... Christ, mattering means so much more when it doesn't matter, as does nattering (hence the naked chicks on the blog-site, eh?). Ave atque vale.
I also remember a street performer in Galway. I lied about not remembering. I remember her calves. She wore red circles on her cheeks, and huge red lips. I actually talked to her, started the conversation and all when I was about 14. She had studied in Germany. Purely on the street - not quite the school of hardknocks, but the street-of-street-performers none-the-less. She stood Perfectly still, waiting for people to throw some money into a cup, when she'd spring to life like a medieval cog-and-spring. She'd dance. It was a crooked dance with change falling into a porkpie hat/cup. She'd fly under her too-small but perfectly covering her calves dress. Lots of lace, not quite rotten as the wallowing-goths out there would have it. Pajaro. Ave maria. She wouldn't dance quite the robot, nor would she be the marionette, she would be the resentful-marionette. She would dance with all her sex and ripped white lace skirt red cheeks and lips. But she made the change to sing like Schubert to her LandLord, lost. I think I fell in love at fourteen without quite realizing it.
It's the song of the evening. "So far betrayed." It's a night of forcings. Him to be comfortable and not just watch, she to dance and get out of bed; he to smirk, too much. It's a night of not-being-able-to-feel-like-were-living-out-of-cliches-or-at-least-hyphens-and-to-feel-like-we're-living-our-age-and-not-like-ten-or-some-odd-years-behind. As I've said, I'm not good with change, but God ... I love watching change at times ... "he said i was getting fat ... he said no one was going to fancy a girl with thighs the size of big tree-trunks." I love watching things waste away and watching things bulge and break. It's, really, really, really, more "theoretical", or some inexplicable shit than wanky high school cutting.
I got a letter from my grandmother, on my father's side. It's a hailing of sorts: hail old age, hail bitterness, hail being-right-all-along, hail told-you-so. Always better on the-other-side, hail the LU and 'butler-ing': the RADA. I can never tell if the 'other side', to her, is Irish or American ... perhaps it's simply 'notEnglish'. There's this really lame metaphor I used when I was in high school. My father was more wealthy, and would take me with him when he visited his family in Cornwall, near Arthur's birth-place. I wore a red-thread around my wrist .... it was a blood line ... there was some pathetic nationalistic Heaney poem or something ... (the ellipses are the stammering awkwardness of admitting some pathetic teenage-tactic to feel closer to something not entirely touched). The red thread, all Arab Strap aside, was the connection to my, much poorer, much more emotional, Irish family, to whom I feel some actual connection. And, I mean really, not poor, not some actual class connotation thing - he owns fucking woolen shops around the Gaeltacht preying on green-trash tourists, as would be the likes of me, were I not his nephew.
All I can really remember about Galway, or at least his shop front, is its brilliant (as in, bright, not smart) orange front, and the fucking seagulls that dove from the top of the church in town to our heads as we went to spend money on poorly-woven woolen-wear. The church was, apparently, where one of Christopher Columbus' ships preyed to find the New World. How's that for an island defined through exile?
There's something tenuous about memory, or at least wishing to be-there-again. Old zip codes coming to mind, other than the few significant times when meaning has nothing to do with what I'm saying, and has more to do with the feeling of putting out a cigarette an inch too short of the ashtray, accidentally, oh so accidentally, without barbs, on the desktop. There are no barbs on your sides, I know.(!!) "With all do respect, Sir, they were bad policies." God damnit, no mismeaning. But still wishing we could be there: old husbands, lovers and wives far more significant to our 'SELVES' (speaking of sad symbols that make us who we are today, and make the other respond to ... those who are US in sad and alarming ways) than the present, and with music far, oh so far, too quiet, trying to be as loud as it was then, and dancing afraid, in front of her, in a way it never was in front of strangers. There were bonfires which made it feel so much more significant. Burning always leads way to dance in a way that drunkenness always leads way to meaningful photography. Too fucking scared in front of things that should make once comfortable, oh so more comfortable than any other. (where the hell else should one else be comfortable?) Dancing is always easier when it needn't matter ... Christ, mattering means so much more when it doesn't matter, as does nattering (hence the naked chicks on the blog-site, eh?). Ave atque vale.
I also remember a street performer in Galway. I lied about not remembering. I remember her calves. She wore red circles on her cheeks, and huge red lips. I actually talked to her, started the conversation and all when I was about 14. She had studied in Germany. Purely on the street - not quite the school of hardknocks, but the street-of-street-performers none-the-less. She stood Perfectly still, waiting for people to throw some money into a cup, when she'd spring to life like a medieval cog-and-spring. She'd dance. It was a crooked dance with change falling into a porkpie hat/cup. She'd fly under her too-small but perfectly covering her calves dress. Lots of lace, not quite rotten as the wallowing-goths out there would have it. Pajaro. Ave maria. She wouldn't dance quite the robot, nor would she be the marionette, she would be the resentful-marionette. She would dance with all her sex and ripped white lace skirt red cheeks and lips. But she made the change to sing like Schubert to her LandLord, lost. I think I fell in love at fourteen without quite realizing it.
youre a wonderful writer though...
sorry I am way too over sensative.