Bookish

My great fear - if I will admit to it is that I'm running round the inside of my own head, and nothing's changing. Reading to expand my brain, my intellect and my vocabulary instead makes me bitter and distracted. Habits, defeats, cycles, clean teeth, the sexy Italian waitress chewing gum, nonchalant and maybe even dismissive. Her eyes looked Egyptian, fish like. Run away run away, Ed your anger will make you sick.

Failure

Reading a book on failure I realise I sit in the category neatly summarised by Confucius: Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in getting up every time we do. The defeat that puts faith in future victory, that defers it for a later time. So where's the fucking victory then? Am I to suppose; am I to hope - to fall back on optimism? Deep down, maybe I am a piece of shit. Despite being utterly annoyed at Valerie Solanas for saying it, maybe she was right. Men deep down know they are pieces of shit. It's tiresome to be told by someone else though.
Instead I'll opt for empty rhetoric that might serve to kill this bastard hour, lead me to another hour that is linked to the next and so on. Disgust at the mother laughing at the Creed show because it's upsetting for a Sunday. Cunt. I don't have a dream of redemption for myself; you remain a cunt and I'll never see you again. I'm a piece of shit and you'll never see me again.

Leaky, Vital Entity

She's the picture of a dork - someone who recieved the plash from a pitcher full of dork. A picture perfect picture of putrid - smeared green, wave after wave of angry Oestrogen wafting out; like the time at Il Divo - mad women and their husbands. Her tongue is a knotted leather whip, lips cracked, the nanny nurse, the overbearing harridan foe. Sick sick sick! You make me sick. Worse than a hanger on or a drifter, somehow bleakly burning into my attention, wanting communication, a sliver of lava, a smouldering bowl of liquid lead presented in a half skull. Angry woman, I can imagine today as a test, stood overbearing - head tilted, culpable and spotless to everyone else but to me. Inner eye bulging with ferocious judgement.
But to see me this morning, best pals with next doors tom. He was curled up against the fence, the very picture of satiety. In his own way, actually quite Eastern looking, Russian. He didn't run away as I approached, with my cat call (a chirp or two you know). Instead he just waited. Accepting the first touch and the electric thrall of species meeting. Then a flinch, settling into my knowledged hands. Sad to leave him as he smiled and spoke to me. Furry testicles! No wonder the fury of mating is so fierce in felines.
Then prison. One comment making me mad all day; the place I am mentally, even more so.

On your Axe

The cold shake of limbs, the gorgeous suggestion of freedom. A sky at five thirty three, full azure blue setting into a great big salmon pink, the leaves like tasseled coins - some burnished shake on the branches and I am here, regretting the choices I have made, in the sky cabin, curled in upon myself and resolute. Teeth on edge, losing faith, losing time before I give up altogether and declare the whole thing a farce and believe Peter's sad words. Folly. 

Monks

Dear Matthew Lewis,
Last night was brilliant. David le Dandy brought over a bottle of Bordeaux; La bas by Huysmans; some A2 paper and his compressed charcoal kit. I brought some sugar paper from Poundland and a pastels kit from Spectrum, that witches lair in the dork (sic). For two hours or so we drew each other in preparation for a performance we may be doing later in the year. David was weeping with laughter at his own creations which may give you an idea of how great they were. I laughed til the tears rolled down my cheeks. Both from my own drawings and David's. Truly I felt more confident and at ease with my art than I have been in four years. We must learn to let go. It is the works that somehow exist on the periphery of praxis that become the real deal. I have been so blindly pompous and conceited all this time. Since I was nineteen, maybe before then. Of all the people we lie to - it's ourselves we lie to the most. So...why this love of crudity and disproportion? Why so stubborn all this time? It's what defines me and makes me stand apart, blowing raspberries at art destiny and history - why worry if it's just a posture? Others have thrived on much less, much more trivial concerns. Jorg, that bastard! He said my ideas could be torn apart and scattered at a moments notice. But he forgot he could just as easily be taken apart piecemeal by someone above him. Stop playing God. Wake up and enjoy yourself. I have a brilliant drawing of me looking like I have crept from Primordial ooze and shook the silt from my scales. It's stuck on my slanted ceiling. The idea is I'll wake up and immediately laugh. Victorious in something I can't pinpoint, even before the day proper has begun. My room is slowly coming to life: anyone who traversed the cabin will remember my wonky magic. And so, it's getting better, and I'm ready to pursue again. Poised.

LOVE Sean Beaningsten Creator , E

Wonderment

Men count up the faults of those who keep them waiting. This seems to me a perfect appendage to today's chapter. I feel strange and distant, caught inbetween small trappings of anger and worry and yet a blissful assurance; so rare these days; in my own abilities. Just to sit down and paint for a few hours - stopping only because I felt sick from the turps I was inhaling, then folding out the colours from the brushes on an old work shirt. It is a small satisfaction to do this. To use something functionally, that I would otherwise throw away or in a less likely mood, burn in a hole puckered oil can with four imaginary hobos / oracles. 

I guess I feel like a bit of an outsider still, but I must relish this time, I know from experience it won't last. Better to be aware than indifferent. Ultimately anything that brings me a crumb of what I want will keep me going, albeit with mighty hungers. To look at me you wouldn't immediately think I was a devourer; then again I think we all have the capacity to surprise ourselves. How many more surprises for me then, outside of my sky room, sour mouths? Right eye sore. Right hunger. Wrong way to keep me interested. 

On Hilarity & Horror

Martin 'let it bleed' Creed ringing his division bell, summoning this imp from his hot little hovel to impishly glare at his workforce, full of hatred today, and weary as fuck. Too dried up and angry from Miller the last few days, on the bus, positively seething as Miller did at the great forward trudging bustle of life - snorting the ferment of disillusion. Feeling now as I did some seventeen years ago; equally as baffled and angry. More lines on the chops though. Fuck awful music, dying to be homeward bound to scrape the names of those I despise on the stone walls then directly, and without ceremony, to tell them directly to their faces 'vous etes tres mauvaille traville ici' (misquote of Mobutu Sese Sako).

The Unlife & Death of Baby B

Three hours sleepless but in an ecstacy of touch - careless in extremis. When being exhausted is elation and the heat of skin on skin melts away the worries of silence: remembering the flurry of leaves as rats run in tandem amongst the railings by the car park in the middle of fucking nowhere, and the arched shadows are a dark green that you won't find anywhere else in the city. Maybe the mute challenge of the Taboo Cinema - all awash with a flat black paint and one door open leading to an obliquely lit interior. You see nothing, you sense more. But in passing I see a place I exumed dead earth, weeds and stones, up another weird crooked little road with unecessary double yellow lines...with Jacque. The day/s my legs shook with weakness and menacing baldies stared at us withered under a withered tree, with flower boxes full of dirt. I couldn't even hope to explain. All this and then home again, only slightly put out by the loss of my Tony Krauss platinum blonde wig and yellow tights. Me girly gets full respect for being nice even on pinkies. Same can't be said for everyone. I slept in a full sweat, I stink. I win!

Bartlebooth's Worries

In the fast approach to evening, the imp watches the sky change her clothes. He is concerned by the feeling that every other imp he knows has some higher purpose - some necessary goal in life that pushes them on, if not lifts them. 'The buggers!' he says half to himself and the wind. As an imp - a good trickster imp at that - he has learned his trade wading into the great roaring river of life, snatching kisses from illicit missus'; eating and drinking in the smoky confines of attic rooms; defying the gravity of walls and car engines; showering pages with cursive flair; his voice a spectrum of colours; in his heart - a tight knot of bursting joy lined with wrinkles of disappointment - he sees himself a small figure amongst the Magogs; the demons; the frost queens; the very real minotaurs; the hard working cyclopes in their forges; the nymphs at play and working hard at breaking hearts in orchards and stinking bashments.

One imp. That's all. Just a lowly imp. But he has his own purpose; his own idea of a higher purpose. And if it fails, so be it. There's still time to find another.

The Jamaican Coke Rush

We were glad to be ignored by the urchins they had crawled from their respective corners, gangster lean with the usual quota of two street girls - fatty and thinny - to be honest they were all shadows and silhouettes to me at all costs. On the corner - lit from the weak flare of tangerine streetlights, or pulling quietly on a cigarette or spliff. The beauty of outsiders. Walking towards the main roads, liquidly rolling into view, a beefcake with his top off - it was hot enough. Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I ask myself - is life worth living should I blast myself? We start laughing because the thought was simultaneous - but as he walked towards me he wasn't Matt anymore, not for the moment he was another outsider walking at me making the oldest of conflicts flutter into dark life in his chest. I, perturbed and out of sorts, Matt happy. Naturally infectious though in the night, and so I coped with my ego. I put it underfoot - the dragon under Saint George's heel - same as that old print we had at the top of the stairs - opposite the windowsill that gave me the fantods when I was a nipper because it was DEAD SPACE. The thought of it frooked me out as much as the prospect of eternal life - I dislike phantoms. And so lying awake in a kind of fearful ecstacy - now awake with a less than celestial cluster of thoughts in my head and dick in hand; sticky sheets; wet feet. Angry again, there's no escape from being churlish or stuck behind the gates at that time in the morning. A stupid, ugly cunt in the shop, face like a twine of rope, numb boyfriend - a unit - the thing Shiona taught me to slip out of before it was too late and everything became predictable. I really want her to go away.