On a crisp evening, 2019...
Tuesday maybe, even wednesday, but it certainly wasn't a friday.'
First please observe: a'hem John Lurie .
Upon the morning post calamity, something the fuck hit me.
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Probably none of them, but maybe all? I purged myself of my duvet, clambered down our carpetless stairs and withdrew the milk from the fridge.
This was prior to any such plant based, moral charade as my insolent father would undeniably decree.
I was rather proud of my bowel full of stale brand, alphabet cereal. It made me feel rather niche.
There I was, after skipping assembly, in maths, now sat at the front of the classroom. This is where I also made the unfortunate realisation that she had indeed seen more marvel films than me.
Jake Mitchell managed to cheer me up and reminded me of the song 'White Room' by 'Cream'.This piece of music, one way or another, formed a part of our identity after being exposed to it for the first time, completely misunderstanding the film packaged 'Joker 2019'.
And I suppose thats where that day would close its drawer.
~ Friday ~
Im guaranteed this happened friday
Im no anthropologist, but even I know the formal etiquette on how one should approach the following:
As daft as this may seem, I was dealt a heavy blow to the sternum over issuing the wrong amount of change. I gave the customer too much.
I really did think that was much too cruel a punishment, so over the following weekend I sectioned myself into a local hospital.
Come monday the Ribs that protected my heart never fully healed, though, I acquitted myself anyway.
I had paid for this, handed over my spare change.
Like I had bought a bear I could never sleep without.
But that bear is peeping through the keyhole, laughing.
He Laughs.
And im still tired.
*
*
*
Plague lay awkward
The belly, O Beast
In splinters and socks, a grave
And as tomorrow becomes today
The belly lay rest but vague
*
*
*
Sometime later, still that same school year, 11, we would ritually gather around a smushed up bit of sausage that plastered itself in a bullet hole sized spot up upon the C-Block bricks and mortar. We would sing our odes to this strange miscalculation of nature, prophetically larping though this lardaceous smear held all the earths inner secrets. It had survived the tumultuous english weather for coming up to two years now. An imprinting so stubborn, it had burnt the inner walls of all our minds.
I remember getting particularly upset when Euan Lowther-Allais gestured towards our shrine with a stick, baring it like a whipping cane, threatening to scrape off our mark. Seeing this as a declaration of war and an advancement upon my territory I, with the instinctual nature of a time gone by, kicked this poor boy stiff upon his well padded thigh. How dare he have the gall to remove my mark. Without wavering, Euan used a specialized set-piece throw he learnt in rugby that week and hurled his P.E. bag towards me. A stud from his boot slightly chipped my knee, but no too much damage was made.
The following proceeds were rather sad. Euan sort of paced toward me with sour tones scribbling his face, I did think he was going to hit me, yet he merely scrambled up his bag, let out a wimpish 'Fuck you!' and slunk away round the corner, presumably through the building and up the stairs. I suppose this was my first religious experience... What had I become?
Euan only a couple years later would go on to play musical instruments with me.
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'Talk to me. Engage with me in conversation' was something I never found myself uttering. Words flowed freely like the dropping of the washing basket down the perilous stairs, quite the catastrophe now I come to think of it. I think we must of spoke every sentence known to man that we ended up having to create our own words. Id be lying if I said I remember any. This dialect we had sits in my mind like an ancient language of a time gone by, buried under thick layers of amnesia. Fuck, none of it was particularly elegant anyways.
I would really fixate on things, and still do.