spittlerattle

stuff i write

Month: June, 2013

Sketch #1

Sitting out back, rocking on my stoop, to the crackle of a fire burning bracken; I was pondering the imponderable just to baffle myself. It went well. Loss of self in the stirring of embers, the rustling of leaves, the sweat on my back.

It was fractals everywhere. The jasmine and roses are in the first flush, glowing. Lush fronds flowing; thorns like razors.

One of my neighbours had the TV on loud enough that I could hear the grunting of a women’s tennis match at Wimbledon. Reminded me of happier days 😉 My sawing swung to their swings, my thoughts got lost in more visceral things. Struck a new rhythm.

It was all good until I cooked a snail by mistake and it got a bit existential. And then someone’s car alarm started and went on incessantly for most of the afternoon.

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Went to the barbers for a summer trim.

They had the ugliest mirror I’ve ever seen.

Wavefunction collapse

Walking the line between time zones,
Neither nowhere or over there,
I could pop up anywhere.
Who knows.

My vibration, jittering, is pin-balled, careering midst atomic structures and dimensions. I am merely the essence of Particle, seeking extension. I am a soup of proteins and DNA waiting on lightning. It may look peaceful now but you wait, I’ll be frightening.

The fickle tickle of fate…
Hovers,
Deciding whether to bother.

I want to transcend from the quantum to the wanton in a pageant of pomp and celebratory ostentation. I want Wembley, Ceaser’s Palace and The Colliseum. Live stream. A pitch with a global punch. Heisenberg says I can be at all three places at once.

Probably.

Sound bites

It’s not
Really me
That man,
Dapper
In a blue suit
Spitting soundbites.
Look, can’t you see? He’s dead behind the eyes,
Lost to the world; strands of redundant and defunct genotypes.
Away with the birds.

If he was lost at the train station I wouldn’t even bother to claim him.

I’m not blaming him but he’s lucky if he gets through a day without humiliation or exposure. Guilt and shame keep him driven. He makes the most of what he’s been given and hopes for a sense of closure. Doffing his cap, scrying his diary for reasons to get up.

He can do that world. Mostly. Though he may have reached the glass ceiling of his ambition. Totally. There’s too much competition and friction; every meeting is like a choir of demons singing their derision. I say Enough, shrug, and shake it off like dandruff. Just turn up, do what you’re good at. Forget all that Dog Eat Dog, enjoy more cat lick cat.

Just after

Being stressed and unsociable is non-negotiable. They’re categorical imperatives. The cornerstones of my charm. I’ve got a job, kids, debts and pain; I’m hopesick, lonely, ashamed; and I hate being told to keep calm.

So, with a heavy heart, I picked my way like a spindly stick insect across the car-park to therapy, ready to talk about what ails me. The theme of Esteem.

My hair was receding, my eczema itching; my limp more pronounced, my penis disappearing. I was wearing my defensive, but defiant, red jumper. As I waited I could feel myself getting grumpier.

I drank lots of water and my narrative drifted. Told her not the half of it. Censored the truest lines from my pre-prepared script. It’s a gift I have, being conflicted. I tiptoe edgily between self-loathing and belligerence, but, equally, if required I can feign ignorance.

I left, shaking my head, thinking there was more I should have said.

Hit a low

Hit another low. Are they more regular now? I don’t know. I should do a graph, a mood-tracker chart; plot and trace patterns from the statistics, join up the diagnostic dots from all the boxes I’ve ticked. The numbers don’t lie. That oh-so Weightwatchers-size sliver of pie, just there, barely able to support itself, is the exquisite in my life. The other 98% is where the fear is.

No, it always feels like that in bad times: Chance feels like fate and accidents like crimes. It’s the blame culture, a plague of vultures squawking; and I’m a dead man walking, stubborn and proud, with a smile as sour as Schopenhauer.

Tickly whiskers

I’m a bag of rats tonight.  Gnawing out of me.  They want to eat through my sense of self.  My rampant pomposity.  Philosophy and hubris – what my dreams are, and where I’ve come from – gone; Narcissism can’t survive being chewed on.

I’d like to set them free, but, then, what would become of me?  Trauma.  Scattered strips of me secreted in dark corners; for later, when there’s nothing tastier.

Perhaps I’m getting crazier.

I should soothe them, settle them down.  Be patient, come to an agreement, something scriptural.  Coax them up my throat, matted with mucus, in some cathartic, guttural ritual.

Invoke the spiritual.