A new year approaches. That is a sentence that conjures up the image of a large goliath floating ominously towards us, or at least to me it does.
I suppose I should have said we approach a new year. Oh well whatever it is not important. Well not very. Although I suppose as anything is each and everything is as that determines everything else.
Or not. Very positive statements there for you. No question that I know the truth and have the answers. Good. If I did I would be a freak, a genius beyond those that have existed or a common idiot, perhaps a preacher for a god or suchlike.
Anyhow, New Year, new beginnings. Well as often is the case actually it is a time of new beginnings. Projects, dreams, objects have indeed neared completion and come upon a new invigoration at this juncture.
For those that know what I mean I will say this - I am glad a head has been come to and I am glad that certain waste is no longer consumed. I am also pleased that love and ability have stepped forward.
For those not in the know I say this: At each point we try to create something that is worthwhile to ourselves and our personal ideas of good and necessary and what we see that of our peers.
For me I see the need to make this whole a thing which only steps forth with its strong foot and that each foot is stronger than the last, thus like a winter snowball the momentum builds and builds.
Something that will make people miss its passing, something that will make people believe in something beautiful, make you feel like its all worth while. LARGE hopes you say? Yes well I only ever aim for the best and now more than ever.
Can I walk like this talk? Are these two ever stronger feet possible? Well not forever maybe, but for today. Stay with us while we take them to breaking point. Help us wallow in stepping one step more and more gracefully than so many others. Let us trample with anger, let us sing with love, let us touch with lust and need, and let us lie in stories we create and die in the worlds we build. Does it even matter? What matters is we do something that has the integrity to rise up and above. I would like to make a place people can make these things and it be cared about. We can I think. Its been done before and it will again. Now.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Savage of a man has been telling lies about us. I used to know him.
Ernest I am amazed at your new work ‘_’. The best yet. Clear and concise. I was confused towards the end but I understood later on. Well done.
And so I walk home. Or not home but somewhere a person creates a place of home for me whilst they exist in my life. They are the home I suppose. I am surrounded by the mutterings and general inanities of the thimble brained worms of the middle class locals. Spewing disingenuous niceties and rubbish worthless ego massaging.
AM I GETTING TOO COMFORTABLE MYSELF? AM I JUST LIKE THEM NOW?
My inner demons caress my disappointments and failures. Haha they cry. Oh dear my mind murmurs. Not the most striking of responses. Oh dear, yes.
Am I wasting my time on meaningless ordinary ideas and works? Valueless mediocrity…that is what these people exist in. Happy to be ‘part’ of something even if that something stinks of below par putrid averageness, swimming in a pool of babies of ideas, ugly ones, ugly little shitfaced children never given the chance or brilliance to turn into something beautiful. Shame. Well fuck them, shut my curtains and I cant see them from my house. Not in my world.
Come inside. Its very nice in here…the pavements stroke your feet with tiny little fingers and natter to your shoes about the perennial flowering buttercups. Cars wiz and woo. Doors swish and swoo…I told you its very nice in here.
But fuck staying in. The wind has not been knocked from my sails yet. I will not sit and eat until I am fat, I will not watch and mock from afar inside my little comfortable flat with my comfortable shield of distance as I make myself happy and fulfill my gluttony.
No we must face this world. Not post notices where people don’t see them. Respond in their faces. Even, if they look like feces. No fences left. Just endless flights of fancy with fornicating folders full of fabled functionless farces. Full up now.
O p en t he d oo r
As always I leave you with the wildest of warmth
Toby
And so I walk home. Or not home but somewhere a person creates a place of home for me whilst they exist in my life. They are the home I suppose. I am surrounded by the mutterings and general inanities of the thimble brained worms of the middle class locals. Spewing disingenuous niceties and rubbish worthless ego massaging.
AM I GETTING TOO COMFORTABLE MYSELF? AM I JUST LIKE THEM NOW?
My inner demons caress my disappointments and failures. Haha they cry. Oh dear my mind murmurs. Not the most striking of responses. Oh dear, yes.
Am I wasting my time on meaningless ordinary ideas and works? Valueless mediocrity…that is what these people exist in. Happy to be ‘part’ of something even if that something stinks of below par putrid averageness, swimming in a pool of babies of ideas, ugly ones, ugly little shitfaced children never given the chance or brilliance to turn into something beautiful. Shame. Well fuck them, shut my curtains and I cant see them from my house. Not in my world.
Come inside. Its very nice in here…the pavements stroke your feet with tiny little fingers and natter to your shoes about the perennial flowering buttercups. Cars wiz and woo. Doors swish and swoo…I told you its very nice in here.
But fuck staying in. The wind has not been knocked from my sails yet. I will not sit and eat until I am fat, I will not watch and mock from afar inside my little comfortable flat with my comfortable shield of distance as I make myself happy and fulfill my gluttony.
No we must face this world. Not post notices where people don’t see them. Respond in their faces. Even, if they look like feces. No fences left. Just endless flights of fancy with fornicating folders full of fabled functionless farces. Full up now.
O p en t he d oo r
As always I leave you with the wildest of warmth
Toby
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Cant sleep for fear of death
Dear friend
Curiouser and curiouser. I must confess, I wont sleep through fear of death. If I waste this time I will waste it all. I am conscious of but one thing. Time is killing me. Its a curious invention and a deadly one at that. My eyes droop slightly. When I was a child I wrote a story, many in fact, of detective fiction. A private eye and his antics. It was in the most humorous sorts. It was not very good, but better than most probably. I am thinking. I am thinking that some things are slowly coming together. In the mood of an elevator I am beginning to see the light. It is people you see, people that exist and that is all. And the more you focus the more they are. Minute and insidious. But nonetheless they are there and that is all. I cannot stand most of them and yet I love them all. Well not many actually. So many half hearted half baked idealists pushing moronic made up monstrosities of ideas onto me and my other semi sane fellows. I want to stand tall and with the glint in my eye, I want to command the room with but a switch in direction. Yet I think not. My inabilities scratch at me and laugh at me and disable me. Its strange to be so daft and yet still be surrounded by so many not even able to attain daftness. I lie in the bed but what of the fleas will they appear tonight? Vampiric little creatures sharing with me in the dark. I lose track. People. Persons. Person and person.
Curiouser and curiouser. I must confess, I wont sleep through fear of death. If I waste this time I will waste it all. I am conscious of but one thing. Time is killing me. Its a curious invention and a deadly one at that. My eyes droop slightly. When I was a child I wrote a story, many in fact, of detective fiction. A private eye and his antics. It was in the most humorous sorts. It was not very good, but better than most probably. I am thinking. I am thinking that some things are slowly coming together. In the mood of an elevator I am beginning to see the light. It is people you see, people that exist and that is all. And the more you focus the more they are. Minute and insidious. But nonetheless they are there and that is all. I cannot stand most of them and yet I love them all. Well not many actually. So many half hearted half baked idealists pushing moronic made up monstrosities of ideas onto me and my other semi sane fellows. I want to stand tall and with the glint in my eye, I want to command the room with but a switch in direction. Yet I think not. My inabilities scratch at me and laugh at me and disable me. Its strange to be so daft and yet still be surrounded by so many not even able to attain daftness. I lie in the bed but what of the fleas will they appear tonight? Vampiric little creatures sharing with me in the dark. I lose track. People. Persons. Person and person.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Its 4 in the morning the light is still yawning and my eyes are sinking in Gin and Wine. The glare of the screen that I send music is making my head feel like hiding.
In the Maltese hotel, I hope you are well, but I don’t think of you often. I have been ending some work that has taken its toll and bed is the only answer.
I have to wait while music uploads and I send back through the water.
A small public house by the name of its owner is where we will be. Simon. We stopped of earlier. Its filled with junk and paraphernalia and the owner likes to dress as a British policeman.
Everything I write is coming through my head in the melody of Cohens Chelsea Hotel. Its actually starting to annoy me.
It will be hot tomorrow and I plan to write after I have swam in the ocean.
In the Maltese hotel, I hope you are well, but I don’t think of you often. I have been ending some work that has taken its toll and bed is the only answer.
I have to wait while music uploads and I send back through the water.
A small public house by the name of its owner is where we will be. Simon. We stopped of earlier. Its filled with junk and paraphernalia and the owner likes to dress as a British policeman.
Everything I write is coming through my head in the melody of Cohens Chelsea Hotel. Its actually starting to annoy me.
It will be hot tomorrow and I plan to write after I have swam in the ocean.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Dear Ernie, it has been a while I know, sorry for not replying but have been busy. My ears are ringing, a permanent fixture now it seems that may one day drive me to insanity, or at least now that I have planted that seed...I have been spending time rebuilding my nest, it had become a squalid affair and now I hope to rejoin the world of those who can bear to live with themselves.
How was the move? I saw Lucy the other day, she spoke of your times in Italy.
Have a new song, three in fact. I have been listening to Cole porter, do you like him? I watched a terrible Biopic about him - he was a man who seemed to enjoy worldly pleasures.
Been laying in bed much recently, fearful of a long trip I must make, it is odd that some things affect me so. I am terrible at being trapped in any way, like a claustrophobia that seems to be triggered by agoraphobic senses. I hate it and wonder how real it is until it hits me and it is a physical event. Perhaps this fear is the same as I find in the trappings of the sexual partnership, the relationship, perhaps that is just poor journalistic style psychology. What does that mean? Something.
What interests me is to make a place we can all hide in, I am aiming for something as pure as I can make it, with these new works. Just pure. Like the lust of a teenage boy. The anger of bitter old woman. The hope of a dying man. The purity of a single meeting. Something that validates all this. I know, oh I know, I have heard this before, but I have this want and need too to, and believe maybe I can. Fuck all these grotty half arsed gimics, no romance, no love.
You said it when you spoke of her. It was not contrived, it just existed, for the same reasons a million people before had felt it but this time it was yours. That is what I want to make, for the same reasons but this time ours.
How was the move? I saw Lucy the other day, she spoke of your times in Italy.
Have a new song, three in fact. I have been listening to Cole porter, do you like him? I watched a terrible Biopic about him - he was a man who seemed to enjoy worldly pleasures.
Been laying in bed much recently, fearful of a long trip I must make, it is odd that some things affect me so. I am terrible at being trapped in any way, like a claustrophobia that seems to be triggered by agoraphobic senses. I hate it and wonder how real it is until it hits me and it is a physical event. Perhaps this fear is the same as I find in the trappings of the sexual partnership, the relationship, perhaps that is just poor journalistic style psychology. What does that mean? Something.
What interests me is to make a place we can all hide in, I am aiming for something as pure as I can make it, with these new works. Just pure. Like the lust of a teenage boy. The anger of bitter old woman. The hope of a dying man. The purity of a single meeting. Something that validates all this. I know, oh I know, I have heard this before, but I have this want and need too to, and believe maybe I can. Fuck all these grotty half arsed gimics, no romance, no love.
You said it when you spoke of her. It was not contrived, it just existed, for the same reasons a million people before had felt it but this time it was yours. That is what I want to make, for the same reasons but this time ours.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Erns Erns Erns,
Pleasure is what I seek...pleasure. But I am not sure what it is, in a sustainable fashion. Are you? How and in what manner are we meant to approach this? Questions, questions questions. Maybe that is the answer. No its not. That my dearest of friends is rubbish, questions just bring answers and progression to another equally banal conundrum. Pleasure brings rewards - itself.
Why did you quit? Tell me more. Why did you walk away like that? I understand the fears, but I dont understand a man like you walking away, not like that. Odd I must say.
I saw the pleasure of Laura, blonde and lithe and sparkling smile today, married you know. To an Architect, last of the true professions. Smug git. He should be a doctor, do something worthwhile. I fear my sentences are losing any form, if in fact they ever managed to affect one.
It is late, night night my friend.
Pleasure is what I seek...pleasure. But I am not sure what it is, in a sustainable fashion. Are you? How and in what manner are we meant to approach this? Questions, questions questions. Maybe that is the answer. No its not. That my dearest of friends is rubbish, questions just bring answers and progression to another equally banal conundrum. Pleasure brings rewards - itself.
Why did you quit? Tell me more. Why did you walk away like that? I understand the fears, but I dont understand a man like you walking away, not like that. Odd I must say.
I saw the pleasure of Laura, blonde and lithe and sparkling smile today, married you know. To an Architect, last of the true professions. Smug git. He should be a doctor, do something worthwhile. I fear my sentences are losing any form, if in fact they ever managed to affect one.
It is late, night night my friend.
Erns,
This madness returns and I know you get it too, you are happy i guess -I hope- its the only thing that gives me hope; you, how you can be happy. You and Nila. You and Nila happy, it must be a wonderful thing, but you are a better man than I. I guess.
The Fuzz in the head, the doubt of the mind, its a scary feeling, a tormenting. Then the body of the girl. A welcome break. An obsession. How easy to ascertain, yet so hard, at one time. But pride goes and you find you have been hit by so many townies fists that it no longer matters, you turn around and spit and laugh and touch his girlfriends ample breasts, she likes it and so later on you fuck her in the park near the local nightclub, and that feels good. The smug fathers who poke at you with pointy public school fingers, you wrap their precious little girl up and make her wet and sweat and forever changed and she is ruined ever so slightly. She is such a pretty girl, such a wonderfully charming specimen. She is better now. You wouldn't know what I mean would you? would you?
This madness returns and I know you get it too, you are happy i guess -I hope- its the only thing that gives me hope; you, how you can be happy. You and Nila. You and Nila happy, it must be a wonderful thing, but you are a better man than I. I guess.
The Fuzz in the head, the doubt of the mind, its a scary feeling, a tormenting. Then the body of the girl. A welcome break. An obsession. How easy to ascertain, yet so hard, at one time. But pride goes and you find you have been hit by so many townies fists that it no longer matters, you turn around and spit and laugh and touch his girlfriends ample breasts, she likes it and so later on you fuck her in the park near the local nightclub, and that feels good. The smug fathers who poke at you with pointy public school fingers, you wrap their precious little girl up and make her wet and sweat and forever changed and she is ruined ever so slightly. She is such a pretty girl, such a wonderfully charming specimen. She is better now. You wouldn't know what I mean would you? would you?
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