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
Thursday, July 8, 2010
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?
Ernie old friend,
I am feeling lonely, someone I have loved has left, I am not sure the course of action. I have made choices that are confused and constantly (by me) questioned. I keep talking and as i talk the ideas disappear. They are vibrant and strong until...until-I say them out loud and someone lets them in, at that point they have no will to live any more. I must learn to bate my breath. To tie my tongue.
And at the age of 28 I realize I am a spoilt brat, in so much that I want in life I expect it. All the people I like also are. You are the worst of us all Ernest, surely you are the worst.
Tell me more about the trip. Do you feel that you are closer to anything? Tell me, are you finding the experience invigorating?
I am feeling lonely, someone I have loved has left, I am not sure the course of action. I have made choices that are confused and constantly (by me) questioned. I keep talking and as i talk the ideas disappear. They are vibrant and strong until...until-I say them out loud and someone lets them in, at that point they have no will to live any more. I must learn to bate my breath. To tie my tongue.
And at the age of 28 I realize I am a spoilt brat, in so much that I want in life I expect it. All the people I like also are. You are the worst of us all Ernest, surely you are the worst.
Tell me more about the trip. Do you feel that you are closer to anything? Tell me, are you finding the experience invigorating?
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