July 2003. Just a post to say that them there homespun
are all now available on Vitaminic, albeit not in chronological
order. People have different favourites - a good sign. Six strings,
words don't come close. And why a weblog got too big for its boots,
to be sure. Say, I can't write ten more chapters to see if me me
me finds the right place, AR deserves more and feels like a third
tale to me. Think I should doodle around and put myself somewhere
unknown first, avoid characters being 'parents, sweethearts and
serial selves' that V Nabokov talked about, delay another tragedy,
which I think she is, ultimately, like her ex. And need my ass kicked.
Self-consciousness, good or not good? Took Verlaine to emotional
heights, yet led him into preciosity. Discuss. Meanwhile back on
earth - humbled and grateful for your ears, eyes, patience, everything.
GW. Green lamps on Love Liberia. Chuck's a Bostonian and a jailbird,
GW. Makes you think what? You gotta get inside his psychology, GW.
Man's a six foot riddle backstroking serious lengths of enigma thinkin'
of butt naked youths in tennis shoes. Nothing else will do. That's
his modus O. We hit him hard, we hit him fast, he's CNN's newest
douche-bag. Africa dances and that's a whole continent. You're in-continent,
GW. But in a good way. Don't let him hightail it, GW. Shoot a few,
sit tight an' trust me - his fanny will cha-cha for daddy. Oh yes."
June 2003. Sun's out and damn this
ever-changing diary. Fortnightly
would be better, it's all gone ad-hoc. Was going
to treat the interweb to senseless, clumpy lyrics to a tune I once
wrote called 'Cindy Sherman', this mutated into musing on celebrity.
mutated into an anecdote about
a link given to a website claiming to air the sleazier secrets of
the rich and pandered to - the like of which you won't find in the
press due to fear of litigation. Reading through, there seems to
be less bite to the sleaze of late - whilst every much-loved Monday
Matinee funnyman was, in fact, an 'anti-semitic wife-battering codeine
addict', these days it's all 'snogged Justin Timberlake' and 'fibbed
about boob job'. Where now the anti-semitic wife-battering codeine
addict about town? You
end up concluding that we'll never lose our inner prude - Roman
orgies, 'Justine', Radclyffe Hall, suburban strip-Twister sessions
and a vigorous rollercoaster of top shelf, spam (inbox or Reeperbahn?)
and CabSat shenanigans - we still gurgle away when someone's nipple
pops out. Context is the key, something (social, codified) happening
where it shouldn't (people can see) - it's not physical at all but
meanings layered over people. Often said 'We don't want to go back
to Victorian values' but they seemed very unlike values, more
a harness on what was happening on the streets. 'Gentlemen, I bring
you Flossie la p'tit. Free of lesion, every limb is symmetry!' But,
Cindy Sherman - girl arrested dressing herself an identity, nod
to the artist as fraudster. Blah. Her very first portraits I saw
in a room off Fitzroy Square about two years ago and it was pure
play. Later, there is something seminal about 'Film Stills' that
is hard to quantify. Inverted exhibitionism, analysis inappropriate.
Someone (good phrase) 'in their element.' The latter material seems
to be saying 'Try as you might you just can't hide' with sufficient
space for interpretation, the reductive view, the nature of representation,
the truth of masks. Not reasons to buy art on their own, but it
validates the package. Self-casting is such a stamp of authorship,
though, you end up feeling sorry for it, if she were to try something
else no-one would care. Fun but oddly moving.
May 2003. Gone?
Splendid. New here? Everything/nothing and
oh fuck where now
iterative fiction. It Lit. How we laughed. I've been rearranging
my sock drawer and bouncing a ball off the wall like Steve McQueen
in the cooler larging it up and missing the scribble. First
of two part intro, another next week. Power and solitude
self sufficiency. Like it? Marvellous. Your gay. A text message
from the last-but-ten bit lip, infinite vortex of self-consciousness,
distracting British humour, apology in glances chick I handled
like stud truck stuck in top. 'Your gay'. Wish it could've been
more like the movies. But - got a Westlife birthday card, found
myself swaying at an Erasure-of-all-people
aftershow, and have debated favourite Girl Aloud (Nicola - but not
when she's in those jeans, you know the ones that push her upper
thighs off the bus at Pukesville by, like, two centimetres). And
writing about a Woman. Could festoon the site with clinchers: dusty
Abs Cruncher, Muff Diving Miss Daisy, please no duvet set..
GW. We got tha taste. Man had peashooters. Plant sumpthin', GW.
The Bin's laughin' away, guy. Go Nagasaki, GW. Wipe 'em out. Torture's
old hat fer Amnesty. We got more on death row for less. Fine sumpthin'
serious we weren't slappin' his back fer, GW. Chuck two dozen o'them
shrapnel catchers in a skip. Capricorn One the thing. How many hospitals
we coolin' off fer Operation Love Liberia in Twenty 05? Huh, you
wanna stop? Everybody's Mother Theresa all of a sudden. Oh, I see.
Excuse me. Pull yerself together, GW. Show some balls, guy. We got
tha taste - this was jus the hors derrrves. Like in a restaurant?
And that's an order."