Wednesday, 23 February 2005

the invite

Clean sheets. The invite.

Bolstering a fallen mutuality in the back of taxi, easy conversation, the weather and our respective weeks. I ease into this, she pays for the ride.

Token gesture watching punk tribute, thinking (rightly/wrongly) can there be anything more crass, this is not the spirit? Then, clusters of clavichord and thunder, electronic bluster, a driving memory at the drum kit, an old friend, older than perhaps our addled frameworks recall. Listen, token I said, and then leave forty-two seconds in, outside, back in taxi.

Not a drug in sight. Pint of Grolsch doesn’t count.

Bolstering sustained mutuality in the back of taxi, noticeable conversation, penis-size and our respective ambitions. I ease out from this, she pays for the ride.

Next venue, the old whiskey distillery, rolling cigarettes upon transit boxes. Checking on the list, am +1. Now drinking stout and shouting along, cursing the acoustics but not the aesthetics of my voice, look the part.

You’re a part
What? I say.
You’re better apart.

Strange static audience and so more cursing from me, arrived late as guests, pushing through bandages of onlookers, swabbing the stage in great dirty reams of stagnant appreciation, more listening than enjoying, but you should have heard it before. Jigging leg, cigarette droop tosses embers onto green jacket. Will not allow an inch for a look, won’t even allow picture with camera, so, after the music has finished (unremarkably brilliant) I shout at the singer, shouting his name rather than

whoop
whooayeaoop
yeah

but the response is predictably awkward because, despite desires, we don’t actually know each other, I just served him a drink, which is not to say he isn’t friendly because he is but friendly isn’t friend. He sweats considerably, I drink to compensate.

Into the cold, but I'm warm and walking this time, crunching a rhythm of fallen snow, trace our progression up the hill as we yell names and familiar figures standing atop the steps, laughing at ill breath, cold but warm. The artist who flicks paint upon the ground and traces beetles through paper has to be at home, I have to get home, he says.

Why?
Jury service.
Shit.

Interesting though so sustain interest, say goodbye and enter workplace, a workplace retold into recreational home. Spill drinks down throat and think ahead forecasting a cocktail party and dreaming of filthy, sexy titles to scrawl across the advertisements. Totter out from the doors, another fresh fall of snow, won’t take long to cover us and bury the evidence.

Climb internal stairs and see the sacred figures of two slim felines, perched upon a ladder, a ladder leading to a bed and up in the half-loft, beneath the pitched roof and just up the ladder, I lie staring at a triangle of beam and plaster and I can hear the gentle play of the cats, the padding of their nocturnal games, and in this light with nothing to do the next day, sleep feels like a poem with all the right endings.

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