Tuesday, May 24, 2005
If you could see it, then! you'd understand.
Yes indeed, Keane can eat a bowl of cold fuck. And lick any spillage off the table when they're done.
There was this advert for ice-cream a few years ago with an enjoyable faux-doc about a benign hippyish life-improvement retreat. Slightly manic American, frowning: "I literally woke up one morning and said 'hey - Where's My Joy?'". Pookie adopted this for a while (in the most sophisticated media-savvy way, of course, not in some crippled-imagination Crazy Frog regurgitating way) and would text shouty texts of it. (At some point in response to his general exasperation I said "one man's meat is another man's fun night in", which I repeat here only because I know that's when I peaked and everything subsequent is as a Jim Davidson retrospective. Bah. You can stop reading now in that knowledge, and I can get on with my waffling in peace.)
I did get considerable joy earlier on when I finally got round to doing something artistic. I know now that if you 'get' these abilities from people then I got this one from my mum, who has started to craft astonishing life-filled figures out of this air-drying clay stuff. If this were a film she'd be Discovered, or something. Yeah, so one thing turned out wonderfully and as on one occasion before, I had happy thoughts that all kinds of lovely feelings would remain preserved in it like a prehistoric mosquito in amber. Not to the point at which I'd be embarrassed to show it to other people, but tangible enough. The other thing was less like this, and I'm sure it will show. Under the circumstances it was quite telling. Suggestive of definite shift. Which is. . .Good.
"I opened the fridge, but it was me who filled it with light."
I used to want to go into advertising until I realised it was the career of Lucifer. I could have been a decent creative were it not for pesky issues of conscience. Imagine the things you could do if unburdened by that, and by useless flabby outcrops of superfluous brainpower. A crayon up either nostril might do it. Hey, if they isolated the conscience gene, they could excise it from certain individuals who would then grow up to be super-efficient government assassins.
This all demonstrates why I should have gone to bed much, much earlier.
Anxious, small, adrift. Need dog hug.
There was this advert for ice-cream a few years ago with an enjoyable faux-doc about a benign hippyish life-improvement retreat. Slightly manic American, frowning: "I literally woke up one morning and said 'hey - Where's My Joy?'". Pookie adopted this for a while (in the most sophisticated media-savvy way, of course, not in some crippled-imagination Crazy Frog regurgitating way) and would text shouty texts of it. (At some point in response to his general exasperation I said "one man's meat is another man's fun night in", which I repeat here only because I know that's when I peaked and everything subsequent is as a Jim Davidson retrospective. Bah. You can stop reading now in that knowledge, and I can get on with my waffling in peace.)
I did get considerable joy earlier on when I finally got round to doing something artistic. I know now that if you 'get' these abilities from people then I got this one from my mum, who has started to craft astonishing life-filled figures out of this air-drying clay stuff. If this were a film she'd be Discovered, or something. Yeah, so one thing turned out wonderfully and as on one occasion before, I had happy thoughts that all kinds of lovely feelings would remain preserved in it like a prehistoric mosquito in amber. Not to the point at which I'd be embarrassed to show it to other people, but tangible enough. The other thing was less like this, and I'm sure it will show. Under the circumstances it was quite telling. Suggestive of definite shift. Which is. . .Good.
"I opened the fridge, but it was me who filled it with light."
I used to want to go into advertising until I realised it was the career of Lucifer. I could have been a decent creative were it not for pesky issues of conscience. Imagine the things you could do if unburdened by that, and by useless flabby outcrops of superfluous brainpower. A crayon up either nostril might do it. Hey, if they isolated the conscience gene, they could excise it from certain individuals who would then grow up to be super-efficient government assassins.
This all demonstrates why I should have gone to bed much, much earlier.
Anxious, small, adrift. Need dog hug.
