Kitchen.
Sometime in the morning.
Andy talks about spaghetti left in the cupboards.
There is a man cleaning the carpets in the living room.
Andy: 'I just assume Eddie's going to be happy with the place'.
My room is full of boxes. On Andy's laptop as I have lost my dongle.
And my pen. Which I found then put down and lost again.
The flat is hot as a greenhouse.
The man cleaning carpets has just stopped.
I can hear the joiners in the mews below us.
One of them is called 'Timber Tailor'.
Monday 26 September 2011
Friday 23 September 2011
Goodbye Brunswick Place
Sat on my sofa, stuff all packed in boxes and I still don't feel ready to go. I see my sheep skull on top of a tower of drawers, my spider plant next to a candle lantern thing. There is still washing up to do as well. The earlier euphoria of the afternoon has evaporated into a kind of queasy exhaustion. This always happens the night before moving. I suppose after this post I'll pack the laptop away, and the next post from Bridge 39 will be from the new place. By worried about our driver for tomorrow, Ben, who seems to be incommunicado thanks to phone reception. Hopefully only phone reception. Time will tell. If there's a post from Brunswick Place tomorrow night, you'll know Ben will have disappeared and we haven't moved after all.
Last lines done.
Goodbye Brunswick Place.
Hopefully anyway.
Last lines done.
Goodbye Brunswick Place.
Hopefully anyway.
Thursday 22 September 2011
Living above the Songs of Vanished Horses
Five minutes to midnight, five minutes till the last full day in the bedsit begins.
I am surrounded by half packed things. Boxes stuffed with books and CDs, random leads for devices long since discarded, bits of paper, bank statements I am afraid to throw away, DVD box sets, graphic novels. I look around the room, at the guitar case leant against the bed, the spider plant and it's tendrils creeping over a bag of clothes, a black shirt hanging over the mirror. Little things are scattered about where I sit on the floor. Let me see; a Superman 'S' patch, for sewing onto a jacket that I got free with a magazine. A train ticket from Worcester last year, 22 October 2010 'Birmingham Stns to Worcester Stns'. A photograph of the clock tower in Brighton. An empty pack of Paprika flavour crisps. In a clear plastic sleeve is a CD by a band called Sacrilege entitled 'Turn Back Trilobite'. Here, against the sofa is an unopened calendar for 2010 of 'Natural Patterns' produced by Oxfam. I have no idea why I have it, if I bought it (vastly unlikely) or if someone gave it to me, which is more probable, but God knows who.
Everything seems dusty. A white asbestos-ghost miasma covers the things I have retrieved from the top of shelves and the storage space above the cooker and the sink. I think this dust is the remants of the painting done here last Autumn. I remember the Polish builder, the streaks left on my leather jacket (annoying), and on the back of the elephant I found by the sea.
I meet up with Andy at lunchtime. He has picked up the keys for the new flat. We discuss what we shall call it; The Mews? The Stables? (The workshops below the flats used to be stables back in the nineteenth century). The flat, he says, feels strange, particularly the back section where our bedrooms are strikes him as oppressive in their current emptiness. The views from our windows, he goes on to say, show a suburbia reminiscent of those legendary places from our respective adolescences; Woodstock Drive and Mulgrave Road, Sunday white-out, drizzle gloom, and that slow candle-drip down to evening. I think of popping over there, after work, but though I have the keys, I am suddenly afraid -irrationally spooked- at encountering that emptiness there. I imagine going around Andy's after this fictional trip, telling him in the basement-capsule of his flat that 'there is something there, waiting for us'.
I begin to pack in the evening. Andy telephones, tells me he has been thinking about the 'haunted north section' of the flat all day. He imagines me going there after work, getting creeped out by something, then coming around his, to tell him I have 'seen something' there. Not such an odd coincidence as might appear, given our history of creating hauntings out of nothing.
It was -or perhaps is- inevitable, that we would -and will- do so with the new flat; a placebo-haunting, full of Tulpa-shadows and hypno-goggle eyed steep stairs, step up through the stables, and over the child gate there that might keep the night-mares out...
I am surrounded by half packed things. Boxes stuffed with books and CDs, random leads for devices long since discarded, bits of paper, bank statements I am afraid to throw away, DVD box sets, graphic novels. I look around the room, at the guitar case leant against the bed, the spider plant and it's tendrils creeping over a bag of clothes, a black shirt hanging over the mirror. Little things are scattered about where I sit on the floor. Let me see; a Superman 'S' patch, for sewing onto a jacket that I got free with a magazine. A train ticket from Worcester last year, 22 October 2010 'Birmingham Stns to Worcester Stns'. A photograph of the clock tower in Brighton. An empty pack of Paprika flavour crisps. In a clear plastic sleeve is a CD by a band called Sacrilege entitled 'Turn Back Trilobite'. Here, against the sofa is an unopened calendar for 2010 of 'Natural Patterns' produced by Oxfam. I have no idea why I have it, if I bought it (vastly unlikely) or if someone gave it to me, which is more probable, but God knows who.
Everything seems dusty. A white asbestos-ghost miasma covers the things I have retrieved from the top of shelves and the storage space above the cooker and the sink. I think this dust is the remants of the painting done here last Autumn. I remember the Polish builder, the streaks left on my leather jacket (annoying), and on the back of the elephant I found by the sea.
I meet up with Andy at lunchtime. He has picked up the keys for the new flat. We discuss what we shall call it; The Mews? The Stables? (The workshops below the flats used to be stables back in the nineteenth century). The flat, he says, feels strange, particularly the back section where our bedrooms are strikes him as oppressive in their current emptiness. The views from our windows, he goes on to say, show a suburbia reminiscent of those legendary places from our respective adolescences; Woodstock Drive and Mulgrave Road, Sunday white-out, drizzle gloom, and that slow candle-drip down to evening. I think of popping over there, after work, but though I have the keys, I am suddenly afraid -irrationally spooked- at encountering that emptiness there. I imagine going around Andy's after this fictional trip, telling him in the basement-capsule of his flat that 'there is something there, waiting for us'.
I begin to pack in the evening. Andy telephones, tells me he has been thinking about the 'haunted north section' of the flat all day. He imagines me going there after work, getting creeped out by something, then coming around his, to tell him I have 'seen something' there. Not such an odd coincidence as might appear, given our history of creating hauntings out of nothing.
It was -or perhaps is- inevitable, that we would -and will- do so with the new flat; a placebo-haunting, full of Tulpa-shadows and hypno-goggle eyed steep stairs, step up through the stables, and over the child gate there that might keep the night-mares out...
A day to be spent packing tomorrow, closing the bedsit down. It already has begun to adopt that pale, empty feel it had when I first moved in.
Moving house is always strange, remembered in great detail.
At some point in the future -possibly in the new flat- Andy and myself are discussing this very night. I'm probably saying to him 'yeah, and I remember instead of packing I was writing another blog post...'
Wednesday 21 September 2011
Last Few Stations before Alighting
In the bedsit, the last days of being here. Autumn begins to be felt. There are voices out in the hallway. Talking on the phone to Em at the beach, just past twilight. Waking up exhausted, in the middle of a dream. Dave's Comics full of early middle aged men, too old to be reading comics, and realise with horror I am one of them. Texts and phonecalls going astray. Marilyn, our new / old landlady on the phone, voice cyber distorted, bad reception metal. Those voices in the hallway begin to disquiet me. The bedsit is heavy and haunted, and I should not be here, and tomorrow Andy picks up the keys, then I pack on Friday, and move on Saturday and the bedsit shall be done.
Twilight was blue and autumnal tonight. It made me think of a moon, milky as bone, floating over quiet once-yellow fields.
Twilight was blue and autumnal tonight. It made me think of a moon, milky as bone, floating over quiet once-yellow fields.
Tuesday 20 September 2011
A Southside Dream
I dreamt of Southside last night.
There was a shop near Abbey Crescent - maybe in a parade of shops. I am not sure what it sold but the interior of the shop as dark and almost old fashioned. Outside of the shop was a chair. I was talking outside of the shop to the woman who worked there, maybe even owned it. She was about my age but seemed older. She was stroking Tiger, our old cat who died nineteen years ago.
I left the shop and began walking North through the houses. I had the feeling I was not meant to be here - not as darkness fell. I wished I could stay. I was momentarily worried that I had left something behind, maybe my wallet - but, no - it was in my pocket. I was relieved. Perhaps this meant I could stay after all, and watch it get dark from Abbey Crescent itself? Dream-Southside had a slightly different geography to real Southside. I saw, across a road, a narrow mud path, leading upwards between houses and gardens. This reminded me of a childhood incident I had forgotten, where, as part of a childhood game, I gave a girl a ring that was an old ring pull from a can, or a spring from some mechanical device. As I walked on I saw that there was some kind of subway excavated beneath the houses; exposed brickwork and arches, like a waterless Victorian sewage system. There was a path that had once run through there but had now crumbled away. I was momentarily dismayed but looking closer I saw that a series of bridges now formed a point of access through this subway / excavation / tunnel.
I looked up. It was dark. A feeling of great triumph swept through me as I saw a line of street lamps lit under a night sky. I marvelled at the texture of the darkness, how different night was here in Southside.
There was a shop near Abbey Crescent - maybe in a parade of shops. I am not sure what it sold but the interior of the shop as dark and almost old fashioned. Outside of the shop was a chair. I was talking outside of the shop to the woman who worked there, maybe even owned it. She was about my age but seemed older. She was stroking Tiger, our old cat who died nineteen years ago.
I left the shop and began walking North through the houses. I had the feeling I was not meant to be here - not as darkness fell. I wished I could stay. I was momentarily worried that I had left something behind, maybe my wallet - but, no - it was in my pocket. I was relieved. Perhaps this meant I could stay after all, and watch it get dark from Abbey Crescent itself? Dream-Southside had a slightly different geography to real Southside. I saw, across a road, a narrow mud path, leading upwards between houses and gardens. This reminded me of a childhood incident I had forgotten, where, as part of a childhood game, I gave a girl a ring that was an old ring pull from a can, or a spring from some mechanical device. As I walked on I saw that there was some kind of subway excavated beneath the houses; exposed brickwork and arches, like a waterless Victorian sewage system. There was a path that had once run through there but had now crumbled away. I was momentarily dismayed but looking closer I saw that a series of bridges now formed a point of access through this subway / excavation / tunnel.
I looked up. It was dark. A feeling of great triumph swept through me as I saw a line of street lamps lit under a night sky. I marvelled at the texture of the darkness, how different night was here in Southside.
Monday 19 September 2011
Casting Broken Shadow
11:24pm.
Should really get to bed.
Left Andy's flat at about 10pm. Before this, discussions about moving house this Saturday; van hire costs and first months rent. Listened to the new Amebix album 'Sonic Mass'. Time flipping. I remember the last time they released a new album. 1988. I was sixteen years old. I remember the song 'Nobody's Driving', recorded onto cassette tape off the Friday Rock Show. 23 years ago. Just a shade off a quarter century.
Didn't come straight home of course, but played 'Sonic Mass' again. Headed off over the railway tracks to Old Shoreham Road. I'm sure that road only exists after dark. It was sublimely spooky tonight. Something to do with this being the last few days in the bedsit. Jumping at shadows. Opposite the entrance to Wilbury Crescent, in front of the walled wood in the catholic school grounds, a patch of dark, deeper than it should have been. Some dead and hidden street light somewhere, casting broken shadow. Look back. Watch the tree watching me, eyes full of magpie leaves and eyelid flutter. Pass Farewell Corner where nearly a decade ago, I said goodbye to someone I no longer know.
Left Andy's flat at about 10pm. Before this, discussions about moving house this Saturday; van hire costs and first months rent. Listened to the new Amebix album 'Sonic Mass'. Time flipping. I remember the last time they released a new album. 1988. I was sixteen years old. I remember the song 'Nobody's Driving', recorded onto cassette tape off the Friday Rock Show. 23 years ago. Just a shade off a quarter century.
Didn't come straight home of course, but played 'Sonic Mass' again. Headed off over the railway tracks to Old Shoreham Road. I'm sure that road only exists after dark. It was sublimely spooky tonight. Something to do with this being the last few days in the bedsit. Jumping at shadows. Opposite the entrance to Wilbury Crescent, in front of the walled wood in the catholic school grounds, a patch of dark, deeper than it should have been. Some dead and hidden street light somewhere, casting broken shadow. Look back. Watch the tree watching me, eyes full of magpie leaves and eyelid flutter. Pass Farewell Corner where nearly a decade ago, I said goodbye to someone I no longer know.
By the time I reached Seven Dials I felt less edgy. Pass by the shops, check the temperature (18') on the gauge above the roundabout. I temporarily lose a sense of direction between Seven Dials and St Anns Well park. Internal compass gone haywire, a Bermuda Triangle in Brighton suburbia.
Back in the bedsit now.
Five nights left now.
11:36pm.
Really should get to bed.
Looking for a Sigil
How shall we do it?
How shall we turn the street lamps of Southside back to their original twilight?
(cold vast space between the houses, snow, lost Action Man space helmets)
How shall we invoke the slumber of Burnside?
(wood pigeon summers, the burn cutting through and a hole under the fence)
How shall map the shadows of Forres?
(the curve of the path at the top of the garden, long Sunday afternoons)
How shall we do it?
How shall we turn the street lamps of Southside back to their original twilight?
(cold vast space between the houses, snow, lost Action Man space helmets)
How shall we invoke the slumber of Burnside?
(wood pigeon summers, the burn cutting through and a hole under the fence)
How shall map the shadows of Forres?
(the curve of the path at the top of the garden, long Sunday afternoons)
How shall we do it?
Saturday 17 September 2011
Last Saturday in the Bedsit
The babble from the couple in the bedsit next door.
His over bearing voice, her whinging tones, shit rap music.
Yellow light against the curtains.
His over bearing voice, her whinging tones, shit rap music.
Yellow light against the curtains.
Friday 16 September 2011
Friday Fragmented
The open window behind me, night hidden behind curtains.
The bedsit in its final incarnation.
A week today I hope to greedily hold
new keys to a new flat.
Summer-hot sun, and a coolness, somewhere
in the air.
Wait for these days to pass.
I hear the sea
or maybe the traffic on Western Road.
There is a siren, and now there is not.
The bedsit in its final incarnation.
A week today I hope to greedily hold
new keys to a new flat.
Summer-hot sun, and a coolness, somewhere
in the air.
Wait for these days to pass.
I hear the sea
or maybe the traffic on Western Road.
There is a siren, and now there is not.
Thursday 15 September 2011
A Fairy Queen, A Giant Penguin and the Shrunken Dead
Long conversations with a fairy queen, dangerous and beautiful. We may have fallen in love, but we came from literally different worlds. Our worlds were in conflict with each other, their very physical existence threatening the other. Peace could not be brokered. Threats and reprisal. She had an army of shrunken dead creatures, miniature zombies who would stumble slowly from the distance to threaten the houses and suburbs of this world. Despite the fact I loved her I would not fail to destroy all her forces if I were able to.
I went down to the beach early in the morning, sat on the raggedy, seaweed strewn stones with a cup of tea I had previously made. A giant penguin sat next to me. I vaguely wondered if I was safe. Out to sea, a boat drifted by. It was becoming increasingly common to find giant penguins on European beaches.
An apartment in London, narrow, comfortable and slightly sinister. The strange coolness of the kitchen that led to the rest of the house, stacked with rooms and furniture that was there when I moved in.
I went down to the beach early in the morning, sat on the raggedy, seaweed strewn stones with a cup of tea I had previously made. A giant penguin sat next to me. I vaguely wondered if I was safe. Out to sea, a boat drifted by. It was becoming increasingly common to find giant penguins on European beaches.
An apartment in London, narrow, comfortable and slightly sinister. The strange coolness of the kitchen that led to the rest of the house, stacked with rooms and furniture that was there when I moved in.
Wednesday 14 September 2011
The Time of the Bedsit, Collapsing
Time passes, drips and flows. Is this autumn - not summer, not autumn. Wrote the same sometime last year. Nine days left of the bedsit now. A time full of glad farewells - though it still seems difficult to believe I shall not be living here in a couple of weeks.
Went around to see Andy at his flat last night. The thick darkness of the stairs down to his place, his basement studio, beginning to adopt the air it had when he first moved in. Like the bedsit too. Or not. This space doesn't feel mine now, but nor does it feel like it did when I moved in here. I wonder how these last days in the bedsit will be remembered.
Seagulls and the air beginning to shift and loop, an October blue. Worcester Echoes? Kinloss?
This time of year, this shift from summer to autumn, is always strange, a welcome resonance that rumours of an opening into even stranger chronographies, a new type of time, a season underneath September.
Like weeks spent breathing under the water of deep forest pools, a subterranean dream, laced with daydreams, threaded tight with serpents.
Went around to see Andy at his flat last night. The thick darkness of the stairs down to his place, his basement studio, beginning to adopt the air it had when he first moved in. Like the bedsit too. Or not. This space doesn't feel mine now, but nor does it feel like it did when I moved in here. I wonder how these last days in the bedsit will be remembered.
Seagulls and the air beginning to shift and loop, an October blue. Worcester Echoes? Kinloss?
This time of year, this shift from summer to autumn, is always strange, a welcome resonance that rumours of an opening into even stranger chronographies, a new type of time, a season underneath September.
Like weeks spent breathing under the water of deep forest pools, a subterranean dream, laced with daydreams, threaded tight with serpents.
Monday 12 September 2011
Rainy Monday 8:01am
Raining outside.
That hushed Monday morning quiet.
Even the cars seem muted
on the street below.
Dreams of running along
the beach, a house where
I once lived.
The day stretches, infinite.
5:00pm is a lifetime away.
That hushed Monday morning quiet.
Even the cars seem muted
on the street below.
Dreams of running along
the beach, a house where
I once lived.
The day stretches, infinite.
5:00pm is a lifetime away.
Friday 9 September 2011
Sad Friday
What a strange and ultimately deeply unpleasant week,
I wanted to write more about Al and Claire's wedding last Saturday, but after Misty 'not waking up' whilst on the operating table on Wednesday, I really don't feel like writing much at all.
I'm sure I'll pick it up again.
Well, two weeks left in the bedsit now. A fortnight. Seems unbelievable and yet so far away.
Its incredibly hot now. There has been a fog over Brighton all day, but a humid sapping fog. It made Brighton look like it was covered with steam, or that Brighton is now located in some Eden project like tropical zone. Sat in the bedsit now. I am incredibly hot. At least the bedsit is quiet tonight.
For a while anyway.
I wanted to write more about Al and Claire's wedding last Saturday, but after Misty 'not waking up' whilst on the operating table on Wednesday, I really don't feel like writing much at all.
I'm sure I'll pick it up again.
Well, two weeks left in the bedsit now. A fortnight. Seems unbelievable and yet so far away.
Its incredibly hot now. There has been a fog over Brighton all day, but a humid sapping fog. It made Brighton look like it was covered with steam, or that Brighton is now located in some Eden project like tropical zone. Sat in the bedsit now. I am incredibly hot. At least the bedsit is quiet tonight.
For a while anyway.
Wednesday 7 September 2011
Tuesday 6 September 2011
The Weekend in 5 Steps, and a Few Other Sentences
The trouble is when lots of things happen that writing about it becomes very boring as it frequently turns into a list of what has happened.
This is what has happened in easy steps.
1. On Saturday, we all go to Al and Claire's wedding at the Pavilion in Brighton.
2. Then we go to the reception at the West Hill community Centre.
3. The next day we go back to the hall to tidy up. We drink the rest of the beer.
4. On Sunday and Monday all the visitors go home.
5. I am glad I start late on Monday because I have a hangover.
Of course the weekend was far more interesting than a list of events. I shall probably refer to them in the future.
Its been rainy and windy all day.
Autumn is here.
Hooray.
This is what has happened in easy steps.
1. On Saturday, we all go to Al and Claire's wedding at the Pavilion in Brighton.
2. Then we go to the reception at the West Hill community Centre.
3. The next day we go back to the hall to tidy up. We drink the rest of the beer.
4. On Sunday and Monday all the visitors go home.
5. I am glad I start late on Monday because I have a hangover.
Of course the weekend was far more interesting than a list of events. I shall probably refer to them in the future.
Its been rainy and windy all day.
Autumn is here.
Hooray.
Friday 2 September 2011
Bastards in the Bedsit Next Door
Woken up by noises in the hallway. The couple from next door. Obviously
Music goes on. Loud. Some shit pop-funk-dance crap.
Still datk. Check the time.
5:00am.
Lie there in the greying dark.
Knocks on the door of the adjoining bedsit.
Louder knocks.
"Georgia! Georgia! I hate it when you don't reply!"
The music continues for about an hour, reverberating round my room as I lie there. It falls silent, finally, at about 6:00am.
Bastards.
Music goes on. Loud. Some shit pop-funk-dance crap.
Still datk. Check the time.
5:00am.
Lie there in the greying dark.
Knocks on the door of the adjoining bedsit.
Louder knocks.
"Georgia! Georgia! I hate it when you don't reply!"
The music continues for about an hour, reverberating round my room as I lie there. It falls silent, finally, at about 6:00am.
Bastards.
Thursday 1 September 2011
Last Shift in the Capsule
The day ticked on, the first day of autumn, feeling summery, and then, in the bedsit tonight, a strange shifting and it wasn't summer any more. Yesterday now (11:04pm) feels like months ago. The contracts arrived from Marilyn today, the deposit has gone from my account. Three weeks from now, we shall have the keys to the flat in the Mews.
The bedsit already feels old, begins to feel like it belongs to someone else, or perhaps the emptiness between my tenancy and the next. There is a peace in it, in the stream-like gurgling of the fridge, the voices in the hallway, and the cries from the pub that can be heard from the bathroom.
I went for a walk earlier. Left the house in the full dark of 9:30pm. Walked back up to Buckingham Street. My old flat there, the lights off and the curtains open. In the darkness there I could see the ladder I would use to climb up to the storage area. White archiotecture in the darkness.
I saw a man in the streets between here (the bedsit) and there. He was shining the blue light of a pencil torch on the soles of his shoes. As I passed him he stopped me. He resembled a cross between a pirate, a crusty, a goth and a medieval court jester. Straggly beard. Thick black eye make up. he showed me a laptop bag he had found. The laptop bag was empty, but he still seemed delighted anyway, telling me with great enthusiasm how his friend had found a 'Packard Bell' the other night' and of the things he had found in bins and 'by the side of the road'.
The night seemed ancient, the shadows darker and deeper, and the starless, obscured skies above colder and vaster, though with a strange comfort. I don't know whether it is the knowledge that it is autumn has changed my perception of the night, or the fact that autumn has changed the night itself.
Joe down tomorrow. Al and Claire's wedding this weekend. People I won't have seen for years. Three strange weeks left here and then the end of the bedsit chapter.
I imagine the next twenty one days will pass by charged with oddness; endings, beginnings, shiftings, the reconfiguration of constellations. I wonder how Andy feels. He has lived in his flat for nearly eight years.
I long for autumn and still taste summer on my lips.
There are voices in the hallway, footsteps on the landing.
They sound like memories already.
The bedsit already feels old, begins to feel like it belongs to someone else, or perhaps the emptiness between my tenancy and the next. There is a peace in it, in the stream-like gurgling of the fridge, the voices in the hallway, and the cries from the pub that can be heard from the bathroom.
I went for a walk earlier. Left the house in the full dark of 9:30pm. Walked back up to Buckingham Street. My old flat there, the lights off and the curtains open. In the darkness there I could see the ladder I would use to climb up to the storage area. White archiotecture in the darkness.
I saw a man in the streets between here (the bedsit) and there. He was shining the blue light of a pencil torch on the soles of his shoes. As I passed him he stopped me. He resembled a cross between a pirate, a crusty, a goth and a medieval court jester. Straggly beard. Thick black eye make up. he showed me a laptop bag he had found. The laptop bag was empty, but he still seemed delighted anyway, telling me with great enthusiasm how his friend had found a 'Packard Bell' the other night' and of the things he had found in bins and 'by the side of the road'.
The night seemed ancient, the shadows darker and deeper, and the starless, obscured skies above colder and vaster, though with a strange comfort. I don't know whether it is the knowledge that it is autumn has changed my perception of the night, or the fact that autumn has changed the night itself.
Joe down tomorrow. Al and Claire's wedding this weekend. People I won't have seen for years. Three strange weeks left here and then the end of the bedsit chapter.
I imagine the next twenty one days will pass by charged with oddness; endings, beginnings, shiftings, the reconfiguration of constellations. I wonder how Andy feels. He has lived in his flat for nearly eight years.
I long for autumn and still taste summer on my lips.
There are voices in the hallway, footsteps on the landing.
They sound like memories already.
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