Strange prospect of travelling to the North East in the near future. By which I don't mean Leyton or Chingford. It's been years since I left Z1 other than to leave the country or for filial duty.
Reminds me of an acquaintance, she worked in HMV and I worked on Wells Street and we shared a pub. Early on we established that she could not get me free records and I could not get her free Kevin Bacon. I'd thought our cliques had been overlapping for ages before we met, but she said one day: "No, that's you and me that is. Y'naar." She was from Wallsend.
Seems more natural to accept an invitation I recently received to visit a former colleague in Cardiff. It is at least abroad and foreign, though its nightlife appears thoroughly English to me.
26 June 2009
23 June 2009
In all your decadence people die! In all your decadence people die!
He was from Ottawa, I meant to ask him about the place, but conversation turned elsewhere. He had curly hair, and brown, kind yet slightly insinuating eyes. He said:
"[Our Host] tells me you're dating an actress."
It seemed so improbable, in multiple. I at first translated it as a misunderstanding arising from Our Host's tendency to declare people's occupations as what he thinks they should be. Perhaps I was now some biographer, and the dating described the process of establishing a chronology in the life of this actress. Maybe that's what we call it in the biography trade, the dating.
He had me confused with someone else, of course. As well as about Ottawa, I wondered who this actress was, but I never found out.
Early on I felt that I wasn't getting enough to drink. Like shortness of breath it wasn't something that could easily be fixed.
Later someone put 'Shaved Women' by Crass on the stereo. I'd no idea so many people were familiar with it. It was a corridor-filler.
And Our Host drew me to him with something to say, slurred, by now he'd had enough to drink certainly. Several years ago another man had said a very similar thing to me, and I later wondered if we held that acquaintance in common.
"Y'know, you 'n me, our generation, may be the last men on earth to have seen pubic hair. On the women. Eh? Like the opposite of growing up, isn't it?"
"[Our Host] tells me you're dating an actress."
It seemed so improbable, in multiple. I at first translated it as a misunderstanding arising from Our Host's tendency to declare people's occupations as what he thinks they should be. Perhaps I was now some biographer, and the dating described the process of establishing a chronology in the life of this actress. Maybe that's what we call it in the biography trade, the dating.
He had me confused with someone else, of course. As well as about Ottawa, I wondered who this actress was, but I never found out.
Early on I felt that I wasn't getting enough to drink. Like shortness of breath it wasn't something that could easily be fixed.
Later someone put 'Shaved Women' by Crass on the stereo. I'd no idea so many people were familiar with it. It was a corridor-filler.
And Our Host drew me to him with something to say, slurred, by now he'd had enough to drink certainly. Several years ago another man had said a very similar thing to me, and I later wondered if we held that acquaintance in common.
"Y'know, you 'n me, our generation, may be the last men on earth to have seen pubic hair. On the women. Eh? Like the opposite of growing up, isn't it?"
10 June 2009
FFM: Ohne Titel
I was very tired, on the U3.
At Schweizer Platz a young couple sat diagonally opposite me. I could see their reflection very clearly in the window against the dark rippling tunnel wall. The girl clasped her hands together like an opera singer and held that pose for a moment. Then, soundlessly but in perfect synchronisation, she mouthed the words of the next-station announcement as they emanated from the carriage public address system:
Nächste Station, Willy-Brandt Platz.
Aufstieg links.
Umsteigen für den U-Bahn Linien vier oder fünf,
und den Straßenbahn Linien elf oder zwölf.
It was like poetry. Spooky and captivating. It was the most beautiful thing that day.
At Schweizer Platz a young couple sat diagonally opposite me. I could see their reflection very clearly in the window against the dark rippling tunnel wall. The girl clasped her hands together like an opera singer and held that pose for a moment. Then, soundlessly but in perfect synchronisation, she mouthed the words of the next-station announcement as they emanated from the carriage public address system:
Nächste Station, Willy-Brandt Platz.
Aufstieg links.
Umsteigen für den U-Bahn Linien vier oder fünf,
und den Straßenbahn Linien elf oder zwölf.
It was like poetry. Spooky and captivating. It was the most beautiful thing that day.
09 June 2009
FFM: She has taken everything but didn't give anything
"Ah, our colleague has returned to the hotel bar for a nightcap... I've got Angela Merkel."
He wasn't my colleague, it wasn't my hotel, but as to the latter, there she was, her face clasped between his knees as he sat down. More than life size, a full colour print on plastic placard, approximately A0 size. He must have hoisted her off a lamp post by gradually easing her up the pole and over the light fitting.
"So what are you going to do with her now?"
He didn't answer, too busy cherishing her magnified visage, pansticked the colour of cooked salmon. It was one of the few that had not been adorned by now with comments, devil eyes, a square you-know-who moustache. She was pristine and I had to agree when he said:
"She has the bluest eyes."
The waiter came over, expressionless at the sight of a slightly drunken Englishman pawing at his Bundeskanzler. We put another double Scotch on someone or other's tab. I pressed my question again, he shrugged and smiled.
"You haven't thought this through, have you?"
He shook his head and smiled again. The next day at 9:15 a.m. he gave his paper, and he left on an early afternoon plane. We didn't see his luggage.
He wasn't my colleague, it wasn't my hotel, but as to the latter, there she was, her face clasped between his knees as he sat down. More than life size, a full colour print on plastic placard, approximately A0 size. He must have hoisted her off a lamp post by gradually easing her up the pole and over the light fitting.
"So what are you going to do with her now?"
He didn't answer, too busy cherishing her magnified visage, pansticked the colour of cooked salmon. It was one of the few that had not been adorned by now with comments, devil eyes, a square you-know-who moustache. She was pristine and I had to agree when he said:
"She has the bluest eyes."
The waiter came over, expressionless at the sight of a slightly drunken Englishman pawing at his Bundeskanzler. We put another double Scotch on someone or other's tab. I pressed my question again, he shrugged and smiled.
"You haven't thought this through, have you?"
He shook his head and smiled again. The next day at 9:15 a.m. he gave his paper, and he left on an early afternoon plane. We didn't see his luggage.
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