writing - might turn out to be something
Here's something that might turn out to be something. Or like most of my projects might get abandoned inside a couple of weeks. It's a bit of writing.
No title yet - it was called 'It's going to happen, Andy Mor', for now it's temporarily retitled 'Epiphany', but there's no way that's going to stick.
It's kind of fiction. There's a few little bits of truth in there, but I don't think anyone's noticed. I may post further instalments if I can keep it up.
Epiphany
It’s going to happen, Andy Mor. Time travel. Jump into the past. Tree to tree. But I still get angry. Do you remember, Andy Mor? Do you remember the views? Stone hills, and stone clouds above. Windmills of sun. Disreputable.
The first time I died I was four. Glass of water and slept forever, dreamt the rest of my life. The world is not this way. Years later I was burnt. Pyre. Walked out to sea on slippy sharp sandstone rocks feet bleeding frozen. Fell off, stumbled. Over my head.
You were homeless, Andy Mor. Parks and derelict buildings, London. You came from Wales this time. Six months before you were the scene. Loved. Kept your favourite novel pristine in plastic bags.
Told me you were born in 1500. Formed proto-socialist commune during German Peasants’ War. Wandered everywhere since then. Many years hidden in India, Russia, China. One time beaten to death with a wine bottle on the stairs of a house of multiple occupancy in Rusholme. A tight squeeze, no?
Anyway, we escaped. Coffee. I had no money for half a year. Living on rice, tomatoes and other people’s charity. Paid no rent. Couldn’t find my phone. Buried itself under the skin of my thigh. Dado rail bent and unglued.
Market green. Bad wig. Sugar mice. A fairy ring of mushrooms. Slipped over. Up here you could be anywhere from 1000 BC to an unspecified future. This rain is every rain that ever fell here. There’s nothing between you and your ancestors. Reach out.
Fell from a landing. You stole my bike, Andy Mor. Or was it the time I smashed your head on traffic lights? Turned up in a 70s suspense film I saw when I was 12. Shoe filled with blood from gash on my shin.
I hate all men. Visions of revolution. Oh - there was the time I got runover. Reversing car. Albany. Seaside bathroom requisites. Sunflash mosquito crushed on the wall. Bought mirrors from a derelict church.
Called your boss a cunt, Andy Mor. He actually believed the shit he said. Accidentally drank essential oil in your coffee. No ill effects. I’ve always had my eye on the clouds. High cumulus caves. Still dream of walking there.
No title yet - it was called 'It's going to happen, Andy Mor', for now it's temporarily retitled 'Epiphany', but there's no way that's going to stick.
It's kind of fiction. There's a few little bits of truth in there, but I don't think anyone's noticed. I may post further instalments if I can keep it up.
Epiphany
It’s going to happen, Andy Mor. Time travel. Jump into the past. Tree to tree. But I still get angry. Do you remember, Andy Mor? Do you remember the views? Stone hills, and stone clouds above. Windmills of sun. Disreputable.
The first time I died I was four. Glass of water and slept forever, dreamt the rest of my life. The world is not this way. Years later I was burnt. Pyre. Walked out to sea on slippy sharp sandstone rocks feet bleeding frozen. Fell off, stumbled. Over my head.
You were homeless, Andy Mor. Parks and derelict buildings, London. You came from Wales this time. Six months before you were the scene. Loved. Kept your favourite novel pristine in plastic bags.
Told me you were born in 1500. Formed proto-socialist commune during German Peasants’ War. Wandered everywhere since then. Many years hidden in India, Russia, China. One time beaten to death with a wine bottle on the stairs of a house of multiple occupancy in Rusholme. A tight squeeze, no?
Anyway, we escaped. Coffee. I had no money for half a year. Living on rice, tomatoes and other people’s charity. Paid no rent. Couldn’t find my phone. Buried itself under the skin of my thigh. Dado rail bent and unglued.
Market green. Bad wig. Sugar mice. A fairy ring of mushrooms. Slipped over. Up here you could be anywhere from 1000 BC to an unspecified future. This rain is every rain that ever fell here. There’s nothing between you and your ancestors. Reach out.
Fell from a landing. You stole my bike, Andy Mor. Or was it the time I smashed your head on traffic lights? Turned up in a 70s suspense film I saw when I was 12. Shoe filled with blood from gash on my shin.
I hate all men. Visions of revolution. Oh - there was the time I got runover. Reversing car. Albany. Seaside bathroom requisites. Sunflash mosquito crushed on the wall. Bought mirrors from a derelict church.
Called your boss a cunt, Andy Mor. He actually believed the shit he said. Accidentally drank essential oil in your coffee. No ill effects. I’ve always had my eye on the clouds. High cumulus caves. Still dream of walking there.
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