SCORE!

yup, an actual WIN! she shouted unnecessarily *licks index finger / makes an invisible 1 in the air* the thing of it is, i've got a totally amazing thingy to tell, concerning the wee beast you see above, sump'n i thought would never happen and about which i'd given up long ago but i'll get into this new turn of events ASAP. well, i'll tell as soon as my meandering permits and the ADD lets up a bit. do not — i repeat — do not hold your breaths cause what with all the trivial bullshit rolling around, vying for first place in my head, you might die of suffocation before i get to the point and we wouldn't want that.

'Headline, please' — as Chris always puts it, which's a not-so hinty way of telling me to quit babbling, get my thoughts together, stay on-topic and say whatever-it-is using as few a number of words as possible STFU.

hmmpf... one'd think he'd know me better by now but being sane, he's prolly tryna forget. not-so fun-fact: getting from Point A to Point B was never easy-peasey for me, whether it's in writty or in speech cause it forces me to pause and collect myself and put my thoughts (let's call em) in some linear, if not chronological, order when my natural inclination is to go on and on and ON until the so-called 'headline' is inadvertently lost in the rubble, hidden somewhere within my ever-growing Tower of Babble. it's almost like a game — almost kinda sorta: Find The Point.

anyhoo, i'm trying my best to cut to the chase so here's a bit of tonight's mail to Christine: '...DIG THIS SHIT: wait — just had a thought: i really wish i could write all this down on Tawdry, actually ... but this's sump'n i shall never forget so why bother?...' OK, back to the shit... almost there and here it comes. :-)

oh, wait. dammit. there's background *groan* (yes Christine, i can hear you groaning like six thousand-plus miles away and i really can't say i blame you): as you already know, after the first few months, Hunter's refused to sleep with me and i really shouldn't give a shit but i can't help it cause i damn well do. he's the only kitty with whom i've shared my life who's not done it continuously since Night No. 1 (even poor scared-outta-his-wits Petey diddit from the start) and i shouldn't take it personally, but you know me — i take everything personally.

here's my thing: for various reasons since i've been back from NYC, i've been sleeping on the sofa in the LR and lo and behold: a few seconds after i turn out the light, Hunter jumps up and — wonder of wonders — actually stays all curled up and purring against me sleeping all night long — hoorah! finally! Endlich! *happy grrl dancing*
YES! it IS and big thanks to Trollcats for image above. the deal is — it all started when i got back about 02,00 early monday, 19. october and worked straight through till the following night, then was so tired, i didn't even bother tryna make it into the bedroom so i crashed on the sofa. the last thing i remember was Hunter jumping up and i smiled a bit, thinking he was in his usual — now expert — *X-treme Tease* mode and he'd surely take off in a second or two. then i fell out, totally exhausted. ten hours later or so, when i once again came to, he was still there with me — 'Unbe-fuckin-lievable!'

i actually experimented but only for a night or three. after a few days of Hunter and me sleeping together all night on the sofa, i went back to the bedroom and my huge comfy bed, the oak platform Daddy bought me back in 1991. no dice — he came in after i called — as usual — looked up at me — as usual — jumped up for a second or three —as usual — and then went flying out the door — as per fucking usual. }-(

over the last few years whenever i couldn't get to sleep, i'd take a flashlight and try to find him and the spot he prefers over me i mean, the goddamned absolute nerve. he's always in the doorway — ALWAYS — except for here when he moved back a metre or so when he saw i had my phone out (LR door's to the R).


anyway, i took these the other morning before wandering back into the bedroom. y'know — for the record or whatever. here's when i really got in his face.


notice the refusal to meet my eyes — as usual, dammit. anyway, to cut to the chase, all signs indicate i'll be sleeping on the sofa for the foreseeable future like some sad sack of a husband whose wife punishes him by locking him outta the bedroom. i've asked myself 'is it worth it? giving up my bed and the bedroom just to sleep with Hunter? damn straight it is cause there's nothing i dig better than coming to with my kitty — and i totally can't stand the entire waking up coming to process anyway; never did and never will — but having Hunter with me looking all cute and expectant and shit? well, it makes it all the better. well in truth, a liddle bit better. OK, 'better'. happy? *smirk*


back to Cun- Hunter — LOL, who knew? fuck knows what's in his head and why he won't sleep with me in a vasty bed like a normal kitty but shit, i'd rather give up Daddy's oak bed and the bedroom and have him sleeping with me than not. yes, i know i'm crazy but thanks for the reminder. i do have my lucid moments but — praise Jebus — they're not often and that in itself, is a whole 'nother story for a whole 'nother time prolly never, actually. :-)

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i torry

a big thank youse to those who mailed over the last coupla days, having been needlessly alarmed by what they mistakenly read into a coupla my last posts. all is fortunately well but boring-as-hell. it's like, c'mon, y'all know me by now — yeah, i'm tawkin to youse, those i know in meatspace (and some only online) who mailed and txtd over the last few days.

has it been so long y'all need another reminder after all that dope and opium tawk? and this? as well as the Post of Depression (as someone nailed called it)? and after a bit of a think, i chose to add this not-so fun-fact: someone else called 'deer diury' 'similar to a suicide note' — i wouldn't know cause i never wrote one and no, i wasn't tryna be all hinty. y'all know me: if i'm gonna say sump'n, i'm gonna come right out and shout say it. anyway, if y'all need reminders or whatever or you're new here or sump'n (and it surely seems that way by the *smirk* carefully worded tone of your comm), it's all good and i'm fine. c'mon, y'all — yiz must know me by now. this is who i am:





c'mon! it's teh funny — no way did i think anyone'd read any bad shit into my writty and christ jebus! take me seriously. *wack* (not me, for once, but youse). ;-)

anyway, i'm sorry if i caused needless grief or worry or whatever negative elses but i'm totally not sorry if those who don't dig me got all happy thinking i was leaving clues — like breadcrumbs! like in Hansel and Gretel! — before i checked out. and guess what? yiz'll never guess so i'll tell: my next post is actually totally positive with all this good shit inside — will wonders never cease? not if i can help it. hmm... still don't have that quiet 'inside' voice down yet and prolly never shall. *shrugs* my bad. :-)

edit @15,10: thanks for caring and stuff. :-) right now, i think it'd be really funny if i posted that photo of me with the gun in my mouth (the one i mentioned at the end of here) but i think maybe that'd be going too far and negate all the stuff i said above. the thing of it is, i think it's funny. but knowing not many have my warped sensa yooma, i'll post this instead (thanks again, Brian).


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Death of Chatterton

Thomas Chatterton '...(20 November 1752 – 24 August 1770) was an English poet and forger of pseudo-medieval poetry. He died of arsenic poisoning, either from a suicide attempt or self-medication for a venereal disease...'

above was painted in 1856 by Henry Wallis. having forgotten nearly all the Art History i learnt way back when, i remembered Chatterton after i found this in my desk drawer (bought in NYC in 1990-sump'n):


i can't find it anywhere on the 'Net cause i losted the backside with the publishing company from which it came. and it's a greeting card, like. hmmm... to whom does one send sump'n like that? OD'd junkies? cause if yiz look very closely, a buncha vials and an old-fashioned hypodermic injector can be seen and whoa, what a stash that musta been. oops — did i say that out loud? *shrugs* what-EVarrr... tee-hee.

in other news, '...how about a book about opium and homelessness? In Confessions of an English Opium-Eater (1821) Thomas de Quincey tells the tale of his laudanum addiction, the way opium is taken, the way it works upon the mind and body, and how he finally managed to get clean again.

'The book is supposed to be a cautionary tale, because telling of the joys of drugs was not something the Victorian Era agreed to. The book is split in parts, for example The Pleasures of Opium and The Pains of Opium. I think the part about the pleasures is a beautiful and enjoyable read, and the part about the pains is mostly quite boring, but you might feel differently...'

you can read the entire book here, actually. anyway, the first time i read it i was eight or nine, after it was recommended by this older, brilliant and wealthy attorney (loaded but losing it fast), a junkie i met through a friend of a friend down in the Village. after we talked for hours at Cafe Figaro one night (sipping real Capuccinos), he told me he wanted to be my mentor. i failed to tell him i had like about six already including two on books, reading and writing and The New Left.

anyway, the first time i read it, i didn't understand shit but (as i told him) if a successful working dude like he diddit and deQuincey wrote a classic about it, i wanted to try a true narcotic. personal note: at that point in time, i'd never even smoked Cannabis — that came years later. the first drug i ever did was Amphetamine Crystal actually... i was 15. whoa, what was i sayin again?

right — i read deQuincey again at 16 and goddit a bit more. then after i'd acquired a lotta bit of Empirical Experience (heroin, opium, dilaudid et al.), i read it again at 20, with Roger, in San Francisco. at one point, it used to be our Before Bedtime Reading and we'd take turns,totally ripped outta our faces reciting chapters to each other.

hah! just remembered i used to shout 'wake up — your turn!' into his ear but only sometimes. he wasn't too happy but always straightened out enough to keep on reading. *snigger* helpful hint: do not, i repeat: do NOT read anything into any of this or this or this mainly cause a) if you dig me, it'll cause unnecessary grief — see my next post thanking those concerned which i plan to write if work permits me to fuck around long enough to actually do it and b) if you hate me, you'll be all pleased for nothing, thus wasting your time.

and that's all she wrote — peace out, yo. *smirk*

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deer diury...

after i watched Good Night and Good Luck the other night, i went looking for sump'n through my old Tawdry stuff, sump'n having to do with the veracity of my Uncle Sam's actually being a card-carrying Communist in the 1930s *proud* RIP Uncle Sam. :-(

amongst a coupla other results, for whatever inane reason, Google served me this and since it's getting closer to the time of year i wanna go to sleep in november and wake up 1. january Christmas again, i figured 'why not?' after changing it around and adding a few of my LOLCats.


NO! it's still october, dammit and it won't be safe until after the GIMME-GIMME season's done, along with New Year's Eve *shudder* so Sod, if you're down there, here's your chance! i'm totally with Uncle Jr Soprano here.


no shit, Sherlock. anyway, enjoy. *evil* if you can. no, rilly — enjoy or whatever it matters not. where were we again? right... 'deer diury'...






holy hell, Hunter — i don't remember asking YOU. let's move on.



*singing bits i remember from like, another lifetime*

'...Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Made everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It's easy to see without looking too far
That not much
Is really sacred...

'...You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear
Alone you stand with nobody near
When a trembling distant voice, unclear
Startles your sleeping ears to hear
That somebody thinks
They really found you...

'...Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to...

'...And if my thought-dreams...
Could be seen...
They'd probably put my head...
In a...' — um... gil? errr, uh, gulli — ....'


and finally, my original point.








big duh — why'dja think i used images? ;-)

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Stoneleigh House & me

edit on monday 13,41: totally forgot to add my liddle symbol below, so let's hear it people, yet again: 1, 2, 3 — Alle zusammen (all together now), a hugely shouty and very deserving 'duhhhh me'. *rolls eyes*

like a crackwhore forced to give 5$ blowjobs moth drawn to flame, i can't pass this place without stopping to take a photo or three. see that teenytiny blueish-white dot at right? that's the half moon as it appeared about an hour ago when, coming back from Queens Road and about to begin the long haul up the Hill, i put my groceries down and had a cigarette break. i really and truly and very consciously tried to avoid pulling out my phone, but no... i'm bopping around, smoking my cig and admiring the house from all angles when bingo — 'Phone's ringing, Dude' — a txt flew in from Someone who's currently too high and mighty humiliated shy to be mentioned here. *cough* no worries, d00d; i totally don't blame you — in all seriousity, if this weren't my place do you think i'd wanna be here either?

anyway, in the midst of the ensueing flurry of txts, i smoked a joint i forgot i had (thanks, Gemma and Danny!) then sat down at the bottom of the hill whilst waiting for the next txt to come in cause we were suddenly tawkin some sobering shite that needed to be addressed right then and there and feigning concern, i got totally bored when i found myself pressing the 'camera' button, i realised i could give way better advice taking pictures than just sittin there, stoned and that's my story and i'm stickin to it. :-)

onto sump'n totally different: once upon a time like ages ago, the official Alabama 3 message-board had a topic called (sump'n like) Where Did It All Go Wrong? the next are phone pix of first, a studio photo over which my mother still cries, where i'm holding my liddle sister, tooken a million years ago.


i was four and already knew Things Weren't Right — the seeds of where it all went wrong were totally planted the year before and were just beginning to sprout or whatever. moving right along, the unfortunate woman cries over this one as well: it's how i looked for a day or so in the 90s after i threw a fuckin fit in the college principal's office very reluctantly took the red outta my hair cause the idiotic PTB wouldn't gimme my diploma onstage if i kept the color on though i graduated with honors. notice the defiant white streaks i asked the hairdresser to put in at the sides.


where did it all go wrong? i dunno... and if i ever knew, i've forgotten. anyway, i've dawdled enough so it's back to work for me. fun-fact: i've had to hold myself back from going over to Twitter tonight — so far, so good cause i consider liddle things like that as exercises in self-control, sump'n i should've learnt ages ago but somehow didn't. hmmpf... *lightbulb on* i guess that's partially Why it all went wrong but Where did it all go wrong? you tell me.

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state of the Slum(p) XIII

i came to in the midst of watching Caravaggio a coupla hours ago and checked my phone which didn't match the time on my iPod or Mac and then realised we gained an hour or whatever at 02,00. went out on the balcony, saw the pret-ty colors (which this photo makes look like faded crap, bearing no resemblance to what's actually going on out there):


and then got even more depressed cause it's getting close to that time of year again. just a liddle warning sayin'.

in other nothing's happening but that never stopped me news, when i came in from the balcony, i found Hunter tryna watch Kitteh TV.


i helped him by opening the blinds a bit more instead of completely closing em again to keep out the hated daylight.


when the room was as sunlit as i could stand, i started to shut em up again but at that very moment, he decided to take out his aggressions by lunging at me (ears back and dilated LSD and/or speed and/or coked-up pupils) but i was faster and moved outta range before he could get me. then, outta frustration yes, i know i'm anthropormorphosising but i don't care, he gave one of his scratching posts a thorough attacking ('thorough' meaning like four or five minutes).


he's pouting in the corner now and all i have are photos of his ass cause he won't turn around, so thanks, Cunter. moving right along, Danny and Gemma are supposed to drive over to visit me later cause i think they feel sorry for me since i never wanna go out. whoa, are they gonna have a surprise when i teach em Lesson 1 of my own personal style of fuckwittery NYC Stubborn-ness. dudes! i hope you read this before you leave Bath Spa mainly so i can go 'hey — i warned you'. :-)

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Banksy or not?

way at the end of august in my post after the Banksy show, i included above pic and wrote 'right before we took off, i noticed a slip of paper lying on a chair in the corner of one of the Museum's halls. it's a tiny liddle thing, maybe 2" x 1,5" and it was face-down but i could see some dark splotches of sump'n on the back so i went over and picked it up'. expanding upon myself:

yup, it's a bit of a stencil design. i've no idea why it was there and no idea who diddit and in the photo, i've no idea if it's upside-down or what but i dig thinking it's a bit of Banksy — maybe sump'n he left as a goof, like just to see if anyone'd find it and if so, it they thought it was worth taking (stealing? dunno). well, i took it and if Mikey wants it, he can have it along with the rest of his birthday present although i'm loathe to part with it.

i really dig it cause apart from the mystery inherent (Banksy or not?) it's kinda like clouds or a Rorschach Test or like when you're high and you see sump'n and you look again, it's almost like an optical illusion and you see whatever as if for the very first time and it's always some mundane sump'n. the thing of it is, i've asked around, went 'Banksy or not?' and half my respondents (including John, the manager dude at Whiteladies Road PDSA, my fave cashier at Sainsbury's and Becky, my former hairdresser yup, 'former', goddammit), thought it was and half thought not. great going, rimone. }-(

so after long, hard deliberation, the downing of much Diazepam to ward off impending anxiety and to suppress my Selfish Gland, i'm very reluctantly happily sending it off to Mikey, Banksy or not *sobs* cause he's about the only other dude i know bar one whose name shall go unmentioned apart from me who'd totally appreciate it. plus he's like my confidante as well as my closest, bestest friend here and one of my oldest — thanks to email and good ol' FreeA3.com, we'd been tight for over six months even before we hooked up in meatspace and that was like over six years ago.

anyway, i have no idea which end's up and which's down, so i'm posting it again every which way, in the hopes people'll tell me their opinions after reading how i found it and all: do you think it's a Banksy or not? not-so-fun-fact: it's blurry cause the design is blurry and also cause i'm wasted drunk and my hands're shaking so bad, i only got five barely usable photos outta the 20 i took and then i gave up.




hmmpf... dunno about youse but i see birds, eyes, wings, masks and a duck. oh, wait. alla that could be from the X and booze or it's that vivid imagination thing going on again. maybe. ;-)

OK, if anyone has an opinion on what they think this is and especially if you think it's a bit of a real Banksy or not, please contact me (2ndary addy's on my profiile page and/or yiz can @ me or DM me on Twitter, txt me or ring me and/or mail me if you've got my real addy). i'd actually ask him at Twitter myself but apart from the fact he last twat like six months ago, i have a very strong feeling, he'd wouldn't bother to reply, so like, why bother? however, i did mail him here, though i don't expect a reply. anyway, TIA, dudes — i eagerly await. :-)

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Paul Bowles — Without Stopping

a bit from Christine's last mail: '...the Paul Bowles I love — here it is — the last paragraph of his autobiography Without Stopping (he ended his book talking about death of course)...'

*snigger* take it away, Paul! *smirk*


'..."The Moroccans claim that full participation in life demands the regular contemplation of death. I agree without reserve. Unfortunately I am unable to conceive of my own death without setting it in the far more terrible mise en scene of old age. There I am without teeth, unable to move, wholly dependent upon someone whom I pay to take care of me and who at any moment may go out of the room and never return.

"Of course this is not at all what the Moroccans mean by the contemplation of death; they would consider my imaginings a particularly contemptible form of fear. One culture's therapy is another culture's torture.

"Goodbye", says the dying man to the mirror they hold in front of him "We won't be seeing each other any more". When I quoted Valery's epigram in The Sheltering Sky, it seemed a poignant bit of fantasy. Now, because I no longer imagine myself as an onlooker at the scene, but instead as the principal protoganist, it strikes me as repugnant. To make it right, the dying man would have to add two words to his little farewell, and they are: "THANK GOD!"...'


EXACTLY — BTW, here's Paul smoking kief in Morocco (just sayin'). anyway, thank you, Paul and thanks, Christine. :-)

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thank you, Mom :-)

hey Mom, thank you very muchly for the early Christmas-Hannukah present. it's exactly what i wanted since i found it myself on sale, online in the States and they don't ship outta the country, put it on your card (not mine) and sent it off to yours to wait for me to collect it and bring it back here. my last batch — my Christmas '02 gift from BJ remember? when Chris came with me? i, for one, shall never forget it, but i betcha you have — lasted me almost seven years and there's only a drop or two left. check it out:



hmmpf... naturally i have issues with the fact they changed the bottles' labels; the old one was an actual label embossed on heavy foil and the new one's just stamp-painted on. and their new package design — i like the old one better cause it's way more subtle, but whaddoo i know?


the brass kitty'll go on the new box once i'm done with the old. no, wait — the new box is busy enough. fuck! anyway, Mom, i really, really appreciate that you didn't go off on me after Barbara warned you i'd you'd already bought me my Christmas present. and especially last week when you gave it over without any too much hassle and the inevitable third degree. but i'm totally not sorry you don't dig the way it smells — not many do, but as you so unfortunately know, that never stopped me from doing whatever 'iz stawree of mai lief, akshully'.

here — you always dig seeing what my flat looks like but god forbid you should actually come over here and see it for yourself and why i love living here so here's the corner of one of the bathroom shelves where your Patchouli's residing at the moment hah! the brass kitty's flipped over, ripped outta his face.



yup, that's an American penny over there. anyway, thanks again, Mom. *love and kisses* :-)

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