the things you say 2

20111128 The things you say 2

You say, come. Come on then.
 
I am there.
 
We sit, a seeming motley crew around a farmhouse table.  We do not know one another, may have met once or twice, may not.  It feels like a kitchen, big table there in the middle of the room, but the edges do not house sinks, cookers, dryers, dollies or pans, black bottomed hanging from hooks on the walls, from the ceiling.  There is no scent of cooking.  No homely feel. No feel at all, not really.
 
You sit to the side, away from the table. We all have eyes upon you.  You are late, you are scruffy, you chew gum like you're deep in anphetamine heaven, cocaine, crack pipe, furious chewing.  You roll the gum around in your mouth.  You chew as you speak, half chew half words tumbling out, hasty, still so hasty.  I think, he is pissed.  He has recently been pissed.  He is melting. Pissed porous.  It is assumption, conjecture, bollocks.  I build a fandango around you.  Up eh? Up late eh? Partying? Talking? Learning and sharing with wine? Deep into the night? Which ends where?  Haphazard fallen, entwined, you and who? Sheet wrapped around a leg, across an abdomen, cranky discomfort of the mis fit.  Fumbled fuck. Hasty fuck. Cocaine come down fuelled fuck. Heave to hammer out those hovering demons. Salt spunk sweat sheets. Wet sheets. Warped sheets. Did you take out your gum?
 
You are speaking, mouth moving.  Gum rolling around, out it falls, one miscalculation and out it falls, slipping through your lips, to the side, plop, it drops down and I swear that your hand moves to meet it, eyes unflinching, you grasp and return it, barely moving, hardly noticing, back whence it came. As though it never happened. 
 
Cow eyes lure me in. You have no idea. 
 
I raise my nose a tad, like a hare, catching the air, breathing in sharp scent of you. Leaf mould, hot skin gone cold, metallic filings and sand ground into denim. 
 
You skip as you walk. It is not obvious, but I see it.
 
You rush and race.
 
I want to say, stop.
 
We leave the room.  You are gone. I search the vicinity for a glimpse of you. But you are gone.
 
The sun is burning down on us all.  It is late in the year, but the sun harbours deep fury and pours it out, unrelenting.  I sit with one other on a bench in the square. I long for the shadows, but can't move to them.  It is too complex.  I feel sweat run in streams down my back. My skin is wet to touch. I am clammy.  I want water. I want shade. It is all too complex. I sit, hatless and let the sun do its worst.
 
You come by, stand in front of me, shade apparent.  I have dark glasses on my eyes. They could melt in this heat if left unprotected. You stop, still. No skip, no haste, but a posture even in stopped mode that says 'I am on my way'. I look at you. You speak to me. I am unclear what you have said. I want to be funny and vibrant and clever.  I want to be witty, appealing, alluring. I want you to like me, to want me, to love me.  'Yes' I say in response to a question.  And then you are gone.
 
Later, a place becomes vacant at a table and I move myself langourously from here to there.  The table is deep in the shadow. My dress is damp. The alluminium chair is cold on my legs on my arse. Damp cold dress. I want to ask questions about you, to you, of you, but you are gone.

the things you say 1

The things you say

I don't know you, not at all, but I am interested in you. 



I have seen you around, stood next to you 8 years ago in a studio, somewhere, always rushing here and there.

I heard then that you were dating.  I didn't care. You sounded grand, posh, stuck up your own arse, and I hate that.  I had no interest in you then, none at all and I will be damned if you even gave me a glance.

I have surely seen you around, around quite a lot, so I feel in some way that I know you. I do not.

You have no idea who I am, never seen me, noticed me, heard me, before.

We met early this year. Sat in a bar as I ranted at you, waving my black book full to brim with ideas that gushed out of me unstoppable improbable unbelieveable ranting.  That old sweet release feeling when someone is listening.  I am asking questions with my noise.  Is it valid I am asking, do you like it, does it work, is it worth anything, can you see it, it is real and i need it to be in the world and i need you to agree. do you agree.

I am interested in you.  Cow eyes.

You give nothing away, so proper, so formal so grand, so up your own arse. I leave the bar.  I am sweaty, dry mouthed, ashamed.  You have no fucking idea.  I walk to the train.  I see you with a girl, you may see me, I think you see me, I think you say to the girl, look at her, silly tart. foolish twat. hopeless hag. what a load of shit she is. what shit. I watch you go together into a bar or hotel or bar cum hotel.  Will they fuck, I think.  Will they drink? Will they fuck and drink?

I find my car from the train and drive in a fury of rage and self loathing.  I am shit.

Your email comes late the following afternoon. I have been sitting in a tiny, too hot room with a thin woman whose face is pointy.  She nods at me her eyes filled with sincerity behind her glasses lens.  She is colour coordinated and stiff at the waist.  She is understanding me so well that I forget she knows nothing at all. She is nice.  Her lipstick and her earrings and her belt match her shoes.  She wears a lot of purple.  I have never trusted purple.  It looks like lame pseudo new age shit crushed velvet curtaining.  Where's the sun burst I think.  Where ever you see purple there has to be a sun burst. Right? She is really really nice.  I hate nice.  It is sickening.  Stop fucking nodding I think to myself.  Week 6 or what ever it is.  I am fine, I come here, you want something from me, I dig about and find it.  Here you are I say.  Oh more? You want more. Hang on I'll see what I can do, look have this, I'll shift the carefully placed layers of concrete and steel the mire on top to put me off looking, ok, is that better.  Great.  For the next week I will be lost once more but at least you are happy that you had a good look. Great.



I escape down the stairs finally, burst into the sunshine, breath deeply, put on my smile. Plastic smile, frozen smile. Ha ha. 

Look at me check my phone. It has email.  I have a mobile telephone, who ever would have thought such a thing could exist, and on this device, this hand held device I can check my electronic post.  Yowzah.  What a world. I have mail. It is you. I am not shit.  Or not that shit because you want me. I am validated already. Thank you.