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.