I based my life on the films of Peter Greenaway. I adore lists, collections, systems and rules. I strayed across the end of a film in ’88. It changed my life. Bravura (in the face of grief) was playing. A man was being relieved of his eyes. The following week I watched animals and plants decompose as twins sought out the meaning of life and death. Later, I counted from 1 to 100 while playing Hangman’s cricket. Male leads that thought they were cleverer than they actually were (oh, the irony), but dying with a weak sort of heroism. Water tower conspiracies and the like. Nyman’s music pounding out, repetitive, mathematical. I am counting to 92 now. The mocking of that late show brought it all to an end. All you need is a panning shot. I see that panning shot everyday. I view every moment as a Vierny composed scene, with Balanescu and Leonard giving their all.
I had no emotion before Greenaway. I had an ordinal based system thereafter.
Lezka, is that all I am? A sum of someone else’s parts. I need to know exactly what I should have done. What I could have done. I never saw it in a movie.
As you know already, music has played, and continues to play, a major part of my life. There is nothing like ordering your collection. Row upon row. There is nothing worse than disorganised vinyl. Now look for the last band under the letter F.
I based my life on the music and principles of Ian Mackaye. Admittedly, I wear a belt more often than he, but hell, the stature of that man in front of his amp, letting the cartwheels roll by. Belligerence pure. I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, I don’t fuck, but at least I can fucking think. 10 years I lived it. 10 years we lived it. Never ate meat again. A simple code. You really don’t have to be caught up in trying to be fashionable. T-shirt and shorts. I still dress the same today.
I am life imitating art.
I was now complete(?). I went forth into the world. Well equipped.
Imagine a writer saying these words. I was leaning at the bar. Nursing my drink, a pint of some sort, in a plastic glass. I was gazing across the dance floor. The smell of dry ice combating the smell of alcohol and young lust. We wanna get loaded, have a good time. Motown horns blare. This song would normally get me on the dance floor. Not tonight, never leave your beer unattended. Not because somebody would spike it with acid, but some scally would lift it. The smoke clears just for a second and across the dance floor our eyes lock. How can I use mere words to describe what happened? A bolt of lightning and all that Jilly Cooper crap. They were the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen. Electric blue. I sensed it was one of those life changing, life affirming moments. I knew this was the woman I was destined to be with forever….And standing behind her was my future wife……(and then I got off the bus…….)
Bullshit. I have told this story so often. All bullshit. A cheap laugh from a contrived Lee and Herring pastiche. My Stan Boardman lips quivering as I tell the punchline.
I did meet her at a club though. Loaded did become our song. But other than that, pure bullshit. Somebody who enjoyed the same snide remarks. Someone who needed loving, just like I did. A simple nod, while sitting on my knee and we were together. Lypsyl kisses dry cheap and they are the ones that help me sleep. We struggled at first. I was too busy playing out my film roles to know how to handle a relationship but in a short time we were living together. Actually, it was really easy. Together forever.
The ring cost a tenner from Argos. We refused to do the first dance. Pissed off the proles by playing Glass and Nyman.
I based my life on her.
I think this is the kind of stuff you really wanted, Lezka. How it all begins, how it all ends. A man can be summed up in very few words. Which is how it should be, we are each our own pigeon-hole.
CROSSED OUT
A confrontation was coming. They knew it couldn’t be avoided. There was still a couple of minutes walking time to get to the safety of the crowd. The snarling voice was now just over their shoulders. As one they decided to turn, still walking, but the man was in striking distance, so it was better to have eyes on him. He was becoming more agitated now that he had reached them. His words were still unclear. There was the classic wild look in his eyes. He had the demeanour of someone that had mental health problems and had taken something too. He was out of control. Perhaps if they sped up they could get to the light quicker. Even with the hindrance of a guitar on his back, he decided they should make a break for it.
Sorry, L.I. you got a lot from me today. Give me a break if I leave the last couple of lines blank. I could draw you a picture if you want……
The Absence Of Sleep 