things what I writ

old school

December 8, 2006

funny how they pop up. following the failure of an entire backroom, I was apparently lost in ether, until I was so conspicuous regionally that I could not be avoided, and from that point on, we had that conversation just this morning about not getting email directly and here is one about being friends and, by the way, here’s Andrew, so fancy that.

there’s a curious certainty about the misplacement of time that I’m sure serves as theme and fantasy. it’s round in the end, of which, of course, there isn’t one. look behind you.

oh please

December 7, 2006

it’s like the only saturday ever, so like, you’re not gong to let me take it because I’m so, like, indispensable, that you pay me 6 grand to stand here being polite to people who should really stick a pencil in their ear, like, you know? well that’s about it really I suppose so, like, I’ll just be a misery all day and then write some kind of like angst-ridden song about your middle-aged hair and licking bottoms and stuff, like, so, like, when you read this you’ll know, right. you’ll so know it, right.

except it wasn’t like that. we didn’t talk like that then.

snatch

December 5, 2006

while its apparent I have 15 minutes to gloss over the calamity of non-attendance it will surely be bafta talk when the first productions are screened in assembly although apparently she missed a vital bit and he wasn’t completely taken with the final cut after his collaborator snipped in with the effects and made everything random but it’s only half a morning and after we’ve dropped in to essex for a quick list of things not to get we’ll mash up the remains and make a video pie for the unfortunate children in the street.

I did one of those marble paintings once and a rather nice drawing of a woodpecker.

living/dead

December 1, 2006

The man over the road who runs the pub dropped dead the other day. 43 years old. I just saw the funeral party drive past as a CityCare leaf-sucker winds his way up and down the path outside our house, waving on terrified pedestrians. Everyone is arriving for the wake. They look pretty smart in their black suits. Some of them are quite enjoying it, as they nip into M&Ms to get a few more fags, while others can’t quite let go, and are gathering by the car park, not quite sure what they are supposed to do next. The black Mercedes is leaving. It’s reversing into everybody who’s just come down from the cathedral.

Then they’ve all gone. Except for the few who outlived him and don’t understand why, who are slowly being aided down the road, walking sticks lightly poking the leaves that haven’t been sucked yet.

It looks like Jim has revised his priorities. I just got off the phone to someone who’s working hours at Sun are killing them. The leaf sucker is doing another run across the front of the Black Horse. He’s very good at it. I’ll read Karl Minns later and everything will be alright. I don’t overdo anything. I’m not even here half the time.

you were out

November 30, 2006

and we knocked really hard. but I was there. I just wasn’t listening. I rather like the idea of driving for 30 minutes to the single sorting office on the other side of town to queue for a further 340 minutes behind people from newmarket road trying to understand what the gentleman behind the counter with the ponytail is trying to tell them about why their enormous package to charles in new zealand never made it because they didn’t put a customs stamp on and about 17 hearstsease girlfriends doing returns to argos and freemans, as old mrs miggings struggles to comprehend that size really does matter and that A4 envelope is not a letter at all but it’s an enormous unwieldy parcel which some poor delivery driver will have to break their back simply lifting it to a letterbox and so that’s why it costs twice as much as last time, dear.

it’s exciting, I can’t deny it. but then, I don’t get out much. I even like going to chapelfield, because it’s got people in. except house of fraser, of course.

publish to global

November 29, 2006
thaas loomoo 145
thaas loomoo 145 by Tim Caynes

that’s what it’s there for so as you meander through the troughs of plebian and lob a few camels into the traction engine of doubt you might spare a diatribe for the demented bucket wielders over the catflap factory as they never get sat down before the bus pulls off where it’s too blinken late for none of that bloody books and stuff but good lord you can’t believe we’re peering over the lip of winter with angels at our tails and all you can talk about is sausages.

for amongst us she pined as was deft o’er the platitudes whereupon we did stumble lest we dropped our faces and she were to trip lightly through the shattered remains of our ignoble trenchant jaws that nay dropped like stones as she parted the air with presence alone.

ere. that’s a single. you’ll have to buy a return. and another single. what do you think this is. christmas?

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