Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

I suppose you could say that I hide behind myself, or inside myself, inside my own head – that’s where you’ll find me; darkened, introverted, alone. Withdrawn. Walking up Buchanan Street and seeing faces suddenly fly from the flock. I find this jarring. Rather jarring. The discordant melodies of life. Shadows on the windows of trains turn into undiscovered species in my head. Gentle geometric dancing things with colours all of their own and movements yet to be invented. The line of a woman’s arm in front of me, resting on the ledge, cuts across the line of the seat in front of her and this angle entertained me for five minutes this evening. I saw a flock of long-haired crows hanging around smoking blunt cigarettes in damp looking train tunnel edges, before the train rushed past the crows quickly, fully, revealed themselves to be nothing more than a black bin-liner fluttering in the wind, the weight of its contents tying it to the ground, preventing it from flying off in its unsung ballet. There is a ballet of life. I never fully escape myself; never fully retire from my own head. Always in my head inventing colours for sounds and shapes for smells. Today Glasgow smelled like an upturned triangle just a slightly-too-green shade of yellow. I can’t come to terms with myself. The space I take up is hollow until I’m forced to interact and then the space fills with cold salt water and I’m gurgling and reticent. Oil smeared on the glass tunnel entrance to the subway station forced the sun into whirlpool rainbows. I’m not really interested in talking about Oxfam just now. I want to digest my food and walk. Road works and pipe bands. Nick Drake isn’t loud enough to drown this out. They’ve changed the display in McCormack’s window. I like the look of the sunburst Gretsch. Those f-holes would give me a few hours of daydream pleasure. Such pretty shapes, guitars. It starts to rain slightly. The drops feel refreshing so I’m not too bothered. Why do children chase pigeons? I suppose they just feel free enough to do it. But is feeling free actually being free? I think maybe children just are free. I haven’t been free. I don’t think I’ve ever felt freedom. Is every head a prison or am I just too tied to myself? Is my head a prison or is my head merely a dog tied to a garden fence unable to run past the length of his rope? Pigeons eat the food that people drop and yet they always look so elegant and proud. Big rotund business men in purple cravats. Bull-necked bullies with pocket watches, hands clasped behind their backs. Toes missing. Along the train lines there must be several hundred pigeon toes. The poor city pigeons with their melted plastic feet. This city is too fast for me today. I can’t embrace this speed. I want to find the dial and turn it round to a slower speed. I wonder what 1930 looks like. I wonder what manners smell like as they resonate from street to street amidst raised hats in women’s presences and polite smiles. I can’t say that I’ve ever met grace in many. Maybe I expect too much. Maybe the vulgarity of modern life is all in my head, just like everything else I know and most of the things I don’t. Due to the way I feel today I was unable to flirt back with the flirting girl. I was inside my head and she was standing in front of the space my body was taking up. There was a major communication issue there. Before, when I’ve spoken to her it felt nice. She makes me, and others I’m sure, feel warm, wanted, special. I didn’t recoil when she laughed at something I said and placed a hand on my upper arm. Her eyes are small but they seem to hold so much in them. Globes of amber shot in black and white. Infinite depth etched in silver and skin that seems to be illuminated from the inside. Today was a bad day for communicating. I enjoyed the sensation of water trickling down my throat as I stood by the water cooler and sipped. The urban business man’s watering hole. No lions to pounce though, just myriad sharks. I don’t really deserve a person on days like today. Unresponsive. I retreat too easily. It’s good to write. A series of surrealistic images tied together by a train journey set against a pink/grey sky with fish flying east and the sun still undecided. Even the landfill site takes on unprecedented levels of beauty; all those shadows, shapes, sounds, smells. Feeding ground for the seagulls. So far inland on this island that someone has to lend a hand to feed them from. What is the use in a wasted treasure? Buried gold taken by pirates and hidden in the sand on a shore that used to be but is there no more. Crack the skull. Whip the brain while it still pulses. Ride a horse over the drunken sea and remember to take notes for those back home. My film will be a story about the contents of a minute.

this is why I love you man

you take me for a ride every time

joyce would be envious

This city is too fast for me today

yeah!

bravo, bennie!!!!!!!

most people would think of such a mention of joyce as a compliment... I can't read the cunt! I think i started with the wrong thing. I tried to read the biggy. Perhaps i should try finnegan's wake or dubliners first? it's like burroughs - there's a whole new language to get to grips with.

ha. thanks LR. you and i both know that if i ever manage to write a novel it'll be composed of seconds stretched to days...ah... now i see the reference.

thanks, arcadia. I wanted to try and write about the tangible and the thoughts/images in my head and make it seem as one. I probably failed miserably but I'm glad you liked what I managed.

Super, Bennie, inside the head is where it's at. I think if one wants to branch out from there, intermingle with the outside physical, the written word is the best start. Because we are nestled in each one. Perhaps each one crying out, or simply mumbling all the things we are about. We should all communicate with hand-written notes, toiled over or simply allowed to spontaneous flow. For therein is contained our very essence.

Wonderful writing, simply wonderful. You paint scenes and feelings well. And deep.

reminds me at first read of henry miller when he waxes prosaic. will get back to this in the evening. i'm at work and they're foolish enough to expect results.

bennie, i love this writing of yours. i've kept this one in my head as a source of inspiration ever since you wrote it. sorry i didn't comment sooner, i've been ill.

best,
~westcoast

Thanks to westie for bringing this up again.

When I first read this (twice), I was so blown away that I had nothing to say. Other than "great piece of writing, Bennie!" I still don't... but have read it four times now and am still blown away.

Thanks for the nice things you've all said. I'm always torn between thinking what I write is either complete shite or actually worthy of sharing with people.

"I'm always torn between thinking what I write is either complete shite or actually worthy of sharing with people."

You, too?



(in a deep southern redneck voice)"Hey boy! I never took you for one of them drivelin' artisty asshole types that worry about what other people say!" (just something can came whizzing by, Bennie. Don't take it seriously, for chrissakes... )

Cecil wrote:

Don't take it seriously, for chrissakes...

Ten four,

Speaking of red necks,

Bennie:
You write like Ted Williams hit. Pardon the corny sports metaphor, but TW my all time childhood hero. Those f-holes in Boston cheered when he hit home runs and booed him when he rarely struck out.
He never tipped his hat to the crowd when they cheered, and he never lost his cool when they booed “fuk um he said, I am the same guy whether I hit a homer or strike out.

Bennie wrote:

Why do children chase pigeons?

Is that a koan?

it could be a koan, 'truckin'.

an even better one would be "when they scatter as children chase them, do pigeons enjoy it?"

Williams died in a place called Inverness in Florida. I have family from Inverness Scotland. I'm just saying.