Words and the remote control

I tumble through the words, bounce off the spaces, and notice my reflection superimposed on the text. My fingertips strike the letters with their pointed flesh, allowing the pixels to form words and my ears to hear clicks. If I write enough about writing, possibly I won't notice that I'm not writing much at all, just trying to avoid picking up the remote control. I wonder if I can apply this to the remote control – point the remote control at the other remote control and hope that it controls the unreal scenes that swirl past my eyes repeatedly each day, hope it makes them appear non-moving, but frozen in time. There is no pause button, so I hope to find a sequence of button presses that doesn't just affect the film that is currently showing, but affects time in general. 1, Mosaic, 4, Question Mark, 3, 3, 1, Go Back.

One day, I turned into a cloud, an infinite cloud remix.

That purposeful sleep amongst violent heaps of rain can be an intensity of clouded desire. That curled heaps of hair can be lead to an intensity of clouded desire too, and thunderstorms and shopping for wave clouds, and shoplifting streaky clouds, and abstaining from heaps, and layered food, and meditation on lee waves, and sitting so close to the sky that the clouds fill your whole vision, and the alternative layer tickles your eyelashes like a stray curl of hair. That you do not have to like the pearls of clouds in order to lean near them. That the opposite of loneliness is not a function of the clouds that shine at night.

Old flames are dead matches

I'm going to try to write in this diary in future, since my access to Mono is now severely limited. It may take a while for it to flow properly and such though. I've been to Amsterdam, moved out of my apartment, and now keep dropping the remote control on the floor. I wouldn't be surprised if the batteries have been replaced with jumping beans.

Art at the Stedelijk museum in Amsterdam:

'Old flames are dead matches' - Art that is readable appeals to my text attraction, I have to admit. Words are art too.

Me, hanging upside down on a metal pole in the playground exhibition. Also had a go on the slide, the roundabout and various climbing frames. A refreshing change to find signs that tell you to play on the exhibits.

Grayson Perry's traditional looking ceramic pots and embroidery, that up close are full of sex, war, and other possibly controversial images. http://www.graysonperry.co.uk doesn't show that much, so if you're interested and Amsterdam is too far away you could always admire the embroidery at the Barbican in September.

Houses

The houses were fresh, yet pale, and set against a demanding blue sky. No-one had ever lived in them before, and some were still only half built, yet to be fully germinated. I walked along further, until the houses were out of sight - the smell of tar was at once overwhelming and I then noticed the pink mallow flowers blooming. A few steps more, abandoned, next to the pavement, was a sheet of silver board, glimmering in the sun, reflecting grey stones.

Girl at the bus-stop, about 8.10am

She was wearing a beige coat and twirling a plastic bag. I could see her ponytail through the glass. At one point she changed shoes and got on the bus.

Confusion

She sometimes confuses drunken clips of meaningful life stories for genuine friendship.

Old names

I have to admit that I am fascinated by Salon's story about dead websites, such as http://www.Iamcarbonatedmilk.com
Dead websites are almost like dead celebrities somehow, or maybe just dead TV programmes, but dead TV programmes might be rerun at least, where as the websites are probably properly dead. Once good ideas that disintegrated into not caring and expiration.

Here is the article:
http://www.salon.com/tech/feature/2002/08/03/deleteddomains/index.html

My company used to have the name DigiMedia Vision, which seems just like a combination of the cool technology words of the time.

Vague job security = knowing your account won't expire for a month.

Synopsis

'Banana day: The bananas get up one morning, look at their calendar and discover it is "Banana Day". The trouble is no-one else seems to know about it.'

Red flashing lights

I have been trying to hypnotise myself by pressing the ? key on the remote control constantly, so that the red LED inside the box lights up. I am hoping that if the experiment works, I will be able to speak purely in synopsis.

Coherent eyelids

Mussed wild eyes, dazed yet longing. Tangled fingers amongst the stained dreams dancing. A view from close-by, tinted and locked, swarming from the piquant pools under coherent eyelids. Consuming, flaring, the drink, the music, the population.

The fourth man

'I play a little game with my cactus Edward. I pet him gently, and he sticks me with his quills.' - Sarah Manguso

Read the rest here.

Sunflowers

It seemed to be a challenge to grow sunflowers that were taller than me. Imagine, plants that are taller than humans! They grew, there are photos. Yet, as the years passed, I grew too, but didn't notice any sunflowers again for a while, until the other day. I expected to be taller than them, but when I walked past, they were all taller than me.

Yipke, pieceofstring

I'm reading a book where the character has Tourettes and am starting to wonder if it might be a contagious disease of text. Walking along the street, the music sometimes gets replaced with "Yipke! Pieceofstring! Yipke!". It's just as well I'm not that vocal a person.

Raspberry, peach, hazelnut, thorns

"Compromise the raspberry drama."
"I can't."
"You must though. Those bursts of sharp situation you've been experiencing, imagine them to be a raspberry. You've got to compromise, it's the way out."
"Explain the way to leap to the tastebuds then."
"No."
--
I awoke to find the sky a mild, deliberate peach colour. Or maybe I couldn't be bothered to open the curtains, it was too early in the day to tell. I entered the morning routine with the usual curious inhibitions, and headed on down to breakfast. But there, sat underneath the table, was a hazelnut meringue gateau. I screamed.
--
I watch a TV programme about the New Forest, a place known as Ytene or "Wild Wasteland" to the Anglo Saxons, where there are still birds that impale their prey on thorns. I pretend I have no idea where that is.

Experiences that come to mind..

Jobs are called Simon. It is hard to tell if all are or just some.
You can buy Jenny Holzer condoms.
Sometimes everything smells of fridges, apart from hair, which smells of lemon pledge.
Canadian beach balls work well in baths.
Bank holidays let you sleep for 27 hours out of 31, if you only wake to eat yoghurt and wave goodbye to your mum.
Your tongue, forming forbidden words inside your closed mouth.