Hanging In A Jar

Katherine was a delightful travelling companion. Though quite lost, she taught me many things. Some are glaringly obvious but easy to forget. Everyone dies.  This is particularly important to know in order to stop yourself simply walking into oncoming traffic. Doing so can cause your own death and that of others. Here I am in Pompeii before the unseen cart. Luckily no-one was hurt in this particular incident. Everyone is in love.  At some point. If not with others, then with themselves. This can cause great pain. Pain rhymes with Cumaean. I don't feel that it is worth expanding upon this point in great detail. Everyone is tormented.  Most of the time. And if they're not? Well, it must be denial or death. Or they aren't thinking enough. What do you do when your loved one lays down their head and doesn't pick it back up? Take to the streets? Everyone has introduced sperm into their uterus, except for Katherine. Katherine is childless. But she...

The monsters came early that day, metal teeth gnawing through their home. Later, they flee in the downpour; scurrying past the moonlit oriel of the confused titian and her lamb. In their terror, they forget one of their own. At first he revels in his new found freedom, sliding down the basement stairs on a dinner tray, rustling through his brother's Nuts collection and even trying a shave on his soft downy fur. But it is cold and late. He is young and now he is scared. The titian opens the door to find our shivering friend. She beds him down for the night, warm in her scarf. The child woman whispers some vespers and tucks him into her towel. Midnight snacks are left in easy reach. By the morning he has gone.

NORWAY The whole mountainside is carpeted in blueberries! And juniper. Some say it's surely mushroom season. The children wander off for a few minutes and taste the delicacies. NOW. Magick children.  They are the rulers of Álfheimr.  They are elfin dams protecting Midgard from the torrents of nature. They are fiercesome warriors, saving us all from Trollebotten fiends.    They are Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley. They are the 1960s.  They are Alexander Tucker.  They see wonderous sights.  A bearded man in a fox stole and his twin float by. A hooded beast with a magic wand comes to them in the night. They see the future. They laugh at their new found powers. They laugh some more.  They forget why they are laughing. KISS play on.

Harvey causing chaos on Letterman: I've been saying for a while that I'd like to go to Cleveland and knock for Harvey Pekar. People used to knock for Bukowski all the time. I'm sure that Harvey would've been a much better host. American Splendor was one of the first things that I read that really touched on the despondency of how I was feeling a lot of the time in my early 20s. Pekar pulled the humour out of the niggling tribulations and mundanity of everyday life. Life seemed to be laughing at him, even when things were going right. RIP Harvey. Russian Lullaby: John Coltrane. One of Harvey's favourites: