Monday, April 10, 2006


I might by coincidence know someone who, by coincidence knows someone else and if you’re reading my feed Mr J. Meister then, hey fella, I can’t give out a phone number but I do have a blog address for you it’s: (.) The world turns like a poker wheel so lets see if your number comes up, good luck and you have my friend Helium to thank for that tip.

As for my love life, well nothing at all right now. I actually feel that I can’t be bothered at the moment. This is because I’ve made so many of the same mistakes over and over that I just want to get off for a while. I want to sit with Popcorn and watch the dial carefully from outside of the ring. I don’t expect to ever get things right, my block’s been carved, shaped and hacked by raging, misplaced desires. I am a wretched, Pavlovion dog. I am every man. I’ve fallen off the bike and I haven’t managed to get my feet back on to the Peddles. I do however have at least a good grip on one of the handlebars if you know what I mean.

Changing the subject the Café has managed to be a little burdensome this week. The stove needs replacing and my good intentioned adjustments ended up with a damaged gas ring and a reprimand from Boris. To quote his well managed words “You’re a terrible, terrible bloody fiddler.”

Other news, Dink the Café cat went missing and then reappeared outside the newsagents yesterday asleep in an empty fruit basket. He had an Elastoplast on his head for no apparent reason and some chewing gum matted up on the end of his tail. I can only imagine foul play and not the winged variety. I doubt, with respect to our feathered friends that they’d have the imagination.

Back to the subject of gas the tower block at the end of the mainroad had to be evacuated last week because a tenant, a middle aged Lithuanian women, had decided to kill her husband. She had left the gas on whilst the man was sleeping, sealed the place with damp towels, came out, locked the front door and after an appropriate time put a match through the letterbox. The flat blew up as she’d intended although the reverse of intentions came to pass. She was killed instantly as the door blew out on to her whilst her bemused, most fortunate husband and bed were found intact, upturned and outside two storeys below. A little magma springs forth.

Every action has a reaction and unless we’re really careful it won’t be one that we can comfortably presume, not that I’m an advocate of flat-lining expectations, the indeterminate considered, but so much trouble can be avoided. Misplaced desires? The inevitable bite from the juicy fruit? We balance ourselves on ropes suspended many hundreds of feet above the earth and yet some of us (me) cannot traverse the most even terrain without pain. But and this is the rub, we are shaped by pain. If we lived for a thousand years, what then? It’s not that I’m not a gambling man, I’m just conservative with the odds. Ladies and gentleman, Brim has left the building.

inside me
thousands of summer songs
i open my mouth
& try to put them in some order.
I sing, badly.
thanks to my song,
i am distinguished...

Cicada by Timothy Gallagher


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