Wednesday, May 31, 2006


As an aside I must mention that in my most basic inventory I have the heart of Classic Doll. When I’d arrived back from shopping for the essential underwater travel accessories, Newts energy had to be ramped up from the closest source. This was an essential requirement after giving me directions to the tank and then exporting me in the manner of projection that brought me here. For Doll law in this instance to be respected one must be stabbed by another and so, in a dramatic leap of faith from one point to the other Classic doll dived, aiming for Newts chest, as if into water herself.

Impaled to the core, Newt spent five minutes with his eyes rolled upwards in ecstasy, his back arching over slowly as the little body was wrenched by taught ligaments. With Newt arranged in this position Classic pointed upwards and away from his chest like a penis. When she was spent, her sacrifice fulfilled, milked, the husk toppled slowly away from newt inert. As she did and lay down next to her receivers replenished, risen feet, Classic dolls desiccated chest rent open like a dried peel of fruit secreted of all its pulp and out from this cavity a final ejaculation of sympathetic nervous energy vented her heart. I had to bring that little mechanism with me and I have it here now as a bulge in my pocket.

Sunday, May 28, 2006


It started with the dolls, I was able to see them reflected in the mirrors as I explained in my last post. (Classic Doll has arrived and joins Newt Sublime upon the table where they can be seen always when one stands in the hall. I have set up mirrors in each room so that they can always be reflected to this vantage of interior geography and head height…)

They’d started to respond to something, radio waves I had read, inscribed upon the steamed up windows of the living room in which I now stood. I hadn’t expected anything more from them but the voodoo as advertised on the packet. But, and Classic Doll started the whole thing followed by Newt, each head began a slow revolution and then spun faster at different speeds until they synchronized. Small objects in the room drew towards them and a few other small but heavier pieces made it as far as a peripheral orbit around them like insects circumnavigating a light source. I began an internal investigation:

“Wow, I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What, the…?”
“The spinning doll heads?”
“Pretty scary though I think.”
“Yeah, but they had an official health and safety seal on the box so…”
“What could go wrong?”

Newt’s left arm began to expand and elongate, uncoiling across the floor like a root. This ‘Evil Dead’ like oddity took about twenty minutes according to my digital watch and reached the fish tank where it finally dipped into the water with an exaggerated unfurling of its finger, pointing. I’d been watching this from the sofa in case I got varicose veins or some kind of clot.

Classic Dolls mouth began a wide opening like a start to a word, a first word that sounded like the seed of a mouth move towards sound in a flesh cathedral. ‘For even the smallest choir means more than all that has ever been said.’ The words on a flap at the base of Newts box had seemed no more than an aphorism.

Like a minute hand Newts slow brittle lips released their monotone mewl which I recorded through a tiny mike inside my watch noted for its consistent quality and comforting whir. At playback I was able to speed things up and to hear: ‘to the lake through the tank with snacks for the fish Spin-boy.’

“It’s ok.” I thought and fathomed from the short and cryptic message orated by the Newt doll that I would begin a journey with the fish. I had been a grand guardian of Pookie, Swim-Swim and Bubbles for long enough to feel comfortable climbing into their tank but I would have to do some shopping first.

I went out and bought a large can of fish treat flakes called ‘Fish flavor flaves’ which are especially shark flavoured to boost the confidence of domesticated marine life. In the fish section of the pet-shop I found a manual entitled, ‘How to construct underwater breathing apparatus in no time at all from household stuff and such and so on.’

The book informed me that I had all that I needed and using parts from discarded coffee machines found in the cafe, old gas pipes and elements from around the house I was able to construct an aid to sub-aquarianism. The fragile spires of partitioned rental rooms tottered in the wind.

During my journey:

I meet Paparazzi frogmen who ask me whether I’m a member of something called Ten-sided. Through verbiage restrictive apparatus I refuse to speak and swim off with a porpoise like spiral.

I wondered at the interconnectedness of all things and felt grateful for my chest attachment which came highly recommended in the ‘Other good stuff to do.’ chapter of the useful book that I mentioned earlier. The small parcel as such contained amongst other things a change of underwear, toothpaste and a small booklet of Impressionist paintings.

I shrank a little which may have been the result of water pressure or perhaps just the pressure of narrative.

Anyway I blanked out or something and the next thing is that I wake up hanging on a hook, comfortably but hanging is hanging. These two people pulled me out and I’m a little confused.

My neck is a little raw and chaffed because of the wraps I had used to keep my breathing bits on. I am mostly disorientated however and there are welts on my thighs that seem conspicuously like that of a tumble drier interior.

The thing is I think this is all about err…The thing is actually, now that…they’re good people, I’m just trying to acclimatize. I asked questions, but I needed time up a tree to think and to mumble for a bit amongst the soothing shrill of coconut rustle. Whilst I was up there I remembered the fish. What happened to Pookie, Swim-Swim and Bubbles?

Saturday, May 13, 2006


I can’t avoid the Gorillas any longer. I can feel their primate sinew stretch in the night like ethereal wire connected to yesterdays flesh, a synaptic trace of this morphological variant like a splinter from a hologram. Our great dark and brutal clown parades from dream and nightmare, safely withered by entertainment but perhaps just a tiny bit of Antonin Artauds’ vision for the re-birth of ancient rites remain for those close enough to the costumes surprise.

I woke up yesterday on the floor, unable to breath and my pillows were thrown outward and away from the bed as I unconsciously ejected my body to escape disappearance. I haven’t had an attack for a while. I had been trying to keep tabs on my repression, my little carpet lifter and visceral sump.

Classic Doll has arrived and joins Newt Sublime upon the table where they can be seen always when one stands in the hall. I have set up mirrors in each room so that they can always be reflected to this vantage of interior geography and head height, a moment of panoptic certainty.

Some things of troubling:

1. Missing things, for example those that for a moment offered an opportunity to overcome traffic with regards my first post and the little relic reasonably known as cat mummy for identification purposes that turned up in Jezs’ houseboat and more recently Nambos’ shoe.
2. The little notes upon which the word ‘Shoe’ had been written remain a mystery. The letters on the reverse T. C. W so far mean nothing to me.
3. Everybody else seems to be travelling somewhere else apart from me. Brim here in bloody Camberwell, this remnant zone and survivor of the Blitz that left so many fetid pools for the delinquent children of Bauhaus to mud pie in.
4. Watch this space.

Thursday, May 11, 2006


Sadly this week Sally, the new girl at a small shop that I have so far neglected to mention, a long standing corner shop that nudges right up to the edge of the right side of the café had an accident. She slipped inside the café during her lunch hour and twisted her ankle and I am to blame because it was I that had waxed the floor that morning. I had been thinking of other things, I had been thinking about Classic Doll and Alma Halmstrom. Alma had a small house in an area not all that far from where Toni is living at the moment. He had wrist charms that gave out far seeking symbols that rose to occasions of danger like engorged nipples and inspiring a sort of tremulous dodge that threatened a decent day, that’s what it says on the side of the doll box at The Softest Persons web.

The box that embalms Classic Doll, until the seal breaks to that first gasp of obsolescence, is slightly more attractive than the case that Newt Sublime arrived in. Classic Doll is an earlier pearl born of fine technique, steady hand spirit and that lotion totemness that so refines all that bleeds from the aching womb of the Softest Person. Classic Doll inspired Molly Doll, but and this is only rumour, hearsay, gossip and the uncontrollable variant of evolving whisper, Molly Doll enforced an exile upon herself some say of unfathomable humility. Molly, and there is so much assumption and creative writing here, sought to find her greatness equalled through experience above the vulnerable mask of aesthetics that her skitty form scorged mythically from her predecessor. Alma Halmstrom? La,la,la, I’ll get there later.

A flyer came by today that said ‘Shoes’ on the front in 36pt emboldened Arial. Outside there was a scattering of these flyers as they’d been discarded by limited interest all over the street outside.

“Brim, you wanker!” A car zips by with Nambo hanging out, wailing and giving me the appropriate gesture. GERDING! He cracks his head on a lamppost. The car stops and Nambo rolls out whilst Helium, who’d been driving shoots out from the other side and around to cup the mans' head with a little irony.

“Fuckin' hell, you alright Nams'?”
“Ne…” He was fine, just a little wound above his temple, a borderline machismo gash, and a wound of little beneficial credence.
“You find my shoe Brim?”
“You called me a wanker.”
“I hit my head.”
“No shoe. Are you responsible for the flyers?”
“Flyers?” I held up a flyer to his face. Nambo rose with a little rise from Helium (Jesus)
“Not I.” He said. So, I thought, not he. I gave a long, slow and thoughtful look of conspiratorial subterfuge out over the South London horizon and thought…

Alma Halmstrom is on the side of the Classic Doll box because he stumped up much of the lolly for the Softest Person and this is all in the small print of course. Alma is related to a king and “ah…” you say, “ah, The King, King Kallarackel III?” Indeed, the great doll financier himself.

“So then...” I say, “Who is responsible for the flyers?” Helium, Nambo and Brim look around them whilst the camera rises above in a circular motion, the scene fades to black.

Thursday, May 04, 2006


A really daft thing happened on Monday. This guy called Nambo, a friend of Helium came over to see me. We know each other fairly well, I thought. He lives in the next street. He had been telling me about this girl that he’s been seeing when he just flipped and went for the window. The conversation went like this starting from the door as I opened it:

“Hey Nambo, how are you?”
“I didn’t call.”
“Can I come in?”
“Yes, yes of course come in.”
“So how is everything?”
“No, no. No thanks, really no tea, I’ve err…”
“Whatever, listen! Sorry can I sit?”
“Yeah, what’s the matter?”
He took out a bar of chocolate from his pocket and left it in his lap unopened.
“With the chocolate, no?”
“No. Sam, I…she left.”
“I’m sorry to hear that mate.”

Then he just got up and thrust himself at the ground floor window. He got jammed though because it was only opened a little way, as far as it goes. We struggled; it was really hard to get him free and to squeeze him out and I had to rip his shirt. His shoe fell off too. He sobbed all the way through this. He didn’t say anything about the girl. He just kept saying something about an American writer called Richard Yates whose career had been seriously undervalued. He mumbled things about people being, “Janus faced fucks.” He said that no one really cared about anything, that selfishness was an unavoidable rule, that human beings are hard wired to struggle and that choking on your food was just more irrefutable evidence for the non-existence of a truly altruistic God. We couldn’t find the shoe so he left with a limp. Afterwards I was worried and tried his mobile a couple of times. Then this morning he phones to say he’ll come over because he wants to talk. I’m expecting him to apologise. When he arrived he behaved like nothing had happened and he denied, vehemently denied that he’d come over. I tried to find his shoe again as evidence, speechless. He tells me I’m mad and I’m supposed to believe that a stranger came over who looked just like him. All the time that he’s there he’s doodling frantically on printer paper that I have in the kitchen. When he goes I see that it’s a picture of a car crash. The car has crashed through and into a kitchen just like mine, the car, smashed up, is jammed into the front of a washing machine, my washing machine.

When I speak to Helium about all this he laughs and says that I shouldn’t get too upset about it, that he does it all the time. He’d never done it to me before.

Tomorrow I’m going to a gallery called ‘10’ in Hoxton, East London. A Japanese friend called Koyo makes these little figures from pen caps. She carves them out like ivory. They are all these little models of World leaders who have suffered damaging forms of psychosis during their time in power. One of them is of an American president who tried to slice his face off which he didn’t manage very well to complete. He bled a lot.

Anyway Nambo left the chocolate bar behind and I ate it. I still haven’t found his shoe though.

Monday, May 01, 2006


It’s a funny old thing, this life. We can stopper uncertainty with deities or for the monotheist ‘A Deity’, one almighty and omnipotent answer. But it isn’t enough. How can absolutes satiate the folly of curiosity? The phones are playing up and the television has a bad reception; I don’t have digital, I have background cosmic radiation as a constant fauna to the electronic theatre. I need reasons damn it.

So life, it’s a funny old thing, this…this retelling of stories, this always relearning, remembering, the function of our essential absurd, that through pain each generation must grow, remaking the books because we have to know, jump, scream and love that which also destroys us.

Mr Meister my electronic stranger I’m sorry about Toni. I feel now that I should have sent a reply to a small comment that she left attached to my last post saying I could mail anytime. That was really very kind of her to respond like that. Then I read about her tough time with credit cards and I knew that I should have written back and left a few words of wisdom. I got caught up with cards too.

I got myself into a terrible mess a couple of years ago and made myself bankrupt to get away from a similar amount to that which she currently owes. It kept me from much sleep and so much life that I missed, burrowed behind closed curtains and an impossibly shrinking room. I know what it’s like and recovery is slow, my old life distant and a new one trying hard to be careful. Toni, when so many envelopes build like so much decaying matter, fecund like cancer, escape is always an option but never an answer. Still, nothing wrong with a little distance from the fog for a while, but on another credit card? Oh the pornography of desire. I think though that you should give those that care the opportunity to help. Talk to the man. There’s nothing worse than not being given the opportunity to offer a possible means of resolve. Get yourself a ticket back perhaps, think about it clearly, there are worse things than debt and, hey a little bankruptcy isn’t a bad thing these days. In fact, I’m reliably informed that it’s the new black. In addition, think of it as a little covert manoeuvring against the hegemony of the bastard card peddlers. Look after yourself girl.

As for that very kind offer J it’s not a bad idea at all. We should get in touch and make some arrangements, but this is the net man, are you sure? I mean I might not be what I seem to be, might be someone else, not Brim at all. Hope the Blue turns out smooth.

As for Ezra Kire what happened, are you now a voice from beyond? If so can we all have a detailed report on the Messiahs full reading list? Thanks and by the way, while you’re in there as it were, please help feed all the starving people in the world. Also could you put an end to all the Machiavellian black-op’s, blatant-op’s period, collateral damage, hydrogenated fats, ugly housing estates, anything called art made with corporate sponsorship and, oh yeah, pay off Smooth Blues credit cards. If there’s one small favour left at the bottom of the bag, clean slate my bank account and credit history please. I hope that’s not an all too idealistic selection of requests. Can I rise now? Humbly, Brim.