Tuesday, March 28, 2006


The council turned up and took the cat. They had forms with them, paperwork with capitals, red ink at some point and health and safety slipped from lips like ectoplasm. Next I see headlines in The Evening Standard about a trade in council appropriations smuggled overseas. Why on earth would you want to do that? I’ve heard of recycled material, gathered in good faith by the environmental homeowners of Britain and found floating along tropical coastlines like an equation in some autistic algebra, but…I’m thinking that all my bridge parts are abroad somewhere and part of some damn project (ha, ha). I’d slipped a card with my address into the fabric wrapping the little dried cat, a small picture of me and a poem, an index of sentimental nonsense to bury the little corpse with. I wonder when that’ll come back at me?

Friday I meet up with an old friend of mine. He used to be a Womble in the seventies; he was in the Womble band. He was the guitarist, the one playing a flying V on Top Of the Pops. The Wombles brief brush with hot, furry outfits and novelty fame came to a crashing close with headlines like, ‘Wombles party drug lust bust’, or something along those lines ('scuse the pun) We had a few drinks in a pub in west London. He told me that a few nights before he’d been coming back from a club in Shoreditch early in the morning when he came across the corpse of a woman. It was raining. She had been disemboweled; her entrails lay splayed out in a trail indicating the direction of a drag. She had one leg missing and her dress had been pulled up over her head. He called the police who told him to stay put. When they arrived they questioned him and one officer was especially curious with what he’d said during his call, ‘I’ve a dead one ‘ere’. They thought this suspicious. It had turned out that the woman was a hit and run. My friend drew a sketch of what he’d seen and he was strangely surprised when he’d finished the drawing as if he’d been unaware that he was doing it. “Some ways in which we speak are truer than others,” he said.

The young son of my neighbour came by with a present for me. He’d made me little Plasticine tanks. He’d made five of them and I thought how perfect of him to provide me with that clear and perfect number. The pentad is a star, ten-sided and the formation of the first female number, number two, duality and the first male number, number three, unity and diversity. The boy, a young Russian is fascinated with dragons and knights, of conflict and I’m reminded of my own drawings as a child. Great armed star-fleets and their twisted wreckage, those ordered systems of disorder illuminating the terrible pattern of war in our fabric, sublimation’s for internal dispute. Those delightful, tiny models brought me back into the house and able to resolve a struggle that I’d had with some arrangements of things that had dried up in their departments of articulation.

On Sunday my friend Helium turned up and I had to surf the stairs as I lost contact with carpet and grazed a surfeit of insane newspapers that cascaded down beneath me. 'Go with the flow' I thought, as flock wallpaper dopplered in my peripheral vision, 'be the wave'. He’d come along with a couple of friends of his, a very natural Mancunian woman; a young nurse called Mandy and her friend. Mandy had an unrepressed immediacy about her that I found so refreshing. I was reminded just how little I know about how to behave these days, my friends are all complicated enough to leave me without the security of expectation and this brand of cynicism has been uniquely insidious. Anyway she was very sweet and I was a little embarrassed, as I usually am at the state of things. Hellie though was kind enough to put it all down to the chaotic mechanics of an artist’s mise en scene, but even he knows the truth of my deplorable domestic affairs. I’m afraid I might become like the brother of the American writer John Vernon whom he recorded in his ‘Book of Reasons’. Vernon had to pick through the rancid detritus of his sibling’s small and neglected home after he’d died, leaving Vernon as sole benefactor to clear it up ready for sale. He wrote by way of conclusion, ‘…that the book had been a way to comprehend a life that had left behind not splendid monuments but ordinary wreckage.’ We turn ourselves out into the world, manifesting ourselves into the material, constructing physical maps of madness, genius and sadness. And if I died tomorrow what would I leave behind?

Friday, March 24, 2006


Today I stayed at home, a day off work. The landlord had builders in to take up the floorboards and rewire the hallway. All the old cables had reached their peak. The downstairs always shorted out; candle wax everywhere. They found a dead cat wrapped in filthy old rags and whoever left it there had painted an eye on its head like a mummy. I’ll bury it, in the garden, later. When I was a kid other builders found a rat, mummified under floorboards. They put it into a little plastic bag and left it outside the backdoor on a marble top. It looked like a dried puffball. You ever see a dried puffball before? Did you ever see a fresh one, eat it with bacon and eggs? Puffball steaks, slices of pure meat like best bird breast. It’s only when they’re completely dried out that they can release their spores.

 The mugger I let pass, chased by a copper
 The businessman I lost reason with on the tube
 The awful silent wish that others might die
 White noise wall of radios
 Melon balls

Thursday, March 23, 2006


“Useless bastard!” Then, when I was at the bottom of the stairs I felt the first pelts of saliva that my father was spitting down at me, a fiver flittered down and I danced for it. That was my last late night visit to the old man. I post this like vomit. Do I feel better? A little, yes, am I resolved, purified, more relaxed, settled? Absolutely not, a great bag of memories fit to burst like an overstuffed cosmetic breast. I pierce myself and everything’s going to be all right, for a bit. But I’m sick of sticking it to myself. I’ve had a belly full of an adult life wracking myself against a hair shirt. But what am I now? I live alone, clean a café and spend my cash in the pub. I collect a lot of rubbish that comes through the door and most of the rooms are stuffed with possibilities of one form or another. I record the sounds of lids in the kitchen, the lid on the coffee, on the peanut butter, on the jam. I compare them, spend hours realizing their harmonics and sometimes when I get it I feel drunk.

I work in fives, fifths, a diatonic, sets of clumsy heart felt pythagorean solids. It all seems to work well enough for me. I like the door open and swinging in the simplicity of knowing without a definitive equation. All this stuff, it’s not academic. I’m not talking about absolutes because there aren’t any. I like the stuff in between because we can touch it. We can gather it up, throw it out, leave it to evaporate, set fire to it, let it rot, stretch it, pluck it, twist it’s sign and this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this, this makes for a great dissolution. From nothing comes something even if it’s flawed. It’s essential to be flawed because if your not flawed you’re deceiving yourself, which is the biggest flaw of all.

Monday, March 20, 2006


I had this dream last night about a small building surrounded by barbed wire. In the background there’s a mountain and this overbearing presence, I can feel this weight on my chest, a shrouded figure, a woman I think and she kneels down on me and starts whining like a radio trying to find a station on Longwave. When I woke up there was a storm outside and about an hour left before I was due to get up for work. At the café I slipped on a cat shit in the dining area. I surfed Dinks’ turd, that’s Mr Salvos’ cat across the whole room and lost my shoe, it carried on without me and out into the kitchen. I ended up on my back and all I could see was the lampshade above me. I hadn’t cleaned that shade for a while and it was hanging with webs and an old Christmas streamer from last year. When Brian gets in at 9.30 to fire up the kitchen I’ve cleaned everything up and I tell him about Dinks incident and my directly associated accident whilst holding Dink in my arms. Dink farts. He’s an old cat, about eight or nine I think and heavy from customer scraps. I didn’t mention the shade. Brians’ got a skin complaint on his face and uses a cream for it now. He’s been wearing the prescription everyday for about two weeks so he’s been coming in early and keeping scarce so that the customers don’t get freaked out.

Saturday, March 18, 2006


Listening to Ezra Kire this morning on digital I gather all the remotes from around the house together and lash them up with Sellotape. Next thing I go off in search of some kind of wire, find some old broken curtain cord that might be suitable and fiddling with that, pulling at these shelves, books and stuff bramble out all over the floor. When I’ve wrapped up the remotes in some old mobile charger cable that I’d found Mr Salvo calls round. He sees what I’ve done, whips out his pen, sits down and starts drawing. So I have to tell Brian about why I’ve got all this stuff tied up. Last night I had this dream. It took place in the kitchen and all it is is this wrap of remotes floating above this little table with my fruit bowl broken open on the top. When Brian was finished it was five thirty so I had to wrack the whole thing apart to turn the TV on for Neighbours.

Thursday, March 09, 2006


In addition to what I'd written before I wanted to post some sketches of what I had originally proposed for my construction. I know that from the start I was flawed. I know this now. I'm not going to make a fuss about the stuff. Mr Salvo persuaded me to put the phone down when I contacted the council because I was angry. I think I've made peace with it all. There are always so many other projects to get on with, always so many other things to play with. I feel the pressure around me sometimes and I identify it with things that just need a reordering, a rearranging. They need to be controlled and in the immediacy of these thoughts if I'm in a room for example I think that if I were to begin combining the disparate I would find, in their new concentration a solution. The solution I often think is simply to bind.

Tuesday, March 07, 2006


My name is Brim Miscovich and I have a small flat in South London where I have lived for many years. The street where I live is a main road and it’s become increasingly busy since I arrived. I have a job cleaning an old café that belongs to an elderly gentleman called Boris Salvo. Boris saved it from demolition when it was under pressure to make way for new office space. At the back of the café are four apple trees that were planted as a small orchard in the seventeenth century and a young friend of mine made a very short film there. He told the story of a little girl who was orphaned during the blitz. The girl took up refuge in the orchard which had miraculously survived the bombing and took a bite out of every apple that hung from the trees while she was there.

Last week the council removed some things from outside of my building. They weren’t harming anyone and they were strapped safely to the brickwork with a proper binding that I had learnt to tie as a merchant seaman. I am always very careful about these things and here is a list of the things that they took:

  • My collection of plastic crates
  • Forty metres of binding rope
  • Ten lengths of 4x4, 6ft ply
  • Plastic sheeting
  • A large collection of used plastic bags
Since the road has become so busy over the years I had started on a bridge project and I had only got so far as the foundation structure. Once it was completed it would have enabled me to create a pulley system that would have taken me over the traffic with plenty of space below for everything to pass by safely underneath. I had no intention of causing any trouble to the traffic below or indeed to endanger my feet. I don’t like to use the Zebra crossing at the junction.