by dharmamonkey on 10/29/2013
*my mistress is a metaphor for smoking*
In August I attempted to give up my long-term mistress of many years. This is a quick note to inform anyone interested that i failed miserably. It was too much to let go of her… and her of me.
I was unable to prevent myself from leaving her slender figure alone, nevermind go without how she sets my mind at ease. It is a physical and emotional lure I could not resist. She is addictive like crack.
So yet again I find myself in danger of becoming a social pariah. People see me with her on the street and I catch them casting disdainful looks… some out of repulsion, others out of jealousy.
Occasionally when friends are over we sometime nip out the back for a ‘cheeky quickie’. I return indoors with her smell still on my fingers and a smile on my face as I’m gently reminded of the bikesheds at school…
by dharmamonkey on 10/28/2013
XX sits down in front of a blank screen and types these words out on his keyboard. It was. It will never be again.
XX stops typing and gazes out of the window at the tree at the end of the yard. Here and there some leaves still remain on its branches and XX sits deep in thought staring at the leaves.
XX contemplates a leaf and attaches all his remaining hope to it. A gust blows hard and the branch sways to and fro. The wind makes the leaf flutter frantically and XX becomes anxious, because if it should fall then XX’s hope will fall with it.
XX gets up walks to the kitchen to make a coffee. XX then walks back to the empty chair at the desk by the window and sits down. XX lights a cigarette and sips his coffee.
by dharmamonkey on 10/20/2013
Racing towards the gate I’m pondering how I’d managed to miss all of the calls for my flight to Miami, especially the two that had specifically called me by name.
JFK’s spacious and lengthy terminal is sparsely lined by nervous American soldiers, each gripping an M16. Only six months had elapsed since 9/11 and i didn’t feel wholly comfortable racing towards young jittery men with loaded guns.
Continue reading “Plane Sailing” »
by dharmamonkey on 10/20/2013
Inspired by The Skint Foodie winner at Observer Food Monthly awards blogger 2013, I thought I’d put up a little recipe of my own..
If you’ve read any of my blog you be aware of the fact that I have propensity to fuck most things up without any notice and at any given time.
Continue reading “Flick the Bean with Sausage Stew” »
by dharmamonkey on 10/18/2013
There is an universal tendency among mankind to conceive all beings like themselves, and to transfer to every object, those qualities, with which they are familiarly acquainted, and of which they are intimately conscious. We find human faces in the moon, armies in the clouds; and by a natural propensity, if not corrected by experience and reflection, ascribe malice or good- will to every thing, that hurts or pleases us. – David Hume
angry man in plaster
Continue reading “pareidolia” »
by dharmamonkey on 10/18/2013
Often I buy my books from a little Oxfam shop in the village of Frodsham. I like to imagine lots of university lecturers have retired there which to my mind accounts for the unusually high volume of intellectual tomes and literary classics.
Walking up the street towards Oxfam I pass an unkept and trampish looking man. He looks as if he was trying to shout into his own ear and I thought I heard him say..
“Fucking Tennyson punched me in the eye.”
This rather amusing and laughed as I entered Oxfam. Not really a fan of glassware or children’s videos I made towards the book section where I noticed a pristine copy of ‘The Faber Book of Utopias’.
As I picked the book up I noticed how heavy and thick it was. I let it fall open naturally and lo and behold my eyes fell on the title ‘The Lotus Eaters’ by none other than Lord Alfred Tennyson!
by dharmamonkey on 10/17/2013
He sits down in front of a blank screen and types these words out on his keyboard. It was. It will never be again.
Later that day he returns to the study. He boots up his computer and opens up a new post on his blog. He writes until his computer screen is filled with words. Later, when he reads over all that he has written, he has trouble deciphering the words and their meaning. Those he does manage to understand do not seem to say what he thought he was saying. He then leaves his desk and warms up some stew in his microwave.
Later that night he tells himself that tomorrow is another day. New sentences begin to clamour in his head, but he does not write them down.
He decides to refer to himself as XX.
XX walks back and forth between the empty chair at the desk and the window.
XX then puts the radio on and smokes a cigarette.
Then XX writes. It was. It will never be again.
by dharmamonkey on 09/6/2013
Summer has finished and the heavens have opened. A dank misery has now descended which dampens the spirit. If the constant drip drip and blanket of grey wasn’t bad enough, it will get colder and colder from here on in.
Everything looks the same in the unrelenting rain. Any peace is washed aside by the constant trickle of traffic. Pedestrians run and hide their heads whilst steaming towards their destination. Outdoor human interaction is a luxury in these parts.
Yet its all about context. In warmer climes the rain is welcomed with outstretched arms, cleansing the hot dusty cities of the Mediterranean, invigorating the parched dust bowl of the mid-west.
A shower in the tropics offers a respite in the oppressive humidity. The powerful thunderstorm captures the imagination, a force of nature reminding us of our place within the grand scheme of things.
And so a small part of me feels sorry for the rain. If rain was personified and capable of conscious thought then i think he’d feel awkward. Uncomfortable that he is not welcome here with us and feeling guilty for dreaming about the 1001 places he would rather be.
by dharmamonkey on 08/28/2013
The most depressing part of the rejection attached to dating appears in the ‘test of reality’ which shows me that the potential love interest has ceased to exist. In this ‘the interest’ is neither dead nor far away.
It is I who decides that my construction of the love interest’s image must die. As long as this strange mourning lasts, i will have to undergo two conflicting miseries: that ‘the interest’ continues to exist and to suffer from the fact that ‘the interest’ is dead.
Thus I am wretched over a text message which does not come, reminding myself in the process that this silence is insignificant as I have decided to get over any such concern.
The interest is gone and the phone, whether it vibrates or not, resumes its trivial existence.