butterfly book

7/31/2019 Butterfly Book

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The Butterfly Book (2003)

Cleaning for friends, the kitchen scrapeda pile of papers stacked awayin the wardrobe, lurking, throw clothesscrape away at hairs on rugs

washing-up, a final wipean open window, a turned sheetevery day some do this.If more came round, then maybea great non-poet said 'the dustgets no worse after four years'on your own you don't see it,but the hoped coffee and cakethe starting programme, the midway gamelong calls, the phone a-wanderingup to make more coffeeunseen on sticky surfacebut other eyes before your own floatand even most polite friends will judgethe crust of food upon the floorthe clothes, the nubby rugthe drip-held cups, the horrorif a tiny un-neat smellescaped the wardrobeyet here you sit and writeso bold so old-time noble if twas paid

or even if in others' ink arrayedmortgaging comfort to scribbletis, like all poems should, a metaphorfor the lifethat lifethat non-profession. The non-trade,why even staring at abyss you're safefor, oh, it's easy, there's one daywhen all will come togetherthe pension will paythe lost opinions will reform

friends will gasp, enemies abeybecause you chose to scribble thisinstead of tidying your life.There's still plenty of timeit's only quarter past, after all.

There is a Grimm story called 'The girl with no hands' that reminded me ofWilliam.

Jenna is 'selected' to be cubi target because the wrong amulets were used at herbirth. In a pagan society, various superstitions about cradles and certain herbswere used to protect children from fairies. She is marked out by either thewrong herbs being used deliberately basic precautions not taken a positivewish by her folks to be born 'fey'. Changelings are more of a metaphor for


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'marked' children, who grow up seemingly unrelated to their folx (mentallyrather than physically; ie a bright child among the dim or a leftie among tories).

Shine, crust of gleamers, the old saw lies petrified in the soil, attracting solitarysnails, crooked-seams of snowlight, cliffward snubworks.

Research to undertake

Visit churches and imagine them as libraries.Watch cubi going by.Go to an alt shopping centre, or a regional one with wrought iron.In a pagan culture, the half-shamed repositories of religious feeling would begroves. People would walk around them 'for the architecture' and be tempted tooffer a silent prayer by a particular beech. There would be trendy new groveswith children's art tacked on the walls. (how do groves have walls? Maybe anadmin hut nearby).One cubi, identity, heroismTwo loss of identity, rescue, the pastoralThree culture, responsibility, vocation

It's too warm in all these coatsthe radio madrigals on, fortis drivetime ah the phoneit's silent both voices sayhello to nothing, annoyedfaintly with the other's incompetencehello pause hello? Pause dammit

the bus creeps past collegefat lot of use, inestimablepast the laundrette, so often dreamedwhy that one, I'll never knowapparently it's also a libraryfull of people I know. Hmmwow, hungry like a holewasn't earlier when I got upthis hell will unfork soontown in dusk, oxford road redstill hungry, how awful

too long, playing game robbed a.m.Stolen to build bridges fortiny computerised peoplewho came in droves and thencomplained it was too crowded.Ah, Maplins, home of the doofypc accessory and flirting fora single damned once.

Still raining without ceasepeeping voices on air discussthe cup final, arsenal win buttheir voices seem unheard, mutedby a bubble roof and no double.


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The bus not here, like wildsmall beasts heads pop upscan along the rainlit roadmost people go out later, dressedfor parties, for receptions and service.This solitary servant waits late.

The road spot here so well-knownso scanned the inches, and renowned.Just across from here, just thereI stood in phone box celebratingthe new thousand centuryI see the bus over there. Begone.Resume, overpriced rubbish fare.I stood in callbox seeing friendsAnd on the steam drawing drawingCircles squares hashes crossesNoughts and faces as she talkedFailed party, flat bike, lostother party, alone but talkingIn a box of dripping scribbled shapesPop outside for the fireworksStarry puffs in the north somewhere.Now reshown every newish year.And then, untalking as she wentto enjoy it with the folx, alonea minute in the dusty box.Then, alive, a woman left the flats.

Behind the box, forty shawled anddrink a-hand. We greeted andgauded the year. A row of sortsshe was running from, quite casualBut slightly mad to drink ice chipson the suburb street, rightopposite the townward bus stop.She asked me in, a lovely flatfull vast and cream and just a ton.The rower sat, unruffled, andapproved the floating refugee

bad dressed adrip in the room.She fell asleep. He and I talkednursing and on a crystal flat tvwatched careful public servicefrom the dome on its one-usebirthday its one worthy use-day.Mouthing songs of fake leaders.I went back to the phoneboxand carried on the game -#

Too hot, this wool coat hidesthe quickbought ladies shirtshould have ridden but weakwatery bones and no breath surely


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not how the stars in courses liveblack flakes of coat coat the shirtwrong perfume harsh hair hot neck.And oh the endless detailed dreamof a half-finished bored-stoppedhe change. The fun of a new me,

the holy charge of making new moves.Forgot to order the nylon device thatmakes the rod to rule howeverand anyway, not really wantedno queens or ladies to escort huggingsome liking for the parts part-donethe blushed orchids, the new walkthe glow of paternalist confidentdemeanour. But foolish, half-done.The clothes I wear, this wooden coatthis tied-back hair and shining nose,these solid boots of comfortand bifurcating soft cloth trousers.The bicycle, the pc games, the darkbag, the beer, the football. Alreadysomewhat halfway there.

And yet... even on a bicycle the same.Sticky the jacket, too hot the facea phone in the waiting-roombleating like cheap space effects.

This room too beige, well-litrain outside, circling streets andcharming apartments, ivy-trailedbut new, with kitchen vases andshiny hangings peeped at.Not even enough to buy gasnor a magazine, the bones oflife lie scattered on the shore.A small-toothed worm has creptinside and bit the bud, diseasedanger and doubt stalk the inner land.

The beige box stands half-open.Red shelves blue seats more sleep.The little shops just up from herehidden in a fold of streets, mightsell red licorice, newspapers, biscuits.A little something at eleven, butsuch a little small amount can go.Such spareness should be gas,for baths and frying are more warmthan friday talks of foreign filmsor chocolate-studded treats.

Waiting to buy xmas presents and birthdayother stop by the school, rare buses.


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Should get bike, should ride all the waybut how cold at first and then hot.Peeling off coats in town red facedsmudge faced like a footballing bratsoon need to, soon need to ride and hideeat simple food, more damn chilli

more biscuits for breakfast, more squashno newspapers, no red long lunchor find a kind of job that fits the holesthat scatters coins between the dayshiding cash under chairs down cushions.I need to redo hair before tonight.Both oiled and dyeless, grey stripedfrizz, dark rooted fuzzy clots.O like it's worth the effort at this party,like anything comes except the same.O mundane blokes guzzling drugsand all the world around is gayand somehow I don't want to.I don't at all at all want toit never exactly goes well, these partiesI'd rather feed squirrels, mop the floorOr even study. I'd rather read a text book.Yes, all-bus daysaver, you're rightI might get the 16 on the way back.=-=-

Tis late to be so cold, such rotten airAnd yet the vulgar flowers flatly bloomNo sky of blue, no warm-sun sunny fairStill time to dress up fully, in the roomLike endless whining songs the wind wails byThe heavy-ended winter blanket cloudsThe stupid purple croci don't allyWith heavy-fingered coldness pricked in handAnd yet the inner wrongness tick is worseFor spring brings river running course-endsAll this reading wrongness scratching verse

And boxly gawping just my conscience rendsFar brighter would the glowing blossoms beIf they reflected a harder-working me.

A cat laughs scattering sudden flies the cat clawsscarring soil buried food squeal of evila silvery soil cat

distinct thingsactual description of arcade and offices, and wrong cadethe bizzare sub-littorals.Generic pagan/superstitious framework, solstice cards, lib steeples etc(have groves with patio heaters)


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Cubi lifecycle and breeding (look up eels)the power of gurus, life guides etc plus being on the outsidethe whole institute section, as written, is very intenseinteresting time-travel angle, not original but detail could be goodthat whole 'goblin fox' story is dramatic gold, esp the new year's eve partroom for wacky extras the atypical occult bookstore etc

In a world not unlike our own sits a shopping arcade full of strange stalls. In onestall sits the exiled Qof, working as a fortune-teller. Jenna meets Zirin at thetemp agency, or she has a sub-littoral off him. Jenna gets recruited for savingthe world by walking into the wrong shopping arcade on the wrong day. She getsharrassed by cubi because she had the wrong charms said over her cradle. Shenearly gets infected by goblin foxes because of her temp agency postings. It'sonly her friendship with the exiled Qof that keeps her sane. However, after beingsent to the past to fetch her old dolls, she starts to get the feeling she's beingused.

It's so goddam familiar the sidekicks, the triangles, the sex demon, the guru.But in my head it's all very distinct the boy under the bed, the pathspot, thelibrary steeples, the back door to S's flat, the long clammy mountain walk, allvery distinct and separate from anyone else's product. I think the supportingcast need looking at Zirin has to be not at all you-know-who. The locus chickhas to fit into the plot somehow, and have her own reasons for hanging out, andby gum it needs some villainy. Maybe drop the artificial 'three book' distinctionsand just put in all known bits so far. Could start from the institute as a mid-pointflashback chunk then move on from her escape/rescue to the UN meeting part. Ithink S is both a ptBe and a Bbad and has to not let hand know what hand's

doing.

;-;-;-;-;

a row of little spheres along the wallreflected, now and then, a winter lighta million tiny squares both neat and smallenmeshed the room in dots and dots alightyet now the misted wary sun does notalight with any frequency on thesethere is just frame of light where there were dots

the lighted square does not now reach its kneesit's maybe based upon the planet's turnor even it's the every present cloudsbut tiny beads of joy like potted fernshave been by some cruel nature befouledbut with a longer string this can be caughtand joy recaptured in a ball of sorts.

This side-story is a history of fairyland, as seen by me. There are many otherversions, so many that it almost seems worthless to write anything, hemmed inby the Anxiety of Influence. Sci-fi writers have the same problem with ftl travel.There is no decent story without it, and yet every damn method has been done.Wormholes done, engines done, gates, folds, little pills, giant aliens excretingyou at the other end of their guts, all done. And yet it's still worthwhile reading


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them. These days, the ftl is dealt with almost contemptuously, in the way that18th century writers came up with vague excuses for epistolary novels. This iseven more noticeable with time-travel. The tachyon pulse, magic door, sacredwheel or ship gets them to year x and then the story can start. This is that kindof fairyland. Picking out the parts of accepted mythology that fit and dumpingthe rest.

These fairies have no truck with 'ae' spelling, are of normal human dimensionsand live in this actual world. They have only vestigial wings, wear mostly greenand eat mostly flowers and raw food. They have their own culture and artefacts,including the tv shows and films. They work in the paranormal industry andcurrently have a secret council but still respect the monarchy. They employ aGreat Marriage to perpetuate their power, magic and cultural identity.

In this world, no-one is sacred or has magic powers except for certain fairy skills,the white woman, and the little cubi tricks. Certain people interest fairies, suchas the local Locus and the drifter. Some paranormal events happen, but fairiesare usually not responsible, nor can they cure them. Cubi have been tamed forover 80 years now and work via persuasion.

It is possible to get lost and never come back.A youngish man sat down opposite them at the same table. He was wearing anincredibly thin cotton shirt and a gold necklace. Salo was staring at him coldly.He went to the counter and came back with a mug of bovril, smirking at Jenna allthe while. Sal's stare intensified. She could hardly breathe for the effort of herdistaste." Twenty-eight ", he said, rolling his eyes towards her.

She refused to speak to him." All these years and it doesn't mean anything. Twenty. Eight. "Salo talked further to Jenna about books, but kept a frosty shoulder for the niceman. Jenna was amazed that someone so pretty was allowed to just walk aroundlike that. He winked his curly eyelashes at her, and got a sandwich. Salo seemedeven more upset by the sandwich and stopped talking altogether. The nice manleant towards her and said" We all have our ways. Are you...? Excuse me, are you Solangie Verlenon?''She inclined her head a tiny amount.He grinned ''Well, my lady, I'd better leave you and your little friend... ". Helooked at Jenna, sighed, grinned again and muttered " ... for all the nations'

safety.''He took his steakwich to another table further away. Salo refused to talk abouthim, or even her rather exotic name. Jenna felst frustrated by the lack ofdiscussion, and the absence of the pretty, under-dressed blond boy. He had histhin cotton back to her now. Salo then explained what he was, so there would beno awkward misunderstanding.

Plot just there to illuminate character not a Boke but an invitation to fanfiction.

If so, where does that put the F place in the world? If they have to be placatedcos they rule the world? Are they good or bad? Where does that leave FrankPelling? How tacky is it to involve Frank? If part 2 or 3 involves 1928 and theCubi Council, how does it tie in? Maybe there's a general Otherpeople meetingand the CC is an offshoot. But that might lead to 'war being a good thing'. I


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mean, is a fe advising the leaders now? Considering it's another world (libraryspires, long train journeys) would that involve an alternative history? Of the war,no less, really an original furrow. Maybe leave all this as long as poss and seehow it turns out. But it would help to have a solid framework. Although Joss andPratchett both faffed with their original canon, making the early bits hard to readsometimes. Later stuff becomes right cos it's better worked-out.

There may still be a place for Cedric Lewis, who seems to be some sort of darkcubi. Not sure whether he's a solo artiste or still with the recovered Iron Filings.Gah, I remember that band name. It would be cheesy but fitting if he could winPop Idol or that sort of thing through using his dark unnatural charms. It wouldmake for some crappity records though, and it's too satirical. He could win it andthen go on to write complex indie albums of self-loathing and Chemical Brotherscollaborations. Also it would save having to describe the rest of the band anddrive it further from its murky roots. But would Jenna follow someone whostarted out singing crappy cover versions? (It has got a lot more crediblerecently with Lewis and Cook being more hipstery). Maybe in this world indie isthe mainstream, or there's a rare occurrence of art overtaking commerce. Cynicswould say it destroyed the much-wanted obscurity but then this is a world withlibrary steeples.

She sat in the bath, thinking. The water was a dank yellow, smelling of crushedweeds and dusted with odd ends of petals. The bath was a ringing enamel,painted grey to look like zinc and almost dangerous around the rim. Solangie satin the soupy mess, planning her strategies and trying to recharge her gifts. Shenever had baths in the dark or with candles, preferring a sympathetic rainywindow and a glass of her juice somewhere on the floor. She didn't read in the

bath she never really read anyway, the concepts seemed to come to her. Shedidn't wash her hair or shave anything because she was naturally clean. She justneeded to swim in sepals every now and then, in order to continue to do her job.Since the job involved tricking and out-manoeuvring people with some sort ofclass and subtlety. She needed to do a lot of careful thinking.It was an antique and sacred bond that she grant wishes. She didn't have eitherthe power or the inclination to do this very much, so she didn't advertise thatand called her work 'fortune-telling'; ironically the one thing she was actuallybarred from doing. The future was somewhere to be stepped into carefully andnot yakked about over foamy coffees. But the conversations and thought-impressions she got from her fortune-telling sessions helped her to grant the

odd wish here and there, or offer a useful remedy. The cubi knew pretty wellwhat she was and what she did, but she had no obligation to help them,thankfully. Her wishes would become depressingly simple and biological after awhile, and who would ever want to read the thought-impressions of a damnedcubi? They didn't even understand the simplest thing. They even bathedtogether.

Zirin, Pinon, Clepit and the other two sat in the bath at the end of a long week.Zirin hadn't got any further with his catch again, and the others were pressuringhim to hand it back. Pinon...

The train journey took about four days. When Jennabought the ticket, she had to sign a disclaimer about herhealth, food provision and bringing her own sleeping bag.


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She could have taken a plane, but they cost bloody mountains of money andeveryone said the train journey was an Experience. She walked onto the speciallong-time platform, rather self-consciously, holding her sleeping-bag in a bag anda rucksack full of bananas and books. She worried about buying more batteriesfor her stereo, her torch, her mp3 player, her phone and her hand-warmer. Shealso worried getting a seat near the loo but not too near, and worried about

meeting weird old men who wouldn't leave her alone and whether she'd get anysleep at all. She hadn't brought a proper sleeper but just a tiny 'coffin' pod. Andshe worried about the price of food on board and whether they took credit or shewould have to eat pot noodles warmed with shower water. This would be suitablyself-sufficient but the dried peas would be foul after four days.

The train pulled in, excitingly dark green with different shaped carriages. A guardin a tasselled uniform got out and checked everyone's ticket. Only eight peoplegot on at Coketown, but more would pile on along the way until they all got off atSmem. (Jenna was going beyond Smem to the marshes on the far side and thelittle academic town of Foru Fau). Three of the passengers had religious shavedheads and worrying pamphlets in carrier bags. There was some sort of middle-aged honeymoon couple (did they have double pods?) and some indeterminatespods off to football matches and relatives and such. Most people had lessluggage than Jenna. She got on the train and was shown to her pod. It wasmoulded cream plastic and had a teeny window at lying-down eye level. A thickblue curtain hung in front of the pod door, which was also unfortunately glass.There was enough room to sit up (even at Jenna's height) and roll over. A smalllocker lay at her feet. There was even o joy! - an electrical socket. All sheneeded was a hot tap and a portable DVD player, which she couldn't affordanyway.

'Realms' essay that I wrote and didn't do, the great fool. Fooly fool.- Compare outsider art from website search thing and Henry Darger etc. tooutsider lit., Nicholas Moore in an alt poetry anthology, and the clevererfanfiction. Although all these novels of old professors and young chicas are ascheesy and wish-fulfilling as any Clex slash.N. Moore / canon / outsider art / articles in journals / nutter bloke / hi classfanfic / use of 'realm'

Lit reviews of non-fiction often describe the sentence structure and the kind oflanguage used, which follows the theory of 'text' as opposed to narrative; or that

all texts have a narrative (they follow on like entropy). Review here (Guardian29th Jan, Olive Parkman) of the lit. in the Hutton Report, speaking of '...surprisingly plain language... the result is a kind of icy clarity' may be useful intrying to analyse the litness of Newton, Darwin etc or indeed Cicero's letters towee Curio.

The Test Building was somewhere in Southern Hospital. She arrived at 'MainOutpatients' and was directed out through the wooden doors on her left, alongthe corridor to the door behind the foot of the stairs on her second right, throughthe main corridor but crossing it via the fire exits and behind the JohnsonBuilding. She wandered up the main corridor, popped out of a fire exit andwalked past some mobiles full of nurses; who could all watch as she reached adead end and walked back. She went back up the main corridor, past ECT andPhlebotomy again and tried an earlier fire exit that led to an overgrown car park


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full of fireweed. She walked past the backs of four-storey Victorian units feelingvery aggrieved and a touch panicky. They all had iron railings and vast wrought-iron steps blocked at the bottom with plywood and notices on the ground flooradvertising things like 'Radial Ostomy Care' and 'Full Force Centre Turn Right'.She reached another dead end and stomped back, the hospital smell making herlungs catch and her fingers tremble. Then she saw a tiny sign in the plywood at

the bottom of the steps. 'test centre ^' written in biro and protected from therain with old sellotape. She slowed her breathing (but still annoyed) and swungopen the wooden barrier to go up the steps. No-one was visible as she climbedthree flights of fire-escape and along a windy balcony. The door on the end wasred with a safety-glass window. A small sign announced it had shut threeminutes ago. The next time she got lost in the residential block and had to haulher bike over a fence to get back. She got lost in the maternity ward and thedoctors' tea-room before climbing finally back up the fire-escape with sixminutes to spare. The receptionist led her straight in.

It was like a boil, only more rectangular and just below her navel. It just oozedquietly and rubbed itself raw on her clothes. She'd had it so long she nearlythought of naming the damn thing. Doctors were silent unto catatonia about it,sometimes prescribing antibiotic creams, sometimes prodding it. Once they'dassured her it wasn't serious, they felt their work was done. The doctor in thearcade took special interest, and asked her to go for tests. She seemed to be oneof a small group of peoplew with rectangular sores. She was also grossly allergicto lavender. It caused the thing to ooze in rivers and put her off getting naked inpublic.

They locked him in a small damp room covered in leaves. Here and there he

could just make out tiny yellow frogs. He stood in the centre and hoped veryhard he wouldn't feel sleepy.

Another anxiety-of-influence problem has turned up with Alexander being lockedin a (possibly) fake mental institute by the local PTB in order to have his worddisbelieved or burned out of him. More of an acute crisis PTB wanted him toforget his findings about a specific crime. Disorientation applied by comic-bookdrugs before incarceration rather than via institute itself. Once there, tacitlyacknowledged to be 'political' prisoner but outwardly told he was ill. He doesn'tmis-trust sanity for a moment, due to his justified suspicion of the PTB, but hasthe offending memories removed. Currently not suspicious, but things will surely

go v. bad soon. Fear of being unjustly locked up is quite deep and so probablyworth copying. The vague plan so far is for J to exist in a bureaucracy of not-telling, and for her status to remain unspoken. Also the place itself is nuttifying.Less acute than long-term, but similar aims from PTB, therefore suitable case fornicking sections.

Shige was rescued, of course, right at the last possible minute by a mysteriousstranger. Either he was an art philistine who didn't care about ruining aninstallation, or he was all part of The Project, and the audience had been viewingthe piece with entirely the wrong impression. Shige herself couldn't sayanything, as she was in hospital getting skin grafts. The mysterious strangerdidn't say anything, although he stayed in the gallery/flat for weeks in order tosell blood-stained cushions, old carpet and hand-spattered postcards. As for thegoblin foxes, they had disappeared entirely. No-one seriously believed in them,


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or that they had ever... dammit, arsenal just equalized, the big fools. Damndamn damn. And this coffee is utter filth.Maybe do more with Shige.

I may not see another springThe little purple blobs may not return.

My heart may freeze for real, tis tinNo warmth inside outside all a-burn.For life was born in just a year or soThe door outlined seemed brighter thereTo walk in peace to sleep to wake and knowThe joys of peace, the life of little care.But this was freedom purely bought.This holy terror was not person-based.For long for something long-used I soughtExpecting heaven and art in just a face.This potato life, this grey-bought shellIs still a freedom, it will do as well.

Beats there a heart for me?Lives in this world a sparkling view?Does any living soul above the seaHave in them home for hopes anew?Or is my dusted look a bigger blight?Is my inward-turning eye a bigger fault?Can I fit my step to fitter lights?Or in this spinster tumble is no halt?

So many times the stupid eye seesThe stupid head hears and sensesThe foolish hands remould the fleshBut sometimes their victim fleesSome walk away, some leap fences.They turn from introspection not so freshSometimes it's just myself self.

Do I love this town? I think I did.I used to wander in its odd coilsUp stairs a-wind, winded and sordid

In dust shops, weirdfolk, shopping foilsBut something stills my feet, my eye.Some slow hand pulls the seeing neck downI cannot go to town as much as fly.In every street an old friend not around.Another town I tried, but o the home!The crippled nest, the life of foamEven art and buildings didn't doI had to come here, not not nowOld and stale and poor and twistedI miss the me that could have missed it.

Poverty is like a vice, unknownIt cramps expectation, it creeps


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Into a pressing of every thoughtTo accept a foul food, an old ragInside a tiny cabin creamedTo paste, to meekness, to sleepFrom choice, she said, let time roamBut time is time with nowt to eat

Strangely, like a curious fruitPoortime doesn't bring forth more doIt rots on the branch like poorclothesO poorclothes, o poor room, o poverty!Of speech, the crabbed weekendThe solitary folded life inside(Yet still without the reading)And, bohemic, proud, simple-livedThe creature of free alternates still...Shamed, not head-up but curledFree meals, small handouts, booksBooks, wretched texts unboughtAnd lies a-glibbed each weekWeak coffee, strong coffee, cocoaFoam of lip and fellow-talkCramped by a shameful geeky flaskA hot bottle of convenience(Although at least it's a better drink)

If something inspires or promises excitement today, stick with it and exploreevery possibility you can think of

Still no answer on forgiveness. Still two worlds, four heads. Making chocolatecakes or throwing bricks through the window. No answer; either be good or behonest, you can't be both. Sometimes I live in the country, sometimes I live inthe town. Sometimes I have a great notion to jump into the river and... swimaway. I ain't drowning. Rebellion is childish. Failure on purpose is childish.Revenge is impossible. So why do I feel like a liar? I think I'm so superior. And, ofcourse, I am. When I'm not being a liar. I don't feel anything no more; a state ofgrace is consuming me. I'm not grown up and I'm not a boy. I feel no pain and Ifeel no joy. Come near the ground where the grass is clear and the damp damp

earth holds you near. Come lie down and serve the wrong and die in here orpurge in song. Come, clean up, be good, be good. Your heart is rotten and yourinnards wood. Come, take money, come take praise. And live all rotten all yourdays. Come into the web are your feet yet sticky? Come be cold and wet andgritty.

The rain it dampens all the paper rowsand coated sleeves do brush upon the inkthe paper crinkles like a deadened rosethe words enmesh and softly wetly link.For in a random place i try to writespan deadly minutes with a useful verseThe meaning isn't much, the language slightBut still it mostly scans, it could be worse.


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This quotidean work of pen is oldThe greaters used to pay the rent by penAnd with a page of thought keep out the coldBut now this is not so, as that was then.These softened scrawls are barely worth a jotand yet amuse myself, I guess, a spot.

For the possible science/lit essay, you need to pick the ideas most solidlypropagated. Equations of motion (calculus not really generally established).Natural selection (still v. much misunderstood; used as metaphors). Relativity not sure how general this was, maybe explain the fragmentation of learnedculture. It's very much not at all women's studies, maybe an interesting side-view. To choose women's writing, but only subtly. Maybe Austen wrotesomething about a post-Newtonian universe, and I'm sure George Eliot knewabout Darwinism. That does mean having to read Eliot though. Maybe Whartonwould be better. Much social savagery in her stuff. Also, any faint kinks to actualcourses would be greatly appreciated.Alien fairies come to take over underground and rule all otherearth peoples.GN learns about fairies through his secret football romance with NA; who istragically sold across town. He finds out that Coketown Proper is run along fairy'feng shui' esque principles its rise up and down the leagues governs the priceof tea or the level of the En delta. NA is possibly a cubi. The only person whoknows the way to leave the Institute is the famed Clangerman. He just staysthere for fun. The gang read a simple and cliched introductory adventure whichworks to the benefit of Solangie.

Like a single bloodless blanket

wrapping dusty booksbooks of old mechanics, boundtales of dead-measured enginesunmetric tiny fractions, clockworksteam engines, grease-neededlike the books, smear-fronted,crust-edged, half-full wormedthe information is oldthe sky collapsed to a rimof blanket, bobbled on the side.Stale grey dye, slightly brownish.

Like an endless list of datanames whose lives in light belongall strung on rows to be fedthe latest crawling saucefishin one world people smileand suffer feet and pocket changeor wait hawkheaded for callsanswering sorts like performing sealsreducing in boiking soup to namesto slowspoke halts along the lanewhere five and forty names aligntasty headless salmon, pressedin fleshy cages endless blobby names.


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Like a savage endless battlewhere the rivers bloody roll downthe eyes of hasty conscripts shutand never spot the straggled meatthe tiny modern clock reverts

the senses with its backward pace.Senseless grimy browncaked timeboth slow and fast, both dead and live.Two mindless mud-deep ankle minsbetween a breath before the next.

Why your home is possessed by foxes

People who suddenly start to over-eat, talk gibberish and fret about whethertheir face is getting longer may be possessed by goblin foxes. At least that is thewidely believed Japanese theory. Stories of these goblin foxes are popularthroughout Japan, and there are even present-day reports of people beingpossessed, or taken over by them. Families in some rural areas are said to keepfoxes for practising sorcery against the less well-equipped members of thecommunity.

In 1963, the priest of a temple near Tottoridescribed how to identify families keepingfoxes - You can see the foxes sitting in rowsalong the eaves, shading their eyes withtheir paws, or playing together in front of thehouse.. People buying a fox-owner's

property inherit the stigma of being involvedin such fearful behaviour, and purchasersare hard to find even when the prices have

tumbled to rock-bottom.The treatment for possession is a drastic one. Within living memory, a womanwas treated by having all food stopped, pepper sprinkled in her eyes, nose andmouth, a rub-down with red-hot sticks and holes bored in her breasts andabdomen. Whether the treatment was successful is not known, as the patientdied within three days. (These days, there are far more benign treatments at theInstitute, where fox sufferers can rest at ease and have their goblins charmedaway).A Japanese print shows ghostly foxes joining in a spiritualists' session of

table-turning with cheerful gusto and abandon.

Seashell ebb music wayriver she flows - advert by JJ for finnegan's wake 1st

edition. She moved through the fair. I believe I may have a first sentence, shemutters, stupefied by the possibilities of fiction.

Blake's Seven1. Nearly as dull as TNG. Blake can act a bit. Shite directing. 2. Jenna is cool.Avon is indeed a god. Episode has no plot and acts like middle third of film. 3.Ack! Brian Blessed! Abort! Abort! 4. Callie! She's so cool. And not a girly either.Jenna's trousers are scary. Now we're set up, can we have some stand-alonecheesy eps please? 6. Servy! Hi there! And Travis. Not all that scary, him. A justgets better. 5. B/A would be the fanfic if done now. He so lurrvs him, calling him'friend' and caring so much. Plots insane.


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FairiesBig deal in the Isle of Man. Mids Night dream where is that story from? Currentusage. Fairy lights, fairy cakes, absinthe from Moulin Rouge, Peter Pan, 'Lordsand Ladies', that Ellis book, fairy tales, bad fairies, fairy godmothers, queen offairies. Make an A6 'book of fairies', use battery-powered fairy lights & make

cakes. Consider practicalities of absinthe.

Propylthiouracil, supertasterm boils recurrent.

Been thinking of the v. old channel 4 film of pictures taken from official teen-suicide reports shown over romantic 50s music, and how desperately sad it was.Maybe they tried to negate the saying that people always die alone by dyingtogether, and the joined hands cimented by a balm let them communicatesomehow. The blood was very black in the b/w photos, and in one the picnicaccessories were still laid out, all bought from one shop as the complete picnickit.

Short stories are rarely set in the past... use series of Trafford stories etc as'introductions' and concentrate on only them so far. Type out 'Princess Claudia'and the woodcutter and write an intro story to 1929 or '2 Tribes', not worry aboutbeing commercial or anything.

Like an unwound watch I lieNot moving hands or using faceTo represent forever motion onThe salt-stained workings rust

And flakes of sea saltor my doll's face tearsEmbed the works and tameThe spring, tis loose unboundedIt lollops in the case all redA useless band of copperStretched out on the watch bedNow coiled I must be, my bondsEnclose a smaller spaceIn neater rows, successive coilsLie flat like well-combed hair

Against their brethrenThe springs can sleep untarnishedPoised and waitingCurled like a baby leafLike a larger fistfor spitting into actionturn by turnEach ruddy space unspoolingDay by dayAt service to the worldLike a handy pump, a tapThat gushes water, sweet not saltNot useless lazy sweatOr salty flakes


16/18

But coil by turn by dayThe useful twistReveals the future and marksThe passing usage of the face.

Someone infested by a mournful ghost in all her body 'the broken face' who sits

when she sits and shadows all movement until caught one day going round acorner too fast, her fingertips clinging to her victim's shoulders. The ghost hasscreaming dry hysterics in the body, throwing it around like a mad person in awardrobe. She starts to rise up out of the body at night and pull her ghostly faceapart and enact horrors on her body, and the victim cannot be rid of her. So shepasses her on to someone else, which is very selfish, but maybe they'd copebetter. Maybe she gives it to a horror writer.

Parker 'jotter' 3.99, plus 2 black ink. Nice lightweight pen, this. I wasn't sure Ishould get it, but the 'luxury' fat silver one I bought has this awful loose lid, andthe clip doesn't work. This nib is a little fat but so much nicer than a gel pen. Imight try it at college with a gel as back-up. The cartridges can be fiddly to getfountain pens can be a pain in v. hot weather, as the ink never bloody dries andthen imprints on your sweaty arms. I found my cheap pen too, but that one leakslike buggery. This one also has a chewable end, just like the other one I had thatwent bald on top. I do like the nice slim shaft, but might get a fine nib some day.

FIERCESTOODBACKLIKELUMPSBUTNOTLIKEROCKS, LIKELUMPSLIKEBALLSOFCLAYLIKESNOWALLHARD, PARTGRITPARTSLUDGE

HARDHEADHARDHEARTHARDHOPEBARESKYSOFTSNOWWETCLAYFIERCESTOODBACK, CAN'TSEE.

There seems to be a lot of fireweed around. I saw a programme once where itgrows up in wasteland, especially after the land is burnt. Something about heatsetting off the seeds. Great (if cheesy) redemption/regrowth symbolism. Seenmostly in liminals and along rail tracks. Both in the book. Liminals being cubimeeting halls (or something) and at some point there's the Really Long TrainJourney, just to make it more otherworldly. I mean, it's obviously UK and parts ofit are obviously manchester, but it's somewhere else. Whether the back door of

S's flat opens onto this world is open to conjecture (it's all that E2 stuff). The longtrain journey should be something positive, maybe an escape from the asylum ortowards the blessed isles. Also, how come there's no university stuff? It's alltemp jobs and evening classes that stage of development. The universitycomes later and it's very far away indeed. You should see the UCAS forms for feystudies. I can't see how a full-time univ analogue fits in anywhere. Maybe atsome later point. Shige does full-time art at Nene.

A long trail of trees stand wettened and shadowholdinga gravel path, long, thin and loud for smudged burnhills, smudgedunder the blown thinleaved roof walking slowly back in rainshe does not feel the wind wet, she only sees the low brown hillseyes all around at the noise, the trickle of path to go on.Loud in her ears the noise shouts, damp on her face the water wettens


17/18

Hard underfoot the tiny stones. The dagger-wet leaves always whipa foot or forty later the trees end and dribble to a row of bushes.Before her stands the homeless mansion clouded in pillars, wrought in wine.The wind blows flat laurel leaves slapping across the lawn to her shoes.The classical copies wash their faces and comb their overdressed hair.Her hair like a furball on her neck, her mouth like a concrete path.

She silences her hood and walks hot-eared to the hooded foyer.

Inside, the sudden noiseless pops and clicks of shoes and coats.The murmured trail of guided walk and the tinkling beckon of tea.She first looks in on the shop, full damp with thousand painted eyes.Small spoilers of the art upstairs. Little tall tales of red swirls.Her eyes over-open in see greed fingering slippy silver pencils, butstrangely silent, flat both ends the double betrayal of famous artelsewhere, yet here on tacky pillows. She grabs herself and leavesNot paid but free, or small libation the coldcurled gods can't see.What golden dribbles fall in the slot.Up double-ended stairs she goes, graced two-sided with oils, not goodBut charming ancient misses who peer coyly at the rushing stairfed folk.She stops, in corner, curiously poking at a painted chiffon foldNearly toppled, she proceeds inwards.

Fully fat and broader than a room the pigments fight across the eye.She sees a fattened general leap as her body follows her into room one.As her mind still lingers on the stairs she sees the vastly general defeatthe pointed spears and painted scars, the horn-headed nostrilled horses andthe symbolising leopard on the left she sees but doesn't care too much.

The cinematic busy-running scene aloud before her bursts its wallsand perspective shatters with hooves.She unbuttons her clammy wool coat and transfers softened gloves to bag.She tugs her windswiped hair aside and tries to wash the road in.tapping round the red drawing room some halfmade thoughts of armOf hand and scribbled trees and plans. The clever lines of cheeks, shesees in series, walking, peeking on reading trips of cards of namesof other authors, workman moved beneficience of old and philanthropicGlass-makers, choirs donate small sums to add into a run of lines.Black like certain darkness thoughts, like waking weeping in the nightOr like a clammy gravehole side rimmed with wormy crust.

Tying snowflies to a burntline / keeping tentacle hands awakecasting corddead thread over rocks / into a spumy floodpool, or waitstruggling sweatfish fail to rise / floating snowflies never sinkthe wetwater clings to the rocks / the burnt bentline cracks apartand snowflies fall on slipping fingers.

Like silver shoes, the morning air / slips over skin and ruffles hairand people stifled swing ahead / sniffing posies once were lead.

Dust in the tracks, the blooming weedsa castle freezes in the sun-air.Trying and binding the clouds partthe starbitten fruit coats the throat


18/18

endless loomsclatter in long empty roomsthe last-used funeral suit hangs,sweat-tattered in the gloomand walking feet bare on ruatflowerstems soft poke up

twining through the hairtalking darkwet voices croakefar down the softwalled wellunder a crack-beaked sun skybare blooming budfeet cracklestuck out in clouds, a wet spardusty bootslie sideways in a light shaftdotted with toothed leavessmooth words in sun motes writtenfogworks gleaming in the smoothnesssoonest break the flowered crustwet footsteps slithering up wallsbroken antique tablesgather books bubble-lippedsweet spores dance blue in the airthe glittering swarms of sandbeamsdance on the battlementssoftened clusters drop deskwardswell-swallowed sunfruit gleamsdry flowerpods smoothly patter

onto the shed roof, paste in sunburnt black-dusty and dimthe star shines from the well-holeflowers grow crack-upwardsthings highlight in sunmotes.

Repetition of the spoken word /creates a slipping informality/although to call ithellish is absurdit clogs up clocks, this speaking on repeat./The people answer, wary of thesell/and product details trail from weary lips/they do not want the product, can'tyou tell/and into weary clocklike failure slips.

Forever, if not cautious shall you speak /of sauces, windows, other unlovedthingsand tap the table in an abyss bleak/where hoping no-one answers when it ringsthe bearer of a withering campaign/must cooking sauce enthusiasm feign.

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