Jennie Kermode
2009-06-23 22:51:24 UTC
It gets late.
I'm sitting here wrapped up in ladybird fur with wasabi peas
and a nice glass of rose, listening to The Cure and The Slits, wading
through the last of the day's editing. Always so much still to say, but
these days I have to think, every time, who will pay me to say it?
Because money is tight - but everyone knows that of course. Now, finally
- and it's about bloody time. People losing their businesses and whining
about their hunger and pain. What the fuck do they know? They still have
food on the table; they don't have shrapnel boring through their flesh.
I mean, sure, things suck for them, and I'm genuinely sympathetic about
that, but spare us the emotastic egodrenched bullshit. It's like it's
suddenly become cool or something. Goth was not for this!
Quiet outside. At this time, even on a Tuesday, the motorway
spill-off used to rain down traffic. I always found it a kind of
soothing sound, like waves lapping on an ancient concrete shore. The
silence could be the end of the world, and what difference does it make
when we all wake up tomorrow and do the same things anyway? Just withot
as much money - money which was only ever an illusion in the first
place. We notion it convenience-wise, like human rights. Useful like,
but not to be taken too seriously.
I have two films to review tomorrow, more articles to write on
spec, a union rep to meet. Falco sings about Der Kommisar. My fish are
going crazy in their tank, sexed up by the hot weather but confused by
their bodies. Jesus, this stuff is weird enough for those of us equipped
to talk about it. Life shifts around and I am in the peculiar position
of still attracting girls half my age but scarcely knowing what to do
about it. Lack of control over my own spaces. I should start visting
public toilets. The things is - and it took me a few years to realise -
is you know that thing, when you're young, the world is full of pretty
girls, you fall into their arms, you fall into their beds, and
afterwards... afterwards. Now they all look as if it were afterwards.
Still aesthetically delicious, but somehow hollow. Because my love is a
bright light in whose aura they fade and flake away, even when I cannot
glimpse him, cannot come close the way I want to; even when his beauty
is not only for my eyes only but only for my eyes. It's a disease, this
love. I give myself to it willingly because it's part of what I always
pursued, yet it's nothing I expected. Perhaps Graham Green was right.
Bright lights flare and then we can't see the world anymore,
and before we know it we have lost our sight. Like the wine and the
wasabi; I couldn't taste rose petals now. Perhaps that's why I persist
in listening to music of dubious virtue. That way I retain something of
myself.
"The revolution will not be televised," says Scott Heron. No,
dude, it's on Twitter, and it's already making corporate profits. Screw
that.
Jennie
I'm sitting here wrapped up in ladybird fur with wasabi peas
and a nice glass of rose, listening to The Cure and The Slits, wading
through the last of the day's editing. Always so much still to say, but
these days I have to think, every time, who will pay me to say it?
Because money is tight - but everyone knows that of course. Now, finally
- and it's about bloody time. People losing their businesses and whining
about their hunger and pain. What the fuck do they know? They still have
food on the table; they don't have shrapnel boring through their flesh.
I mean, sure, things suck for them, and I'm genuinely sympathetic about
that, but spare us the emotastic egodrenched bullshit. It's like it's
suddenly become cool or something. Goth was not for this!
Quiet outside. At this time, even on a Tuesday, the motorway
spill-off used to rain down traffic. I always found it a kind of
soothing sound, like waves lapping on an ancient concrete shore. The
silence could be the end of the world, and what difference does it make
when we all wake up tomorrow and do the same things anyway? Just withot
as much money - money which was only ever an illusion in the first
place. We notion it convenience-wise, like human rights. Useful like,
but not to be taken too seriously.
I have two films to review tomorrow, more articles to write on
spec, a union rep to meet. Falco sings about Der Kommisar. My fish are
going crazy in their tank, sexed up by the hot weather but confused by
their bodies. Jesus, this stuff is weird enough for those of us equipped
to talk about it. Life shifts around and I am in the peculiar position
of still attracting girls half my age but scarcely knowing what to do
about it. Lack of control over my own spaces. I should start visting
public toilets. The things is - and it took me a few years to realise -
is you know that thing, when you're young, the world is full of pretty
girls, you fall into their arms, you fall into their beds, and
afterwards... afterwards. Now they all look as if it were afterwards.
Still aesthetically delicious, but somehow hollow. Because my love is a
bright light in whose aura they fade and flake away, even when I cannot
glimpse him, cannot come close the way I want to; even when his beauty
is not only for my eyes only but only for my eyes. It's a disease, this
love. I give myself to it willingly because it's part of what I always
pursued, yet it's nothing I expected. Perhaps Graham Green was right.
Bright lights flare and then we can't see the world anymore,
and before we know it we have lost our sight. Like the wine and the
wasabi; I couldn't taste rose petals now. Perhaps that's why I persist
in listening to music of dubious virtue. That way I retain something of
myself.
"The revolution will not be televised," says Scott Heron. No,
dude, it's on Twitter, and it's already making corporate profits. Screw
that.
Jennie
--
Jennie Kermode
***@innocent.com
www.jenniekermode.com
Jennie Kermode
***@innocent.com
www.jenniekermode.com