I fossilized sloth bladder inebriated with swirling smoke

Topics: music, nostalgia, wayne, haiku, creativity, london, accumulation

2014-01-15

As most humans have, I also have boxes full of *hovno* in various places. Well, I'd suspect that most humans don't have their boxes of *hovno* in various places, but rather in one place. As we are taught to accumulate from a very young age, most humans I know are various degrees of packrat[1]. I've tried to shed the tendency, but cannot fully.

I have boxes of *hovno* in Seminole, Praha and München. Those in München are most likely forever lost, however. Qué lastima. Two handwritten journals were in that stash. The contents of the boxes here in Seminole were distributed between dilapidated containers originally used to mail them from various places. Ok - from just two places: London and Tallinn. I went through the *hovno*, scouring my hands thoroughly afterwards, of course, a few days ago. I found a few nostalgic items. Most I just repacked. The rest I left in plain view so I wouldn't forget to allow their inclusion here.

Spliff [IMG]

In 2010, I lived in London. I rented a room from a large house wherein lived seven or so other humans. I suspect other animals lived there, as well, including spiders, wasps, and squirrels. In fact, a particular squirrel used to visit me through my open bedroom (I laughingly say *bedroom* where actually the whole room encompassed everything - bedroom / living space / office / kitchen / vomitorium). I lived here[2]. That cretin Christián[3] even visited me once. Miracles do happen (said the gleeful executioner).

One evening, most likely in early August, Wayne and I sat in my room after fetching a horde of *pivo* from probably Sainsbury, just down the road. By *down* I actually mean *down the hill* since Telegraph Hill Park (the park nearest the point on the map indicated) is at the top of a hill (hence the name). Most every day, I had to walk down and back up that God-Rotted thing. Were I the deity that some lowly humans make me out to be, I'd have sand-blasted the whole of it.

Anyhow, most likely in early August, Wayne and I sat in my room after fetching a horde of *pivo* from probably Sainsbury. Sainsbury was (and most likely still is) the local supermarket. I shopped there often. I purchased litres and litres of alcohol there. I gave up rational comforts to do so. I splurged.

Ginger [IMG]

During my stint in London, I also shopped at two smaller *potraviny* up towards the park a bit and to the left. They were run by *Indian* folk who were always bemused at my purchases that usually consisted of microwave heatable *Indian* lunches, various greasy snacks, and a bottle of vodka.

Anyhow, most likely in early August, Wayne and I sat in a room after fetching a horde of *pivo* from probably Sainsbury. Wayne was also an avid pot smoker. I wouldn't call myself an *avid* pot smoker, but I have been known to indulge.

Ozralej [IMG]

As on many occasions, in my state of consciousness, I elected to write haikus and also insist that my companion join me in the process. I had recently returned from *Cornwall* with a sheaf of postcards. I intended these postcards for others. The haikus were to be messages sent thousands of kilometres to unsuspecting victims to riddle their minds with a confustion concerning the state of existence, a frustration regarding the fabric of their lives, and a judicious joy of the absurd. Unfortunately, they remained unmailed.

I am not sure when I stopped my absurd practise of sending bizarre postcards to friends and acquaintences. I suspect early to mid 2000s. I remember John Feldmann telling me about his grandmother's reactions to oddities I sent him from various locales. He used to live atop his grandmother's flat in Queens. That place knew many throbbing weirdnesses involving myself, John, Christopher, Loyal, Nataša and others. I'm quite sure many postcards could have been regarded as messages from a mentally dysfunctional miscreant. In truth, they probably were.

Anyhow, most likely in early August, Wayne and I were drinking *pivo* and smoking *spliffs* in my room in the house called *Cranbrook* near Telegraph Hill Park in New Cross Gate, London.

Drink [IMG]

*I miss that guy.*

The remnants of my time in London are many incomplete recordings. *The Fen* was one. I'll try to translate the remainder into coherent wholes during the next weeks. Perhaps I can even finish the sequence that can be the first *Flavigula* album.

I still think of music in chunks known as albums.

As in most places I have lived *alone*, my time *alone* was the most poignant. I recall episodes with Wayne and with that cretin Christián at the Cranbrook house, but mostly I was *alone*. I wrote, I drew, I composed, I read, and I drank there. I even made sandwiches on occasion. Pretty good sandwiches, I might add.

Alone time is creative time. When I press inwards, it becomes harder and harder to probe when my mental tentacles close in on the centre. Therefore, I'll never completely know the whole of my being. Well, perhaps *whole* is a bad term there. I'll never know the *fundamental* of my being. That dark singularity is unreachable. My tentacles never pass the event horizon. Instead of being sucked in or absorbed, they are repelled. My core is repellent! Imagine that.

Imagine that.

Pigman [IMG]

Alone time is creative time. I try to press inwards and I only reach a certain point. From there I can dig no deeper. So I dredge from that point and lift up what some call *inspiration* or *substance from naught*. It probably spurts up erratically from the *fundamental* and refuses to be dragged back to oblivion. Instead, I use those molten chunks to form a melody, a fragment of prose, or a drinking binge. It's a dice roll to choose which.

1 or 6: *melody*

2 or 5: *fragment of prose*

3 or 4: *drinking binge*

Equal odds.

Tandem [IMG]

I've always enjoyed the haiku form because it forces one to crush a complex idea into a formal shape. Each word must contain a broad scope of feeling. Or, simplicity can result in vague feelings of natural phenomena. Or, you can just write stoner *hovno*.

Salmon [IMG]

*Regardless ... I miss that guy.*

1: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pack_rat

2: https://www.google.com/maps/preview#%21q=75+Pepys+Rd&data=%212m5%212m4%211sNpb7qZSoo03A-DRYc3xUdw%212e0%219m1%216sPepys+Road%214m15%212m14%211m13%211s0x487602551abf5ccb%3A0xa03e9acb45d1ae41%213m8%211m3%211d3%212d-0.044746%213d51.470918%213m2%211i1366%212i658%214f60%214m2%213d51.4709116%214d-0.0447444

3: http://christianmnewman.com/blog

tzifur (Martenblog home)

jenju (Thurk.Org home)

@flavigula@sonomu.club