I feel like shit.
I’m tired and irritant.
I can’t find my copy of the Catcher and I think I’ve broken my favourite coffee mug.
Moving house is a pain in the arse.
I need me a real-life BIG JIM.

The world is an enormous injustice.

Jules Romains (1885 – 1972)

Coda

There's little in taking or giving,
There's little in water or wine;
This living, this living, this living
Was never a project of mine.
Oh, hard is the struggle, and sparse is
The gain of the one at the top,
For art is a form of catharsis,
And love is a permanent flop,
And work is the province of cattle,
And rest's for a clam in a shell,
So I'm thinking of throwing the battle ---
Would you kindly direct me to hell?

Dorothy Parker (1893 – 1967)

I’m not in to contemporary art much, but I quite like what I’ve seen of Erwin Wurm’s work. I first came across Wurm in the second issue of Intersection – the only glossy I actually read because I have a mild interest in cars and receive the magazine free of charge, being a member of NUJ does have its perks.

Wurm is a Viennese conceptualist who is quietly quirky and well skilled in raising fundamental questions pertaining to post-modern society and its lifestyle. I particularly like his automobile projects which are an allegory on our grossly excessive consumer culture. I can appreciate the ideology behind his work and enjoy the fact that there’s depth to his art. But what I like most about Wurm is his nonconformity to the common narcissistic cuntichness shared by a lot of contemporary artists.

Erwin Wurm "Fat Convertible Car (Porsche)"

Go on, you can hold my hand - I won't blackmail you for it afterwards.
Ingrid Bergman – Notorious

You just sit and stay inside yourself.
Kirk Douglas – Out Of The Past

I don't know what to do anymore, except maybe die.
James Dean – Rebel Without a Cause

I can't stand a naked light bulb any more than I can a rude remark or a vulgar action.
Vivian Leigh – A Streetcar Named Desire

Do you realize I haven't kissed you in over an hour?
Charlton Heston – Touch of Evil

Examination at the Womb-door

Who is stronger than hope? Death.
Who is stronger than the will? Death.
Stronger than love? Death.
Stronger than life? Death.

But who is stronger than Death?
Me, evidently.

Ted Hughes (1930 – 1998)

I'd hate to take a bite out of you - you're a cookie full of arsenic.
Burt Lancaster – Sweet Smell of Success

I was beginning to think perhaps you worked in bed, like Marcel Proust.
Lauren Bacall – The Big Sleep

Your advertisin' is just dandy, folks would never guess you don't have a thing to sell.
Faye Dunaway – Bonnie and Clyde

I bet in one week, I can put a bug so far up her ass, she don't know whether to shit or wind her wristwatch.
Jack Nicholson – One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

I didn't realize you were an art collector, I thought you just collected corpses.
Cary Grant – North By Northwest

Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind. A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour are always, wild!

John Galsworthy (1867-1933)

The clue is: French author.

The clue is: Debonair & Dapper leading man.

As a result of always keeping my bedroom window ajar I’m usually woken up by a bunch of raucous builders yelling back and forth something which I do not wish to relay. Today, however, I was woken up by something quite different: a serenade of sorts if you will. It appears I have a young admirer.

A few weeks ago while on my way to the supermarket, which I occasionally do visit despite popular belief, I noticed a gang of boys riding around on their bikes. I paid little attention having seen them roving the streets in the past.

Leisurely walking along, minding my own business, I noticed one of them trailing behind me. He approached as I looked on in apprehension without a clue of what’s about to ensue. My apprehension aside I thought: this should be interesting. And it was.

Liam, my young admirer, proceeded to ask me out which took me a LITTLE by surprise. I glanced at him with a look of confusion and asked if he had any idea of my age. He offered: 17. I smiled. How sweet I thought to myself, a whole five years younger. If only. After disclosing my real age and numerous reasons as to why this relationship wouldn’t work I was on my way. He volunteered to accompany. My shopping done I returned home and didn’t give it another thought.

A few days later I saw the same gang of boys. My young admirer acknowledged me with an elaborate wave of the arm. I returned the sentiment and set about my business. I saw him a few times after, said hello in passing and thought little of it. Until today, when Liam took it upon himself to serenade me with one of Britney’s little numbers. By the time he was finished I was down on the floor crying with laughing. It’s quite impossible to convey the hilarity of someone singing so out of tune. I couldn’t help but laugh as did he. In the end I told him to get on his bike and go home. He rode away in to the sunrise alone.

Dust

When the white flame in us is gone,
And we that lost the world's delight
Stiffen in darkness, left alone
To crumble in our separate night;

When your swift hair is quiet in death,
And through the lips corruption thrust
Has stilled the labour of my breath -- -
When we are dust, when we are dust! -- -

Not dead, not undesirous yet,
Still sentient, still unsatisfied,
We'll ride the air, and shine, and flit,
Around the places where we died,

And dance as dust before the sun,
And light of foot, and unconfined,
Hurry from road to road, and run
About the errands of the wind.

And every mote, on earth or air,
Will speed and gleam, down later days,
And like a secret pilgrim fare
By eager and invisible ways,

Nor ever rest, nor ever lie,
Till, beyond thinking, out of view,
One mote of all the dust that's I
Shall meet one atom that was you.

Then in some garden hushed from wind,
Warm in a sunset's afterglow,
The lovers in the flowers will find
A sweet and strange unquiet grow

Upon the peace; and, past desiring,
So high a beauty in the air,
And such a light, and such a quiring,
And such a radiant ecstasy there,

They'll know not if it's fire, or dew,
Or out of earth, or in the height,
Singing, or flame, or scent, or hue,
Or two that pass, in light, to light,

Out of the garden, higher, higher. . . .
But in that instant they shall learn
The shattering ecstasy of our fire,
And the weak passionless hearts will burn

And faint in that amazing glow,
Until the darkness close above;
And they will know -- - poor fools, they'll know! -- -
One moment, what it is to love.

Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)

So after about 4 months of being a non-smoker, a few weeks ago, I picked up a pack of good old Marlborough Lights and made a conscious decision to light up. Its not that I felt an overwhelming urge to suck on nicotine it’s just that I deliberately wanted to smoke. Self diagnosis suggests this to be a mild case of self-destruction. I think there’s something innately appealing in (mild) self-destruction, its one of those things. It’s like drinking one-too-many or staying in a barren relationship or doing drugs or sunbathing or skipping meals or smoking even, you know its bad for you but it sure feels good sometimes.

I don’t like the country the crickets make me nervous.
Marlon Brando – On the Waterfront

You're dead son, get yourself buried.
Burt Lancaster – Sweet Smell of Success

I could tolerate flabby muscles in a man who may be more friendly.
Cloris Leachman – Kiss Me Deadly

The cat's in the bag and the bag's in the river.
Tony Curtis – Sweet Smell of Success

It is difficult painting seascapes without a head.
Marc Michel – Lola