Snufkin
Never had good colour co-ordination. Tried different theories of it from Goethe to Newton but if you don't feel it, you don't feel it. Girlfriends have tried teaching me, shaming me, tugging at my shirt and pleading me not to leave the house like that. A good head for dates and a musical ear is some sort of consolation, but if I could be the Jerry Lee Lewis of outfit management, fingers banging that keyboard of colour like a shithouse door in the wind, I'd know I was really living right.
"Only you can dance to the rhythm in your head." Said my occasional flatmate, an itinerant Kora player. There was a time he rang on the door piss-drunk at 3 in the morning, and my other housemate and I padded downstairs cautiously and opened the door. He was stood there on the doorstep swaying with the weight of a large backpack. Safari hat, eyes half closed, a wide smile on his face.
"If I can't stay here tonight, I shall go where the wind takes me."
"Of course you can stay, Mousa." Said Tej, opening the door even wider.
"NO!....I will follow the wind."
And with that he left to share his rhythm with the sensible chaos of the evening.
We all stole from Jobs's tree of knowledge. Half of us write this on a mac book as the info-rhizome of congolese minerals, chinese slave labour and californian hot air suck the nutrients out of the larger picture. The world is dying to keep in touch with itself.
The body takes its nourishment from the sun, through the lenses of whatever excuses biology could make. I suppose the human body is its own excuse/proxy/barrier between sunlight and the earth, but the plants and animals in the interrim perform several levels of excuse, perhaps enough that we never have to question the body we stand in, just enough nourishment to keep the monologue going.
I have a problem. I call my best friend. The girl who has suffered me turning up like Mary Poppins to clean both myself and her house up once in a while. Let's make this crash site look like a launch pad. The last time I appeared was when she was literally pulling her hair out during finals week. I hitched over to London from Italy and she was so glad and pissed off when she opened the door. I was the safety net to accelerate her breakdown that time...as she's been there every time my hare brained theories of meaning went awry (like half the projects in her broken fridge) and I ended up weeping in shame.
Anyway, when shit hits the fan, you call her. Just dial Emma.
"So, this is a farm?" Said the weary space traveller, sipping on a fresh glass of lemonade.
"A farm? No, this is earth." Said the farmer, scratching his head.
"7 billion of you? That doesn't happen on its own. Who's your farmer?"
That time the Eagles won the grammy for 'Hotel California' but refused to accept it as the lead singer 'doesn't believe in competition'. Hearing this aged 14, I then went on a school trip to London where some blue-fleeced missionary handing out Olympic leaflets told us as a class to prepare for British Olympic Gold coming out of the ya-ya.
My response: "Not into it. I don't believe in competition."
He ripped the piss out of me for it in front of my class, but there we are.
The sublimation of the German zeppelin industry into mass production of aluminium-framed folding scooters. German? Well most of my friends had the cool lightweight Swiss micro ones, but mine was this heavy German deal that would snap your shin if you ever dared to tempt the Gods with a tail-whip.
The most common question in Japan for a "long nosed blue eyed omelette eating hockey player" (don't ask) is 'But can you use chopsticks?'
It's learn or die, people.
Some madison avenue peeholes took rainbow coloured dumps over the windscreen of our childhoods, and now we drive blindly into the future trying to match up the coloured flecks of our aspiration to those writing shapes dotted across the the rapidly decaying landscape in the far distance. Someone needs to give that thing a clean. Liberate us from the saccharine payload. Free us from love in the time of corn syrup.
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