NOFEST

Fests. They’re everywhere. Every subject know to man is being made into a fest. The word is becoming as irritating as that bark at the end of ‘who let the dogs out’. The name is stale. Fest it starting to fester. We could sit here and put up with the stench, or we could do something about it.

Nofest is that something. It’s a protest against every fest alive. It is an event where nothing happens. No beer is drunk, no pills are popped, no music is heard, nothing is sold. People just gather. And sleep. For a very long time. As long as they possibly can. And still wake up one day alive to a world without fests.

There are no tickets and no date. People will know when. You’re one of these people. See you there. Bring a pillow.

UPSTAIRS AT THE HAYWARD

Plugs aren’t really my thing but every once in a while, you just have to shout one up. Step forward Ernesto Neto. The way you dressed the Hayward from the ceiling down was enough to make a grown spy cry. I climbed, rolled and play-suffocated for 2 hours with my daughters and lady. It’s a seamstress’s dream. Tights and stockings will never be the same again. Thank you for making a polyester utopia. We love you more than your good lady wife.

http://festivalbrazil.southbankcentre.co.uk/ernesto-neto/

THE LEFT RIGHT SWAP

She took photographs.

Then one night, in the angry rain, she opened window and sliced a tendon in the index finger of her left hand.

After a deep dose of general, they sewed it back together, plastering her up to the elbow just to make sure.

It took a month to heal.

She’d always been right-handed.

Until now.

Like +ve and -ve leads in a plug, her wires of dexterity had crossed.

The dominant side was now the left, while the right was happy to guide.

Her sides were correct but her handedness was not.

She sued the surgeon, whom she later married.

They had ambidextrous twins.

DOING THE WRONG THING

Is was dark when I started writing this and I couldn’t see the keyboard as my laptop is almost as old as my eyes. It’s so old, there’s half a mb left on it and it has more dents than my old car. I don’t want to change it because it’s more kit, more metal, more chips, more IT. More electrical brilliance that cost stacks to make and way too little to buy, so everyone’s buying it.

Say you buy a new one and plug it in with all its green credentials and feel like Usain Bolt in a new pair of spikes, within a month it’ll be old and all the guilt about the energy that went into making it will be forgotten, or maybe never felt in the first place.

As you can see, my conscience is a mess. It’s mimicking the knot of wires that sits beneath the desk I’m writing at. It is a fibroid of the mind. It’s the colour of a 4 year old ball of play-doh, all the colours. It wears the hat of a contrarian, the shoes of a hypocrite and the naked body of trying to do the right thing – and mostly failing.

It’s not alone, this conscience. Most are struggling but don’t let on to their owners. If yours starts to ache, don’t consult your GP. Just enjoy it. It’s nature’s way of saying watch out for the stingers.

THE CLOUDS WHO WANTED TO BE WAVES

I can’t swim.

I can’t fly.

Together we skim.

HALF INSIDE HALF OUTSIDE (# 74,923)

My legs are warm, my head and hands are not. I write leaning out of a french door at 23.04 in the dark barely able to see the keys. Straddling the border of man’s shelter I wonder whether I’d feel the same lying across two counties, two countries ore even two continents. Maybe my belly would be snared in barbed wire.

I switch so that the legs are outside and the torso inside. It’s easier with cold feet. My gut wrenches on theĀ  aluminium threshold but it’s still like cotton wool compared to a national border.

Finally I sit astride the door opening. One ear cold, one warm. A vertical halfway seat.

The experiment is over. Nothing written. Nothing taught. Nothing learned. Time to sleep into heavy revision.

TONY, WHY?

Tuck your guilt back in.

It’s showing awfully darling.

Cherie, have a word.

ALL THE WORLD’S WOMEN & STEVE BUSCEMI

There you were, all of you, although I could only see the first fifty or so. But you were all there, rows upon rows of women going back for miles upon miles, all of you singing along to Steve Buscemi’s tapping foot as he rocked the mike your way, and the band played on, bluegrass style. You were all smiling, singing your lungs out, but boy was it cheesy. I just came up and grabbed our baby daughter from the female Dutch photographer. The melody stuck for the first hour of my waking day. It’s gone now. And so has Steve.

And the meaning is:

STARVING OF THE 5000

When a total you never notice suddenly reaches a round number, you take notice. Akismet has intercepted 5000 slices of shit from curdling the digestive tract of thisness. I thank them for that. They didn’t have to do it but they did. When my home-grown beets are ready, I’ll let you know – you could do with something nutritious to wash down all that spam.

LONG HAND TWITTER IN 5 ACTS (# 74,924)

1. Write in the sand with your heel – after 30 words, your leg’ll ache.

2. Plant cress seeds in a sentence in a window box and aim them at a neighbour you’d like to fall in love with or evict.

3. Chisel your elegy on a slab of stone.

4. Live by the motto that ‘nothing is new’ and remind yourself that the world is a sucker for retro anything then take your entire life to publish one tweet knowing full well that by the time it is first seen, you will be acknowledged as a messiah.

5. Play the infinity + 1 game and start a site that allows 141 characters

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