Wednesday, 30 December 2015

CLEVER ANIMALS: A pop up book

There are too many people, wet people, dry people, all bang bang banging in like a pack procession of zombies at a door you must plank up fastly, running to the door with bolts and nails. You must understand I am not one of those misanthropists for they in fact love people-dribbling, scrabbling they rat mouth on and on of their contempt of society only when there is an audience, oblivious of the exhaustion that is engagement, a true misanthropist would not call themselves such a thing as they would not speak to you at all.
 
I am beautiful and young and I have long dark hair and I am beautiful and young and I have long dark hair because I am my own muse as well as author, man as well as woman, I can love myself and love myself I will do. (And well).
 
I ate French toast with maple syrup and bacon and she asked me if I ever doubted myself and I said no because I didn’t but also because I had no intention of being myself with her. It is a world war one anniversary and a Canadian says he doesn’t care for it but no one cares for him so it doesn’t matter so much. And the rest of my notes are badly written as my motor neurons are badly written and all I can make out is ‘dirt and amputation to sound impressive and a teddy bear farting in an old fashioned picture book’. So make of that what you will guess.
 
Matt asked me if I bought my Mum a father’s day card. I said no. I told her the story. She laughed. Of course I have to be both mother and father she said.

And criminality is a sort or originality, a sort of economic artistry, so I can say that my families are blue bloods in that sense. I think I am my own both. My body is for me only. I am a self-sustaining organism, a plant cell splitting in half to form a whole.
 
When I went North, North, North. I saw a mountain that looked like a mountain that looked like a story that looked liked a woman that was a story and also a person and also like actually just some rocks that tourists pointed at and took pictures of. And I write down in my note book with the bulbasaur stickers on ‘a mountain woman, bushy breasted, twin peaked: the Scots would marry the land if they could but I am an Englishman thru and thru, tho I am neither English nor a man. I lick the toes, kiss the soles of blighty, my puke green pleasant land and tip my imaginary top hat and say bury me in blighty old bean to no one in particular.’ I won’t type the rest out as it is not words, just pictures of clouds and sheep and flowers.

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