To Blog or Not to Blog

Went off at 7:30 to Joe’s party and as usual was first to arrive.  Metta, Joe’s partner, is Dutch and had lost her fanny bag with passport in it and cards.  She wanted the sound system on the roof of the Towers with a view of London and the crescent moon rising above an edge of red lights.  Dominika and Jackson arrived.  She’s writing a thesis inspired by my dadaist short story, published she told Marlon when I was seventy-four, that she hasn’t finished, being dyslexic.  Jackson’s a painter who’s given ten exhibitions but none yet in London, one coming up, and to breach the coterie of like-minded appreciators I suggested asking the High Commissioner of Australia to it.  Jackson had a fated meeting in Melbourne with a man who attacked him unawares after it came to Jackson to go out walking at night, the schizo asking why he was there.  A damaged Jackson separated himself from himself and got himself away by first calmly pushing the loonie away with the palm of his hand.  I had Agniezka spell out her name.  I danced, quicker on my feet to accommodate all the music.  I wasn’t going to even try to remember the names of people Dominika was introducing me to, never mind all the others.  I didn’t recognise Beehive at first because of her asymmetrical black makeup making her a latter day punk.  A cross was also painted on Quentin’s face. the bar on his forehead, the stripe down his nose .  I was the only oldie there.  I checked the time, 11:20, too late to catch the last train home.  Joe asked how I felt.  I felt like staying.

27/8/16  He’s as pretty as ever and shaven, as was Oscar.  Everybody danced with everybody.  We went up on the roof where Quentin explained nominalism as against realism and Platonic and Aristotelian universals to Jackson and me, tagging along.  Jackson was in perennial pursuit of a cigarette to make spliffs from, having omitted to make provision of tobacco and papers.  “You can’t think of everything.”  We walked out in pursuit of an open shop for tobacco and rizlas.  He didn’t mind giving but didn’t like asking; it made him vulnerable.  I didn’t mind though consideration stopped me asking a man on a bike.  I appropriated some papers from a table I’d seen them on when we went back, me getting used to the buzzing for re-entry and then confusing that with doing the same in the lift when a different method was called for.  This looks like it could be a blog.  Dominika tried explaining to me how we are not the authors of our work because the words take on a life of their own in relation to each other but I have difficulty understanding anything other than the way I understand, my Uranus stuck in Taurus.  She gave me a beer I’m not supposed to drink, being coeliac, but did anyway because it would’ve disappointed her if I hadn’t and there’s not much danger.  I may have given offence to Richard, who lay down for his bad back, out of my intellectual curiosity at its badness, maybe because he was tall, at odds Beehive suggested with its long term pain for him.  Oscar had a smudge of black paint on his right cheek and a comma of it on the corner of his mouth.  “Wipe it off.”  I held a tissue to his mouth, “Spit,” and did.  “Your beauty is resumed.”  I suspect from his dancing he’s as lithe as ever.  Gary wanted to know where I’d got my tiger semmit I’d stripped down to the better to dance, putting my blue hoodie in the drawer where Dominika had put my bag with the A-Z in it.  There were a lot of people but, from a handful of coins left out, all trustworthy.  Dominika reintroduced me to Naiem I hadn’t seen since her house painting years ago.  Naiem, and Gary, notwithstanding and a black man whose glasses were broken, though I was thinking a glass was broken, a piece of which Dominika was retrieving from the floor, “It’s a very white party.”  One girl wanted me to be wearing a curly wig, possibly because of my nose and Medici face,  that I would eschew but knew a man who did wear one in order to be taken as a girl by purporting heterosexuals.  The girls shrugged: comme il faut.  Jackson told of Wittgenstein disconcerting his men by wanking over mathematics.  “Whatever it takes.”  Gary was dance-frottaging, Dominika offering the sight of breasts and vagina.  “When you’ve seen one vagina, you’ve seen them all.”  The roof was closed off.  A girl tried unlocking it with a phone – “That’s  a really smart phone” – and a hairgrip.  Dominika asked what hatpins were, I think as used metaphorically.  A young man offered me a drink from his bottle I took a gulp from.  A blog of this would have to be of fragments, a scattering of beads without their broken chronological thread.  At four Beehive wanted to go and Quentin was leaving with her, having difficulty extricating himself from a striped kimono-like garment because its tie was knotted tightly.  I thought of his lifting it off overhead but he chose to manoeuvre it that he could step out over and out, rolling it up to be disposed of for later disentanglement.  I left with them.  Metta excused me for leaving since I’d been there a long time.  Beehive felt guilty at shortening the party for Quentin but it was the right time to leave it.  Naiem left with us, going back for his lost phone, in the wrong pocket.  Quentin thought to phone it to indicate where it was but didn’t have the no.  Beehive did.  Metta and he appeared from the lift.  Quentin and Beehive led to a night bus stance.  I stayed on the N15 till Trafalgar Square from which I made my way to Piccadilly where I knew there’d be another bus to Richmond and, with the help of a garbage worker at the exit to the underground, found the stop on Piccadilly itself.  I was back in Richmond by quarter to six where I said good morning to Mark, my neighbour, who was self-absorbedly foraging by the station.

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About johnbrucecairns

I'm a retired history teacher who's written for most of his life with a book readied for publication.
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