Sinister: my alchemical processes need more context than refinement: you can have everythi

[figure2 at xxx.net]

I WOULD LIKE ALL OF THESE THINGS IN MY SOUP

Waiting on the bus I eyed the steelwork. The space is a rip-off of some other architect's achievement at Stansted and the Round Hollow Sections here are Too Thick. Hold it up on wires and jets of calibrated silent air, not this over-girthy metal tubework coated in whitewash! And did you even *attempt* to avoid the standard second-best formula? Oh so oh too cynical.
On the way here one got the impression that the pilot up front was young but confident. "It's a beautiful night for flying and with us here are three of ** Airline's finest: Monica, Brandie and Hot Toddie." The moon was out and the craft swooped over and down, making contact with the tarmac with a slight thump but the aerolons were quickly manouvered to the vertical, 'G'ing up the deceleration to give one almost as much of a buzz as the reverse process up north: hell when this thing is going like a Ferrari I don't even *care* if it doesn't take off. Feel the *speed*. Feel the *speed rising*. The plane followed suit and therefore I write this now, and not as a memorandum from hell.
I'm writing this in bed and bah! Have to get up to get a train in a minute. With none other than a confessional intention I shall add that it's 07:27 and I'm slowly working my way through the glasses of brandy and iced water I brought up from the hotel lounge some six hours ago. I had a maroon shirt on in velvet with a grey polyester DKNY tie on with five rectangular cut-outs exposing a vermillion interior like the last lights left on in a skyscraper and finally, and rather *de trop*, a grey and gold striped waistcoat with a linen frontside. I had sought out the last table with it's own lamp because I wanted to read more of EXHIBITIONISM by Toby Litt: a book I'd picked up earlier in the evening on account of it's rather fetching cover featuring a flowery cotton shrink-wrapped posterior of a woman pretending to be a dog and a clutch of favourable reviews of his other efforts called 'corpsing' and 'deadkidsongs' and 'adventures in capitalism'. So I was between the chapters  'Map-Making among the Middle-Classes' and ' "Legends of Porn" (Polly Morphous) Final Shooting Script' when it's drawn to my intention that I'm sitting next to about seven Cider Barons, one of whom has a Somerset accent, another with an American one (let's say East Coast) and the others with generic lower middle class English. All wearing tuxedos, and three discussing vintage port after a sort of dull macho fashion: 
"She put the decanter in the dish-washer and it went all white."
"Stuart Crystal doesn't work in the machines. I picked one up in the factory shop for £160"
"That's not much cheaper than retail really. I think they make them in Japan too now. Maybe Korea".
"The only thing'll do it is a dose of vinegar."
"Ha! A pint of cider will get the white off."
"Is three million OTT for an acre in town?"
"Wouldn't have thought so. Just past the traffic lights. In fact, in the late seventies..."
"I drank the last one this christmas and it was byooootifool"
"You want to filter it through a cold mesh."
" Get down on the floor of a competitor... Injection-moulded taps should be in our league"

I couldn't concentrate and the middle class dinner party in the book went by in something of a blur.

Back to the bed. Room. It has rather alot of carpet. Overall, it's not exactly stylish but it is...: in a recess next to the section boxed-out to house an en-suite facility is a rather uncomforteable- looking blue sofa under a shitty print in a pompous gilt frame befriended by a pair of brassy sconces either side and, well, the whole thing was so far away I never reached it: it was just a view on the horizon.
AS THE ANXIETY BUILDS SO DOES THE RANDOMNESS
In my formative years girls wore jeans on which was written on a patch on the back: their butt, I suppose, accurately as it turns out, "What shall I wear?" Such a cutely framed conundrum to which the only answer was (exploiting an intrinsic female indecisiveness) "Why not try *these* on, instead?" One will become aware at this point that the process is more rewarding than the result.
Hell it's comfy here. I love beds. I have to get to a railway station, which involves re-tracing last night's extortionate taxi ride. The taxi was a geography rather than an energy problem, and it cost £2.50 before we even left the station forecourt and a further 20p waiting for the lights to turn at the bottom. Talking of money, breakfast here is £14. I *should* eat like *right now* but £14? Go hike, Mr. Manager Sir. The privations of being esconsed in a luxury establishment. I resolve without fizz and put the notepad down; TV on. It's Open University geometry and, as usual, yellow shirts, brown ties and sideburns are quietly explaining something shown on a graph. I want some POP MUSIC. Where's Cat Deely when you need her?

I go to a conference which I will summarise as follows:
20th century architecture absorbed the techniques of mass production in order to align the ideology of democracy with its processes, which resulted in orthogonal geometry: horizontals, verticals, flat planes. Now computers allow the profession to indulge in what it really likes, which are sexy curvy forms like it was in the days of stonemasons and the baroque. So, gee-whizz, we can do curvy quite cheap now. Of course, the first thing that gets lost in a tecchie talk is what does it actually all mean? What letter comes after the letters wow? In any case, one cool fact is that one can use a soap bubble to calculate the perfect tension minimal surface form for given forces, and if you get a bunch of loose chains, hang them upside down then turn a photo of the aforesaid upside down you get a series of parabolas which calculate a pretty efficient compressive structure. It looks pretty too.
Someone flashed up a slide of a sectional diagram of a snail.
I had a bit of a giggle realising that one of the panellists had slept with the same girl I'd slept with.
CAD CAM academia incest!
wheee!
We take a break for "coffee" which involves pinging open the second can of Stella I bought on the train and being as far away from the other delegates as possible, which happens to be a wooden bench in glorious sunlight overlooking a duck-pond. There is a bloke mallard getting horny with a female one and chasing it around with much wing flapping and splashing on the water and quacking. The girl duck is having none of the nonsense, but does insist on staying in front. I wanna see some hardcore pond action, but to no avail. Do ducks have dicks?
There is a black-headed loner seagull in the vicinity. I'm not sure, neither is it, but if I stay still enough I might convince the bird I'm a tree or part of the bench. In any case, after much deliberation it starts to wander over then hangs a sharp left towards the lakelet. An altercation with the assembled avians on the shore ensues, leading to a tantrum by the loner, who stretches it's head as far-forwards as possible and opens it's beak and gullet to emit a squawk or craak of such vehemence it almost sounds like a seagull version of "fuck-off". I think we're beginning to get along.

Topological transformation: implicit form via the filter of specific material properties, blah blah.

I take a bus into Bath and write three postcards.

Then I write more in the notebook getting rather too serious about pedants and pendants and spring mechanisms, as in clocks and rites. So I'll edit that out. I know I'm getting real pompous when I start writing VULGAR in capital letters. Get back to your mythical pile in the country, Gordon.

Ah. It's nice to be in a large double bed again, eyeing-up the vacant square meterage of carpet around it. A good clear three square meters to the right before the expanse is brought to a halt by a tacky ash-veneer effort with a television on top, made by Phillips of Phillips Compact Cassette fame.
A pity there isn't a woman to match the bed-spread but, then again, I do insist upon referring to you lot as generically strange and exotic concepts. Frank Lloyd Freud Swallowed His Mother goes the tabloid bold print.
I ended up talking to an MBA student who had a 'University of ****' business card. In return I smoked most of his Malboro's (not lights either) and gave him a card with my mobile number on it which comes free with a pay-as-you-go- Vodaphone contract and the phone's never switched on anyway and my land-line is ex-directory. Yeah, I'm a bit of a recluse. If it comes to it, our people will talk to your people.
I was too late for the last night train to the home of the slave trade so I got a cab. £30. My visa account becomes a sort of distant glow of infinite proportions. Just write the checks kid and carry on: money is a *verb* said the usurer to the idiot. Just another oscillation of texture said the painter/couturier.

INSERT YOUR OWN HEADLINE: I HAVE SOME BUT THEY'RE LATER ON
Francoize Breut rocks out but only a chic wee bit, after a sample of world music that sounds like a funeral march through the streets of Naples. Napoli. She seems to get along with these wee snippets 'My head is bursting, dear' and it's traditional in French pop to refer to their old African colonies; especially Algeria. Why hello Mr. Camus and Monsieur Derrida. But cheeky chic chick Francoiz goes ALL THE WAY TO JAPAN. WHAT a.. why, what a woman. I've said it before.
In response to such a compliment I speculate that she'd respond with a gallic version of 'whatever'. *Tendresse-moi* ye daft bint.:)

FIRST HEADLINE: I DEMAND ORCHIDS
There are no fresh flowers in this room and about ten hours later I also find out that the local florist has sold my well-intentioned dad as a gift to my mum some near-dead daffodils! Isn't that SO APALLING? Flowers as gestures are such subtle mechanisms and nearly dead flowers well, work it out: it makes me almost physically sick. My mum loves daffs.
Anyway, back to the room and out of the window there is only a bit of flat roof felt and some concrete framing all gauzed-off via a net curtain. The curtain doesn't do hotmail, nor does it flicker with bits of advertising like the A.O.L. girl. "Watch out kids: there is bad stuff on the net." Bad stuff beyond it too: that concrete detailling is horrendeous. I'll be out of here soon. 11:03 Su says the window on my radio-synched alarm clock. Maybe alarm clocks should have built in smoke detectors and function as all-over problem-alert devices. Maybe it could even be cajolled into beaming over to the outside of the door over there to the left; the one that the cornicing stops either side of and from whose handle hangs in place of a 'do not disturb' sign an 'I'm hard of hearing: if there's a fire going on please yell really loudly' sorta sign.

KOI CARPS. IF THERE'S GOING TO BE A FLOOD I WANT KOI CARPS IN IT
The whiskers on them look a bit stupid but they're touchy-feely kinda fish and some of them live almost as long as tortoises.
MY JOB IS SECURE FOR AT LEAST ANOTHER MONTH SO I'M CHASING A MORTGAGE
One has to get the best deal. Right like: right this moment I really don't give a flying **** at a rolling donut. Yesterday I did and tomorrow I might.carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero

A GRAND WHITE PIANO
Someone's either tuning it or doing a rhapsody in a-rhythmical octaves. Play a tune goddamnit! What about Scott Joplin's 'The Entertainer'? That would go down quite nicely on a Sunday morning. Andrea Dworkin can punch my face now cause it might be a woman at the instrument.
A tune! Tuner-person has burst into a 30's style medlee. God is in heaven and evaporated milk and  would any lassies care to foxtrot? At this point a Steps-sized pop ensemble sit down all morning glowy and I swear that this is fucking scary because they're all rather beautiful. I look the other way, through a softwood timber ballustrade and through the waxy leaves of a tree growing from below the mezzanine. Beyond that is water. The water is a thick sludgy green colour and light craft are, on occasion, plying up and down. Narrowboats; fibre-glass cruisers and some proper steel-hulled steamboats moored upstream of a lifting bridge. It's delightfully 'nothing else better to do' my sweet.
The pianist chromatically trickles into a song popular during the Second World War. This provokes an emotional state someone born in 1970 has no right to. Very confusing.
An open-backed narrow boat cruises by with people sitting under a festooned yellow vinyl canopy. There is a wake of seagull cries and parabolic ripplets: efficient distribution of force as has been learned.

There's more navel-gazing in the notebook involving Frank Bob and Frankenfrutter and platform cross-overs, ending in 'the more stranger the path, Alice, the more I follow: *Ennui* is a word and here are some words, before which I should add that, although I didn't actually enjoy being chased around the souk by an over-excited tour guide I did see many pots, ceramic figurines and carpets in the process.' So here it goes:
In the noon-day sun,
I was chased by one and
Crowded though it was,
He caused me pause as
Our eyes met at a corner:
I was chasing a dream
I didn't wish to catch
And he was after my time and money.
MUSTANG SALLY! You smell of musk.
A degree of cynicism,
I do not posess though
A lack of consistency I do confess.
Were it up to me,
I would suggest, firstly that
Yodelling is best and after that
Optimism is a beautiful holy mess.
Let's play.

The pianist fingers his notes towards ' Nights in Calibria' and we're back in the jet-set of Frank's 'Around the World'. If you've ever been in the company of children you will recognize when I suggest that you become part of their world to a larger degree than you ever expected of yourself. They ask such obvious questions like 'why is the moon over there?' and 'what is a reflection for?'. They pretty much see right through you and can tell you're covering over large gaps in basic know-how so ask for a piggy-back instead.

AIRPORT DEPARTURE LOUNGE
"Is Manchester United Playing?" enquires a customer
"Actually, it's Formula One" answers the barman
"Footballers don't throttle" I suggest
"Unless you're Beckham in his Ferrari" smiles the barman
"That doesn't tend to get broadcast" I smile back.

I shalln't bore you with more airport theory.

Except for this poor nugget: An airport is basically a wall called customs/check-in/baggage re-claim either side of which are shops then metal containers in motion with people and clothes inside. Nowadays you're asked to stare for a moment at a camera on the wall so they have one disgruntled-looking citizen on permanent record.It must make for a rather depressing movie at the end of the day: the expressions of thousands of people whyo've just emptied their change into plastic trays and switched their mobiles off and are still trying to work out if a 'sharp object' must be made of metal when kicking even the hardest bastard on the planet up the groin is pretty effective if you have shoes on.

FLYING

The aeroplane is ascending. Over the roads and fields is a layer of cloud, like an antarctic surface all in white but micro-modulated into billions of puffs though macro-controlled into a smooth arc by the air whirling around earth. That is a sky landscape then there is a higher layer of cloud that can get got into, and does, but not beyond. It's diaphanous and vague and beautiful and virginally white and soft. Inhabited by molecules condensing into watery droplets splashing then streaking over the carapace of this metallic tube I'm in; the man sleeping in the seat in front is in; the lonely woman sitting five or four empty seats to the right of me is in; the stewardess is in. The cloud gets broken into the sunshine and this is really happening.

Gordon. 


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