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I know a guy that knows a guy…

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Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #17

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Write in recollection and amazement for yourself

Ahhh–the lighting of the day was non-committal. And I looked across the room at you as you looked outside. Outside was cold and the cold came inside through some breeze you created when you finally spoke. When you spoke, I felt the memory of you crack the ice that hung between us. The You of then became the You of now and I realised that I did know you —let alone love.

“What do you want for breakfast,” you said.
“Just send Gigi up with some toast and a black coffee. I’m not fussed,” I said.
“Right,” you said.
“Are we up to anything today?”
“Dunno,” you said. “ Like what?”

Over the road, they were making plans—or perhaps had already made plans. The family car packed and loaded–They had been shouting, laughing, happy, united. Warm.

“Matlock?”
“Nah,” you said. “Too cold. No money.”
“We just got paid.”
“Bills need to come out,” you said.

Around the corner, they had too many kids. But they were always going somewhere. These houses are far too small to stay in.

“Walk the dogs around the pit?”
“Too cold up there,” you said as you looked up at the ceiling.
“Well, if you have nothing planned, I think I’ll just take the kids to the library or something.”
“Ok. I may go see my dad. I don’t know.”

When you sat at the computer, I loaded the kids and the dogs into the car and took them to Matlock. We had hot chocolate outside of one of the shops after a walk on Lovers Lane. There was a wasp that pestered us a bit. We finished our drinks and collected our things and began to make our way back to the car park. The kids ran a bit ahead, laughing and teasing each other as I untangled the dog leads. I smiled down at Whippit and Bronsk. They looked up at me in their happy doggie smiles.

“See? It wasn’t too cold…” I whispered.


Rule gone M.I.A. …where is #15

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At some point yesterday, My entry for Rule #15 went missing. I must have done this in error. Without getting into it, stuff happened and I went into one of my Ernest Hemningway moments (but without all the bulls and less of the swearing). When I find myself back at the PC, I will rectify it. For now, I am mooching about my house in search of lost pages and realising that, perhaps, I am getting too old to be living like some student with housemates…
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Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #15

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Telling the true story of the world in interior monolog

Here I am in Mansfield town centre on Monday and I wish it was Friday. Like everyone always seems to say, post, tweet, pin-up etcetera. Like the song says; it’s Friday, I’m in love. But I am on a mission–On a job—on a plan—meeting with the lawyers Some Young Guy LLP—steeling myself for the onslaught of emotional battle. I am weak, afraid, wounded but I need to be a shark. Sharks don’t get caught up in the current of pedestrian traffic—they make the current. But I don’t because I mingle in with these people who seem to always be going, wandering and flowing in and out of days with no real direction. I need focus but I am caught up in so much haze—like a dirty fish bowl. Moving in general fed-up-ness darting more than a scuttle—hustle more than a bustle– within the crowd of slow moving old-aged-pensioners and goldfish-bowl-mums who vacantly push strollers in long rolling steps. I dart around some men who meander within and without of the crowd. They remind me of seahorses with their heads fixed forward but going nowhere. They just go around and around all docile and drowsy—dopey drones of dopamine days.

Am I as goldfish as the goldfish girls or does my scuttle make me more like a neon tetra. I look at my watch more than these people. I am Big-City-Busy but without the Big-City-Shoes and looking Big-City-Bored as I try to think of somewhere to go whilst I kill time before my appointment with Finality. Instead, I float about.


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #13

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Remove literary, grammatical and syntactical inhibition

Ann: Hey, Sarah. I’m going to try something. Thought i’d tell you cuz I don’t want you horrified and shit.
Sarah: uh-oh. what are you thinking?
Ann: Lemme read this to you, yo. REMOVE LITERARY, GRAMMATICAL AND SYNTACTICAL INHIBITION. That’s what I gotta do for the blog tomorrow.
Sarah: (horrified face) oh god. no.
Ann: I gotta do it.
Sarah: ok. but it is so hard for me not to try to edit it especially if it is not in my own handwriting.
Ann: I know, right? so I gotta do it.
Sarah: ok. oh god… ok.

Ann: (clears throat)”running, rolling, rambling out on that road at a viciously, vivacious speed shouting out in the vernacular voom-voom-vooming aloud…”

Sarah: oh god. oh god.

…AND SCENE.

Note: Sarah is more than just my work colleague..she is the Spock to my Kirk. The Stabilising-Editor to my Freak-Writer…also my watcher when I get far too drunk on port to know what is good for me…but I digress. Once I read this out loud to Sarah, I said, “This was fun. It actually was pretty good.” Sarah laughed then said, “Yes. actually it was pretty good. It could have gone so wrong.”


Kerouac Rules for Spontaneous Prose #12

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“In tranced fixation dreaming upon object before you”

Cook, baby. Cook! Fire up that old stove and magic the ingredients together. Work the creation into a culinary batch of divine intervention. Fill the pan with life and love– with before–with now–with someday. Sprinkle in more of that “we-will-be-the-always-and-forever” of songs, baby. Spice it up with so much hope and glory that we sit there at the table, grinning at each other, basking in the afterglow of recipe conception. For you and I are the gods of gastronomic design. Our universe swirls with the passion that sizzles and fizzles in the drop of olive oil. Lush and iniquitously large measures are for the living; to hell with the consequences. The future is now and we are hungry.


Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #11

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Visionary tics shivering in the chest

Moth to flame, my eyes linger on the spectrum of gold, red, amber fluttering, sun-kissed, from the trees in your mother’s back-garden. I stand there in her kitchen– Aureolin painted around the window framing the living autumn scene just without. I stand in front of you, sipping on a proper cup of tea which you ritualistically bestowed on me. As you smile, my heart quickens and I realise that there are more seasons between us than a little. So many degrees of experience and inexperience that go unclaimed as two very new souls try this life out for the very first time.

I had been far too lonesome before. Home being thousands of miles away and with little hope of going back, I had long since given up the hope that I would belong anywhere. But there is so much brightness in this room. And the blue in your eyes rival the Texas sky. And here in the grey of autumn day, you sliced a piece of heaven for me and soothed my vagrant heart.


Watch “Led Zeppelin – What Is and Should Never Be” on YouTube

What is and what should never be… Without you, I am a wraith. But with you, I am alive.


Kerouac Rules For Spontaneous Prose #10

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“No time for poetry but exactly what is”

What is exactly this? This is life. This life is Responsibility. Responsibility is about duty. Duty is fear. Fear is regret. Regret is about being wrong this time. Time is gone. Gone are the days I thought I knew what I was doing. I was doing so many things. Things are a reminder of need. Need is too much for me to Dream. Dream is too big a word. Word is being a Catholic. Catholic is something I did wrong. Wrong was trying to be happy when I clearly was unhappy. Unhappy is what I am not now. Now is something that goes far too quickly. Quickly are my days of trying to be good at my job. A job is something you do to get money. Money is never enough. Enough is about silence. Silence is all I seem to hear when I speak to you. You do not see me. “Me” is a concept I am trying to make real. Reality is something that science can prove. Proof is something that has not been de-bunked. De-bunked is a funny word. Here we are with Word again…

I need to have Faith.


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