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Separated from what? I dunno. Those words keeping popping in my head as I lean out the window and wonder should I jump today? Itís being one of those days. One of those dreary days you wish would change into one of those brighter days but wonít. So I rush to the toilet and do my stuff. Return and donít look out the window. I feel the wind maybe rising outside. Perhaps a major storm? I wonder if there are any aliens out there. I wonder if I am a secret alien. I could be. I really really could be.
A wolf dancing in the shadows along a crowded street in Soho. I had been watching it from the coffee shop for some time. Wondering if I was the only one to see it there. Itís leonine head pocking in and out as though stalking for prey. I worried about going out. Wondering if it would pounce upon me and gobble me up. Or cart me off to its secret lair where to play some perverse erotic games. The wolf is clearly male. One can see itís shaft waggling as pretty women go by. I finish my coffee and wonder.
Feel kind of empty today. Like the sky is dull and I feel I should be out there doing something. Not sure what. I look up at the blandness of it all and think this is crazy. So I find a movie to watch. I watch some forties film noir with Franchot Tone as the villain. He looks cool at times, then nervous. I know I should have watched a romance. The movie is too depressing. Instead I start looking at knives and wondering about life and stuff. And perhaps Iím going loony but point the blade at my throat.
Secrets that may not be secrets but actually are secrets are not really secrets. Just miscellaneous shows inside youíre or somebody elseís head. Itís hard. Or maybe not to read the words that are running round inside a strangers head. You try to get inside their head. Or you make up a joke you think they might or should be thinking. And it makes you smile. Which is cool, you guess. But youíre not sure and you go "Eureka" for some reason. And it gets more odd with time and space and the trickery going on in your bouncing balls.
He tells you his name is Paul, though itís really Clarence Joseph Shane Gurruma. And you think he may have only one ball. Though you canít be sure. And he walks with a limp which you are sure changes from one leg to the other on days. And you are confused and upset and wonder if youíre coming down with the flu. But you feel alert enough to carry on working. Though work is not really a priority just now. Not sure why this is. But you just say to yourself it is and thatís the way it is, okay?
You have begun to look for a new job. Though youíre not sure what you want to do. But you need out of this joint. And youíre mentioning to friends about a change in direction jobwise. And they are looking at you like you are crazy. And you are thinking, ďWhy do they all think my job is so good I would never leave, huh?Ē You have also begun to talk to an imaginary friend you called Harry. He looks vaguely like Billy Crystal or Kevin Spacey or whoever. You donít want to think about these things just now, see?
I meet a guy on the street who says heís my son. I tell him I donít have a son. He looks at me through big eyes and tells me he is definitely my son. ďNoíĒ I say, trembling, ďyou are not my son. Just get out please.Ē He leans in closer so I smell his breath that is like sulphur which makes me boke. "I am youíre son," he growls menacingly. "And you owe me, okay?" "Look," I say, "Iím gonna call the cops if you are not outa here in two seconds flat, okay?" He nods but stays.
I have been told by people Iím as nutty as a fruit cake. Well they are probably right. I do things odd. I write odd. I think odd. I am odd. But I enjoy being odd. I stand in the shower right now thinking about this and wishing the laptop was here so I could jot this down about the odd thing. Oh itís too much. But the words keep spouting. And why not? I have the right, see, my dear? Um, my head is mine and I can do what the crap I want with it. Do you understand?
I am in a forest on a Sunday afternoon. And it is a very green and sunny forest. Sorry but I am not good at describing such things as shrubbery and stuff. I donít know the names and cannot be bothered to learn them. So my dears, I give you my forest with its very tall trees and myself in a long flowing dress that shows my curves with the sun shining through the thin patterned material. And I am feeling oh so pretty and wondering too if my Prince Charming will come along to romance me like of old.
The streets of Manhattan are not paved with gold. They are paved with crap. Usually male crap. But often womenís crap too. Take you, the one with the super model looks and glowing smile and gentle wiggle and showing off far too much leg, enchanting as it is to the men watching. Oh just go away. You make me feel insecure, inadequate about myself looking shabby as I do in my lumberjack gear and no makeup today. I was feeling low due to aching legs from the walk yesterday in the enchanted forest that was not enchanted at all really.
I may decide to live on the margins of life. Which may sound kind of silly. I mean how would I live on a margin? What would I do? I feel like a sinking ship every time I think this. It doesnít absorb me. I tell a guy I met at work, ďI want to live on the margins of life,Ē He throws me a funny look. Iím bizarre. Or a danger to society having such thoughts. Actually heís nothing special himself. But donít tell him that. He may jump off a roof or something to make you feel guilty.
It has been decided by some nameless being that the sea is green. Only it doesnít look green to me. It looks murky. Only murky isnít a colour, right? Well maybe itís time it was a colour. Can you imagine being a painter and somebody asks you what colour is the sky? And you say itís murky. Yeah, you may laugh, but itís all true. I have been told that nobody has ever called the sea murky. And I tell them I call it murky. But they look at me gone out. But you know, I really, really donít care?
Iím reading an obscure book about a New York Building with a life of itís own. Itís quite surreal and features a galaxy of famous movie stars from old Hollywood. And itís full of crazy scandals that the building invents and in some cases destroys the characters. Once I closed my eyes and found myself walking along a narrow carpeted corridor, when out of the shadows a tall, thin man dressed all in black approached me. He told me he was lost. I told him go jump out the building. Itís not real and you wonít die. But he did.
Somebody is playing a song, a pretty song on a violin outside my window. And yet I am eighteen floors above ground. And when I look there is no one there. Well I didnít expect there to be. And yet the music continues in its sad dreamy style and brings tears to my eyes. The melody reminds me of bitter sweet broken romances. Or some sad old movie scene in half tone. I lie upon my bed and close my eyes and dream I am walking along a shore with waves drifting in the distance. And the music, sad, dreamy.
A man touched me on my behind in a small store down an unnamed side street I had drifted into. I squealed with surprise, turning to find a most handsome smiling man of middle age at a guess. But with dark shining hair and the dreamiest smile you ever saw. He spoke in a soft resonant English accent, not posh, but pleasant. ďYou must be Maria?Ē he said with that so charming smile. ďI just met a girl called Maria,Ē I giggled with embarrassment and strange excitement. ďSorry to disappoint you,Ē I said. He shrugged. ďOh well,Ē he said softly.
I did not used to take sugar in my tea. Watching the turned off TV at just after six in the evening this is the only thing I can think of just now. Itís not dramatic. I should be thinking something dramatic. Making something crazy happen to me. But nothing does. Or is or will just now. Damn, what can I do? Pop my head out the window and cry help; I need a great idea, please? Nah, itís never going to work. So I sit here with my lappy on and looking at the blank page that is dead.
A tall distinguished looking Englishman was in Vainís office today. I had to speak to Vain about some such deal going on and he was sat there listening and grinning like a reptile as he ogled my curves. I had the sudden urge to swing round, knife in hand and yell at him, ďDo you always ogle pretty girls like this, huh? Coz if you do your doing it to the wrong girl,Ē I could just imagine how white he would be. And how furious Vain would have been with me. But I was passed caring about what she thought.
I was in a store when I turned to find a thin middle aged man with blond receding hair standing up against the frozen food fridges quietly picking his nose as he watched me. I felt a wave of nausea as he pulled a line of wet snot out and shoved it in his mouth without once taking his eyes off me. I boked and dropped my shopping tray and ran out the store, standing in the entrance in front of the busy street gasping for hair as I tried to stop myself throwing up. But to no avail. Ugh.
You have never been sure if youíre attracted to Vain Summers or what? Itís been so weird since she arrived to be the new senior manageress of the show. She has asked you to dinner at least twice which you have declined politely each time leaving her with an amused smile and you with strangely damp panties. Sheís no butch, for sure. To pretty. But you could be wrong. The whole thing is starting to confuse the hell out of you. And you keep saying to yourself, under your breath, how you just want a nice man. But do you?
So, when was the last time you were that inspired? Shit, I am never inspired, okay? Nah, I really donít believe you. Stop bulling me, okay? Well okay, I know youíre not really trying to bore me. Though youíre giving me a powerful impression of it. Look, Iím truly sick of you and all your pomp and circumstance and crap you constantly come up with and try to show me how clever you are, but are exactly not. Iím not sorry to tell you just how uninspiring a personality you are. I mean you are the original loser, right, mate?
Should I really feel as empty as I do today? I lay in my bed staring at nothing in particular. I am wearing a black satin night dress, long and filmy. Sexy. But nobody here to see it but me and the walls and window. I shouldnít be thinking bad things, though. I should be cheerful. Though not sure about what. I wonder should I have coffee this morning, which tastes nice but makes me feel bad the rest of the day. Or juice. I love juice. But juice is cold. I need warm. I need to be touched, really.
Would you like to listen to the radio today, I ask myself? An odd question seeing as I never listen to the radio anymore. When I was a I kid I listened till I slept at night. Even talk shows, I remember. And of cause the pop music. But now, I mean who is on the radio anymore? I watched a movie on line called Breakfast In Hollywood. A movie about a 40ís radio show. Actually really cool. Suddenly I wanted to be the in 40ís New York during the War. I closed my eyes and dreamed I was there.
I get a call from a woman I never heard of before who wants me to go and see her. Get lost, I say, and hang up. Before I can put the phone down she rings back with the same message. This time I throw the phone at the wall. It goes crack and falls down in pieces. I growl with anger. Pick the pieces up and it starts ringing again. I think Iím going crazy. It even leaves me a message to meet the woman in Tratoria de Tratoria, across the street from my apartment block in ten minutes.
I went quietly to Tratoria de Tratoria, which is chic and gay and smells yummy. I didnít know what my caller looked like or if she would really be there. I had gone anyway out of curiosity, I guess. Actually the place was empty apart from several waiters wondering around trying to look busy. I almost gave up and went home when a stately woman stepped in, looked at me and smiled. My dear, she said with a pretty smile that melted me for some reason, why youíre far prettier than I thought. I mean really, I was quite breathless.
Things get messy from here. I tumble through a swamp that smells like the back of an animalís ass. Really bad. The sun is none existent and rain is a constant threat to ones sanity, it being of freezing kind. The planet has clearly changed overnight. There are no people here. Only things that look like shapes cut out of rolls of newspaper. I guess the God who works my mind had plans for a surprise for me today. Well Iím not amused. I hate getting wet and covered in strange goo. But worst of all I really hate you.
Society has not received me so well today. Well you canít please everybody. You run across the road causing a crash and you run and run in case some jerk catches you and end up in a court of law. I have no such interest in going through that. So I sit here star gazing and feel, um, well, pretty good with myself and God. Yeah, I am a God person. I mean if God had not been on my side this morning I might not have been here to write this. So thank you my God, thank you dear.
I found a glass of orange juice in my kitchen this morning. I never left it there. I had been alone all night. Seems I may have had an intruder. An intruder who got in how I have no clue. But the juice was nice. Sipped it quick. Felt refreshed. Checked my front door. Checked my windows. Even checked the sky out there which was a pretty blue this morning. But no sign of anybody. But somebody came in to make that glass of orange juice. Itís a mystery. I hate mysteries. I want the truth. I want to know.
I go to bed at midnight, exhausted from a long day at work. I am woken at two am by drunken caller mumbling something, I donít know what. I donít know what to say to the guy. I wonder briefly if itís a joke from a shit from the office. But the voice growls over and over at till I tell it it has a wrong number. It growls who am I? I am Kitty Cat, I tell drunken one. Who? growls drunken one. Somebody else chips in. I tell it who I am and it tell me itís sorry.
Iím just out walking. You know I like to walk down the city streets observing various people who think they are it, but are not. I am the only one who is it. I love to be it. when I sleep I walk into a hotel that is at once crummy but doesnít really matter. I say to the guy behind the desk, you will let me have a room. I will not pay. You will not mind in the least. The guy nods and hands me a big gold key. I love this. I love lots of things, see?
You know what happens? You end up with a cold and a guy who is looking at your legs or your ass or your whatever. And itís stream of consciousness. Itís irrelevant in the meaning of meanings. But can I mean personally by this? I really donít know. I mean, yeah, Iím bright. I have this great if trying job. And here, well, Iím wondering about this getting the cold stuff and kind of barnstorming my way into peopleís hearts. Itís been difficult, you know? Things do get difficult. I make my own difficulties. I kind of like that now.
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