The term Twilighter started being used in the early 2000’s by the arts council of England to distinguish between respectable people and the type of person who was not worth counting as potential audience. They were poor, single, disabled, in temporary accommodation, in unstable employment if any. Elsie’s boss Douglas was one of the art consultants that first came up with the term Twilighter. “There’s something of the darkness about them” he said.
Douglas was a very determined man, there was something of the missionary in his righteous zeal, not religious, no, unless you called the religion Douglas.
He wasn’t a horrible man, on the contrary, he was one of the most pleasant people Elsie had met in the art world. Intelligent, witty, passionately engaged in his profession. In his fifties now, director of a large arts company, millioniaire arts dealer, father of five children by three women, regular judge at big arts prizes, one of those men who, despite the bad teeth, balding head and long grey ponytail, could still manage to flatter a woman with his attention. A well respected and charming man, yes, charming. He was also a sociopath with a grand plan.
We took to sneaking looks into the boys changing room after sports. It smelt of sweat and old trainers. It hummed with chat and laughter to the timing of dirty jokes. He was good at sport. That impressed Sasha who was so rubbish at it she used to pay me to come last in races.
He was muscular and tanned and what with the blonde hair he certainly got Sasha excited. It was the time of the band Bros, that look was what girls were supposed to desire. Sasha was a big Bros fan. She was going to marry one of them she told me.
Sasha was a plumb talkative girl with mouse blonde hair and big breasts that I greatly envied. A couple of years later I would date an evil bastard of the muscular blonde type, not because I liked him or even fancied him, but just to make Sasha jealous.
However, I was NOT into Bros. For me it was Micheal Jackson ever since me and my brother snuck out of bed to watch an illegal copy of Thriller my Dad’s dodgy friend brought round. Its an even more thrilling (sorry) video when its illegal and you’re supposed to be in bed.
More recently Sasha had shown me her copy of the Labyrinth and we were both madly in love with David Bowie (every word of every song he’s ever written is written for me! Not that I listen to his songs anymore).
I’ve always liked the mysterious and unknown. ‘Bed time stories that keep the curtains closed’, and way back then it seems I was also in to skinny, slightly effeminate, men in tight trousers.
Excitement, thats what we needed. We were bored teenage girls living in a South London suburb as the 80’s turned into the 90’s. Stalking was a means of having fun. We also held seances in graveyards.
Soon sneaking looks through into the boy’s changing room just wasn’t enough. We pinched one of his exercise books. It was disappointing. All he’d done was write his name in blunt pencil. No that wasn’t enough to satisfy our needs. We wanted detail. We wanted dirt!
The idea of a Facebook Stalker is perplexing to me. So you put something up in a Public Space with what amounts to an advertising board notifying others that its there, but anyone you consider to be undesirable who looks at your page more than once is a stalker? Is that how it works? To quote the Urban Dictionary “It seems to be that the term ‘stalker’ no longer means what it used to mean–the pathological ANONYMOUS follower and tab-keeper of another person or persons”.
Now I, and this may disappoint some people, have never been a Facebook Stalker. I try occassionally, but get insanely paranoid (he/she can feel me looking) so it never lasts more than one click. I have been stalked in the real world, in the old fashioned way, it was terrifying! And I have, in the old fashioned way, stalked…
When I was about fourteen a new boy started at school. The school was the rather run down remains of a secondary modern with 2000 students and a reputation for hooliganism. My best friend at the time was Sasha. We had both started the school in what were termed “the units”, a dumping ground for all low achieving/problem children.
By the time this story is set we had both just managed to scrape ourselves out of the pit of abandoned “specials” into the next more respectable level. But to the other children in our new class Sasha and I didn’t belong. We were freaks from the lower level who would never manage to fit in. Thats why this new boy was particularly interesting to us, he didn’t fit either, but for very different reasons. He had been at public school.
What was a public school boy doing at a place like this? He spoke “posh”. He was fairly good looking with blonde hair and an expensive haircut. Expensive watch and expensive shoes.
My best friend Sasha and I were exceedingly curious to know more about him. And once you are labelled a freak it is easy to behave as one.
Stars. They’re useless! Up there in the sky with that know it all look about them, that “I can tell your future” twinkle. But they can’t! Hot Passion, huh! I had a bad cold and the electricity men hitting things with hammers in my hallway. Rubbish! Then there was that greasy good-for-nothing guitarist Mr Cos, coming round here stealing CD’s, thinking he’s got the right just because they’re his. The cheek! Mr G Avern, my reliable bassist and Other One, has hand lurgy so he’s no good, he can’t protect the CD’s from Cos. All useless!
At least I have my ghosts:
I made the box for the bones found in my back garden. I have only drawn a dog’s skeleton on the top because I don’t want to think of it being a murdered wife or anything. I like this flat I’m now in and love the garden so don’t want them to turn bad against me. It probably was a beloved dog whose flesh has fed my garden, yes I like that. When I die I want to feed other things, to rot, to be eaten, to have the roots of nettles and sycamore trees creeping through my bones. I say sycamore trees because my garden is full of them, the garden must have been a tiny sycamore forest till they were all chopped down, now they’re growing back again with avengence which means at some point I might have to do some gardening.
Interestingly I’ve been having a good hallucination of late. There’s a dog in my flat, a mongrel, very friendly wagging its tail , I bend down to stroke it and it’s gone. I like it though, beats the usual insect and bird monster hallucinations. I did consider that it might be the ghost of the dog whose bones I’ve put in the box. Possible. Or it might be that dastardly part of my brain that does things without my consent deciding that it wants a ghost from the bones and therefore creating one. It does that. The dog vision isn’t as strong today as it has been the last few days, I kind of miss it. I’m still trying to get a real dog though, the lady from Battersea Dogs Home is coming round to inspect my flat on Friday. Worrying. Do they give dogs to people who hallucinate dogs? Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it.
Friday 28th May 2010. Hot passion is what my star sign promises for the coming month, but, it says, I musn’t initiate anything myself, I must wait. So I’m waiting…
In the meantime I’m drawing illustrations for Erotic Review magazine, and discussing my darkest fantasies with the Acid Panda on the W3 bus to White Hart Lane. My star sign also says I musn’t reveal any secrets this month so I’m not telling you any dark fantasies right now. The Acid Panda is Anarchistwood‘s depraved drummer. The first time I ever saw her she was on stage naked except for a fine layer of chocolate sauce. She tells me drummers come in two types, the sober straight laced type and the Animal. Acid Panda definitely leans towards the Animal side. Rude Mechanicals are borrowing her for this Sundays gig at Inn on the Green, Ladbroke grove, where we will be playing with Anarchistwood and loads of other really good bands. It’s all free so if you’re around come along, it starts at 4 and is bound to be sinful and warped!
Lynda Beast may be returning for this gig. It is rumoured that Stanley Bad has had a nasty accident with a razor (Miss Roberts denies all allergations). Which reminds me I must do that chocolate eating video I said I would do to prove I can be far more sexy with a bar of chocolate than Stanley, who was mere vile flotsam.
On the subject of fortune telling and fate I had a vivid dream last night where I was in a windowless room with Scooby Doo. I think I dreamt this because yesterday I’d been talking about what sort of dog I should get with Cos and Dylan. I’m going to Battersea Dogs Home next wednesday to look for a dog. Also on Tuesday Tommy G was singing the theme tune from Scooby Doo in rehearsal. He always sings that, some kind of minor malfunction which we havn’t corrected yet due to it being mildly endearing. Though it does remind me a bit of 2001 Space Odyssey where HAL’s logic is completely gone and he begins singing the song “Daisy Bell“.
In the dream I was talking to Scooby when he turned into china and became covered in a black and yellow zig zag pattern. Although this made a nice ornament it wasn’t very good to talk to. Then the china cracked and Scooby Doo crumpled into tiny pieces on the floor. I had to sweep the pieces up with a dust pan and brush, but I wasn’t unhappy about it because inside the china Scooby had been the real Scooby Doo all along. Is that dream telling me I need to get a large brown daft dog that will break all my china? I also keep having dreams where I’m two people which is hard work because all decisions have to be made twice, so nothing much happens in the dream. Do dreams and stars decide our future? Are they at the meeting table putting forward proposals and budgets as I write this? Are they in the end just knocked into towing the party line by the whip of fate, and whose side is he on?