Elsie was a good girl. Always had been. From a middle income family who wanted the very best for their little girl. She was an only child. At 12 Elsie was remarkably good at art and harboured an ambition to go to art school. Her parents informed her otherwise. There was no point in them paying for her to do an art degree, what good would it do her? Certainly wouldn’t get her a job. So she went into arts admin, and worked hard. She became PA to a notable art director. He grew dependent on her so she got a decent salary. She was very good, but she was very bored. That’s when Abel came along. An arty type, he played in a rock band, full of dreams and ego. They met at a gig in Dalston and the very sight of this guitar-abusing beast on stage made her heart turn somersaults.
“Looks like a tramp!” her mother said.
Elsie knew he was trouble, a self-obsessed nobody who cared for nothing other than his guitars and effects peddles, but she also thought she could change him.
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?