Notes from the weekend (it’s now Monday):
Sitting in the library, reading The Guardian and happened upon an article about Ronnie Biggs’ funeral. Apparently he was about to publish a book called “Ronnie Biggs’ Crookery Book For Single Men on the Run”: it amused me mildly. The first recipe was to be one for porridge.
Now I’m in the waiting room of Tonbridge Station (again); waiting for no-one, nor a train. I wish I had someone or somewhere to go. I fell asleep: someone woke me.
I like it here though: I meet people; they meet me. They draw my illustrations when I ask, the latest being Edward Cider Hands by Ciaran and some random robot. Then there’s Dora – the Christian fish – by Tariro: “Keep your head up kid. I know you can swim. You just gotta keep moving your legs”: The Augustines I believe.
Next to me in this waiting room is my recently acquired stuff: New Scientist magazine, the Zoe Heller novel, The Guardian, baccy tin and hankies. Over a week since the ex-girlfriend bottled me, my nose is still bleeding. It was worth it though.
Tart that I am, I crave female company; not for the obvious reasons but because I hate sleeping alone. I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping with (and sometimes having sex with) beautiful girls (have I mentioned my ex-girlfriend and ex-fiance?) The former called me a whore because I talk to people – male and female – and it made her jealous. I’m a dog: not randy; just friendly. That’s apparently why they fall for me but I almost wish they wouldn’t. My ex-fiance had to keep me away from various places as my charm got the better of us.
I miss my ex-girlfriend and my ex-fiance (different girls): entwined in bed, holding legs (not hands); to sleep per chance to dream, not always sex; just being close. Now I just have my sleeping bag. No beautiful faces to fall asleep to; no legs to intertwine with and no flesh to be close to. No-one to be inside. I miss my partner. I miss my friend.
But both are suffering apparently. I wish I could help them but I have to let go. I care too much.
Such is my penance. I tried to move on once but I couldn’t. I’m trying to now but I can’t.
Among other acquisitions, I’ve gained some rose-tinted spectacles (no, really!), thanks to India (made in and donated by). They’re John Lennons (not his but of that style and apparently they suit me).
Yesterday I was accused of faking my own death (as you do). I woke up to find a load of missed calls and messages on my mobile, which I can’t return as I have no credit. But apparently I’m dead. I can only think that someone lifted my phone as I slept and sent messages to my ICE contacts. But apparently I engineered it all myself; my latest little ploy; my latest story; as if I’d stoop so low, but apparently so, according to my supposed nearest and dearest. A victim of circumstance again.
Latest sketches: a pair of checkered boots from George and a Beavis / Butthead hybrid from Aansan. I think I have sufficient cast, characters and settings to begin the planned novel.
The principal character will be Victor Robinson: the surname after the family and Robinson Crusoe. Victor, because he will win, despite adversity.
All of the pictures in my notebook and the inspiration I’ve gained have been through my new-found friends. The book will be for them, as well as those who left me and those I left behind; those who said they’d pick up the pieces should it all fall apart: it did.
Even though I’m not dead (despite the rumours to the contrary), I still could be soon: my housemate is due out of custody soon and I’ve been told by the police that he’ll be angry with the world and may well stamp on my head as I sleep through frustration and to gain a bed for another few months. But that’s just me being self-indulgent, isn’t it?
So life is shit
Not dead yet
Working on it
So now I have my characters and locations collected, the provisional title for the book is this:
VICTOR ROBINSON AND DANIEL THE DOG; A ROBOT, A SCARECROW; A STICK GIRL, A CAT, AN ELEPHANT, A SHARK CARRYING THE WORST ROLL-UPYOU’LL EVER SEE; TRAVERSING THE ALGERIAN MOUNTAINS (WITH GOATS), WITH THE LONDON SKYLINE SUPPLANTED THEREIN. IN THE WORLD OF THE OYSTER; EDWARD CIDER HANDS, ANOTHER ROBOT, DORA THE CHRISTIAN FISH, A PAIR OF BOOTS AND BEAVIS AND BUTTHEAD ALONG FOR THE RIDE. ALL LOOKED OVER BY A FUNNY FACE.
I think it’s got legs.
(And lately observers have said I’m going mad).
In the notebook of the travels of Victor Robinson and Dan the dog are the following cast (and growing):
Simon: the scarecrow / robot hybrid;
Hankie: a dead ghost;
Emma: a funny bird;
Tall: the stick girl;
Harley: a cat;
Joy: an elephant;
Lisa: a shark;
Edward (cider hands);
Simone: the other robot;
Dora Christian: the fish;
Othello: the boots;
Headbutt: Beavis and Butthead.
Surreal or what?
After my death was falsely reported last night (my latest ruse, according to certain circles), my best friend Marnie came out to find me.
She drove me to a doctor, two hospitals, a shelter, then her house, wherein I stayed with four cats to keep me company.
She came along
Drove me around
Taught me what’s what
Held my hand
Showed me where I belong:
under her wing.
My remaining friend;
a precious thing.
Thanks also to my ex-wife and ex-fiance who were the only other people to take things seriously and actually care when the false message was broadcast. False or not, others chose to see it as a ruse. Six months: never. I’m ashamed of you and don’t even want to know you as a family. I’ve alienated you? And vice versa. But you’re worse. Live with it.
I didn’t make it up. How dare you accuse me. You stooped lower than me in doing so. You won’t feel guilt but I wish you would so that you can’t sleep. Coping mechanism perhaps? Cope.
Some are there until the end.
On those who care: