i believe search always should be immersive, because whatever is pre planned and non consuming (what you are looking for is total engulfment by the spectre of the real), a joyous intensity, a flow of virtue
"Anyway, you're you. I mean, look at you!" she says. "You could get with anyone, anyone in the street. Really."
you cannot feed someone language, they have to speak
13 | | | H | | | . . . . | . . . . | . . . . | . . . . | |
we can only engage in such a way
you cannot feed someone truth
The bird dives back into the tree. It shakes, some leaves fall.
division of reality is straying away from it
There is a pause. She ashes her cigarette. It falls on me. It seems like the birds have stopped too.
The Hatton geezer (fuck off) reminds me of this old failed actor who I'd met at a party a few years ago, another man out of time and out of place. This actor had scored a minor role in Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and never really let go of it, had gone on to build his whole identity around it. I can't really blame him.
not so on: yvf(wthw)
"Put a blanket."
all that is to say
Thank you, Jack, for telling me I'm just as bad as the characters (actually they're people, if that means anything to you) that I'm writing about.
I imagine that some lab-grown 29-year-old from Woking with a mind honed to identify individuals who fit the profile of Real Londoner (as conceived of by 50 opinion-polled racist builders and their wives in the Midlands) picks a stubborn local who can still somehow afford to live here and passes him along to some creative studio.
The Hatton geezer (fuck off) is emptying his pockets, searching for the silver rizlas he apparently has. He refuses to take one of mine (also silver) because the tobacco I'm giving him is already too much to ask. He tells me about the guy who can do 50g of Golden Virginia for a good price, the guy who every other man over 50 knows. I'm not interested.
in a way what we are really interested in with pedagogy is the magnetisation