butterdish

To say our butter dish was stolen would be somewhat off the mark, and yet it seems the most appropriate way to put it. One day it was there, next day gone. Peculiar, don't you think? But the fatal flaw is revealed when we are forced to admit that we, namely myself and my current housemates, did not purchase this particular butter dish. It was bought by two of my former housemates; the long departed housemates of yesteryear.

They were both girls, both 20, and I know what you're thinking, but they were actually rather pleasant household companions. Both were frequenters of the fine art degree at the local university, and it was nice to have the occasional chunk of culture slip into the air, and hover while we all basked in its glow.

Now, on to the acquisition of the butter dish. It was a day of profoundly forgettable circumstances. No remarkable weather. No events worth mentioning. No interesting characters livening up the day, or plot. The girls simply went out to buy a butter dish, leaving my other housemate, male, 21, and myself looking after the house, so to speak.

We made affirming nods and grunts as the girls told of the intricacies plaguing the mission at hand. Overall objective: acquire butter dish. Requirements for overall objective: must be nice. Secondary objectives: keep eyes open for other appropriate buys, have a pleasant lunch - a filled baguette of sorts, and return home unscathed.

At the nearby cheapo shop, called Flip, where few items edged over the one pound mark, the two girls came across a suitable butter dish, sitting amongst various other less suitable butter dishes. The choice was clear: mock the dishes made to look like small animals, and the ones which looked too cheap or student-y, and go for the suitable one.

The suitable butter dish was not too big, not too small; an oblong plate in which a standard block of butter could sit comfortably, with an elongated cuboid lid of sorts which would be placed over the plate, to keep out intruders. It was a fashionable off-white which promised to fit in nicely with our rather new, rather fashionable, off-white themed kitchen. A small motif was embossed into the lid—a woven style circle with a feather inside. It cost £1.50 and the girls spent 75p each.

They returned late in the afternoon having accomplished their mission. The quest had taken them over perilous lands, fraught with danger. But nothing was too big a task for these mighty warrior women.

Once safely home we all rejoiced in the newfound ownership of the butter dish. We had some celebratory toast and spread the butter from that very dish. It spread well, and we all knew the girls had done good.

<>

But now, alas, the dish has gone. It is more than a year on since the dish was bought, and not a day had passed in which it hadn't been used. So now it has been taken, this asset will be sorely missed.

The girls both moved away at the end of June, unconsciously leaving the butter dish comfortably at home with us. We set about continuing to butter all things butterable, and obtaining that butter from the butter dish. It had become a piece of kitchen furniture in its own right, and no one really gave it a second thought.

So when one of the girls came to visit, four months later, we had no idea as to her dark intentions. Using the pretence of a friend's party on a Saturday night, she descended upon the town with promises of tea, chats and catch-ups the following day, post-party. This was all fine by us, and we welcomed her home. The following day, however, I was obliged to work, and was not around for her visit.

She arrived mid-afternoon. Hugs were exchanged, teas were brewed and consumed, chats were had and after an hour or so of pleasantries she was ready to go. As my current housemate and my ex-housemate passed thrgough the oh so famillier kitchen on their way to the front door, the ex's eyes darted suspiciously. Sure enough, the butter dish sat exactly where expected, as unaware as we were to the incoming threat.

It sat comfortably in between toaster and bread bin, a fresh brick of thick yellowness residing proudly within. It was mocking her, she thought. She must have it back. "Oh, yeah," she casually observed. "My butter dish."

My housemate didn't reply.

"I forgot about it," she continued. "I guess i'll take it now."

My housemate said nothing.

She coaxed the butter off the dish on to a nearby plate, it franticly gripped onto its home as she tipped it, but gravity won out in the end, and the butter lay beaten on an everyday dinner plate.

my housmate bit his lip.

I came home two hours later to hear the tragic story. After much consoling we decided to be men and move on. What right did we have, after all, to contest the custody of this butter dish? We hadn't even chipped in to pay for it.

<>

Looking back on this tremulous period of our lives, the emotions rise to a near bursting point. Thankfully, due to herioic efforts on the part of myself and my housemate, and support from two new housemates, one of whom bought a new butter dish, we survived. A pivotal moment had come which threatened to destroy the very foundations on which we lived, but that moment had also gone, and the foundations remained. At the end of the day, and indeed at the start of the day, no toast went unbuttered, no sandwich too dry.

ennui ad nauseam

Such ennui doth enflict a fissure in time,

In which a mere locution,

Would not succeed to ignite the ether,

So salient as senses wane,

Ergo, I apprise to thee,

A forethought,

That I intend, in all acounts,

To locate the respective synonymy,

And wield them without ignominy,

And prompt the nauseous aftermath,

Due in the face of such foul grandiloquence.

leaves

liberate the leaves from their oppressive fate.

must we waste council gardeners' time by collecting leaves alighting the grass in the English autumn. are they really that bad? imagine, if you will, a young couple, wandering aimlessly through the slowly cooling air around the network of paths which navigates the city's central park. "oh Gerard," she quips, "it is such a lovely day, is it not?" "Indeed it is," returns Gerard's rich English baritone, "if it wasn't for all these pesky leaves." N'est pas! it doesn't happen! Gerard loves the leaves, as do we all. the endless scope of varying hue; the soft bed which cushions the unyielding outer core of the earth. the leaves make autumn what it is, let us embrace it!. so why remove them? does the leafy garden not fit in with modern Britain's self-proclaimed image? that of pride, prosperity, and freedom? well, hear this, Britain, the leaves have no freedom! leave the leaves, for they are called "leaves", after all.

Scattered Gems

splattered gems: resurrection

"Are you still here?"

"I need to get socks!" - Chris' donation

"I Spent 30 fucking quid that night."

"Did you see the pictures? They were all flat."

"I haven't bought a single alcoholic drink in London."

"Maybe he's just seeing it as more fexible than you hope for." - Chris' donation.

"I don't engage wth females any more." - Chris' donation, again.

splattered gems

here lies the gem - at rest after a fleeting existence. godspeed.

"Pack it in, the pair of you!"

"...a dildo and a beer box..."

"I asked Brian to bring in a loaf" - donated by Chris.

"I've had enough coffee today, I don't want anymore coffee."

"The purpose of a sock is to let the perspiration from your foot be absorbed...by the sock." - donated by Chris.

splattr'd gems

the gems of yore, at once a bore, a flaw and chore, will here be store(d), and thus ignore(d).

"You eat so much, how are you not fat?" - donated by Chris.

"Scarface, What a film."

"Gives him something to grip."

"That thing with me an' Tony."

"I found this massive elephant, was so cool, I just had to have it."

"If I was in flats, yeah."

Cough-ee Hausenshire

And thus begins the era of the coffee house,

Oh, how intelligent we feel reading Kafka and Kerouac,

quoting the finest passages.

We are Jean-Paul and Simone,

but neither of us are a woman,

we embody both, its agreed.

Another round of coffee, we say,

with brands sprinkled in chocolate

and sit back on woven chairs, we will,

gesticulating wildly,

while engaged in heated debate,

on ourselves, others, and nothing.

The Paradox of Truth

As we steer ourselves cautiously through the everyday, avoiding awkwardness, embarking on absurd ritual, various opportunities arise in which we exercise our honesty. For the most part, the election of honesty which occurs during this exercise lays below the sphere of consciousness, and simply dictates our attitudes towards situations. Compulsive liars left to one side, we act truthfully, in a natural manner, in accordance with desirable ends; to be deceitful would usually negate our own practical will. We are simply managing the everyday. "Do you want sugar in you tea?" Yes or no, we answer accurately and without qualm; to refuse to would only hinder our own tea experience - not a desirable outcome, as anyone would agree. This bears a relation to desire; a subjective impression upon an experience, complete with outcome.

It is on a different realm where truth becomes more complicated; in fact becomes akin to the lie. Consider, as an example, an honest mistake. One afternoon someone has, in half-woken clumsiness, unwittingly placed a book in his bag after indulging in it for half an hour in the book shop. With no real inclination to purchase the book, he was simply flicking though, testing the water, and for some obscure reason, which Freud would probably have something to say about, it ended up in his bag anticipating the ensuing situation.

That situation is as follows. In the course of transcending the shop's exit, navigating that liminal space between those off-white security barriers, the alarm goes. Now if the local co-worker doesn't simply wave our subject through, dispassionately refusing to engage in their job any more that necessary, and conveniently giving him the benefit of the doubt, he will have a dilemma on his hands.

An unpaid book in his bag - an open and shut case. Now, a thief may admit defeat, or lie and claim ignorance; but the honest dimwit, guilty only of wading though the vacant waters of stupidity, has to make a case.

However, a dilemma arises as the incident radiates guilt. Thus, in an attempt to portray a convincing argument to the accuser, the shop keeper, he undertakes an activity of overcompensation. This occurs because he is aware of the appearance of the situation; his seemingly obvious guilt.

In this situation, the truth becomes as constructed as a lie. All the signs of invention are displayed as the accused attempts to avoid making the truth sound false. As the task involves convincing the accuser something which is held in suspicion, the accused perpetually strives to avoid the tale-tell signs omitting guilt; an effort which is thereby evident in his actions and mannerisms.

Henceforth, in recognition that this constructed truth sounds like (and is) a fabrication, the accused now proceeds to further overcompensate in an attempt to increase naturality, thus initiating a spiralling pattern increasingly departing from the original truth ad infinitum. Consequently, the subject is rendered invariably guilty of falsification, if not the crime.

meat poem

sown foot minge

clasp fat nazzok

only menial tasks to be enjoyed through lunchtime

due to dew all dues are due

theres a penguin in my juggling ball

it throws me and my lady off balance

when we help the cashier

to not be embarrassed by her clumsiness

leave the washing up

the washing up is a paradoxical melon job.

the coffee house loner

A pot of tea for one please,

A corner and a book,

For I am the coffee house loner,

It has a certain look.

No extra milk is needed,

No sugar and no fuss,

I am the coffee house loner,

There is but one of us.

I may require a coffee,

That pleasant caffeine lift,

I am the coffee house loner,

My visit may be swift.

But other times 'tis casual,

An afternoon is lost,

but for the coffee house loner

this never is a cost.

And over yonder corner,

A solo tea pot seen,

Another coffee house loner

Is swimming in caffeine.

Across the wooden tables

A mutual respect,

We are coffee house loners

Not children of neglect.

Another pot of tea please,

I nestle in the booth,

For I am the coffee house loner,

I know no other truth.

the rain rattled the rusty roof

and i pondered penning a poem

i carefully considered a crucial concept

the ingenious inclusion of intense alliteration

to tell trite tales of the tall tall trees.

but this painstaking process was proving problematic

for can i convey a correct critique

of the swinging swaying solitary sycamore

if i'm forced to follow this format?

so i sat in a seat in the sauna heat,

to ask if this task was a worthy feat,

to ask if the process id previously prescribed

was adequate enough to help me describe,

and suddenly came to a callous conclusion,

this crass confusion of consonant fusion,

was such an illusion, such an intrusion,

and so the solution, to end this pollution,

was rhyming profusely,

sometimes quite loosely.

but when put to the test,

it turned out to be quite a mess,

the rhyming of words,

was proving absurd,

i'll try something else for the rest.

All the while I sat

The rain kept thundering on

I could not hear but

I wrote in sevens and fives

Until it was gone

And o the trees, in their newfound freedom,

Recovering from the attack,

A thousand rain bullets per second,

Had found their way to the ground.

And betwixt the sodden branches of war,

New shards of hope, by beacons of light,

The torches of victory shone through once again,

As a new day swept the land.

then my mind grew weary,

and thus became my pen,

it ceased to govern the words it spewed,

i started to rhyme again,

a new concern arose,

a bud i had to nip,

towards alliteration,

i suddenly started to slip.

alas, can you believe,

below my restless quill,

i was laying lines linked by letters,

and rhyming with such skill.

be gone, reckless habit!

your guiding of my tongue

cant do this moment justice but

will always be more fun.

One of These Slugs in Your Face Might Change Your Mind

The village slept nestled amongst the tree line. A handful of cottages, all different from each other, sat randomly in the presence of only one another, dirt tracks breaking up the grassland to connect them. I entered the village with one thing on my my mind, a bed to sleep in. I had grown weary after two days straight of little food and much fighting, and I needed to rest.

Upon noticing the absence of villagers outside, I glanced at the houses. All were dark apart from one, in which a table top candle was clearly visible. Ignoring my fatigue I bounded towards the house, clambered up the 3 steps which led to the front door, and knocked.

The knocks echoed in the woodland clearing, cutting through the silence of the night. A plump housewife stood before me, a dirty white apron covering her cheap pale blue dress. After a split second looking at me she spoke:

"You ain't comin' in 'ere."

I was having none of this. I drew my shotgun from my back, cocked it in one swift motion and without giving her a second chance I pumped a smattering of lead in her direction. She flew backwards into the house, leaving blood clinging to the doorframe.

"Like shit I'm not," I said, stepping over her trembling corpse.

But my lack of subtlety had roused the other villagers. I realised that I would, once again, have to delay my much needed rest. As the remaining lights in the village started to flicker on I ran through the house in which I had made my unwelcome entrance. No one else was there, but in the master bedroom I found some more shotgun shells. These will come in handy, I thought.

I could hear the villagers getting excited, they must have discovered the dead housewife. I realised this particular village was unlikely to be very fruitful so I decided to leave. But I knew the villagers wanted revenge. The locals had gathered their arms and were shouting incoherently outside, branding torches. I went down to join them. A stark shriek from a petrified woman cemented their knowledge to my presence, and I blew her away with a newfound shotgun shell.

The remaining neighbours, about ten in all, started towards me with various guns at the ready, as I stood on the doorstep,. I swapped my shotgun for the small Uzi I kept strapped to my right thigh, and started to run.

I darted to the left of the angry crowd as they threw bullets at me. I reciprocated their gesture with bullets of my own. They were the bigger target so little effort was needed to catch a couple of them out.

But as I ran around my victims pelting lead at them in quick succession, one of the buggers caught me in the shoulder. I span round on the spot with the force of the bullet. The remaining villagers kept on shooting, and, without too much hesitation, so did I.

MOTHERFUCKERS!

My gun started clicking, it was out of rounds. I let it slip from my grasp and land on the floor while I took a grenade from its shackle on my chest. I snapped off the clip and launched it into the crowd, who didn't even notice. They carried on shooting at me, and missing beautifully. I ran from the impending explosion.

The grenade, from its location central to the group of villagers, exploded sending them flying outwards like a flower budding in fast-forward. A dozen or so unassuming neighbours lay on the dirt path, their faces in their own blood and the blood of their friends.

I swore at my wounded shoulder and made ready to go. I needed rest and food more than ever. Hopefully the next town, only a few minute's run though the forest, would give me what I need. Otherwise, they're in for a world of pain.

...splattered gems... ...

like wing'd bugs snatched from the freedom of flight, squished upon the windshield of meaning.

"I've got nearly 20-20 vision in my right eye."

"No battery left on my phone."

"I'm gonna be down in about 10 minutes, I'm with my mate, Rob."

"What about that Chinese bloke?"

"Seahorse is the other way, innit."

"I can't sing like Rod."

"Have you ever been on a coach for 10 hours?"

"That was like a rectangle of fire."

Liberty, noun. (pl. -ties) - end bit

But I was not to be deterred, the sign was out there, and I was going to read it. Arthur's questions on what I could possibly hope to achieve fell on deaf ears. My mind was made up, and I left.

The road ahead was to be challenging; an epic journey in which I would cross the whole island, virtually. Although, I had no real reason to hurry, no life-threatening obstacle to overcome. It wasn't like my wife needed to heart transplant and I needed to collect it and be back before time runs out! But, I did feel a sense of urgency. An overwhelming sense of purpose had grabbed me, and was clinging on with some force, so I left as soon as possible. With my cling film bag full to the brim with crumbs and such, and triumphantly tossed over my shoulder, I made headway.

It was just after noon and the sun was strong. I sighed at my furry coat, as it efficiently kept in every darn ounce of heat. A wiser mouse, or less adventurous one, I'd like to think, may have put the mission off until a cooler, less busy time. But not I, I set off without a second thought.

I headed north, at first, then west past the statue. This was a grassy affair and even though the glaring heat was sure to demand the most from me, the day couldn't have been more beautiful. The tourists seemed to stray no further than the edge of the paths, and that was great as far as this mouse was concerned. No need to confront the humans until it was necessary. I made a mental note to keep to grassland for as long as possible.

But before long this simple wish had been refused. The path circumnavigated the statue, and because I was inside this circle, I was trapped. This was as far from my home as I had ever been. Beyond here, all I knew was vague directions, based on vague rumours. The midday hour had brought peak numbers to the area and the path looked impenetrable.

This was only the first sign of tourists and I was at a loss! Barely half an hour and it seemed I was beaten. I sat down and opened my bag, went for a bit of wholegrain bread and started to ponder my predicament.

But no sooner had I placed a stray nut back in my mouth when I heard a strange rustle, followed by a sound which can only be described as a slurp, of sorts. I turned around to be faced by a rosy cheeked, drooling Hector.

"What's that, a erm, a nut is it?" he said.

"This thing in my mouth? I replied.

"Hmm, any more? More . . . nuts?" His words were obscured by immense quantities of saliva.

Unsurprisingly, it turned out that that Hector had been following me since home, under the impression that I was out looking for food.

"Hector, have you even been beyond the path?"

"Ah, yes many times," said Hector to my surprise. "Much to eat on the other side, much food."

I explained to him that I needed to get across the path and if he helped me I would make it "worth his while". This was all he needed, and with a quick "c'mon!" he bounded off around the statue. Without having gone far we came to a tunnel with water flowing through it. Hector led me into the tunnel and after some time in darkness we emerged back into the glare of the afternoon, in a grassy expanse. This area was far more grassy than where I lived, and this appealed to the mouse in me. As promised, I gave Hector some of my food. I asked him if he had been any further out than this, to which he replied that he had not. The wary look in his eyes as he said this told me that he didn't intend to, so I left him munching away, and continued my journey.

But before long I was faced with another obstacle, or rather, obstacles - tables, chairs, and people. People carelessly bumping into each other, dropping coins, dropping sandwiches; people knocking over furniture as they scrambled around performing the activity they refer to as 'lunchtime'. Baby's were screaming, children were laughing, men were taking photos of their girlfriends against the backdrop of a huge blue-green woman.

I'm going to slip through unnoticed.

I could see the fabled sign of enlightenment, containing the hitherto illusive name of our island. But no more! No more will the clouds of mystery rain ignorance drops upon me. No more will I be imprisoned behind the walls of my own inexperience! The time hath come for awakening!

But I had to get to the sign, it was facing the other way, and this meant getting past these people. I was getting restless.

I ran.

Women screamed, kids screamed, men repressed their screams. I just kept on running, ignoring the rising chaos which was growing around me. Tables were being knocked over as I flew under them, running under the patron's legs. I had never run so fast! The adrenaline surged as all hell broke loose in the cafe garden. I ignored my mousely instincts as barely touched baguettes landed to my left and right. Food was the last thing on my mind as I raced across the concrete.

Then I came to an abrupt halt. But it was not the kind of halt that a wall might cause, no, this halt had a much more gravity induced feel to it. I was surrounded by darkness, but this soon subsided and I was again in harsh sunlight. Only now I could not move. I lay on my side, experiencing what seemed like emense pain, all over. And again, darkness crashed down on me, accompanied by a soundtrack of cracks.

The screaming had stopped, and I could hear various remarks of relief. The tourists were regaining their calm. As I looked straight out with my one working eye I saw a sign which read 'Liberty Island'.

Liberty. It was not a word I was familiar with.

END

That's not really the end, ...watch this space _____ eeeeee!

Liberty, noun. (pl. -ties) - bit 1

SOMETIMES, merely existing is not enough. It just simply isn't enough, and this is what I have found in my daily routine which, after giving myself a bit of time to actually sit back and look at it, is not all that it could be. What am I doing? I found myself asking, as I carelessly tucked into a bit of cheese that had been carelessly strewn on a nearby path by a careless tourist. And I failed to come up with a satisfying answer. This is what I do, isn't it, I scavenge the area for food disregarded by tourists, and only now have I come to realise the monotony of this way of life.

I rested my jaw and gazed across the harbour as I contemplated a day in the life of me, your humble narrator.

I wake up, usually alone, with a scrap of newsprint shielding me from the brisk morning. I find a shard of glass in which I can unearth some kind of reflection, and proceed to judge myself, to which a soundtrack of sighs accompanies.

Then I survey the surrounding area in search of food, and my lord is it scarce! I search high, I search low, I go to, I go fro, I look here, I look there, what to eat, I don't care. Suffice to say, I usually find something.

Then I read the lines under which I found my bed the previous night. I usually discard the New York Post and its lurid sensationalism, apart from the latest on the Knicks, for which the Post can't be beaten. On most days, the New York Times is the choice:

A spokesman for the New York Public Library said Mr. Ferriero was not available to comment this afternoon. Leaving his current position would mean an almost certain pay cut. In 2005, . . .

A tear in the paper often prevents further reading; alas, not much print is needed to cover a small being such as myself, and I rarely gain any substantial knowledge into any story. Still, it gives me something to do as I have breakfast.

From then on my day can be summed up in one word - food - or rather, the pursuit of food. This activity, combined with an appreciation of the view out there across the water to the unknown everything which lays beyond the island on which I live, is my life.

So, as I sat on the grey/white stone ridge one pleasant morn, my cheese momentarily put to one side, I took a little bit of stock. Beyond the grass lay the steep cliff falling down to the rocks which would disappear under the water, and then reappear. Cruise liners drifted past, led by tugboats, to drop off hundreds of people who will pass me by over the next few days.

Yes, I am proud of my home. But, I am careful not to show off. This is in part because of my humble nature, for we are a humble kind, and in part due to the fact that I'm sure I've noticed people avoiding me, maybe even repulsed by me. What am I, a rat? Most certainly not! I am, and I must compose myself for this proud moment - ahem - I am Gilbert, the Mouse. No need to bow, I'll just give you a few moments to take that in.

So, call me crazy, but I have detected the quite obvious stench of poison in the area. Can you believe it! How careless, I say. How obscure! Makes me wonder how welcome I am on this island I think of as my home.

And, while I'm complaining, I may as well voice my concern about the sanitary conditions of the area. Soon after the sun rises various maintenance people come out and all that is good in this area is taken away. Breadcrumbs - swept away, apple cores - swept away, dead seagull - it all goes. all to benefit tourists and bring in this cash, cash, cash that everyone thinks so highly of. All the while, the local residents, such as myself, who, I might add, were here first, have to live in completely unsatisfactory living conditions. Positively pristine, it is around here! I tell you, if one more litter bin appears in my neighbourhood I'm moving.

No, I don't mean that, that's too drastic, I take it back. For this is my home, and any mouse the world over would be envious of such an abode, of this I am convinced.

It was during one of these moments of reflection when I decided that maybe instead of following my nose, I'd will see where my intrigue leads. According to my sundial (fashioned out of a discarded paper plate and an ice cream cone) it was going on for 10:30 AM, and the place was starting to get busy.

I decided to enjoy a contemplative stroll around the neighbourhood and set off with a small bag made from cling film containing a few breadcrumbs. Before long I came across one of my neighbours, Hector. I wondered if he'd ever thought about his place in this world.

"Hey, Hect . . . "

"Seen any food? Im starving."

"Um. . . no. Hey, I was wondering what you thought about . . . "

"Sorry, gotta go find some food, " he said licking his lips, unable to keep still. He scurried off in the direction I had come from. You'd think he'd never eaten before in his life, he was so eager. For Hector, nothing was further from the truth.

I looked back at him as he waddled off across the grass, his tail leaping uncontrollably as his big rear end bounded from side to side. He could do with a diet, I thought. There's a bit of cucumber back there, he's just going to ignore it, never satisfied with anything less than a bucket of chicken. I continued onwards.

As I rounded the corner I realised I was close to another neighbour's home. I wandered in to find Arthur nibbling on a biscuit. Food does seem to be of overwhelming concern to us, I thought.

"Hello!" said Arthur, upon noticing my arrival.

"Hi, Arthur," I replied. "How are you?"

"Quite well, good friend, quite well. The Knick's are up, I see."

"Indeed they are," I said, being reminded of that other primal concern we share, maybe it's not all food.

"Arthur, have you ever thought about the meaning of life?"

"Oh Gilbert, you and your needless pondering." Arthur replied with a shake of the head. "What is it this time? Did a baby point and laugh at you? Did a bigger mouse steal a chicken nugget from you? You need more productive ways of dealing with these little, um . . . happenings than to keep coming round here questioning the meaning of life." He chuckled to himself and I rolled my eyes; Arthur was always like this. He liked to think himself wise, and was always happy to attempt to put someone in their place, albeit without the slightest hint of disdain, never patronising. For him, in my opinion, it was a defence mechanism.

Arthur had always led a somewhat sheltered life. Neither of us have been further our own neighbourhood, but Arthur has never been further than 5 feet from his 'front door' (no more than a small rock). Whenever I would broach the subject of travelling further afield he'd defend his reluctance with phrases like "Pah! Utter tosh. I have everything I need right here, no need to wander afar." This overtly self-assured declaration only brings to light the obviousness of the real answer, that he is afraid.

"No, Arthur," I continued. "I was just thinking about how we live so instinctively, you know? We only really think about food, there must be something more."

"Living in a dreamworld, you are, Gilbert," said Arthur. "Come on, have some of this biscuit."

"That's exactly what I mean! All that matters now is that biscuit, and I'm strangely compelled to accept your delightful offer, thank you."

After I had succumbed to the lure of that fine biscuit, I got back to the issue at hand. I asked Arthur whether he knew the name of the island we lived on. No, he replied, neither is it of concern to me. Well, I'm going to find out, I told him. Round the other side of the island is a sign, near where the boats came in, and thats where I am going today.

"But you can't!" Arthur was horrified. "The tourists! There's tourists!"

"I know," I replied with a nod, intending to come across all heroic and brave.

"You're a fool, Gilbert, a fool!"

Gems Splattered

An ode to ye. Ye whoeth spout bullshit whilst a passing notepad passes not so passively, Ye whoeth in ever allusive shame let thy's tounge remain freed from thy's brain. Ye whoeth is everyone, without restriction.

"Fall down a big hole"

"Are you going to meet the teacher tonight?"

"I dont work here"

"You ain't got hardly any rizlas have you?"

"Did I do that?"

"Yes, I'll certainly need the hardback one."

"Put it in the fridge when you get home."

"Richard 323, Richard 333."

Presents

i don't have any presence,

i don't have any presents,

i don't have any presence,

i don't have any presents,

if I had presence,

i would get presents,

but i don't have any presence,

so i dont get presents,

so i don't have any presents.

id ont have anypreence

i dont have sny presents

i dot hve any presence

i dont have anypresents

i wanr presence

i want [resents

i want presents

i want prstntes

i wat prsece

i want presence.

Of Chief Concern to Fyodor.

All the room was silent.

And then.

"Why isn't he reading me?" said a frustrated voice which emanated from the Dostoevsky novel sitting on the bed.

More silence.

"Its 10:30 in the morning!" the voice continued, somewhat panic-stricken. "The time for fine literature is upon us! Let us read, read I say!"

An impatient sigh came from the other side of the bedroom.

"I utterly fail to understand it," the hefty novel carried on. "He reads a chapter every morning. It really is quite despairing."

"He was out all night," observed the cheap lamp in the corner in a gossip-soaked tone of smugness.

"How do you know?" replied the book.

"He's got a girlfriend," the lamp added.

More silence swept the room, carrying an air of contemplation.

"Preposterous," said the book, dismissively, and went on to mumble something which was inaudible.

"Its true," said the lamp, revealing yet more patronising smugness.

"Who cares?" said the pillow. "Makes a nice change, says I."

"That's only 'cause you hate being crushed!" teased the bedside table.

"Can you blame me?" replied the pillow.

"Well, I have an interest in the well-being of this young man, nay, a responsibility!" the Dostoevsky remarked. And in an anguished tone: "But, oh me! He's given up, already! One hundred and ten pages in. Heedlessly neglected once again."

Almost a minute went by before the clock made a contribution, with all the good intentions of an old friend:

"Come on, book, you haven't been neglected, he'll read you when he gets back. He's got a girlfriend, you know what its like."

"Are we talking about the same person?!" replied the book, defiantly. "I tell you, my ticking friend, he has NOT got a girlfriend. It is not within his capabilities."

"He has," said the all-knowing lamp.

"Pah!" retorted the novel, uncharacteristically lacking its erudite phraseology, as if too vexed to make the effort.

"Yeah, why do you think we've been washed recently?" said the sheets, rhetorically. A murmur of acceptance followed, echoed round the room by agreeable furniture. "And why do you think he's been playing more guitar?"

"This is true." said the guitar, "I am pretty impressive."

"Well he could impress her with his knowledge of Dostoevsky, no?"

"Oh shut up, book!" said the chair, "I've just about had enough of you rambling on."

"Yeah," chipped in the bookcase. "Spare a thought for all the books who aren't getting any attention." A chorus of grunts came from the abandoned books on the bookcase.

"He hasn't even read the back of me!" screamed the hysterical One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest.

"Ssssshhhh!" sssshed the lamp, and all was silent again.

A young man came though the door and flung his keys on the bed. His hair was a mess.

ssspplltrd gems...

another collection of (in)consequential utterances

"Fuck off! Stop ringing me all the fucking time! I'll ring you, alright?! Fuck off!"

"thats far enough!"

"You're a wierd one."

"It was usually when one team was being absolutely battered by the other team."

"just ripped the head off a bat."

"Oi, fatty! Go on a diet!"

splattered gems...

more exquisite semi-sentences caught in the frail net of an open ear

"its rubbish isnt it really."

"its hard to explain, but because i've got more..."

"where's my Spongebob?"

"I wouldnt mind if it was 6, 6:30."

"The problem with London is that you feel self-conscious about shopping."

"There might be a big queue anyway"

"All I know is that in devon there are no roads."

"I just cant be arsed to go up on the escalator."

"to increase record sales, ey?"

Dishes

*note*

to every girl i've ever had the misfortune of knowing

(kidding)

*note over*

Dishes.

dishes dishes dishes,

an endless supply,

dishes dishes dishes,

you wash and then you dry,

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

dishes

hoover hoover hoover,

sucking up the dust,

hoover hoover hoover,

hoovering's a must

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

hoover

rubbish rubbish rubbish

taking out the trash,

rubbish rubbish rubbish

it builds up in a flash

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

rubbish

laundry laundry laundry,

spinning round and round,

laundry, laundry laundry,

the whirry, soapy sound,

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

laundry

dusting dusting dusting,

the tables and the chairs,

dusting dusting dusting,

dust gets everywhere,

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

dusting

shopping shopping shopping,

walking round the aisles,

shopping shopping shopping,

the queues go for miles

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

shopping

babies babies babies

ugly little brutes

babies babies babies

ugly ugly ugly

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

babies?

D. I. Y.

putting up a shelf

D. I .Y

its not going to stay up

a woman's work is never done,

a woman's scorn is not much fun,

D. ishes

other things and the search for life. final pt.

"We can't all have the same T-shirt," says Lee. Naomi Laughs.

"What about scarves?" asks Paul. I look in the mirror at my scarf. I want to tell Paul that I, too, have a scarf, but the words won't come out. My mouth is preoccupied with pushing my top front teeth against the bottom ones. My teeth are becoming looser, but all I can do is keep grinding them, almost checking to see how loose they have become. Very loose, it appears. They've started falling out and are filling my mouth and however much I spit them out, my mouth remains full. I want to say to my friends that I need to go to a dentist, but I can't speak. Actually, the whole ordeal is causing some embarrassment.

I go through the hole in the wall into my garden, where my treehouse is. There are wooden slats nailed into the tree to help me get up there, but I keep slipping when I try.

My dad's mowing the lawn.

My dad's mowing the lawn?

Wait a sec. . . My dad has a patio; no mowing required. And I'm dreaming, aren't I. Ah, that's good, I don't have to worry about my teeth. I decide to fly up to my treehouse, where I find that book! There I was looking for it in libraries like an idiot, when all the while it was in a tree, in my subconscious. Or had I found it in a library? I can't seem to locate the memory.

I look out but can't seem to see very far. The clouds are smothering the landscape. I float out of my tree, over the fence and into the road. A car comes towards me at some pace, but I mock it as it approaches - I am dreaming and I will merely rise above you before we collide. It's getting kind of close actually. I start to float above the ground but unfortunately land on the car bonnet and roll up it towards the windscreen.

Bollocks! That wasn't supposed to happen. I dismount the car and push the driver out. Ah, lucid car theft. I drive off and pull up near a young lady by the side of the road and get out.

I'm awake. Reality seems far too real, it lacks the pleasant sheen that dreams possess. I am once again bound by physical laws and it's disappointing. It's mid-afternoon, the house is cold and my scarf is in the other room. My newfound book lies to the right of my pillow. I should start reading this book, I think. Later. There's plenty of time.

Instead, I try to recollect my dream. Something about a garden? And stealing a car? Oh yeah, teeth falling out; nothing unusual about that. But noticing that my dad was mowing the lawn in a garden that hadn't belonged to us for ten years had allowed me to realise that I was dreaming, before that I had just accepted that strange reality. I start to wonder whether I have actually woken up. . . .

Well, no effortless floating towards the ceiling is occurring, I think I'm awake. But I guess the difference between life and a dream, apart from those damn physical laws, is fairly minimal; they're both finite, arguably with no personal consequences, and nothing really means anything, I'd like to think, does it? It's a comforting thought, not a scary one, I reckon. My phone buzzes and Paul, reliable fellow that he is, has invited me to another 'end of day pint'. Of course, I seize the opportunity, happy in my new found knowledge that we're all pointless. This beer will taste extra sweet.

And it's something which I intend to bear in mind when dealing with the trivial difficulties of day to day life. At the end of the day, Lee, you're a dead man; so don't run around in a mess worrying about smiling at everyone or what to do with your hands, or why you haven't been given a flyer. Of all the insignificant bullshit we have to deal with, those things are the most absurd of the lot. And yet, my time is spent contemplating those very things. Scarf in place, I leave the house, a new air of positivity surrounding me.

I decide to take things as they come, and be happy with the little things; the book that I acquired with expert skill, the beer I'm about to have, the roads that I cross with supreme prowess. And at this moment, while incidentally tackling a particularly busy road, I realise that it's the same for everyone. Some tasks are big and some are small, and the size is subjective, but everyone is searching for something; be it a book, or love, or for my keys, or for the answers. What happens during that search is called life, and I've had it all along; it never needed finding.

This epiphany releases the ton of bricks resting on my shoulders, and I express this relief with a sigh, a good sigh. No longer will I be bound to my personality; it doesn't exist, it is created by other people. I am not Lee - inept student, I am Lee - insignificant person. Just like the others. I'm wiping the slate clean and preparing myself for a new day, where I forevermore hold my head high. I have almost convinced myself. The mind doesn't hear the word 'don't'!

I'm in the park, unsure whether I am successfully kidding myself or not. It's half past four and the sun is leaving. A squirrel runs up a nearby tree and I glance to the left at a point on the path where I saw Chloe one day as I was returning from hospital. I succumb to a wave of adrenaline.

---

over

other things and the search for life. pt.6

And as I'm reflecting on this, the following morning, I conclude that that was probably the highlight of the evening. Not long after we had left and gone home. We never saw the girls from the pub again.

Today, I will journey westwards, over the mountains and plains, to the city library. It's a half an hour walk. This book has evaded my attempts of obtaining it thus far, but today my determination has reached new levels. I will succeed in finding this book. Before leaving the house I find myself looking in the mirror, wondering if I can reduce my hostile appearance which by now I have convinced myself that I have.

I activate a big smile, which I can actually pull off quite easily, with little faking involved. I'm surprised at how genuine it looks at first., but it slowly changes, it disintegrates. My eyes stop smiling. Then my mouth changes shape, like it's struggling to find the smile it originally found so easily. I find myself staring at teeth; no emotion attached whatsoever, a void behind the eyes.

My fake smile reminds me of a big Donkey Rhubarb grinning bear. Well, if it's a choice between 'creepy huge grin' or 'bite your head off scowl', then I guess I'll go for the former. Smile at the strangers, everyone likes a happy student.

The walk to the library gives me plenty of opportunities to attempt this new approach towards interaction. First, before I've even exited my road, I see girl number one. She's quite far away so I have some time to prepare, but this turns out more a curse than a blessing. I now have too much time to think about what I have to do: when do I start my creepy smile? Do I just smile constantly until eye contact is established, or wait and start when she looks at me? That would mean activating that smile pretty quickly, and it takes a long time to get from position A: normal face, to position B: forced smile. By then she could have passed me by, walked to the other end of the road, and designed a new ecologically friendly mode of transport. And I'd be standing at the other end, grinning into empty space.

I've become sufficiently overwhelmed by the time we're at optimum distance and nothing happens, we walk past each other and go on with our lives.

As I walk I pass various places which haunt me with their connotations. They jump out of the shadows forcing unwanted memories to surface and I have to kick them out of my mind with a big mental shoe. I focus on the task at hand, no time for the past. The next important event is Girl 2, who I see a few roads down, near the church. This time it goes seamlessly. I manage to not over-think the situation and this brilliant, but probably creepy(?), smile emerges just as she looks towards me. Her response is of complete indifference, and I find this disheartening.

Why did she not smile back? Surely that's just polite. Was my smile too subtle and she hadn't noticed? Or, did she not have enough time in the moment when we were both in smiling range? Maybe, she's just like me, and she's also going over the situation in her head:

Should I have smiled back?

Theres just not enough time to respond; we're both travelling at, like, 3.5mph or something in opposite directions.

He was quite cute too. . . .

Hold on. Back to reality. Drifting in to an dangerous fantasy world there. Gotta keep standards and expectations low, it's the best way to avoid disappointment.

Occasionally the connotation ghosts which hover on street corners, reminding me of my past, come to life. This happens now; and who should it be? It's Chloe. It would seem that maybe I am still destined to randomly bump in to her on the street after all.

"Hey dude!" I exclaim, convincingly covering up my adrenaline laden symptoms, I think. It's fight or flight, but seriously, am I going to run away? No, it's too late for that, regrettably.

"Hey, Lee," she says, and we come to a stop.

She tells me about work. I tell her about university. It's all rather bland and meaningless.

"I'm going to the library. . . "

"I'm going to the train station. . . "

But another, unspoken, conversation is occurring, in body language and eye movements:

Her: Why do we have to keep bumping into each other like this?

Me: I know! No offence, but you're killing me!

Her: Sorry, but that's your fault, 'cause you're a bit of a loser, aren't you?

Me: Yeah, I should be walking you to the station, boyfriend style, shouldn't I?

Her: Can we go our separate ways now?

Me: Gladly.

"See you soon," she says, pleasantly.

"Yeah, have a nice holiday," I respond.

The library is of medium busyness and it's quite manageable. I home in on the area where my book should be. I can't remember the author's name, so I scan the shelves, head lopsided. And there it is! So, it turns out I am relying on public libraries more than the university library, and the significance of my tuition fees continues to baffle me.

But this is good; mission accomplished. I'm quite happy. The trick is, I conclude, to set yourself small tasks and bask in self-glorification when you achieve them.

I join the queue for the issue desk somewhat elated. There are five others awaiting 'library staff approval' before being allowed to leave; a process which consists of a stern judgement (based on the book(s) being borrowed), a barcode scan and return date stamp, and a wry eye. In front of me is an elderly chap who catches my eye as I join the queue.

"Hi," I say, with a genuine smile. He smiles in return. "Here we are," I continue with a contemplative sigh, " . . . in the queue."

The elderly chap gives a murmur of acknowledgement, and I decide to go on, " . . . funny isn't it? There's the six of us, all unified by the fact that we are the people in this queue, know what I mean? If nothing else, we have this in common. And our little group is part of a wider group - 'the queuers of the world!' All of us doing our bit to keep queuing alive and all of us hating every minute - united in our impatience for the people in front of us, united in our indifference towards the people behind."

"Ok mate, settle down," the chap says, and I hint a trace of impatience. This man, I am happy to realise, is immersed in the role of the 'queuer', and he's doing a sublime job. I don't talk to anyone else for the remainder of the proceedings.

I leave the library and walk home, stumbling across a man in the park sleeping half in and half out of a bush. Actually, is he sleeping? He looks quite lifeless. He must be sleeping. 'Drunk man falls asleep in bush' is a regular headline around here. One doesn't come across dead people in parks in real life, it just doesn't happen. On the back of this convincing argument I conclude that he is sleeping peacefully and checking on him would be rude and discourteous.

Down the road I round a corner to find some guy walking straight towards me, we are on course for collision, and action must be swift. I ease to the right but he mirrors the action. Our eyes lock. I dart to the left only to find he has done the same. We both laugh and somehow the third attempt allowed us to pass. All obstacles effectively overcome, I reach my house around the 1:30pm mark.