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Sweat

  Sat 4th June 2016

Sparkle dust has many attractive qualities, but it doesn't always improve one's moral character. Reading back the unexpurgated version of my last post made me wince.

However, when I re-read something I've written off the cuff which holds an uncomfortable mirror up to my venality, I hope that I could deploy the unpleasantness of my reflection as a catalyst that might drag me a little closer to decency. I have a poor moral character, but I'm too lazy to do much to improve it. "I don't know how you get away with being you," Kim said once.

I'm into the second volume of Knausgård. Never has such a prolix novel sequence been so involving. Several bloggers must have written more than could be published in three thousand pages, but you wouldn't read them all in one go -- although certain ones, like Parma Violet Tea, must be read in their entirety in order to experience stupid moments when you almost feel in love with her appreciate the structure of its narrative; and others, like the incomparable On The Rocks, deserve to be read ab initio because it would be like putting the needle down in media res, and you wouldn't notice the literary device he uses to enchain his entries. And there are many "entries" there.

It's a sultry blog, drenched. He spends time in Africa, gets into fights in shanty bars in lawless cities in what I surmise might be Nigeria or Ivory Coast although I don't want to know where. Sex is an element in the chemistry of the air he breathes and he it uses to talk. It reminds me of my time in Funchal, in a contentedly sexless relationship with Kirsty that would never happen now.

I loved the humidity of Madeira, the camaraderie of the locals in our struggles up hills. "Pega o ferro!" ("use the handrail"), an elderly woman commanded me once, as I sweated up the long set of steps that was a shortcut to my flat. Here, in Preston, drinking again, spending the lodger's money, I like the runels of sweat in my skin creases, as warm as piss. I flap my shirt as I go to the bar, but it's just for show, my effort into making us all feel together.

Now, I want to fuck and fuck and fuck. I want to fuck Wendy. I want her to fuck me. I want to stroke my fingers into the rills of her sweat. I want the salt of her cunt. I want my eyes to sting with it, nuzzling my mouth into her. I want us to fuck when it's too hot to fuck. No, you can't take off your dress. None of this will happen, and I can't resign myself to anyone else.

Fuck it, let's send this post to her, see what happens.


Update, Sunday 10am. Wendy texts. "...and I love you too, somehow." What is going on?

2 comments

*I* don’t know how you get away with being you, either! Well said, Kim. I’m too high strung to live your lifestyle. It’s enviable.

You’re right about On The Rocks. What a pro. Where’d you find him? How come he doesn’t write more? And I thought you were bad.

You sure know how to sweet talk a girl. All of your legal troubles seem to have magically evaporate.

Wed 8th June 2016 @ 11:32
Comment from: [Member]

OTR does write – there was a bit of a hiatus but last entry was 30th May. I found him via The Overnight Editor (defunct) and I found him via Isabelle’s previous blog. She’s to be found at beside mill wood*. No, I don’t understand what the asterisk means either.

My legal troubles rumble on. Latest summons to the Magistrates Court arrived yesterday. It’s just a constant. Unless it escalates, it’s not very interesting to talk about.

Wed 8th June 2016 @ 12:43


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There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

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The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
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The Comfort of Strangers

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16.1.19: Further pruning

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