A cat called 'Moo'.

You and I on a big ol' boat

With a black and white sea-cat called 'Moo'.

You'll promise me things, you cannot deliver

My delicate, naive ingénue.

Whiskey and Wrath

His mother had stuck her head in the oven when he was just four years old. He often told me the story, told me he'd been playing with the family dog, Nanook, on the kitchen floor. The dog had been barking, and his mother had suggested they go outside to play, while she baked a buttercake. By the time he'd gotten bored and hungry, her lifeless body was draped delicately across the checkerboard linoleum of the kitchen floor. She was wearing a simple white dress, and her long, spidery legs were clad in black stockings, so that her form both contrasted and blended with the monochromatic tiles. He said he remembered being fascinated by her death, not afraid of it, and was always comforted by the smell of gas. Much in the same way that many have strong olfactory memories of their mother's perfumes, momentarily displaced to a woman's warm breast with a whiff of patchouli, he was very in-tune to gas leaks. He would close his eyes and inhale deeply, thinking of his mother and smiling. The events that followed over the next decade were by no means prosaic, but perhaps not surprising, considering what I have just told you. His father was a professor in Film at the local university, and had not wanted children. He had treated his son like an adult from the moment of his mother's death. They would watch classic cinema together until late into the evening, his father sipping on whiskey and wrath.

Desire Is Oft A Mercurial Mistress

Desire, by its very nature, is a volatile force. An intangible beast, quick to morph into that which feeds on the unobtainable, the rare, the unknown. It is perfectly unpredictable, and unpredictable in its perfection. It has the capacity only to digest the moment, while scraps of unrefined consequence are discarded in favour of the more ambrosial taste of instantaneous gratification.

Let Us Compare Mythologies

Today was my first day back at work since the floods. I spent hours wandering in the dark through the cadaverous body of what is normally the state's most prestigious theatre. It was very beautiful and sad and unforgettable. Every thing had been left as though the owners would return, though they never did. It was all very 'Titanic', with significantly less Celine Dion. My imagination is not suited to such a task, and the lonely ethereal ballet costumes started to move and dance in the eternal black all around me. Theatres have too much life and passion and colour to be left in darkness.

The Aqueous Cocoon

Sincerity and Violence.

The water is syrupy and warm. The tentative ripples tremble with strangled thoughts. Violent mushroom clouds of caerulean colour permeate the glassy surface. It rains and rains and rains.

All Pleasure is Just Relief

"All pleasure is just relief" - William Burroughs - 'Junky'.

These words have been floating through my mind for weeks. I'm not sure if I agree, or disagree - but it's a delicious, aesthetically perfect concept and I adore Mr Burroughs for thinking it. I had a wonderful moment last night with the cool breeze and light kiss of autumn rain blowing in through an open window which brought me great pleasure, although I'm not sure how it adheres to the second half of that statement. Perhaps it doesn't need to. A perfect moment is a perfect moment, and a perfect idea is a perfect idea. Pleasure is not always pleasure and relief is not always relief.