Friday, 22 July 2011

Lost aphorisms

Like an old-time hobo, I move on by staying in the home I take with me.

What you throw away in plastic bags is often more revealing than that which you keep hold of in plastic bags.

The road is hard, unless freshly laid, in which case, it is at first sticky underfoot, or wheel, and your passage is generally frowned upon by the authorities until officially opened.

That which lays before and behind you often depends on which way you are facing and, sometimes, it is the sky or the earth, depending on the time of day or your level of sobriety.

Jack Kerouac from Adam Leideker on Vimeo.

Friday, 8 July 2011


He had one thought: "I need filth". Rupert had been slapped awake with the unpleasant start of a man who'd been forcefully resuscitated against his will. No one, nothing, was there but the brutal light of day, penetrating every crack that wasn't held at bay by the curtains, impaling his head to the pillow with violent determination. He felt rough. Head spinning. Face baked in heat and light. Body sticky and aching beneath the covers. An ocean of vacant need. "I must service my need".

Propelled by base desire, he dragged himself from bed, and soon found himself outside, staggering in the tenacious heat of a boiling Sunday morning. The breathless air, swaying hopelessly to ward off the piercing orb, squinting eyes barely open, baseball cap pulled tight over scrunched hair, the last lines of defence.

An interminable walk - "dear god, walking" - the 100 yards to the newsagents - the headline news sandwich board planted outside the shop - a lousy speck invisible in this beating glare.

Ding, ding, the bell goes, as he steps heavily through the door and makes his way to the paper rack. Eyes grazing the shelves. But what's this? His favourite rag not in stock. Everything else but not this weekly number. How could this be? I'm not late. Where is it? He looks to the shop-keep. "Sorry mate, it’s not out, they've stopped it, not going to do it anymore."

Rupert felt faint; the bile was quick to surface: "What the bloody 'ell mate? What the bloody 'ell are you talking about? I want my bloody news!"

The shop-keep was unmoved: "Sorry mate, like I say, no news." There was an awkward pause. "No news is good news," He smiled jovially.

Rupert exploded: "Don't tell me no news is bloody good news, get on the phone, get your bloody delivery boy here with my copy of the NEWS OF THE WORLD NOW!"

The shop-keep didn't blink, "I'm sorry mate, I'm not joking, there's no NEWS OF THE WORLD. It's over. Didn't you hear? They put it out to pasture. Sent it packing..... all those allegations."

Another tense silence as Rupert eyed the man and went to begin ranting and raving again, before the shop-keep directed his gaze towards a paper whose title he hadn't seen before. Sunday Sunday. Rupert looked down. "What the fuck is that mate?!"

"It's the replacement. Take a look." Rupert went to start balling again, but the shop-keep interrupted gently. "Please...... have a look."

Incredulous, Rupert grabbed the red-top - he wasn't convinced by the front page: football. bums. pregnant. peado. murder - and thrust it open. P2 and 3. Breasts. Smiles. War. His temper calmed. He flicked to the editorial. Outrage. Hate. War. Pride. Paedos. But no breasts. Tasteful. He sighed gently.

Rupert's breathing slowed, easing to a gentle tempo. He held the paper and allowed himself to enjoy its weight, its feel; it sent a pleasant tingle through his hands, all the way to his spine, up and down and all over. As he fished out the shiny £1 coin to pay for his booty, he looked to the shop-keep, whose tiny, square, face mooned back at his and said softly, wistfully: "it tastes .... like the Sun."

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

Intermission: The Loser

Yes, loser, I'd say I'm comfortable - caveats at the ready - with that categorisation; obviously there's a broad spectrum of circumstance under which one could classify the condition of being a loser, for which the majority, or a substantial subset thereof, I do not under buckle - fall - easily and, of those which I do, I do not so do in general by de facto or default - can't - in the sense of someone totally incapable, paralysed by a certain absence, or lacking - be it of a mental or physical capacity - in the so-called application of natural aptitude, or for lack or wont of educational opportunity, or blight of gestation within a hostile environment or caste, class and creed, or, if one were so superstitious, by being cursed through circumstance of birth below an infelicitous alignment of constellations; indeed, I do not even necessarily fall below the banner of loser with equal measure to my fellow, fulfil all of the loosely associated set of criteria or descriptions said to define this particular example and/or that particular example of loser, rather, instead, I chose to actively identity myself with - though not in the existential sense of choice as the complete, comprehensive sum and total characterisation of my existence - as a someone who won't; not for the lack of trying in the face of, or exception by mere refusal to participate in the collective path trod by the Nietzschean herd, or even that narrower furrow ploughed by certain exclusive groups or elites propagated either by their own action or decree through their various organs of mass communication, or those more inner, select, closed groupings, limited either by strict circulation or mere accessibility to those adept at a professional or peer-reviewed idiom - but by resistance in a refusal to endorse, implicitly or explicitly, by participation or abstinence, in absence or presence, the role of loser-dressed-as-winner, when I am willing to win on my own as the loser.