Category: Uncategorized (Page 23 of 44)

These days I seem to be remembering my dreams more and more, whereas in the past I can barely remember being able to recall even the slightest detail about my night-time imaginings, I seem to remember something in great detail once or twice a week at the moment…

For example, last week I had a dream that I was at Eleanor’s grandparents’ bungalow in a little suburb of Harwich (I can’t remember what it’s called) when I saw a helicopter ditch in the shallows of the sea.  I rushed down to the beach to find that the pilot had clearly been able to effect a ‘soft” auto rotation landing and the aforementioned whirlybird was standing in about 3 feet of water with a rather shaken pilot sitting on the beach looking at his craft.  I wandered over to talk to him only to discover that it was in fact Marcus Brigstocke(sp?), at least in looks, but he had a non-descript voice and he kept going on and on about the water that had gotten onto his thigh-pad that had smudged his notes from the flight, as if the helicopter falling out of the sky was not actually that much of a problem.

Seriously, wtf?

Then last night I had a really odd dream about being asked to go and assist on a professional photoshoot, only to discover that the photographer I was going to be assisting was Philip Wilkinson – the chap behind Crowdstorm that I used to work for.  Now, please don’t misunderstand that this freaks me out in my waking / normal mode; Phil is a great guy and despite the fact that me working with him did not work out I have a ton of time for the guy, but he really is no photographer, you know?  In my dream he had this amazing state-of-the-art studio space in Hoxton, and a bundle of spiffy cameras and a bunch of great work (of his own) on the walls in the reception, and he was shooting for Chanel and YSL etc.  The shoot was a series of ‘editorial’ style shots for The Pussycat Dolls – I MEAN OMG!

I know that dreams are rarely any more mysterious than the unconscious sorting stuff out and filing thoughts and memories while we sleep, but these two really do stand out as weird…

“Where are they?”

“Er, third drawer down, I think. I bought them months ago to be romantic with Becca and then she left me before I got around to it.”

“D’ya think that might be why she left? Romantic is not something that you ‘get around to’ you know?”

Cheryl was right of course, but my lack of spontaneity was not the only thing wrong for Becca and I. When all was said and done I was not the right woman for her and we knew it, but the circumstances of our beginning and some great sex made letting go too terrible an option. Like any relationship the cost of ending it was added to, multiplied even by the way our families and friends would be affected, and then there were more mundane things, like our mortgage. The horrible truth that we were not a good fit was too much to contemplate until one day she snapped and just left.

Cheryl found and lit one of the candles, and we laughed together in the soft yellow light as we realised that with the power out we could not even make tea.

“I’m sorry Teri, I know you did try.”

The party was jumping for sure. The kitchen was full of people, and lo it was indee a party.

John leaned back on the kitchen unit and let himself listen to the converstaions around him…

“Well she really likes to suck cock, so I think you ought to be looking for friendship and no more.”

“What are you saying?

“Well you need to think about how much you will disappoint her with your distaste for blow-jobs.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well you don’t like to have your cock noshed on, and she likes to suck cock, so I think that you are better off not trying to date her, you know?”

Off to the side…

“No, man, Punk Rock is not the same as Punk! I know that it’s a fine distinction, but we need to clear this up, yeah. Punk Rock is the US evolution of Punk and gave us bands like the Ramones and all of the bands that came after…”

“Yeah, Felicity is unwell, and so I need you to recommend an alternative drummer apart from youself.”

“The figurine started to crumble, but as if by magic a handful of the good earth starts to hurt favourites.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“I’m kissing your thighs, touching you, I’m going to go down on you… Why? Am I doing something wrong?”

“Oh no, and the thought is very sweet, but look around you. I just dragged you out of a fire exit into an alley behind the club so that you could fuck my brains out, not so that we could have fantastically caring, mutual sex with orgasms and everyone’s needs met. I’m not looking for the big O, I just want your cock inside me. As soon as possible, yeah?”

This was not how it goes in the magazines and the books and the conversations with my unrepresentatively large coterie of female friends, but then Jess really isn’t like any of them anyway. On our fourth date she took me sky diving, without telling me until the door was opened on the plane. Still I would tandem with her again in a heartbeat.

I fumbled with my fly and after a couple of false starts got my cock out and slid it straight into her, effortlessly; she moaned with relief and looked right into my eyes.

“Now really fuck me!”

…and I __actually__ laughed out loud…

That's How I Roll...

I can tell you is that dying is the easy part. Don’t misunderstand me, pain is pain, and if you die in pain then clearly it won’t be ‘easy’, but it’s nothing to the pain of carrying on. Seeing the people that you left behind grieving, coping, healing and then moving on; that’s pain.

Imagine seeing your lover every day as their soul is held against the flame, week after week, and yet you cannot reach out to them and let them know that your connection to each other while no longer physical is no less powerful in death.

Now imagine that time passes, they heal, and though they never forget you, there comes a day when you watch them all day long and it becomes clear that they have not been troubled by their grief; that life carries on. Of course you want and indeed need them to be happy, but oh what a subtle edge to this particular turn of events because now they are turning away from their memories of you. Then one day they touch another the way they touched you. Imagine all that; dying is the easy part my friend.

What is there other than this? A fairly broad question I’ll allow, but one that merits thought nonetheless. Is there not a moment, or a day or a week in the life of every modern man and woman when they wonder if they were really brought into this life to eat frozen pizza, keep up the numbers using public transport and either watch or berate those that watch populist television? Sure there are the people who live unexamined lives, the people who do what they are told, without reflection or consideration, but if my life has taught me anything then those people are actually few and far between.

There’s not many who spend the majority of their time questioning their existence either. For most of us it is as Harry tells us, a fleeting thought that passes in and out of the transom of our minds, when we are confronted by death or injustice or just the horrifying spectacle of the dullness of our lives, from time to time. You want to know the secret that they will never tell you? Being dead does not change any of this.

If you get really close to the yellow lines painted in the gutter you can see the reflective flecks in the paint that make it light up at night. It never ceases to amaze me the way that the human mind can fill even the most abject moments with trivia as an attempt at distracting from the greater horror. Because I was face down in the gutter on Greek Street, in the pool of bright light from the headlights of Keiron’s Jag, with some nameless thug in his employ standing on my back when I registered the above fact about the yellow lines.

You may ask, quite rightly, what I had done to end up in this ignominious position? The truth of it is more than slightly fantastic, and while I would happily tell you the whole story I was only one small part of the events that led to this rather uncomfortable and potentially hazardous pass.

You don’t mind if I fill in with heresay and what I’ve been told, you say? Very well then. In order to explain I need to go back two weeks to a members club in Shoreditch called The Tobamorie.

There are new pictures in the “Kruger 2008” photoalbum, click here to see…

In case you want a sneak preview:

More to follow…

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EOT

“It all started to go wrong in Berlin. I was supposed to be shooting in the KitKatClub, and the agency had booked three local models who were going to be meeting me there. So I arrive at Tegel and there is a guy there with a board, you know it has ‘Freeland’ written on it with a Sharpie or somesuch, and so I lug my gear over to him and stick out my hand. He just smiles and beckons, doesn’t take my bags, heads off at speed towards the exit. I follow and find him standing by the open boot of a large silver Merc. I think “that’s more like it” and start to lift my camera bag into the boot.

I don’t even remember getting koshed one, but I must’ve been, ‘cos I woke up here, camera gear gone, clothes gone, but I’ve still got my wallet and my cell, even my passport. You’d think if it was a serious theft they would have taken the stuff that is easy to flog, right? I mean there’s not a lot of places you could get half the value of the gear that was in that case.”

“Stop talking Mr. Freeland. Your lies do not impress us.”