|Birthday:||April 20th 1971|
|Height:||6' 2" (188 cm)|
|Smoking:||No. But not bothered by it|
|Likes:||Mirrors, hegdes, doors, banoffe pie, pronouns, music, film, books, tumble-weed, oversized shoes and and and the sound of a zipper opening on a tent... zzzzziiiiiip!|
| Blog||Authors/Profiles |
|Books:||The Name of the Rose, Foucaults Pendulum, The Shipping News, The Buddha of Suburbia, Sarah, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, Leviathan, Dopeland|
|Authors:||Umberto Eco, Ken Kesey, Hanif Kureishi, Peter Carey, John Birmingham|
|Colors:||Red and yellow and pink and green
Purple and orange and blue...|
You lay on the carpet of the casino floor and pretended to be a butterfly, your wings spread wide in lush reds, greens and blues. A little splattering of truth and beauty amongst the monstrous decor; between the lies and falsehood. And so you flew; in the watery-thin splendour of the hotel lobby, you lay on your front and spread your arms around the cotton butterfly, the woolly insect, as if it were trying to escape you, as if it were intent on flying away. You, the tall talking girl from south Yorkshire and I, the boy with pebbles in his mouth; difficult to speak, all nervous and...
I draw your face often.
On the backs of coasters, on the front of napkins left by time-short diners, the dandy revellers. On white boards with thick, whiffy markers. On the side of milk-cartons; on posters that never get posted. I draw your face often. And in my drawings you are happy; your teeth exposed to the air, for all to see. In my drawings your eyes are open. You see what I see and the way that I see it; though in our life together you rarely, if ever did. On such different tracks were we. At times our hands could barely touch, so far adrift we did journey. At times I could...
It is the door drawn in the breeze that ebbs on passage through. It is symbolic of the things I feel or want to feel, or feel I want. It is holding on and letting go. It is a beginning and an end, and yet in some way there is continuity; a semblance of self carried forward. Dragged from the relative equanimity of accord and thrust under that steely knife. It is the death of a butterfly and in that regard it is sad. It is not, and never was, the pyre of a phoenix, it is not the system of severance - the capital purge. It is simply a marker, a private and quiet stamp in time. A stone at which...