Archie (Monologue)

March 31, 2011 at 10:39 pm (Art) (, , )

She left me for the luxury of no longer being near me.

We had embarked on a project. Think multimedia audio-tangible rearrangements of lexicon and concepts into a purely aesthetic composition, only to be taken abruptly into the realm of illusionistic dissonance by textual simulations of kinetic and/or artistic energy. It looked like a collage. But it was more, it was a piece. Let me explain. There were lines of prose-poetry on the original canvas, covered with newspaper clippings from the culture pullout from the Independent, which in turn were subjected to hours of Wagner as the ink dried, to absorb the tone. On top of these we wrote earlier drafts of the original prose-poetry and pasted pictures of European root vegetables.

Which was all very, very political. Now, let me explain us:

Something about seeing the workings of your own mind under someone else’s skull is deeply unattractive. Despite her wasp waist and expressive pale eyes, I could never stir up an ounce of feeling for her. In my pants. This physical blandness between us was so apparent that even Stephanie’s boyfriend had no issue with us sharing a room on numerous occasions. Or a bed, that time in the lake district. Not that she even mentioned that we ended up having to share a double, because it didn’t fucking matter. The closest we came to touching that night was my cold foot flumping onto the stubble of her thigh as I “starfished it”, which ended swiftly with a copy of “Hot White Andy” (which is great) colliding with my forehead, and “feet off, you skullfucker” colliding with my ears.

My creative infidelity to psychedelic drugs never bothered Steph. Not the actual use, at least, though idea that I was just playing a game of H.S.Thompson made her cringe. She caught me sobbing into a patent leather shoe once, wailing about how in the depths of it’s cheesy toe I had spied the universe, but turned away for a moment too long and lost it. She didn’t care, dilated to the circumference of her powder blue irises, she proceeded to simply caress the supple leather of the shoe and inform me that it didnt matter one jot, since these were obviously the happiest brogues in da woorrll wurld. She rubbed the shoe into her face. Right. Into. Her face. In a muggy horror I tried to pull it out.

I tried to write a song about that. And pasted it onto our piece, right over Steph’s favourite sweet potato, which was going too far.

There was a shoe in your face, my girl
a shoe in your face.
I pulled it, my girl,
girl, girl, girl, girl,
out of your face,
it left not a:
(oh ah!!) Trace
in that face which should have been covered with something nicer like
Mace Brace Chase Pace Case Tas(t)e. Vaginal Mucus.

She left because she couldn’t trust me any more. Trust my ideas, my direction. Suddenly our work was a tug-of-war between her tongue-in-cheek wit, and my tongue-down-throat nonsense. Go as saucy and psychoanalytic with that as you will. Half way through our project Steph pointed out that we hadn’t worked together for months, just bickered with the aid of several pads of paper, four notebooks, two laptops and a napkin. “You can’t write moronic shit about vaginal mucus and the iraq war and hope that it’ll come out profound. You can’t counterfeit that,” she whined.
“Well you can’t write like a boring cunt and hope to grab the interest of anyone who isn’t secretly dreaming of owning a Radio 4 hoodie”
She briskly informed  me that spunking punctuation at random into incessant ramblings was not interesting, it was an Avant Garde staple and Cummings had been doing that since 1928. And then I laughed cause she said cummings.  She blushed, and added that Radio Four was as amusing as it was informative, actually. Also, she could tell that for weeks I had secretly been pronouncing her name “Steff” with a double eff and it wasn’t funny, subtle or clever She said I was pretentious! Well!


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