Friday, 9 January 2009

Keen for it to end

I can't stop listening to the Eels. It is my newest obsession. I have long known about Hugh Everett's Many Worlds theory. I (sort of) came up with the same theory when I was 14 years old. Then I found out some other guy had come up with it fifty years ago, and with a lot more science stuff to back it up. No one even took him seriously, so I kept my own mouth shut and wrote a book about it instead, and later did an art project all about it.
Christmas day 2008, ten years after I first came across Hugh Everett and about seven years since I came across The Eels, I was told that Mr E is the son of Hugh Everett. I was also told that Hugh Everett died when Mark Everett was only 19. E found his father dead in bed. Then a while later his sister killed herself, then his mother died of cancer, and his cousin died some years later in the 9/11 plane crashes. Shit.

I am listening to Essential Eels Vol 1 over and over.
This music is so wonderful and inspiring. I wish so much that I could make something this good, this poetic. There is a crisp poetry to his lyrics.
Today I am not feeling very poetic. I am feeling vague and distant.

I found a beginning to a story I wrote a couple of months ago. I didn't get any further. I'm not sure there will ever be an ending, or a middle. Just a beginning. Here it is:

We were walking along a suburban street in a small town. The day was turning into night; golden fringes were absorbed by the encroaching muddy-blue of dusk. High-pitched squeals peeled into the air. Children were dressed in black and green, as ghosts or vampires. They ran from door to door, weaving across the street, spilling sweets from their sacks. We walked through it, our eyes fixed ahead. The moon was going to be full that night, but was not yet risen.

The suburbs turned abruptly into countryside. We slipped through the space between two red brick walls. There was a stile at the end of the corridor, we entered the field and stopped. The valley was dark grey-green with a weak-blue sky hanging above it. The trees and hedgerows were still and silent. Not even the nearby children’s voices broke the stillness of dusk.

We walked onwards. The grass was wet, cold and dewy but the black leather of our boots was too thick to let it in. In a few nights it would turn to frost and sparkle in the light of the cold moon.


Down by the donut prince
A fifteen year old boy lies on the sidewalk
With a bullet in his forehead
In a final act of indignity
The paramedics take off all his clothes
For the whole world to see
While they put him in the bag
Meanwhile an old couple argues inside the queen bee
The sick fluorescent light shimmering on their skin

-Mr E: Susan's House.

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