“It’s horrible what people do when they think that no-one’s looking. It’s perverted” says Lisa. She is talking about the circus elephant who was beaten with a metal bar by its trainer. I can’t stop thinking about what I get up to, alone, with baited breath, in the witching hours. Actually, I am usually hauling my slug like body out of bed the few feet it takes to reach our en suite toilet for a wee. And then back to bed to squeeze my legs down the bed past the dog’s slumbering mass. Perverted, huh.
Lisa’s fact of the week: “It’s terrible what used to happen to prostitutes. They’d get diseases that made their faces turn black and bits drop off. It didn’t stop the men calling though”.
I just heard a serial killer’s poem on the news:
“Poor old Melissa
Chopped her up in bits”
Apparently John Sweeney used to get stoned off his gourd and write poetry and paint pictures all about maiming his lovers. He called himself “a manimal – twisted, confused, and very dysfunctional”
“A search of premises connected to him yielded two sawn-off shotguns, a Luger pistol, a bamboo garrotte and a hoard of more than 300 vividly violent drawings and poems depicting bloody attacks on female victims and police.
One drawing entitled The Scalp Hunter showed a female skull hanging from a belt and an axe. A poem written on the back of a scratchcard read: “Poor old Melissa, chopped her up in bits, food to feed the fish, Amsterdam was the pits.” Removing correction fluid from a drawing, police revealed a gravestone with “RIP Melissa Halstod born 12th December 56. Died – “.
So what are we to make of the creative output of monsters? Hitler’s watercolours (and Prince Charles’s come to think of it); Charles Manson’s songs; Fred West’s tea cosies?
We can’t help thinking ‘the hand that did this did that‘ and imagining all kinds of bad shit. Vicarious living, that’s called. It’s what we do because life is too safe and controlled. We are bored of our creature comforts: secretly we want to pull the stuffing out of our leather sofas so the unfinished wood snarls at our thighs, we want to smash the TV and stick our shaky fists into the smouldering box. Well, I do anyway.
If that sounds like fun, may I recommend the Black Bloc, a jolly society for bored young people who want to smash the shops that decline their credit cards.
Lisa had a dream that Devo could talk. She said “Devo, what are you thinking?”
He cocked his head to one side and mimicked her back “Devo, what are you thinking?” in a freaky ‘I am your superior’ bitchy voice. She woke up with a cold sweat.
What would stick insects sound like if they could talk? Exactly like Woody Allen, I bet.
This 5 a day thing is getting me down. I’m so far behind, I will never catch up. It’s like failing a school test every day for the rest of your life. It eats away at my esteem. I feel like a fruit fool, a legume loser.
I am now on a diet. This means I eat fruit and watch my calories and you can find me looking miserably at cakes, and blanking chocolate bars as if I never knew them.
Low moments in my self image no. 1:
When Esther’s parents said I remind them of Frank in Some Mothers Do ‘Ave ‘Em. Here he is:
On top of this, my tutor suggested the other week that I look into ‘camp’.
I should have said “I do- Every time I look in the mirror, darling” and swished my minimal hair. I’m in good company…