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We travel in our dreams, a
sensation of having to
be somewhere with no idea of
where or why or how.

Last night I found myself in a
concordance of
London rail termini, dragging
mismatched luggage,
uncertain, impelled, in a
queue for something I was
unsure about.

The bored ticket-office clerk
brightened when I asked for a train from
Los Angeles to Las Vegas–“Now
that’s more like it!” The ticket was long
like a letter and
flopped about as I wandered and
wondered what to do with it.

Friends I didn’t know
persuaded me to
sort my suitcases which were
full of someone else’s life:
unwashed, unfolded clothes,
bric-a-brac, old books,
one of which looked like it
should be meaningful.

Each case was barely
half-full, the contents must have
rattled round as I
rattled round empty stations
looking for something to
do with my ticket
looking for somewhere to leave
someone else’s luggage
looking for somewhere to leave


Fridayam's Blog

Wide shot, mid-shot, medium close-up,

close-up (CU for short),

BCU, FBCU (that’s

Fucking Big Close-Up. Ma’am),

Irish Salute (think

just the eyes),

macro (for flies’ eyes to see it),

Dutched, if I want it

at an angle,

Dollied, if I want it


Spanished, if I want it


DFI, if I have a

Different Fucking Idea,

and if I ask a spark why

a light’s not working, well

the fucking fucker’s

fucking fucked.

This is the language of my working day:

abstruse and vulgar and fizzing with that

evanescent poetry

of the workplace.

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Fridayam's Blog

You think—

if only my life was

replete with incident

like a novel, but then you

twist the kaleidoscope of

memory and all sorts of

events tumble out that

prickle your skin with

shame or flush you with

embarrassment or

stiffen or moisten you, but

they’re all just pieces of

coloured time and maybe

you can rearrange them into a

book, or pare them like a

bone or a pencil into a

poem, or perhaps you would

prefer one last twist to find a

better pattern or

smash it and sweep the

whole damned mess of

shards into the

oubliette of forgotten.

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Watching from the Window

I like to write stories sometimes.

Fridayam's Blog

As she shaved her husband kept

encouraging her to go further until her

lips were bare and her little

muff trim and tidy, then he

nixed her plain white underwear saying the

black would go down better, and as she dressed he

kept saying how beautiful she looked and how

proud he was and it helped

lighten the lead in her belly, the

dread of a first date, the

queasiness infidelity engendered,  and though he

told her he approved her

heart was still heavy as she

double-locked the door, blipped open the

little Mini she’d bought to replace the

car he’d died in and waved at the ghost

watching from the window, who

blew her a kiss which

encompassed their whole life together.

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Action at a Distance

Fridayam's Blog

There is acid in the night sometimes, the

casual remark from flying fingers that

hits somewhere unexpected and

hurts sharper than it should, but then

what is the point except

to prick?

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Odds and Ends

Fridayam's Blog

A few squiggles of paint make a

human being; and some

tattered, intertwined lives

cement themselves into a play;

fractured sounds somehow

coalesce between makers and listeners; spliced

celluloid conjures things that

never happened and a few

battered and boxed-about words can fill

souls with succour and

minds with questions.

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“Canto de Ossanha”

Fridayam's Blog

When he opened the door she was

surprised to hear the subtle rhythmic

bump of Bossa Nova and already heard the

sigh of her silky dress sliding off

so her instinct was

Vai! Vai! Vai! Vai!

but the hook of the music and the

smell of good food cooking and his

unhurried grace as he took her coat and

kissed her cheek made her

little voice say louder and louder

não vou, não vou, não vou.

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Most outside the Media think what a

mimsy world it must be, full of

hugs and kisses and cries of

“Darling!”, when in fact it is

brutal, our mouths full of

blood from biting our tongues,

fearful of being forever banished for the

wrong word, an inappropriate

image or just not suiting the

current corporate climate.

The Band Room, Pinewood Studios

Fridayam's Blog

In the shadow of the gargantuan stages,

I worked in one of those

fathomless spaces which seem to

sum up time and

seam it in its walls: where

big bands rehearsed for

big musicals; dancers

warmed up at now-rusty barres;

where the mechanics of my business exhausted

enthusiasm, energy, blood; where

despair sometimes stuck you to its

sweat-stained, tight-beamed floor; where

once an unknown man

hung himself from one of its

high substantial stanchions; where

sturdy security guards shiver on their

late rounds when the

memories drift down

like dust.

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Fridayam's Blog

Doing it for the first time I

realised how hard it is to be

sterile and how the

latex stops you feeling, unable to

judge the weight of touch or the

depth of feeling of the

person you’re probing, preparing,

caring for—caressing, for

want of a better word—

hoping that there will be

pleasure postponed from

temporary pain.

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