The Whip of Whimsy

O what a spur!
Let's say our favourite quotations are CARY GRANT or perhaps that our influences are Rilke AND Byron. Let's be facking random. Things that influence us are definitely not selected on the base of needing to promote yourself, though. Just a small side note. And if you do name them then they are doing a pretty poor job of influencing you.

(I'm saving that critique for some chump whose gig I will attend tonight. His "influences" on musical myspace read like the "Who's Who Of The Most Commonly Misused Geniuses By The Pseudo-Intellectual". A long title for a list, but then the list IS long. I intended to go dressed at Nietzsche to make him feel ridiculous, but as I can't find an ostentatious enough moustache I'm just going to have to go in some damnably ostentatious head attire.)

NB I wrote the above about 2 weeks ago and saved in draft, because, most of the time, I am confused. So the chump has been observed, mind-ridiculed, and I have now semi moved on. Although, upon occasion I do find myself wandering about my memory lane and chortling about it looking out of the bus windows. People tend to move away to a different seat when I start up that ol' mental deficiency. You know, SMILING. ON a BUS.

Anyway, the whip of whimsy. If I had to say what influenced me right now I would say probably Parsley, my basil plant on my kitchen window sill. He is one hideous plant, speckled with disease and discolouration, but he has a jungle going on in there. In his little universe/pot. And he made it all himself! That is truly inspiring. He is the plantification of a crack addict, and he has himself some mould, some animals (disgusting, but I allow them. They may provide amusement for Catty) and an odd kind of hateful symbiotic thing going on with Basil, the parsley plant who dwells next door to Parsley. Eventually they shall make the journey to the bin, but for now they are in their Eden on my window sill, blissfully unaware that the fact I can't use them in my culinary explorations will end them.

Sigh. I think I'm really roly-poling down the ladder of interest at an alarming rate here. Mostly I do have things to report, I just don't. I prefer sitting on the 134 and debating whether or not I kind of stabbed my whole romaticised notion of being 'a basement writer', a 'closet feeler', in the back by trying really hard recently to achieve a career in it/ go out there and trumpet it. I wanted desperately to be a broken, lonely, little Parsley, working in a shop and scribbling my poetry on ripped receipt paper stolen from the till.

How funny that you can just buy into adulthood like that- it's so easy to sell yourself these days; one padded CV, one clear goal, one splurge on some pleasing faux Cath Kidston coasters. Your mistake will manifest itself in conversations about some kak 'celebrity' such as Zac Affron or whoever,which earned me affected comments from Yellow, laden with the connotations that I have turned into something monstrous and superficial. ESPECIALLY when I threaten to pounce on the Friendly Fires with the intention of interviewing them for my newspaper The Sanctuary, as they were in the queue for a club behind us. Or Carl Barat, also recently spied. Monstrous definitely, but then why not believe in all that? It's not like there is anything else to believe in, and there is so much belief lying about that can be usurped by the asinine. Asinine is so hot right now.

So, basically, with a few ambitions I've really done that- within a week. But don't pretend you haven't noticed them around, the scenes that steer towards the tides that made me mad. I guess one problem is I just never saw the crime in how being can make you miss counting all the stars, while you have the chance. Your ONE CHANCE. I've spent myself occupied with the smaller picture.