It would blow your blob, dwelling on the matter – or non-matter, for that…
The roar of the funnelling canal or colon Aberhardt, Gaalem and Boeg float down, should cover this sort of babble. Boeg, the most high and mighty globous, plasma-dripping, blobbing ball of shit out of the three drifts higher in disapproval. In his coarse spherical form are all the forms of the world to be.
He had failed. They led him into the desert and pegged him out under the stars. A filthy white cloth was wound around his loins. In the heat of the day the cords tied to his wrists creaked as they shrank. By night, his ligaments contracted with cold. They left him on the desert floor for three days and three nights. He didn’t cry out and doubted if he would be better off if he did.
According to a story passed down from father to son in these parts, Gisborne’s first tailback was caused by the introduction of traffic lights. Long queues formed as locals drove down after tea to watch the lights switch from green to red to amber to green then red again and so on.
The second time I met British novelist Martin Amis I was on my knees under a table in The Elgin in Ladbroke Grove. Amis and a dark-haired woman were seated at the table.
Amis was writing his novel London Fields at the time. He trawled Notting Hill Gate‘s underbelly, its Portobello Road and Ladbroke Grove pubs, for material for his novel.
The Amis-like narrator of London Fields is Sam, one of three men murderee Nicola Six attracts to herself. The other two men are a toff and a toe-rag. Nicola Six attracts all three. She messes with their heads and precipitatesher end.
Forty-eight weeks of combination therapy with a less than 50 per cent chance of clearing my blood of a virus that was only identified in 1989. The 48 week (call it a year) treatment for hepatitis C involved weekly redipen injections of pegylated interferon and twice daily doses of ribavarin.
I saw the treatment as dues for the recreational use of intravenous products when I could have been building something good.
The leather shoes that turned out to be not-leather lasted less than a fortnight on Waiheke Island rock. The red-brown aggregate made from ground-up island and used for paving shredded the shoes’ not-durable soles.
There are no men’s shoe shops on the island; I was a step away from bootlessness – a human condition defined as useless, pointless or meaningless.
A step lower and strangeness creeps in, says existential philosopher Albert Camus. Read more