Thursday 24 April 2008

Notebook 061

It isn't exactly thought of as so, but the mannequin business isn't too bad off. A good model will last a couple of seasons or even years in the more commercial and watered down fashion outlets. Not all stores can afford to replace the three-hundred quid, twenty-five pound heavy, fibreglass models and even less give a shit-about what they do.
Let's take your bog standard middle aged women's fashion store. They will have already of spent a fair amount of wedge on refurbishing the building; stainless steel, white walls with vinyl graphics, down lighting, you know the sort of place. If they're trying to appeal to mums with fresh kids rather than stuffy middle-aged chick-less nest type mothers, there will probably be a recess filled with sweets at the till and a music booth with three annoyingly catchy pop shite wonders ready to burn into children's memory slots and latterly: their vocal chords.
Amongst all the hanging fashion shoot posters of diluted catwalk nobodies and catalogue models whored from glossy newsprint stock to optimistic Nora (most likely on the 'red week diet' at her economy value weight watchers called slim world or something equally as petting), stands silently and solemnly a bleach white family. Their perfect skin tone evenly glossed with a silk finish both absorbs and emits the windows spotlights. They stand with eyes wide open yet aren't looking anywhere near where we can see or even comprehend. Slopped onto these will be whatever child labour garments the offer-of-the-week-that's-not-too-cheap-else-you'll-think-we're-tacky execs allow the fashion college dropout leeches to regurgitate. A charming hearing-aid beige high waist trouser set with ornate floral pocket motifs maybe? A reminiscent college zero-fifty-six green and blue screen printed worn look hoody with trendy cordless hood toggles perhaps? Or possibly, somewhere, a brave young soul tries to tie a diving v-neck sequin marine green summer top with black pedal pushers and rugged jelly clog imitation slip-ons?
All of which are as comparable to dehumidifying the sweat stained air, taking and leaving the working class pit precipitation in a sty of incestuous rabid street dogs, then scraping up the lovely congealed mess, eating it, and subsequently vomiting or shit-spraying it all over the metre wide frosted glass space at the front of the store, which funnily enough hold clothes that are the optimal fashion statement in store and therefore never ever in stock should you wish to inflict such purchasing pain.
In short, mannequins rarely get used how they're intended but regularly and unnoticeably get used. It's because of THIS that my dad can afford our mortgage. His unfulfilled dummies, in turn paying his unfulfilled property lease accommodating his unfulfilled hollow life.
Until, of course, he killed himself and became famous.

Monday 7 April 2008

Notebook 060

i know i get confused between best friend and partner. you know that person that's supposed to be all these connations in movies and literature. i hate similies that mean an intersecting opposite i.e. bread and butter because for me, it's totally not that. It's more amalgamated. intertwined. indistinguishably separate. i think i'd like to say it's like a leaf; you pick it up, and it's one. there's just no denying it. but how it runs off two sides, mirroring but having their separate veins and tracks, it seems like two parts, but essentially and denotingly, it's one. split up, it'd just be half a leaf. sometimes there can be holes in one side though where one side hasn't been so strong or faltered. burnt out. eaten by bugs. the other side still lives because it's hanging on to the outlines of these missing parts making them not be totally missing by providing the chalk outline and pointing out that yeah, there is something actually missing there. it's not not there, it's gone. there's a difference. but it survives, and then at autumn it essentially dies. drops off the tree still holding onto the spaces it needs to be a whole. rots with the space until it becomes nothing and the space, becomes not a space anymore because it's not missing, it's just not there.

i want that.

the beauty of having a part taken away and not being there, but it is because you need it to be for you to be.
moonlight sonata was playing whilst i was typing that big monologue. i really enjoyed that moment even though it had a stark aftertaste.

Notebook 059 - Pillowcase

fucked by your head and left wet, fucked up and left dry

i ran inside your pillowcase,
sealed myself inside,
fresh, clean, sodden seams house thoughts you keep and hide.

you mind, you mind, you mind, i don't
you mind, you mind, you mind, bespoke
as tapestries for hair and skin
you wove me in.