been storms, wind shredding trees and scaffolding and tearing the sea up by the roots, and making a raw, savage mockery of the smug and easy glide of commerce, of commuting. (infrastructure? pah! pick yer way through this fancy iron tangle) i just go to and from work passing through the waterblasted city... i like living, besieged by the elements; it seems like there IS life and im o. k... i dont have to besiege myself. i went and visited my friend Steve in Brighton and recorded some music: acid-fried Chrome-disco, anyone? anyone? oh, fuck...
... briefly exempted from the work stupor, one of the Italian guys in Banqueting gave me a glass of wine when i went to make myself a coffee, one of those little touches of conviviality that remind you youre a human being, dammit....
ive been learning some wonderful Scots expressions. A whisky can be a wee goldie or a nippy sweetie. To be capernoited is to be irritably or peevishly drunk, to be blootered is to be totally pissed. Perjink is just so, spik and span. A stooshie is a fight or commotion... also, i was talking to a French friend last night, Magali, and she was trying to think of the term wild fowl and came up with savage chicken... ADs coming round for dinner tonight... Jayne and i went to an amazing exhibition at the Hayward Gallery, where i used to work. Its called Spectacular Bodies and examines the historical interaction between art and the study of anatomy. My favourite work was a piece of sculpture by Katherine Dowson, called Pia Mater. It was a giant spine made out of blown glass, backlit and suspended in a darkened stairwell. It was so simple and elegant, so pure and icily luminous, emanating little plashes of refracted light like the aurora borealis, a ghost cathedral, surrounded by calm, vanishing traces of stained glass. It was majestic.
... also in that exhibition i went to there was an installation which utilised footage of open-heart surgery. To be confronted with the actual organ, severed from hazy notions of its heroic indefatigability, was disturbing. In the flesh, exposed, its repulsive. It looks like a squirming, blind alien THING, mindlessly humping (sic). Fucking. Fucking what? Nothing. Just fucking. Gross.
Paris is ace. We both want to live there. An osmotic education in refinement; aperitif... digestif... of course, how else would one dine? Went to the Pompidou; personal highlights were: Joan Miros studies in blueness in a room w. a couple of Jackson Pollocks, Gerhard Richters room, Yves Klein, and a collection of Andre Bretons stuff (collections of insects, a stuffed Pekinese, photo of beautiful woman (beloved?), African fetishes etc.). o. k., more later.
Cameron Bain is a poet and guitar-worrier of the sublime who works at the Royal Automobile Club because they have a black marble bathroom and are unlikely to spring him for anything important. He thinks he lives in London in extenuating circumstances.