(no subject)
I take a few days' leave of the PC to go sate my senses, only to come back to find chaos has broken loose on my little blog - from Felix and his tales of napping on the kitchen floor in ski-pants, to Carl and his adult babygrows... I can't even be bothered trying to analyse it. I like to make eccentrics and all their eccentricities welcome here on my blog.
I've had an interesting past week or so. A week or so ago, I found out that the guy who sings opera on Buchanan Street fancies the crap out of me. He was actively hinting at it, and I was picking up on it, but said in a don't-be-so-ridiculous kind of tone: "Do you fancy me?"
To which the response came: "Incredibly so."
At which point dread swept over me. I hate being the object of unrequited love. It ruins good friendships, makes me feel hopelessly guilty and gives me pounding migraines whenever engaging my suitor in conversation. It wasn't especially helpful that he was talking of suicide not long before this revelation and had said: "If I killed myself, how would you know...?"
My Lord, My Lord - why have you forsaken me?
So after that day, I went home with a migraine, and tried not to mull over it too much. Two days of work then sapped any leftover mulling out of my brain and it was only on the day of the lunar eclipse that I was cycling up Buchanan Street and he wasn't anywhere to be seen that it started to play on my mind again. Thankfully I passed down the street again later that night and lo he was there; he was talking to some people and started behaving like a excited 12-year-old as soon as he spotted me. I spoke to him briefly, gave him a friendly hug, and walked an Italian lady to the pub she was asking for directions for; she told me about the impending lunar eclipse before I bade her arrivaderci, and I set off on another long walk.
This walk was rudely interrupted by a bohemian looking young man whose eyes stepped right into my line of vision. I was in my stupid child-like staring mode and didn't do the whole avert-gaze-and-walk-on procedure. He initiated conversation and I felt that this would be another of those scenarios where I wouldn't get rid of the irritating bastard, short of death, for at least another half hour. Many a time on a bus I've been tempted to stand up, while the bus is in motion, state "I think this is my stop," and leap out of the emergency exit.
But this time it was different. He wasn't an irritating bastard. He was a nice fellow, and to make matters better, we got to stop and point and laugh at one of the most bizarre things I've seen in my life yet: I christen them "porta-urinals". Plastic, very public square stands split into four separate urinals, all lined up along a small stretch of Sauchiehall Street. As a device for cutting down on public urination, I think they'd be a damn sight more successful planted somewhere more private, like a dark corner or an alleyway or something. I just don't know...
So anyway, we started walking and talking about a load of crap, when I finally spotted the moon. It was so fucking gorgeous that I just stood there in the middle of the road gazing up it, while saying: "I wish I had my bloody camera!"
At this point Jac sent me a text message asking me when the lunar eclipse was, and I replied simply: "Look up." And the guy told me that he had a nice camera in the house if I wanted to use it. Yes please.
And so it was that I ended up in this guy's strange accommodation. It was like a small hostel. A big house split into a few bedsits, with a communal kitchen. I don't know why, but I loved the idea. I asked him what he did for a living and he explained to me that he "changed jobs professionally". He worked a few months, then quit the job and lived on 60p a day till he began to look slightly emaciated, then worked a few months again. I loved the idea of that too. Sometimes it's nice to coast along on next to fuck all, giving your personality absolute free-rein in all aspects of life that don't cost money, and it can keep the brain buzzing along, working out new ways to scrape back another few pennies: using one less square of loo-roll every toilet visit, turning your underwear inside-out to get an extra day out of it, collecting rainwater for your daily ablutions...
... Of course, sometimes it's equally nice to go out, fuck the world and spend £100 on absolute novelty, or £2.59 on a cup of coffee, or £20 for an A4 sized sketch done by an absolute nobody of an artist or such like. I suppose the trick is in striking the correct balance.
So after that small introduction to his way of life I found myself on his roof, gazing at the sky. And this wasn't one of those swanky flat rooftop garden things that some of the more bourgeois Glasgow residents have. We had climbed out of his skylight window and were standing on your average sloped roof, about 3 metres from almost certain death. My palms were sweating slightly. I used to have strange nightmares about winding staircases without bannisters, and crossing over waterfalls in bridges without sides... there's something about the lack of some sort of barrier that scares the shit out of me. He took a photo.
To cut a long story short, I was still there in the morning. How bloody weird. Then I walked to Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and approached it from the "back", in respect of the architect who sadly topped himself after discovering that a main road was to be constructed at the back of his building, such that most visitors would not see his handiwork as he'd have liked them too. Why is it that all men who are outstanding in philosophy, poetry or the arts are melancholic?
I hadn't been to Kelvingrove since I was about 7, and I still recall my dad refusing to buy me a piece of caramel cake that day, not because he was tight, apparently, but because I'd just vomitted on the bus. I told him I felt fine, but he wouldn't hear it.
I spent ages quietly wandering the museum, making up for the fact that I'd made a bee-line for Christ of Saint John of the Cross the minute I walked in. It was, all in all, an enjoyable experience. The last time I had a day like that was when I dogged (skipped) college and spent the whole day wandering the necropolis and cathedral.
But now I have to go, because my dad's "tired" - and I have work tomorrow. All the best...
I've had an interesting past week or so. A week or so ago, I found out that the guy who sings opera on Buchanan Street fancies the crap out of me. He was actively hinting at it, and I was picking up on it, but said in a don't-be-so-ridiculous kind of tone: "Do you fancy me?"
To which the response came: "Incredibly so."
At which point dread swept over me. I hate being the object of unrequited love. It ruins good friendships, makes me feel hopelessly guilty and gives me pounding migraines whenever engaging my suitor in conversation. It wasn't especially helpful that he was talking of suicide not long before this revelation and had said: "If I killed myself, how would you know...?"
My Lord, My Lord - why have you forsaken me?
So after that day, I went home with a migraine, and tried not to mull over it too much. Two days of work then sapped any leftover mulling out of my brain and it was only on the day of the lunar eclipse that I was cycling up Buchanan Street and he wasn't anywhere to be seen that it started to play on my mind again. Thankfully I passed down the street again later that night and lo he was there; he was talking to some people and started behaving like a excited 12-year-old as soon as he spotted me. I spoke to him briefly, gave him a friendly hug, and walked an Italian lady to the pub she was asking for directions for; she told me about the impending lunar eclipse before I bade her arrivaderci, and I set off on another long walk.
This walk was rudely interrupted by a bohemian looking young man whose eyes stepped right into my line of vision. I was in my stupid child-like staring mode and didn't do the whole avert-gaze-and-walk-on procedure. He initiated conversation and I felt that this would be another of those scenarios where I wouldn't get rid of the irritating bastard, short of death, for at least another half hour. Many a time on a bus I've been tempted to stand up, while the bus is in motion, state "I think this is my stop," and leap out of the emergency exit.
But this time it was different. He wasn't an irritating bastard. He was a nice fellow, and to make matters better, we got to stop and point and laugh at one of the most bizarre things I've seen in my life yet: I christen them "porta-urinals". Plastic, very public square stands split into four separate urinals, all lined up along a small stretch of Sauchiehall Street. As a device for cutting down on public urination, I think they'd be a damn sight more successful planted somewhere more private, like a dark corner or an alleyway or something. I just don't know...
So anyway, we started walking and talking about a load of crap, when I finally spotted the moon. It was so fucking gorgeous that I just stood there in the middle of the road gazing up it, while saying: "I wish I had my bloody camera!"
At this point Jac sent me a text message asking me when the lunar eclipse was, and I replied simply: "Look up." And the guy told me that he had a nice camera in the house if I wanted to use it. Yes please.
And so it was that I ended up in this guy's strange accommodation. It was like a small hostel. A big house split into a few bedsits, with a communal kitchen. I don't know why, but I loved the idea. I asked him what he did for a living and he explained to me that he "changed jobs professionally". He worked a few months, then quit the job and lived on 60p a day till he began to look slightly emaciated, then worked a few months again. I loved the idea of that too. Sometimes it's nice to coast along on next to fuck all, giving your personality absolute free-rein in all aspects of life that don't cost money, and it can keep the brain buzzing along, working out new ways to scrape back another few pennies: using one less square of loo-roll every toilet visit, turning your underwear inside-out to get an extra day out of it, collecting rainwater for your daily ablutions...
... Of course, sometimes it's equally nice to go out, fuck the world and spend £100 on absolute novelty, or £2.59 on a cup of coffee, or £20 for an A4 sized sketch done by an absolute nobody of an artist or such like. I suppose the trick is in striking the correct balance.
So after that small introduction to his way of life I found myself on his roof, gazing at the sky. And this wasn't one of those swanky flat rooftop garden things that some of the more bourgeois Glasgow residents have. We had climbed out of his skylight window and were standing on your average sloped roof, about 3 metres from almost certain death. My palms were sweating slightly. I used to have strange nightmares about winding staircases without bannisters, and crossing over waterfalls in bridges without sides... there's something about the lack of some sort of barrier that scares the shit out of me. He took a photo.
To cut a long story short, I was still there in the morning. How bloody weird. Then I walked to Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, and approached it from the "back", in respect of the architect who sadly topped himself after discovering that a main road was to be constructed at the back of his building, such that most visitors would not see his handiwork as he'd have liked them too. Why is it that all men who are outstanding in philosophy, poetry or the arts are melancholic?
I hadn't been to Kelvingrove since I was about 7, and I still recall my dad refusing to buy me a piece of caramel cake that day, not because he was tight, apparently, but because I'd just vomitted on the bus. I told him I felt fine, but he wouldn't hear it.
I spent ages quietly wandering the museum, making up for the fact that I'd made a bee-line for Christ of Saint John of the Cross the minute I walked in. It was, all in all, an enjoyable experience. The last time I had a day like that was when I dogged (skipped) college and spent the whole day wandering the necropolis and cathedral.
But now I have to go, because my dad's "tired" - and I have work tomorrow. All the best...