a beautiful revolution: blog

Everything is Possible

in 2005 I was depressed. Suicidal. I went to a therapist. I began writing a beautiful revolution.  In 2006 an agent approached me - then a publisher (John Murray) and my doodles became the book If You're Happy And You Know it. It was published during the week of my 40th birthday. I began doodling for BBC Ouch. 2007. I had finally found my place in this world. In 2008 I met my American publishers (Harper Perennial) in Soho. We sat for 2 hours in my favourite place in London Patisserie Valerie and planned how Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now would be. A memoir. A memoir.

My love life was still a complete disaster - going from one bad relationship to another. But then I met her. The girl on the internet. She lived in America. I went to see her. If I could write it down, it wouldn't come close to how she was. She came to England. In 2008 we sat in my bedroom and laid out every doodle, every word I had ever written on the floor and formed the narrative of my book Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now. June 2008 I went back to America with her. We got married. January 2009 my book Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now was published. In America. The place I now call home. I got a new agent. An American agent. Began to doodling for A Way To Garden. 3 months ago my wife and I bought our first home together. We adopted a dog. An unloved pit bull. We named her pickle. Last week my green card came through.  In 2007 I found my place in this world. In 2009 I found everything.

I used to think you needed to see it, to believe it.

But now I realize that to see it, you must first believe it.

Everything is possible. Everything is possible.

All my friends are astronauts

I go out looking for astronauts. I walk slow. You might say I walk too slow. But someone once said they'd marry me because of my lack of pace. I walk even slower - just to make sure. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. I make a wish and watch it swim like a fish into the dog eat dog sky.

I walk as slowly as I can. Avoiding the cracks. Never looking back. It is my only plan. It is my only care. Please don't stare. I know they're out there. Astronauts. Hovering. Out of sink. Above the horizon. Below the radar. Graceful. Shy. Disconnected. Watching the world from way up high.

All my friends are astronauts.

Possibility Girl

Everyone thinks Possibility Girl is possibly a genius. Any day now, they continually agree, Possibility Girl will make it big. Become a star. ‘You won’t forget us when you're famous, will you?’ they always say, as Possibility Girl begins yet another amazing project.

The only person, who doesn’t believe in Possibility Girl's possible genius, is Possibility Girl herself. She thinks they're being too kind. She isn’t gifted at all. She’s a fake genius, bluffing her way through life. She is convinced the moment she tries to actually achieve her full potential, she will fail, fall flat on her face, and the people that once admired her from afar, will admire her no more. And so Possibility Girl never actually achieves anything. She just sits on the edge of her possible glory and basks in the adulation of her potential.

Grave Girl

I found her sitting on a gravestone. She was talking to herself and cutting up handwritten letters with the biggest pair of scissors I had ever seen.

‘Hello’, I said.

‘Hello’, she smiled, nimbly snipping away.

‘Whom are you talking to?’

‘Everyone’ she smiled, waving her arms around the cemetery.

I smiled. ‘And why are you destroying those letters?’

‘I am not destroying them,’ she insisted, ‘I am just cutting all of the words out. I love words’

‘But why are you cutting all of the words out?’ I asked.

‘Because they are in the wrong order. And some of them,’ she theatrically sighed, ‘have been incorrectly spelt. What is your favourite word?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, wishing I could think of something magnificent. ‘I quite like oxymoron’.

‘Oh that’s a great word’ she laughed, ‘Isobella Monkton’s favourite word is cantankerous’.

‘Who is Isobella Monkton?’ I asked.

‘Isobella is over there,’ smiled the girl, gesturing towards a broken-nosed marble statue covered in ivy. ‘She sadly died in 1842’.

Whilst the girl was clearly loopy, I found her manner quite delightful, and so, not wishing to offend, I half-waved in Isobella’s direction and continued our conversation. ‘What is your favourite word?’

The girl carefully placed her giant scissors by her side and paused for a moment. ‘Oh I have so many favourites. It’s really hard to say, and it all depends upon my mood. Currently my favourite word is melancholy’.

‘Melancholy,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been melancholy all my life. In fact I was going to say melancholy but I thought you might be frightened by such a word and so I said oxymoron.

‘Why would I be frightened of the word melancholy?’ asked the girl, clearly perplexed.

‘Well,’ I tried to explain, ‘whenever you say words like that, people are a bit shocked. They don’t know what to do with themselves. The moment they hear such words they form an opinion of you – normally a misguided opinion of you. It’s like telling someone you once had the depressions, or your favourite pop group is The Smiths. The moment you say it, you can see their faces change. Fear consumes them and they either want to stop talking to you - pretend that you’re no longer there - or they want to run away’

‘I love The Smiths,’ cried the girl, laughing for the first time.

‘Me too,’ I gushed. ‘What’s your favourite Smith’s song?’

And then it happened. The most wonderful thing in the whole wide world happened. In a cemetery. The girl began to sing. ‘A dreaded sunny day, so I’ll meet you at the cemetery gates… Keats and Yeats are on your side…’ Oh it was wondrous. Truly wondrous. I wanted her to go on forever. I wanted her to never stop. But the girl said she had other things to do and she needed to be alone for a while because ‘cutting out words and putting them back in the right order takes a lot of concentration’. I said I understood. I would bother her no more. But I was devastated. Truly devastated. Would I ever see her again? Did she feel the ‘stuff in the air’? I didn’t even know her name? There was so much I should have said. So many things I wished I’d asked and now it was too late. I had missed my one and only chance.

I closed the cemetery gate, lit a cheap-cigarette and slowly made my way back home.

Tinfoil Crowns

I made this blog myself, and I've spent the last four years filling it with all the things that people told me were pointless. Like random thoughts about love and fear and hope and monsters and tinfoil crowns. The people tell me I am a complicated fool. They say I should stop this nonsense and spend my time thinking about more important things like money and home furnishings and business. But I refuse to listen to them. Nothing in the entire world is more important than the tinfoil crown she made me. Nothing.

I'm Spartacus

The saddest thing I ever saw
were once fearless astronauts
washed up on earth's shore

Nobody shouts I'm Spartacus anymore

12 days

The street light outside my window fli fli fli fli flickers and then connects filling the room with neon maybes and accidental babies and a girl in a spacesuit waiting at the airport with a suitcase full of letters she has been writing all of her life but no one on the planet seems able to understand even though she has written every single word in finest fluent english using both of her hands fli fli fli fli the street light disconnects again like the heartbeat of a dying man who lies there forever wondering if he has done enough said enough lived all that he can 12 more days and counting until he reaches the promised land fli fli fli fli the street light reconnects once more and the girl in the spacesuit sits down in the middle of the airport and slowly begins to unpack the contents of her suitcase carefully placing each page of her life in an illogical order that would make no sense to anyone not anyone except perhaps perhaps a dying man fli fli fli fli the streetlight disconnects again and the dying man begins to cry as each moment of his life is projected onto the ceiling above him in a bleached out glow that seems to calm like snow on a war zone fli fli fli fli the streetlight reconnects and the girl in the spacesuit is beginning to worry about the order in which she has placed the pages of her life because it's not quite right it's not quite right and she needs to get it right this time because she is utterly convinced that this is her final last chance and one misplaced page could ruin everything fli fli fli fli the streetlight disconnects once more and the dying man watches his mother and father dancing then crying then shouting then the bleached out show fades into a new scene and the ceiling now fills with a girl he once met 17 years ago in an almost forgotten 4am place and as he tries to remember the month she first appeared the girl smiles at him and begins to thank him for being the best friend she ever had and explains to him as he lies calmly in war zone snow how much his kindness had helped to make her a braver person than she ever thought she could be and and and the dying man smiles back at her and wishes her only well 12 more days and counting until he reaches the promised land fli fli fli fli the streetlight reconnects and the girl in the spacesuit sits silently looking at her life illogically scattered on the ground that's it she thinks that's all I can do an ice coffee on the seat beside her and a packet of potato chips in her hand 12 more days and counting until someone finally understands.

astronauts and aliens. a love story.

enter name:  astronaut1966

password  :   *****************

Before pressing the connect button below, please note that from this day forth your soul shall be judged entirely upon your thoughts - the words that you type. Every material thing that you own has no value here. Your job. Your Car. Your commercial empire is meaningless. You will begin [as will I] with nothing. ZERO. If you lie, I will know. If you exaggerate or try to impress, I will know. If you try to mislead me in any way, I will know. You must tell me the truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth. The games played by humans are forbidden here.

I am an alien girl. You are an astronaut boy. I wish to connect with you. Do you wish to connect with me? I understand if you don't.

>> connect <<

Daydreamer

I've been sitting on this wall all of my life, heart upon my sleeve, everything crossed, sandwiches unpacked, waiting for someone truly extraordinary to find me.

And the song on the radio sings... Daydreamer, sittin' on the seat, soaking up the sun...

I've been sitting in this kitchen all of my life, painting these pictures, writing these words, waiting for someone to make sense of it all.

And the song on the radio sings... He's a real lover, makin' up the past and feeling up his girl like he's never felt her figure before...

I've been lying on this couch all of my life, asking her questions, telling her secrets, knowing that one day it all will become clear.

And the song on the radio sings... A joy dropper, looks good when he walks, he is the subject of their talk...

I've been watching this world passing me by all of my life, believing that one day, someone will stop for a second and finally, finally be interested in the things I have to say.

And the song on the radio sings... He would be hard to chase, but good to catch...

I've spent all of my life sitting in parks, getting lost in the dark, always taking the wrong path, knowing that one day I will find my way home

And the song on the radio sings... and he could change the world with his hands behind his back...

Daydreamer by Adele

Whilst the butterflies dance

In a Gothic theme park, we sat for a while. Drinking whisky from the bottle, eating jellied-eel from the stream. Tongue tied and hazy, I started to dream. Unimpressed and eccentric, she ate from the stream. Then a butterfly passed, and she let out a gasp, and I could no longer tell, if my dream stood a chance.

In a Gothic theme park, we sat for a while. She watched butterflies dance, whilst I played Russian roulette with my heart. I loaded the gun, wrapped my finger around the trigger, took a deep breath, and left it all to chance. ‘Kiss me,’ I shouted. Oh how she laughed. Playing Russian roulette with my heart, whilst the butterflies dance.

In a Gothic theme park, we sat for a while. Drinking whisky from the bottle, waiting for my chance. But she has left me now, in this gothic theme park. Wishing we could start afresh, take back all I asked. Nothing ventured nothing gained but oh the pain. Playing Russian roulette with my heart, whilst the butterflies dance.

Stuff in the air

Met a girl I used to know. Have a drink. Stuff in the air. Ask about her current fortune. She shakes her head. I light a cigarette and remember the past. Passionate. Car crash. Hanging on for both our lives. How about you, she asks. I shake my head. Lonely, she sighs, licking her pink glistening lips with the tip of her tongue. I nod. Stuff in the air.

I know want she's thinking. But it wouldn't work. She likes bastards. I wouldn't stand a chance. Broken in two. Torn to pieces. Sip my drink. Contemplate sleeping around. Ignoring her needs. Treat em mean. Pretend I don't give a fuck. Spend the day impressing mates. Ignore the phone calls. I know how to do it - I just don't like the rules. She licks her lips once more. I smile. She smiles. Stuff in the air.

I watch her reminisce. I gave her stuff. Stuff the bastards could never give. I made her feel. Really feel. I noticed the tiniest things about her. I made her question the reason she sleeps with six-foot shaven-headed ice blocks that leave her crying on the floor. She smiles at me. I smile at her. Stuff in the air. Fucking hell.

Then it begins. Sucks me in. Pushes me away. She licks her lips more slowly this time. Allowing the wine to linger a little longer. Begins to play with the chain around her neck. Smiles. Doesn't say a word. Not a single word. Just leaves me hanging. Waiting. Wanting. Say something. Anything. Nothing. Not a single word. Then with one dismissive shake of the head, she pushes me away once more. Torn to pieces. Broken in two. She just laughs. She just laughs.    

Time to go. Just one more, she begs. Still playing with the possible maybes. Life. Politics. Teenage nightmares laying naked on the table. She is amazing. Fucking amazing. If only she knew. But she doesn't know. That's why she likes bastards. Treat em mean. Torn to pieces. Playing with fire. Stuff in the air. She smiles at me. I hold back the tears. Time to go. Time to go.

Idyllic

100 tears

It’s hard to say when the depression began. It just appeared one winter’s morning like an unexpected lunatic boarding your bus. And though you held your breath and tried not to stare as the lunatic made his way down the aisle with his carrier bags and Sony Walkman on full flipping blare, deep in your heart you just knew - you just knew - a matter of course, that he’d sit next to you. And so you hold on tightly and gasp for air, as you take the ride of your life with a grinning lunatic on the seat next to you.

An adventure both epic and pointless

I enter the newsagents and order my cheap-cigarettes. The shopkeeper smiles briefly at me, before giving me my change: one five-pound note and several coins. As I leave the shop, a huge gust of wind grabs the five-pound note from my hand and throws it into the air. I chase the five-pound note down the street. Eventually, it lands on the road. For fear of certain death, I do not rush out onto the road – instead, I wait until the hurtling cars have passed. 

After several anxious moments, it is safe for me to retrieve the five-pound note. I pick it up. It is very badly torn. And so, without a moments hesitation, I return to the newsagents and buy another packet of cheap-cigarettes. The shopkeeper is quite clearly perplexed by my actions – but I do not care – the five-pound note is clearly cursed and I do not wish to carry such karma in my pocket.

A Fatal Tale

'What are you doing?' asked the cat.

'I'm hiding,' said the partially blind mouse.

'What are you hiding from?' inquired the cat.

'Cats' whispered the mouse.

'But I'm a cat,' purred the cat.

'FUCK !' yelped the mouse.

'It's okay,' smiled the cat, 'I'm not very hungry at the moment'

But it was too late - the partially blind mouse, presuming the worst, had thrown himself from the tree and was now lying dead on the pavement below.

You are depressed, but remarkably dressed

I was devastated when they said my depression had lifted. What shall I do now, I wondered, when opportunity accosts me in the street?

Depression had always been my escape route. ‘I can’t do that’ I would mournfully sigh, reaching for my bucket of Prozac ‘I’m depressed’, and opportunity would bother me no more. But the depression has lifted. The ace up my sleeve has been ruthlessly removed. 

I am completely fucked.

Fear-less

‘I’m leaving’ said The Fear, dragging his suitcase into the hallway.

‘Does this mean I shall be fear-less?’ I asked.

‘Not quite’ said The Fear, ‘Apprehension has decided to stay’.

I smiled, wished The Fear well, and watched him nervously open my front door.

‘Maybe see you again’ he almost smiled, as he headed for the waiting taxi.

‘Maybe’ I said, not wishing to be rude. And then he was gone. I closed the door, took a deep breath, and smiled [apprehensively].

Safe

I want to buy a book - The Curse Of Lono - but before I buy it, I want to have a little look inside it. After all, it is £29.99 and a book of such costs needs more than a moments consideration. Unfortunately the book in question is sealed - wrapped in a cling-film safety-blanket.

If I had written this post three weeks ago I would have used it's cling-film safety-blanket as a metaphor for my own life. I would have expressed the frustration I feel towards the safeness of my own world - the way my blog, with it's one-trick-pony theme keeps me safe - keeps my stats steady and my virtual popularity undiminished. The way my internet world keeps me safe from the scary people that live outside my door. The way my weekly visits to the psychotherapist have become routine, comfortable, safe - 'I'm depressed ... I can't do that'. The way my main income comes from the pictures I sell via my picture libraries and so the drive and ambition needed to do 'real world' photography is un-required. I would have suggested that the books cling-film safety-blanket may keep it safe - may save it from undoable harm - but it also keeps it stuck in Waterstones prison. Three weeks ago, I would have suggested all of this - but it's not three weeks ago, it is today, and I no-longer write such things.

I want to buy a book -  but before I buy it, I want to have a little look inside.

Every breath you take.

I can sense him sitting there, in the corner of the room, smoking his Havana cigar, vigorously noting my every move in his moleskin pad. The way I smile. The way I almost allow the opinions that fill my head to scatter across a room full of strangers. The way I flirt, curtsey; humbly bow to anyone that looks me straight in the eye. The way my shyness covers the fear of contributing to the debate. The way he shakes his head as my confidence builds. The way he checks his watch the moment my heart begins to fall. The way he knows my deepest secrets - if I don't play your game - you can't beat me. If I don't raise my hand - you can't reject me. If I don't stand up - you won’t notice me. If I tell you I'm stupid - you'll never see how smart I sometimes think I am. He's always watching. Always. I hope he isn't watching me tomorrow ...

Utterly

I have no idea how it feels to be utterly loved.

I am the place a person falls to when life gets hard. I am the shoulder, the keeper of secrets, the kindness through their pain. I am the wisdom, the knowledge, the prophet when everything goes wrong.

I have no idea how it feels to be utterly loved.

Incubo duo

I know it isn't real. I know it's make believe. But everywhere I look, I can see it shimmering, glistening, like petrol in the sky.