Journal 1

Today there was a Japanese giant on the metro. He wore Sumo-wrestler style dress, probably due to conventional clothing being a non-option because he was literally, no other word for it, a giant, biblically large, more than just a massive person, actually a gigantic being; another species, with knotted hair. He was lying down on the floor of an entire carriage with his knees bent as though practicing the semi supine posture of Alexander technique. The only other person in the carriage with him was an actress who I recognized from a "totally spellbinding" BBC series derived from an equivalent American counterpart. Moody, shaky-cam, suspense thriller kinda thing with moody hunks and beautiful femmes with airbrushed herpes, like something trying to display good production value and intelligent speech, with extra-noticeable camera angles and overtly fetishistic attention to spelling out the plot. The actress' name was Philomel; her eyes were like wells of languor and her breasts were lithe and fallow. She had the droll resolve of quiet megalomania and the neutral posture of an uninvited funeral guest. I recognized her because we'd been in a short film about vodka together but I had no idea she was in a relationship with a giant.

I was dressed in long ill-fitting black trousers, white shirt with no tie and I carried two eco friendly shopping bags. I'd been protesting against a military parade in the town square. Incensed to be confronted with a collective noun of tanks on my way home from the farm shop I took it upon myself to stand in front of the lead tank and berate the navigator. Wasn't he wildly off course? Did he really think that this blithering herd of metal scallywags belonged in the town square rather than literring some theatre of war zone on Wildfell moor? I actually climbed up on his turret and gave him a rollicking. He was only a slip of a lad. Aren't they all? Kill the young and let the rest of us get on with it. They're the cause of all this trouble.

Even though it was a warm summer day in the town, it was bitterly cold and wintery in the underground and it was even snowing in the third metro carriage. Fine light snow, not too heavy, but I wasn't really dressed for it. I left the giant and the film star to their own devises and changed to a warmer line where the carriage interiors were decorated with cherry blossom and sheepskin rugs; the walls were adorned with fine art work and champagne and snails were served to the elegantly disposed travelers. Every stop was the same stop, as though time didn't exist. We’d pull up to the platform’s maw and the doors swooshed open to an invasion of jackbooted militia women with cigars clenched 'tween their teeth and machine gun style bullet belts criss crossing their chests; these Boadicean warriors would run amok in their respective carriages and shoot out the lights screaming like furies. Just as suddenly they disembarked and the metro continued on its way; the only evidence of their having been amongst 'we the barely living' was the occasional chicken feather hanging in the air and a faint smell of jasmine. The next station (which was the same as the last) it would be the same story welded to a different soundtrack. Eventually the same stop became my stop and I managed to elbow my way through the gaggle of heinous guerrilla girls and hoss on up the escalator. It's always like that on the green line, I don't mind the aggro actually, although I take exceptional exception to the dreadful reek of jasmine which tends to makes me gip and retch like a cat with a fur ball.

When I got home I had a pillow fight with epilepsy and correlated the rust belt. I don't eat dog biscuits of course so had to forgo supper in lieu of an interpitude of dereliction. Then I abscinded myself of congrevity and dispatched the bloodwinks. It was rather unseemly in a way, nevertheless the frindle was potent and vindex combued us. So where's the harm? The giant was the last of the lost and the déjà massacres consecrated the Meta portals of Assaff in honour of the rank and file schizoid non-combatants drowning in the underground snowdrifts.

Tomorrow l'll pack sandwiches, (I keep meaning to plan ahead and put my jock up.) Would be nice to maybe eat them on the hotel roof whilst looking down at the tank parade. Next time perhaps. Tuna butties would be best but you can't really have them without vinegar and that makes the bread go soggy. That's what I had in my tank bags. Vinegar. Tulips. Spider food. Lint. And some eucalyptus for the cat. The 3^rd ring on the cooker is faulty and the wardrobe has gone wonky. Artificial intelligence is evil and will destroy life as we know it.

Not that we know much about life. 

09/02/18

Pic Irina Savina