Monthly Archives: August 2017

Excerpt from “Morrissey” by Morrissey ~~Sing~~

I respond to a card stuck on the wall at Virgin Records, and a paper trail leads me to Billy Duffy, a guitarist who lived with his mother in Wythenshawe. I no longer wanted to watch others do what I felt sure I could do so much better, so I present myself to Billy as ‘a singer’.
Could I now tell reality what to do? Should versus could? Would I continue to take no responsibility for my own life? Is the safe way the only way?
Billy was well turned out and had a voluptuously statuesque girlfriend named Karen Concannon. He was also an impressive guitarist, and he looked at me and listened to me with bemused interest. Inside my head a tape looped and looped itself around and around, and it repeatedly told me that I would not be good enough when the time came. It unfolds, and then it happens, and when it does, it seems like it had always been there … just waiting.
From Wythenshawe, back to Stretford, back to Wythenshawe, on dark nights of self-creation, each slab of construction happened quickly, although Billy and I will never be drunken co-confessors. Billy pulls in some random musicians, and I am there at his urging – suddenly in rehearsal rooms loaded with amps and wires and headphones, and the clock strikes.
Merging forces meet, and I, too deep to be rescued, sing. Against the command of everyone I had ever known, I sing!
My mouth meets the microphone and the tremolo quaver eats the room with acceptable pitch and … I am removed from the lifelong definition of others, and their opinions matter no more. I am singing the truth by myself, which might also be the truth of others … and give me a whole life … let the voice speak up for once and for all …
‘Make a joyful noise unto the Lord …’

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Excerpt from “Famous for 15 Minutes” by Ultra Violet ~~Dali~~

He says to me, “Let me draw you. Would you pose for me?” My clothes fall off. I recline in the warm mold of Venus. Dali approaches to rearrange my untamed hair. He gives me a quick kiss on my lips, briefly stinging my cheeks with the pomaded points of his stiff, upturned mustache.
Perched on the very edge of his chair, with one knee to the ground, he devours me with thunderous, fiery glances, and with the precision of a clockmaker – tic, tic, tic – he sketches me. A mirror on the back wall reflects our tableau vivant. He shows me the sketch. I admire the astonishing way, with a few strokes of an ordinary pencil, he has conveyed shadows, reflections of light, and has captured my whole personality. He says, “Born an impressionist, I refused my father’s advice to be taught how to draw.”
He slips to his knees at my side and says, “Jouons à nous toucher les langues. Let’s play tongue touching.” Under his spell, I let him again sting my cheeks as his beautifully curved lips meet mine. His tongue, tasting like jasmine, touches mine, sending me into a zone of bliss where flesh rejoices.
Mon amour,” he says, “bonjour.”

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Filed under Literature, Non-Fiction