Pints with Paukl and Where’s Bren?

NMushrooms on the Hob, and the bacon’s cooking nicely. Has it really been two months?
Can I sift off here and enjoy the process? Michae> il seems to think it an excellent idea. What a day.

Attemnpt number one; “I borded the train at Heathrow for the last terminal before I was in the aireport lounge proper, pissing away twenty quid on just two drinks and a meal.
It was all I could do to stop myself walking out, so I tipped her and went off to the other bar with a grimace. I was trying to be on holiday but every fuckwit this side of the mIssIppi seemed to me to be out in force today. That idiot at the Bt Ticket office; and that dimwhitted cunt face saying, poe faced, he’d never heard of me.

Annoyance dialogues; and pulp fiction monologue, especially about the watch.

Brilliant dish. Mushroom soaked in bacon and pepper, garlic and butter, a pinch of salt.

What a load of questions!
Airport discos, and the arrival of de niro.
For me, Michelle, 7 what can I say?

Stretched and waiting; in between giving up and yet somehow continuing; if ever. Anyway, the prom was clear today. Azul all sorted; and who knows, maybe it will be sunny tomorrow. If I can just get round to eleven./ ten pm and watch these films; taking mind off. Thinking and feeling. Anything that helps my solar plexus of enmotion.


Emnotican.

The Temple Mount/ home to walining wall; where dome of Rock is, and the Alazor MoskComPlx. &thc. Destroyed twice; captured 44 times. All Jerusalem now; Ireland last night. Prime of Miss Jean, night before, and now teen girls in jumpers strip for a teacher waiting for inspiration.

Run on wavespells in What castle of Turning? Of Spirit.
Ah it feels good to type. 


Cream crackered. 

18 54 galactic overhead felt real heady. I’ve been enjoying something so subtle; each action. The Book. How to read that spengler? What to do about the notepads, more Paper; the price of the butter my drinking the cost of living the need for fun the necessity of discouse with people, the nature of poewtryh the call of Kerouac the fun in the poetry what I once crossed over into, Alfred Douglasd, and those brilliant letters.

Mrs Wilberforee, of 184 Witwatrsterrand Avenue, awoke to the phone ringing. It was half past eleven, and at forty eight was more than hungover from the night before. Her husband….

Meakin’s getting on my tits; said his neice. Jen’s been to Stoke on Trent; hooray. A big cheer up for the Afrikaaners as they swipe through Englands Batting last six. The roudyness of life.

Fun at the Ropyual. What a development since those times. How fantastic that that is the case. How extraordinary that it has been like it has been. Is my own tiredness wbbing at enthusiasm. I am not not enthused.
I can see god things.

I’d like tog et to the chase here; but its so slippy and elusive I wonder if Michael can will IF I Can more to the point! Whathere I can hold the Line.

Do I pay rent? Shall I quit? Is that it for me? I have had enough pof something, that is for sure; the way it is striking me is more serious than I have ever felt before. I would dearly love to carry on with the Hastingas Vertex because that was really going somewhere. And Yet: Hoiw it Wnet!