Nathan
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"Gone too long, Gone too long"
Male
26 years old
United Kingdom
Last Login:
7/5/2008
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http://www.myspace.com/fictionpoetics |
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Nathan's Interests
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| General | [He found "something ascetic" about the bingeing: "You don't eat or sleep. And you eventually arrive at a state of euphoria, of heightened awareness, something close to what you feel when you have climbed a mountain and found peace, or when you are writing."
Part of the attraction of binge-drinking is that during it you live entirely for the moment, with no thought to time or the future.
"It is a way of beating your terror of death."]
No one ever interviewed me, but i reckon if they did, i'd say something and then they'd they'd write something like that. | | Music |  | | Movies | Nobody knows when Steve and I got fired from the FACT Centre it wasn't for stealing - although we did steal - did many things which one might construe as stealing - we were taken up to the offices and shot. No they wouldn't do that. They asked us many questions: first, Steve who was still wearing the FACT Cafe tee-shirt - even though he'd been told to stay away for three days previous he hadn't been home - then me. Finally both of us together. "Who?" Trevor "Why?" We wannabedagedda "How many times?" Never. All of these questions we answered clearly and, as much as was feasible, honestly. Then we were shown video - digital, grainy, simple - similar to those often shown in the Fountain of Art and Creative Technologies only these were videos in which Steve and myself were the only unsuspecting stars going about our business as many will do in modern art - drinking and talking and slapping each other on the back - and the whole time the office was getting hotter and hotter but the video was pretty short and well shot and finally we were shown the door and someone came and chopped off our hands and put us back to work. Me and Steve went and got drunk which was difficult because although it's easy to lift up a glass you can't get the change out of your pockets with no hands and neither could we get the change out of the tills when we returned to work so we were 'let go until your hands grow back.' We have the last laugh though because Steve and I are both perfectly able bodied and you have no idea how long i have been lying and neither does the FACT centre.
| | Books | It really is something when you can feel superior having
not read a book. I have been struggling through Proust.
Ross has been struggling through Derida and Bertrand Russell
And I think it was Plato and Hume he told me about in The Dragon
But he was drunk and shortly we moved onto the effects of the experience
Of qualifying and re-qualifying what we say in order to make it
right on an insistent madness which sleeps within all of us even
Mike has been struggling through Freuds Forgetting
And Memory I dont think Mike will ever go mad.
I am talking about Dan Browns The Da Vinci Code
As it seems everyone is talking about Dan Browns
The Da Vinci Code it is as omnipotent as it is controvertial
as it is badly written oh, come on perhaps as
God himself (oh! dear) Yes, I have read it. Have you.
I have read it. Yes. I have read it.
They are talking like this in The Quarter, over their newspapers
and their stone-baked pizzas and glasses on spindles and tables
with their legs under them. They are speaking like this in Keiths
sitting like Scott Ramsey. They have this sad and underwhelming conversation
in The Dragon which is run by lesbians I know
this because I have been told so and everything I see there
but it is not just lesbians that feel bad about having read
The Da Vinci Code as indeed it is not just lesbians
that drink in The Dragon only the other day
Ross and I were getting drunk in there when Plato
Came up and an extremely beautiful woman walked in
With Dan Browns other novel under her arm next to her
Tit and put it on the bar the book I mean and ordered a whiskey
And ginger and Ross and I both thought the same thing
And smiled because nothing is wrong | | Heroes | sam spade, lew archer, phillip marlowe
Owain Glyndwr
and my dad.
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Nathan's Details
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| Status: | Single | | Hometown: | Liverpool | | Body type: | 0' 0" | | Zodiac Sign: | Leo |
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Nathan's Blurbs |
About me:
Father Owen was a gentle old man with a lump like an egg emerging from his forehead. He shook your hand took your hand in both of his, holding it with neither but softly with both so your whole body became a bird whose head has been covered. That is, you could not fly. As in: you might have flown you might fly. I wish I remembered the First Holy Communion, but I can only see the eggs we broke – he used to take kids in at all hours to teach them from his special books – and the boiled eggs he used to place before us when we got there. I never even once wondered why he fed us eggs until much later. He let us smash their heads in, while he carved his off neatly, with a precision boardering on faith. On Saturdays, me and my friend Rich would stay up all night talking about the alternatives to God – dinosaurs and golden eagles among them – and eating cheap Tescosown crisps so we were too tired to stay awake during his ceremonies. I remember thinking God was going to creep up on me while my eyes lolled up and down in their holes.
I’m right now trying to think about where it all went wrong between me and God, and I’m unable to fathom a single reason to think either way about him. I am ambivalent. My mind rolls in circles, so to speak. But I liked the way he held my hand between both of his palms as if I might fly away.
Is God?
As in: the words, Just Is, that fathers and mothers are so fond of using in the supermarkets these days? As in: It Just Is.
Has your mum ever lifted you off of the ground by the arm and slapped you on the bum with her spare hand? It Just Is! As if you can fly. The loss of control at that moment I think stays with you forever. It is at that moment you commence to stop screaming. Your face hurts from screaming and the back of your thighs sting hot and you have just been taken off the earth and spanked and put back before you can even notice. You look around with eyes like lakes. Again, your hand becomes like a bird’s head here, and your little wrist is a goose’s neck. You hang like a game-bird for a second, your eyes closed and the smell of meat from the market-stalls opens your legs. You cling violently to your mum’s leg the moment you hit the ground, as if you might fly away.
When we are much older, we take our own hand in the other. We are sitting on park-benches with a hard-boiled egg in our fist. Our fist is buried in our lap, and the open palm placed over it. The palm and fingers have become so brittle it is a webbed foot. The blue coat which stretches down over your knees flaps and clacks as if you would fly away, but the palm is completely still, and the fist under it has no need for its own weight. The fist is light and still as a fish-head, and the wind clacks on at the wooden bench as if it could tear it from the daisies. You have the image of the ostrich-head buried in the soil, and the image of the ducks feet working crazily under the reflection of water while it’s body glides away. Now you have the image of an ostrich-egg taking ten hours to boil. One image is as good as the other.
When I’m dead, I would like to be buried with one hand poking up above the ground. But for one hand and part of the lower arm, buried completely, or burned. Something for the ivy to grow on, and birds to weave nests through. Sit a big egg in it. Someone can sit sunglasses on the big egg stood in my palm at the funeral.
Almost every day I try to shake the hand that isn’t there of my housemate, who only has one hand.
Outside it looks like all the birds have descended into the belly of the clock-tower.
No matter how long I sit here thinking about the other ways one’s hands are held as we jink through life’s passages, there is always the potential for flying. As in: walking in the air. One image is as good as another, I suppose. In this case, we can have the image of the snowman. The image of the pirate-chef. The image of the hand plunged into boiling water. The image of The Scream by Munch. As in: his face is melting.
In the story of the golden egg, as told by Jack from Jack and The Beanstalk, as instigated by the sale of one cow, as aggravated by the giant, we have the goose who lays the golden egg. Now the goose cannot fly will not fly does not fly, or otherwise is not at any point in the story about to fly or flying or recovering from the fly. So how does she die?
Is she a chicken?
Where do hands come in?
you've been gone too long
Gone too long
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Who I'd like to meet:
illustrators, writers, artists, basically anyone who would have lived in Paris were they in their prime at the turn of the century but now probably live in Liverpool London Leeds or any of the major L's where we get up to much the same thing except the only real models tend to be the ones with winkley pricks who go into the art-schools and complain about the cold whereas in Paris at the turn of the century many models were celebraties wives of the rich painters and whores all of whom it would be preferable to meet than more musicians who are ok on the whole but when you wind up having to go and see bands that you don't even like just because you happen to have struck up a genuine freindship with one of the members you get to regreting things and the prevention is better than the cure in my opinion but that's just because i know a member of the prevention it completely gets to ruin your taste at the end of things at least with writers and illustrators you can refuse to look at their books and even artists you can go and hang out with them on their big night and not see any art at all which is terrible but everyone does it even the artists i think would rather have not spent all that time handing out invites and painting instead earned money in a more honest way and bought up all the wine and drunk it in their livingrooms with all the good people who have shown up and not have to ask them what they think or listen to what anyone thinks i am like these painters in many ways. I'll talk to anybody.
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