Supporting Audio Candy:
Dolly Parton Nine To Five
The following piece of seemingly worthless drivel was spewed forth midway through the cold winter of discontent, on December 5th, 2013. I regularly revisit older works such as these and give them a fresh lick of paint as I’m all about the quality control. Originally I intended to trash this wayward piece, and will be ruthless if I see fit, but it is hard letting go of something scribed when my hinges were at their most compromised. However, for as much as it could be construed as the blathering of a madman, it is nothing if not sincere. I think it vital to remember where you come from, imperative that you know where you are presently, and critical that you have some vague idea of where you’re going and A Day in The Life is living proof of all three to me. Should you be looking for great science; then you may be found wanting. However, if a little irreverent fun is order of the day, then step on up Grueheads as I’m nothing if not ridiculous.
It is currently 5pm in the UK and my day is about to begin. After eleven hours out cold, I have finally shaken free from my slumber dazed and confused as per usual. Most regular folk are on their way home from a long day’s grind right now but not I. It’s become kind of the norm recently, my body clock is dreadfully out of sync and, the truth is, I would be awake 24/7 if it didn’t take such drastic action on my behalf. Mercifully it capitulates after around forty hours of sustained punishment and enters shutdown mode. I hear that seventy-two hours is all it takes to fear the reaper should you not get your head down so I count my sweet blessings for my jaded shell taking such a stand.
There are a number of positives to not conforming to regular existence, most critically the omission of daytime television. Since first picking up the Crimson Quill, TV has played a rather poor second fiddle to just about everything else in my life and I often go days at a time without so much as hitting its switch. This is in stark contrast to three years ago. If you’d have asked me then to name the first item I would pack for a desert island excursion then I would have had my flat screen in my backpack before you could utter the words “Look what I have created!” Besides the fact that I would have no mains supply, it isn’t the most savvy piece of inventory when facing a prolonged stint in the great outdoors but I’ve never really been what you would call a pragmatist. After witnessing Chuck’s heartbreak at being cast aside by ungrateful want away Wilson, it appears a grab-stick would be the most savvy suggestion. Television, on the other hand, is just so 1990.
Breakfast at dinner time is an intriguing proposition. While others sit scoffing their home-made lasagna I’m contemplating whether it’s too early for a bowl of frosted flakes. Sunlight has become a vague memory to me since the clocks went back in October; the precious nutrients it provides are lost on me as since I became one of the hairy palms brigade. I often wake up especially to howl at the moon from my boudoir window and contemplate a trip to our fine capital to terrorize some early morning commuters. By the time my dear mother scurries off for her bed rest, I’m usually getting peckish for a spot of light lunch to set me up for the afternoon ahead. It’s a peaceful time, I invariably grab supplies and lock myself away in the tool shed to begin to scribe my daily memoirs. I am at my most inspired at this juncture as I have successfully fled humanity, dodged the conversational bullet so to speak.
It’s rather nippy in the UK right now, has been for weeks now, so I do as the Alaskans do. My outfit comprises three long-sleeve sweaters, two coats, a hat, scarf, and fingerless mittens, as well as thermals to keep my lower body from crystallizing. Jack Frost can fuck right off as he ain’t nip, nip, nipping me. Actually he nips me relentlessly regardless of dense layers; I call it mother nature’s tax and pay it begrudgingly. Scant furnishings consist of an old alloy garden chair which has been promoted since my old trusty fold away seat folded up once and for all with me still inside it. You just can’t get decent office furniture these days. Alas no stationary available, instead there’s a strimmer, pair of rusted garden shears and two half-full tins of Matt emulsion. Occasionally I take a short trip back inside the house to warm my frozen digits and hydrate but such intermissions are decidedly brief and it isn’t long before I’m back out in the elements once more.
I attempt to keep my office ship-shape at the end of each shift, cleanliness is after all next to godliness, and I can’t yet afford a cleaner. There’s an old pull-cord light which gives me all the illumination I need to badger away unperturbed. I ordinarily put in a good twelve office hours each night before creeping back to the vaults to work from home until the Sandman claims me. Then I repeat the very same process the next day. Sounds like a meager existence right? Hell no it most certainly isn’t. You see, no matter how petulant the weather, regardless of any lack of amenities, and despite a slug dropping through the ceiling rafters onto my shoulder only last night, I love coming to work. My whole life right now is a busman’s holiday. I ghost from one place to the next, concealed behind multiple fabrics, while uttering barely a word to a solitary soul.
Sweeping away vomit has become an habitual exercise. The valve between my esophagus and my stomach is FUBAR and, instead of allowing digested food access, it now shoots a jet of acidic bile up towards my chest when I binge, and I’ve actually become rather partial to the old acrid doggie bag. As the saying goes, “an apple bi-quarterly keeps the doctor away”, and I live by this advice as I’m fully aware that I’m not growing any younger. Benjamin Button always seemed a little tragic to me. As pleasant as it may be to devolve over time; by the time you reach your twenties you’d be too old to appreciate it. “Coming down to the Laser Vortex to pull some shapes Keeper?” they would ask. “Not tonight guys, I’ve got a freshly baked meringue and cold ginger beer waiting for me” would be my pre-loaded retort as I slide my toes into the tepid foot spa and fire up my audio book of choice. I’m happier for nature to just take its cause.
Pixies Where is My Mind?
I think on the move as there’s no time for procrastination in my game. Occasionally, I ponder the density of glass or how many otters perish in the bleak midwinter. While this may seem wildly inconsequential, I find it all rather inspiring, as it leads me on all manner of crazy tangents and, I’m sure you’re all aware by now, that I adore deviating from the beaten track. Motivation comes from the most bizarre places and I much prefer this to setting out with a gilt-edged plan each day as the results are far more varied and interesting. Speaking of which, any budding scribes out there, whether fledgling or weathered veterans, I urge you to think of something right now. It can be anything your mind desires; whatever arrives first in those frontal lobes. Got it? Right, remember what it is but please do not reveal it to me. That’s for you, hold onto that word, allow it to gestate overnight, and work it into the next piece you scribe. I find this a rousing pastime as it keeps me on my toes and allows my prose to go to places I may never take it otherwise.
If you decided to partake in this exercise then fret not as I’m one step ahead and have already selected my chosen word. Peepers. Without a doubt the eyes are the ultimate prize to Keeper as they truly are the windows to the soul. You can tell a lot about a person by whether or not they can maintain eye contact during a conversation and I have done so unerringly since lowering my mask over the past few months. My current objective is to shoehorn in a poem about peepers before I wrap things up. I thrive on the challenge as you have to get yo’ kicks one way or another. Besides, what else am I going to do to fend off pneumonia? I’m practically street algae at this point, dormant on the sea bed, infrequently moving just to cop a feel of the next passing carp.
Some of my greatest highs come from my own lows and I find no one better to poke fun at than myself. It’s a freeing experience, ego schmego, what brazen poppycock that is. I’ve never evacuated my colon in my jockeys in a public place but, if I had, then y’all would be the first I’d tell. Ssh! Keep it to yourself alright? Once you stop wasting your life trying to prove yourself, you enable yourself to prove yourself. Confused? Good as that makes two of us. What I’m saying is, in effect, every last one of us farts, some more than others, but don’t fall for the old noise replication cover-up job and remember always…the bathtub tells no lies.
We all shit, and just because Katy Perry just looks so delightfully edible (like Zooey Deschanel’s candy-coated doppelgänger), that’s not to suggest that she skips on taking a dump once daily. There is no so thing as a rectal hall pass, I’m sure also that her excretions occasionally dunk sub-aqua before break off and therefore slide away inconspicuous. That way if she’s ever questioned, she can point them to her blank latrine and plead innocence, after the ripple effect subsides of course. Stop me please; I’ve got to reign it in now before the orderlies come with and lead me away for shock treatment. Anyhoots, I think that’s quite enough of me, so I shall now pass you over to the trusty hands of some more me. You see, I haven’t forgotten our wager. It’s time for some Keeper’s Peepers! I’m all set, stopwatches at the ready, and I’ll see you for debrief on the other side.
aka The Blind Sight Indisposition
I can’t see a thing as there is no light,
there’s no bloody left and there’s no bloody right,
yet I still come out swinging each time I fight,
with senses heightened by this lack of clear sight.
Should you pull a face, then I’ll likely discern it,
if you tap in a sequence, then I swear I shall learn it,
flick me the finger, and I’ll swiftly adjourn it,
as you still have nine others, and this doesn’t concern it.
Please don’t think me a joke as I’m really no parody,
never looking for sympathy or misplaced charity,
I’ll answer your questions if it gives you some clarity,
but don’t dare patronize me as I shall go Garrity.
As for disposition, I ask which disposition?
I may be shortsighted but I still have ambition,
there’s no on-off switch to Keeper’s transmission,
as the quill is my peepers and it’s somewhat efficient.
I’m calling it at 22.06 EST. That little after dinner mint took twenty-one minutes plus change to fashion. Nobody mentioned nil to mouth and it appears that, upon ingestion of Andy Warhol, I may have unwittingly allowed one of Eminem’s lightly-grilled calves to pass my lips. There’s that ego again, popping its unwelcome head up and straight between my iron sights. Time for a little self-effacing to even the score some methinks. Here goes…I may possibly have sniffed a pair of my school pal’s older sister’s panties at a sleepover once. It is also vaguely possible that I ran my tongue across the gusset and quite likely that I took them to bed with me and wore them ass-first across my face until sunrise. However, I do assure you that they didn’t return to her dresser crisper than before. Damn right I’m part deviant. Take that ego!
First impressions are vital so, if this is the starting point of your Grue pilgrimage then I apologize unreservedly. It’s not all turds and madness. Any more seasoned Grueheads among us will know of my verbal flatulence all too well and likely feel relieved that someone else out there also traveled back from a botched date crippled by pent-up gas which had been stored all evening. Just remember that our dates fart too once that moonlight serenade is over. As we kiss our doorstep goodbyes, and waddle away like mallards, our opposite numbers are reciting Beethoven’s fifth whilst dashing for the nearest latrine clutching their sphincters. There goes that tangent again, seriously, you really must stop me.
I am often mindful that anyone reading may consider me to be some sort of pretentious megalomaniac but, the truth is, it’s just a dash of hijinks on my part. After spending twenty plus years muzzled by society’s iron restraints, it’s time to just say it as I see it and hopefully a few funny bones will be tickled en route so we all win. That reminds me, recently I’ve been partial to weaving a brace of poems through my prose. So, as if by necromancy, I bid you adieu with another. What you got percolating Grueheads? Mine’s the word vole as I cannot help but love it. Vole.
You see it rolls off the tongue like Roseanne Barr on a bouncy castle. For added spice this vole is inclined to taking a load from fellow mound inhabitants of the same persuasion and you can consider this my ode to one of the finest movies of 2005 in my opinion. Now, I really must be going, as I’m late for my mid-afternoon dusk siesta.
Brokeback Mole Hill
It’s damn cold vole, we need shelter from this rain,
I’m feeling bold vole, time to trek some new terrain,
Can see you shiver, so there seems no harm in spooning,
no need to wither, should we choose some light exhuming.
Satisfaction, this vole offers guarantee,
when called to action, then never question my fatigue.
I’m a kind vole and gladly offer up my heat,
just keep in mind vole that I may just suck your teat.
Nothing kinky, you’ll feel loved as well as bedded,
See this winkey? Let me show you where it’s headed.
Feel you warming, see I told you it made sense,
One gentle warning, I’d advise that you don’t tense.
How’s that rectum? Do your cheeks feel like they chafe?
Better check them, don’t just leave it to blind faith.
The nights are long here and I’m tired of herding sheep,
and I belong here, six inches inside your keep.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)