| 003. bring out your dead! |
[ |
February 13th,
2012 8:44 pm
| ] |
[Even in the fullest grip of the magic that saturates London, Rainer is systematic. The Stone family, reunited this night around a table with Josephine at its head and Laurence caught in the abstraction of some typically occultist thought, is left in the warm memory of the family home as Rainer takes to the streets. He knows just where to go, and just where to stop: no need to grave-dig, to grip carcass close, nor for the open vein and the symbols scratched in dripping ochre. There is only the silently intoned spell, intent to meet and exceed an objective, and soon, the dead are walking the streets.
And he is systematic; academic, even. He records his best efforts with his brother's old camera. ( This one especially flatters his pride, not least because there is some passing resemblance that amuses Rainer, he of the pinched expression and hollow sense of humour.] )
|
|
|
| 002. all the noises of rowdy colour. |
[ |
December 4th,
2011 3:16 am
| ] |
[Not much of a journaler for all that writing makes up a good portion of his craft, Rainer's nigh on illegible script is a degree looser than the norm, ascenders containing a wobble here and there, descenders bleeding out just a bit longer than necessary. Not the product of a cramping hand, but that of someone who probably hasn't had a hot meal after spending however many hours outside in the cold.]
annual dusting of advice freely given (holiday spirit, ho ho, &c): people w. sensitivities ought not to be casually walking past places like the cross bones w.out girding themselves.
|
|
|
| 001. guess what brought on the appetite. |
[ |
September 5th,
2011 6:37 pm
| ] |
[Method in the madness of his script: of equal height, the letters, save for the long backs of the requisite uppercase, the lowercase Bs and Ds, the tails of the Ps and Qs cutting liberally down the page until, as though scratched away, their path ends; but the bodies of the letters flow into each other, not so much melting as penetrating the next, stems missed off the double swells of the Ms, Ts uncrossed, Rs and Ss in succession warped into a siamese of a mark. At a distance, it could be an Arabic script, but Rainer does not suffer over-the-shoulder snoopers lightly, and so those who would merely squint at the scratches of the cheap BIC cristal (green) as it dances across the horizontal planes of the page -- each successive line dropped some 6.35 millimetres below the last -- are left to wonder, left to let their gaze linger, then drop away, as the man with the complexion of the bloodless and hands that would be elegant were they not in need of a good scrub continues to write, the hard, high angle of one shoulder (the position of a student inviting his colleagues to look the fuck away: arms and shoulders and self curled protectively over a notebook, twisted at the waist, chin tucked low) enough of a jab against curiosity. He doesn't want you to look; he is, in a way, oblivious enough of your presence to withstand and outlive your prying eyes.
To users of the journals, however -- these are the characters of the English alphabet, chicken-scratched (precisely) much like a doctor chicken-scratches out his notes and findings, the flow of words, the bulk of information to be transcribed, and impatience with unnecessary details forming a script that is necessary, one that saves time, one that is legible only to its creator and those who know the idiosyncrasies of this particular hand. And those people number few: Rainer's shy. Or, if not shy, then reticent about writing to crowds. It's almost like the internet, or the spot on that dear lady's hand: once there, it's there.]
Locked to: Rudo Iekanjika.You were name-dropped by a man with a deft hand.
Locked to: Eli Csontos.Books. Trade?
Hungry. Thank whatever for modern hamburger chains. Sun-soaked, grass-fed. Then: chargrilled.
|
|
|