Banana bread soup sat on the counter waiting to spongeify itself, impatiently glacially swirling, sucking sweet sweet bent yellow cylinder scent through its event horizon out into the nether. Bananether.
Oven’s on preheating when I’m asked if the lamp means it’s ready. Little orange oven beacon translated to lamp and I couldn’t have been more amused. Kerosine countryside forewarning, swaying castle sconce, Croft cave motif, fire tube turned bread-ready teller.
The lamp’d been right and the bread was right too. To write was bread and I’d on-turned the lamp in my own sugar head.
Welcome to your newsletter
This is update number one. You are among few to read this, likely one with whom I share blood or beer. Also likely one I’ve prodded for a sign-up.
Why should you care to read my nonsense? What is this newsletter about?
It’s a grand experiment, a lexical sketchbook tailor-made to the dimensions of our brain pipes. It’s not a one-way inoculation of language, and I do hope you’ll take part in its creation.
If you’re a lover of words, we share the same bedmate. And it’d be lovely if you could help pass along my pieces of text. Ideally we’ll grow this list a little further and have a regular screen-based seance.
Here are snippets of what’s spilled out the mind most recently.
A foamy ode to my dear portly HomePod.
“The dessert wine was safe. The lady with a mop showed up out of the dark, back from cleaning some darkness. She brushed me off and held onto the black smudge on rushed blood around my arm…” The Glass Pocket
An attempt at finding inspiration in the bollocks of Poland at one uncanny cafe.
“I’ll bet the last thing you cleaned off your material likeness was sticky. Some amount of something got stuck on your somewhere and you had to up and wipe it off. Maybe that made the wiping instrument leave bits of itself where it tried to remove bits of the other and you ended up with less of one thing but more things than one.” The Liquid Sweater
More tightrope the teeth, less tickle the beef.
“A slight interest in all things and lack of specialty make an especially decent writer.” Interrobang
And finally, a trip to the Rusty Rooster.
I finished flicking through How to Be Idle (Tom Hodgkinson) recently. It’s anarchist literature for those ill-inclined to do much of anything. While highly presumptuous, if you can turn a cheek to bouts of dryly daft sarcasm, it’s a recommended Sunday read.
You should write me, it’d delight me.
Really sincerely, collaboration in any which way would be wonderful. Let’s commit an act of literary debauchery.
This may be petty, but you can drop some coins in my gullet for bonus features by subscribing below. Or share links to any of my posts with other curious souls. Both support this writing. Other folks online suggest you buy ‘em a coffee.
Fuck coffee. I want banans.