late night at the Igloo Diner
Imagine this photo is all one perspex panel. It is, but I couldn’t get it into the one frame because it’s jammed in the stairwell. (Directly under our Damien Hirst, but that’s tomorrow’s post, entitled I buy things off the internet in the dead of night & don’t know what the hell they are).
So, Igloo Diner.
The downsizing is not going so well. Mainly because I discover things and get sidetracked. Then I try to re-find things and I can’t, because they’re stuck in piles of much-loved junk. Then I either
b) feel claustrophobic
c) feel defeated
d) feel tired
e) find something shinier to play with
or f) a combination of any or all of a – e
I think what I like about going to resorts and hotels and stuff is that there’s none of your stuff cluttering them up. But I couldn’t live like that.
I worked out tonight that I don’t have copies of most of the things I ever wrote. It doesn’t actually matter much. Some things I can find stuck in old notebooks (which I happen to chance upon when I’m supposed to be packing things up), or framed unevenly in perspex, as above.
Late night at the Igloo Diner does hold a special place in my heart though. I think it was the first poem I ever read aloud in front of a crowd. (And probably also one of the last, ha.) I made it with scissors and glue and My First Laptop (the one I blew up), late at night, Hawkesbury Ave, St Albans, Christchurch. Pretty much exactly eleven and a half years ago. October ’98.
So, as a gesture to the echo of my 21 year-old self (although I am still making stuff with scissors and glue, so not too much has changed since then), and in the interests of preserving a thing or two, I am going to type it out now, from a musty old journal, and here it will live. In perpetuity. Or at least until WordPress crumbles into a busted shell of gone no address pages, or until I get bored and forget about it. (Just kidding, but only kind of). Here goes.
Late night at the Igloo Diner
I paid my money, I want to see what happens (late night at the Igloo Diner) I. we are regulars here here's a laminated menu & a tired handshake a milkshake maybe vanilla & gingham & elvis your eyes are red under neon & goldfish swim against your silhouette in forgetmenot blue water you almost speak but the jukebox sadsong voiceover says everything you ever wanted to although you never did get round to saying it it is hard to be so lyrical to string up your karaoke heart like fairylights when all the lovesongs have been written already in the next booth along from us the boy & girl are going steady & burntout through weird halo smoke rings you eye up their sitcom sentiment the drive-in move cuteness of it all it's just about your idea of utopia looking into blue eyes across a formica surface forever in bluejeans/sweet sixteen in a carpark in the back of the car caught up in buttons & bra-clasps & first love fixed beneath a panorama of stars with the country & western from the radio playing so sad & slow as the streetlights slip silver over virgin skin we are regulars here all we want is to be regular like them walking home from the diner through the fairground making it to third base behind the sideshow tents while the wooden clowns revolve openmouthed & painted with loneliness each refuge fails us; each danger becomes a haven (late night at the Igloo Diner) II. 3am cushioned in red vinyl like an outsized vulva on a cocacola rollercoaster I play easy to get & footsie with you under the table because it's better than nothing because it's almost as good as watching the way the skin on your bottomless coffee is luminous as an oil spill on a wet road all the while Marilyn in monochrome & two dimensions leans down at us with cleavage & melancholy from her BOULEVARD OF BROKEN DREAMS & in the bathroom the girl who just walked in with her sugar daddy sums herself up puckered lipped & adorable in a compact mirror & soon the gunman will come in with rubbermask/carrybag & say everybody be cool this is a robbery we will get down on the floor our lives will flash before our eyes & at the end of the trauma we will be better people for it & until then we will watch carlights go by filterinng yellow through a dirty wall of windows sitting pretty in the interim just you & me boy just like it was in the matinee movies in the good old days black & white cleancut heroes with chiselled jawlines just you & me & five bucks it's different now like waiting at a llaundromat for the cycle to finish although it is set at infinity & the gunmen in floral print shirts down come & we can't look each other in the eye no more & all we've got is small change for the slot machines & you spend the evening looking at the tits of Nancy the waitress although I'm too busy wondering whether or not it's Nancy Drew to care whether it's my tits or hers & wondering how it could be that my girl wonder with miracle torchlight & corkscrew curls ended up foresaking adventure to work the graveyard shift in a frilly apron at the Igloo Diner although I guess we're all hanging out for a touch of drama even here but there are only so many times you can shoot up in a cubicle or tap your notsolucky last cigarette to some kind of screwy drumbeat mantra on the side of your golden softpack while tallying up the colours of passing cars too scared to go home only so many times you can order more fries with ketchup all the while looking up at James Dean driving cooly down a suave highway to death watching Elvis all the while thinking of how he got so fat & too fucken depressed to even get out of bed & now I can't help but get to thinking how in eighth grade you said I was Shirley Temple I don't know why exactly & how I wasn't like all the other girls that was a long time ago & now I am just like all the other girls you burn the formica with your lighter you say I love you but I just don't like you dreaming of the great escape the remarkable getaway you will never make not in these trampled bluesuede shoes & as we get up to leave in our shirtsleeves Nancy stops us at the door to say you'll catch your deaths & you say talking all the while to her breasts thank you for your concern Nancy but I reckon we already have
Filed under: arrested development, clutter, found stuff, poetry | 3 Comments
Tags: clutter, found stuff, makeshift art, poetry