Archive for October, 2012



The Woman is walking with him now. They are walking down The Kings Rd., The Woman sees an advertisement for perfume, points at the model who has pulled one strand of her red curly hair down her face. The woman pointing at the image speaks;

‘She’s one of yours.’

Silence

‘You like damaged girls.’

Again silence.

He and The Woman continue to walk.

::::::::David Noone lives here and does a damn fine Nick Cave impression::::::::

synthetic brain in 2019?


Blue Brain Project 

nomnomnomno?


nomnomnomno?

everybody do the krokodil!

::::the new weirdness::::


Something weird happened yesterday.

I saw it there in my stats, a referral, from google translate. Not necessarily weird, right? But this so was. The translation sought was from english to french. The post in question was an english translation of a Charles Baudelaire poem, originally written in french.

For some reason this gives me quite a thrill.

::::the human pollution:::: [ fiction ]


Throwing up has become my only pleasure.

Not talking eating disorder; I envy those fucks. Poor body-image is just a shitty holiday. This is more like snuff on perpetual loop – i’m the principle as well as supporting cast. Perpetrator and victim.

Oh, how I hate being the victim.

It’s not the helplessness, I kinda like that – knowing that you have no choice, that this is fucking happening no matter what.
It’s the mentality, that’s what gets me. It sidles up on you – this “its not my fault!” battle cry that slips between your lips when you begin to blank out on a conversation because this thing inside you knows you ain’t paying attention. It begins to infects the rest of your organs, bleaching your skin its miserable “fuck my life” hue that doesn’t even show up on any colour chart. Before you can blink Nothing is Ever your Fault again. Everybody knows it, will look forever upon you with plastic sad and soap opera pity.

Oh, that sickening pity makes me want to collapse your lungs with a knitting needle.

Human beings will never be able to get me off ever again. That faux-empathy turns my stomach inside out, and not in the good way. Lock myself up in my filthy apartment of things and never leave less I have too. Sleep till my eyes atrophy, cake over with mucus. Imagine this to be the beginning of some grand biological scheme – first tiny steps towards chrysalis, that if I could only sleep long enough the result would be total transformation, not this inbetween lark. I never can though, never can sleep long enough.

Sleep brings not joy – only the purge can do that. That rising burn, delectable spasm. The stinging meat. That bitter stench.

I’m one of those. Those whose skin fails to keep you out, that sucks greedily at your words and inbetweens. Nom nom nom. It’s Not My Fault, it’s you, you and your fucking humanity spilling out like toxic waste. Has to go somewhere and that somewhere is me and my ilk, soak it up to be catalyzed and puked out. Why? Because. Because you changed the game. You forced the genome to adapt. You all stopped feeling but you didn’t stop talking.

Fucking endless disconnected blah blah blah from mouths and fingers and those masses of soiled grey napkins you call brains – gallons upon gallons of gibberish filling up all available space. There’s only so much a biosphere can take, you know. Only so much I can take…

But it’s okay, like I said. Only pleasure I have left.

Keep it up buttercup.

::::idle hands make the things play best:::: [ poem ]


My fingers quiver electric to make an inappropriate gesture in the hospital waiting room.

Tiny demonic chymicals rampage up and down the length of my arms
gnawing on relays and muscle mass.

These idle hands want to play, pull at the air like a deranged mage
casting improbable thoughtforms into the warm and musty room
but I stop myself just in time and instead fiddle nervously with my phone.


Oh blog! How I have forsaken thee! Whence forth the tides of life do raiseth up to claim my lungs as mine mind’s lagoons for which to drown within these eyes do turn asunder and let decay claim this monument to thine outpourings.

Or some such shit.

Time for a story. Way back when it was 2010 (or was it 2011?), maybe sometime around this here autumnal season (although, frankly, it feels more like fucking Winter right now) a coffee house did open in yonder city of Ayr. An independent coffee house called Su Casa. With very tasty coffee. A treat it was to stumble upon and GOD DAMN do they do fine coffee. Upstairs I did wander to find a group of people muchly chatting. Full of awesome espresso I did introduce myself and join in – struck with a rare moment of sociable as I was. After all, the exchanging of conversation and ideas and the meeting of people are what coffeehouses are famous for, going all the way about to the first one in London in eighteencanteen. I wrote a piece on this subject in fact, one which I never finished, which I was going to gift to the owner of Su Casa for promotional purposes (I wanted to help, see).

Of this group of ragamuffin artists and students and general peoples there was one sat alone at a table, a laptop before him, working away at some video editing software. His name was Alberth Mg. We got to chatting. Alberth was a film maker. Alberth had forgone film school. Alberth had a vision.

At that time in his life he was spreading his time between Ayr and London making promo videos for bands and solo artists. A good way to pay the bills I would say. Personally, I was between shitty temporary jobs at the time, but not yet at the point of self-immolating desperation as to my prospects of finding employment. Plus, I had my mysterious novel going on. Still, I envied Alberth. He’d managed to hobble something together and was going for it. We exchanged details, followed each other on facebook and went on our merry ways.

Our paths didn’t cross much in the really real from then on but I kept abreast of what he was up to with his company Elgato Film Productions and various other projects via the book of the face.

So, now it is now, and Elgato are really ramping up. They have a short film, Reflections, due to be premiered next month. A shiny new website. A ragtag production team. A force to be reckoned with I reckon.

And now, in time for Halloween, A sketch called The Girl Who Is Sitting Next To Me.

Enjoy!

Cat Hepburn

Scriptwriter & Spoken Word Artist

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