Spain

I've been meaning to post some more photos from my Spain trip for ages now...

Spain was bangin, between three of us we ate a bag of about 80 oranges. I was PUMPED by the end.

these are film:







this is the only photo i have of me in Spain...i wish naomi would learn about the focus














these are giant perfume vats, disused for about 30 years now...there was a disused factory nearby that apparently used to produce a lot of lavender perfume. the lavender was collected and crushed in these vats for the oil, which would run down the hillside
I've got a few more of them but I think snappy snaps didn't put them on the scan disk...YET another example of hampstead snappy snaps slippin


a few more digital:

I just got a text from Google

and they were already in my phonebook. Talk about big brother much?

total insomnia complete

I haven't slept for more than five hours at a time for the past couple of weeks. This is dire.

I've written a poem about it literally fresh off the last minute, it's sort of a diary but of a jumble of times. I think I'm just going to put it here and not really bother editing it

1

Insomnia is a gift: they, the big they
just want you to see everything,
know the gritty side of things
and not just the self-assured
eloquence of imagination:
by two am you’re mature enough
to understand the cogs of
automatic darkness -
spooning chocolate spread
straight from the jar, no bread needed,
tricked by the smoothness on
tongue, all this done
enough times to make it look
like ritual, to make it look
like day, to make it look like
not the remains but just
a continuation. Everything flummoxes
back up the stairs and a pause
at the top like a knot in time’s
thread that looks and looks and
looks through everything you do.
At the top of the stairs I stop
And imagine if my house was a map
I might be at the edge of a cliff
and contemplating what I’m not now,
I’d be reliving the steps to how I got here
in an incantation, a declaration that I will not
move forward. The sky is only a stopper,
mayan blue stopper in the neck of a bottle
of time. If it were a modern man, a Post-tridentamodemisticistic
man, a Post-man, it would be documented as a footnote
to the abyss. Yes,
if my house was a map I might be
at the edge of a cliff and contemplating
what I’m not was, I’d be reliving
the steps to how I got here
in an incantation, a declaration that
I am not move forward. But it’s not
a map so this puts me nowhere.

Walking along the hall of
no stars and reached my computer.
Unmoving herald: obedient
to Whoever comes by, always
offer the lettered keys and
no judgement. No reckoning
in the clicks of your neon chambers,
unbeknown to the hands of time:
a universe of perpetual programming,
seeing the voice of everyone write on the face
textured by numbers:
causing no sensations, causal to nothing
except the demand of a single moment -
incandescent,
save all

driving

in true road trip style, we stole the grandparents' truck for some casual cruisin' in Spain

being four-seater and filled exclusively with women, our oestrogen-powered fun express proved popular with the Spanish farmers of various description