The number of film critics, diminished. As per the art world ticking off of the poets and stuff. You know he moved among them even though you couldn’t see him.
He who moved among them, anonymous at first, went by the fancy name of Carlenea. Which, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is, at best, a girl’s name. No wonder the pigtails and lollipops. Those long socks that go just above the bony knee.
Anyway, this Carlenea was a flap all over town. At the time of the power cuts – twelve hundred people, drinks in hand, forced out on to the narrow pavements of a bright dusk an’ twilight – he took off his shirt and wiggled. To the applause of a certain group of young women who, both pissed and stupid, really knew no better. He moved among them. So fast that you couldn’t see him.
Later, the stars were out and the beeroffs were closing. Our Carlenea – now with his shirt on – decided to get himself a few kegs and fags and make his way round to his interesting web designer friend’s flat/unit where, at least with the few feet of crippled balcony on offer, they could stare down the moon – the moon – and annoy the fuck out of the neighbours who, themselves much the fucking same anyway, had no room to complain. Hoxton kind of way etc. But as luck would have it, the beeroffs were now all closed. Kegs and fags be damned.
This Carlenea by morning though was busying himself behind shades, circumnavigating, as he so aptly put it, through the open plan artspace unit that comprised the area where, you know.
This Carlenea by morning was a full link in the red hot chain that, tight like a noose, was strangling the life out of this part of London and that part of London. The picture of it all, so broad and obvious, you could scrawl it out with a thick piece of chalk
So this Carlenea then, suddenly transported – perhaps by way of one those electric stand-on scooter things – to the other side of the city where, in an alien moment, he comes face to face with something that forever changes his whole being and thing. Such as.
That is, something from his childhood or the ghost of his dead father. Or the passing stab of a stranger, a punctured lung and the stranger now a feature in this boy’s now suddenly empty life. The mystery of what happened to his once friends. The true nature of his Hoxton web designer pal and that balcony, now occupied by another, host to a thousand more shouting at the moons. Staring down the moons.
Staring up at the moon, oh night, from ‘neath the symbolic lay of the cardboard crust. Beneath the lay of this merest wisp of cardboard, piss-soaked and rotten. But up there the moon. On its surface, the chalk drawing of a face, his face, and a hint at a better and brighter future. He sees space clods and landing pads, the scorched earth – not earth – the rocket descent. Oh what moon tonight with all your fancy ways and, you know, your fancy movements, and mystery and, you, you mysterious silver orb and all.
Dimly lit and staggering, a noxious figure as he passes the wine bar coterie and full set. Those girls now not so impressed with his wiggling. We get right up into one of the girl’s faces and register the disgust and hatred that twists her stupid pointed face into a paroxysm of hatred and disgust. Oh, how we fucking hate her. Again, again, give us another close up. Give us a reason to hate her all the more. Um.