Room 35

"Do you want to spend the night?" he asked, his head propped up on his hand as he lay on his side, the sweat still glistening on his body, "You can if you like, you know. Or will he ask too many questions?"

He tapped some ash from his cigarette into the ashtray that was lying on the cream-coloured covers.

"Exactly," she said, "I have to go. It's 4 in the morning. Again!"

"Yeah, we really should get started on this stuff sooner next time."

"It wouldn't work," she said, "We'd just go on for longer."

She got the feeling it would always be 4 in the morning; that moment when he stood up, ran his hand through his hair and flicked the curtains open, then lay back down to smoke. The sky outside would always have that dirty oatmeal colour, like a widower's fridge. You have now left the Dream Zone. Welcome to Reality. Please get off on the left-hand side. Should you discover any unattended luggage on the platform, please take it with you. It's yours.

"It feels a bit like coming out of the cinema after a matinée," he said, "It has no business being this light. It's just wrong! You sure you don't want to stay over? I don't mind..."

He began to hum and sing along to a Brazilian song that was coming from the laptop on the desk. She was sitting up in bed next to him, the covers pulled up to her waist, sipping on one of the glasses of wine they'd stolen from the cocktail bar when they'd made that rather urgent departure.

"No, I look like shit in the mornings. You don't need to see that."

He laughed, casting an admiring glance over her face and body,

"Now that's something I really can't imagine!"

She gave him one of those complicated smiles that adults like to bestow on euphoric children; the kind that signifies "I adore your innocence though it wounds me so".

"And I'd like you to hang onto that little illusion. But I don't have to go just yet. I want to listen to you singing some more. You know, you're a pretty crap singer for a musician. I think I like that... and I like you."

He lay back down on the bed again, stretched out on his back and then closed his eyes and groaned.

"What?" she asked.

"Aaaah, that was just so... fantastic! Fucking amazing. I still can't believe it."

He cracked his eyes open a little and turned towards her. "We didn't do such a lot of... penetration as the first time, did we? Was that alright for you?"

"Oh yes, I just love all the other stuff."

"Mmm, I could tell."

He looked down at the bed covers and shook his head almost shyly as he murmured,"Nobody has ever done some of those things to me before."

She studied his face for a couple of seconds in silence. Then he took a cheeky sidelong peek at her and laughed.

"Hey, only joking!"

She slapped him playfully.

"Oh you!"

But she was racking her brains, going through all the things she'd done for him. There had definitely been a very strong reaction to something, but what? She tried to match it with the right moment. She thought she had it. Yeah, he'd liked that. That had surprised him, driven him crazy. She couldn't help feeling secretly proud.

Downstairs, a few minutes later, the lobby was deserted. He rang on the bell a couple of times, but nobody came. The door to the hotel bar was still open and a dim light was on somewhere, so he walked in calling, "Hullo? Hullo? Anyone there? We need to order a taxi." The light he had seen was coming from the kitchen over on the other side of the bar. She watched from the doorway as he went through, still calling. A few seconds later he reappeared, his flipflops softly scuffing on the floor as he padded back, grinning naughtily and victoriously holding up two chocolate croissants.

"Hungry?" he asked.

"I'm fucking starving!" she said, grabbing one.

They stood at the hotel doorstep looking out into the deserted street, munching happily. Then he turned to her, looking rather sensible and serious with the chocolate from a stolen croissant smeared all over his face.

"How are we going to find you a taxi?" he asked. But she was laughing now. It was so endearing. She fought the urge to rub her face in his hair and say something incredibly stupid. Instead she just laughed tenderly and said,"You're completely covered in chocolate!"

"Oh, am I?"

As he wiped it off, she said, "I think I can walk home from here. I'm fairly sure I know where I am."

He walked with her to the end of the street then they stopped on the corner and kissed. He was gazing happily at her and she knew she probably looked just as dazed as he did.

"Thank you, Miss Carlisle, for another truly wonderful night," he said.

"It was a pleasure, Mr Ramazvazkrzschdurian," she solemnly replied and walked away down the dim street.

"Amazing," he called after her, "How that just rolls off your tongue!"

"It's one of the most agile parts of my body," she replied, walking backwards and waving.

As she made her way home, the birds were singing and the sky was blenching sluggishly into wakefulness. A road sweeper van was parked up ahead, its headlamps winking at the conniving morning light. Three road sweepers in fluorescent orange uniforms were brushing the pavement. As she strolled up to them, her handbag slung over her shoulder, she was suddenly aware of her glowing face and ruffled hair, her lack of underwear and the discomfitingly jaunty sound of her blushing peep-toe sandals as she walked. The road sweepers must have heard her coming because when she looked up they had all stopped sweeping and were standing to one side of the pavement, leaning on their brushes. They were standing very still in a line and, as she approached and walked by, they each looked deep into her eyes and smiled. Feeling self-consciously regal, she returned their smiles and put an extra little leisurely swing into her hips. How contented they looked, and how peaceful. It was as if they had just achieved something they were proud of and wanted to stand back for a moment and bask in the glory in it. She wondered if this was the greatest job satisfaction they got; catching sight of a happy girl or boy strolling home in the early hours, bathed in the afterglow of a wonderful fuck. They must live for those private glimpses in the night. That was how it felt to her at this moment, at least.

If this was a musical, she mused, we would all be breaking out into some kind of song and dance routine right now. She was tempted to fling her arms out and spring up into the air just to see if they joined in, kicking up their heels and pretending to woo their brushes as the sun came up. The idea was so compelling that she even did a couple of high kicks, twirls and sweeping arm flourishes when she reached the bottom of her street. There was noone about to see, and besides, who gave a shit anyway? She was happy, she was alive and it seemed she was a fantastic fuck!

Pitiful Cry for Help

Stop me looking unpopular when Steve Buscemi views my Polaroids in a couple of days by voting here: http://artistswanted.org/Strangefields

And look: here is your bribe.



This magnificent toaster.

To the Escape Pod!

What is it about outmoded futurism that fascinates me? Wherein lies its peculiar bitter-sweet charm?

Sixty years ago, people visualised such a bright, funky, golden future: a future in which the human race had advanced and ennobled itself; a future in which we were the good guys: stylish heros with hearts and voluptuous catsuits of purest gold. Yes, our world was to be fraught with perils and problems, yes, there were to be mavericks and villains in our own ranks, too; but we were always to emerge from every struggle with our cheer and our togetherness undiminished and a heart-warming sheen about our elaborate towering hairdos.

Today, when all self-respecting futuristic visions are dark and post-apocalyptic, science-fiction from the '50s looks hilarious. And also touching - impossibly innocent and somehow very, very sad.

Where did all our shiny hopeful futures go? Are they lost to us now forever, or can we still win them back? How could we substitute them for collective backslides into primitivism, for rotting, skyless concrete-and-steel cityscapes, barbarous games, robot tyranny and grim dog-eat-dog cynicism? When did we lose the ability to imagine ourselves as the good guys? When did we stop holding out for the flying cars and the orgasmatrons?

Little Princess Angelpig

Now if you'd asked me early last year whether I'd ever had sex in the most expensive hotel in town whilst bound from head to foot in pink wool, wearing angel's wings, a princess tiara and a pig's snout, I'd have probably said something like, "Why certainly not, you beastly and fascinatingly surreal pervert. Where ever do you get such notions from?"

Which is a totally different response to the one I would give you if you asked me the very same question today.

Not that you would, of course...



... but what a fun fact to start the year with.

Natural Considerations

Do snails ever get itchy? Has anyone ever seen a snail trying to scratch itself? If it needed to, could it? Do snails sneeze? Why do they sometimes (but only sometimes) shit out of one ear? Why is there no research into this? There must be a logical reason why their poo comes out of one of their ears.

Do hens ever fall over? I grew up in the country, and I can't remember a hen ever falling over. They've only got two legs. How come they never seem to trip or stumble?

Do lady dolphins ever give gentleman dolphins "blowhole sex"? They are supposed to be such intelligent beings, but have they ever explored this creatively kinky option? If they're so bloody brainy, why don't they?

Hm. I don't even want to go into the subject of toilet paper usage within the animal kingdom.

But I will.

Does anyone else find it unpleasant that animals never use toilet paper? Imagine if we all went around like that! And another thing: whatever happened to those strange crumbly white dog poos you used to get? In the 80s, they seemed to be everywhere. Where did it all go? Why has it disappeared? What does its demise portend?

And why don't dogs ever give themselves oral sex? What exactly is stopping them? Where's the difficulty? They can reach it with ease. I mean, if you were a dog, wouldn't you be at it constantly? Surely it would be more effective than clamping yourself to a pensioner's ankle and jiggling till his socks come down.

And finally: why do butterflies insist on landing on top of poos? Has anyone else ever noticed this happening? All that flitting about from flower to flower - is it just a pose so that we don't realise what they're really up to? What is that all about? Again, why is no research available here?

There are a lot of things in the natural world that puzzle me. All things considered, I'm glad I'm a human. We have the best food and the best toilets by far. Our bodies are perfectly designed for masturbatory purposes, and we're clever enough to realise it. Seen in this light, life ain't so bad.

Self-Portrait as a Work of Art

It's a peculiarly schizophrenic experience, being your own model, playing two totally different roles at once and switching back and forth between them in rapid succession. You play around with framing and focus, lights and exposures. Then you set off the self-timer, run into the picture and jump straight into your model role. You hold very, very still, like a statue, trying to picture how it will all look through the lens you can no longer see through, blindly trying to envision your pose and expression, trying not to sneeze or fall over or suddenly change your mind about where your knees and elbows should be.

This was an attempt to capture the feeling I have about it. It was probably the most uncomfortable shoot I have ever put myself through - including the one where I tied myself up in pink wool and hopped to the camera and back. And in the end, ironically, I didn't manage to pull it off with the self-timer (everything is so difficult with your arms snapped off). I had to engage the services of a tripod monkey.

Hard Times

I've worked and worked and worked all year, but I haven't been able to take even a penny as salary for eight months so far - and counting. All I can do as the months go by is try to keep my head above water and cover my fixed costs. My savings are all used up. Almost exclusively on food. I have nothing left to show for all my years of hard work.

The lovingly kitschified Polaroid below is dedicated to the German tax authorites, who - just as I was beginning to find hope - presented me with a bill that came straight from the land of gnomes and goblins. In lieu of the payment I cannot possibly make, I shall be skipping over to their offices with this Polaroid and slipping it into their letterbox.















Now come and get me, you fucking munchkins.