a pretty way to recycle a notebook

Years ago I was lucky to have sponsorship from a very cool berlin fashion label called missing ling ling. They made a bunch of very chic clothes for me to perform in. Later they disbanded to pursue other things.  

Now, one half of the duo, my friend Tash, has embarked on a project that combines her pattern making skills, with her love of art and performance. She has been constructing a jacket from one of my notebooks. I never really understood how it would work, or how I could wear it, But I knew if anyone could make it, she could. 

Last week I was in Berlin for a couple performances, and I met up with Tash for a fitting. There are still details she would like to add, but the result  thus far is stunning. And also in true cinderella fashion, from first wearing it, it fit  me perfectly. 

As for what happens next? The idea is we will collaborate on a short fashion film to showcase it. So we are currently brainstorming ideas. Will keep you posted as this project develops 

xxx p

the guy in the pink shirt

In the morning when I went for my daily walk, I passed a guy in a pink shirt. A young man, a man about my age, maybe a couple years older maybe a couple years younger. I knew him, or I knew him once. His name is Louis. When I passed him on the street this morning we made eye contact, and I saw in his eyes he didn't recognize me, he gave me a look as if to question why I had made eye contact at all, maybe he had even looked away nervously, shyly. Maybe he thought I was checking him out. But I wasn't checking him out, I just looked at him thinking:

I sort of knew you once.

I knew him from six years ago but it might as well have been sixty. I look pretty different from then. I knew he wouldn't recognize me. I never really knew him that well. he was a regular at the club and a friend of lots of my friends. He used to hang out with my friend cormac, maybe they even dated? But I wasn't even really friends with Cormac then.

In that brief moment of passing, looking at him, remembering that whole strange era of working at the nightclub, remembering it in the instant of making eye contact, and a quick slideshow of him and my friends and the club, it was my life then, that place, I thought all this, felt all this seeing him, and in thinking it I wondered if despite all the changes in my appearance, he might see something familiar and remember. But he didn't. His experience was much less complex I'm sure. He would walk on and think why did I look at him in that way, and probably not think of me again.

It happens often that I see people in east London from that time of my life. I pass them on the street and wonder if there will be a glimmer of memory, but also knowing there won't be. Part of me is disapointed, part of me is happy to have successfully transformed to something else. Thats the funny thing with me and scenes, I am attracted to them, but I only stick around long enough to pass, to fit, thats the part I am interested in, once I feel like I am part of a scene, not long after I want to move on again.

It's never very nice to not be remembered. I used to be great with names and faces. I used to never forget anyone I met. It wasn't always natural, I had to work at it. But nowadays often I forget people. Specifically I forget the people I meet briefly. More specifically I often forget the people I meet after gigs who tell me they liked the gig and then don't talk about much else. There is no sticky factor, there is nothing to make me remember them, but I still feel terrible when someone comes up to me and says we've met and I don't remember. I try to cover it sometimes. And it is true that sometimes talking to someone will jog my memory. I might not remember their name, or what we talked about before, but looking at their face long enough, sometimes I will remember how I met them.

every memory is fragmented into everyone's individual impression. What I take as relevant someone else might not keep and vice-versa. I am always thrown off guard when someone reminds me of something I've said or done that has influenced them that I don't remember. I don't know why anyone listens to me or takes me seriously most of the time. I can hardly remember a lot of things I've done and said. I seem to have a far better memory for my low moments, my bad moments, but I suppose everyone is a bit like that.

For ages when an ex of mine and I broke up. I would dread running into her. For about a year I would avoid parts of town that she used to frequent. I hated the idea of this conversation we would eventually have. I hated even the thought of the awkwardness. Just the thought of it. Isn't that ridiculous? Then two years passed, and when I did run into her it was the most uninteresting non event. It was more than fine it was.. I was.. ambivalent.

But the funny thing about all of this is. The sequence of these thoughts has been inspired by another non event. Running into someone I don't really know. Someone who doesn't really have any connection to my life. That reminded me of a time. A period of time lived that I no longer have connection with. But in that moment of reverie and thought,, the funny thing that strikes me is... his version of the story. Which is of course, no story at all. 

the great escape

I was on a train to Inverness when I saw her. Her bag was almost as big as she was and nearly twice as heavy. To get it down the aisle of the carriage, she had to stand it on one end , her whole self wrapped around it, as she walked it along with slow deliberate steps. The carriage was shaky. It was tricky to keep moving the bag along, but she managed.

He might follow her. She wasn't sure if she cared if he did. He was turned away when she got up from the seat and left. He didn't watch her walk away, as she struggled along with her bag. He was keeping himself to himself, trying to remain calm.

She made it through one carriage, and then the next, and then the next. She didn't know where she was going, only that she had to keep moving to get there. She found herself in the luggage compartment between carriages on the far side of the train. She propped her bag against the others. Across from her was an old man, a young mother and  small child all waiting to use the bathroom. I was stood on the other side.  I stared at her for a moment too long, before looking away.  She steadied her bag again.

What was she doing here? What was she doing?  She found a little space for herself beside the window and pulled it all the way down. She pushed her head out above it as far as she could. She watched the landscape rush by. Lush valleys led to lakes and rolling hills. Even as it rained it was beautiful. She wanted it to calm her. She wanted...

He was there now, standing behind her. How long had he been there? She heard him say her name. His voice was unintelligble.  It was as if someone  had knocked a radio between two frequencies. She looked at him, saw his mouth moving, but couldn't make out any words. She turned away.  He placed a tentative hand on her shoulder. She bristled, shrugged it off. He, visibly wounded by this, stepped back, turned away. Softly he called out her name again. People around them were watching now. She knew he didn't like that.

She pushed her head forward out the window again. Greedily sucked in gulps of rain soaked air. She wanted to inhale the landscape. She was trying to breathe. She was finding it hard. He had gotten louder, he was standing behind her now. He was going on and on and she heard someone else ask when they would get to the next stop. The conductor saying, half an hour. 

Outside it looked peacful. Outside she could surround herself with sky and breeze and hills, all she wanted was....The train suddenly stopped. There was an announcement of flooding on the tracks ahead. They would be stuck there for an hour, at least. Her boyfriend touched her on the shoulder again. He said

"Come on..."

She nodded. pulled open the latch of the door she was leaning on, jumped forward, door slamming shut behind her as she ran. Ran fast through fields thick with tall green grass, whispering to each other as she passed. It had stopped raining. Her flaming red hair streamed behind her. She had no idea where she was going, but she was desperate to get there.

On the train, her boyfriend stood silently amongst the others. Someone went for the conductor, asking for help. The police would be called. It;s illegal to run off of trains between stops apparently.  He... stood where she had. Leaned against the window, and strained to see a hint of red amongst all the green..