Diary and book fodder

those eyes

i wonder what it means when someone says: 'you are even prettier then your writing'? this was said to me last night and i took it as a compliment. it could mean that my words are very ugly, so my face is just a bit better than that. there are hidden dangers undercutting that phrase: 'you are even prettier than your writing'. i would rather my writing was prettier than me. what self respecting inky little slacker wouldn't? then again, does one want one's writing to be 'pretty'? it was a compliment, of sorts. i took it almost gracefully, then spoke at him about him. he liked that. the pseudo-ephedrine had kicked in now, and speaking became barking.

and then on to another man, (a psychiatrist, and i despise psychiatrists, with their cures, etc), at a friend's band's secret gig. he wants me to go to his house in the country next weekend. he owns the church next door to it and fancies maybe doing some goetic work or a gnostic mass. i am both tempted (lets face it, i need a holiday), and absolutley repelled by the idea of such intimacy. there's something not quite right with his eyes. hard to put a finger on it (and now, of course, i am imagining touching his eye ball, slicing, surrealy, with a straight razor). he's says i can bring the dog and a friend, but it's just too good to be true. i have met him before and he was wearing the most disgusting pair of trouers i have ever seen. pattern should be kept to a minimum generally, i feel, and exotic textures shunned, well, at least on a gentleman's lower half.

he reminds me of someone else i know and i sense a kind of wickdness around his eyes too, a kind of big head smart mouth look. this can be appealing (and now i am peeling his eye like a plum), but there has to be something that people used to call 'humanity' present, non? he seems more like a psychiatric patient than a psychiatrist, which is often the case. maybe i'll go and take miro, give him some new experiences for the book.

london calls tomorrow... miro's already packed.