cutbyscissors

Another welcome and salutation from Cutbyscissors

2005-10-03T19:30:00.000+08:00

In what can be described as a coup, the Cutbyscissors page has expanded to include another serial titled Saint Jonathan Springs Eternal. Confounding the experts and soothsayers at H&O, this addition will now become a part of the Cutbyscissors conglomerate.

This also gives us the opportunity to give a quick explanantion of the 'Intermission.' Some of the band members of Cutbyscissors had become surly and attempted to part ways due to 'artistic differences' thus the chapters made it to nine like a cat. However this is not the end. The original Cutbyscissors will continue and like a Hendrix merman he should be , will resurrect his painful attempts to be accepted by the H&O offices from the bottom of the Indian Ocean.

So fasten your seatbelts... lets rock n' roll.

Chapter 9 - Theme parties

2005-10-03T19:07:00.000+08:00

“It’s a strange time my dear,” I mentioned to my Partner in Crime as we walked up the steps and into the melee that was a going away party.
Theme parties are always a hit and miss affair and this was one such an event that looked on paper to be dubious mainly due to this idea of themes. ‘Pimps and Prostitutes’ isn’t exactly my cup of green jasmine tea as a theme, but neither is my job. It’s just one of those things that’s tolerated. My snake skin shoes glowed in the light and we waltzed in though the passage past a group of scantily clad girls wearing stay up stockings and little else. They all looked a little embarrassed and huddled in the kitchen not wanting to venture into the backyard, whilst the ‘pimps’ stood outside like crop circles surrounding themselves with people they knew so that wouldn’t get involved in any idle chat that could seem dangerous.

The Glove, myself and the Partner in Crime had taken a taxi to the soiree and debated whether drug traffickers actually knew of their guilt as they stepped off the plane into the welcoming arms of the police in various nations. The Glove had resigned himself to drink tonight due to his inability to talk with members of an accounting firm that would frequent the party. They were a useless bunch they would continually make loud, rude comments that would cause the rest of the party to look at each other and shake our heads. They brought the party closer, but only in our hatred for them. The Glove had already warned of possible physical conflict involving a smashed glass if things were to go astray. Sadler was also there with a band aid on his face as he cut his face shaving. Well, he actually wanted to be like Nelly, the urban superstar known for such groundbreaking songs such as “It’s Getting Hot in Here,” so maybe the act of shaving was a sub conscious act of hero worship?

Others friends and acquaintances were also looming in and out of the shadows. Bok Bok or “The Chicken” was dressed as a Mexican pimp. I decided he looked like someone called ‘Pedro’ and thus that was his name for the party and the continuation of the story. Pedro had recently come back from abroad with sordid tales of lust involving Spanish women in villas, drinking tequila at five in the morning and waking up with the sparrows lying next to three sisters in a bed made of straw and feather pillows. He had to run for his life, but supposedly it was a run worth the trouble. He looked me in the eye, and handed me a Jack Daniels bottle.
“Ah, the prodigal son returns,”
“Dude, what do you look like? Black power?”
“I’m a Mexican pimp. Can’t you tell with the moustache?”
“You look like you’re in the Black Panthers but I’ll call you Pedro anyway.”
He walked out of the room looking for female company. Were there sisters at the party? I was unsure but retreated back to safety with The Glove and my Partner in Crime who was helping herself to a bottle of red wine and drinking from a plastic cup. The person whose party this was, Judd, drifted past. A quick word, and a hand shake later and things were moving well. He looked like he was going fishing with his hat, and I was unsure of the dressing gown but supposedly this was what a pimp wears when hustling the good people for services.

I stood for a while sucking in the conversation and trying to recognise people. One girl passed by and she looked like a ghost, from previous parties involving the same people, the same faces, the same music, the same events but I was quickly mistaken. The sad look in her eyes looked familiar but I shrugged this off. It was nothing to worry about and if she was a ghost then I resolved myself to make it stay that way. That particular ghost had ripped my beating heart out, and hey, call me a little bitter.

The night progressed. The usual suspects were milling around and The Glove mumbled something about how Sadler had saved the party with his own music now being played through the stereo system. I nodded in agreement and watched the mass dancing around. People were eyeing each other looking for partners and those to share some intimacy for the night so there was an air of fun times mixed in with a little bit of desperation. It was easy to think this coming from my little world. I’d picked myself up from the bottom of the ocean and hoped for the best. More time was needed and it was far too inappropriate to end the story here especially with a party that was able to provide all kinds of mischief and gossip. So I sat on the couch and watched the Partner in Crime sway to the music with a bottle of red in her hand. She turned and smiled at me and grabbed my hand. We walked outside into the cooling night and “the weight of the world drifted away instead."

Part 1 - Saint Jonathan Springs Eternal

2005-09-30T19:24:00.000+08:00

The man’s stomach ached from drinking too much coffee. He lay on his back focusing on the outside world with the branches staggering in the wind and the shadows following them. The wooden beams high up looked skyward and slated floors were not forgiving. Dust and the scent of mould and oil paints wandered around the room as the darkness grew and the whispers would soon follow travelling throughout the night. The bridal waltz entanglement of the fronds through the window was becoming more frenetic and he knew he must get up. He must get up. He clutched his stomach and focused on the limestone walls. There was banging in the distance. Tools were being sharpened and refined. It kept banging all the way through his ear drums, travelling through the damp air. It was afternoon and alone on the floor he lay, arms by his side looking heaven bound.

The banging stopped. A distant door opened up and the footsteps approached edging closer. But he couldn’t get up. He couldn’t get up. Another sound in the distance. The hands trailing on the fence like a train clicking its way out of town. Every post was another sound. Another disturbance. Another reminder of where he was and what was coming. The noise grew closer, closer. It was beginning to reverberate and shadows were starting to gather around. No food, just coffee. A dog barked and this gave him hope as he raised his head ever so slowly with his chin touching his chest making the muscles in his neck ache. The dog equalled life and life was now something that had now been remembered, with vigour.

There was no surreal flashback before his eyes. No regrets, no last pleas, no stammering waiting on excuses hoping that mercy will be granted. Nothing. It would end this way and that was that. The beams looked old and even rusted as if they were metal. The brown and orange and black were clumped together. The tin roof was also starting to darken. Maybe the shadows had finally come inside? He lifted his arms to his stomach and raised himself on one elbow. The noise had stopped and the clicking clacking was no more. There was no dog barking with its tail wagging in expected pleasure. This was silence and now the brain had kicked in. The fear was growing. It was but a seed but it began to sprout new thoughts and possibilities. New ways to get out. New theories on pain. The piss stained trousers looked ragged, and the singlet darkened blue from perspiration. They were sharpening tools, he knew that and this was enough of an idea to spring eternal other flourishing roots of guessing that meant life was ending pretty soon. The door opened as he sat up supported by his hands behind him and his face and beard moistened through sweat and expectancy. The shadows had come. They always did.

There wasn’t time to think, let alone speak, let alone prayer, let alone wince. The blade came swiftly and instinct was the only advantage he had. The blade misjudged things. Hadn’t done the angles and the math. It went for the stomach. That coffee drenched stomach that was putting nerves on alert and beginning to swell up in some sort of state of expectancy. It was a movement by him to the side that saw the sparks fly and the tiles crack. He could smell freshly baked biscuits outside which had also wafted in hoping to see some of the killing. The blade was stuck and this was hope. He turned to his left and seeing the flesh bit into the arm and tasted bone. With a wild yell the hand let go of the handle and soon there were two bodies on the floor. The other hand reached for the blade’s eyes and clawed at them. Blood began cascading down his arms and he could taste it on his lips. He dug in harder with his hands and the yell became screams. More hands were fumbling around throats. He drew up strength and lay on top of the body, hand in eyes and the other around the neck. Legs kicking. Fingers groping for some way out. The wind was calming down. The legs were only jerking around now spasmodically. The fingers were covered in blood and one body rolled off the other. He looked at the door ajar and began to crawl out. The scent of biscuits made him salivate and on hands and knees he crawled out onto the gravel and the grass. He crawled and crawled. He crawled until he made it to the fence. Get up. Get up over the fence. Make it to that tree. The sun is going down. A star. A wish. Make it to the tree man. There is no looking back at the hut or the corpse. They wanted you and they will find out soon enough. Get out. Crawl.

Over the fence and hands bloodied and bruised. Holding stomach and looking frantically. Where is the tree? Where is the tree? Crawl. Over there. Move. Darkness means more shadows are coming and these also have the blades. They’ll come with horses and dogs and cars and they’ll search. Make it to the tree.

Leaning against the tree all he could see was the stars. They were many. And the peacefulness was something extraordinary. It was an oasis. They hadn’t taken the stars away from him yet and he had to crawl some more. The nearest road would have to appear sometime. Keep going.

Intermission

2005-09-28T20:22:00.000+08:00

When the narrator known as Cutbyscissors decided to live at the bottom of the ocean with nothing more than a pair of keys, his wallet and an old mix tape because he couldn't bare the pressures of writing anymore some viewed it as a tragedy. The usual cliches were written in the obituaries of miniscule local papers trying to fill column space amongst the horoscopes and the pictures of schoolchildren straddling motorcycles twice their size at a fete.

But this was the whole idea. He didn't realise it but we did. Hundreds of Cutbyscissors existed. Some were hopeless tragics and other believed. One managed to let go of everything and another would begin another excursion later on in time, or perhaps before it. It wasn't meant to sound existential or even clever. But the spirit was there.

It says up the top of some website claiming to know us that this little concept grew out of a nod and handshake by two people who would merge into one. But we became something bigger and the story continues, the wine glasses are raised and toasted and we sit behind looking at the menu knowing when things will end and begin. It's a nice thought.

And so the next instalment continues on...

Chapter 8 - Torn and Frayed

2005-09-28T20:19:00.000+08:00

As I eyed the grease on my hands I realised that this entire situation involving rejection, pigeons, nights out, and a host of characters being introduced without any real progression in the plot was becoming rather obvious and uninspiring. I had just repaired a puncture for my trusty bicycle and managed to cover myself in grease ala Billy Bob Thornton’s character in arguably Oliver Stone’s worst film, U-Turn. Looking at the bicycle leaning up against the wall I was left in a precarious position as I felt a well of inspiration was indeed about to burst yet as I moved inside my home I had nothing to grasp in terms of writing or being creative, as though the hallowed walls would suck the life out of me like a kiss at midnight.

I was also becoming somewhat paranoid as to who would read my manuscripts and thus a cavalcade of lawsuits and legal mumbo jumbo would come heading my way like a tornado straight from Kansas. All these little things were tightening their grip around me and slowly choking me. The phone inside rang but no one answered and as customary it was left to ring out. I decided that I needed to reassess where I was heading and thus I went to the bicycle as my saviour and pushed it out the front and began to ride down the road. I needed the open road just like Dennis Hopper, Peter Fonda and Jack Nicholson wearing a football helmet. I decided to ride down to the beach and then follow it into town past my treasured basketball courts, the home of many bets against the muse and animated discussions revolving the opposite sex with my brother and associate-at-large only known as ‘The Glove,’ and then onto the path which would meander up past the beach, boats, brewery and anything else that started with B.

I rode slowly on the bicycle that resembled an old ladies machine of speed, all custom red with rusted handlebars and brakes that would only work if you pedalled the opposite way in a sudden jerking motion. I kept pedalling and got to the train tracks that once crossed meant that you were officially in beach territory. The tracks were seldom used and if they were it was either cargo or children’s Hogwarts Express junkets that would carry an unusual amount of children wearing glasses and wands. At first we didn’t understand was what going on and thought it some weird cult or training of an invading army that would be let loose on unsuspecting residents but some lady with two blue heeler dogs was quick to point out that this was a literary reference and that we were heathens if we didn’t understand the significance. This woman of dogs was a constant at the local beach, with the three hippies who played their bongo drums in the summer breeze and the personal trainers who would yell at the slightly overweight ladies whilst pumping out ‘inspirational’ techno music. As much as we wanted the women to lose weight it ruined the atmosphere and the yelling produced several flashbacks of football training that didn’t sit well with me.

So in the summer time we would play basketball barefoot around five in the afternoon next to the beach and the smell of salt. The sun would get ready to move on and we’d play to our hearts content talking and laughing and soaking in the whole atmosphere. Myself, the brother and ‘The Glove.’ Past incidents of laughter and sadness would be relived and re-enacted between us like a group of actors travelling from town to town with their one act dramatic monologues hoping to change the world. Just once.

I pedalled softly over the train tracks and kept going via the path past the basketball courts with the beach to the left of me over the grass and dunes. The waves echoed away and I decided to find a place to sit on the limestone wall that looked onto the beach and separated the human swimming and recreation area to the dog beach. I placed my bike down and sat quietly.

I thought a lot of things in those hours whilst I waited for the sun to tell me to go home. Ike Turner was actually a genius musician who had developed a unique way of playing the piano whilst with BB King. How did Albert Camus manage to get all the coolest titles to his pieces of work? The Fall, The Rebel, The Outsider. The man had an uncanny knack. If I was wanted to write properly then could I do so uncensored without fear of reprisals. I’d have to go back to the offices of H&O, be a little more assertive and get things straightened out. What ever happened to that novel I was going to write that would have a separate chapter based on the songs in the Ocean Songs album by The Dirty Three? If I was to live at the bottom of the ocean who would I meet? Where is the farm I wanted to live in and walk around wearing leather wrist guards and cursing, whilst rolling tobacco? Would I ever get another Muse so that I would spend all my time writing to her hoping to impress when in fact the words would be burned at the end of every year. What exactly was Duende and was I feeling it right at this very moment?

As the sun touched the water, I remembered being told that it would be good luck if you were in the water also at that same time. I got up and began walking towards the pier and passed the resident woman with her two dogs.
“A perfect time to let go,” she said as we passed. The two dogs were sharing a branch and dragging it along as she strode past.
I looked at the ocean and the pier made of rocks and began to run towards it as fast as I could, out into the sea.

Chapter 7 - The Nightpeople

2005-09-26T23:08:00.000+08:00

It was becoming an increasingly desperate situation walking in the cold from a night out with friends and acquaintances. No means of transport. Home about a forty minute drive away, and still the nagging sensation of concocted plans whispering in my ear. My collective mental state was deteriorating and unfortunately I was also privy to this information. Yet, I wasn’t walking alone and this was a blessing. An associate only known to me as Sadler was also dragging his feet along the side of the road, mumbling something about fried chicken and couches. He was a chance meeting on a road outside a bar where we had met, exchanged nods, and moved liked the fog into another bar. He had just finished playing an accompaniment to a Brazilian caporeira troupe where he provided background music to the wild kicking and clapping of the participants. Originally caporeira was a form of martial arts that was disguised as dance, and this group that Sadler unwittingly joined had become somewhat anarcharistic and would frequently begin dancing and contorting like a group of chimpanzees on acid, all scampering and teeth bared. Sadler was indeed a brave man.

My face was feeling rather chilled and I stopped outside a book shop and stared in wonderment. Sadler also stopped and turned to me,
“The night has been vicious my friend. You were lucky that I found you.”
I nodded in agreement. The doppelganger had also spoke of such things and now Sadler too had seen into the future and also the past and was not hesitating to tell me.
He continued,
“I need some green tea. Did you know that it stops ovarian cancer? A remarkable discovery. How was your night man? The last time I saw you was too long ago.”
This was true. I hadn’t seen the man for months. His beard had grown thick and his eyes a little more alive than usual. I wasn’t going to ask for details but I knew things were good for him. They always were.
“Green tea sounds good. Where exactly is your house? I was thinking… And then this thought hit me that I don’t need revenge. This is how I want to be remembered.”
The words were definitely incoherent and I’m trying to be honest and as objective as a narrator can. The evenings drugs were mixing in separate thoughts with speech and the results looked ugly. All through the night this had occurred. If it wasn’t the thoughts in a cocktail of disaster, then I would invariably see people and mistake them for people I had known in the past. At one outdoor festival I would have tapped about five people on the shoulder with the belief that they were ex-friends, ex-girlfriends and even pigeons and realised the mistake I had made before it was too late. Were these ghosts?

Sadler smiled knowingly. I continued,
“I have begun to write. I am unsure of the purpose and only the few that matter know of its existence, but it could end up being the death of me as I write about the story, the story seems to hatch new ways of creating a demise for the narrator, which could be me.”
“There is no need to worry. Let me check this work. I will send word if there are problems but there is no need to fret. Just make sure you return phone calls and stay outside. James Dean used to sit on benches at night with Eartha Kitt and just watch people. I suggest you do the same. Get some clarity.”
These last words of Sadler were very concise and he was right. The speed had started to drain out of my body and I was becoming a little limp. We turned away from the illuminated book store and continued our journey back to his place. He would drive me back to another friends place where my car was parked. The front door was to be left open and a couch waiting for me to sleep on. Well that was the agreement at midnight when my friend had disappeared and left me alone with strangers.

We walked up a slight rise and finally arrived at Sadler’s abode. It was hard to distinguish what the place actually looked like due to the darkness but we walked up some stairs into the entrance of his flat.
“Green tea?”
“I’m sorry. I think I need to get home,” I replied wearily.
And I did need to go home. If this was an epilogue to ‘Composure,’ then the situation was almost prophetic. I winced as I turned out of Sadler’s doorway whilst he rummaged through several envelopes and magazines to find his girlfriend’s car keys. My eyes hurt and my stomach was cramping. The words of a girl had suddenly come into my memory as I walked down the stairs about being jealous because she would get upset about not getting what she wanted. I pondered this for a moment and realised a million different answers that I could have given at that particular moment but didn’t. And then the night slipped away and I woke up in a travelling car with Sadler at the wheel and the sunrise only a blink away. We both nodded to each other and I hoped for the best.

Chapter 6 - Revenge comes in expected forms

2005-09-22T22:51:00.000+08:00

It was a Mary Blume article on Carrier Pigeons that first drew me into the complex world of military strategy and birds. Carrier pigeons had been first used by one of history’s greatest general’s, Noah, and later used by Ghengis Khan, Charlemagne and in the 1870 siege of Paris against an advancing Prussian army. Pigeons were reportedly credited with saving the entire nation of France in this 1870 battle of epic proportions. They endured the bitter cold and even falcons trained to intercept them. Hence the pigeon’s natural nemesis was also created which has led to many arguments and violent disputes within the Victorian International Pigeon Association of Racing or commonly known as VIPAR. One dispute led an angry Bill Stanfield to brandish his samurai sword and threaten to behead five pigeons of Con Oakley in a ritualised killing after a Falcon had been smuggled into one of the masses disguised as a pigeon, resplendid with dyed wings and a coloured beak.

The pigeons were the toast of the French nation after their heroics in 1870 where they grabbed the French nation with their talons and dragged its dying carcass high above the clouds to freedom. They were rewarded with a bronze statue in the heart of Paris in 1905 but the occupying Nazi’s being the cold, heartless bastards that they were, melted the statue with flamethrowers and thus the legend of the pigeon also dissipated away from the collective psyche of the French. This was similar to the likes of French cyclists Charly Mottet, Thierry Claveyrolet, Pascal Lino and other luminaries of the seminal French cycling team RMO who managed to dominate many a Tour de France in the Paris sunshine but also faded away in a series of failed suicides, dates with illicit drugs and failed employment opportunities. If pigeons could ride the Tour de France, they would be called PMO and they would surely do so without performance enhancing drugs relying instead on pure heart and spirit that many in the peleton now lack.

So as got off my bed and strode purposely out into the backyard, all weeds and misplaced slabs of concrete, I saw my pride and joy in their custom built avery with airconditioning, fresh food and water and a mini hi-fi system playing dolphin noises which reputedly calmed the birds down into a meditative state. Eyeing the carrier pigeons I felt it necessary to reply to my humiliating episode at H&O offices. They would deliver a threat. Something that would make the mice wheel stop in its tracks and the whiskers twitch nervously. I decided amongst the weeds that it would be a plain and simple kidnapping. Who was the intended victim I was unsure of but they would be someone important to H&O. Someone important enough to derail this deliverer of pulp to the masses. They would become redundant, a forgotten tale of yesteryear, only murmured during inebriated states. I would send a message stating the obvious but it would have to wait. The label of ‘Disgruntled job interviewee on kidnapping rampage,’ didn’t appeal and the pigeons needed training so I began to devise a combined schedule of training and kidnapping. A timetable of sorts that would have myself and the pigeons in the peak of our mental and physical capabilities to battle the combined wits of H and O. The thought of targeting the Mekon assistant was the most realistic of kidnapping targets however this was too easy, and maybe he actually was a Mekon and thus the whole alien angle could prove to be a problem. I needed someone higher.

James Benjamin looked a likely target and also someone that I could easily replace as a writer. I would chain him to a computer as my own form of torture and play him NWA’s Greatest Hits on repeat complete with the bonus remixes for ‘Straight Outta Compton’ and ‘Express Yourself.’ He would surely snap. I knew he felt a zen-like connection to a typewriter of any persuasion, so the combination of technology and hip hop was surely enough to make him uncomfortable. Yet I knew he was made of sterner stuff and this proved the problem. His adventures were legend and the idea of him churning out pages and pages under the name Cutbyscissors, although appealing was unrealistic.
I was in an awkward position and it became obvious it was all about the plans man. Our stupid and ridiculous plans.

Chapter 5 - Distractions and diversions (Tribute to Aaron Wachholz)

2005-09-22T21:26:00.000+08:00

I arrived home mid afternoon, my pad of writing in my hand with a strange amount of verse that I could not recall actually writing. I looked in the letterbox. Another package had arrived from America. My doppelganger had sent me word that things were running smoothly and that help would be on its way. That’s if you needed it. This was written in handwriting on the front next to the stamp.

The question of the doppelganger would arrive at strange times in the night and was an interesting topic for musing on long walks home from the pub. This and constantly trying to remember the lyric, “We all know your soft cos we’ve all seen you dancing, we all know your heart cos we’ve all seen you drinking from noon until noon again.” However this would end up with various reworkings and remixes that would end up in the scrapheap that was taught in the Arts course, ‘Drunken creative thoughts 101.’

But the doppelganger was something else. It was an understanding. It was the idea that someone on the planet, was thinking exactly what you were thinking on the other side of the sea. My doppelganger, much like a Sam Friday character or a Neal Cassidy, was a potential ally in this somewhat drawn out prose. But I couldn’t let him be involved. He was a person that was neither here nor there. He would occasionally perform Mick Jagger impersonations with great gusto when you least expected it and once remarked to a girl whilst having sex that she brush her teeth or she could leave. He had six films hidden in wooden trunks in various San Diego beach communities. Some whispered in the halls of the boarding house that he was a vagabond, but this was followed with a smile and people knew where each other stood.

The doppelganger; part Cherokee, part daredevil, part tortured spirit spoke to many. His last package was postmarked from the City of Angels and I can only suspect that this was an omen. I eyed the yellow package and brought it into the house. The other housemates were home with varying degrees of usefulness. On the floor was a piece of non-fiction titled ‘How To Make It In Hollywood.’ All the references to Los Angeles was starting to pique my interest which was a welcome addition to my thought process due to the fact that I had been entertaining homicidal thoughts regarding Mekon looking personal assistants and people with initials H and O. I picked the book out and the pages fell out onto the floor spreading like a dropped bottle of milk at the supermarket which usually leaves you backing away and pretending nothing happened, whilst a small child points at the white liquid and then at you like a member of the Starchamber commissioning your execution for treason related acts. As I stooped to pick up the remnants of the book, my fellow resident of Hindsight Avenue slinked into the room.
“Someone called for you. The line broke up a bit but I think it was from overseas.”
“Really? Who was it?” I questioned feeling anxious. Now the coincidences were becoming too uncanny.
“Dunno. I’m going to walk the dog. Catcha.”
I stood bewildered and looked at the empty doorway. I heard the elephant trodden thumping down the hall as the other resident went looking for socks as he usually did. I even gave him two of my pairs but this didn’t stop the loud stamping. I thought it may cushion the impact.

I though of the doppelganger. He operated on omens. He knew what the score was. Something was amiss in our equilibrium and he must of called to correct things. I didn’t have any means of contact but for his last address. Word needed to be sent and the carrier pigeons stored out the back would not make the journey in time. Plus they could come in handy with this whole H&O debacle that was slowly simmering in my mind.
It’s a treacherous road that looks to have unfolded. I walked into my room with pages in my hand, closed the door and opened up the package. Inside was a copy of Yo La Tengo’s Prisoner of Love, a best of compilation and something that the doppelganger would usually revile. Things were beginning to unravel. The doppelganger had worn this band’s shirt when we shook hands and went our separate ways down at Venice Beach.

I lay on my end and resigned to the fact that I was making things too complicated for myself and buried my head in the pillow. The doppelganger was out there. That was all that needed to be known and I looked at the ceiling and spoke aloud, but no words came out. What I meant to say was thankyou.

Chapter 4 - When cherry blossoms explode

2005-09-20T23:05:00.000+08:00

“People who get up early in the morning cause war, death and famine.”

This particular quote by Banksy had puzzled me for several months. The first reaction is the, ‘Do I wake up early?’ idea, a moment of self-reflection. Yet after a moment, you realise that these are the words of a graffiti artist born in Bristol and now residing somewhere in London, who aint mean shit to you and me. It is then that you realise that you couldn’t care less for these words and realise that words could be dangerous things. Words could produce an effect that would be visible for years to come.

It was with this philosophical musing that I began to plan my strategy of revenge as I walked to the train station. I was caught unaware and maybe even a little naïve arriving at H&O’s offices but now clarity had sunk in like a cold drink that bites your own teeth. The plan had to be crafty and somewhat ingenious as management of H&O had a reputation. A reputation of being ruthless, playing pool listening to country music and criticising the rest of the room whilst they hung in the shadows. It was the very nature of every clique. A quick repartee normally spoken in tongues followed by a muffled laughter and an accusatory glance at the victim, who would basically have their day or night ruined due to feelings of insecurity that plague every human being. So this was the scenario. It occurred to me that everyone will have a nemesis at sometime in their life and I was now switching mine.

The previous nemesis resided at work. It was the owner of a small delicatessen specialising in Turkish foods. Why he was my nemesis was due to the basic fact that as I cleaned the shopping center every afternoon I would have him talking about how to ‘get’ women and then ‘treat’ them, usually with a raised fist indicating physical violence was involved. To have to hear this small man discuss how he was a superior being and that all women were beneath him was somewhat of a bore. I tried not to encourage him and would avoid him at all costs however at some time during the three hour shift he would call me over and like a cow to the slaughter I would mosey on to the counter and then get the whole diatribe again. It’s funny with small talk in that if it’s with the same person, the subject will never change and that ‘common ground’ you’ve reached will remain just that for ever or until you finally snap and punch the person whilst wailing, “You’ve wasted ten seconds of my life every day for the last six months!” But don’t get me wrong. I’m not some born-again male feminist who believes that everyone should live harmoniously with each other until death does part, but I suffered through the endless repetition.

With the nemesis changing, it was now H&O that would be my rival. By stating that they were now the ‘nemesis’ meant that any time the name would be mentioned I would listen in with greater intent. I would sharpen knives in my brain concocting somewhat psychotic episodes which in the end would never see the light of day. As I walked down into the train station I placed my headphones on and began listening to The Harrison Ford Effect. My mind needed slowing down and whilst the irony of listening to The Harrison Ford Effect and the idea of ‘slowness’ amused me for a second, the train arrived and I stepped inside, finding a lonely seat.

I carried my pad and pen just for occasions like this. I couldn’t handle the hour train ride through specific zones and therefore doing nothing. So I wrote.

Future prediction of me (2002)

That the tube stations of the future will be like an aquarium – but they will be massive television screens that show the trees and the sky, the clouds, the birds, the thunderstorms. The everyday things that are so taken for granted.
So when we live underground we will look up and be positioned into a false sense of security so that all our tensions and stresses will be alleviated and all become hopeful that one day we will be there. Oh how I wish I could see those days again. To feel the sun on my face and the calm. The thought that nothing exists in the world outside my fishbowl that I live in (my perpetual state of bliss) – reading, writing, looking at pulp, escaping to romance.
Turn those pages and make it look as though you are creating something, moulding something. Something sublime. Something that will effect someone in that one way that it will last them the rest of their lives in just the corner of their hearts. We all need something to hold onto. WE ALL NEED HOPE.

I looked down at the scrawl. Was this me writing or a figment of my imagination. I don’t remember writing this? What year are we in now? The ghosts walked straight through me and whilst I thought of revenge my mind drifted over to the low side of the road.
“The next station stop is…”
I rose from my seat.

Chapter 3 - The Vampire Racecourse

2005-09-19T15:53:00.000+08:00

I didn’t realise that flossing your teeth actually decreased your health to the extent that my normal age and my “healthy” age didn’t coincide. But then again here I was in the lounge room, an umbrella in the corner next to the single sofa trying to piece together what exactly happened today.

Apart from the splitting headache creeping through my cerebral cortex down to my eyes, I reminisced over my job interview with the H&O offices. The management team had convened with me early at 10.37 in the morning. It was at their request even though the time looked peculiar. I was ushered into the boardroom by a man who was around five foot but had an unusually big head, much like the science fiction Mekon race that attempted on many occasions to take over the world rather unsuccessfully. The last attempt at trying to take over Earth featured a group disguised as a troupe of Latin musicians, however the protruding heads were a dead giveaway and as they were booed off the stage during one of their ill-fated gigs, the lack of acclaim affected one member of the group so much that he ripped off the plastic façade covering his head and leapt into the crowd. It seemed that the Mekon also had pride which ended up being their undoing.

The interview commenced.
“We believe you write, Cutbyscissors?” snarled O.
“Yes,”
“But looking at your file you appear to be someone without imagination, a passenger, a tourist even. Your works are misinterpreted by many. They see it as love, or as some semblance of the past that you have yet to reconcile with. Is this true?”
“Well yes in some ways…” I was cut off.
“But this is the problem. We already have one of those on the books and he is considered a genius. What you are is something that is not required as of yet. However I feel that this may not be the last meeting with Cutbyscissors.”
“But how can I justify my writing? I’ve used some things that have happened to me in the past as inspiration, but don’t get me wrong, it’s not meant to cause harm or place any false assumptions on others. I just wanted to write something down on paper that would mean something to me.” It sounded like I was pleading.
“The readers better not get their hopes up then for your sake,” replied O.

O stood up and motioned me to the door.
“Thankyou for your time,” I remarked casually walking past O and casting a sideways glance at H who seemed to be a mute yet I was not so sure.
One meeting, equating to one stiff rejection. I felt my forehead throbbing. As I walked down the fire escape stairs I replayed the scene in my head. I felt as though some riposte was necessary, however this was not the time or even the place really.
A man with a crazed look walked past me up the stairs, an unusual sighting for a fire escape. The Hank Griffin hat was unmistakable, yet I was not going to pursue this avenue.

I reached the bottom of the stairs and opened the door gently leading into the real world, with feet pounding the concrete, and clouds on the horizon enveloping the buildings of financial institutions. I looked up. The throbbing in my head had taken a lunch break and I looked across the road at the ensuing mass moving on the footpath.I breathed slowly and began walking in the direction of the nearest train station. Burroughs used to talk about those people that sucked the very essence out of you and left you hanging on a clothesline waiting to be flung off by an errant wind. The vampires he said, were dangerous and best left alone. I understood now that feeling as I walked down the road to catch the train home. I’d taken the day off work for the clandestine meeting at the H&O offices and now I had to reassess my options.

Chapter 2 - It all ended with a smile

2005-09-17T20:06:00.000+08:00

We drifted through long wasted days in the maze of the city. I had met her at the pub after work one day and we sat outside despite the chill in the air, on a pair of seats and a table with an umbrella, which was a contradiction of sorts considering the weather. Next to us was a levy and then a mass of water, all turgid brown flowing like coffee next to us.

Even before I could say something with my scarf wrapped tight and the beanie on my head disguising a very bad haircut given to me by my aunt who believed that she was a hairdresser in a previous life, the umbrella lifted off the table and flew into the water. We watched in wonderment as the umbrella bobbed up and down in the same spot not looking to move, almost pleading with us to rescue it. I looked at my matchbox and had another cigarette.
“I’m thinking of travelling to Greece,” she said.
I had no conviction to go to any country in the Mediterranean. Maybe it was because the children a friend had taught that were of a particular origin to a country in the Mediterranean gave him the shits and therefore he passed on the divine knowledge to me that they were all ‘scum.’
“Why?”
“Why not. I’ve been to thirty five countries and I want more.”
Her appetite was insatiable for countries. Her passport actually had a list of countries that she’d been to and she was very disappointed in the fact that with the advent of the European Union, stamps were no longer given to you by customs if you had a European passport travelling in Europe.

“Did you see that umbrella? I wonder where it will end up? I wonder what is actually in the river?”
“I used to dive. I got my dive master in Egypt,” she said excitedly as though transported into the water at that very moment swimming with clownfish not really listening to me but having a conversation with herself.
“Dive master? Sounds kinda Jedi,” I said trying to inject some humour into the conversation and maybe subconsciously trying to get off the topic as it highlighted my own inadequacies of less adventurous travel.
“I could dive into that river and find the umbrella for you. In Egypt where I was staying we would dive around these wrecks and the things you would see! The strangest was a toaster in the middle of the ocean. I couldn’t believe it.”
I thought about this and actually wondered would it be a two slice toaster or four slice?

Before I could pose this question regarding the notion of the toaster the umbrella, which had moved quite slowly to this point, began to take water. The crew were unable to bail out the coffee in time and slowly it sunk like the Titanic of umbrellas to live a life of forgotten hope and become a spectacle for ‘dive masters.’
The conversation continued into the night, and we moved indoors leaving a table and chairs now without an umbrella. The song, ‘The Golden Age,’ by Beck began on the jukebox as if on cue.
“So what of this writing. Will you write me something?”
Somewhere in the conversation I’d let slip the idea of approaching the H&O offices, who had gained a reputation as being publishers of some big name writers. Word was that they were a ruthless bunch that were able to smile and say comforting words to your face whilst driving the knife in your back.

“Ummmm…I guess I can,” I replied sheepishly trying to control my shaking hands due to the weekend’s activities. It was Monday. “Do you read much?”
“Used to. Not much now. Don’t have the time really.”
Maybe then she wouldn’t have time to read my stuff.
“I’m not so good. Like I can write and all and I’ve got all these pads of random things but I don’t want people to read them you know. It’s kinda personal but also I guess I don’t want to be rejected. I want people to understand me but then I don’t like talking to people or writing to them. I try to write on the train to and from work. Looking at all the stops over and over again cut off to the world by your ipod seems to be a waste of time.”
“Can you write me a letter then?” she asked sipping her lemon, lime bitters.
“Yeah sure,” I said pondering where this gambit may lead me.
“I think I’m gonna quit my job,” She said suddenly and quite unexpectedly. “I just asked for leave for three days because I’m going away to China in the summer holidays but the prick said no even though all these other saps get days off to go to their tropical resorts. What do I have to do at that place?”

The words trailed off into the distance like the umbrella. The soothing tones of Tex Perkins on the jukebox, all grizzled and heartbroken caught my attention. Something about melting in the sun was being sung. I looked at the clock on the wall and decided to best leave. The weekend had caught up with me, with near confrontations, hits and misses and a conversation with a man wearing a red Rambo-esque bandanna.

I looked at my cigarette.
“I gotta go. I’m pretty tired and I’m up early tomorrow. Any plans for the week?”
She looked at me with surprised eyes that I was leaving. These meetings usually led us back to one of our homes where we would invariably have sex, play chess, listen to The Kinks, and then cook home made pizzas and in that order.
“Ok then, I’ll see you around,”
And so I left the pub and headed for the shops to buy an umbrella. Not the one for personal use but the outdoor setting kind. I had experienced too much loss in one afternoon and I needed something to hold on to.

Chapter 1 - Composure

2005-09-06T10:14:00.000+08:00

When you tell a person that he is “The ugliest person in the world” it’s a big call. And that very event occurred in the space of one very cold night in a supposedly trendy night spot in London.

The victim was a male of Caucasian complexion, spotty face, greasy hair that hung over his eyes and a red Rambo-esque bandana, come headband, the usual worn by football players to keep their locks out of there sight of vision. Many a football player has succumbed to this problem of having their eyes whipped by their hair when lining up for an important penalty. The famous Peruvian winger, Mancuso was a particular victim numerous times, who was indeed shot by an incensed manager in the Peruvian Prima Liga because of his lack of goal scoring prowess invariably blamed on his hair. This not only served as motivation for football players all over the world to honour Mancuso by wearing the headband, but it also had a practical use.

“The ugliest man in the world,” didn’t have a name, but he had a headband and what he also had was female company. Now before you get all righteous and claim that jealousy has played some part in this story, just think maybe this guy was a crack dealer and those two beautiful girls with him were there against their will and were in fact in the clutches of a drug dependency that no human could survive and therefore for the pleasure of their company they received meagre amounts of weaponised psychotropic hallucinogens to keep them sane?

Or maybe we were a group of lame ass nobodies that needed to make this night exciting. So when on the main dancefloor, and in between being hassled for drugs because for some reason we looked like ‘drug dealers,’ we saw our target and zeroed in on him.

That sweaty looking guy dancing with the two goddesses looked suspicious. His blemished face glowed with every breath as he swayed to the thumping music. The music was particularly hypnotic and maybe it had something to do with the speakers that had been placed inside the floor. The bass was enough to make you lose orientation as soon as you stepped on a speaker cased in plastic, like a land mine waiting for unsuspecting victims. Perhaps this could account for “The ugliest man in the world’s” crap dancing, and our reluctance to venture out into the crowd. But back to the blemishes, he starting feeling one of the girl’s legs suggestively gliding his hands around those tiny hips like a lech and she did not resist, but looked to be actually enjoying this attention.

I thought at a split second to take a photo. Accompanying me for the night’s adventure was a Kodak disposable camera with 24 shots with the added bonus of a flash, which would become my undoing in many ways. I pointed the camera like a CIA spy straight from an eastern European sojourn and clicked. The rabbit in the headlights look from the victim was priceless but then came something totally unexpected. ‘The ugliest man in the world’ had now been awoken from a lustful exchange with the beauty and came heading towards me.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Ummm…nothing,” came my feeble response.
Cue the two beauties looking at me and several of my cohorts in disgust.
“Give me that camera,”
“What?” The music was loud, speakers in the floor and all.
“Give me the fucking camera…”
“Oh… no…(I woke up)…fuck you,”
He now tries to grab the camera where I hypnotically look to give it to him and then snatch it back, like when you trick someone to shake your hand but as they lunge you put the hand through your hair.
It’s looking like the night which had started with some beers and a black cab ride that costed a mint is now heading into oblivion. Now cue deep intense staring between our two leads coupled with the beauties starting to look very agitated. Maybe they hadn’t been given their drugs?

Now “The ugliest man in the world,” who is probably our age anyway, looks for some support like an overwhelmed wrestler in a tag team wrestling match. I actually do the same and look around too.
Cue support.
“Now what the fuck are you going to do, with seven of us here and you by yourself? You’re the fucking ugliest man in the world. Fuck off!”
Silence, well between us anyway. The music was still thumping.
This could be ugly. The two beauties could not only be dependent on him but are also his bodyguards. Their ninja training in the Himalayas had prepared them for moment just like this when their master would be threatened by low lifes like us.
But that wasn’t me retorting. I wish it was. The lines were golden and delivered with such menace no living soul would want to mess with a motley group of drugged out crazies that was us.

And then ‘The ugliest man in the world’ drifted back into the crowd and tried to dance with his two sirens. But something had happened. The loving atmosphere (or was it dependence?) had been broken. The two sirens continued to shoot daggers at us with their eyes but we all leaned up against the wall with our beers and smiled to ourselves. The smoke machine in particularly was on overdrive so the first events of the evening drifted off in a cloud of chemical interaction. My friends on the left of me were having ‘snow cones,’ and I looked at that camera thinking of how this piece of technology could have been my undoing..
One of the friends (the menacing one who had done the rescuing, was pretty lanky, had dreadlocks and wore a hat that I wanted), slapped my back and grinned.
“Wasn’t that dude the ugliest man in the world?”
“He was…” I smiled and tried to remain composed.

A special salutation from cutbyscissors

2005-09-05T23:31:00.000+08:00

It was from a recovered trashcan that saw the birth of the movement known as cutbyscissors.

From a simple nod to a handshake, passed on from a metro ticket to a letter, and then came an e-mail to a lonesome troubadour who clung to his typewrite as though life and death spread from the keys as they hit the ribbon. Supposedly he was wearing a pink bath robe.

It saw the start of a conglomerate that dealt with a range of personalities living from luxury to squalor, from cleaning public toilets to teaching English at a local secondary college. Male and female, lovers and enemies, haters and hopers. They joined with a universal ideal that change was coming and through words of light something would happen. It began years ago and the trashcan that gave birth to a word turned into a sentence, then a paragraph, then a story.