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Stuff I Wrote....

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Author Topic: Stuff I Wrote....  (Read 763 times)
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« Reply #30 on: June 10, 2008, 02:10:22 pm »

I never really liked the Kinks so much. I always their music kinda sucked. Roll Eyes
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Using rocks and minerals to heal the earth and us.

« Reply #31 on: July 06, 2009, 03:46:48 pm »

Okay!  So now it's more than a year after the last post...   Here's a bit of my story... now about 40,000 words into it...

North London – 1967
I hadn’t seen Terry Daly for months and as I came to the familiar front gate on this June evening I was thrilled to hear the music rollicking out from every crevice of the Daly’s little home in Roland Park Terrace.   The walk from my place didn’t take that long but I covered years in my thoughts on the way.


I first met him in ‘61, after my brothers ditched some sort of scout meeting and they ducked down our back alley with Terry for a smoke and some dirty talk.  I was sitting on our back steps and their voices drew me to the fence to listen in.   
I couldn’t see them, but I could tell this bloke Terry had his back to the boards I was leaning on.  I heard him telling a story about a girl who used to live on the next street and something he said made me wish I was that girl, if only to have him talk about me with so much kindness.  This was one of the few times I’d ever heard a boy speak kindly.  Just like always, my brother Jimmy said something nasty and cruel, and George laughed.  Terry was silent. 
I saw a knot-hole by Jimmy’s back and an idea sprang up so fast, I didn’t think about it, but grabbed a long stick and shoved it through the hole.  Jimmy screamed and cursed and snapped the end of the stick off.
 He jumped up on the fence and yelled “Pearl, I’ll kill ya!”
“Try it!” I shrieked back, “You’re a rotten sod!  Why are you so mean?!”  I saw George’s and Terry’s heads pop up over the top now. 
Terry was grinning from ear to ear.  “A real Pearl!” he laughed
Jimmy hopped down and I knew he was headed for the gate.  I didn’t move.  For Terry to see me run would have killed me, but I knew Jimmy probably would get me good if I didn’t run.   In three seconds Jimmy was charging at me and George and Terry were on his heels.  I stood my ground with my finger in the air, pointing at the sky. 
With the biggest, deepest voice my twelve year old throat could muster, I shouted “Jimmy, God doesn’t like meanness!  You apologize to everybody!  Right now!”  Jimmy stopped in his tracks and George plowed into him, knocking them both to the ground at my feet. 
Terry stood behind them for only a moment, then he reached for my hand.  When I put my hand in his, I knew we were friends, and it felt like an electric current was running up my arm.  He stepped over Jimmy’s back and stood next to me and his look of admiration beaming down at me made me feel powerful.  He was tall, and by far, the most fascinating boy I had ever laid eyes on.   He had long shiny brown hair and strange intense grey-brown eyes with high arching brows.  His smile came and went and flashed back again, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find words.  I must have stared at his mouth, because later I remembered it so clearly.   I walked down the alley with him as he left and waved him down the street. He’d asked me if I wanted to go with him but I wasn’t supposed to leave.  I almost ran after him when he got to the corner of the road.

I'll try to get back more regularly now...

Bless you all

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Thus ye may find in thy mental and spiritual self, ye can make thyself just as happy or just as miserable as ye like. How miserable do ye want to be?......For you GROW to heaven, you don't GO to heaven. It is within thine own conscience that ye grow there.

Edgar Cayce
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Posts: 1688

Using rocks and minerals to heal the earth and us.

« Reply #32 on: August 30, 2009, 05:42:06 am »

Well I guess Ill post this ..from the book I'm working on... an excerpt from chapter 3 I think..

The story is told in first-person by 2 people..Pearl and Terry, she 12 and he 15 when they meet on page one. 

She speaks from age 12 when they meet, to age 18 when they become lovers.
He speaks from age 15 to around age 50....

The year before I met Pearl, when I was fourteen, I had been carrying on a strange and wonderful thing with a tall sexy girl named Angela.  She had just turned fifteen and she would come out her window late at night with a blanket and we would go anywhere we could find to do it.   She’d have her hand in my trousers as we walked.  We were pretty good at shutting out the world for our “trip to heaven”, as she called it, and she always went home really happy. 
Oh, she was something fantastic, and she tasted like some divine kind of food I was always hungry for.  She liked the taste of me too!  I can’t believe we never got caught.  She would swipe a johnny from her older sister Sherry’s stash.  We’d do everything we could think of before finally I’d put it on.  We knew girls that had got pregnant and we both knew full well if that happened it would be the end of our fun.  Later Sherry found out about us and she started giving me the come-on as well, so I backed off. 

By 1963 it seemed like every girl I met was eyeing me like a Sunday roast.  Maybe that was one reason I enjoyed Pearl so much when I met her.  She was truly brilliant and we could be great friends, but there was no sex between us, no game, so I knew it was all real.

I found out that Sherry worked at a weekly teen magazine called POPS.  I was eighteen when I left school in ’64.  I had some pretty good photos by then, so I put together a portfolio and made an appointment to show them to her.
POPS was a world of racks of clothes, long-legged birds doing office jobs, elegantly clad boys who looked as if they had just stepped off the pages of history books, long hallways packed with photos of pop stars and a kaleidoscope of colours and music.  At the back of a rabbit warren of offices, each decorated more insanely than the last, I found Sherry, who at twenty appeared to be the mistress of the art and photo department.

She called in this bloke Julian from their photo lab, and they looked at my pictures for a half hour or so.  Julian and Sherry got very excited and they offered me a job on the spot.  They had me go buy some new clothes because right away I was sent to posh parties and clubs, shooting everyone in their “natural habitat”, if you could say that about such unnatural people.  I would shoot and drink and shoot and drink and later I’d be so pissed I couldn’t remember taking half the pictures I ended up with. 

Julian let me share a darkroom and gave me a key, so I usually ended up working through the night.  My photos were published weekly on a bloody awful page called “Out Late”.  They weren’t too bad actually, and they were noticed by other magazines.
I used my first pay to buy another camera, a good Japanese SLR, so I had a nice choice of equipment.  The previous guy who’d done my job had been fired for drugs, but from what I saw around POPS, to be canned he would’ve had to have been a glutton of epic proportions.
It was an amazing time.  I would see the same faces night after night.  I got these posh birds and their boyfriends looking their best, and never shot to embarrass them, so after a while they began to trust me. 

In the clubs the mix was insane and the drink and drugs caused havoc for some of them.  They were all crazy to get with the pop musicians, who were only too happy to comply, if they weren’t so pissed they were past it.

One night as I was leaving a club I saw two bedraggled young things I recognized from the parties I’d been shooting.  One had a bloody lip and a swollen eye, and they were both crying their eyes out with their mascara running stripes down their faces.  I got a cab, which POPS always paid for and dropped them in Belgravia on my way home. 

They told me they’d gone with that bastard drummer Andrew Welles to his big Rolls, and when he couldn’t get it up, he slammed his fist into the tall one’s face.  I swore to myself I’d get his arse if I could.  A fortnight later providence gave me the opportunity.

I was at Annabelle’s quite late and was headed for the gents.  I passed a door that led to the back alley and heard a scream, so I took a look. 

There he was with trousers down, a girl on her knees in front of him.  He had her hair twisted up in both fists as he was pumping her face.  I could hear she was crying. 

I walked over and stood right behind her and waited for him to see me.  In a moment he opened his stinking little eyes and when he saw me he smiled an evil slimy grin.  I slugged him a good one in the face.  He jumped and let her go, but she was so startled she bit him good and hard.  He went out cold.  I noticed with great satisfaction there was blood trickling from both his nose and his ****.

I took her inside to the ladies loo and I noticed Frank Riordan from the Mirror hanging about and told him to grab his camera and get out to the alley quick if he wanted some good shots. 
“Why don’t you want to shoot it if it’s so good?”  Frank said, and I told him I’d rather shoot a car crash, to tell you the truth.

Later he offered to split what he’d made off the pictures, but I wasn’t interested.  After that from time to time I would see Welles around, and he always sidled away with a very sobered look on his ugly face.  Later I’d heard he tried to buy the negatives.

At one dripping rich party Amanda Wynter asked me to shoot her the next day.  A birthday portrait for a boyfriend, she said.  When I arrived at her family’s gigantic house she took me upstairs to an antique garden room on the roof.  She had a pile of clothes and furs to wear, and told me all the “names”; Marc Bohan, Givenchy, Courreges, Chanel, and more.  They were a bore, but she also had some fabulous vintage Fortuny gowns that made her look like a f*****g goddess. 

She kept pulling off one then putting on the next and I would shoot her.   I began shooting her beautiful **** while she was changing.  Then I shot her **** and pretty soon she was blowing me and I was shooting the top of her head.  We had a romp on top of all those clothes, so it must have been a good half million we were rolling in, what with all the furs and couture gear.  It felt fantastic except for a little Paco Rabanne number made of hard plastic squares all linked together.
The next few days I got at maybe a dozen calls from girlfriends of hers saying they wanted portraits…and a couple of boys as well.   I did my best.

Not long after I sent her the proofs, I got a call from Henry Fielding, art director at GLOSS Magazine.  He asked me to meet him for a drink at his place in Kensington the next night.  The circle drive was packed tight with sleek posh cars and the front door was wide open.  There was quite the crowd, more like a flock of peacocks with the odd gazelle thrown in here and there.
When I got inside he spied me right away and pulled me into an elegant office.
“Nice work, lad!” he said.
I asked what he’d seen. 
He reddened a bit, so I guessed it must be Amanda’s proofs he’d had a look at.
“Well, your POPS work, for one…Brilliant!”
I thanked him and mentioned that I was capable of lot more than party photos.  He poured us each a large brandy.
“Good, good!” he says, “That’s what I’m counting on.  I saw your portfolio in the files at POPS.  Some very worthy fine art, and good street work as well… Very versatile, my boy…”
I thanked him again, and waited to hear the clincher.
“I’d like you to come work for me, lad.”
“Would you?” I said it quietly, but inside I was screaming “Ya WOULD?”
“Indeed I would!  I’ve an opening for someone of your particular talents.  They say you work hard and you always get the proofs in ahead of time.  That’s rare in this business, especially rare of someone with any talent.  Would you care to work at GLOSS?”
“I think I would, sir, yes.  I would very much like that!”
The old geezer shook my hand and poured me another brandy.
« Last Edit: August 30, 2009, 05:45:32 am by rockessence » Report Spam   Logged


Thus ye may find in thy mental and spiritual self, ye can make thyself just as happy or just as miserable as ye like. How miserable do ye want to be?......For you GROW to heaven, you don't GO to heaven. It is within thine own conscience that ye grow there.

Edgar Cayce
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