friends? brothers? friendly brothers? brotherly
friends? the blond one, dressed ubiquitously in baggy blue
jeans and a green day hoody, has his skateboard across his
lap, intently picking at a sticker on its underside. the
younger one looks around constantly, bored, bounces his leg
up and down, singing something under his breath. are they
waiting for somebody? now the blond one looks up and
around, stops drumming his fingers on his board for a
second. he puts his chin in his hands and yawns.
(C) mike curd 2002
blowing across the top of the paper cup before drawing it
back over my teeth with a slight slurp. it looks like a
shiny pool of thick oil and the steam, rising, curling and
wavering in front of me makes my nose damp. if i look long
enough will i see my future in its dark reflection? i can
only see the ceiling above me, bending and twisting gently
as the coffee slips back and forth.
i've drunk over half of the cup and now the white of the
bottom appears as i raise it to my lips. with each
caffeine loaded mouthful the crescent of white becomes
larger, like some pale moon, rising slowly over a quiet sea
in the dead of night. my phone rings and i am interrupted.
(C) mike curd 2002
were, and the man you will be and hope against hope that
the person staring back at you is a combination of the very
best of those two people (as you look at the bags beneath
your eyes and the growth on your chin and wonder if its all
worth it)
(C) mike curd 2002
(C) mike curd 2002
expanse of gloom. with no definition, it shrouds
everything in a thick mist. buildings in the distance fade
out as if being sapped of life. its not hard to imagine
they're in the grip of a nuclear winter, that its actually
midday and life goes on as normal in the dark and cold.
cars drive with their lights on, people walk the streets
clothed thickly and warmly, breath clouding as they plod
along, huddled against the freezing air that sears their
lungs. but its actually just a mid-november evening in
leeds and the dark is oddly comforting. the christmas
lights are up, and bright shop fronts beckon with gaudy
colours, tinsel and trees - spend spend spend, as if the
end really is nigh. i pull my scarf up higher and prepare
to step out into the night.
(C) mike curd 2002
acquaintences, of pals and persons once met; of conquests,
confusions and considerables. people deemed to be worthy
of contact. mates and memories. a strange little
electronic summary of the people in my life and those on
the fringe, listed A-Z like an index of experiences. a
contents page of emotions: an entry under 'C' makes me
profoundly sad - one under 'S' undeniably happy; 'G'
for long lost promise, 'N' for hope of things to come.
(C) mike curd 2002
(authors note : i was watching MTV2 (it could have been MTV
actually) and peoples messages were appearing across the
bottom of the screen. this one caught my eye and inspired
me to write the following. i'd love to hear one day from
whoever sent that message and what it meant to them.)
he pulls back the smooth red knob and lets go, slamming the
ball up and around the top of the machine and watches as it
slows slightly before accelerating back into the game,
bouncing and spinning, flipping and falling among the gaudy
colours and flashing lights. the score display's bright
orange dots change constantly; strobing in front of him
words and figures flicker, reflected in his eyes like some
dot-matrix firestorm. his hands twitch over the flipper
controls like dying fish, sweat forms on his top lip. this
is the last ball. this is the last chance.
on the other side of the room the girl sits, slouched on
the bench seat against the wall. knees together, feet
apart she twirls a plait in her fingers absent-mindedly.
heavily made-up eyes - thick black kohl and bright green
shadow - stare out the window into the middle distance. a
yellow cab slides by as if on ice. stacey is dressed like
one of pops lost pixies. rainbow tights crawl up her thin
legs out of battered converse sneakers topped with fraying
purple laces and slide under a ripped denim mini-skirt
crowned with a studded lime green belt that lies low over
her hips like a fallen halo. her thumbs poke through holes
in a long sleeve black tee that hides under a fluorescent
pink crop-top over which a crumpled brown shirt, buttoned
once beneath her small breasts, looks faintly embarrassed to
be there. stacey's hair, dyed black then blonde then pink
then black again falls over her forehead in a roughly cut
fringe and down past her shoulders in two plaits (she looks
like the evil offspring of kurt cobain and pippi
longstocking is how alex described her once) that are tied
with numerous bright and fluffy bands. around her neck a
tight black choker dangles a small purple jewel
threateningly, accompanied by various beaded necklaces and
a silver cross. a black studded bracelet is backed up by a
chorus of thin plastic bands in a multitude of energetic
colours on her right wrist. a plain black digital watch,
upside down, adorns her left.
suddenly she jumps up.
"alex honey," she intones, in mock Nu-York, "oim gonna get
a soda honey, ok?"
he glances over. the ball falls between the flippers and
is lost. game over flashes repeatedly on the screen as a
hollow, electronic laugh erupts from the machine. alex's
head snaps back.
"shit." he looks back at stacey and smiles. "sure."
(C) mike curd 2003
quarterdeck waiting for my phone to ring - an old mate,
driving somewhere, can't talk now, promises to call me
back. The water laps rhythmically, hypnotically against
the pontoon and gulls circle outside for a minute, crying
and cawing before wheeling away across the dockyard.
Downstream two flat car ferries, bright-white over blue,
slide across the river slowly and carefully, their white
strobes blinking, blinking, blinking.
(c) mike curd 2003
scorches my bottom lip and tongue as I watch those around
me in the bar. A petite girl, perhaps my age, maybe a
touch younger, has just finished a set and quickly packs
away her guitar. She pulls a bright white cardigan over a
plain brown tee shirt and within minutes is gone. I only
caught her last song - something about nobody having the
answers yet; pleasant, nothing new or special. Now I'm
wondering if there'll be other acts or was she the last?
The usual bar-gig debris is strewn across one corner of the
bar - half a drum kit, a couple of small amps, a tangle of
wires and leads, two SM58s on stands tower over a wedge-
shaped monitor. I look up and around - within three feet
of me are half a dozen posters advertising "Music Live
Weekend". God I'm such a div. "Bar Pacific" (Thats
here) "Sun - 2pm-11pm". As if on cue, a brace of long-
haired muso types stumble through the door carrying an
oversized marshall stack between them. They are dressed
identically in worn blue jeans and faded brown cord
jackets. Suddenly the stage - if you could call it that -
is crowded with gear.
Two middle-aged guys look on, their expressions twitching
between interest and mild irritation. I don't think
they're here for the music. I notice with slight suprise
that they are drinking VK Ice. Its not long before they
get up and leave.
(c) mike curd 2003
I'm dancing, but my movements are automatic, distracted - I
have rhythm but no soul.
To the casual onlooker I am one of the crowd, getting down
to the music, shaking my thang, having a good ol' boogy. I
am surrounded by people but alone. So alone. Waves of
loneliness rise like bile in my throat and it takes all my
strength to force them down, to quell the feelings and
suppress the urge to scream that is threatening to take
over my whole body. I desperately want somebody to notice,
to be aware that something is not right and I'm balancing
delicately on the verge but the camoflage is too good.
The last song the DJ plays is "the Time of my life" and I
am out the door and into the night by the first chorus,
fighting back tears, the edge of my fist in my mouth.
I have never felt so lonely and I want to die.
(c) mike curd 2003
So what is art anyway?
Is it technical skill, honed talent? originality?
Authenticity? pleasing-to-the-eye aestheticism? Is it
just marketing; the ability to put a spin on your product?
or is it the balls to just go out and do it, to sew names
onto a tent or slice up a shark because you can.
Art is personal. Art is subjective. Art is as old as the
earth and as young as the wind.
Art is ours.
(c) mike curd 2003