Monday, September 01, 2008
I have a recurring dream where I am a tattoo artist, and a twenty stone woman comes into my seaside parlour. She has a hard face, and her nose has a stud in it, housing a small, bright, turquoise piece of glass. And she is wearing a tight vest and a bra that is supposed to be invisible, the vast dugs are hoisted up by clear plastic straps that bite into the large doughy contours of her bare shoulders. Her trousers bisect her torso and create a waist by allowing pools of flesh to heap over her cheap belt and then hang down over her hips. The bottoms of her jeans are turn ups, chosen to display a suprisingly neat pair of ankles supporting calves that look like haggises, but for the delicate vine tendrils inked around them, creeping upwards inside the jeans. She has complicated acryllic toenails with patterns on - slightly too long, that peek out of a pair of wedge heeled sandals. Her second toe has a ring around it, set with a gem much like the one above her left nostril. "Surprise me" she announces as she descends into a leather chair that sighs, and images of dogs, cheap scent, ford cars, philandering boyfriends in fitted overironed shirts, a fleeting interest in white magic, large televisions, constant trips to the hairdresser, obsessive housecleaning, intense friendships that end badly, a warped self image with defensiveness to match, pop into my head. I tattoo a butterfly on the northern hemisphere of her great, wobbling right breast. A wing tip pokes out of the side of the see through bra.
I'm not sure why I told you that. Anyway - the thing that makes me shit most about butterflies, is the superstition that they are the souls of the dead. I've had a million fey idiots tell me stories of how a tiny azure butterfly landed on the coffin, at the funeral of a boy-child, or how, in a time of extreme stress, the appearance of a red admiral butterfly was the spirit of a courageous grandfather who used to be in the Navy, come to lend wisdom and support. Bollocks. Everyone who has seen that film, knows that a soul weighs 22 g, and I am delighted to say that there are no mammoth freak butterflies of that size around. The biggest butterfly is the Monarch at 0.5 g, which is still far too large for my liking, but definitely not heavy enough to be a soul. Butterflies are what they are - large flapping things which may or may not be colourful, used as a tribal recognition device by the innocent, ugly or unloved.
I have never been to Southend, Prenderghast, but I like piers so I ought to visit it.
Barry, good for you! and remember, fat girl, thin clout - always a better ride on a larger vehicle. Don't call it love piss though, that makes me feel sick. Call it serum, every thing is called serum these days.
HB I need clarification. When your mother sees a spider does she make you leave the pub to remove it, or does she let you stay in the pub? What would happen if she was in the pub as well and a butterfly (or moth) were to fly into the pub. Would she just leave and go home to a butterfly free flat, or would she need you to chase the butterfly around the pub until it either flew out of an open window or you caught/disposed of it? Grateful if you could clear this up, thx Noreen
Mum would leave pub until butterfly/moth has gone. She would run out screaming. I sorta feel bad now for chasing her around the garden when I was 7 with butterflies I caught.
It became known to me, a good while ago, when I was reaching out to nature, certain species of butterflies feed upon specific vegetation that renders them unappealing to predetors. Ingenious, not? Possible souls of the dead? Can't be sure, but some of them are remarkably pretty, in their own right. Think of it, though, would you care to be a butterfly soon after you passed from this planet, to flutter about, aimlessly, affixing youself to twigs and weeds and odd grasses,
dodging wasps and whatever else that may hasten your demise? Though, as I think about your stream of consciousness, in this matter, I, as a butterfly, wouldn't mind being pictorially memorialized upon a woman's right, or left breast. It beats the need to bob about, in the heat of the day, searching for bitter greens,for sure. In the end, it's all a matter of taste, perhaps?
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