Rock & Roll

“Kenny G ain’t got no soul... John Coltrane is rock and roll...”

It’s like living in a slipstream, the aftermath of the best parties and Christmases ever these days; I’m supposed to be planning ahead and organising all that needs to be organised (travelling, places to stay at night and so on) for me getting to a friend’s wedding this weekend, but all I can really do is think back to a few days ago when she was still here and everything went by too fast.

Getting into bed on Monday night was very strange; the last couple of nights, she’d been there with me, and part of me didn’t want to move anything and seal the bed as was. This would be my Tracey Emin art moment: keeping everything the way it was when she was here. Keeping the memories alive by never changing anything, instant prepacked vacuum sealed nostalgia... But much better than that was falling to sleep that night, knowing that the pillow still smelled of her, knowing what she feels like to sleep beside, and the way we sleep together. That was one of the oddest things about meeting her, I guess; I felt like I knew her completely, but my body had nothing to go on. I didn’t even know how tall she was, nevermind what she was like to kiss, or how she held hands. (She’s not as tall as me, kissing her is heaven, and she holds hands well, alternating between playing with them and holding on tightly. In case you’re wondering).

We speak more (as in, on the telephone, as opposed to e-mail or IM) now. We’re too used to each other’s voices to do anything else, I think. I called her last night just to tell her I was sleepy and going to bed, because I wanted her voice to be the last one I heard before I gave up for the night. I could hear her smile on the other end of the line.

And thank God for photographs; I got more ones of the two of us this afternoon, and keep looking at them marvelling at just how fucking incredible she is. Not to mention how I apparently always look like shit in every photo I appear in (especially the one of me yawning, which is almost legendary in its unflattering qualities. Thanks for taking that one, Kate). But despite that, I really love the photos; if I ever start to doubt that something so wonderful as this weekend ever happened, I now have the photographic proof. Fucking huzzah.

But don’t worry. I won’t inflict any more of them on you all. I think you’ve suffered enough.

***

So, yeah, I have this wedding at the weekend that necessitates spending three days or so in Edinburgh toon, being all bekilted and usherette for the great and good and hard-of-hearing. The groom, you see, has severe hearing problems in his left ear, and the father of the bride severe hearing problems in his right ear... which, apparently, has meant that the entire positioning of the wedding party has had to have been reversed so that there won’t be an embarrassing silence when there’s supposed to be an “I do.” I can’t wait for the speeches, though. Every two seconds, there’ll be heckles of “Speak up! What are you saying?”

***

You. Do not kill Naomi Klein, please. Besides the fact that you in jail wouldn’t really make my day, I also quite liked “No Logo”, and I’m wondering what she’s going to do next, considering recent surveys have depressingly stated that Britain’s teenagers currently consider designer labels the most important things in their lives. Where did we all go wrong?

***

Currently on the CD player: the freebie from this week’s NME. Sex Pistols demos! Miles Davis! Mos Def! David Bowie! Captain Beefheart! Nick Drake! Anyone in the UK with £1.20 to spare, getcherarse to a newsagent right now and discover the joy of pop music that’d make Britney cry.

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Copyright © Grim, 2002