Polly Stark

On this blog, I talk about things that are significant and things that are fun to write about.  A few weeks ago, my dear darling friends, D and E, got married.  It was such a gloriously happy day, and it was so important to me, but I didn’t write about it.  I haven’t written about my band’s second gig and the person I slept with afterwards, or the fact that I’m about to put out a new record, or my first client meeting at work, or the fact that Teena is coming to stay in the next couple of weeks.  I haven’t talked about the cigarettes I smoke sitting in my bedroom window in Brixton, watching the street life and shouting and laughing and drinking and talking and fights and fast cars and prostitution and thrown bottles.

And I don’t really know the reason for my lack of desire to record events.  London seems to just flow by me – I seldom examine my life and just sort of potter through.  One notable thing is that a lack of moments.  One feature of my life in Formerpollycity was that I would sometimes recognise the nice or bizarre or exciting moments and sort of luxuriate in them.  That hardly ever happens any more and it makes me sad.  I wrote a song recently about this:

Cracker Jackson

Jackson, can I be your friend?

We could BMX bike through life –
The warm-dust, sun-down streets,
The blue-bruised wife.

Can I steal cars with you?
Because I’m so happy I can’t stand it.
I can’t let it inside of me; it feels like there’s too much.

Anyway, so last night, I went out on a work do.  We ate at a restaurant that used to be a hydraulic power station.  The dining room is three storeys high and you sit amongst all the old machinery.  In a side wing is an art gallery with videos of dancers and horror movie lighting.  We ate rare tuna with podded peas in vinegar, rocket and braised lamb cuts in red wine and strawberry tart and cream.  Things turned rather raucous as we drank.  I told Jeanine about Teena coming to stay and spoke to Tawny about talking to oneself in the mirror.  I looked at his pretty-boy, stubbled face and soft, short brown hair and his lovely shoulders and I thought about slipping underneath the table when no one was looking.

After supper, we went to a bar and then a club and then some random Russian bar where a beer cost a gabajimillion pounds.  Finally, after a lot of stupid dancing (I think I might do a cover of Beat It) and that lovely warm, silky feeling in my stomach.  Anyway, after a lot of wandering around on the streets, Tawny and I went back with Pixie to her house.  I think it was five-thirty a.m. when Pixie went upstairs to her room and Tawny and I bunked down on the sofa-bed.

He said, in his South African accent, "Do you like to spoon?"

For some reason, I pretended I didn’t know what spooning is and he demonstrated by curling one first finger around the other.  So I snuggled into his cuddle and he put his face in my neck.  We talked about coins and about how serrations were developed to stop people shaving valuable fragments from gold pieces.  He kissed the back of my neck and I half turned and he said my hair smelled nice.  He kissed the side of my face and I felt his heartbeat swift against my shoulder.  I turned all the way and we kissed that first close-mouth kiss and then we kissed the ones that follow.  I touched his sharp shoulders and the hair on his neck.  I touched his upper arms and he shifted on top of me.  He smelled and tasted of boy and he stroked my sternum and my breast  and my ribcage and I broke off and said, "What are we doing?"

So we talked for a while about how I thought what we were doing was a terrible idea.  He looked at it slightly differently: "I don’t think it will cause any problems.  The way I see it is that you’re a nice girl and your hair smells nice and the skin just [at the top of your upper arm and on your chest is so smooth] and your nipples are so small and cute and [it's just a bit of fun]."

I played with his hair and stroked his beautiful chest and then things began again.  Matters progressed further this time and I found myself topless and his hand between my legs, hot breath in my ear.  I stopped him again and I felt really bad this time because things were quite heated.  And I said I didn’t want to carry on because it seemed foolish, but really I was just scared.

So he cuddled me and we slept for a couple of hours before Pixie came in and said it was time to go to work.  We took the train into central London and I didn’t catch his eye once the whole day.

I thought that when I moved to London, the blog would experience a resurgence. The fact that it hasn’t is due to a lack of time – work is fun now – and inclination. For some reason, though the things that have been happening have been fairly interesting (new house, new job, new people, the tube, more political stuff), I feel a bit zombified. If I stop to think about it, I get a little charge of excitement – “I’m in London!” – but generally I feel pretty automated. Fun things have happened, exciting things have happened, happy things have happened, sad things have happened. But my impression of the entire experience is just sort of blank.

This evening, I’ve been packing and listening to The Times They Are A Changin’ by Bob Dylan. The album includes Boots Of Spanish Leather, one of my favourite songs. It is forever bound up with my memories of Allure and a sort of aching longing that I no longer feel but felt then and so when I think of her or hear that song, I feel the longing rather than the slight current desire. Rather more keen is how sad I’ve been feeling lately about a girl called Alice. We exchanged emails for over a year when I lived in Formerpollycity and she was totally amazing – awesome taste in music, so fun and exciteable and she did some really interesting art during her “crafternoons”. Our correspondence slowed a little, and then stopped. I’ve myspaced her and emailed her a few times over the last few months, but she won’t reply and I don’t know why. Whenever I see a seagull, I think of her. Also, it’s weird, because whilst songs or books or films or objects may remind you of someone, I find that places also act as triggers. So, whenever I hear of Scarborough or used to drive past a pub called the Scarborough Something, I think of Allure, or Nottingham I think of Activisto, despite the fact I have never been to either of these places.

I have a gig tomorrow in Formerpollycity. It’s at a pub and I’m second on the bill and my band’s name is on the poster and everything. The butterflies have mutated from their former beningn selves to sort of demonic beasts that claw at the insides of my stomach. I will be playing eight songs and a number of my friends are coming to watch. I am going to wear my blue cotton dress with swirly faded pink flowers on it that I bought when I was sixteen.

I’ve talked before about the sort of roiling excitmenet I sometimes feel. Where I feel like I’m in the centre of two waves smashing together and I’m being thrown up into the air. This is the way I feel now. It’s the way I felt last summer – the summer of cold cans of Carlsberg in my baking attic room, the summer of cutting up inlays for my first EP, the summer of going to New York City, the summer of the secret missions. The thing is, the feeling is, in many ways, one of the best feelings in the world. But at the same time, it feels so sad. There is this film called Better Luck Tomorrow where one of the characters, a rich, handsome high-school kid with a happy homelife and friends and a beautiful girlfriend, says, “Sometimes I’m so God-damned happy that I can’t stand it.”

Things are a little off kilter. I’d assumed that my move to London would provide material that could propel this blog back to its former status as torrent of information. Unfortunately, whilst London has provided many things to write about, it has also completely obliterated my free time. Tonight is for catching up.

Each weekday morning, I get up, brush teeth, wash face, walk around the corner to the bus stop (just about enough time for half a cigarette if the wind tunnel that is my street will allow the application of lighter flame to tobacco). A short bus journey to Brixton tube station, hop across to Stockwell, then up to London Bridge, then another short walk to work (sometimes punctuated by a visit to the coffee shop staffed by the handsome boy and beautiful girl).

I get to work, sit down at my monstrously huge new iMac, and get cracking. Work is pure joy – the people are nice, the stuff I’m doing (reprogramming the company intranet at the moment) is challenging and fun and Bermondsey is idyllic.

I go to lunch at about two p.m., buy a sandwich from slaps own wrists Marks and Spencer or Pret A Manger (my evil buying habits will probably come back to get me. Actually, one night last week, I was sitting with my housemates in the living room about to go to bed when River asked if anyone wanted anything while she was at the shop. I fought and won a short pitched battle against my conscience and asked for a can of Coca Cola. She returned, I drank my fill, went to bed and lay sweating and shaking for three hours.) Then it’s work until six-thirty or seven p.m. and, most likely, straight out after that.

Last week, on Monday I was some place I can’t even remember, on Tuesday it was my friend R’s birthday dinner, then on Wednesday a meeting at a squatting support organisation, Thursday a night in, then last night it was bowling for R’s birthday Mk. II.

Also present at the bowling were some very old friends from school, Pukka and PM, and their girlfriends, Turquoise and Homely, and a couple of random Americans. We went to Bloomsbury Bowls which is a bizarre combination of blue collar pseudo-diner food and yuppies. We were on Lane 3 and we guessed that Lane 2 was occupied by a party of accountants, Lane 4 had a group of social workers or possibly teachers, and Lane 5 was host to some media types on a team building exercise.

I’m always struck by how gregarious everyone becomes whilst bowling. Normally quiet, retiring types get a bowling ball in their hands and find themselves celebrating every skittled pin like a footballer pretending to snort the pitch markings. Whoops and cheers accompany every development in the game. Non smokers become smokers. Drinking speed ups to a glass accompanying every bowl.

It was lovely to see my old friends again. They don’t change. Nobody does. Pukka still runs around doing his entertainment routine and yet being strangely vulnerable when sober. PM still acts like one’s uncle and is still destined to be Prime Minister.

Thing is, as R (who I have known since we were five) pointed out, we never change, but we have more choices now. These days, if a friend is being a dick, or you feel left out, you can just leave and spend time with someone else. Back in the day, at school, you often had no choice.

I left around twelve a.m, got the tube to Stockwell and alighted. I saw a crowd of people around one of the passageways leading from the platform; I heard the sound of Hungarian, or perhaps Russian, music being played on a violin. I approached and took my place amongst the assembled twenty or so. We all stood and listened together as our entertainer entertained us. She had dyed red hair pulled up in a pony-tail, thin arms with tattoos and tracks. She looked like she was addicted to something pretty nasty, but when she played she seemed to be in heaven. So, we stood and applauded after each piece and everyone gave money and then our train came and we got on and shared smiles and went away to our safe and cosy homes.

Reading: A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius, Dave Eggers.

http://www.shell.com/realenergy/

 Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggggh.

I’ve been working on a new song over the last few weeks. The music is not coming easy at all – things are at a sort of rock/hip-hop hybrid stage at the moment (in the sense that the first 30 seconds are hip-hop and the second 30 seconds are a sort of lounge rock, complete with chorused guitar).

However, the subject of the song is crystal clear. I was listening to Steven Levitt’s fantastic talk at TED. He speaks on the similarities between the organisation of McDonald’s and a drug-dealing gang during the American crack-epidemic. Both have many bottom-rung employees who make about minimum wage, both have management who make a huge amount more than their underlings.

However, the big difference between the two jobs is that being a street dealer (dope slanger) is more dangerous than any strap-hanging job in America. Each year, a dealer has a 7% chance of dying. This is in comparison to the inmates on death-row who have an annual 2% chance of dying.

Anyway, so I wanted to write a song about this whole subject.

I am sitting on the sofa in my new house in Brixton. It’s Easter Monday and my two housemates and I are watching The Sound Of Music. They are singing along.

I had my first two days at work and they were a revelation. I have a giant new iMac to work on and everyone is being so nice to me. On Thursday evening, we drank beer from the alcohol-packed fridge, then went to a local bar on the company’s credit card. I rolled home drunk with a big smile on my face.

I went to the Tate Modern yesterday and was disappointed. The Mondrians and a lovely Picasso were the only things that caught my attention.

I bought Big Black’s Pigpile, Meshuggah’s Catch Thirty-Three and Pelican’s The Fire In Our Throats Will Beckon The Thaw. Respectively: dated, hypnotically violent and exhilarating, epic and boring.

Yesterday, I cut my own hair in the bathroom. My fringe is shorter, the cut is neater around the edges and there are some slightly ragged chunks hewn out of the sides. However, the straight girls on the tube seemed to like it and my new skinny fag jeans.

Each morning before work, I go to a little cafe and have breakfast and orange juice and read my book.

Last Wednesday, I went to see Sunshine. It was quite good – some interesting ideas about heat and cold. Afterwards, there was a Q&A with the director, Danny Boyle. I thought to myself, Oh yes, I am in London.

A while ago, I saw Me And You And Everyone We Know and totally fell in love with Miss July. See also: the website for her book of short stories.

Last night, I sat up in bed at my Mum’s house. I had on an NYPD t-shirt of my step-Dad’s and a pair of too-short jarmey bottoms lent by my littlest sister (out on a very grown-up sounding sleep-over). I had friction burns on my elbows and knees that are still stinging, and bruises on my wrists and neck.

Tonight, I am sitting at my desk in my room in Brixton. My books are close to tipping off the shelves, my CDs are stacked and the bed is made. My mattress is on the floor (I might buy a bed) and the carpet is very 70s. There are books underneath my chest of drawers to keep it steady and I can’t really fit everything on my desk. I feel very at home. My housemates, Frank and River and Jenny, are very lovely. I have spent this evening in front of the television with the two girls chatting gently over a Thai curry.

[In other news, Swedo has found this blog. Remember, Dave, this is private stuff so brace yourself. Perhaps you'd better stop reading ]

On Thursday night, I met Puppy in the old reliable bar and we talked about politics for five hours. Our conversation ranged from modern environmental protest and direct action to the hierarchy within autonomous politics and the future forms that activism might take. Later, we went to the pub and met up with Veteran, Swedo, Teena, Highschool, Tourista, Model, Min, Girly and some others. Then, we went on to a favourite and awful bar/club. We took a bunch of photos and got drunk. Swedo and Girly pushed me into a corner and gave me love bites and kisses.

Finally, after much dancing to shit rock, it was time to go home so Highschool, Teena and I went to a Turkish cafe and sat upstairs amongst the shisha smoke and groups of silent men and ate houmous and aubergine sandwiches (the texture of cunnilingus, apparently). Highschool went to the toilets to puke and Teena and I had a bit of a kiss.

Finally, the three of us got a cab home. Highschool was sick again and we put him to bed. Kisses with Teena turned into something else and we went upstairs and had lovely, warming sex a few times in my barren room. We went to sleep around six a.m. curled up in each other’s arms.

A few hours later, we ate Crunchy Nut Clusters and drank orange juice at my kitchen table amidst piles of my stuff and then my parents arrived and Teena left and I turned up my collar to hide the bruises on my neck.

The couple of days I spent at home were so nice. I hung out with my little sisters and my brother, read Our Band Could Be Your Life and played my guitar on my step-Dad’s friend’s gorgeous Mesa Boogie amp.

Tonight, I stood outside my house having a cigarette and realised that the cooling paving stones and the nearby bins smelled like the streets of New York City.

I have just downloaded a bunch of songs by Placebo. Whenever the desire arises to listen to a band I thought I was past, I know that everything is insecure, uncertain and changing.

I woke yesterday morning and lazed around in bed reading “Punk And Zen”, the sequel to that sexy book I read in New York City. I got up and went into town, got a delicious sandwich from Pret A Manger and went to buy a black silk tie from Marks And Spencers. I met Swedo and his friend Track and we had a coffee in Caffe Nero, then Swedo and I went back to mine and recorded a cover of the song, Lucy Says, off of the Snoopy video. Swedo played acoustic guitar and I played electric and we both sang. At one point during the session, I felt a another sharp surge of creative excitement and looked over at Swedo and wanted to kiss him. Handsome as he is, I don’t really fancy him any more, but the joy of making something felt strangely sexual.

Ici. We changed the lyrics a bit.

I practiced my songs in my room and then got ready. I put on my blue turned-up jeans, white shirt, new black tie, grey zip-up hoodie and blue Converse. I gathered my musical gear together and went to Tourista and Model’s squat.

When I arrived, things seemed nearly ready. I helped tack up some drapes and ate some bananas and had an attempt at setting up the PA. I talked with Eyeliner, one of the members of the other band who were to play, about music and what it means to us. He is very pretty with his black hair and girlish mouth and eye-shadow and skinny-boy torso and I think I fancy him a bit. He explained that his songs were an attempt to make something that reflected what was inside his head. This idea was new and exciting – for me, writing music has always been more of a translation of the inside, but the idea that a song could be a direct representation – wow.

The party seemed to magically start and before long, Swedo, Veteran, Min, Hardcore Boy, Teena, Dash, Teacher, Activisto, Rugged, Shine and a fuckload of other people had arrived. I talked to Min about his ongoing relationship sadness and couldn’t really offer any advice, which is unusual.

I found myself on a sofa with Activisto on my knee and Teena beside me. We talked shit and I held Activsto’s hand behind his back and we stroked our fingers together like on the sofa in my old flat just before we slept together for the first time.

Somehow, hours passed and a D&B outfit who I’ve seen advertised on posters around Pollycity had taken up residence on the PA (and the mic) and the party was packed and everyone was dancing.

I was itching to play my set so I could relax and start drinking, but the other band were hesitant because they wanted to purchase and consume some drugs before they played. Finally, by three a.m., this seemed to have been achieved, so I went up into the bedroom where we were to play and set up. I plugged my audio interface into my laptop, mic into the interface and interface into the guitar amp. The performance was just me singing and the rest of the song coming from the laptop. The sound would be fairly lo-fi but that was all good.

The room slowly filled up and finally became packed. The first song passed without incident and I cued up the next song only to be met by a very distressing howl of feedback from the amp. After a good minute of ear-shattering, I made some adjustments and things calmed down to a vaguely threatening low hum.

Spurred on by galvanising shouts from my friends, I played the rest of the songs and, to my surprise, really got into it. Despite the fact that I wasn’t drunk and I was standing up in front of all these people with only a microphone to protect me, I felt able to let myself feel emotion and allow that to come out through the singing. I even danced around a bit and put in some unscheduled screams.

Afterwards, a few people came up and said they liked it, and Tourista gave me a little plastic guitar badge that she has had since she was small. I packed up my stuff and then watched the other band who had the screams and 80s beats of Atari Yeenage Riot, the haircuts and guitar of Placebo, the chaos of a hardcore band and the screams of Love Lost But Not Forgotten. They were good.

I went back downstairs and sat again with Activisto and Teena and watched the dance floor. Presently, Allure – who I had not seen for many months – pushed through the crowd and came over to me. She looked crazy sexy in a slim red dress and red lipstick and she knelt down in front of me and rested her elbows on my knees and asked me how I was and cupped my face and complimented my haircut. Hardcore Boy was sitting right next to me, so I remained polite and distant. Allure said she’d heard I was moving to London and offered to hook me up with her lesbonic Auntie. Presently, she kissed me on the cheek and said she was going to dance and then swayed around nearby and I didn’t do anything. Maybe I’ve grown up since last time.

Activisto and I talked some more about how hot Allure is and he asked why I didn’t follow her since I was so clearly “in”. He said that if he was me, he would be dancing with her right now and I said that I’d rather spend time with him and he said I was getting old and I said that wasn’t the reason and wondered whether he understood what I meant. Cleancut hoved into view and Activisto said didn’t I go on a few dates with him and I said I had and he asked what happened and I said I was just terrified of his physique because he was so manly and he laughed and said so it wasn’t like that with him and I said no but I was still scared. We got closer and closer on the sofa and held a few long gazes. I saw him wondering whether to kiss me and then deciding not to.

Time went by and I danced for a while as it got light outside. Finally, Activisto, Teena and Hardcore Boy left. I hung out with Tourista for a while, then left about eight a.m. I walked through the streets, bought cigarettes at the One Stop that had had time to close and re-open since my evening visit, then went down through the calm, deserted forest to my house. I climbed up the stairs marveling at how things are so beautiful and so harsh.

As I write, I’m sitting in bed and eating a plate of the cold vegetarian lasagna I made earlier today. It tastes so so so good. And I’m about to eat some hot chocolate powder straight out of the tub.

On Wednesday afternoon, I’d been hacking on yet more last minute changes to somebody else’s work. I was nearly finished and I told my boss so and he said, Will it be done tonight? and I said no because I’m going to the opera but I can finish it tomorrow and he said OK, having forgotten that I’d booked the day off as holiday.

So, Climber and I left work and drove in convoy to Pollycity. We changed into our disguises, him a navy pinstripe suit and red tie, me a black crepe dress and court shoes. We sucked down a cup of tea and then went to the theatre. Late, as usual, we sidled into two seats in the upper circle and sat amongst the old ladies in cardigans and the thugs in jeans.

I was bored as soon as the opera (Orfeo) began, and my mind wandered. I didn’t really want to be there – I wanted to be talking to Climber, or working on my new song, or drunk and falling over, or reading a novel, or doing some programming, or hugging Activisto like I haven’t done since he came back from his field trip.

There was no interval, but the lights came up about halfway through while the set was changed and I nudged Climber and flicked my thumb towards the exit. He shook his head so we stayed. I cried through most of the second act – just that straight-faced, silent crying where the tears drip cold off the cheeks. I felt this terrible sense of time slipping away, of uncertainty at the future.

At last, the lights came up and I dried my eyes. As we walked out, Climber asked me whether I enjoyed it and I couldn’t really say anything. I tried to say that I hadn’t, but that wouldn’t come; I tried to say I was worried, but that wouldn’t come either. By the time we reached a nearby bar, I’d collected myself a little and we sat and drank Amstel and ate a vegetarian platter and some double-fried chips.

We talked, mainly about his romantic situation. He has been going out with this drippy girl for the last few months. I’ve never met her, but I’ve always thought they shouldn’t be together. Anyway, Climber told me that his old girlfriend – former fiance, actually – asked him back last week. I felt this surge of joy and grasped his hand and said, So you said yes, right? and he said that he just hugged her and said no. I said he was a fool and urged him to reconsider. I know he is the one for her and it’s weird because I thought I didn’t like his current girlfriend because I fancied him, but maybe that’s not the case.

We went back to mine and had a Topic and another cup of tea, then he went home and I went to bed.

On Saturday, I got up and went into town, listening to The Paper Chase who are ace. I sat in Pret A Manger and texted a few of my friends with the following: “Fancy going out and getting totally fucking shitfaced tonight?” I bought both series of This Life on DVD. Later, I met Girly at a local resource centre to draw up some documents for the social centre, then she cooked me yummy angel hair pasta with stir-fried vegetables. I left her house and went to a riot-grrl night and palled around with Teena and Highschool. We drank Lynx (the cheap lager, though the deodorant would probably have tasted better) and did dancing impressions (“dance like a fork-lift truck”, “dance like a mime”, “dance like someone on fire”) and dancing challenges (“dance from the toes”, “dance from the cheeks”, “dance from the hair”).

We left about three a.m. and caught a taxi home. I watched another episode of This Life and felt very soothed. It was on TV when I was fifteen and sixteen and I think it was one of the first grown-up programmes I watched. It was a vehicle for my changing sexuality – I discovered I fancied Anna, but I still fancied Miles a bit. Also, though I can now identify with everything that the characters are going through, they still seem older and more experienced and urbane. Anna and Miles are still hot.

On Sunday, I popped round to see Tourista and hung out with her and Model at their squat. We drank tea and Tourista and I smoked cigarettes amidst disapproving looks from the others. I looked at the walls, covered with children’s drawings, anti-capitalist propaganda, random photos, material, random bits of electrical equipment, at their “pirate ship” – a bunk bed they built for guests to sleep on – and their coconut ashtrays, their kitchen with random nests of skipped food and felt very sad they would have to move out.

Tourista and I then went to the supermarket. I walked around filling my basket with pasta, tzatziki, grapefruit juice, milk, courgettes, aubergines and cherry tomatoes whilst she stuffed coffee and garlic into her pockets and inside her jumper. We got to the till and the security guard was staring. I bagged up the stuff in the basket and while I paid, she popped her things into the bags. Then we ambled over to the kiosk, the guard following us, and I bought cigarettes and then we got out without being accosted.

We went back to mine and feasted.