The Drivel Thread

[j*e*t]

Let's have it.

The dream started with Morrissey sitting on the end of my guest bed with his suitcase by his feet, looking shy, and I realise that he has come to stay with me. Except it's nothing like my guest room, but like an opulent bedroom from an old Hollywood movie, with a large bed covered with a pink satin quilted cover that drapes to the floor. Do you think you want to hear more?

 

[Detective Smith]

The dream started with Morrissey sitting on the end of my guest bed with his suitcase by his feet, looking shy, and I realise that he has come to stay with me. Except it's nothing like my guest room, but like an opulent bedroom from an old Hollywood movie, with a large bed covered with a pink satin quilted cover that drapes to the floor. Do you think you want to hear more?

I do.

 

[nicky wire's legs]

I pass through this people and let fall many words: but they know neither how to take nor how to retain them. They wonder why I came not to revile venery and vice; and verily, I came not to warn against pickpockets either! They wonder why I am not ready to abet and whet their wisdom: as if they had not yet enough of wiseacres, whose voices grate on my ear like slate-pencils! And when I call out: "curse all the cowardly devils in you, that would rather whimper and fold the hands and adore"—then do they shout: "Zarathustra is godless."

And especially do their teachers of submission shout this; but precisely in their ears do I love to cry: "Yes! I am Zarathustra, the godless!" Those teachers of submission! Wherever there is anything puny, or sickly, or scabby, there do they creep like lice; and only my disgust prevents me from cracking them. Well! This is my sermon for their ears: I am Zarathustra the godless, who says: "who is more godless than I, that I may enjoy his teaching?"

im back to thinking my honey bunny is more interesting than you!

 

[Lucifer Sam]

im back to thinking my honey bunny is more interesting than you!

Of course he is. I understand him to reject the term "anti-Semite" for himself, which I want to respect, but for some reason two of the most ghoulishly fascinating subsets of people (for me) are 1. let's say, "people who generally and strongly dislike and distrust Jews" and 2. conflicted &/or repressed homosexuals. I don't know why this is, but such people compel me. In fact, the nonfiction I'm currently reading is Douglas Murray's Bosie, his biography of Lord Alfred Douglas. Bosie checks both boxes. To be clear, I know your honey bunny does not check the second. I remember he once made a very funny post about how he would not be buggered even if it was his diva crush Mariah Carey with a ... well, he worded it nicely in a way that I can't do justice to, and I'm too lazy to search for it.

Anyway, Murray is really a brilliant writer. I can't believe he wrote this at twenty. He had the insight of someone twice his age. The blurb on the cover is from Rupert Everett saying, "Douglas Murray is a genius," and I think he might be right. And yet the other day I saw Murray sitting and grinning on the neon pink set of a Fox News show called Outnumbered, where a male guest is flanked by a quartet of Fox News harpies, and they all dish and shriek about trans people and Joe Biden's incompetency and other too-familiar topics.

There's a bit in Murray's foreword where he talks about visiting the bleak apartment where Bosie lived out his final years, and wondering to Bosie's ghost, "how did you end up here?" And then I see him on Fox News and wonder the same thing about him.

 

[Lucifer Sam]

The dream started with Morrissey sitting on the end of my guest bed with his suitcase by his feet, looking shy, and I realise that he has come to stay with me. Except it's nothing like my guest room, but like an opulent bedroom from an old Hollywood movie, with a large bed covered with a pink satin quilted cover that drapes to the floor. Do you think you want to hear more?

Yes, give us the whole thing. Don't be coy. This is the drivel thread.

 

[Detective Smith]

I’m addicted to visiting the vegetarian Vietnamese restaurant near where I live. There are light colored fibers in the Satay I usually eat there. I don’t know what they are and I’m too shy to ask. They look like hairs, but they can’t be. There are too many of them to be hairs, and they, well, I doubt they’re hairs. It’s a bit of a turn off. Maybe I’ll get up the nerve to ask what they are if I go there this evening. I keep telling myself I’m going to stop going there, and use my money on art supplies instead, such as framing, but I find myself craving a walk up there and the spicy flat rice noodles in the dish. It’s become a staple in my routine. I’m not in any pain right now. It’s been about 3, maybe 4 hours that I haven’t coughed, except for when I swallowed water the wrong way. I’m pleasantly surprised not to be suffering now, because this morning I did have a cough, and even had to lie down because I felt so miserable. But then the group walk/coffee took place, and I was fine, and I’ve been fine since. I still feel emotionally fragile because of the physical misery I’ve been going through. An emotional hangover. It really shakes me up to feel my lungs distressed, even after the fact. I don’t feel hungry. I’m just addicted to the routine of going for Satay. I wish I could afford to treat someone there so I could have company, but then, my psychiatrist admonishes me about being charitable and generous. He takes it as a sign that I’m losing my marbles when I give more than a total of $20 away a month in any form, such as buying someone a snack. I wish I could be free of his pressures. I don’t think I’m ever going to go insane again. I’ve gotten used to being vigilant with my mental health. I know people think I didn’t really see Morrissey on a bench, but he is a very unconventional person. Anyway, if I’m deluded, so what? I’m not a danger, just because I really believe he was indeed Morrissey. But for the mental health police, I admit that there is a possibility it wasn’t Morrissey. Just a zillionth of a chance, it wasn’t. Until I have a picture of us together, hopefully with me posing just as Shirley Manson did with him, and then, if I show them the picture, by holding my phone before their eyes, not transmitting it electronically, because I’ve thought about that, and I think Morrissey would probably prefer I kept the photo from transmission, then, finally I will be able to stand my ground with them and tell them there is no zillionth of a percent chance that wasn’t Morrissey on the bench, and that it certainly was him. For Aubrey, I’ll try to remember to ask Morrissey to stand beside some of my artwork, and I will private message him with that photo. If I get a photo of us together, it’ll probably be just for my own phone, that I will let several people see; my mental health authorities, and a friend who said she’d like to have coffee with Morrissey, because I think she can’t help but wonder if I’m crazy, and I know she’d be happy for me if she were to see such a photo. Yes, Aubrey, I hope that when I see Morrissey, in my personal life, if I don’t die first, I’ll remember to get his email address to send him your screenplay. I’m sure it’s an interesting one.

 

[Detective Smith]

I would love to see my friend have coffee, or a drink, with Morrissey. I’m sure she’d laugh a lot.

 

[Lucifer Sam]

For Aubrey, I’ll try to remember to ask Morrissey to stand beside some of my artwork, and I will private message him with that photo. If I get a photo of us together, it’ll probably be just for my own phone, that I will let several people see; my mental health authorities, and a friend who said she’d like to have coffee with Morrissey, because I think she can’t help but wonder if I’m crazy, and I know she’d be happy for me if she were to see such a photo. Yes, Aubrey, I hope that when I see Morrissey, in my personal life, if I don’t die first, I’ll remember to get his email address to send him your screenplay. I’m sure it’s an interesting one.

I really appreciate that. I don't think Morrissey is likely to visit or befriend you, but there's always the very, very, infinitesimally small chance that you're not delusional and that he might actually show up. So I'm glad I hedged my bet and asked you to tell him about my screenplay. What a thrill it would be to have the great Morrissey as the producer of my movie. He does love cinema after all. We would discuss the script and the casting over early afternoon drinks at the bar of the Sunset Marquis. I would be in heaven. Paradise city.

Just to piss off Carlislebaz and nicky wire's legs, I'll make this about religion. People consider you crazy for thinking Morrissey lounged in Vancouver dressed as a hobo. And that probably is crazy. But at the same time, there are billions of people who accept that Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalen and the disciples after his crucifixion. How come that's not crazy too? I give better odds to your red-faced Morrissey story, because Morrissey has the benefit of actually being alive when the incident supposedly took place. Already that's much more plausible than the risen Jesus. It's like what McMurphy says in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: "you're no crazier than the average asshole on the street. No crazier."

 

[Detective Smith]

I really appreciate that. I don't think Morrissey is likely to visit or befriend you, but there's always the very, very, infinitesimally small chance that you're not delusional and that he might actually show up. So I'm glad I hedged my bet and asked you tell him about my screenplay. What a thrill it would be to have the great Morrissey as the producer of my movie. He does love cinema after all. We would discuss the script and the casting over early afternoon drinks at the bar of the Sunset Marquis. I would be in heaven. Paradise city.

Just to piss off Carlislebaz and nicky wire's legs, I'll make this about religion. People consider you crazy for thinking Morrissey lounged in Vancouver dressed as a hobo. And that probably is crazy. But at the same time, there are billions of people who accept that Jesus appeared to Mary Magdalen and the disciples after his crucifixion. How come that's not crazy too? I give better odds to your red-faced Morrissey story, because Morrissey has the benefit of actually being alive when the incident supposedly took place. Already that's much more plausible than the risen Jesus. It's like what McMurphy says in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: "you're no crazier than the average asshole on the street. No crazier."

He wasn't really dressed as a hobo. It was regular Morrissey fare he was wearing, and his way of dressing reminds me of Columbo.

 

[Detective Smith]

I did wonder if I should offer him a pair of shoes though, because his looked a little worn out.

 

[Detective Smith]

The worn out look may have been my imagination.

 

[Detective Smith]

You don’t need me like I need you
It’s completely up to you
To be present in my life or not
I’ve been ill
And seeing I may not recover

I wish you’d say goodbye
But I’m not holding my breath
What breath I have
Our need of each other
Is mismatched

I can’t reel you in like a fish on a hook
I can’t summon you like a queen to a subject
I can’t draw you to me by pleading
I have no charm to hypnotize you into appearing before me
I can spruce myself up only to walk home alone

Maybe you think I deserve to be alone
For passing your needle in my eye by
How could I
For you were in plain sight
But your face quickly disappeared from my view

Do you hold it against me
That I didn’t recognize your face
For the one second you showed it to me
Dropped out of view after that
As if dropping your interest in me

me singing this poem

 

[j*e*t]

I do.

Okay. So I was assessing the situation and trying to think what to say. If he'd looked shy for a moment, he now looked lost in thought and not really present. I didn't want to disturb him, so I sat down on the bed next to him. After a bit, he lay back, keeping his feet on the floor, and after a while I did the same. I wasn't sure if he had his eyes closed but next thing was he said "I love you". It didn't seem like he was talking to me, but I really had the desire to kiss him. I visualised climbing on top of him to do this, but wondered if this would constitute some kind of assault. Then my mind started to visualise his people, hanging out downstairs, looking bored and unfriendly, waiting for him to reappear, so that was inhibiting. Next thing I visualised was a security team outside talking to a James Bond type who I had discovered that day was an assassin, and I was pondering how long to wait before warning people as they might not believe me until he opened fire with his gun. Then the alarm went off and I woke up. Sorry if it's disappointing, but it was a real dream and not fiction. I should say that earlier in the day I'd been reading the collected letters of the Mitford sisters, and had read about JFK's last visit to England, when the duchess sister hosted him at her home. It does make me wonder if I dream about Morrissey every night, but just don't remember unless interrupted by the alarm.

 

[TheSmiths_1985]

If I write a poem, will you read it?
Keen to know if people read my poetry with the intonation that I do when I write them?
Look on the EBT later, I’ll post some poetry.

 

[Detective Smith]

If I write a poem, will you read it?
Keen to know if people read my poetry with the intonation that I do when I write them?
Look on the EBT later, I’ll post some poetry.

Sure, I’ll try.

 

[Detective Smith]

I’m beginning to entertain the idea that I’ve only been having a cold or flu. I’ve been selfish to want Morrissey to come share that with me. Oh oh.

 

[Detective Smith]

Okay. So I was assessing the situation and trying to think what to say. If he'd looked shy for a moment, he now looked lost in thought and not really present. I didn't want to disturb him, so I sat down on the bed next to him. After a bit, he lay back, keeping his feet on the floor, and after a while I did the same. I wasn't sure if he had his eyes closed but next thing was he said "I love you". It didn't seem like he was talking to me, but I really had the desire to kiss him. I visualised climbing on top of him to do this, but wondered if this would constitute some kind of assault. Then my mind started to visualise his people, hanging out downstairs, looking bored and unfriendly, waiting for him to reappear, so that was inhibiting. Next thing I visualised was a security team outside talking to a James Bond type who I had discovered that day was an assassin, and I was pondering how long to wait before warning people as they might not believe me until he opened fire with his gun. Then the alarm went off and I woke up. Sorry if it's disappointing, but it was a real dream and not fiction. I should say that earlier in the day I'd been reading the collected letters of the Mitford sisters, and had read about JFK's last visit to England, when the duchess sister hosted him at her home. It does make me wonder if I dream about Morrissey every night, but just don't remember unless interrupted by the alarm.

Sounds like Morrissey to me.

 

[Lucifer Sam]

Okay. So I was assessing the situation and trying to think what to say. If he'd looked shy for a moment, he now looked lost in thought and not really present. I didn't want to disturb him, so I sat down on the bed next to him. After a bit, he lay back, keeping his feet on the floor, and after a while I did the same. I wasn't sure if he had his eyes closed but next thing was he said "I love you". It didn't seem like he was talking to me, but I really had the desire to kiss him. I visualised climbing on top of him to do this, but wondered if this would constitute some kind of assault. Then my mind started to visualise his people, hanging out downstairs, looking bored and unfriendly, waiting for him to reappear, so that was inhibiting. Next thing I visualised was a security team outside talking to a James Bond type who I had discovered that day was an assassin, and I was pondering how long to wait before warning people as they might not believe me until he opened fire with his gun. Then the alarm went off and I woke up. Sorry if it's disappointing, but it was a real dream and not fiction. I should say that earlier in the day I'd been reading the collected letters of the Mitford sisters, and had read about JFK's last visit to England, when the duchess sister hosted him at her home. It does make me wonder if I dream about Morrissey every night, but just don't remember unless interrupted by the alarm.

Good dream. Thank you for sharing it. I liked the conflicted bit, "I really had the desire to kiss him. I visualised climbing on top of him to do this, but wondered if this would constitute some kind of assault." For context, though, j*e*t, are you male, female, or other? Which is not to say that only males can assault. Just for the tone of the thing.

 

[j*e*t]

Good dream. Thank you for sharing it. I liked the conflicted bit, "I really had the desire to kiss him. I visualised climbing on top of him to do this, but wondered if this would constitute some kind of assault." For context, though, j*e*t, are you male, female, or other? Which is not to say that only males can assault. Just for the tone of the thing.

Perhaps assault was the wrong word. I didn't mean anything violent but something like the recent case of the Spanish FA president kissing one of the players without consent. Would it have made a difference if the president and player were not male and female respectively?

 

[Lucifer Sam]

Perhaps assault was the wrong word. I didn't mean anything violent but something like the recent case of the Spanish FA president kissing one of the players without consent. Would it have made a difference if the president and player were not male and female respectively?

Not to worry, I didn’t see it as a “Harvey Weinstein,” so to speak. It read exactly as you suggested, like the Spanish soccer kiss. I don’t know what difference it would make if the roles were reversed in that scenario, but at the very least it would be a little more surprising.