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Leroy Bones



This old music is my favourite, it reminds me of my nan and my aunt, five am at the market pushing past old boys as I’m clutching to the ten pound note I’ve been given, to buy us coffee and ham and cheese rolls. I am ashamed I once stole money when I was younger. I pay for that to this day and the only other person who knows I did it is now dead and I miss him desperately. But I woke up today stretched out and pretty alive. I’m trying to get the dirty dishwater out so I can have a clean drink. I haven’t had a clear tap in months and my soles are wet all the way through to my toe bones. We watched a movie last night that is still in my skull deep in there like a worm and I love the feeling of it growing and sliming around. I don’t want to pull it out just for the sake of reality, what a sorry reason to do anything. And yet I told myself in the mirror yesterday that I would only ever move towards truth. But come now, truth and reality are not the same thing. A situation may be real but that doesn’t mean it’s true. If something is false, you’ll know it instantly, and you’ll only have yourself to blame for ignoring your guts.


My inbox fills with tasks and demands and I hate it. I’m a monkey grabbing cash and I hate it. I’m a twenty-something ancient Time Keeper at a desk in the top apartment at the top of the iron stairs above abandoned packaging from things people have bought thinking it will solve them. At night I look out of the window at the red edge light of the petrol station roof. It’s flat like a room without walls. I would love to live on that as long as the sun was always shining. I would love to put an armchair on the burning roof and my feet on the burning roof and warm up.


I’d like to burn my palo santo in my apartment but if the fire alarm goes off then it would be too embarrassing and too much of a nuisance. I don’t want to burn it that badly. When I open the windows, sometimes I will burn it a little, but by that time, I don’t even like the smell because it is tainted with insecurity and trepidation. I bought an expensive air freshener on sale as a substitute because the smell of a place is extremely important. Like the smell of a person is telling of their insides. It’s a scent not even our noses can sense because it’s underneath our skin. So I’ve been spraying this air freshener around hoping to spruce my place up like a nice hotel in the city but it never lingers longer than one second and I feel conned out of my money. Imagine if I had paid full price for this bottle of lies.


My plans are to keep writing and find a way to print it to give out to the city dwellers and beyond them. The internet has burnt me out. I am fed up with the lack of mystery. I want to rewind to when nobody knew how to use the internet and nobody cared to make things perfect. I saw a diagram in my eyes last night in bed, it was called the Spectrum of Beauty. And I saw that one end of it was Vulgarity and the other end of it was Exquisiteness and both ends were beautiful. But as you moved towards the middle of the spectrum from either end of it, the area in the middle became more and more murky and tasteless and inauthentic and lame. It made me believe that there is no reason in creating anything that does not sincerely fit into the extremes of either Vulgar or Exquisite. There is no point at all in trying to make something anything. The more you try, the murkier it gets. Leave things as perfectly as they are. Leave the breathtaking flower alone to be itself and it will be truly beautiful. Leave the filth on the floor untouched and the gruesome details as awful as they are, and the place will be truly beautiful. Don’t try to capture the flower and don’t try to clean up the filth. Don’t try at all: this is the only way to attain perfection.


Is it the case for all people that they do their best work when they stop thinking? I am making a conscious effort to not think. I don’t see anyone else thinking so hard. It gnaws at me really badly, it makes me sick like trapped ants inside me. Thoughts hurt badly, they are physical things with punching hands and kicking legs, swimming up your stomach into your throat and head, it can be very painful. I take a bath when I can’t stand it and try to sweat them out. Grooves in my fingertips are proof of their pinching claws. Monstrous contemplation, it wears me out. More than anything outside of myself, my thoughts are what wear me down. The stupid sphere of try-hard perfection we are all in. Did the Tudors do this? Did the cavemen? Were there fashionably late cavemen? I hate it all. Commit to something. My pain is tenfold because I know deep down that I have succumbed to the brainwash. I don’t like marks on my carpet or clothes. I don’t like too much of my face around my chin. I don’t like the veins on my thighs despite them being the thread that makes me.


The things I make should be more like documents… but then isn’t all art documentation? Maybe I’ve been going wrong by thinking art is something new, when actually it is a recording of something that already exists. This is kind of true. It is just as time-layering explains. That nothing at all is original, fresh. It is always either a continuation of, or reaction to, or rebellion against, or admiration for, the thing that came before. I believe this because I can’t see how one could break free from a web so intricately thick.


The herbs on my windowsill are doing pretty well, although I transplanted them on Sunday evening into some fresh pots and soil and it’s always a risk when you tear something out its home from its roots by its leaves, and put it in an alien place with alien food and hope that it will get on just the same. But they had outgrown their pots so it was either do it now or let them eat themselves.


I have this sense in me when I’m walking around town that there are witches everywhere and they’re sniggering from their windows at everyone passing by. I hope this is true. I would like to think that there is something interesting behind the curtains. I also have the sense that these witches have been here for centuries and its their village and we are just living in it. Eventually, I will invite these particular witches over, once I can break out from the monotony by some means; I’m not sure exactly what those cutters are yet, but I have a few ideas. It used to be that I’d spread myself too thinly and it was like cheap custard. It is time to set solid so a spoon will stand upright.






This is a warning to you all. Don’t play with coffin nails. I got my hands on a particularly rusty set of nine, very old coffin nails, and the experience has been harrowing, albeit thrilling. Since I used them, the light has been peculiar. I keep hearing the faint clang of cutlery? And I keep smelling wafts of cooking meat, like steak in a pan. Am I scared? Mildly. I fear I have prodded at something very grumpy that now fast approaches us. However, nothing I can’t handle.

In other news, I broke the back of some work last night that has been hanging over me for months. Now I have time to dedicate to the grimoire - which the Community has been waiting on since last year, and although I understand it is my duty to share the knowledge that has been passed down to me, it is wasteful to rush such things. And it’s a lot of pressure being born the only Time Keeper. The grimoire must be a fail-proof guide. Potentially dangerous cracks in the ground will reopen and Lord forbid that be thrust into the hands of an ill-prepared.

I’ve suggested going out for a curry tonight. I’ve been craving one all week, and I always try to read my impulses deeply so I can source the real incentive but I humbly surrender to this one without any further explanation.

Some herb updates:

  • The dill plant has seeded, I’m delighted.

  • The basil, not so successful at this present moment. Perhaps my lovely basil plant further along the windowsill is now too large and powerful to allow any fellows in sharing this apartment with her.

  • The sunflowers (which I planted for no reason other than romanticism) are upright and fluffy and adorable.

  • Rosemary is flourishing, as is the mint and parsley.

I am certainly missing some sage in here, and I have been in touch with the Community to get a pot of moon-grown variety over to me asap. Also on its way is the verbena I was promised. I do not regret moving further down south but communication is sometimes trying. On the other hand, I need isolation to write, and I prefer the ever so higher temperature at the edge of the Dust Bucket. I haven’t dared actually go wandering through the Bucket yet, but I will consider this when the wind is down again, as I’ve heard there are some healthy looking Century Plants a bit further out.

Speaking of gossip, there are whispers of a cambion in Haven. This was something I predicted many years ago but had only ever shared with my closest circles. The prediction was so grand, awesome, petrifying, that I even began doubting myself. To hear rumour of a cambion inner city, has reestablished confidence in my abilities. There is no way that such a rumour could have been concocted from imagination. The people here have no knowledge of cambions. I will have to meditate on how to approach what could be the end of times. And yet, I can’t help feeling that as one era ends, however sadly or violently, a brighter one will begin.