Omnibus trailer

Omnibus trailer

I decided to set up a vimeo account and upload the videos I have made on there.

Here is a trailer for Omnibus I shot, directed and edited with Guillaume Laroche. The idea behind making it was to have something that would go infront of all the Omnibus videos on their Youtube channel

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK 4

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK 4

Part One of a longer story.

Two boys on the tube are talking.
“So bro would you?”
“How can you even ask me that?”
“Answer the question”
“Bruvs she’s your sister”
“I know who she is, now answer the question”
“Bruvs I’ve known her since she was seven”
“That don’t answer the question”
“Bruvs she’s your sister”
“You bastard. You would wouldn’t you”
“You’re a sick fucker”
“Disgusting”
“Of course I would”
“That’s it, you’re not coming round mine anymore. All them times you said she’s was like your little sister. Pervert.”
“Me a pervert. I’m not going round asking people if they would or not about my own sister”
“The reason I’m asking is so I can keep her way from dirty sex fiends like you fam. Intelligence gathering innit” .
It is my stop. I get off the train and onto a crowded platfrom. I need to change lines. Suddenly I find myself seated on another carriage. I don’t remember how I got here. I wonder if I’m on the right train. As it moves away I realise that I am.  It is early morning. There is a Metro on the seat next to me but I lack the will to read it. I am still tired.

The train stops. I get off and make my way out of the station. The homeless person, who I think is a crack addict, is waiting in his usual spot jabbering to himself accompanied by his sign and his dog.  I hate him. Not just that but he disgusts me. Something should be done to help homeless people like him. I walk past him doing my best to ignore him.

Again my brain switches off and I find myself at work with no memory of how exactly I got there. I walk into the reception area and exchange “Good Mornings” with with the receptionist. I do not mean mine. I get into the life. Really I should be taking the stairs. Cardio, saving the planet and conserving energy and all that. Not this morning though. I cannot care less. I live in a perpetual cycle of self-loathing and apathy.

It is my floor. I walk in. I see my boss. I want to fuck her. Before I can say hello she asks “Is the Pekar presentation ready?”. Yes it is. I hate her. Where is the courtesy? The good morning? The hello. Where are your manners? Steady yourself.

“I put it on your desk before I left last night” I reply holding in the rage and pain behind it with a toothy insincere smile. I wait to see if she has anything else to say. She looks unsure. I walk away after a few seconds pass. I bet she didn’t even look for it. My cubicle. Whatever evil American or possibly German efficiency expert should suffer in their own special hell. Cubicles should only be places where you get changed or take a dump. They are not places of work. Still they are better than those open plan offices where there is no privacy and some bastard is always starring over your shoulder.

I sit at my desk. I read through my letters and memos sent from up high. I feel tired. It is not yet 11am but I am ready for bed. I’d have a coffee but I quit it.  I drop a herbal remedy effervescent into a glass of water. I watch it bubble and dissolve like a witches brew. It taste crappy. Want to be happy. I just don’t know how to go about it.  I’m lazy but not feckless. I’m smart enough to know I’m that I’m not too stupid but too stupid to be considered smart. I grab the fleshy parts of my belly, my love handles and muffin top, I lift them and feel them drop. I hate the gym. I want to be something else. Thats not really true though. Because if it was then. Because if it was then if I did want to be something better, I mean really wanted it, then I’d be doing something about it.

I sip the herbs potion, I retch with every gulp, yuck, I do not think it has effected my chi yet.  I reluctantly start doing my job. What I do is not important and is in fact so banal I’ll only give you my job description: I’m an office worker.

Nominally I am a muslim. Like everything else I am I am not a very good one. The black sheep, the shame of and the stain upon the family name.

It is only 12:30. My in tray is empty. I have been working solid for 30 minutes without break. I decide I need to scratch my groin. It is a risk. The footy is on tonight. I need a walk.

I go to the water cooler. No one is there.  I decide to visit Macy on my way back to my desk. Macy is fat and quite possibly the ugliest person ever to gain employment outside of those genetic aberrations put on display in the circus freakshow. She dresses like a librarian from the ‘80s and vaguely smells of something. Not perfume. Just some unknown odour. I love Macy. She is happy, one of there very people I know that are, and it radiates off her. It feels pleasant and life affirming to be around someone happy, someone content with the direction their life had taken. Macy is nice. She is nice to me. she is nice to everyone.

“Hey” I say.
“Hi ya” Macy is glad to see me.
“Busy?” I ask
“Nah” she replies.

We chat for bit about things at work and in the news. “What are your plans for tonight?” I ask.
“Not much” she says “Probably just go home. Hopefully in time to help Kev put the kids to bed”.
I nod. Kev is wonderful. He’s a stay at home dad and despite the fact he looks like a one of those genetically engineered hairless cats designed for people with pet allergies I envy him.
“What about you?” she asks. I lie and say something about staying in and watching the footy. My cup is empty.
“Did you see that thing on the telly last night? About those migrants forced to work in sweatshops?” Macy says.
“Yeah terrible, shocking” I reply having not seen it I assume it must be terrible and shocking.
“It was so sad. Especially that 10 year old girl’s story. All that pain for £5 t-shirts “
“Oh it was heart breaking.” I can tell it was heart breaking by the way Macy is emoting. Quite frankly I do not care what happened to the poor little dear. In my opinion a little misery of some third world tyke is a price worth paying for clothes that I look good in and that are affordable. But. But I can’t say that.  TV shows like that are not going to stop me buying gear from Nike, Gap and Primark and all the other exploiters of the youth in the developing world. It does make me feel bad but not bad enough to put my hand in my pocket and spend more money on ethical goods. Guilt of this kind no longer weighs heavily on me. I don’t feel it much, I don’t feel much of anything anymore. I say what I think I right minded person would say “ These companies are evil aren’t they? Theres no justification for treating children like that” Except for a line of eager consumers waiting to buy their goods.
“It just made me think about my little ones, if they were in that situation, having to work like that. Makes you realise how lucky we are to be where we are”
I’m desperate to change the subject. “Did you see Lost?” I say. Crisis averted. We talk about how good it is and how it annoys us how fabulous all the actors look even though they are you know lost on a island and should look half starved. They should look like survivors from a gulag instead of like models from a sun cream advert. I see our boss approaching. “Princess is making her rounds” I whisper to Macy “See you later”

I scurry back to my cubicle like mouse fleeing to the safety of it’s den from the flight of bird of prey.  Seeing my boss just makes me angry. Back to work. I am not very productive. I am slacking today I have decided. I spend my time day dreaming and reading wikipedia. I also watch the clock on my monitor screen. 1.14pm time to get some lunch. I say lunch but I am starving myself on some diet I saw in a magazine.

I make my way outside to meet Macy and Brook. She is a stupid skinny bitch. She eats whats she likes and never puts any weight on. Her hair is horrible though. I cannot understand why Macy likes her. They are deep in conversation when I arrive.  I feel like I’m intruding. I stand there self-conscious trying to think of something to say. I never feel relaxed around Brook. I’m not sure why. Maybe it is because I might accidentally reveal my unjustified hostility towards her with a slip of the tongue or maybe it is because I’m always comparing myself to her. I decide to leave them to it. I make my excuses and leave. Some lie about forgetting something upstairs. Doubt they believed me. I go back into the building and hide in the toilets for five minutes and hope they have gone by the time I have come out.

I exit the building. Relief. They have gone. I decide to go to the deli. Fuck the diet. I get a parma ham and lettuce baguette. I eat it greedily. I feel the carbs. My blood sugar levels rising, it is like shooting up heroin, pure pleasure. I drink a coke and grab and guzzle down a slice of peach cobbler from the bakery.  Only a few hours of work left. I try not to count the minutes till aI return to my empty home.

I’m back at my cubicle and I looking at my monitor. I can’t remember how I got here. I feel suddenly full of anger. I want to explode. I can barely contain it. I can’t conceal it. I want them all to fucking know. I want them to all know what I think of them. How much I want to hurt them. It is all their fault. I realise that it is a good thing that I am alone.

My ears are buzzing. They are red hot. There is a thumping at the back of my head. Faster and harder with every breath, with every beat of my heart it jolts me, theres something inside there trying to smash through my skull. “Bastards, Fucking Bastards” I want to scream. I want yell out a shriek like a banshee. There air should be filled with all the expletives and insults that they deserve. I’m tempted to fall. The moment passes. I get back to work.

It is knocking off time.  I make my weary way to Macy’s to say good bye. She’s there still working. She should be running the place. “I’m off” I say and walk.
She calls me back.  I turn. I see a face full of concern. “Kay are you alright ?” she says. “Yep” I try to act surprise, like why would I not be alright, thats what people do. She persists “You sure?”. I lie again “Yeah, I’m fine”. She looks for another angle “It’s just, I don’t know, it seemed like there was something wrong, you know at lunch today”. I feel my hackles stand on edge. Let rip. No. Not on her. Never on her.  “No, I’m fine” I am so desperate to tell her. To let her know how angry I am all the time. How I’m on the brink on rage at this very moment. “You sure?” she relents. I nod. “Course I am” I say “See you tomorrow” I say. “See you tomorrow babe” she says. I walk away.

I feel shame. I disappointed her. She reached out to me and I shut her down again. I panicked and did what comes naturally and ran away to find a place to hide.

It is not yet dark.

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK 3

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK 3

His ears started thumping, blood pumped through his body faster and faster as his heart raced and pulse quickened. His heart could not keep pace and began skipping beats. The palpitations began and he began hyperventilating.

Then the white noise hit his ears, he snorted sharply through his nose, closed his eyes and ordered his brain to order his body to stop acting like he was still a hormonal prepubescent. His hear slowed and his breathing relaxed. The tightness in his chest was released. All that was left was the awful nausea. His stomach felt awful he had, what some moronic half-wit phrase-maker, would call butterflies in his stomach in addition to his light headed feeling.

“What was that?” he thought. Why does it happen every single time. He was so disappointed in himself.  That sort of physical reaction to emotional stimuli was, he was certain, not very manly. A manly man’s heart   should only race in the midst of battle or some other sort strenuous physical activity like playing football or dance dance revolution.

He shouted into space “It can’t go on like this. I’m miserable. I can’t focus.  Oh no, oh no here it comes again”. He dropped to his knees. Nauseous and exhausted he wanted to die.

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK 2

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK 2

THE COWARD

His ears started thumping, blood pumped through his body faster and faster as his heart raced and pulse quickened. His heart could not keep pace and began skipping beats. The palpitations began and he began hyperventilating.

Then the white noise hit his ears, he snorted sharply through his nose, closed his eyes and ordered his brain to order his body to stop acting like he was still a hormonal prepubescent. His hear slowed and his breathing relaxed. The tightness in his chest was released. All that was left was the awful nausea. His stomach felt awful he had, what some moronic half-wit phrase-maker, would call butterflies in his stomach in addition to his light headed feeling.

“What was that?” he thought. Why does it happen every single time. He was so disappointed in himself.  That sort of physical reaction to emotional stimuli was, he was certain, not very manly. A manly man’s heart   should only race in the midst of battle or some other sort strenuous physical activity like playing football or dance dance revolution.

He shouted into space “It can’t go on like this. I’m miserable. I can’t focus.  Oh no, oh no here it comes again”. He dropped to his knees. Nauseous and exhausted he wanted to die.

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK

BLACK AND BLUE BOOK

DSC_0358

A new notebook.

Walking along other people on these cold streets and seeing their expressions of sadness. This wet winter’s day gave Ryvan no feeling of belonging to anything. Wrapped up in his own displeasure of being out and about in such poor weather he  could not see that he shared much in common with those around him. Not that he was alone in feeling alone and cold. No doubt there was not a single person who thought “I’m wet and cold but at least it is not only me at least others are sharing this wonderfully dismal day”.

He made his way walking these streets of the city of Naughtwatte in the cold drizzle. He made his way to the Archives of History.

The Red Notebook 13

The Red Notebook 13

 

These are the last two stories in the Red Notebook. Both inspired by real stuff.

It was horrific. A stuffed creature created by some deranged taxidermist. When I was younger we would go together to see Hammer Horror films in the cinema. You know the ones with Peter Cushing. The Kingfisher looked liked something from one those films. It would be one of those sinister objects found in the lounge of a mad scientist or the lair of an evil cult leader. The sort of item that let you know not to trust the person who owned it.  

The Kingfisher’s big black eyes were reflective. It raised my hackles as it did it’s long sharp beak. I can hold this dead, stuffed, evil looking bird in my hands. It’s fate in my power. I could smash. I could throw it way. I hold it in my hands and wonder : Why did mum by this?

And the last entry in the Red Notebook

As awkward silences went the one that rested between Smith and Hawkinson was pretty bad. It had reached the point  where it was becoming oppressive and putrid. The old friends had long ago exhausted their usual topics of conversation and had done so rather quickly. Seconds passed like kidney stones. It was readily apparent to both parties that each of them was searching for a gambit to get the conversation flowing again. Despite knowing each other for 20 years Smith and Hawkinson did not really know each other that well. They both shared the same set of friends and liked each other well enough. The thing was they never really hung out together. Not just the two of them anyway. There are some friends they both thought that you can share a silence with comfortably where the company of the other was enough. This, was, they both simultaneously concluded not one of those friendships.

The Red Notebook 12

The Red Notebook 12

Bridgette looks out of the window of her flat. After nearly 20 years she was free to enjoy the view. No more unexplained bruises from unexplainable accidents. She could sit here, look down at her children playing in the park below, and smile. She stares off into the distance, her drawn to Alexandra Palace, memories of her younger years, of summers days spent picnicking, surfaced and were pushed down again.

She sips her cup of tea. The clouds she thought looked grey and menacing. She hopes for a rainbow. Her gaze turns to the city. A place of concrete and glass. It was brutal and ugly like crockery smashed on the floor. All of it built in a different time.

She sips her cup of tea and is suddenly overcome with tiredness. So long the wait to be free and it was all too bloody late.  Patting away a tear she pondered.

Another story:

“Hello my darling. I love you.” yelled Frankie as he stood on the banks of the lake. The water rippled and flowed. Frankie was mesmerised by it all. He worshiped this lake, he loved it with all his heart. The cloudy and dark water, it’s deep waters, waters so deep that Frankie felt they could keep any secrets, keep them for years and years. Perhaps forever.

Frankie’s hands and clothes were filthy. He slipped into the lake. Red filth dissipated out from his clothes and skin. The cloudy lake water near him turned an opaque and crimson.

“My darling. I hope you like the gift I gave you” whispered Frankie to the lake. He felt like he was being baptised, he felt he was being purified, he felt warmth and love from the cold water. This place surrounded, no hidden, by trees was secluded and unfound. Birdsong was unknown here. This place he thought was heaven. If any place deserved a sacrifice and flesh and blood it was heaven.

The Red Notebook 11

The Red Notebook 11

This will break your heart. Standing on a train platform telling your best friend that you want something more. That shift you see in their eyes. Knowing that they will say no. She smiles. This is your heart breaking. With certainty but uneasiness she explains. Trying to let you down gently. You just want her to leave. The answer is no.

A different story.

Mina looked into the monsters eyes and smiled. This thing was supposed to be evil but she saw light in it’s eyes. It was strong, stronger than most men, that is where our fear of them came from she thought. The broad back of the creature was covered in spines and spikes and it moved on all fours with poise. There was no wasted movement. For something as large as a carthorse it was agile.

Mina reached in. It was aware. It could forms thoughts of a sort. Mina reached in to feel them. The emotions felts abrasive. The concept that formed in the creatures mind was close to what we humans call hate. It hates us.

It pounced against the cage. It was a futile gesture. Her folk excelled in steel and stone. They had craft. What the masses did not, could not, do was reflect upon why exactly they kept “monsters” like this one caged. Mina had decided it was because her folk had always done so and would always do so.  People, humans, kept it caged not because it was dangerous but because it was beautiful. It’s beauty was glorious like the flames of a village set alight or a blood covered blade. Her folk always caged the beautiful when they could or destroyed it when they could not.

Mina recoiled. The monsters roared. It had twisted free like a cat in an unwanted embrace. Fury lingered. She was tempted to reach again. To whisper “Shush, you’ll be free soon”

The Red Notebook 10

The Red Notebook 10

There. Water, so beautiful, so perfect.

Remember when we were young.

Smiling in the sun.

Staring at the fountain.

It was so wonderful. Oh it was so wonderful. The noise and sounds it made. The whoosh as water spurted out the top. Atomised water droplets failing splashing into the pool at the base. The trickling sounds, like laughter, as the water flowed over stone.

Remember when we were young.

We were hot. The sun was remorseless. You said “Go on”. I took off my sandals and dipped my toes in the cool pool. Splashing and splashing watching ripples.

I giggled. You smiled I think. You smiled and joined me.  Those fleeting, floating moments sitting at the edge. Listening to the water fall and flow and rise and dip and drop. We were still.

I close my eyes. Now. I close them and can  still hear it. The ripples our feet made. There were birds. Yes. There were birds singing. Others were there. The familiar chattering and howls of families and children running and walking. In my heart’s memory we were there alone in silence but for fountain. It was an orchestra of fluids, of motion, playing an overture just for us.

Then it passed. Like sand grains in flowing tides we were swept away from our perfect moment. We went home. Our lives went on. The water’s song we heard in the fountain played on in our absence.

I go back there sometimes. Without you of course. It is not the same. Trickling, tinkling, splashing, sploshing. I hear them. The song is not them same. It is not for us..

The Red Notebook 9

The Red Notebook 9

Really glad to have discovered this. I don’t write things this surreal anymore.

It’s too early, too too early. I have just finished a late shift, I ache, I’m so tired, so so tired. And yet here I am on Monday morning waiting in queue at Building’s Edge. I feel my bed calling to me ‘Clarence, come and rest, Clarence Clarence’

I curl my toes inside my boots and bite my tongue to try to remain awake. I have a bag of teeth in one hand and a bag of coins in the other. The queue at Building’s Edge is packed with worried and weary people. I glance from face to face and they all have the same tired expression I do. then I see her. She is old and wild eyed, chuckling to herself, she looks like giant frosted cream cake with blue icing on top.  A walking bake. I blink and rub my eyes just to make sure I’m not seeing things. to make sure I haven’t fallen asleep.

The old lady grins at me. ‘It can’t be’ I mutter to myself. The old lady seems magnificently drunk, swaying side to side, smiling as she giggles, belching and scratching as she makes her way.

I look around. Has no one else noticed? The Iron Lady has returned from the dead, our former Prime Minister is here. She has been reincarnated as a giant cake.

From behind me I hear a roar. A middle-aged man is charging towards Thatcher. He knocks her to the ground. Maggie lays ruined on the floor. She starts crying. The man stands over her and screams “You fucking bitch over, you fucking bitch you ruined this country” over and over again.

The Iron Lady is weeps, mascara running down her face, deep into her wrinkles. “I didn’t ruin it! IT was already broken” she says sadly.

I’ve seen enough. “Leave her alone” I shout.

“No I won’t. She closed the pits! She freed the banks to fuck us all, my family has lost everything, she ruined my family” the man says still full of righteous indignation.

“Thats no reason to smash her. She is a cake now” I reply.  I had the man’s full attention. He looked like a miner. All dirty hands and hard muscles. If he hit me I’d go down.

Behind him the Thatcher Cake (Cake Thatcher?) was slowly reforming. I pointed at her. Thatcher had a steely look in her eye.

The man turned and started taking handfuls of Thatcher cake flesh and stuffing it into his mouth. I turned away. I was always squeamish when people were being devoured.