Posts Tagged ‘love’

Losing a Glove – Jeannette Cook reads her poem

Tuesday, September 20th, 2011

I a have poet friend. Of some years standing. She wrote a poem I liked, and she agreed to allow me to put together a video of it.

The poem is called “Losing a Glove.” The poet is Jeannette Cook.

I took a year to take the photos.

The incidental music is by Bjork, from the CD Volta (track “pneumonia”).

You can see and hear it by clicking right here.

I’ll be posting another version, with my reading the poem, shortly.

We did this before, with a poem called Button.

Thanks for coming by. – Vincent

Links to web pages & what I’ve been up to sort of round-up

Wednesday, April 7th, 2010

Here’s a round-up of links to things, me and the others, that I like. Videos (of matches, Max Dix, and me with why I never got published in the UK) to follow in the next weeks.

During March 2010, here’s my most popular Blog, “The movie I was in is out – “Tombé sur la Tete”.

Second popular, my –Story – RED BALL.

Third popular, my SPEED DATING Story.

Fourth popular, my first MAX DIX Video Clip.

Fifth: “The author as a live cartoon character.

Links I posted via my FACEBOOK PAGE or TWITTER PAGE were:

The ecstasy of the filmmaker Herzog.

“I’m Not Going To Think About Her” .

Plastic Bag By Ramin Bahrani.

And, finally, of course, DAVID LYNCH’s INTERVIEW PROJECT.

Lastly, anyone want to join my HIDDEN PEOPLE FACEBOOK FAN PAGE is welcome….

MY FOOT, ongoing video and stills installation project

People like my on-going stills & video installation project, MY FOOT. Here was a recent favorite….


Story – Speed Dating

Friday, March 5th, 2010

speed dating

My favorite color is blue. My favorite food is pizza. Do you like me yet?



My parents divorced me when I was very young. No, that’s negative….did I say “divorce me”? Well. Wow. Freud slipped right in there, didn’t he? Well, you’re starting to get to know me.

Hey, how many minutes do we have again?

I like films, TV, anything based on reality. That’s not true. I have fantasies. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to be a fried egg, sunny side up, and be the yolk as the edge of a crust of toasted bread broke me open and all my yellow would flood and run everywhere. Always wondered that. Or maybe it’s all sexual. Who knows! Mysteries of the human—sorry?

Time’s awasting.

Maybe you want to know this stuff about me. Dior. Picasso, the European car not the painter. Saab. Let me say that again so there is no mistaking. Saaaaaab…. Sensuous, huh? Vogue. Vanity Fair. The New Yorker, optional. Silk. Silk. Silk. I cannot emphasize that enough. “Houston, we have a problem.” That still works for me. Shakespeare, the comedies, if I have to. Teen comedies, no. Slapstick, I’m a girl, so I don’t get all of it. Piercing, tattoos, goes without saying, not on my body. Terrorism. What is this big deal about terrorism? Did none of those people have parents when they were growing up? Oooh, terrorism. So scared!

Is this helping any? How about family stuff—

My father has a mustache, my mother dyes her hair red. I had an aunt who was a drunk and an uncle who I think tried to touch me improperly when I was young but I have blocked it all out, almost. Sorry, again, too negative.

I’ve never been to Bermuda but I’d like to go to Spain. Yes, the Bermuda Islands. No, not the shorts. You must think I’m crazy. I’m looking for love. I don’t have any pets. I think about politics but don’t get involved—what? Pets? Allergies. Ah-choo. Their fur. Or saliva. I need to take some medical tests on that.

Snow. Surf. Turf. Like it all.

God, where’s the time gone!

My grandparents are dead.

What more did you want to know?

Food, pizza. Color, blue.

I was toilet trained at an early age so I’m good that way. Same with tying my shoe laces. A snap.

Also, I may be allergic to dust or I don’t clean my place enough. One or the other. Love drives in the desert. Hate it when I’m in an airplane and hit an air pocket and everything goes zoom and people scream and things go flying and my stomach comes up. What? You too! Gosh. We have so much in common!

I’ve had maybe fifteen boyfriends. Sean, Bob, Frank, Tony—oh you don’t want those details.

I have a driver’s license, own a bicycle and went go-carting once. I follow my instincts. I’m very emotional, but don’t believe in Astrological signs. I mean, please, the Big Boom happens and the Milky Way comes out so neat that my future is foretold up there? I wish. If you look up at the stars tonight and see my fate, please, give me a shout. I’d really like to know. What? The Big Boom was the Big Bang? Big difference. I’m sure the universe wants us to get that terminology right.


I’m taking cooking lessons. Drugs—just say no.

Do you sort of like me yet?

Foods. Not too processed. Love. Not too processed. This—what?

No! No! My time is not up. We still have a chance of making this work. This is my life! It’s not ending. It feels like it’s just at the start.




But what about our love then?

Story — Poncho and the things of life

Wednesday, January 20th, 2010

(To download as pdf file and read Poncho and the things of life for pdf.)

Read here:

I opened the door to the service porch and D was sitting on the closed top of the washing machine, her legs stretched out before her, her feet resting on the open ironing board. She didn’t look at me as I looked at her. She stared ahead as though sighting along an invisible string from her nose to her boot tip. She wasn’t moving, she wasn’t even blinking. She was just being beautiful and absorbed.

“What’s up?”

“I’m thinking about the things of life.”

“How’s it going?”

“About how you’d expect.”

She still wasn’t blinking or moving so I left her to her thinking and closed the door and walked back through the living room and past Poncho, the bulldog she had brought with her from another relationship, and Poncho always eyed me when I went by. Nothing major, just lifting an eye without lifting his head, eyebrow cocked, as though asking, You making any headway about how things are? And I always just shrugged. “Don’t ask me, I’m just a guest here myself.”

Poncho flicked his eyes away, as though if I couldn’t figure things out, what chance was there for a lowly mammal a couple of levels down on the pecking order? He sighed with all the force of exhausted bellows. Poncho settled further into the rug than he had before, resigned to waiting it out.

I wanted to go back to the service porch and stare at D again, just sitting there, her mind wrestling with obscure muscles in her brain. She was beautiful and I just liked looking. It calmed me. Or it gave me something soothing to do. Her face was like a purpose in life for my eyes. But when I did that too much she would ask, “There a problem?”

I wanted to say, “No, your face solves things,” but I wasn’t sure how she would take this, or whether it was maybe something nice she would like to hear, something that sounded like the truth.

I carried on walking passed Poncho and into the bedroom, which was a mess. The bed looked like a fight had taken place recently. D’s and my clothes were islands of color on the rug, from door to bed to chest of drawers. I stepped around them to get to the bed and lay on it. I stared up at the ceiling and thought I’d consider the things of life, too, like D., like Poncho.

Except both of them were better at this stuff than me. I blinked too much. And thought about beauty. I could sigh like Poncho, but that was about as deep as it went. So waited for D to finish in the service porch and come find me on the bed, ready to make another new mess.

A story – The woman who said Fuck You

Sunday, December 6th, 2009

She’d gotten up early that morning and began the day walking up and down the stairs of the three floors of her house shouting one phrase, “Fuck you.”

She said it with vigor. “Fuck you!” She said it on every floor. Three fuck you’s, one per floor. And every one she meant. She did it again. Three floors, one phrase. Almost methodically. As though she was a business person with a To Do list, or a mad woman who had stopped taking her medication and could feel again.

She had a fuck-you for every floor of the house.

She only half-owned the house with somebody who was no longer there. So all her fuck you’s were for the house. For all the friends who said they loved her but didn’t. And for all the love spoken about but might as well have been shouted fuck you’s.

She continued going up and down the stairs, slowing a bit, getting tired, with time and redundancy. Eventually, the fuck you’s were coming out with less conviction. They were evolving from wrath to bathos.

The New Year was fast approaching and soon she knew she would be be shaking off the dust of her annual resolution. Which was, “If things don’t get better, in ten years I will kill myself.” But things were going to be different this year. She was turning over a new leaf. This year, her resolution would be, “In nine years I will kill myself.” The preface of her phrase, If things don’t get better had received its unbending answer for years. Now “in nine years” was a plain and simple resolution.

On the third floor she stopped yelling fuck you. She stopped after fuck and never got to the last you. Her decision causing an abrupt warped peace.

She went to the kitchen on the second floor to make herself some breakfast. Like a placid condemned being eating her last meal. The first of the last for the next nine years.