eastney by katharine eastman

Accidentally this is an okay album - the middle track, which I finished about 3 minutes ago, was meant to have an album title/cover all of its own but I accidentally uploaded it to this other album which has been hanging around for ages because I'm not confident it was any good. Well of course it hasn't got any better, but that new track snuggling in between the two old tracks turns this into a serious thing - as doomed to be eternally and universally unheard as all the other new things on Bandcamp nowadays, but just for a few moments I am on that high that you get when you've just finished something that feels worth doing.

In a few minutes the high will have faded away and I'll wonder What's Next ? I swear that the rest of this sentence is true - but yesterday I got into an arm-wrestling contest with a big strong man who was wearing leather trousers - he always does wear leather trousers, he's macho and outdoorsy and I like him, he's odd and on various "spectra" but I find him easy to get on with, and that is all I care about. He's quite pleased with himself, and I wanted to put him into perspective - so out of nowhere I challenged him to the arm-wrestle - we were in Room 2 over by the park by Canute Road and I admit he was a bit startled.

Of course he was on a lose-lose wicket - not much kudos for him if he beat me, absolute disgrace if I beat him. It ended up a scruffy draw - I could've beaten him but I was sitting at a bad angle whereas he was sitting at the ideal angle.

He was surprised that he'd not won. I'm now a bit disappointed that I'd not taken it more seriously, I should've sat properly and then I would've won and then, well, what ? - nothing really. I think he gets a bit annoyed at me because I keep on laughing at him - I mean it kindly - he never understands what I find so funny. It should be obvious. He sits in a faux-leather chair like the rest of us and as he shifts about in his leather trousers he makes noises which sound exactly like farts. I never put my ALL into anything that I do. I'm like everyone - a ball in a pinball machine, thinking it's skill, but it's just luck.

If we'd both had the right anatomy then I suppose the arm-wrestle would've been a dick-swinging contest - we're both too old to ever be conscripted for the forthcoming war again Russia or Iran or Yemen or North Korea or Rwanda - of course no sane person would fight in such a war, though I would fight in a war against our government.

Then I went to the cinema. The secret of my strength is that I carry two six-kilo weights in my backpack - not so much just for the exertion of carrying them around with me, but mainly because whenever I'm sitting in a cinema etc I like to pick them up from time to time and wave them around, up and out and ahead and around and around and bending my arms and pulling things towards me and away - it's wonderful - two birds with one stone - it's why my arms are so good, and all the walking is why my legs are the same - when Rishi declares war on a country that threatens to take away all his wife's money I shall volunteer for whatever country he's picked on and I shall pass on the big state secret about the UK, that we've already lost, that no one cares, that even the nation's strong men in leather trousers can be taken down by shy quiet people like me.

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recorded today and a while ago, photo the Hayling Island ferry at Eastney shore, by Vanessa Oliver, a few days ago.