Kieron Gillen's workblog




Just doing some general house-keeping. Found this. It's a rant written when I returned from 2001 Bristol's Comic con, just before I went on to write the first HIT. I was awesomely drunk and chatting to Jim on MSN at the same time. I publish here for posterity, and to show why I'm running, and what I'm running from. Namely my proses' excesses.

"Reading this makes me want to find some pre-culture fertility goddess and make the beast with two backs until my cock gets friction-burned to a stump.

Because words matter.

Words matter and the beat goes on.

And the beat goes on.

Feel it lash your skin, make you feel again.

Do you know who I am?
See. No-one knows who we are. We’re safe.

Taxi moves like a corpuscle in a fat-clogged vein, the sleep-time pulse between towns systolically slow.

And me? I can feel myself carrying idea-oxygen across my skin.

I’m riding away heart-beat quick from a cancer. It’s a cancer. I’m going to collect my bags, return to the scene of the decline and destroy every living thing inside it, remodify the remaining carcinogenic cells in a shape of my choosing, then let them go as benevolent flesh golems.

In the midst of the auto-destruction, there will be a few healthy cells. These, I will let shape themselves. These, I will let destroy themselves.

I’m going to craft a culture-meme so addictive it’ll re-write reality. I’m going to change the world from this wordprocessor. My constants are atom bombs. My verbs are the shatters of worlds. My Metaphors are the beast of Babylon with countless mouthes and heaving udders dripping fiery milk on a mewling crowd.

But where to start? How to start?

Let’s think of Bath. The taxi’s sliding into its streets, the Jane Austen true-side fantasy to the broken skyline of Bristol. Daytime continental street bars compared to the beat of a club making your guts two step, grinding against someone who’s name you don’t know, and don’t care to ask.

There’s a straight juxtaposition between the decadent fallen grandeur of Bath and the Urban Sprawl of Bristol – the only southern city of note, south of London, the centre of a slave trade and skag city.

Ten miles between the two. Ten miles. You could run it, if you didn’t have a lungful of tar and closed horizons. Think of the estate kids in stolen estates, speeding round the looping streets, the freedom of the automobile turned into auto- incarceration. Think of horizons reaching above you like claws. Think of days when there doesn’t seem to be as much sky as there used to be and the clouds seem like jailers.

(References: Anthony (and Cleopatra), Anthony out of time, born slightly too late, in time to see the dying of his age.)

Think of words that used to sound pretty, but now sound descriptive. Think of the time when the realization that you were the favoured demographic for an advetisement didn’t seem strange or effect your enjoyment of it, and you found the product resting on your shelves within two weeks.

Saying No and doing Yes forever."

EDIT: And, embarassingly, most of that was written before I'd read the bits of Grant Morrison it clearly appears to rip off. Pah. Bastard.




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