Running over the same old ground

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I login in an effort to drag my head out of this bad-B-movie-sci-fi-horror we are living through at the moment, here’s something I wrote earlier…even a collage I did in Europe last century.

What Time? Collage by Bella Basura 1994
What Time? Collage by Bella Basura 1994

Time Warp In The ‘dam

“Sooooo” She drew the word out with undisguised relish “What are we going to do with our last night in Amsterdam, eh?” She laughed, poked him in the ribs and stretched out languorously  across the counterpane, sprawled like a self-satisfied cat. “Our last night as twisted British rock-star and unofficial girlfriend, cut adrift in the city of sin?”
“Just give it a rest” He mumbled. “I’m going to sleep”
“No no no” She laughed “Lets live a while before we go back to our boring lonely adulterous reality.”
He turned away and She could see he was already half way back there, miserable and contemplating meeting his wife again after eight days half-explained absence.
“Look! what do you want from me?” She wheedled

He said “I don’t want nothing”

“Fine, nothing. I’m going to get something to eat then” she was rummaging in the supermarket carrier bag on her bedside table, smacking her lips. “a crisp buttie in a cheap hotel room, hahaha” she laughed.”Rawk ‘n’ Roll!”
“that’s pathetic” he sneered “you’re not really very rock’n’roll at all are you, with your carrier bag of crisp butties”
“yeah, well you’re not really a rock star are you” she countered

He sat up on the bed “I’ve got my following” He was irked.

“Yeah, but not in Britain, eh? Only in Holland and places where they can’t understand what you’re singing about. Are you big in Japan?”
“I’ve got my following”
“What does your wife think?” she knew she was probing to be provocative “Does she think? Your wife?”

“No, she doesn’t think, she looks after the kids and stuff like that, she doesn’t need to think. Will you just get off my case” He switched the light off, plunging the hotel room into the vague neon gloom that passes for night in the city.

She took off her rings, her jewellery and watch, she lay back fully clothed on top the bed. It was one of those sinking moments, she began to wonder why she’d come along at all. It had sounded great when he’d first mentioned the tour, – his first solo tour,  a week in the Low Countries, hotels and food all in, she only had to find the money for the fares. The fares, that was her fare, and – “Could you lend me the money, just until they pay me at the gigs” – his fare too. Funny how his pay had diminished, then disappeared after the first few venues, they’d been living off her savings all week. She closed her eyes in disgust, she hadn’t known about the wife either.

Drifting in half-sleep she ruminated in growing disappointment, she dreamt of their first meeting in the pub all those weeks ago. Dipping in and out of hypnogogic sleep-states, she saw him as a giant tape-worm , all mouth and arsehole, perched on a barstool downing pints, glass and all, gurgling about the losers in the band he’d just dumped, “Losers every one of them, even if they are famous now, deep down they’re born losers” he kept repeating. Was she really so gullible? Had she really been that stupidly smitten with him?

Suddenly, she was wide awake, she peered at her watch in the gloom, the hands on the retro-style dial read 1.35. Amsterdam would still be kicking she decided, plenty of time to still have fun before the flight back at 9am tomorrow. She tucked her handbag into the suitcase – she intended to do the rockstar’s girlfriend debauchery bit to the hilt, no point in carrying valuables around, in this sort of mood chances were she’d lose her handbag in the first bar, best leave her passport, plane tickets and bits in the suitcase. She grabbed her leather jacket, stuffed the last of her dope and cash into the zippered pocket and headed for the door. “I’m off out, looking for some dirty fun. You coming?”

“I’m asleep” the rock star grumbled.

The street seemed uncannily quiet as she stepped from the hotel lobby, she began walking, seeing nobody. In fact, the usually bustling lanes around the hotel seemed totally empty,  every where seemed to be closed, even the trams had shut down. Some City of Sin this is, she thought heading for the nearest coffeeshop.

But even the coffeeshop was dark and so she plonked herself down on a bench, spun herself up a mini-spliff and gazed forlornly into the grimy green of the canal. She wondered when Amsterdam had become so conservative, since when had Europe’s most alive city become a post-midnight deadspot. In the preternaturally tranquil streets she thought she sensed a weird glowing, growing light, as if night were turning to morning. An unusual sensual response, she thought, I must be very stoned, Good Sense, Amelia she said to herself. Spliff done she headed on towards the city’s main drag, the stoned light was definitely intensifying, in fact there really did seem to be a streak of sunrise smearing the east horizon. She crossed the canal into Oudeshans to the charming chiming of the Montelbaanstoren clock tower. One two three chimes, then four five six seven eight.  eight?  Looking up to the big clock face on the tower her heart did a strange faltering flip, she unstrapped her wristwatch and as she turned it through 180 degrees she turned 2.30am to 8am. She laughed momentarily, realising she’d put the wrist watch on upside down in the darkness of the hotel room, she’d had a time warp, she laughed at herself, at the idea of Amsterdam gone moderate, she laughed, even though she’d just lost  five and half hours of her life, and she hadn’t even been drunk. She laughed.

It was full daylight by the time she got back to the hotel. The room was empty, the suitcases gone, he’d already left. There was a note for her on the dirty rumpled bedsheets. “I’ve gone home. Where’s the money? I couldn’t even get breakfast! Where are you? signed Acab Roxtar”.

Bella Basura
August 2019 edit

Reposted december 2020
999 words

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New photo in the Gallery

Weird Scenes Inside the GoldMine. Bella Basura 2019.

Weird Scenes Inside The Goldmine. Bella Basura 2019.

Weird Scenes Inside The Goldmine. Bella Basura 2019.

 

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New Bella Basura Recording

New Bella Basura YouTube video

 

Words, images and voice – Bella Basura
Original voice recordist – Bob Kemp, with Maxine Mackenzie
Early 2019

 

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Temporary Temple Exposition

TEMPORARY TEMPLE

An Exposition
ov Thee Artworks ov
Jonny Marvel

1st -22nd December
8am – 4pm

The Edge Cafe, Mill Road
Cambridge

Photographed by
Brett Sadhwani
Austin Whiteside
Ady Maddox
Robert Shaky Freshwater
and Henry Shepherd
Curated
by Jill Eastland
and Jean Dark

December 2018

bella.basura on Instagram

I have recently started posting on Instagram. #bellabasura

I am re-photographing the whole of the Skull Collection for this first project.

Strawberry Fair Skull. Tealight holder, Shoreditch 2018. Gifted by Adam Crawford.

Strawberry Fair Skull. Tealight holder, Shoreditch 2018. Gifted by Adam Crawford.

#theskullcollection

Over time I will be gradually updating the photographs in the Skull Collection archive on this site.

Silver Earring. The Great Frog, Carnaby Street 1982. Collected by Bella Basura.

Silver Earring. The Great Frog, Carnaby Street 1982. Collected by Bella Basura.

 

 


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Bella Basura portfolio
about Bella Basura
Esoterranean Books
psychogeography
Jean Dark

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New Skull in the collection

Found today, a Halloween addition to the Skull Collection.

Glitter Skull, Poundland, Cambridge 2017. Collected by Bella Basura

Glitter Skull (with eyes lighted) Poundland, Cambridge. 2017. Collected by Bella Basura

 

 

 

The Skull Collection

Archive

Psychogeography

Jean Dark

The Short Answer Chapbook for sale here

The Short Answer, Again

Turn The Page
By Bella Basura

Golden Vagueness - Bella Basura 2016

Golden Vagueness
Bella Basura 2016

Unspeakable beauty, like the floating harmonic deep in keening tinnitus. Words break free, and my sentence struggles away from me, my grasp slipping a grip, like a  hand slipping  a glove. She tears from my skin and flies. Ricocheting my awareness of “I” into a bounding and rebounding silence. A silent creeping vibration, like the tap-tap tapping of a solitary black widow on her dew-luminous web, alone at night. A fly has slipped it’s shackles and fled. A silent creeping vibration of voidness, null, empty and zero.
The one that got away.

More Flash Fiction – The Short Answer a collection of short stories in 100 words.

Soon to be available in chapbook print version.
email:witchysticler@gmail.com for more details.

Bella’s Gallery.
 About Bella Basura
chronological archive

100 word fiction

Skull Girl Grimace Photo by Bella Basura 2015

Skull Girl Grimace
Photo by Bella Basura 2015

Ennui
By Bella Basura

I passively follow Qwerta to the beach, golden sand tumbles onward in rolling dunes, down to the sea. Momentarily I glimpse a vista of the deep oceanic horizon, blue with distance, then we dip down into a hollow, a machete is thrust into the sand.

Qwerta grasps the machete, but it stays fast, Excalibur in stone. She tugs, tugs, her maximised stealth leeching into the landscape. Sudden Manga wingedsnakebat creatures attack her kneecaps. She soaks the sand, beating out her life in numerical units. FAIL in red. Disappeared.

I pick up the machete and mouse-click back to the encampment.

Flash Fiction Anthology
Image Gallery

 

 

The Short Answer

Further Flash Fiction by Bella Basura
from the proposed Anthology – The Short Answer – short stories of 100 words in length.

Auntie Shocked Sees The Light Photo by Bella Basura 2013 Still from "Abandoned Video" With Phil MFU

Auntie Shocked Sees The Light
Photo by Bella Basura 2013
Still from “Abandoned Video” With Phil MFU

Precog Moment

Shaking firm hands with poker-faced thank-you-for-your-time, I close the door behind me.

Standing waiting for the lift down, I depressingly relive the interview.

I see myself lurching, a raddled old maid in rouge and blotchy mascara, wearing a charity-shop power-suit, manoeuvring square shoulder pads into a diminishing round hole. I trail mendacity and inappropriate extended metaphors across the interview room carpet. Bluff and fluff falling away.  The interviewers look at me, disappointed in their expectations, they recoil, their faces cave in and close.

Instantly, I know it’s over, even before I mention my criminal record and false identities on Facebook.

More Flash Fiction
More Images

New Flash Fiction

 

A Year In The Murder Flat - Bella Basura 2011

A Year In The Murder Flat – Bella Basura 2011

Living at Death’s Door
By Bella Basura

At first the landlord didn’t tell us about the murder,
we found out after the lease was signed,
we’d already moved in.

In the end, I read it in the local newspaper,
she’d lived in the flat across the landing,
her husband stabbed her in a frenzy,
she escaped him but died in the stairwell.
I carried the constant knowledge that the woman  had bled out on my doorstep.

The morning of the murder, he told me later,
the landlord had hidden in the bathroom.
The woman had died screaming and banging on a door nobody dared answer for fear.

Other Sculptures

Other Flash Fiction