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Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
I am an experienced writer who has worked across a variety of mediums including: screenplay, script editing, prose, poetry,and novelization. I am particularly interested in psychogeography and the scope it gives both academics and creative writers to effectively trade elements of their fields.
 

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Posted in Arts / Literature / Contemporary

Rapid cycling

Nov. 17, 2009 7:51 pm
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The photograph of the rabbi distracted my eyes as the proprietor forced ahead with the large debit transaction. New York. The Fall. I had fallen, but just how far this time? The internal dialogue in my fevered nut rattled on as more questions rallied, faded, as the eyes were distracted to another impulse purchase. $2,000, or thereabouts blown on a full surveillance kit...video camera, printer, night vision binoculars...I'd only gone in to buy a cheap personal CD player...jet lag, vodka listened as I talked to myself in my hotel room an hour or so before. Escape: from illness, violence and fear...Arrival: into illness, fear and incipient paranoia. The Hispanics who guarded the non-descript video store leered through Zapata moustaches in full cliched fig; wife-beating vests and cerveza bellies taut, as they eyed their cut of the never-never credit I was blowing on 41st. The electrical storms were raging in the synaptic nightclub of my brain chemistry, I held onto the counter as the receipts piled up and I spoke to my bank in a word salad conversation. They must know I've drifted...receded into the constant overflow of The Now, a hyper-kinetic response to an imbalance years old...Jackie Chambers tried to reign in his worst excesses as he rolled into 41st with a black bin bag full of unwanted video gear and another handful of receipts he failed to see the harbinger in. He was heading for a full capitulation. He'd jumped the flight to NYC from Heathrow without the first thought of the whys and wherefores and other logistics. He was cut loose, floating on the Manhattan tarmac, listing towards the nearest bar. His reflection a memory of a Jackie Chambers he'd seen in projected self: the self of the future. He was now haunting himself. Taunting himself from newspaper columns he'd already penned. He picked up a Guardian from a newsstand and tumbled into the nearest, badly hailed yellow cab. His hands were shaking from alcohol withdrawal and he popped some low-grade unmarked pill he found in his clammy and thin seersucker jacket "Smith's Bar" was a 2 word effort that swam in the dull, dust-reflected air between him and his temporary driver. The turbaned head nodded and pulled away from the cracked, oddly unevenly cambered concrete of 41st and eyed Chambers with what seemed like a mixture of sympathy and disdain. Hard shift. Noble Sikh stuck in a yellow cab with a junkie Brit...
Jackie pressed his roll of green notes into Noble Sikh's firm mitt "25 or so snots...OK?" he managed to intone behind gritted and chipped dentition. The cabbie said nothing and moved off, gunning the car as Chambers receded in his rear view; a stranded man watching the rescue vessel head for the event horizon? Jackie, through a sedated haze practically swam to the foot rail of Smith's Bar. 11AM. British Standard Opening Time. Another day sliding between the axes of the poles...the spectral wraiths had yet to emerge as Jackie raised his index finger and ordered his nth vodka of the week. Wednesday: midpoint in the cycle.

 
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