Topic: Puffed Siadin

[Gregory Torso]

Puffed Siadin puts his sex-doings into the bin. "I solemnly swear" he tells Herb Alpert one morning. "From this moment forth, to be faithful only to my bag-wife, to the worm-woman."
Herb Alpert parps his Tijuana trumpet and crawls into the drains.

Puffed Siadin drives his wife to a bespoke tailor. "Scissorman" he addresses the eldlerly gent. "I wish to have my wife extracted from this polyester sarcophagus and stitched up inside a coccoon of finest Indian silk. And none of that outsourced Primark crap, neither. Boil the worms yourself, if you must."

"I do so miss my sand eels."

[Glebe]

Own shares in Debenhams. Likes a brandy.

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Puffed Siadin puts a few drops of iodine onto his wife's open eyeballs, and they turn black.

He can't remember what iodine tests for the presence of, so he loses interest and goes early to bed.

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Puffed Siadin converted his wife into a piece of furniture today.  Took the sleeping bag and sewed it into a comfortable shape.  Attached a wooden board and some sturdy legs, and now he sits on her whenever he watches the telly or has a tinkle on the old piano.  He has reviewed his wife as follows:  "Not the best thing I have ever sat on, but it'll do.  4/10."

[Glebe]

Had shares in a company set up by Roger Waters in the '80s. It went bust, but he and Roger remain good friends, and occasionally go fly fishing in the Outer Hebrides.

[spamwangler]

What a thread, really love this

[Glebe]

Borrowed a Betamax video recorder off Chris DeBurgh in 1983. Never gave it back.

[Gregory Torso]

Puffed Siadin awoke in the elbow of night with a sudden revelation. He crept downstairs to where his bench-wife was sleeping. He took his tools and some other parts, some magical and some mechanical and he worked under and around his still and sleeping wife.
By the time the quivering split yolk sun crowned the hills, he had finished and he wept with a strange new emotion as he forced open the kitchen door and beheld his wife in the flooding rays of sun. She walked now, on four joisted and jointed wooden legs, held in place like a native squaw in a papoose on the back of a saw horse. Jittery and lurching, but it was motion. He held her hand and they began to travel.

[Glebe]

Karma.

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Puffed Siadin feels his heavy eyes open and close on this warm beach.  His wife is over there, sipping from a rock pool.  Her means of locomotion have seen better days; here they are cracked and splintering, and fully softened by such prolonged contact with this very salt water.

[Glebe]

He once played checkers with a Sheik for two days on the cusp of Gobi.

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Puffed Siadin has limpets on his wife, and a hermit crab is attempting to take her over.

He places his feet upon her wooden surfaces.  So wet she is, and so coated in layers of algae and seaweed, that he immediately slides off.  Just a slippery thing.

Puffed Siadin calls her “Slimy Wife” now.  That is her new name.

[Glebe]

Owns a bivouac in Dumphries. Lets it out to some crusties every year for an exorbitant fee.

[Gregory Torso]

Puffed Siadin gently pushes his wife out onto the waves, on her rotting raft. "See France" he softly tells her.
"Will it work? Am I seaworthy?" she asks as the currents begin to move her.
It is the last thing he hears her say but he returns to the question many times over the years, as he dreams of the soil-black ocean lifting the wife boat up on its back: "Am I seaworthy?"

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It has been five years since that fateful day.

The day Puffed Siadin went on to name “The End of all Things”.  A tragic day in which, according to his memory, he did everything he could to stop his dear wife fading away into the night.  He tried to save her, he remembers, but her powerful body parts just kept him too far away.  And there she was out of reach, where she continued to be until she was fully gone forever.  And her last words continue to sit as craw in his choked mind:  “Am I seaworthy?”  What a thing to ask.

For five long years Puffed Siadin has been committed to honouring his memory of his wife.  This is why, when she left, he instantly transformed their unused pantry into a dedicated gelatine manufacturing plant.  So many bones can now be easily boiled up that he barely even needs to blink. 

His wife would have been so proud.  He will never fulfil his dream now of glooping molten gelatine from the pan directly into her open mouth as a treat, but perhaps he will have a new wife one day.


Puffed Siadin.

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And it was on that day (not the same day) that Puffed Siadin reached the warm decision to engineer a new wife from what he could locate of his long gone, slimy, cocooned first.  Besides, it would allow him to restore the door frames.

Around he went, collecting strands of her hair from the gouges he had made, somewhat presciently, all those years ago.


Now what, he wondered.  That may have been the easy bit.

[Glebe]

In 1993, Puffed Siadin helped David Icke raise funds for a special 'Centre of Truth' to be built in Cornwall. It never happened, but the pair bonded over their shared love for Chris Dr Burgh and Jean-Michel Jarre and soon became firm friends.

[Gregory Torso]

Puffed Siadin wondered the bluffs, dressed in wormwood scrubs and stinking of ethanol. Remnants of what he now thought of as his "proto-wife"s tattered sleeping bag he had wrapped like a shawl about his narrow shoulders.
All others avoided him. He was said to be "dabbling" but in what, no one could agree upon.
When he lit matches, little gas blue flames would dance down across the backs of his hands. And his eyes had attracted a wild kind of light.

Puffed Siadin, in the dedicated pantry of his dark secrecy, at work. And sometimes, the most beautiful of all musics would leak from the gossiping flue of the chimney; and at other times, brumes of acrid chemicals would sweep across the gardens, bleaching the flowerheads into bone.

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Out of the silence, at ground-height, a letterbox-sized metal grill slides open, and out of it a hand emerges.  From the twist of the fingers it's clear that this hand is coming at a very uncomfortable angle from somewhere.  It gropes around in the brittle, blanched weeds for something.  Nothing yet; scoops around, back and forth, back and forth, the fingers extend and collapse, all at this funny angle.  Still nothing.  The hand snaps away again.

It returns almost instantly at a slightly less awkward angle, and this time it appears able to grope through this short-reach of deathly garden a little more methodically.  It combs through the grass, the few tiny nettles, daisies and dandelions, all of which collapse sadly into ashes upon contact.  The hand pokes at stones, and pokes at more stones, picks one up, casts it aside, picks another up.  One of these stones, in the end, stays in the fingers for a fraction longer.  It is a blackbird skull.  There is a brief stillness as the hand processes what it has picked up.  It appears to have found what it was looking for.

The hand and the tiny skull disappear together back into the slot, and the metal grill slides shut.

[Twit 2]

Puffed Siadin charters a catamaran and gets up to nae good on the high seas.

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Puffed Siadin’s neighbours refer to his garden by three names now:  “The Desert”, “Standing Fog” and, simply, “Death”.

“It makes overtures,” mutter the eldest, “of Ancient Grains.”  They say that you can see them there sometimes within the indeterminate void, “like resting on the surface of hot, undulating fat, and melting skin, before it cracks, and then the grains are gone until they are brought around again”.

Others have a more specific story to tell, for their throats are somehow grey and papery now.  But they never tell this story; they merely gesture to their throats, mime breathing in heavily, and they open up their shirts to reveal their chests, equally gone.  And of the garden they merely say:  “It has cloy.”

“That place - it has cloy.  And it will do that to you.”

[Gregory Torso]

Siadin's pestilent garden has permanently altered the entire valley. Children run and play in its smell trails, always careful not to touch the vapours; old men dribble fog through their faces from unbranded cigarettes and their inner ears vibrate with hate.
Each morning, the departing night leaves viscous oil dark drops behind on the windows, and the wives clean it off with their sleeves.
Puffed Siadin, un-wifed, lets it build up. Soon his house is completely avalanched in scabby night scales.

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On the day that Puffed Siadin’s wife tragically disappeared, a boy named Lapis Lazuli was born in the valley.  As he grew up his mother, Edith, would stand at the top of the stairs recounting nightmarish premonitions of filthy, mildewed sponges spreading out from the kitchen sink and consuming her house and family.  She died of cancer when Lapis was five years old, leaving him alone in that house and valley to fend for himself.

Now eight years old, Lapis Lazuli has a paper round that takes him to the front door of Puffed Siadin’s home, and today he is standing at its open gate for the first time.  What he can see through the dense, unstirring fog is a vast, filthy, mildewed sponge and the damp, expanding cancer from within his mother’s lungs.

He pulls something from his bag and his eyes flit to what he is to deliver to this place.  It is an issue of a magazine subscription entitled ‘Gelatine Made Flesh’.

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A hand rotates a blackbird skull.  Places it in a jar that is already jam-packed with other blackbird skulls.  The lid won't go on properly unless the new skull is pushed down properly, so the finger you can see within the frame of this shot presses the skull a bit more, the lid goes on, then shelf.


Shelf of jam jars containing things.  Labels like blue tit skulls, mouse skulls, I don't need to go into detail because you personally are already disturbingly fascinated with this particular category of things.  We will move on for your own sake.


Beneath that, a shelf labelled "draughts".



We move on.



A large wardrobe.  All these empty coat hangers.  Puffed Siadin's left hand comes into view again.  Takes a coat hanger, and away that coat hanger goes:  gone.  Out of shot anyway.



Ah actually it's not gone; here it is.  It's dipping into a cylindrical arrangement of some kind.  A drum, perhaps, filled with liquid.  Very gelatinous though.


And back it comes out, glooping.  Something viscous dangling from the coat hanger.



Oh but we must move on.  It's a row of several coat hangers now, all with deeply gelatinous formations dangling beneath them, all attempting to dry.  You look at them, and you think this.  These things have their own agency, you feel.  And they wish to be dry.



It suddenly degrades and then ends, this footage.  For a while your mind replays nothing but the concept of liquids holding form in thin air for a while, wobbling. 



And you feel panicked until next time.  But it's okay.

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The path before Lapis Lazuli ends a foot or so from his toes because at a certain point the haze kicks in and then there is obliteration.  This fascinates him a bit, like at what point would you say this is fog.  At what point is there hardly anything and then nothing.

Today he will deliver something to whoever is behind the standing fog.  He knows it. 


His late mother's voice kicks in.  "Job well done, then back home."  That is what she would always say.

[Glebe]

Shared a sherry with Sir Michael Redgrave whilst watching the sun go down from a hotel balcony in Lyme Regis, 1979.

[Glebe]

Ah, 1952, a good year. PS uncorks the bottle and pours. "Well now, let's sample those Cubans you've brought!"

Welles laughs and accepts the glass gratefully. "I thought you'd given up, it's a nasty habit, Siadin!" he winks. "Anyway, never mind all that, let's get down to the business of discussing the financing for this The Magnificent Ambersons restoration!"

It was Christmas 1984, and sadly the last occasion on which Puffed would enjoy the company of his dear old eccentric friend.

[Fishfinger]

The moon gleams yellow now, often as not, and Puffed Siadin has some guest or vassal that roams abroad in its light. So it is said. And in the village, at such times, one may feel a fleeting thing brush past one's calf, its wake a smear of pungent oil. Always there will be a nearby window left ajar and, from inside, one may discern an infant's cries, suddenly silenced. With leaden certainty there follows a mother's wails and lamentations. Yet his supporters in the valley multiply, grey and sunken-cheeked every one, and with new coin to spend. "It is a price worth paying," they maintain, "for he keeps the cloy at bay." But with every stolen newborn soul, he brews yet more of it.

[Fishfinger]

A foreign visitor once lunged at the swift-darting shape, and was repaid with a suppurating wound. A muscular barb burrowed tunnels of agony deep into the flesh, and he had to be bound to restrain his unhinged flailings. He screamed ceaselessly for a day then died with an eruption of blood. The corpse would not rot, so they bricked it up in the ancient temple, and no-one goes there now, only Lapis Lazuli. Just to look.

[Glebe]

Karma for such poetry, Fishfinger.