Your Daughter's Muse

The Acoustics of Loss

2011-01-28T06:03:00.000-08:00

I came upon your soft phonemes in a forgotten voice-message,
and
it shuddered the heart to hear,
lilting in those unforgotten chords,
your orphaned melody in my ear.
And your tone, after the tone, was synthetic.
Your beautiful laugh, a faux-phonetic,
or
the sound of a preterite tense.
Since now you're conditionally tensed - I would call you back if I could,
and with a muted cry of anguish, so charmingly silent like our bluebell wood,
I do call you back... the beat of my heart like a futile dial-tone...
I call you back to me.
By soul. And, hopelessly, by phone.

Come back to me.

Both you and your number are no more,
and
as I listen to this echoic vocal score
a cocophony of memories slide like glass down my throat,
so vocally remote
that I choke on your silk words, hold them
closer, closer, tears and telephone cords spinning a web,
as you ebb
like ice down my ear drums, to hold my heart in a symphony of missing you.
And,
I hold you too.
Hold your words like dewy snowdrops against my cheek,
smiling slightly at the sound
since, finally, you speak.

2010-12-10T22:44:00.001-08:00

Mate...

2010-12-10T20:26:00.000-08:00

Bite my heart, until love pours out - will it to spill - bite my heart, until love flows freely from every hollow, bite it harder still...
drain me my love, then walk away -
I'll follow.

2010-12-09T21:56:00.000-08:00

Sipping beautiful harmonies and clinking souls with paper;
divinating inked menagerie of a golden era, or perhaps,
empty verse
Life's street magician way of flowing...quasi-extraordinary and, at times, charming - but empty
Sipping down beautiful harmonies and tracing meaning onto a new skin with
nostalgic fingertips. Memorising memories so as to capture happiness

and moments are but stepping-stones along a stream of consciousness, and you are stepping-stoned-along your stream of consciousness so as the density of intensity is improved.

Why not?

(S)adism (A)nd (M)asochism

2010-11-29T10:48:00.000-08:00

I thought about you recently.
I thought about the subservient smile only you could evoke from me and how I looked forward to you because you would tear me to pieces and satisfy your every need with my body and you didn't care, you didn't care who I was, you only cared what I was, or what you could make me be. And you were so forceful and sick and it hurt so much that I could slip away and become nothing at all and do anything for you, and give myself up to you, because I don't want myself Sam so I'm yours Sam, I'm yours.

LOVE

2010-11-16T21:41:00.000-08:00

threads us together like daisy chains.

Unravelled

2010-11-10T18:08:00.000-08:00

Stepping through an hour in rain brings voices soft as powder puffs
breathing muted possibility. I am filled with senseless light
and autmnal charm, I have to be, but I don't have to be enough.
I can fall like a hazy bluebell dressed in dreaming, 'til life takes flight
And my limbs stretch into roads which stretch into cities which melt
methodically into earth's great tablecloth of love and loss entwined
with a sunset's dimmed lighting, and thousand artic kisses felt
in my hair as I blow home on stormy mornings, lucidity left behind.

Perhaps this song means most to me

2010-10-29T23:11:00.000-07:00

because every single lyric is how I feel about living, and about the people I love.

Up down turn around, please don't let me hit the ground
Tonight I think I'll walk alone, I'll find my soul as I go home

Nostalgic for therapy

2010-10-20T18:11:00.000-07:00

Windowsill night. A cigarette. A glass bottle of Pimms' lazing on the bone of my hip.
Lily incense, and paper. Night air, a book or two - a view.
A flare of red as I drag too hard on my cigarette. The red of the sky, as if the earth also inhales too deeply, drinking in the panarama of nothingness.
A regal silhouette of a body of trees - black, I wonder if I could swim inside it, pulling through the blackness which stares hard at me, the pupil of the sky. My pupil looks back. Sharing the black. I must be mad, because a cat in the flowers snaps a twig and I am certain, so perfectly certain, that this is a gun being cocked and I move slightly, so as not to be a fixed target.
And I hope, maybe, that the curls of lily incense shroud me, as Lady Macbeth hoped hell would rise and mask her evil in smoke.
Solitude. My therapy.
I am, such an existentialist sometimes that all I need is lazy glassed spirits, a cigarette, and words and incense to take my pain away.
I might always be able to slip away, and enjoy the silent cremation of life and others in one inhalation.

I HAD A CHILDHOOD (this is not creative, I just didn't know where else to put it)

2010-09-19T20:38:00.000-07:00

Roll down the windows of your soul,
air your views right out,
and smile, and be yourself.
Because you are a little girl.
And that is your right,
If anything.

Don't forget, that you're just the little girl, that you were.
Promise me not to forget.
Little breezes feathering your hair on those days...those days where, you could find, something special, in a giftshop.
Like a shell with your name on it.
Or pink striped candy-canes, and a sunhat.
Just don't forget that feeling, of handing in a little exercise book, inside which, there was a little story, written by you.

Don't forget the things that made you happy. Book-shopping. And. I can't remember now. But it was important. Oh yes.
Seeing your father.

Don't forget polly-pockets and polly-pocket clubs at school.
Don't forget the silky childhood elitism that came, from writing the club password, in your hello kitty notepad.
Because you were the club leader. It was your idea. And everyone gave you suggestions, you know, 'shall I go home and get my dad to make membership cards on Microsoft Publisher?'
Does anyone have a laminator?

Never forget.
Never forget.

Never forget winning the creative-thinking prize and the English cup and the geography prize (?!) and, more importantly, the colouring competition, when you were little.
Never forget spider pens,
and,
competitions from little girl magazines where you sent your address and the answer on a postcard.
Never, please never, forget those times at Brownies, which you actually really hated. 'Cause Brown Owl was a bitch.
And the girls all knew each other.

Well, don't worry - remember Harrison and Anjana and the apple you shared with them both from your Barbie lunchbag, because you were all so hungry on the bus.

No No, don't forget cats cradle, and the crazes that followed.
Marbles, bouncy balls, aliens, pokemon cards...but most of all,
PLEASE NEVER FORGET THE GAME WHERE YOU PRETENDED TO BE SQUIRRELS.
Because, you got to be baby squirrel. And you liked that.

You've forgotten so much,
but you had a childhood.
I know this,
because,
you went to Alex's Halloween party every year, and one time you sat on William's lap, dressed as a kitten, YOU LITTLE SLUT?!
But no, you were six, and Matthew gave you a Lion King teddy, because you once said he reminded you of Simba.
(He had blonde/ginger hair)

Miss Davies didn't believe in rubbers, she believed in 'not making mistakes'...Miss Magheira wrote in a calligraphy pen on your reports. Oh my goodness, and milk with straws at breaktime.

School discos, so little that it was your mum who dressed you up to go.
'Dancing with a boy' - you danced with matthew and felt smug that Vanessa had to dance with Richard.
Richard was fat, but kind, probably gay now.

Kissing Claire Davies on the lips for a dare.
Deciding that we'd do this sometimes to surprise everybody.
Yes, being an attention-stealer, definitely.

Telling your classmates that you had an imaginary friend who hated you, and wanted your life to be bad.
Watching their concern, and shrieking 'JOKE'!
You rat of a child.
You are still that little girl, I promise you.

You never have to be anybody else.
Remember saving up for things you saw in the Argos catalogue.
Like toys, and, once, an egg-timer because it looked exciting.
Feather boas in John Lewis.

Roll down the windows of your soul,
air your views right out,
and smile, and be yourself.
Because you are a little girl.
And that is your right,
If anything.

Affectionless Psychopathy

2010-08-29T13:27:00.000-07:00

I think a light went out in me today.
I think a light went out when I was sitting on my bed and he started rattling the door handle of my room.
I think a light went out when I sat through twenty minutes of the violent, ruthless rattling.
I think a light went out when that rattling noise pressed on my sanity so hard that it snapped.
I think a light went out when I stopped wondering what was going to happen.
I think a light went out when I stopped caring what was going to happen.

The light went out when I stopped being afraid, when self-preservation died inside me.

I got up, and unlocked the door.
He hit me across the cheek.
He had this horrible unhinged sneer on his face.
He dug his hand into my stomach just beneath my ribcage.
I felt like filth and darkness.

And then he walked away.

Prostitution

2010-08-28T17:49:00.000-07:00

Suddenly, her tears were drops of honey.
And her eyes, fountains of gold.
She cried childhood in deposits, sobs like clinks of money...
Soul, soul, soul, 'sold'.

She ripped at midnight with boned fingers.
Looked at a frozen wind and tried to fly,
She slipped...mid-flight...stoned on what lingers -
Felt 'empty' shiver in her, an inability to cry.

After having,

2010-08-10T10:52:00.000-07:00

spoken last night for eight hours, suffered the consequence of a raging throat, and felt my heart sing...having noticed the delightful little ways she spoke and laughed and paused between words, between dizzying laughter or between screams as something was lost or dropped...and having immediately and overwhelmingly loved this about her and loved her as you love a sister, as you love someone whose soul is indefinably dear to your heart...

After having, later remembered Chekhov and the seagull that was slayed, and the strangling sensation of caring for others and how, and how, you can never truly be free...

After having, written an old love's name a couple of times. And stared at the letters and tried to arrange them into a witty anagram which I could maybe use against him one day as maybe like, maybe, some kind of leverage, just in case...just in case, he got me again...

After having, remembered hot thighs on sand and the tarantella or something which couldn't tame us and instead dancing like 'The Scream', whirling and whirling into delirious panic because the laughing and the wildness starting screaming nightmares back into our heads...

After having, grapevined across an echoey tennis court late at night with a new girl cousin and raced through Italian alleys, dark Roman alleys, brushing against cobwebbed wooden windows and pieces of stone and monuments to the madonna at metzanote or metzanote e un cuarto...

After having, cried and scratched and kicked at the sound of his sick, fucked up voice and hated hated HATED my mother for hurting me last night only for being here, for being here until tomorrow...

After having, pulled white socks all the way over my knees and sat quite still, thinking maybe that I would like help but not wanting to be seen like this or to ruin any moments or to be an imposition...

After having, been suspended in a garden of pastel colours and catharsis and wondering why people question the meaning of life when the very fact that we understand the word meaning and understand what we expect of the word meaningful surely attributes some kind of meaning to...life?

After having, realised that I cannot really write and cannot really think but that I am alive and that a love exists which makes me smile so much that I can no longer smile but instead need to throw myself with considerable force at those perfect people with pure hearts and pink lipstick like you and tell them that I rather adore living like a sunny-coloured crayola click on...

I decided it was time for a cup of tea.

Hell

2010-07-20T13:35:00.000-07:00

is a moment. When your screams are not just a sound. Your whole body is screaming. Screams escape from your skin, your pores. They arch your back, they flood your eyes.

They take your mind, so there is nothing.

Heaven

2010-07-17T23:51:00.001-07:00

Byron Vincent and glades where flies look like light and light snags on trees and herbs become teas and bracken is where love happens and bluebells and snowdrops and the lovely ways we speak, and the creaking of the creek as it gets older and pebbles get colder and trouser legs rolled - her legs dipped, and the river sipped, by osmosis, into moss for children to feel, hearts of steel and perfect smiles and perfect smiling, miles of beguiling the world with youth and warm cheeks, one girl seeks...stories and Mays and Junes and Julys, days of dunes and enchanted goodbyes - a really good stick to walk on with.

Lidded nights

2010-07-17T22:06:00.000-07:00

Do you remember lidded nights?

Night, eternal night, was hours away. You fell asleep under the black of your eyelids, evening sun making your curtains glow. Open, daylight. Close, night. Open, daylight - always too tempting. Open.

Light enough to play with those pull-string fairies known as Sky Dancers.

Foam wings, spinning.

A world away, underneath you and glassed away by windows, older people walked by in the light of summer night.

I looked down on them, and wished I could go downstairs. My room had a fever.

Now I can picture my mother - vaguely aware that I was moving upstairs, on my dressing gown adventures. There was wine on her throat, beginning her childless evening.

Back then, she was only -

'I thought you had water.'

I'd poured it down the bathroom sink, a stroke of inspiration at the time.

'I've already said goodnight.'

'You've already had reading time.'

'This? This is Ray.'

Ray the saucy man who I always associated with grass.

One time he took us out. There was a jazz man. I wrote on a tissue, 'your playing is nice', and left it on my wooden chair when we left.

Falling asleep in the light was always melancholy. One thigh in, one thigh out. Hot sheets. A room suddenly full of restless trinkets and unfinished notebooks. The world was happening. It always is. Even when you finally slip away beneath makeshift eye-lidded darkness and dream of coral walls and illicit seashells.

When I woke up I remembered the pockets of a coat, heavy with forgotten seaside stones.

I tipped them into my palm and placed them in the garden beside the chalk I sometimes used to draw pictures on the patio. The garden was very long and had trees inside.

When I was young I was more talented than I am now.

I'd wake up suddenly with a poem about clocks in my head and I'd write it on my pillow case.

Sometimes, now, I wake up and cry. But I don't want to be dark. I want to be indefinable and lyrical and think of, oh, I don't know, metaphors? I want to walk across the hills and find poems written on blades of grass. John Clare did this.

I like Mrs Dalloway. She dips deliciously between her mind and her situation. Walking out of the front door, thoughts, thoughts, crossing the road, thoughts again, and before you know it she's reached a shop she'd like to visit. It draws attention to how, while she ponders the intense moment before Big Ben strikes, she must be moving, on her way to places, stepping over cracks in the pavement. Her surroundings surface now and then, interlaced with thoughts and feelings. Flowers. Feelings. Flowers. Feelings. An acquaintance. Thoughts.

"Look, look Septimus!" she cried. For Dr. Holmes had told her to make her husband (who had nothing whatever seriously the matter with him but was a little out of sorts) take an interest in things outside himself.

So, thought Septimus, looking up, they are signalling to me. Not indeed in actual words; that is, he could not read the language yet; but it was plain enough, this beauty, this exquisite beauty, and tears filled his eyes as he looked at the smoke words languishing and melting in the sky and bestowing upon him in their inexhaustible charity and laughing goodness one shape after another of unimaginable beauty and signalling their intention to provide him, for nothing, for ever, for looking merely, with beauty, more beauty! Tears ran down his cheeks.

Existentialism happens occasionally. Duck egg blue does feel like a colour I'd make up.

But people are such clever things, handing you unforgettable moments, filling life's party bag.

Everything matters. So it's perfectly natural that I should stop mattering when nights are no longer lidded but black as byron.

2010-07-16T20:37:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning. I saw him next to me. Related, like usual.

'Shit hot', he said, and took a shower.

Don't cry. Don't cry. Fuck. Don't cry.

Musings on art

2010-07-04T17:36:00.000-07:00

This is Leonardo Da Vinci's, 'The Vitruvian Man'. A canon of proportions. Limbs seamlessly capable of necessitating the gradient of both a circle and a square. It is glorious. A pinnacle of geometric precision...
If I had a little daughter I would obtain by some means a Vitruvian figurine, and adorn her room with circles and squares. My daughter. Alone, and soaked in intimacy, she will take unearthly pleasure in dancing from shape to shape - little Vitruvian in little palm. Delightedly, she places him easily inside each of them. No shape defies him and his masterful measurements. Neither square nor circle evade penetration by him. By man. By Vitruvius.
If she is like me, she will do this erratically, blindly - spinning, lost in herself, mindlessly hounding the circles and squares which invade her line of vision. She will only feel, and react. She will be volatile. Her little extremist self will fit him softly inside his frame and breath in the moment, an enchanted second, before she snaps back her wrist and severs it, whirling him away to make another conquest. She will not cease, manic creature, until she is tired.
I know I will love her more if she instead exhibits a sense of calm. If she makes each captivating geometric success consecutively, thoughtfully. My serious little girl, as I know she will be.
It is only inevitable that she will emerge a cautious and careful darling. Her mother's mind tends to fission into inpenetrable madness, and thinks so much it seeks ways not to.
Perhaps through falling, or the forceful displacement of reason in favour of any dizzying caprice.

A 'canon' in the sphere of visual arts and aesthetics, or an aesthetic canon, is a rule for proportions, so as to produce a harmoniously-formed figure. This is what is meant by our Leo having here created a 'canon of proportions'. We may choose to see The Vitruvian Man, a 'canon of proportions', as a superlative of mathematical exactitude.

For me, however, I see him and think of music. In musical terms, a canon is the succession of voices, one after another, taking up the same subject. The leader begins and, after a duration, the follower imitates. There can be no end to this without breaking the canon. Usually, to avoid canon-ing towards a melodic death, the leader will stop, and so the follower too is silenced, after the agreed duration.
The beauty is that, whilst the canon lasts, the music is circular.
The infamous 'Frère Jacques', for example, will fleetingly exist in many moments on the same continuum. He is not 'once, and then no more'. He has ghost after vocalised ghost, from the very moment a lone unit of voices spark the first sighting of his trochaic body.
Here, in this painting, the shapes are the voices, simultaneously outlining the same subject, but requiring distinct and differing points in time and space.

I am glad of these two nuances found in 'canon'.
It further empowers our Vitruvian.
He reaches, reaches to his full potential, to seize both the abstract and the empirical.

I am suddenly aware of how fluid my limbs are. Unlike his, mine are not frozen in their extended form. They can furl. I am furled now, legs lost amongst each other...and I remember my own Vitruvian man, and how he fit so perfectly to my shape, and I to his.
We melted like molten metal, and reformed as one.
In this painting, I dislike the unwavering outline of the body, its rigid non-conformity.
He does not bend, he is hingeless, immune to adjustment.
Interesting how the shapes comply with him, and he remains unshaped, unchanged by shape. To shape someone is to alter them, and I think it important always to be willing to bend for someone you love.
It gives you different perspectives, views, and sensations.
It allows you a change in position...and bending a limb does not change its particularities, its length or its width. You may remain your self same outline.
There's a mantra for my daughter, 'always be true to your outline'.
I hope she takes the little figurine as a symbol of this, she must always be herself.
A fault of mine is that I bend too easily to fit another's shape.
I give myself up to them so entirely that my limbs can snap.
I am frequently mishapen or unhinged completely...lost in the limbo of bending over backwards (haha) for others, forgetting who I am or what I look like because I am being sculpted by another to emulate their ideals.
But my mind is Vitruvian, resolute; a metaphorical mirror -
my thoughts show me my reflection, who I am...my shape, my outline.
I can recognise thoughts that differ to mine, and be fascinated by them.

Perhaps I shall also give my child one of these, if only to complete the metaphor:

East of Barcelona

2010-06-28T10:22:00.000-07:00

The lights are hungry. There are seraphim, and salt and a sense of having bones, and being bones. I can move, and my mind is nothing but wet ink. The uncarpeted sea swills past my sinews and my skin, inhaling me. I don't have to think. I am part of the sea, East of Barcelona, and the moment seeps from me like an offering. I have something more than language; the silk simplicity of being. Hot and ambiguous words trickle over my retinas, optical language-making as thoughts race to finish themselves before clarity washes over them like the tide. And when your lips touch water it is like kissing the scarlet tongue of the King of Spades. Loose and lucid cultural references penetrate and re-penetrate you. I think of East Barcelona and I think of the water's auroch and of glass and my frost blonde hair is clasped by a watery branch and becomes uncoloured by water until it blends like soft tar with the black body of moisture. It vanishes me. I extinguish myself. I was a drop of gold on a landscape of rippled black. Now I am washed under and washed away to decompose, laughing literature and melting torn pages of my mind which hold nothing but fear, memories and scenes from Macbeth.

That night I felt that I had bled the sea from my heart, and that the waves dripping up my collarbone were spilt from me. I was there, legs falling into nowhere, before pools of my blood and myself.

You

2010-05-27T15:39:00.000-07:00

nevermind.

I can write for you

2010-05-02T06:58:00.000-07:00

rippled notes,
of future exploitations,
love,
wretching, and purging
of anatomy and intoxicated
meta-poise.

Inked limbs and trepid clawing of
knives on ice as we
fall and cling and vaunt a maudlin prayer,
for rippled notes,
of future exploitations,
love,
and tepidity,
lacking in loquation or loot.
Deepening the trip,
loosening the grip,
as we dip and scratch rippled notes,
of future elegies,
and odes to felony.

I can't do everything.

De pronto, las lagrimas son gotas de miel

2010-05-01T15:23:00.000-07:00

Y los ojos, fontanas de oro.

llueve, llueve la locura

2010-05-01T15:05:00.000-07:00

Mi mente ha desaparecida....
Y sonrío una sonrisa de plata.
He perdido mi mente,
pero no me importa, porque ahora puedo bailar con las flores de la luna.
La locura nace y es hermosa.

Acts of sexual perversion.

2010-05-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

Small things. Small things in my mind. Small things flicking by like shattery images, flick, flick.
His apartment, dark green. Two birds in a cage that I looked at. Filth.
Small things like his little realisation, a small corner of thought taking precedence, gift wrapped; 'perhaps I should know her more', 'perhaps she exists', 'perhaps sorbet will do'.

The vacillating slideshow of my memory. Somehow the memories, two birds in a cage, green apartment, sorbet, are allowed to be remembered objectively, unrelated to the 'thing', objectively, objectively, utterly objectively unrelated to the 'thing'. Some of those happened before, though - this has just occured to me. Before the 'thing'. Perhaps that's why.

He was in the midst of moving in to mine and my mother's house, that explains why the apartment was empty. He didn't bring the birds. It wasn't dark green, I perhaps just thought that. Sometimes I sit, and let my memory project the strange angles and images it somehow selected to represent the past. The sorbet was after his marriage to my mother. It was a thing, probably imposed by her, designed to bridge the borders of blood. So we could forge some happy memories. I have no ideas on whether it was before or after the 'thing'.
I remember the sorbet, and speaking quickly and eagerly about school and things in my life. He sat, completely disinterested. My mother was not there.
Just as it was by the canal, when I made my imaginary home out of discarded wood and leaves and things and showed it to him. And I made him sit in it, and he sat, disinterested. He was always giving me nothing. He exerted only how he had come to the misguided conclusion that it was his right to be cruel and disciplinary, to discipline me like a father would. To tell me angrily to feed my rabbits. To not say hello. And yet, I did skipping in the garden and got told off for saying 'God'. God, I was a good girl.

Deciding never again to come into contact with him, never again to speak to him, never to see his face - that was so perfectly easy. There were memories, so many holidays, a few games, sorbet. So many holidays. More than with my own father. But they are feelingless. When I reflect on them I feel nothing. I don't care, I am unconcerned. I don't care that they happened. I think my mother wonders how it is that, after everything, I don't miss him. 'Miss him' are words that make me want to give papercuts to eyeballs. My mother doesn't know about the 'thing' - the very first 'thing'. The when-I-was-a-child 'thing'. The I-was-so-young 'thing'.
I used to worry that what he did hadn't affected me, that I was revolting, a girl with no soul, that I had...no...soul. It is strange that I tidied the first 'thing' away in my mind so easily. It is strange that I spoke no words about it, and consented to drift on through sorbet years of family holidays, no silliness, no trauma. I was adaptable, levelled, adjusted. Abused. God, I was a good girl.

But I know now what the occurence of that first 'thing' did to me. I was definitely younger than seven. And the first 'thing' that he did, it is the reason why those memories of life and childhood, my mental slideshows, the flick of pictures and sensationless sensations, hold no emotion, nothing to be cherished. I am looking now - through my memory, the objective slideshow of things and pictures and moments and feelingless sensations. Sand on holiday. Waves. Camera. Camera.
This is why his role in my life and the memories of his role in my life were all so easily given away, and given up.
This is why the idea of 'missing him' fills me with white hot anger.
They are not memories.
I have no childhood.

The first 'thing' did affect me.
It shut out all my feelings.
It is the reason why I am cold, easily bored, and have nothing inside me.
My slideshows are empty.
Like Humbert to Lolita, he violated her body, and lost access to her head.
Like Dante to Jenny, he saw the prostitution of her body, but never a key to the locked box of her mind.
I care nothing for him.
And the filth was not in the apartment but bubbling in his pores. His horrible pores.
I remember.

He has looked me up and down, secretly, privately, pervertedly.
I've seen him up, and down.
My mother was not there.
I've seen him up, and down.
And that's a line I just scribbled out, and scribbled over.
Just as I scribble on faces with a knife in my mind.
Aimless, directionless escape.

But none of those things were the first 'thing'. The first 'thing'.
The I-can't-write-the-verb 'thing'.
The gag of it having existed.
The heaving, it can't be killed.
The never-atoned-for 'thing'.
The slimy underneath of him.
The slimy access I unwillingly had to his mind, the slimy 'thing' it led him to do.
His slimy abnormality.
My dismay that this was his secret slime-covered self.
That this existed.

That's her husband.
My mother's husband, who she enjoys.
And who has a place in the house - who feels like those rooms are his. Who shamelessly rules his stolen land while my grandma, my mother's mother and the former owner of 'his' house, suffers alone from dementia. He has no thoughts for her. He drove her away and lives on, easily - he gave me his infection and lives on, easily. And I live on the scrappy piece of paper, taped recklessly on to the edge of the 'fine portrait' of their home.

Tears only come to my heart when I think of my mother. Our memories are clean. Such elation it brings me to write that. Such gratitude I feel (I feel!) for our clean memories together. For walks, and seasides and forgotten times of clean togetherness. I feel such gratitude for this, that I cannot blame her for bringing him to me. And for refusing to take him away when I told her about the camera, and when I cry alone and press my legs together to keep his phantom hands away, and when I wake from the dreams. The dig of his hands on my ribs in coarse and jeering mock affection. Jeering because he knows now how that simple action would repel and traumatise me, after...every 'thing' he did. He has such fun in my dreams. And then I wake up, crying again and again and again.
My crying and his low slimy laughter. His lazy freedom. His lazy acceptance by my mother, his lazy ownership of my old house.

Motherhood is the only warmth I can find. One day, when time has taken me even further from the 'thing', I will have my fresh starts. My babies. Born clean. And I will see to it that they remain untainted, undirtied, free like little birds to live and be happy, and remember happiness.
I will be their mother, their protector. They will grow like beautiful spring green shoots, and they'll smile, and never know or understand freezing, unconcerned memories like mine. They will never know the reflex not to feel. Or the churning disgust of his bubbling filth.
I will let nothing happen to them. Nothing. No 'thing'. Ever.

Normal normal normal

2010-04-13T12:44:00.000-07:00

Normal I feel normal.

Us

2010-03-08T12:16:00.000-08:00

You always want to know if I'm free on a Thursday.
I hate this about you.
And I always smile and say I'm free as a bird.
And then I cancel just before...even though I know you've already Made the journey.
And you tell me I always have 'some excuse' -
Some excuse which you can't possibly get angry about...because My mum does have cancer,
And I do want to spend time with her.
But, you wish you could get furious.
You want to hit me so hard my cheek breaks.
And I ask you, laughingly, 'How's the heart?'
And you want the other cheek to break on impact.

Metafiction...

2010-02-28T12:38:00.000-08:00

or 'Penzance, where the winds are born'

I am reading essays.
Mark Kingwell's -
'Art Will Eat Itself'
'Anguish as a Second Language'
'Crayon in the Brain: Matching Happiness in the Time of Homer'
'The Theory Theory; or, The Fashion System Revisited'

And now:
'Proust and Scott Moncrieff Compared'
'Magic Realism (Milan Kundera)'
And...essentially everything David Lodge has ever written.

I'm reading. I'm reading again. I'm reading structuralism, deconstruction, feminism, Lacanian psychoanalysis, neo-marxism, cultural studies, applied linguistics, the Old New Criticism, traditional literary scholarship...
'I read' - and that's an axiom.

I just thought I ought to mention,
Since I've splashed 'completely lost my way' paint over myself for months, now.
And actually, actually - I'm trying not to lose myself...by means of metafiction.
If I...put a tape in, and read essays, I don't have to lose myself in something like a novel. In something like 'The Arts'. Where something strikes me. And I have to walk for miles and smoke and smoke and smoke because I transformed a film into 'dystopia'.

My love, come stop me.

The garden in which I grew up

2010-02-21T15:36:00.000-08:00

Getting up at dusk. Skipping about your garden, in and out of arches.
Looking at your skin. Noting that it is as grey as the sky itself.
Wondering if you are dead.

Photo of a crack den:

2010-02-19T01:31:00.001-08:00

You like the glint of existence being coy.
The coquettish art of 'possibility', how it flirts with you - enticing you in, to ponder it, contemplate it, revel in the fact that you are contemplating it. That you can.
I like to take it roughly by the hand and run with it, faster than it, exhausting it, until it is no longer a possibility but a reality and I have proved to it how powerful I can be, how full of life. And then I'll catch my breath, sitting deliriously beside the slaughter of that playful possibility, it's mutilated body - a dead testament to my being stronger than the games it played with my mind. I keep killing possibilities, and they get harder to find.
And now I'm sitting in a field, surrounded by corpses, and wondering why there's nothing left but emptiness. Nothing left at all.

You were a possibility, so I killed you. And now you're still a possibility, because we don't exist anymore. We're no longer a reality. And this time, this time I can't take you by the hand.
There's nothing I can do.

'My life'

2010-02-18T23:21:00.000-08:00

Is the most cliché, quasi-soulful, quasi-spiritual, dated, last year's intellectual, 'here's a biography of my being fucked-up-fucked-over-fucked-on-whatever-because-prepositions-don't-matter-I-am-just-fucked-and-SO-profound I promise'...kind of title ever. I could also have said 'Let's get these creative juices running' and then spewed cough syrup-induced profundities all over this piece of shitty 'You got an offer from a university' piece of paper crap, with this ridiculous pen, which is wet with my spit where I kissed it simply for working. That title is the title of a juiced-out potential academician who chose instead to spend his days screwing his prostitute mother in reward for 'helping out around the squat' and taking elocution lessons despite the fact his life is 'methed-up' with or without the lisp. That title IS meth, actually. Meth to a little boy, the same little boy from last night, who keeps telling me I'm addictive as if he doesn't realise I'm really really not.
Fucking drugs, fucking assumed sense of importance, fucking fucking 'My Life', as if I had a whole lot to say.
I have unwashed hair, it's 6:30am, and I've been up since 4:00am because last night I turned down the request to 'meet for a drink' (suggestive wink at the end) with a guy who, let's face it, was born to be my lover. He's emaciated, wears glasses, has this thin thin face with jutting cheekbones, a lip ring, dark ginger hair, a camp voice which makes him sound twelve and a really...really...slow...way...of...speaking as if, between every word, he is changing his life with some deep drunken soporific trippy revelation. He often looks away, too. As if he is wondering something, but calmly - as if life is only ever 'this'. His girlfriend died of cancer once. But I had an early night. Why? I don't know.
I just want to adore him, and hold him, and mother him, and sleep with him. I'm sitting up in bed now, as you suddenly do when you realise something intense...but this time it was simply because it occured to me that my head was resting on the wall behind me. And I don't want to touch that wall today. The sky is navy blue and all my windows are open because it smells intensely intensely like blood and my whole body is shuddering from the cold but I love it, the cold, whipping my cheeks like a sadistic lover, having emotionless sex with an emotionless girl who right now looks more like a corpse. I just paused for air, sniffed deeply, and am probably going to carry on because, what else can I do?

Well, I guess I'll write about the blood since I looked around dazedly waiting for inspiration to knock me unconscious and it was all I saw. I have a red wall in my room...the paint peels in places. I've always wanted to put paint back over those bits, I've always wanted to preserve my red wall so I can stare at the untarnished redness, become intoxicated by the comprehensive redness, the all-consuming redness, and wonder if it's going to eat me and render me a part of its apotheocal poise. The apotheosis of red, staring back at me, ready to inhale me. Night after night I've had gut-reelingly amazing little ideas like 'lipstick' 'feltips' 'nail polish', none of which have been the right colour red. So I thought fuck it, I'll try blood. I carved an irritatingly jagged line down my right arm, had to go over it a few times to create a flow, and then I tried some out on the wall with a makeup brush - it just faded into the paint, which, in my state of feverish clarity, I decided meant that this was the superlative red, the shade of sublimity, flawlessly indistinguishable from my now paradisiacal wall . I wanted to kiss myself.
I proceeded to dash a tiny drop onto the paintless shards of white and...was so petrified of what I saw that I said 'God' in an unnaturally shrill voice which I recognised as someone else's. It was a terrible red, far too dark -dirty, almost. I was glad I'd only used a diminutive drop of my foul, dirty blood. The rest of the wall was spared.
I suppose I fell asleep then. I forgot about my right arm. Perhaps it was the slow, sliding monotony of lilliputian garnets escaping from the cut which made me tired in the first place. But now I'm awake and overwhelmed by blood. There wasn't a lot of it, but...perhaps it reeks stronger when infused with paint. Perhaps my wall is tainted with it now. I keep looking at that awful wall and it now seems as if it's entirely comprised of blood. It seems sacrificial. As if I killed a lamb and buried it above the ceiling and its butchered body seeped through, all down that wall and made it red. Something, or something else, made a sacrifice last night and I just rose to the window. The sky has changed from navy to an unearthly gray and, looking down, you can see that my mother arranged the beds of flowers in the garden to make the lawn look like a cross. An over-sized cross which makes you imagine a leviathan Jesus, impossibly massive, stretched across it. Sacrifice. Everything is about sacrifice. And suddenly I feel the need to make a sacrifice. But there are none left to make.

BECAUSE

2010-02-16T17:52:00.000-08:00

He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. .........YOU......... He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. ....DESERVED....
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
...........IT........... He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.
He touched you. He touched you. He touched you.

It it it it it

2010-02-16T14:38:00.000-08:00

wa-wasn't p-personal darling.

I haven't any subjects l-l-love.

S-c-ratching string-ed instruments...at the end of Heroin...Vel-vet Underground...they are my m-muses.

Not you -or, or...or anyone, I don't th-think.

I've run out of

2010-02-16T14:25:00.000-08:00

anodyne.

Kneeling

2010-02-16T13:38:00.000-08:00

I was kneeling on the cold stone floor of a church in Thorold, bathed in a waterfall of silver taffeta - breathing infrequently. My head was bowed, and hair fell forward across my eyes, across my lips, and I was narcotic, lost in ritualistic desire. Performing the motions. I watched the painting. An alter, a crucifix, wine, blood, bodies, a dash of white - the bride stood above us, a perfect snowdrop with dark dark hair and a bouquet of scarlet flowers.

The gleam of wood. The sparkle of windows.
The priest was singing now.
I echoed 'for this we pray' a little later than the rest of the church, and in a murmur.
And everytime we spoke the line I startled at the sound of my voice - detached from myself, my mind, just a soft whisper, which told of other preoccupations - like the way he was catching my eye, across the pews.

Like the way he would later catch my arm, and how I was walking too fast for this, almost running, and how he struck my momentum so hard that I flew round on my heels to face him, and then faltered a little under his expression.
And how his hands rested on the perfect tightness of my dress, the smooth taught fabric, just at the point on my waist before it spiralled off into plooms of silver. And the brush of his fingertips on my uncovered shoulders. He made me feel like a little girl. Vulnerable, not quite good enough. I needed him to be beautiful. And even then it was only an illusion. A sensation of beauty born of the way he pulled me close to him by the seams of my dress.

I forgot to cross myself.

Knife.

2010-02-10T10:23:00.000-08:00

Your dependence attaches itself to me in various fragile threads. Thin strings for me to play with - to pull taught until they snap.
A word is a knife. A casual flick. Absent-minded cruelty. A thread is cut...and it drifts down down down to meaninglessly touch the floor beneath me. Your face, my love, in repose, is pierced. And you change for me.

Just the indefinite article.

2010-02-09T14:23:00.000-08:00

You're empirical. Uninspired. Just the indefinite article. I've met so many of you. I've met you over and over again. I've attracted you before. You've thrived under the glossy light of an unprecedented ideal - the ungoverned dizziness of anything at all. Are you forgetting I gave it to you? Before summoning darkness...before smiling as marble limbs unfurled inside of you, severing you, my crying vitruvian.
One day I will meet a poem with granite skin. He is mine, and he will dance along this precarious line of mine and we'll fall incessantly in love and we'll incessantly fall and bleed and bruise ourselves until we are not bodies but crimson waterfalls of passion and we'll call it an equilibrium...an equilibrium...the equilibrium. I used to think you wouldn't flinch at the burning slash of paper across eyes. But your lashed veils will protect you always.
'No, thank you sweetheart. Darling, I'll pass. '
Revenge is the taste of ice on my lips as I kiss the confines of your cold cell and press my gypsy body sweetly against the hardness. Revenge is the glow of fire in my breath and those dull embers in your wanting eyes.

Never the deviant, ever the indefinite a-r-t-i-c-l-e. You're everywhere, did you realise?
You're hurt and hurting. It's your turn to ride the teacups. Are you euphoric? Are you pathetic?
I've been playing for such time that I may sparkle to stillness and watch you take your turn. Try. Try spinning away while I watch, haltered like your jade. I, like a jade's trick, will slip away. But we don't care. I'm not good for you. Nor did I ever want to be.
You. Me. I'm only a definite article.

I wish I could rip you the fuck

2010-02-09T14:22:00.000-08:00

off my yearbook page.

Stupid. Fucking stu-pid.

2010-02-09T13:54:00.001-08:00

Sometimes I'm right and sometimes you're fucking ridiculous and sometimes I'm fucking with myself and sometimes I'm fucking with everybody and sometimes I'm...I'm right? Sometimes I'm fucking right - sometimes you're fucking stupid and sometimes and sometimes I'm lost in moral narcotics. Giddy from the weight of a sleazy blue compass which won't stop spinning and-and-and- threads of my hair fall lazily about its gilted body. You're a liar. I'm a better person than that.

Mingling

2010-02-04T14:26:00.000-08:00

I am journeying home in the opaque 'after-school activities' light, soaked in the dust and the smell of my friends.
We are concatenated, contiguous, covered in each other - same place, same time, same reasons, same ends.

The bone of my cheek is tainted with crimson, an acquaintance's kiss as they bled me goodbye.
And I wonder at the years of tears which have pooled in my palms, having dried childhood's eye.

I have sipped water from porcelain, touched by all lips, as we scattered our pills and powder remains.
A foreign thread has caught on my calf, and interlaced hands have shared drops when it rains.

Belles have chimed out pretty laughter, flicking pretty lashes, until a girl falls and shrieks ring like fissions.
Gazelles have reached her, hair flowing in oceans - and I journey on with auburn acquisitions.

Reflection

2010-02-02T12:48:00.000-08:00

Lyrical Paint. Music to the retinas. The artful sheen of cold commercialism casting out slim strings of sparkle to tear through bodies and noise...to tie themselves taught about each of her eyelashes. She is held tight, stood quietly amongst the droplets of colour which slide past like mascara-infected tears, the dripping of lives running their course.
Heels click past, uninterrupted by her stillness. They click on - fixed by their own captors, the shimmer of something indefinably important.
The coins on her palm, the little golden suns, reflect a segment of her eye, wide and enchanted by the nature of possibility.
Her reflection. Her reflection in the leather, the metal, the mirror bathed in bright light; trapping dust, yet turning it to glitter.
So many possibilities.

The cold swoop of payment sends guilt leaping drunkenly about her stomach, tightening and loosening as her mind butterflies through mindless thoughts, caught in a net with one ruthless sweep.
And yet she surrenders her suns, hardly noticing that she has murdered the glow of her purchase - taming it to the airless walls of a glossy bag.

Her mother needed the sun to always shine.
Her mother worried selflessly in moments of unseen solitude.
Yet here she was, sapping the light from the pretty pocket of her mother’s purse - a pocket small and empty enough to evoke a tightness in her stomach, a pricking of the eyes.

Her mother's tired eyes - the soft worn skin and untouched hair which had never once ceased to make the sacrifice, to wait for an easier time.
And yet she was so happy to be of help.
So proud.
So pitifully willing to hand over all the world's sunlight to her bright little girl.
A girl who realised her razor eyes were perhaps too harsh for home, could cut the soft blue cotton which held her mother's frame and was never replaced by something new
- wistful whims well-overlooked.

That which reflects is too shiny to be innocent. Sparkly sirens singing lustily to her winter-blue eyes - changing her, echoing iridescence even when she is returned to the threshold of her room, crossing it in new shoes.
True reflection brings only childhood - an older house, smudged by memory...and tears on remembering.
Times when the sun reigned from the sky and not from the dark cavity beneath a silver zip.
Times when your mother wrapped her arms around you, and you glowed.

Painting.

2010-01-04T06:25:00.000-08:00

It was partially me. I recall Italy. I recall a drop of perfume slide over my collarbone. I even recall being seated, like a China princess, while others smiled at my 'prettiness' as they made me up. Yet I made myself up, back then. I smoothed over myself in an exquisite new colour. Idealisation fell like white raindrops from my pen, free from the intoxication of reality. They were glimpses, sensations, fleeting moments taken from the eyes of a little girl and sewn together. I read it and smile, because I am quite the seamstress.

Perfectly and Painstakingly Made Up.

2010-01-04T06:22:00.000-08:00

Zia gave 'Lola' to my throat. Ribbon to my wrists. My belle-mere touched my cheeks, and I am seated, observing my surroundings with melancholy lining my lashes. I watch the emptiness slip through the grey cashmere which holds my frame, and into my thin heart. My hair falls over my lips, and my eyes shine. I remember Italy. The fountain in the woods.

Trace the stages of Marvell's argument:

2010-01-04T05:52:00.001-08:00

Or rather, my eyes are perhaps one inch from this page - it's so dark.
Marvell and his coy mistress may wait.
I can imagine how I look at present - Maggie Smith spoke of the art of 'seeing yourself as others must' in 'Capturing Mary' - and I can only contrive that I am the studious looking girl in seat 35K with dirty blonde hair. I refuse to look up from this book.

The plane is shuddering through the skies and a 'seatbelt reminder' has graced my ears in English and French possibly a little too often in the last five minutes for comfort. Everytime I hear it I tighten mine. I may result in suffocating myself before I drop from the air towards immediate death.
I can't breathe properly anyway. But this is only because I'm experiencing a middle class-esque crisis. I desire something that I can't define. Having watched 'All About Steve' just now (quirky chick-flick with feel good epilogue about love and happiness) I cried. I began the familiar thought of 'I just need someone who...' but didn't finish it. I have people. Beautiful people about whom I care very much. There's something I need, though. Something that, should I obtain it, would hinder the painful emptiness which emerges when faced with the powerfully triumphant end to a sentimental 'chick-flick'.
I just looked fleetingly out of the window and contemplated how, should the turbulence defeat us, nobody will ever find this. I can write anything. My head hurts and my stomach is flipping - but only from the surreal feeling of solitude. Only my thoughts for eight hours. I know what I want. I want myself. Or perhaps I want myself to be enough.

I'll always be on my side. You have to be. I have to be sure that at least one person cares about what happened, and is looking out for me. Even if that person is me. Otherwise I may die without noticing. And my features will turn still every so often as somehow, out of nowhere, I recall the sensation of his fingers. And then my mind no longer belongs to me. It forces the images of my loved ones, my innocent siblings, my friends, all doing what he did. Each image more revolting and taboo than the next. Mother...sister...brother...stepmum...father.
I'll fight to regain control of my thought-sequence, to get my mind back. But I'm the one doing this. Torturing myself with vivid pictures. Nobody to blame it on this time.

Seatbelt sign switched off. I just found an onflight radio and it's playing something that sounds like Blur with more of a bass. It's nice - I'm speculating - and have quite forgotten my past preoccupations. Any moment can be made beautiful. I may have found an onflight 'delerium' as well as 'radio' but you know, I'm suddenly able to smile - which means I'm okay. I'm looking after myself. I'm a skittish girl with emotions that change incessantly from black to white. No consistency, no stability, but at least that means I could laugh at any moment. I'll just walk into life's darkest corners and see how I come out.

Five pages and I've come to terms with myself :)
Bring on the plane crash.

Sometimes you just look at your mother.

2009-12-06T14:53:00.000-08:00

In reflection,

2009-12-06T14:37:00.000-08:00

Life is vicissitudinous.
One moment you're listening to 'Lifted' by The Lighthouse Family in the car with your mum,
then you're listening to 'Dirtee Stank' at some gig in Brixton, and then you're drinking tea and staring at a book and a mixed-tape and wondering how life became so monotonous. The ups and the downs and the ins and the outs of life are concatenated - you're the consistency between them.
The same girl who did cartwheels in the garden while her grandma smiled from the frame of the kitchen door is now looking on as her grandma smiles from the frame of a photo.
But perhaps they're not concatenated. Because I'm not the same girl anymore.
Perhaps living isn't on the same continuum. Something changes and a new system starts.
Change is inexorable.
I think perhaps I wouldn't mind it if love wasn't tied to grief or I couldn't feel anything at all.

I can't even do cartwheels anymore.

Newest Valta.

2009-12-03T09:58:00.000-08:00

My pepsi-diet tastes like blood.

Shower.

2009-12-01T16:36:00.001-08:00

I like being in a box with four walls containing only things to make me clean.

Valta.

2009-12-01T15:04:00.001-08:00

My life is full of valtas. A sudden 'shift of direction'.

My last post had one. A valta.
I suppose it came with the words 'But idealism is truly beautiful'.
I gave no reason for the statement.
But I hope the word 'literature' can serve as reason enough.

Sidney's Astrophel and Stella LXXI contains a valta:

Who will in fairest book of nature know
How virtue may best lodg'd in beauty be,
Let him but learn of love to read in thee,
Stella, those fair lines which true goodness show.
There shall he find all vices' overthrow,
Not by rude force, but sweetest sovereignty
Of reason, from whose light those night-birds fly;
That inward sun in thine eyes shineth so.
And, not content to be perfection's heir
Thyself, dost strive all minds that way to move,
Who mark in thee what is in thee most fair.
So while thy beauty draws thy heart to love,
As fast thy virtue bends that love to good:
But "Ah," Desire still cries, "Give me some food!"

I adore how he withholds his valta until the very last line.
And, perhaps, that final sentiment mirrors my reasons for not shunning idealism.
There is no 'reason' in studying literature. But, like Sidney, I overlook this and give in to my desire.

Estoy decepcionada - otra vez.

2009-12-01T14:20:00.000-08:00

Today I am surrounded by:

Guatemalan worry dolls.

A Christian advent calendar with Bible passages inside - in place of chocolate.

An empty Ribena.

My mother is a Christian.
She was concerned today when my sister came home chattering about how her Maths teacher is qualified in 'Palmistry'. I took my sister's hand - and pointed out her 'life line' (I selected the shortest thing I could see). It truly was a very little line. My sister cried.

My mum started to reassure her with the 'God will give you eternal life in heaven' speech.
My cough sounded too much like 'bullshit' and I was sent away.

Golly.

Perhaps I was sent away because my dear mother refuses to be brought face to face with the likelihood that Religion is an illusion born of language.
We're humans. We jerk off to the fact that we can talk and animals can't.
We analyse the components of our life - we write about them.
We have a biological function and a psychological one.
We can supposedly 'think'.
And so we take 'existence' and make conclusions such as 'love' and 'religion'.
And with this comes the ideology. We romanticise love in words - we create doctrines for religion.
Perhaps even allow the two to interpenetrate; note Emily Dickinson describing love as 'Each other's convert; though the faith hath only room for two.'

And then, wonderfully, we focus so much on being 'human' and in touch with the 'divine' or 'superior' senses, that we forget how to be animals; note Florence in 'On Chesil Beach' being revolted by sex, having only seen 'love' in words.

The issue of idealism/realism is an old one.
John Ruskin gathered his knowledge of the female body solely from the highly idealised 'perfect' image of women in Greek statues/literature. On finding his wife had pubic hair, he divorced the skank.

Such is the power of language that we can prettify our circumstances.
Carew's 'Upon a mole in Celia's bosom' likens an unfortunately placed mole to the shadow of a bee, landed to feast on the sweat trickling down her skin.

I am suspicious of love, and of religion.
Idealism is a facade.
But Idealism is truly beautiful.
So I think perhaps I'll put people-shaped pieces of fabric beneath my pillow tonight, and hope that by tomorrow all this shit has gone away :)

X x

Tell me.

2009-11-30T14:55:00.000-08:00

Tell me a bedtime story.

(S)adism (A)nd (M)asochism

2009-11-30T12:57:00.000-08:00

Your wet eyelashes drip salt up my thighs.
'A man of wax' - a prince.

Your skin is raining, mine damp. There's no friction and I slip.
The infrequent hurling of limbs back into place makes me thinner, and you tear at my face to spill the colour from my cheeks. I'm waning. Becoming yours. We're heliocentric. Geocentric.
When I feel your tongue on my neck my mind fissions,
legs and mind widening to embrace you, and you're laughing.

And yet now my ribs are shuddering. Threatening to break my lungs and stop the rasping which hurls the scent of mint toward your melting eyes, shadowed by vines of ashy hair.
The pain is all I think of. You've moved.
Your thighs now on my collarbone. It's going to snap. I'm going to snap.
But I shan't.
I'll choke on the compression of wanting you, of having you, of filling my throat with you and being poisoned by the riverlets of your medicine...falling down into me.

The wax is gone.

Estoy decepcionada.

2009-11-30T11:56:00.000-08:00

I am surrounded by:

A plate of food, courtesy of my Uncle Ben. As in, the mythical Uncle Ben who puts rice in packets.

A faded book on Hindustani Grammar - price: 5/8 Rupees.

A framed sketch of Elvis Costello drawn by my mother.

A framed sketch of Siouxie and The Banshees drawn by my father.

A tiny ring; it's so pretty I overlook its f-u-c-k-e-d up connotations.

Once I was given a necklace by the lady next to '109'. She died soon after and I gave it to a friend whose birthday I'd forgotten. I liked the link I'd created. The links on a chain of a necklace became a link on the chain of my life. A traditionalist widow who made 'sequin art' and an underweight teenage slutbag wore the same necklace. I like how objects are 'tossed into the nothingness of scorn and noise'.

I hope my objects reach somewhere equally meaningless.
I want a child prostitute to wear my ring.

The joys of orthography

2009-11-30T11:43:00.000-08:00

'Strap on' happens to be 'no parts' backwards.
How very apt.

I hope never to have to use a strap on.
I hope to always be supplied with 'sinep' (:

Google's changing graphology is swiftly becoming the highlight of my life.

2009-11-29T16:22:00.000-08:00

It was 30th November 2009 - St. Andrews day.

Google was buff:

Don't abbreviate the word 'dictionary'

2009-10-11T14:38:00.000-07:00

My school owns a 'Spanish Assistant'.
She makes us engage in foreign chit-chat on a regular basis.
It was 3:30am and I was due to give an 'oral presentation' to her the following day.

Thoughts:
Let's do this bitch.
I have a pack of salami and a Spanish dick, I'm going to give this hussy an oral she'll never forget.
I saw innuendos in that.
I think that makes me human.
This is the sort of conversation I hope to have someday with my psychiatrist.
Talking of which, my school now offers student counselling.
Coincidentally the same year as our Spanish assistant joins.
I think I'll exploit it.
I think I'll just shout 'OEDIPUS COMPLEX' and see how many counsellors come running at me with their psychoanalytical BULLSHIT.
I dislike Freud.
I am dissapointed in myself for delivering a 'Freudian interpretation' on a John Clare poem yesterday.
I'd been trying to surrepticiously read 'Amoretti' under the table when my English teacher flings an anthology at me and demands a 'response'.
This dude John Clare is walking alone in a field surveying 'the black slug with protuding horn, arise from the long grass underneath'.
I apologise, but I went for 'wanker'.
My English teacher is all: 'Naaaah mate, he just loves slugs.'