Saturday 29 December 2012
Wednesday 19 September 2012
Tuesday 21 August 2012
Wednesday 8 August 2012
Monday 23 July 2012
Well
In the small hours, I "slipped up" again. Fore-arm, this time. And for some reason, that feels like a much greater self-betrayal than top-of-thigh or shoulder. Looking at the marks, I felt deeply, deeply ashamed.
Today I went to the doctor. Not so much for the mood, but because feeling so dizzy all the time is starting to be worrying and draining. He was nice. Interested. I felt guilty, because I don't really like being asked questions about "why I started feeling like this" or whatever. He asked if I was suffering with "boyfriend trouble"- hahahahaha. For the very briefest second I thought of mentioning N but it is ridiculous, and I am fine, and I did not want to cry. Anyway, after looking in my ears and taking my blood pressure, he concluded that my dizziness was probably mood related. I was ready to start sobbing. BUT. He gave me anti-dizziness, anti-nauseant pills. And I don't mind so much if he thinks it's all "just" to do with mood, as long as that doesn't stop him from treating it. I don't mind at all.
Today I went to the doctor. Not so much for the mood, but because feeling so dizzy all the time is starting to be worrying and draining. He was nice. Interested. I felt guilty, because I don't really like being asked questions about "why I started feeling like this" or whatever. He asked if I was suffering with "boyfriend trouble"- hahahahaha. For the very briefest second I thought of mentioning N but it is ridiculous, and I am fine, and I did not want to cry. Anyway, after looking in my ears and taking my blood pressure, he concluded that my dizziness was probably mood related. I was ready to start sobbing. BUT. He gave me anti-dizziness, anti-nauseant pills. And I don't mind so much if he thinks it's all "just" to do with mood, as long as that doesn't stop him from treating it. I don't mind at all.
Saturday 21 July 2012
Found
Found this piece of writing in an old blog... http://www.recoveryourlife.com/forum/blogs/viewblog.php?userid=7061 why would i miss the thinness and wrongness of it?
I feel like such a mess right now. I quit work today and part of me was relieved but the other part was screaming, why can I not hold it together and other people can? It almost feels as if I do it on purpose sometimes. Three times the last two weeks I just completely failed to show up, through being too hungover to go in. I try & recapture the stuff that was good about drinking before it got out of hand. Playing about with shopping trolleys, falling over, dangerous infantile games. But I can't keep it up, it doesn't work like that for me any more. I'm too angry, too volatile. I end up hurting people (myself included.) I just want it there, to blot out whatever keeps hurting, keep down whatever keeps rising. I wanna turn back time to when it was my friend. Can that happen, or is it always a problem once it's a problem? The last few times I've been drunk I've said some pretty shitty things to N, part of the reason she wants me to go. It always starts off so perfect but for whatever reason I'm just not a fun drunk anymore. (whywhywhywhywhy)
Eating is all wrong. I have eaten normally for a week, guess my body got desperate. And it has made me feel so fat. I have been making myself throw up, which I hate. I like my teeth. I appreciate my healthy heart. But I can't take the extra weight. I can feel it spreading all over me, widening me out. I'm scared this one week has piled all the weight back on. Does it work like that? I look at myself and feel sick. So tired of this.
I completely understand where N's coming from, completely agree with her actually, about needing headspace, her needing time to study and me to pull myself together a bit. I really think she's right. But it hurts under all the numbness (I feel so numb.) I can't get any lift into my voice, I can't get any light into my smile. I know because it's been noticed. Being home could be good for me, hanging out with family, being a big sister, being surrounded by people. But I am scared the blankness will seep through. Scared there is no way I can stop drinking. Conversely, no way I can avoid it at home. Scared it isn't home any more.
I'm all adrift like. I don't know where to go from here, or what to do. I need a job in Edinburgh. I need to learn to be better. I need to be a better girlfriend and I need to be kinder to myself. Be less alone. And I just don't know how. When I think about it all it's like the panic of trying to swim when you can't. I want someone to just magic me back to normal, I don't think that I can do it for myself. I want someone else to look after me. And that's what N's been doing and that's why she can't anymore. Dunno how to feel, how I'll explain my 2 week stint in London to anyone who asks. When we were younger (lots) me and my mates used to go to one of Epping forest's off-bits and stare at the stars (well. Where they would have been if it was Yorkshire and not Upper Walthamstow) and drink until we couldn't. That's all I want now. Stare at pierced darkness until that darkens too, fall asleep feeling liminal and wake up feeling like I've crossed some kind of border. But alone this time.
I feel like such a mess right now. I quit work today and part of me was relieved but the other part was screaming, why can I not hold it together and other people can? It almost feels as if I do it on purpose sometimes. Three times the last two weeks I just completely failed to show up, through being too hungover to go in. I try & recapture the stuff that was good about drinking before it got out of hand. Playing about with shopping trolleys, falling over, dangerous infantile games. But I can't keep it up, it doesn't work like that for me any more. I'm too angry, too volatile. I end up hurting people (myself included.) I just want it there, to blot out whatever keeps hurting, keep down whatever keeps rising. I wanna turn back time to when it was my friend. Can that happen, or is it always a problem once it's a problem? The last few times I've been drunk I've said some pretty shitty things to N, part of the reason she wants me to go. It always starts off so perfect but for whatever reason I'm just not a fun drunk anymore. (whywhywhywhywhy)
Eating is all wrong. I have eaten normally for a week, guess my body got desperate. And it has made me feel so fat. I have been making myself throw up, which I hate. I like my teeth. I appreciate my healthy heart. But I can't take the extra weight. I can feel it spreading all over me, widening me out. I'm scared this one week has piled all the weight back on. Does it work like that? I look at myself and feel sick. So tired of this.
I completely understand where N's coming from, completely agree with her actually, about needing headspace, her needing time to study and me to pull myself together a bit. I really think she's right. But it hurts under all the numbness (I feel so numb.) I can't get any lift into my voice, I can't get any light into my smile. I know because it's been noticed. Being home could be good for me, hanging out with family, being a big sister, being surrounded by people. But I am scared the blankness will seep through. Scared there is no way I can stop drinking. Conversely, no way I can avoid it at home. Scared it isn't home any more.
I'm all adrift like. I don't know where to go from here, or what to do. I need a job in Edinburgh. I need to learn to be better. I need to be a better girlfriend and I need to be kinder to myself. Be less alone. And I just don't know how. When I think about it all it's like the panic of trying to swim when you can't. I want someone to just magic me back to normal, I don't think that I can do it for myself. I want someone else to look after me. And that's what N's been doing and that's why she can't anymore. Dunno how to feel, how I'll explain my 2 week stint in London to anyone who asks. When we were younger (lots) me and my mates used to go to one of Epping forest's off-bits and stare at the stars (well. Where they would have been if it was Yorkshire and not Upper Walthamstow) and drink until we couldn't. That's all I want now. Stare at pierced darkness until that darkens too, fall asleep feeling liminal and wake up feeling like I've crossed some kind of border. But alone this time.
Late
(In the end I wasn't brave enough to post this on my new Creative Blog at http://mouthfulofhearts.wordpress.com/... maybe later. maybe not.)
Late
It must be late summer because it's early evening but the sky hasn't caught up with the clock. It is not light and not dark, only faded and a bit dull.
It must be the weekend because the buses are slightly less frequent and some of the shops are shutting. Sunday? Yes, it must be Sunday because the pharmacy at Stratford was closed. It must be ages and ages ago because she slotted a twenty and a ten pence piece into a BT phone-box instead of texting her lateness home.
It must be one of the many weeks of work on the District Line, or someone must have jumped into the tracks ahead. After blagging her way past Zone 2 barriers with a 3-6 Travelcard, the girl is looking anxiously at the display board. 15 minutes for the next Barking bound train. She has just found out what “dishevelled” means and likes the word. She thinks she might look it. She is biting her nails, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, nervous and late on an unfamiliar platform after waking up inside her own head two miles past the right bus stop.
And if she is already sitting on the platform under the ground above which the sky continues to fade; if she is already on the way home late after her mind clicked into place with the badly timed street lights; if she is now stepping onto the delayed train and picking up the Metro and pretending to be nonchalant-
- then I am already too late.
In a week she will be late too, after a shy and awkward question at another, open chemist in Leyton who will look at her with the implicit judgement: you weren't too shy to do it in the first place though, were you? He says only that she is too young and will have to visit her family doctor. Of course she is too young, which is exactly why she can't do that.
On the actual Morning After she slept through to midday buried under the duvet even though it was hot. She showered through lunch and pretended to be reading until dinner. Afterwards she was probably sick because she left the tap running in the bath and splashed her face with cold water after the blank space. And after that there were three black coffees and because she wasn't used to it yet, it worked wonders and she didn't sleep all night. When she blinked into the light again though, it was late into the next day.
There again, maybe I am not too late after all. I didn't catch her on the morning of the day of the evening under the ground above which the sky was fading and the buses were still going past, infrequently. I didn't catch her to tell her to wear a jacket, to be careful, to remember it was okay to say that one tiny little word and have it respected. I didn't catch her in time to say that it wasn't babyish or boring to open your mouth and say it again. I probably would have offended her by pointing out that her lilac room and 152cm jeans and the ridiculous school uniform hanging in her cupboard probably made it okay to be a little babyish, anyway. Even if I had said those things she probably would have gone anyway, still determined and pretending to be tough and more than a little naïve. You will regret this, I would have said. No I ****ing won't, she would have replied because she had realised recently that swearing was cool. No, she wouldn't have listened.
But maybe I could catch her on the platform after? It isn't alright, there would be no point in saying that to someone so hurt. And it won't be okay, not for a little while yet. She's young but she's not “****ing stupid.” I wouldn't lie to her about that. Maybe I could say that there are going to be enough scratches and scrapes, that her head is going to feel like post-playtime at primary for a while yet. There are going to be enough scratches and scrapes that she should try not to add too many more. I could say... that the first one doesn't make the next one okay. That there is no need for next time, looking over someone else's shoulder at his FHM calendar and pretending to be fine. That what happened doesn't have to keep happening; that she isn't what she thinks she is.
Or maybe at the very least I could say that after all the scratches and scrapes and post-playtime bruising (and these are other people's games by the way and no fun at all)- that after all of this and even after the copycat injuries she will replicate along her arms- things will be okay eventually. I would probably say that things will be okay much sooner than they are going to be. Twelve years is a forever-long stretch to someone who has only lived thirteen. If I told her the truth- that at nearly double the time she's lived, it will still hurt- she might give up much earlier. I might not be here to tell her.
So I'll tell her about the good bits: the friends who are kinder; the A Level results she pretends not to care about; the different cities she'll see and the fact that in three years she will have a girlfriend- and that that is fine. I'll tell her about her baby sister, unconceived for another fifteen months. I'll tell her that is the only baby she needs to worry about but to get checked out anyway because it's important. I'll tell her there are bad times coming, warn her about the psych unit. I'll make sure she chooses Edinburgh, tell her it's where she meets the most beautiful girl. Trust me, I'll say, things do get better. Even though it may sound unconvincing (she's pretty astute) I will tell her I am happy. She will be happy.
I'll have to tell her that there are better bands than Nirvana.
And I'll tell her that if she goes round to the other platform and gets off at Mile End instead, she will be home a lot quicker.
I know these things now.
It must be late summer because it's early evening but the sky hasn't caught up with the clock. It is not light and not dark, only faded and a bit dull.
It must be the weekend because the buses are slightly less frequent and some of the shops are shutting. Sunday? Yes, it must be Sunday because the pharmacy at Stratford was closed. It must be ages and ages ago because she slotted a twenty and a ten pence piece into a BT phone-box instead of texting her lateness home.
It must be one of the many weeks of work on the District Line, or someone must have jumped into the tracks ahead. After blagging her way past Zone 2 barriers with a 3-6 Travelcard, the girl is looking anxiously at the display board. 15 minutes for the next Barking bound train. She has just found out what “dishevelled” means and likes the word. She thinks she might look it. She is biting her nails, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, nervous and late on an unfamiliar platform after waking up inside her own head two miles past the right bus stop.
And if she is already sitting on the platform under the ground above which the sky continues to fade; if she is already on the way home late after her mind clicked into place with the badly timed street lights; if she is now stepping onto the delayed train and picking up the Metro and pretending to be nonchalant-
- then I am already too late.
In a week she will be late too, after a shy and awkward question at another, open chemist in Leyton who will look at her with the implicit judgement: you weren't too shy to do it in the first place though, were you? He says only that she is too young and will have to visit her family doctor. Of course she is too young, which is exactly why she can't do that.
On the actual Morning After she slept through to midday buried under the duvet even though it was hot. She showered through lunch and pretended to be reading until dinner. Afterwards she was probably sick because she left the tap running in the bath and splashed her face with cold water after the blank space. And after that there were three black coffees and because she wasn't used to it yet, it worked wonders and she didn't sleep all night. When she blinked into the light again though, it was late into the next day.
There again, maybe I am not too late after all. I didn't catch her on the morning of the day of the evening under the ground above which the sky was fading and the buses were still going past, infrequently. I didn't catch her to tell her to wear a jacket, to be careful, to remember it was okay to say that one tiny little word and have it respected. I didn't catch her in time to say that it wasn't babyish or boring to open your mouth and say it again. I probably would have offended her by pointing out that her lilac room and 152cm jeans and the ridiculous school uniform hanging in her cupboard probably made it okay to be a little babyish, anyway. Even if I had said those things she probably would have gone anyway, still determined and pretending to be tough and more than a little naïve. You will regret this, I would have said. No I ****ing won't, she would have replied because she had realised recently that swearing was cool. No, she wouldn't have listened.
But maybe I could catch her on the platform after? It isn't alright, there would be no point in saying that to someone so hurt. And it won't be okay, not for a little while yet. She's young but she's not “****ing stupid.” I wouldn't lie to her about that. Maybe I could say that there are going to be enough scratches and scrapes, that her head is going to feel like post-playtime at primary for a while yet. There are going to be enough scratches and scrapes that she should try not to add too many more. I could say... that the first one doesn't make the next one okay. That there is no need for next time, looking over someone else's shoulder at his FHM calendar and pretending to be fine. That what happened doesn't have to keep happening; that she isn't what she thinks she is.
Or maybe at the very least I could say that after all the scratches and scrapes and post-playtime bruising (and these are other people's games by the way and no fun at all)- that after all of this and even after the copycat injuries she will replicate along her arms- things will be okay eventually. I would probably say that things will be okay much sooner than they are going to be. Twelve years is a forever-long stretch to someone who has only lived thirteen. If I told her the truth- that at nearly double the time she's lived, it will still hurt- she might give up much earlier. I might not be here to tell her.
So I'll tell her about the good bits: the friends who are kinder; the A Level results she pretends not to care about; the different cities she'll see and the fact that in three years she will have a girlfriend- and that that is fine. I'll tell her about her baby sister, unconceived for another fifteen months. I'll tell her that is the only baby she needs to worry about but to get checked out anyway because it's important. I'll tell her there are bad times coming, warn her about the psych unit. I'll make sure she chooses Edinburgh, tell her it's where she meets the most beautiful girl. Trust me, I'll say, things do get better. Even though it may sound unconvincing (she's pretty astute) I will tell her I am happy. She will be happy.
I'll have to tell her that there are better bands than Nirvana.
And I'll tell her that if she goes round to the other platform and gets off at Mile End instead, she will be home a lot quicker.
I know these things now.
Tuesday 17 July 2012
Saturday 14 July 2012
When somebody loves me, I assume something is wrong with them. So I fight. First, to show there is something wrong with me, and she should stay away. Second, to prove to me that something must be wrong with her, to put up with it all. When, eventually, she leaves, I see that she is "normal" and has given up on me. And I see that I am not, as I have been given up on. And I engage myself in the business of heartbreak, all the while knowing that I didn't need to be heart broken/ to break somebody in the first place.
Today I decided 7 months was quite enough.
Today I decided 7 months was quite enough.
Thursday 12 July 2012
Moving forwards
I haven't checked N's Facebook page in months. Deleting some mutual friends (with polite explanations) all that time ago was a wise move. And, after weeks of having to resist the impulse, I realised this week that I'm actually no longer curious. It's not that I don't care. I wish her well, want her to be happy, hope that she is. But I don't need to know the details, or want to.
Sometimes memories of fights stop me in my tracks/ guiltify me/ make me sad and ashamed. Sometimes they slip under my skin and I want to hurt for them. To let them out. But I'm learning to deflect the memories... even the good ones... because if I don't forget how it was, I will "remember" that that is how it will always be.
Sometimes memories of fights stop me in my tracks/ guiltify me/ make me sad and ashamed. Sometimes they slip under my skin and I want to hurt for them. To let them out. But I'm learning to deflect the memories... even the good ones... because if I don't forget how it was, I will "remember" that that is how it will always be.
Tuesday 10 July 2012
From the Dutch side, I learned not to make a fuss.
From the Irish and the Jamaican sides, I learned to often make a fuss- about anything other than what was really fussing me.
From the English side, I learned not to make a fuss.
Jamaican, English, Dutch, Irish= JEDI
Therefore: It's all about mind control.
There is no need to make a fuss.
From the Irish and the Jamaican sides, I learned to often make a fuss- about anything other than what was really fussing me.
From the English side, I learned not to make a fuss.
Jamaican, English, Dutch, Irish= JEDI
Therefore: It's all about mind control.
There is no need to make a fuss.
Capricorn/ Pisces Rising
The Pisces rising person is in many ways a mirror, reflecting back at
others precisely what they want to see, yet the true person remains
hidden, vulnerable and more than a little frightened.
Sunday 8 July 2012
Jobcentre
I wait and wait. Ten minutes go by and I am still waiting. Mohammed is not at his desk. Is he very busy? No, because I am watching him from the waiting area, and he is decorating a colleague's Evian bottle with an orange highlighter and laughing to himself.
Why am I unemployed?!
Why am I unemployed?!
Sunday 1 July 2012
Yesterday was one of those days that could have been awful but was really, really good. I was awoken at 6 by my little sis's mate wanting a story (I stayed in their room due to fears over the return of Voldemort.) Later, I was working at a Hornbeam event, the 21st birthday party of the cafe. It was extremely busy, with a complicated system whereby we had to give customers tickets for the barbeque outside. The Hornbeam is small and people kept shifting tables. The system became hectic pretty fast, and the coffee list was backed up like mad and, considering our customers are the most patient in the world, it was unnerving when a few of them asked where their meals were! Shu came in to see me around 3.30. She'd cycled from Willesden down to Tottenham Hale, then fallen off her bike and given herself a proper zombie-style battering- bleeding knee, scraped wrists, shoulder... all kindly patched up by a pharmacist with complementary TCP. I kind of wanted to leave at 4 but Rachel asked for some help getting things sorted, so, with tips in my back pocket (most unexpected!) I helped tidy up the until 6. After that, Shu and I went to the pub- Nag's Head, in the Village, joined by my sis S, and had a pretty good night complete with pizza and booze for Shu's injuries. Later, back here at Gran's, I met my uncle's potential new girlfriend, who knew me when I was a very small little one. She's lovely. It was, altogether, a satisfying day/night.
I'm in a bit of a blip, the recognition of which I am hoping will help me pull through it. I dream dismantled blades and broken words. I know, beneath everything else, that I am really not a good person. That makes me feel very sad.
Today I woke up and stayed in bed. Then Dad and I went for a run, a good 12k with some speed work and conversation (I was proud of being able to form sentences at 12k/h.) Running and working... something challenging, almost punishing, bringing tears to the back of my skull. Forcing the emotion to be related to the physical, to real stresses, real pains, real breaths. Forget the yogi and their focus on slow breathing- give me the barely gasped city air, the sting in my throat, the itch in my eyes. Swollen balloon lungs. Complete absorption in the necessity of breathing fast, not the luxury of breathing slowly.
The other, painless bright spot, is looking after little K. Her directed smiles and her fascination with fridge magnets. *Love*
***
I dreamt I was falsely accused of stealing the crown jewels. The queen and her guard were going to kill me in an aircraft so I moved to the Phillipenes, where a hairdresser smothered my curls in Nutella and honey and wrapped them up to make them pretty. Then Emma Watson became queen and hired the Spice Girls as court jesters. Four of them performed in a huge swimming pool, while Mel C insisted repeatedly that she was not, and had never been, at all sporty... and could not swim.
I'm in a bit of a blip, the recognition of which I am hoping will help me pull through it. I dream dismantled blades and broken words. I know, beneath everything else, that I am really not a good person. That makes me feel very sad.
Today I woke up and stayed in bed. Then Dad and I went for a run, a good 12k with some speed work and conversation (I was proud of being able to form sentences at 12k/h.) Running and working... something challenging, almost punishing, bringing tears to the back of my skull. Forcing the emotion to be related to the physical, to real stresses, real pains, real breaths. Forget the yogi and their focus on slow breathing- give me the barely gasped city air, the sting in my throat, the itch in my eyes. Swollen balloon lungs. Complete absorption in the necessity of breathing fast, not the luxury of breathing slowly.
The other, painless bright spot, is looking after little K. Her directed smiles and her fascination with fridge magnets. *Love*
***
I dreamt I was falsely accused of stealing the crown jewels. The queen and her guard were going to kill me in an aircraft so I moved to the Phillipenes, where a hairdresser smothered my curls in Nutella and honey and wrapped them up to make them pretty. Then Emma Watson became queen and hired the Spice Girls as court jesters. Four of them performed in a huge swimming pool, while Mel C insisted repeatedly that she was not, and had never been, at all sporty... and could not swim.
Thursday 28 June 2012
Birmingham
Ani and I wanted another drink, a little after closing time. We got in a taxi and asked the driver to take us to the Casino. He asked which one and we sort of shrugged, not knowing Birmingham at all. He went past one Casino and we thought, OK maybe he's trying to up his fare/ take us somewhere better/ more popular. When he stopped, we seemed to be in front of a hotel. A posh casino, maybe? so we went in, ushered in by fairly friendly bouncers, towards a small desk. £10 entrance fee. Well this was unusual but, unsuspecting, we paid it and went in.
Ani said she realised immediately. I didn't. I had one glance at a shiny large "table" and wondered what kind of game it was, until I saw the pole extending straight up its middle. Yes. It was a strip club. I realised why the discreet logo, Spearmint Rhino, had rung bells. We had paid, so we stayed. The decision seemed fairly simple. We started in on Corona (A) and vodka (me). I had a quick, polite vomit in the loos, then returned to my beverage. As you do. We watched the dancers: Fit, attractive, lithe bodies. Mainly small boobs, though some were surprisingly upright. We went to sit by the bar. Better view and better access to drink.
I can say the following:
I have never before, and will probably never again, be offered a student discount on a lapdance.
I have never before, and certainly never will again, been in a position whereby a ludicrously rich man pays a stripper £180 to have myself and a friend in a booth, sharing a lapdance.
I doubt that I will ever have a lapdance again.
After the dance, and a pleasant chat with several strippers and a barmaid (all students), it was time to go. The moneyed male offered to buy us champagne for the opportunity to "explore our bodies" with him at his home. Of course, we declined.
The taxi driver who took us home was in stitches when we explained the bizarre situation.
I don't blame him. I'm still smiling now.
Ani said she realised immediately. I didn't. I had one glance at a shiny large "table" and wondered what kind of game it was, until I saw the pole extending straight up its middle. Yes. It was a strip club. I realised why the discreet logo, Spearmint Rhino, had rung bells. We had paid, so we stayed. The decision seemed fairly simple. We started in on Corona (A) and vodka (me). I had a quick, polite vomit in the loos, then returned to my beverage. As you do. We watched the dancers: Fit, attractive, lithe bodies. Mainly small boobs, though some were surprisingly upright. We went to sit by the bar. Better view and better access to drink.
I can say the following:
I have never before, and will probably never again, be offered a student discount on a lapdance.
I have never before, and certainly never will again, been in a position whereby a ludicrously rich man pays a stripper £180 to have myself and a friend in a booth, sharing a lapdance.
I doubt that I will ever have a lapdance again.
After the dance, and a pleasant chat with several strippers and a barmaid (all students), it was time to go. The moneyed male offered to buy us champagne for the opportunity to "explore our bodies" with him at his home. Of course, we declined.
The taxi driver who took us home was in stitches when we explained the bizarre situation.
I don't blame him. I'm still smiling now.
Wednesday 27 June 2012
3)
I feel fat. I try not to go there again. Constant punishment without crime. Except that the unwarranted punishment is itself a crime. The cycle just repeats itself. So I try not to go there again.
I have done some stupid things, for want of a better way to express myself. My body isn't really mine when I express them. I am not really vulnerable when I use it the way I do, with the people I do them with. Because I'm not really there.
I wonder if I seem as far away as I feel. But how could anybody want what isn't really there? A hologram-me, a ghost of me... a vampire? How can anybody want someone who shrinks back the second the lights come up again?
I don't feel guilty because I'm not quite myself. I only give, so I am never giving away, never giving of myself. Nothing personal.
It's not awkward. In the morning it's only me again. The me who is easy at laughing and smiling. I leave not-me behind and I forget.
So it's okay, except when it isn't.
I have done some stupid things, for want of a better way to express myself. My body isn't really mine when I express them. I am not really vulnerable when I use it the way I do, with the people I do them with. Because I'm not really there.
I wonder if I seem as far away as I feel. But how could anybody want what isn't really there? A hologram-me, a ghost of me... a vampire? How can anybody want someone who shrinks back the second the lights come up again?
I don't feel guilty because I'm not quite myself. I only give, so I am never giving away, never giving of myself. Nothing personal.
It's not awkward. In the morning it's only me again. The me who is easy at laughing and smiling. I leave not-me behind and I forget.
So it's okay, except when it isn't.
2)
All my words come out bold, underlined, italicised. Not quite the urgency of capitals, which I have never much liked. Just a bit too sharp, a bit too harsh. I feel that I'm being unkind. So I flatten.
On a page, my words now would have deflates Os and As. The tall letters shortened, the Is undotted. All the spikes rubbed clean then grubby by repeated attempts to erase.
You know you can use white bread as a rubber, if you squash it up?
I dunno why I write like this lately. Metaphor. Cliche. Simile. Like a GCSE student prepped to impress the examiner with her range of techniques. There, a simile again. It annoys me. Like the alternatively spiky and deflated words I speak, it messes up my meanings. It hides my real thoughts behind forced, pretentious literariness.
Because I don't see another way to get them out.
Except...
On a page, my words now would have deflates Os and As. The tall letters shortened, the Is undotted. All the spikes rubbed clean then grubby by repeated attempts to erase.
You know you can use white bread as a rubber, if you squash it up?
I dunno why I write like this lately. Metaphor. Cliche. Simile. Like a GCSE student prepped to impress the examiner with her range of techniques. There, a simile again. It annoys me. Like the alternatively spiky and deflated words I speak, it messes up my meanings. It hides my real thoughts behind forced, pretentious literariness.
Because I don't see another way to get them out.
Except...
1)
I watch a snail edge onto a cigarette end in the garden.
I think: this cannot be great for the fag end, or the snail, or the garden/
I think: this cannot be great for the fag end, or the snail, or the garden/
Alanis Morrissette in Birmingham
From the back of the stalls, one unbelievably loud voice cries "I love you Alanis!" Off the bat, Alanis shouts back "I love you toooo!" to laughter and applause.
It's easy to see why. She takes up all the stage, spreads her presence, knows how to mix classics with new work, sings with surprises.
Her voice is powerful.
Her words are powerful.
Me & K are a bit short to see her properly but even through the shoulders and heads of others (a huge demographic of fans!), she is pretty amazing.
It's easy to see why. She takes up all the stage, spreads her presence, knows how to mix classics with new work, sings with surprises.
Her voice is powerful.
Her words are powerful.
Me & K are a bit short to see her properly but even through the shoulders and heads of others (a huge demographic of fans!), she is pretty amazing.
Thursday 21 June 2012
Wuthering Heights: Andrea Arnold
There was a lot of wuthering in this adaptation. Really. Of course, it was necessary to set the scene. In the book, the atmosphere is heavily dependent upon weather and scenery. So true, some wuthering and a sense of height was due but... that many shots of moors and skies and birds made me wonder if I'd sat on the remote and changed the channel to Springwatch. And, unpopular as this view might be/ uncultured as I may seem... I would have preferred more dialogue.
Still- it was compelling. Quite beautiful. and convincingly acted. It was both original, and true to the novel. That can be difficult to achieve. Some disturbing, uncomfortable scenes showed what the novel evokes. I didn't like them; they were hard to watch, hard to stomach. But they took the unsettling underside of the story and brought it to the fore. So, the sparse dialogue left this: the bones of the original story fleshed out with its own dark essence. Despite my own preference, maybe more dialogue would have spoiled that. There was something quite pure about this adaptation.
Oh, and Heathcliff is black. Haven't read a review yet where someone hasn't mmmm, ahhhhd or wowed about that. Boooo-ring.
Still- it was compelling. Quite beautiful. and convincingly acted. It was both original, and true to the novel. That can be difficult to achieve. Some disturbing, uncomfortable scenes showed what the novel evokes. I didn't like them; they were hard to watch, hard to stomach. But they took the unsettling underside of the story and brought it to the fore. So, the sparse dialogue left this: the bones of the original story fleshed out with its own dark essence. Despite my own preference, maybe more dialogue would have spoiled that. There was something quite pure about this adaptation.
Oh, and Heathcliff is black. Haven't read a review yet where someone hasn't mmmm, ahhhhd or wowed about that. Boooo-ring.
free-writing
odd lives. our silent suicides & skin etched hearts: readable secrets engraved, uneraseable. sleeved sketches of stories we tell to defy- to explain- sleeved sketches of pain.
odd lives the intentional blind describe as outside- beyond- between the cracks in reason. slips into the stream. as we struggle to find- our own ways to balance our minds,
in the unsteady times.
***
A thing happened once.
I was very hungover. Not sick and not headachey. Just... afraid. I got into the shower and felt (not saw) that the shower head had become a snake, or something similar. I sat down, trying to breathe. I knew that it would twist down towards me and harm me. Later, at work, I knew everyone could hear my thoughts.
odd lives the intentional blind describe as outside- beyond- between the cracks in reason. slips into the stream. as we struggle to find- our own ways to balance our minds,
in the unsteady times.
***
A thing happened once.
I was very hungover. Not sick and not headachey. Just... afraid. I got into the shower and felt (not saw) that the shower head had become a snake, or something similar. I sat down, trying to breathe. I knew that it would twist down towards me and harm me. Later, at work, I knew everyone could hear my thoughts.
midsummer
- Because I have just learned how to "schedule" posts!!-
When the music has been going on long enough that it is only background, we stop moving. We sit around the fire. As the sky gets lighter and less predictable, we talk about rain. We argue about what rain smells like, if not nothing. We categorise different types of rain-smell, the rainsmellers attempting conversion of the skeptics. The first train will be coming soon. Some of us feel a second wind and start to sail back into the ebb and flow of the music. Others, watching, find themselves even more tired. Dancing looks effortless but for the heavy-limbed and light-headed, it is finally getting too cold.
When the music has been going on long enough that it is only background, we stop moving. We sit around the fire. As the sky gets lighter and less predictable, we talk about rain. We argue about what rain smells like, if not nothing. We categorise different types of rain-smell, the rainsmellers attempting conversion of the skeptics. The first train will be coming soon. Some of us feel a second wind and start to sail back into the ebb and flow of the music. Others, watching, find themselves even more tired. Dancing looks effortless but for the heavy-limbed and light-headed, it is finally getting too cold.
Dear TLE,
I am writing to express dissatisfaction at the Employability course at the Walthamstow TLE Centre (Selborne Road). My complaint is not about the course itself- in general, I found ******* and **** to be kind, helpful tutors. Some of their advice regarding interview techniques was interesting. Rather, I am seriously unimpressed with the updated CV I received at the end of the course. To illustrate my reasons for this, I have highlighted the CV itself, enclosed. I have highlighted in orange grammatical errors (which never look good when applying for writing-based jobs/ a degree in English Literature!) In blue, I have highlighted Key Skills that I don’t actually possess, which have been added to my CV for no clear reason. In the case of being brought to interview, this could prove very embarrassing. Obviously, I have been able to update my CV myself since the time of the course (Feb- March 2012.) However, I am sure that you can understand my confusion at the conclusion of this course which is supposedly meant to help people gain “employability skills.” I can only hope that others check their Cvs before using them. Please take these comments into account, as it seems obvious to me that a CV should at least be written in a clear, correct and at the very least, truthful fashion.
Thank you.
Yours sincerely,
I am writing to express dissatisfaction at the Employability course at the Walthamstow TLE Centre (Selborne Road). My complaint is not about the course itself- in general, I found ******* and **** to be kind, helpful tutors. Some of their advice regarding interview techniques was interesting. Rather, I am seriously unimpressed with the updated CV I received at the end of the course. To illustrate my reasons for this, I have highlighted the CV itself, enclosed. I have highlighted in orange grammatical errors (which never look good when applying for writing-based jobs/ a degree in English Literature!) In blue, I have highlighted Key Skills that I don’t actually possess, which have been added to my CV for no clear reason. In the case of being brought to interview, this could prove very embarrassing. Obviously, I have been able to update my CV myself since the time of the course (Feb- March 2012.) However, I am sure that you can understand my confusion at the conclusion of this course which is supposedly meant to help people gain “employability skills.” I can only hope that others check their Cvs before using them. Please take these comments into account, as it seems obvious to me that a CV should at least be written in a clear, correct and at the very least, truthful fashion.
Thank you.
Yours sincerely,
Sunday 17 June 2012
Sh!
Friday night, the second poetry/ fiction night of my week. After some faffing with the wrong bus-stop, I navigated myself onto Hoxton Square and along to Sh!, a "Women's Erotic Emporium in Hoxton Square." I paid my £3 to get in, collected my first glass of free bubbly and shifted, late, into the seat behind my friends. I was midway through one of KD Grace's readings, about a woman's threesome with two blokes. So very not my thing, but to be honest, I didn't expect a lot of women's erotica to be very much my thing. KD had a lovely way of reading it and I reckon if I had even half an inclination to think about "members" or bumholes, it would have been great.
Events like this are naturally going to be awkward at first. There was a fair amount of giggling. Some was conspirational, as with Meg Philip's readings ("ladies, you do know that feeling"). Some was outright hilarious- Meg again, reading out a passage on "persistent tongue-fucking of the ear." Some was awkward (at least... I am guessing that I am not the only person who felt less than fully comfortable at hearing the word "anal hooks" for the first time.) But it was very fun and, of course, free bubbly does nothing if not ease nerves and awkwardness.
I think everyone who read was pretty brilliant. Mel Jones' poems had me giggling right through and their outright naughtiness made it hard to feel awkward at all. I really enjoyed the way they flowed and the general aura of sexycalm she exuded. She read them naturally, naughtily, no-nonsense-illy. Fun. Meg Philips' work had a great, easy conversational tone and, considering that it was "straight," was actually pretty hot. And well, she's just so cute! KD's writing was hard not to be impressed by, it was pretty adventurous. Again, despite being not my "thing" there were some hot moments. Who'da thunk it?
My favourite story, by Nonika, was about kissing- "just" kissing- in a rave. The kind of intense moment with a perfect stranger that makes the only option turning, and running away. It was a really beautiful story, with funny moments and pretty moments and honest moments. Actually, it was one long honest moment. I liked it a lot.
It takes something like serious bravery even to acknowledge thinking some of that stuff, let alone to write and then read it. I don't think I would do it (besides anything else, there is a huge wide range of phrases and words I just do not like.) So I was impressed at the way the writers had thought, acted, researched, written and then read. And at the way the writers and the staff helped us as an audience to navigate the inevitable blushes and shuffles and get involved. There was a sexy-text competition, and Nonika's phone buzzed with sexiness the whole way through the night. The resulting messages ranged from humour and gentleness to actual pure filth. It says something for the way they handled the night, that people were able to come up with some of that madness (and yes, some of that madness was mine!)
GATE! was not.
Afterwards we drank a little more bubbly and browsed the shop. Sex toys have never really held that much interest for me, except to say "what the hell would you need that for?" and flinch in vague imagination of pain. But the atmosphere in Sh! on Friday and, I am assured, in general, was very un-horrific. I would definitely reccommend going to the next reading. For the fun, the cupcakes, the bubbly, the experience, the dare-i-say education?
http://kdgrace.co.uk/blog/poetry-smut-and-humour-interview-with-mel-jones/
Events like this are naturally going to be awkward at first. There was a fair amount of giggling. Some was conspirational, as with Meg Philip's readings ("ladies, you do know that feeling"). Some was outright hilarious- Meg again, reading out a passage on "persistent tongue-fucking of the ear." Some was awkward (at least... I am guessing that I am not the only person who felt less than fully comfortable at hearing the word "anal hooks" for the first time.) But it was very fun and, of course, free bubbly does nothing if not ease nerves and awkwardness.
I think everyone who read was pretty brilliant. Mel Jones' poems had me giggling right through and their outright naughtiness made it hard to feel awkward at all. I really enjoyed the way they flowed and the general aura of sexycalm she exuded. She read them naturally, naughtily, no-nonsense-illy. Fun. Meg Philips' work had a great, easy conversational tone and, considering that it was "straight," was actually pretty hot. And well, she's just so cute! KD's writing was hard not to be impressed by, it was pretty adventurous. Again, despite being not my "thing" there were some hot moments. Who'da thunk it?
My favourite story, by Nonika, was about kissing- "just" kissing- in a rave. The kind of intense moment with a perfect stranger that makes the only option turning, and running away. It was a really beautiful story, with funny moments and pretty moments and honest moments. Actually, it was one long honest moment. I liked it a lot.
It takes something like serious bravery even to acknowledge thinking some of that stuff, let alone to write and then read it. I don't think I would do it (besides anything else, there is a huge wide range of phrases and words I just do not like.) So I was impressed at the way the writers had thought, acted, researched, written and then read. And at the way the writers and the staff helped us as an audience to navigate the inevitable blushes and shuffles and get involved. There was a sexy-text competition, and Nonika's phone buzzed with sexiness the whole way through the night. The resulting messages ranged from humour and gentleness to actual pure filth. It says something for the way they handled the night, that people were able to come up with some of that madness (and yes, some of that madness was mine!)
GATE! was not.
Afterwards we drank a little more bubbly and browsed the shop. Sex toys have never really held that much interest for me, except to say "what the hell would you need that for?" and flinch in vague imagination of pain. But the atmosphere in Sh! on Friday and, I am assured, in general, was very un-horrific. I would definitely reccommend going to the next reading. For the fun, the cupcakes, the bubbly, the experience, the dare-i-say education?
http://kdgrace.co.uk/blog/poetry-smut-and-humour-interview-with-mel-jones/
Rationalisation
This isn't the worst state I've ever woken up in.
It isn't as bad as the time I...
or the time they had to...
or the time she said...
It isn't that bad. Not really.
It isn't as bad as the time I...
or the time they had to...
or the time she said...
It isn't that bad. Not really.
Friday 15 June 2012
run-in with the avant garde
It was appalling. Five women, dressed in black and reciting. I could have finished that sentence with the word poetry but, try as I might, I don't think I can associate their recitation with that word. I'm pretty non-traditional in my views on poetry. But one view I hold pretty firmly, is that poetry should be accessible. You shouldn't need a dictionary, an encyclopedia, and a knowledge of every book ever written to understand a poem. You shouldn't need footnotes.
So this... dramatic recitation was just about the opposite of that. Five women, dressed in black and reciting. Turning over a deck of cards, to determine what to read. Occasionally one picked up a piece of A4 and read something- read anything, it appeared! "Economic. Crises," for example, while somebody else walked back and forth saying "She bleeds. Red." in a sinister voice and someone else sat on the floor, writing "Once there was a beautiful princess," (arguably the best written thing in the whole performance!) Back and forwards, the blonde Scottish woman with the hefty cleavage announced "She bleeds. Red!" while the slim girl with the paling scars said "The economy is failing...." and, walking in a circle around them, a dark-haired rose-lipped woman said things like "DNA, the key, the key to our identity". Voices doomfilled with that irritating rising inflection preferred even by amazing performance poets. In the background, the sound of a man sweeping the floor highlighted the importance of meaningless work (a man performing earlier swept the floor, then tipped the dust back out from the pan.)
Meaningless work. Says it all, really.
So this... dramatic recitation was just about the opposite of that. Five women, dressed in black and reciting. Turning over a deck of cards, to determine what to read. Occasionally one picked up a piece of A4 and read something- read anything, it appeared! "Economic. Crises," for example, while somebody else walked back and forth saying "She bleeds. Red." in a sinister voice and someone else sat on the floor, writing "Once there was a beautiful princess," (arguably the best written thing in the whole performance!) Back and forwards, the blonde Scottish woman with the hefty cleavage announced "She bleeds. Red!" while the slim girl with the paling scars said "The economy is failing...." and, walking in a circle around them, a dark-haired rose-lipped woman said things like "DNA, the key, the key to our identity". Voices doomfilled with that irritating rising inflection preferred even by amazing performance poets. In the background, the sound of a man sweeping the floor highlighted the importance of meaningless work (a man performing earlier swept the floor, then tipped the dust back out from the pan.)
Meaningless work. Says it all, really.
Friday 8 June 2012
rubbish writer and mixed metaphor
I thumb my weaknesses like fontenelle, test their softness and then shy away from it. I have always been less gentle with my own tender spots. So their outlines repel me. They remind me of the impulse to cruelty throbbing at my fingertips.
Lately I have spread myself too thin- Austerity Butter. I split and split, between places and people, trying to be helpful and cheerful and kind. When the constant motion stills, thoughts open beneath me like a trapdoor. I keep a foot either side. The paper dolls of split-me join hands again in the morning, tug the door closed, regroup, resplit and go out smiling.
I need a new blog, one with a theme. Wiped slate and a story to tell (not mine.) Something funny, collected, solid. Something to concentrate on, while I pull the focus from my thumbs and the soft spots beneath them. Something with a point.
A collection of stories (not mine.)
Lately I have spread myself too thin- Austerity Butter. I split and split, between places and people, trying to be helpful and cheerful and kind. When the constant motion stills, thoughts open beneath me like a trapdoor. I keep a foot either side. The paper dolls of split-me join hands again in the morning, tug the door closed, regroup, resplit and go out smiling.
I need a new blog, one with a theme. Wiped slate and a story to tell (not mine.) Something funny, collected, solid. Something to concentrate on, while I pull the focus from my thumbs and the soft spots beneath them. Something with a point.
A collection of stories (not mine.)
Tuesday 5 June 2012
Jubilee
4) I also dreamed that old Liz was responsible for the stabbing on Leyton High road- is that treason?
5) Madness are going to take over Buckingham Palace- did you *hear* them calling it "Our House"?
Friday 1 June 2012
Wednesday 30 May 2012
Scars & Science. (& maybe a misused semi-colon.)
I wear my heart on my sleeve. Under my sleeves. Every single day. A mess of white lines and pink bumps. They have crinkled my skin prematurely. Made me look like a deviant, or a victim. In summer, I swallow shame and go outside, arms exposed to the sun, heart exposed to the public. My heart- etched over my pulse points, spreading veins of scars up to my shoulders. It is almost like having my old diaries read by strangers. If the diaries were written in a language, a short-hand, that they recognised but did not fully understand.
***
Science museum with SM today. It was really, really good fun. I wish we'd had longer but I had to pick up Bee, so had to do mad racing back towards St Joe's at 2. We have vowed to do another, similar day but with more time so we can "do" lunch, like the civilised young ladies that we are. It's weird; some friends you never get awkward with. SM's the one friend I kept from Sacred Heart.
***
No word from Naomi. I suppose that I'll never know...
***
Science museum with SM today. It was really, really good fun. I wish we'd had longer but I had to pick up Bee, so had to do mad racing back towards St Joe's at 2. We have vowed to do another, similar day but with more time so we can "do" lunch, like the civilised young ladies that we are. It's weird; some friends you never get awkward with. SM's the one friend I kept from Sacred Heart.
***
No word from Naomi. I suppose that I'll never know...
rejection letter
We enjoyed meeting you and thought you have some
interesting experience. I think we were both slightly disappointed with some of
your answers as they were quite brief and we were hoping I think to hear a lot
more detail than you gave. Your letter was one of the most impressive we saw
and I think we were expecting more of the same dynamic views in your interview –
I think it’s maybe about developing a more confident style.
sigh. I wanted the scholarship more anyway, but seeing my own worries about the interviews confirmed is a bit sad. I've always known I was more impressive in writing. Still, I obviously impressed the people in Kent, so all speaking skill is not lost.
sigh. I wanted the scholarship more anyway, but seeing my own worries about the interviews confirmed is a bit sad. I've always known I was more impressive in writing. Still, I obviously impressed the people in Kent, so all speaking skill is not lost.
Tuesday 29 May 2012
a sad history
When my Granny was eight or nine, the Germans came to Limburg and took over her house. They were to move to Friesland, in the North, but they couldn't take their dog with them. Her father begged the Germans to shoot the dog, as a kindness, but they wouldn't "waste the bullet." He took it upon himself to kill the dog with a brick but the dog didn't die. He left it with relatives. For a long time he was haunted by the image of its smashed face. When they returned home, after the war, the dog had died. For years, they thought about it often. But there was nothing to be done.
Sunday 27 May 2012
scars
Recently, I've been dreaming about my old school a lot. It's strange- I hardly ever think of it, except to make jokes about my good Catholic upbringing and the joys of single-sex schooling. It's a good line, rich mining ground for smiles.
But that's all.
In October, I went up there to see a teacher who used to look after me, in a way, when "things" were bad. She took me to Lourdes with a group of kids- Group 199- when I was 15 and it gave me a lot of perspective on a lot of things. It was good to catch up with her after so long. It was good to go back there with a degree and published poems and a bright future (potentially) looming. An "up yours" to the doubters and a "thank you" to the people who entertained the hope I could do it. It was also odd, in the state I was still in back in October, to go back there and feel nothing had moved on. "You look exactly the same," they said. And "you're still so slender." And "the braces worked!" And "you haven't changed- it's just like it was ten years ago."
I was an odd and contradictory child-adolescent. Shy, awkward, often desperate for invisibility. I walked funny because I was scared of walking funny. I smiled often but blinked too much. I hated to be alone, convinced I looked weird. Alone, I was nervous and edgy and clung to the walls. I wanted the black-and-white tiled floor in the main entrance to swallow me up, blend me in, vanish me.
Then I discovered cutting. Attention seeker. I discovered wanton vandalism of school property. Badly behaved. I must admit, I retain a certain pride for the stroke of genius that was the shotput in the toilet. Oh, come on. And I won't repent for all the giggling. Another favourite teacher- Latin- wrote on my report that I had "a keen sense for the ridiculous." Never-mind disruptive.
Attention was the new invisibility. It started with the discos, actually, even before the cutting. The two-foot-tall boys from the boys' school, their gelled hair and roving hands. ("I only snogged her 'cause coloured girls are easy," one said. "Innit.") I knew I wasn't special but I knew no-one else would go as far as I would. I courted awe and disgust, rolled my skirts up after school, got attention from men and smeared my lips a pink that didn't suit my skin.
And where that led.
Invisibility. Behind all this, the bad behaviour and slipping grades (except in English and Latin); the bloody sleeves and refusal to participate in PE, I felt safe. I had a group of friends who pretended to be satanists with me- started a spate of trendy wrist-scratching. Was blamed and helped and finally, hospitalised.
It meant I didn't have to smile so much. It meant I didn't have to worry that I looked weird. I knew I was weird. It meant I was too dizzy to worry about other people. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep much. I was medicated, dulled. I didn't care. It was embarrassing, actually, to be discovered post-cut or have to confess to an OD. It was embarrassing to wear clothes meant for women. But it meant no-one saw the awkward little girl inside.
I pulled my grades up. I'm smart, it's what I've got. I do well. I came out and the boy-stuff could finally end. I discovered alcohol. Before school, after school, at weekends, in the clubs I got into with my nipples and my false new smile. I changed school (more Catholics but a local one, with boy-mates and old friends from Primary.)
I'm left with the scars from back then- a disappointment to those close to me and a reminder of what someone can do to herself.
And now I dream about it: PE changing rooms, old friends (I kept just one), corridors. There were good times as well as bad.
When I went back there were- shock, horror!- non-white kids (I was rare back then.) Everything, and nothing, had changed...
But that's all.
In October, I went up there to see a teacher who used to look after me, in a way, when "things" were bad. She took me to Lourdes with a group of kids- Group 199- when I was 15 and it gave me a lot of perspective on a lot of things. It was good to catch up with her after so long. It was good to go back there with a degree and published poems and a bright future (potentially) looming. An "up yours" to the doubters and a "thank you" to the people who entertained the hope I could do it. It was also odd, in the state I was still in back in October, to go back there and feel nothing had moved on. "You look exactly the same," they said. And "you're still so slender." And "the braces worked!" And "you haven't changed- it's just like it was ten years ago."
I was an odd and contradictory child-adolescent. Shy, awkward, often desperate for invisibility. I walked funny because I was scared of walking funny. I smiled often but blinked too much. I hated to be alone, convinced I looked weird. Alone, I was nervous and edgy and clung to the walls. I wanted the black-and-white tiled floor in the main entrance to swallow me up, blend me in, vanish me.
Then I discovered cutting. Attention seeker. I discovered wanton vandalism of school property. Badly behaved. I must admit, I retain a certain pride for the stroke of genius that was the shotput in the toilet. Oh, come on. And I won't repent for all the giggling. Another favourite teacher- Latin- wrote on my report that I had "a keen sense for the ridiculous." Never-mind disruptive.
Attention was the new invisibility. It started with the discos, actually, even before the cutting. The two-foot-tall boys from the boys' school, their gelled hair and roving hands. ("I only snogged her 'cause coloured girls are easy," one said. "Innit.") I knew I wasn't special but I knew no-one else would go as far as I would. I courted awe and disgust, rolled my skirts up after school, got attention from men and smeared my lips a pink that didn't suit my skin.
And where that led.
Invisibility. Behind all this, the bad behaviour and slipping grades (except in English and Latin); the bloody sleeves and refusal to participate in PE, I felt safe. I had a group of friends who pretended to be satanists with me- started a spate of trendy wrist-scratching. Was blamed and helped and finally, hospitalised.
It meant I didn't have to smile so much. It meant I didn't have to worry that I looked weird. I knew I was weird. It meant I was too dizzy to worry about other people. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep much. I was medicated, dulled. I didn't care. It was embarrassing, actually, to be discovered post-cut or have to confess to an OD. It was embarrassing to wear clothes meant for women. But it meant no-one saw the awkward little girl inside.
I pulled my grades up. I'm smart, it's what I've got. I do well. I came out and the boy-stuff could finally end. I discovered alcohol. Before school, after school, at weekends, in the clubs I got into with my nipples and my false new smile. I changed school (more Catholics but a local one, with boy-mates and old friends from Primary.)
I'm left with the scars from back then- a disappointment to those close to me and a reminder of what someone can do to herself.
And now I dream about it: PE changing rooms, old friends (I kept just one), corridors. There were good times as well as bad.
When I went back there were- shock, horror!- non-white kids (I was rare back then.) Everything, and nothing, had changed...
Saturday 26 May 2012
Dream
Boris Jonson offered my Granny 100 million pounds for her house. He really wanted it; he had combed his hair and everything.
curiouser and curiouser.
One of my first girlfriends was a girl called Naomi. It was an on-and-off thing from 15 to 17. Tumultuous and over-emotional, as you can only be at that age. Unless, of course, you are me... but that's another story.
Anyway, time passed and we grew up. We became really close friends. She has a child now, a really lovely little boy. Our teenage relationship was forgotten, to the point where I couldn't consider loving her "like that" although she is someone I love. A best friend.
This year on my birthday, I wanted to go out for a meal. For months, Naomi had been persuading me to celebrate my 25th although dread made me not want to. So I invited those close to me and arranged to go out. Last minute, because of childcare arrangements, she couldn't come. I was a bit miffed but to be honest, I have no idea how hard it must be raising a little one. She said we would meet up the following week. I was meant to go to hers.
The day came and she didn't reply to my texts. She didn't reply the next day either. I started to get worried in case something was up with her or her son. I tried calling, then decided to give them space. Meanwhile, her Facebook suggested that she was still going out, talking to people. Her son was fine. Her life was okay. I sent a couple of messages asking if things were okay and she didn't reply.
Months passed.
One night, drunk, I did call a few times when I shouldn't have. But no matter- no answer. One more Facebook message, asking what I had done and whether we should delete each other.
No word.
Today, I went to check her profile. Not to be weird, or even to contact her but only to see what she's up to. And she's deleted me. One of the worst things about being "better" is that I feel things appropriately. I can't deny that this hurts because I can feel it, warm and soft like I imagine a rain-heavy cloud to be.
And I still don't know what I've done.
Anyway, time passed and we grew up. We became really close friends. She has a child now, a really lovely little boy. Our teenage relationship was forgotten, to the point where I couldn't consider loving her "like that" although she is someone I love. A best friend.
This year on my birthday, I wanted to go out for a meal. For months, Naomi had been persuading me to celebrate my 25th although dread made me not want to. So I invited those close to me and arranged to go out. Last minute, because of childcare arrangements, she couldn't come. I was a bit miffed but to be honest, I have no idea how hard it must be raising a little one. She said we would meet up the following week. I was meant to go to hers.
The day came and she didn't reply to my texts. She didn't reply the next day either. I started to get worried in case something was up with her or her son. I tried calling, then decided to give them space. Meanwhile, her Facebook suggested that she was still going out, talking to people. Her son was fine. Her life was okay. I sent a couple of messages asking if things were okay and she didn't reply.
Months passed.
One night, drunk, I did call a few times when I shouldn't have. But no matter- no answer. One more Facebook message, asking what I had done and whether we should delete each other.
No word.
Today, I went to check her profile. Not to be weird, or even to contact her but only to see what she's up to. And she's deleted me. One of the worst things about being "better" is that I feel things appropriately. I can't deny that this hurts because I can feel it, warm and soft like I imagine a rain-heavy cloud to be.
And I still don't know what I've done.
Thursday 24 May 2012
a funny kind of faith
Like most people, I live in an inner world based on bargaining. "If you... then I..." without a clear idea of who the "You" in the equation is. I won't oversleep for a week if you let me catch this train. The system relies on a general belief in fairness. No matter how many times the world beyond our bodies is proved unfair, no matter how many times we break our promises, the deal is that "if you... then I." We tend to put ourselves after the "then." Not "I won't smoke all wek if I can win a scratchcard on Sunday" or "I won't oversleep for a week if you make sure I don't miss Friday's train." No- we wait until crisis point, retrace our steps and search for something to promise. Or we retrospectively grant ourselves a prize we imagine we have bargained for (I haven't had a drink all week, so I am buying that dress...) We don't trust the "You" enough to uphold our side of the deal for uncertain reward.
If we sacrifice this lamb, will you protect our city? That is a faithful bargain... there is no guarantee that when the best parts of the charred remains have been left under the sky for the gods, the city won't be stormed or shattered anyway.
I made a promise of sorts, one that took a leap of faith. If I stop hurting myself, then I want to feel happier. I stopped waiting (If you make me happier, then I will stop hurting.) I threw away some "tools." I started eating. I started running. I started learning to stick up for myself. Basically I acted as if, until it became so.
It worked.
But what I'm left with... is the drinks. (If I stop harming, I can't not drink. If I don't drink, I can't keep eating. If I don't drink for a week, I owe myself a pint...) It hasn't been as bad, not at all. Not for a long time has the bargain been "If I wake up tomorrow, I won't ever drink this much again," or "If she takes me back I won't ever get that drunk again." (because in the end, I broke that deal so many times that she didn't take me back...) So now I think... If I'm not doing as badly, then it doesn't matter!
But sometimes it feels as if a promise I tried not to hear myself make, has been broken. The same promise I made, unlevel-headed and fizzy-bodied, watching fairylights dance and reflecting in that shallow-deep way. The same promise I broke the next morning.
(If I get the scholarship then...
If I look at things clearly I see that I shouldn't...
If the medication works then I won't....
I promise to respect my life...)
If we sacrifice this lamb, will you protect our city? That is a faithful bargain... there is no guarantee that when the best parts of the charred remains have been left under the sky for the gods, the city won't be stormed or shattered anyway.
I made a promise of sorts, one that took a leap of faith. If I stop hurting myself, then I want to feel happier. I stopped waiting (If you make me happier, then I will stop hurting.) I threw away some "tools." I started eating. I started running. I started learning to stick up for myself. Basically I acted as if, until it became so.
It worked.
But what I'm left with... is the drinks. (If I stop harming, I can't not drink. If I don't drink, I can't keep eating. If I don't drink for a week, I owe myself a pint...) It hasn't been as bad, not at all. Not for a long time has the bargain been "If I wake up tomorrow, I won't ever drink this much again," or "If she takes me back I won't ever get that drunk again." (because in the end, I broke that deal so many times that she didn't take me back...) So now I think... If I'm not doing as badly, then it doesn't matter!
But sometimes it feels as if a promise I tried not to hear myself make, has been broken. The same promise I made, unlevel-headed and fizzy-bodied, watching fairylights dance and reflecting in that shallow-deep way. The same promise I broke the next morning.
(If I get the scholarship then...
If I look at things clearly I see that I shouldn't...
If the medication works then I won't....
I promise to respect my life...)
in the sun
Like most of London's inhabitants, I went to the park yesterday. Vicky Park, with my cousin C. We have reconnected a lot since I came back to London. Her eldest daughter is the same age as my little sister. C is a year and a half older than me. It was a really nice afternoon- drinking rose in the park, being introduced to a friend of C's, catching up and being reassured it isn't only me who has lost the patience and time to handle grandad. My cousin J turned up just before I left to collect Bee.
In the evening Sis and I were meant to go and see Two Roses for Richard the Third at the Roundhouse. It didn't happen due to a long and complicated process involving tickets and Tubes. So we took an unbelievably convoluted route on a bus round what felt like all the houses, to meet with Alaron (who are two people- also referred to as Darlana) in London Fields. It was a lovely evening. Alaron had got me a Congratulations card three large Moleskines for starting university and I felt really touched and, for the first time, properly excited about studying. I have good friends.
Sis and I bussed together, I got off at Gran's and drank some more with my uncle. We had a pretty good chat. I have been warned (again) about my love affair with alcohol.
I dreamt my Gran's cat was running a bouncer operation at the cat-flap, some kind of feline night-club in the kitchen.
And that I was being chased and chased and chased across a field, all because I smiled.
In the evening Sis and I were meant to go and see Two Roses for Richard the Third at the Roundhouse. It didn't happen due to a long and complicated process involving tickets and Tubes. So we took an unbelievably convoluted route on a bus round what felt like all the houses, to meet with Alaron (who are two people- also referred to as Darlana) in London Fields. It was a lovely evening. Alaron had got me a Congratulations card three large Moleskines for starting university and I felt really touched and, for the first time, properly excited about studying. I have good friends.
Sis and I bussed together, I got off at Gran's and drank some more with my uncle. We had a pretty good chat. I have been warned (again) about my love affair with alcohol.
I dreamt my Gran's cat was running a bouncer operation at the cat-flap, some kind of feline night-club in the kitchen.
And that I was being chased and chased and chased across a field, all because I smiled.
Tuesday 22 May 2012
Disorietntation
I went for a really good (really difficult) run. Jellying knees on firm ground, a battle between body and air. It was sunny and taxing but it made me feel good about persevering. I smiled. The scholarship sank in, finally. For the first time in years, my life has a direction. Not a "Where I see myself in five years..." and not a certainty but at least something to hold on to in shaky moments.
Then that weird thing happened- it has been a little while since the last time. A sudden moment of having absolutely no idea where I was. Not of being lost, just a total forgetting. As if I could be anywhere/ nowhere... literally not recognising familiar surroundings. It happened a lot in Amsterdam, towards the end. It used to upset me. Today I didn't panic or anything. It hasn't brought me down, not at all. It was just peculiar, something I can't quite describe or explain.
Then that weird thing happened- it has been a little while since the last time. A sudden moment of having absolutely no idea where I was. Not of being lost, just a total forgetting. As if I could be anywhere/ nowhere... literally not recognising familiar surroundings. It happened a lot in Amsterdam, towards the end. It used to upset me. Today I didn't panic or anything. It hasn't brought me down, not at all. It was just peculiar, something I can't quite describe or explain.
Monday 21 May 2012
I GOT THE AHRC SCHOLARSHIP.
So I have decided:
I am not allowed to complain about myself for a while; I have done well, so I must give credit.
I must look after myself better. This is part of the "promise" I was embarrassed to elaborate on- I have been gifted with a life and I owe it to myself, and others, to look after it- no matter how it turns out.
The above includes, in the immediate future, getting a doctor's appointment for b12 this week and being absolutely honest about some of my less positive habits.
So I have decided:
I am not allowed to complain about myself for a while; I have done well, so I must give credit.
I must look after myself better. This is part of the "promise" I was embarrassed to elaborate on- I have been gifted with a life and I owe it to myself, and others, to look after it- no matter how it turns out.
The above includes, in the immediate future, getting a doctor's appointment for b12 this week and being absolutely honest about some of my less positive habits.
monday, monday, monday...
Whaaaaat is this? Waves and waves and waves of this.
GUILT? Slowing me down again?
God, it gets boring being a recovering Catholic.
Treadmill it. Pound rubber soles against a stretch of rubber road until my knees go sore and rubbery in compensation.
Or curl up with it. Around unforgiving music and unrepentant self-indulgence. Sad little apostrophe.
Or flush it out with drink, break my promise, wake up numbly inside myself and wait it out.
Forgive me.
Is this what Monday feels like for people who work..?
It is sick sick sick sick sick.
GUILT? Slowing me down again?
God, it gets boring being a recovering Catholic.
Treadmill it. Pound rubber soles against a stretch of rubber road until my knees go sore and rubbery in compensation.
Or curl up with it. Around unforgiving music and unrepentant self-indulgence. Sad little apostrophe.
Or flush it out with drink, break my promise, wake up numbly inside myself and wait it out.
Forgive me.
Is this what Monday feels like for people who work..?
It is sick sick sick sick sick.
Understand
I don't want to love you
as water loves a jar: taking my shape
from your contours;
my dents from your scars.
I'd be frightened you'd tip
if I swelled past your lid,
let my formlessness take you adrift,
wave your message away.
I don't want to love you
the way that water loves a jar.
But I don't know how else to.
I don't want to love you
as water loves a jar: taking my shape
from your contours;
my dents from your scars.
I'd be frightened you'd tip
if I swelled past your lid,
let my formlessness take you adrift,
wave your message away.
I don't want to love you
the way that water loves a jar.
But I don't know how else to.
Niyi Osundare- I Sing of Change
I sing
of the beauty of Athens
without its slaves
Of a world free
of kings and queens
and other remnants
of an arbitrary past
Of earth
with no
sharp north
or deep south
without blind curtains
or iron walls
Of the end
of warlords and armories
and prisons of hate and fear
Of deserts treeing
and fruiting
after the quickening rains
Of the sun
radiating ignorance
and stars informing
nights of unknowing
I sing of a world reshaped
of the beauty of Athens
without its slaves
Of a world free
of kings and queens
and other remnants
of an arbitrary past
Of earth
with no
sharp north
or deep south
without blind curtains
or iron walls
Of the end
of warlords and armories
and prisons of hate and fear
Of deserts treeing
and fruiting
after the quickening rains
Of the sun
radiating ignorance
and stars informing
nights of unknowing
I sing of a world reshaped
under that light, and in that moment.
Friday, after the Penguin interview, I went for a walk along the SouthBank to the Kusama exhibition (hence that entry) and then lunch with Mum and Dad.
I also went for a run over the weekend. I borrowed Dad's watch-that-tells-speed/distance-not-time and didn't listen to music. I let my thoughts take me running naturally and came up with the following realisation: guilt slows me down. Invariably. Let's not ask a genius to tell us what this means.
Saturday after "work"- Free gig + secret forest rave! On to a winner. The bands: Will and the People and Duncan Disorderly & the Scallywags, were really good. I actually danced (in my awkward-limbed way.) And the forest party was pretty magic. The trees were hung with lights- or maybe the lights were projected onto the trees? They were like tiny dancing fairies. It was a night of little bits of oddness. I got a bit twinkle-headed, danced, discovered that the twigs and branches of trees were like networks of veins in a huge, domed, protective organism. And I usually hate trees. Someone and I kissed. Under the breathing dome. Then it was light, my feet were cold and we all went home.
I made myself a promise (an unravelling/ a re-stitching). I have made the same one a million times.
On Sunday we went back to A's for after-party chill. I broke the promise I wish that I would keep from today.
I also went for a run over the weekend. I borrowed Dad's watch-that-tells-speed/distance-not-time and didn't listen to music. I let my thoughts take me running naturally and came up with the following realisation: guilt slows me down. Invariably. Let's not ask a genius to tell us what this means.
Saturday after "work"- Free gig + secret forest rave! On to a winner. The bands: Will and the People and Duncan Disorderly & the Scallywags, were really good. I actually danced (in my awkward-limbed way.) And the forest party was pretty magic. The trees were hung with lights- or maybe the lights were projected onto the trees? They were like tiny dancing fairies. It was a night of little bits of oddness. I got a bit twinkle-headed, danced, discovered that the twigs and branches of trees were like networks of veins in a huge, domed, protective organism. And I usually hate trees. Someone and I kissed. Under the breathing dome. Then it was light, my feet were cold and we all went home.
I made myself a promise (an unravelling/ a re-stitching). I have made the same one a million times.
On Sunday we went back to A's for after-party chill. I broke the promise I wish that I would keep from today.
The Month of Mary (Saturday Thoughts)
( I haven't had/made time to update as I go, you see. These are being copied from scratched notebook entries; I wrote this at work in my head)
This time of year always makes me feel lonely. I've searched for another word because "lonely" doesn't seem to make sense. But it is the only word that describes the feeling. It seems almost onomatapoeic; the feeling is one that rolls of the tongue, stretches and curls around a pout in the middle. Rhymes with "meeee."
This year, I got through April without once quoting T.S. eliot (April is the cruellest month...) I waited for the low and when it didn't hit, I was glad. It still hasn't come. But today I caught the scent of blossoms and just for a second the loneliness opened up like a cut.
It's weird to feel so hurt by spring, like SAD in reverse. Aprils and Mays- 2007: my Grandad died; 2008: I stumbled home alone from the Infirmary wearing somebody else's clothes; 2009: my thoughts crashed on an Amsterdam Metro; 2010: the joy of graduation and the trouble that surrounded it.
And last year. God. I was scribbling in an old notebook on Friday afternoon and came across this: "I can't eat. I'm not even hungry. I don't want to eat. If N wants to fuck a model, she can have a titless ribcage and a hanger for unfilled clothing. She can have a hollow tummy and narrow hips. She can watch the arse she says she loves so much flatten to nothing and I just don't care [...]" I think that was May/June, or it feels like it was.
So, this year, it is amazing to be OK. No drama, no tantrums, no fists or blades or attempts to end the year here. Just the loneliness, every now and then, surprisingly intense as it snags my heart mid-beat.
This time of year always makes me feel lonely. I've searched for another word because "lonely" doesn't seem to make sense. But it is the only word that describes the feeling. It seems almost onomatapoeic; the feeling is one that rolls of the tongue, stretches and curls around a pout in the middle. Rhymes with "meeee."
This year, I got through April without once quoting T.S. eliot (April is the cruellest month...) I waited for the low and when it didn't hit, I was glad. It still hasn't come. But today I caught the scent of blossoms and just for a second the loneliness opened up like a cut.
It's weird to feel so hurt by spring, like SAD in reverse. Aprils and Mays- 2007: my Grandad died; 2008: I stumbled home alone from the Infirmary wearing somebody else's clothes; 2009: my thoughts crashed on an Amsterdam Metro; 2010: the joy of graduation and the trouble that surrounded it.
And last year. God. I was scribbling in an old notebook on Friday afternoon and came across this: "I can't eat. I'm not even hungry. I don't want to eat. If N wants to fuck a model, she can have a titless ribcage and a hanger for unfilled clothing. She can have a hollow tummy and narrow hips. She can watch the arse she says she loves so much flatten to nothing and I just don't care [...]" I think that was May/June, or it feels like it was.
So, this year, it is amazing to be OK. No drama, no tantrums, no fists or blades or attempts to end the year here. Just the loneliness, every now and then, surprisingly intense as it snags my heart mid-beat.
Sunday 20 May 2012
Tate Modern on Friday
Poetic Justice:
"Please Do Not Ouch"- the T had been rubbed off.
From Kusama's Self-Obliteration Collage:
Become one with eternity. Obliterate your personality.
Become part of your environment. Forget yourself.
Self-destruction is the only way out!
On your trip, take along one of our live bikini models.
Thursday 17 May 2012
some scrawled nonsens wot i writ on a train
cupped in the palm,
my cracked lifeline lies
fractured with maybes.
splintered by could haves,
still-could-bes and never-wills.
what could have been righted
stays wrong. all along,
i have known
you can't retrace
the pigmented fate
or the feathered breaks
on heart-lines not your own.
you can cover the palm
in wax, and wishes,
watch the past spread smooth
and the present alter,
the future morph,
the life becoming clean...
becoming not your own.
my cracked lifeline lies
fractured with maybes.
splintered by could haves,
still-could-bes and never-wills.
what could have been righted
stays wrong. all along,
i have known
you can't retrace
the pigmented fate
or the feathered breaks
on heart-lines not your own.
you can cover the palm
in wax, and wishes,
watch the past spread smooth
and the present alter,
the future morph,
the life becoming clean...
becoming not your own.
and another- the end
Six months later, in a different city, with a different girl, I was more than three quarters in love. The girl from the bench on Rembrandtplein came to visit me. Her blue eyes were in again. Dancing one night in a club in Picardy Place, she swivelled me by the hip and pulled me close. She edged in towards that long-awaited kiss. Surprising myself, I turned my other cheek. I've changed, I thought as I pulled away.
"Why do you think I came here?" she demanded, but experience told me it was just another test. She wanted to know that she was powerful. She bought me shots and I didn't complain because I didn't mind.
We went home to my narrow room and I slept on the floor. Lay awake on the floor, actually, with a nearly overwhelming, almost vengeful desire to say yes for all the times that she'd said no. I didn't, though. I waited for her to fall asleep (still expecting me, no doubt, to change my mind.)
Then I read until it grew light outside and closed my eyes as she fluttered hers.
"Why do you think I came here?" she demanded, but experience told me it was just another test. She wanted to know that she was powerful. She bought me shots and I didn't complain because I didn't mind.
We went home to my narrow room and I slept on the floor. Lay awake on the floor, actually, with a nearly overwhelming, almost vengeful desire to say yes for all the times that she'd said no. I didn't, though. I waited for her to fall asleep (still expecting me, no doubt, to change my mind.)
Then I read until it grew light outside and closed my eyes as she fluttered hers.
Wednesday 16 May 2012
a memory
Two days before she left the city, a girl I half-believed myself in love with sat down on a bench off Rembrandtplein. We had a relationship based on late nights and early mornings; the early light scouring the grey skins from the canals. It was odd seeing her in the afternoon.
It was fairly warm- but she was from the Basque country. She wrapped her hoodie and mine around her tightly and folded her arms. I sat down beside her, keeping my own arms to myself.
She looked at me, suddenly intent. This was nothing unusual. I had become to being friends with someone as intense as a first lover.
"I have a secret to tell you," she said. Again, I was used to her drama, so I said nothing. I was expecting nothing. She turned away from me, drew her hands up to her face, and peeled off her blue eyes.
Underneath them: brown ones.
Three shades lighter than mine.
I remembered her sudden anger when I told her once how beautiful her eyes were. They were blue-green, the colour of a marble I once won (this, I did not tell her.) So this explained a lot. Staring at her then, popping her contacts back in and rising from the bench, I couldn't help feeling a certain betrayal.
At once, I realised it had only been half an illusion of love.
It was fairly warm- but she was from the Basque country. She wrapped her hoodie and mine around her tightly and folded her arms. I sat down beside her, keeping my own arms to myself.
She looked at me, suddenly intent. This was nothing unusual. I had become to being friends with someone as intense as a first lover.
"I have a secret to tell you," she said. Again, I was used to her drama, so I said nothing. I was expecting nothing. She turned away from me, drew her hands up to her face, and peeled off her blue eyes.
Underneath them: brown ones.
Three shades lighter than mine.
I remembered her sudden anger when I told her once how beautiful her eyes were. They were blue-green, the colour of a marble I once won (this, I did not tell her.) So this explained a lot. Staring at her then, popping her contacts back in and rising from the bench, I couldn't help feeling a certain betrayal.
At once, I realised it had only been half an illusion of love.
nightmares
In the past, I have screamed. I have shouted. I have kicked up fuss like sand and tried hard not to care whose eyes it flew up into. I have bled through the cracks in the facade, making myself impossible to ignore. Even when all I wanted was the power of invisibility. I have collapsed, addled and empty, into more arms than I can count: had one night stands borne from too much diazepam, too little food and just enough girls willing to carry me home and tuck me in. My actions have been a hell of a lot louder than my words. It's easier to be noisy when I've disliked myself enough not to care what people think.
But there have been other times, times when it really mattered, that I have kept my lips pressed together when other things were being pulled apart. Times I didn't cry for help, or cry wolf, or cry tears or blood or curses. Times when I had every right to kick up fuss.
And that's where the nightmares come from.
But there have been other times, times when it really mattered, that I have kept my lips pressed together when other things were being pulled apart. Times I didn't cry for help, or cry wolf, or cry tears or blood or curses. Times when I had every right to kick up fuss.
And that's where the nightmares come from.
Tuesday 15 May 2012
Anticipate
In a lecture in first year, I sat next to a girl. Those were the days when I wore provocative badges and rainbow belts, increasing visibility. She asked about one of my badges. After the next lecture, she asked if I wanted to grab a coffee. There was a lovely cafe, the Harlequin, which eventually died of generosity. We sat there and shared some jasmine tea, or some coffee, or something. We liked similar books and music. She started to pour out her heart about an experience she'd had with a girl, and what that meant, and how she felt about the whole thing. We went to a couple of things together- a creative brainstorming session at the university theatre; a couple more lectures we sat together in. And then out of the blue, she started to ignore me. Facebook messages avoided. Invites ignored. I wasn't certain what had happened but it felt very strange. Those were also the days of 70cl a day, a tendency to offend, a propensity to risk. But I was fairly certain that that wasn't the case with her. Totally certain, actually. I don't know- maybe she decided to iron herself straight and didn't need the association.
I was thinking about that earlier because of a song I had in my head today, Ani diFranco, that she once posted on her Facebook wall just before we stopped speaking. Weird how certain things jolt certain people's echoes into the forefront of your memory.
I was thinking about that earlier because of a song I had in my head today, Ani diFranco, that she once posted on her Facebook wall just before we stopped speaking. Weird how certain things jolt certain people's echoes into the forefront of your memory.
Brighton
The Brighton weekend was really good. Bond & Bells are going to Cambodia and, since they are going to be away for Christmas, they were hosting a "Christmas" dinner. It was so perfect! We pulled crackers and had a lucky dip of gifts- each person had to bring a present worth around 3 pounds, so we all got something. Then intoxicants were passed and conversations had with intoxicated intensity/ levity, whichever seemed appropriate to whichever conversation. On "Boxing Day" it was sunny enough to sit outside. We fought the onset of the predicted crash with more intoxicants still. I'm not certain anybody ate all day. Time started to quicken and I stayed another night, then travelled shakily home. It was a good way to say 'bye to them.
Last night I got an e-mail to say I have an interview for an internship at Penguin! Things are happening for me. I feel as if things are racing towards something, as if I am lucky in a way I can't grasp a sense of deserving. But I grasp a sense of gratitude, for sure.
Although- it is a 6 month internship. If I get it, it is a stark and life-changing choice between Penguin and uni. The internship is paid. The career it would lead to would be completely and utterly different to the one I have been considering (academia) and I have serious doubts about my capability, long-term, in the world of publishing. But it is an amazing opportunity. So if I come to the bridge- and it is a big "if", don't get me wrong- it will be a tough one to cross.
Last night I got an e-mail to say I have an interview for an internship at Penguin! Things are happening for me. I feel as if things are racing towards something, as if I am lucky in a way I can't grasp a sense of deserving. But I grasp a sense of gratitude, for sure.
Although- it is a 6 month internship. If I get it, it is a stark and life-changing choice between Penguin and uni. The internship is paid. The career it would lead to would be completely and utterly different to the one I have been considering (academia) and I have serious doubts about my capability, long-term, in the world of publishing. But it is an amazing opportunity. So if I come to the bridge- and it is a big "if", don't get me wrong- it will be a tough one to cross.
Thursday 10 May 2012
City Girl
In Leyton, we are very lucky, in that we have a lot of access to greenery. Epping Forest; the Marshes; not too far from Victoria Park. People consider London a grey and soulless place, or at least a polluted one. It is grey and it is polluted but the grey is interspersed with green. The natural spaces are generally controlled, fenced in, organised. I know that probably isn't the ideal- but at least they are there. And again, in Leyton we are lucky: the forest and the marshes are wide open, still semi-wild spaces. Running across them, you can forget you are in a city.
I remember when I was younger. I loved going to Marshes but it was tinged with nervousness. The Marshes contained three things I feared irrationally.
1) Dogs. I have always hated them. No big deal- standard phobia.
2) Pylons. Their straight arms. Their pin heads. The electricity buzzing away. Their unnecessarily wide legs, their cabled ties to each other and the yucky sensation that they move when you are not looking. I used to call it "The Mystery of the Walking Pylon" in my Famous Five days, when everything was an adventure.
3) The utter conviction I had that one day, I would fall into quicksand. Similarly, I always knew I would be struck by lightning. I always felt as if I had escaped death narrowly- even if no lightning had struck, even though lightning here is almost invariably sheet, not streak. Even though, as far as I was and am aware, Leyton is not exactly a hotbed of quicksand. American cartoons, hey. I blame The Adams Family.
4) Trees. Their judgmental downward glances and unnaturally thin bodies, or stretchy gnarled arms. Looming. Making me feel funny.
I was a strange kid, I suppose. Considering I lived on the 20th floor of a tower block, you wouldn't think the height of trees and pylons would have bothered me. But they did.
But I loved:
1) The space
2) The goalpoasts
3) The (non-quick-)sandpit with its longjump marker
4) All the water. The dirty River Lea and its trickly swampy streams.
5) Sunset. Sunset reaching really low over the flat land. It made me feel story-book and warm-chested. I always wanted to stay until it started to fall.
More pros than cons, then.
Same for today. I ran across the Marshes: Hackney, Leyton, Walthamstow. I was avoiding a woman with dogs, so I got a bit lost. And suddenly I felt as if I had stumbled into one of my nightmares. I breathed in and breathed out but I struggled to. I had the sickening feeling of being closed in on by things I couldn't understand, or control. Example: if a person wants to hurt you, you can understand what is happening. They can speak. You know the laws of gravity and time and impact still apply, so you have a chance. But if trees and pylons attack? That throws everything you know out of sync, doesn't it? Who knows- time could suspend, quicksand could open under the concrete path, you could be swallowed into the air and nobody would know you hadn't just run away. And you would never be able to warn anybody of the grave dangers of trees and quicksand and pylons!
I suppose I'm still just a strange kid with an imagination bigger than my body. But at least I can laugh about it after.
The truth is, seeing grass and trees for miles and only the hint of a road makes me edgy. When in green surroundings I like to be able to see the exit at all times.
I remember when I was younger. I loved going to Marshes but it was tinged with nervousness. The Marshes contained three things I feared irrationally.
1) Dogs. I have always hated them. No big deal- standard phobia.
2) Pylons. Their straight arms. Their pin heads. The electricity buzzing away. Their unnecessarily wide legs, their cabled ties to each other and the yucky sensation that they move when you are not looking. I used to call it "The Mystery of the Walking Pylon" in my Famous Five days, when everything was an adventure.
3) The utter conviction I had that one day, I would fall into quicksand. Similarly, I always knew I would be struck by lightning. I always felt as if I had escaped death narrowly- even if no lightning had struck, even though lightning here is almost invariably sheet, not streak. Even though, as far as I was and am aware, Leyton is not exactly a hotbed of quicksand. American cartoons, hey. I blame The Adams Family.
4) Trees. Their judgmental downward glances and unnaturally thin bodies, or stretchy gnarled arms. Looming. Making me feel funny.
I was a strange kid, I suppose. Considering I lived on the 20th floor of a tower block, you wouldn't think the height of trees and pylons would have bothered me. But they did.
But I loved:
1) The space
2) The goalpoasts
3) The (non-quick-)sandpit with its longjump marker
4) All the water. The dirty River Lea and its trickly swampy streams.
5) Sunset. Sunset reaching really low over the flat land. It made me feel story-book and warm-chested. I always wanted to stay until it started to fall.
More pros than cons, then.
Same for today. I ran across the Marshes: Hackney, Leyton, Walthamstow. I was avoiding a woman with dogs, so I got a bit lost. And suddenly I felt as if I had stumbled into one of my nightmares. I breathed in and breathed out but I struggled to. I had the sickening feeling of being closed in on by things I couldn't understand, or control. Example: if a person wants to hurt you, you can understand what is happening. They can speak. You know the laws of gravity and time and impact still apply, so you have a chance. But if trees and pylons attack? That throws everything you know out of sync, doesn't it? Who knows- time could suspend, quicksand could open under the concrete path, you could be swallowed into the air and nobody would know you hadn't just run away. And you would never be able to warn anybody of the grave dangers of trees and quicksand and pylons!
I suppose I'm still just a strange kid with an imagination bigger than my body. But at least I can laugh about it after.
The truth is, seeing grass and trees for miles and only the hint of a road makes me edgy. When in green surroundings I like to be able to see the exit at all times.
Wednesday 9 May 2012
7/5
Can a step backwards be a step forwards?
In the dark, I am sitting with my legs wrapped around my past. Feeling the click of memory against my teeth. Press towards, pull away. Pull away, press towards.
Breathe in.
Move past intention.
Spark up something that's become a dull orange glow; cup hands around it, watch it turn yellow and blue.
Get burned?
It would be as easy to get burned, as to spend months like a moth. Wings throbbing in the shadows.
Attracted, endlessly, to the myths and tricks of light.
In the dark, I am sitting with my legs wrapped around my past. Feeling the click of memory against my teeth. Press towards, pull away. Pull away, press towards.
Breathe in.
Move past intention.
Spark up something that's become a dull orange glow; cup hands around it, watch it turn yellow and blue.
Get burned?
It would be as easy to get burned, as to spend months like a moth. Wings throbbing in the shadows.
Attracted, endlessly, to the myths and tricks of light.
onwards & upwards
I am pleased with how the scholarship interview went.
Time will tell.
I am probably moving in to my Granny's over the summer. Actually, I don't mind. I feel bad because I help my Mum a lot with Bee and Bro and cooking, etc and Sis won't have the time to be equally helpful. But I feel good because here at Gran's I am not tempted to regress to teenage-hood. There will be the same security from myself, the same protective impulses that make me stay more sane around the people I love (for as much as I can help it.) But less room to feel stroppy, and more freedom.
Probably there will be an amount of still being split between the two homes, with things in both and duties in both. Probably that will be occasionally stressful and/ or annoying. But onwards and upwards, hey.
Time will tell.
I am probably moving in to my Granny's over the summer. Actually, I don't mind. I feel bad because I help my Mum a lot with Bee and Bro and cooking, etc and Sis won't have the time to be equally helpful. But I feel good because here at Gran's I am not tempted to regress to teenage-hood. There will be the same security from myself, the same protective impulses that make me stay more sane around the people I love (for as much as I can help it.) But less room to feel stroppy, and more freedom.
Probably there will be an amount of still being split between the two homes, with things in both and duties in both. Probably that will be occasionally stressful and/ or annoying. But onwards and upwards, hey.
Thursday 3 May 2012
today
I don't want to volunteer today. I am sick of giving away my time.
It's a toss-up between the irritation of customers and the sicky feeling of guilt if I don't go. When I feel like it, I know I am really good at it. I'm chirpy, "bubbly", kind, polite, clean-nailed, fun. On days like today I can probably still be okay at it but it's fake "have-a-nice-day/can-I-get-you-anything-else-with-that/shit-I've-forgotten-what-I-just-asked-you-NEXT." & I hate being fake which is probably why I don't have a job and possibly why I never will have one for more than- what was it- 4 months?
I want to run- maybe inactivity is what is keeping me so irritated. But the thought of going outside is making me all panicky. I don't have time to go to the gym before 'work' (if I go) so it'd have to be outside-running and I have that horriblehorriblehorrible feeling of being conspicuous and weird-looking and when I think about getting into running gear I nearly cry.
Today is voting day.
Today my sis woke up and consequently woke me up at 7, for the second day in a row. I need not to be living at home. I lay awake thinking about it. What the hell am I doing? I am in the way. I am patterned by the days of other people. I am turning into a teenager. As though it wasn't bad enough the first time. I feel fairly sick considering it. I feel a big stroppy string of I don't want to. And yet. It is a massive luxury, having no responsibilities. No bills. No rent. No job. No tax. No girlfriend. I cook, clean and generally make myself useful and in exchange I have everything. And when I have other plans and can't be useful I have guilt, because when I am not being especially useful I am basically not earning my keep. Altogether it's a pretty amazing deal,
so:
I also decided that I am not going to write again until I have anything half-way interesting to say or at least a half-interesting way to say it.
It's a toss-up between the irritation of customers and the sicky feeling of guilt if I don't go. When I feel like it, I know I am really good at it. I'm chirpy, "bubbly", kind, polite, clean-nailed, fun. On days like today I can probably still be okay at it but it's fake "have-a-nice-day/can-I-get-you-anything-else-with-that/shit-I've-forgotten-what-I-just-asked-you-NEXT." & I hate being fake which is probably why I don't have a job and possibly why I never will have one for more than- what was it- 4 months?
I want to run- maybe inactivity is what is keeping me so irritated. But the thought of going outside is making me all panicky. I don't have time to go to the gym before 'work' (if I go) so it'd have to be outside-running and I have that horriblehorriblehorrible feeling of being conspicuous and weird-looking and when I think about getting into running gear I nearly cry.
Today is voting day.
Today my sis woke up and consequently woke me up at 7, for the second day in a row. I need not to be living at home. I lay awake thinking about it. What the hell am I doing? I am in the way. I am patterned by the days of other people. I am turning into a teenager. As though it wasn't bad enough the first time. I feel fairly sick considering it. I feel a big stroppy string of I don't want to. And yet. It is a massive luxury, having no responsibilities. No bills. No rent. No job. No tax. No girlfriend. I cook, clean and generally make myself useful and in exchange I have everything. And when I have other plans and can't be useful I have guilt, because when I am not being especially useful I am basically not earning my keep. Altogether it's a pretty amazing deal,
so:
I also decided that I am not going to write again until I have anything half-way interesting to say or at least a half-interesting way to say it.
Wednesday 2 May 2012
Failure
I wanted to go for a run. Got to the street corner. Got punched by anxiety. Turned and came home.
Monday 30 April 2012
1) I have a scholarship interview at Kent!!
2) Today I went running. I woke up really late and decided the only way to balance out the negative vibe was to run. And it was sunny. So I dragged my feet along to Hackney Marshes, picked up the pace along the canals, got a bit lost, turned back, did a little turn in Vicky park and came home to my Gran's. Sometimes the shower after the run is the best part; washing all the thoughts off and starting the day again. Haven't eaten, though- not in a diety way or a feeling-sad way. I'm just not all that hungry lately.
The run wasn't too hard. 12/13 K (8 miles?) People were out and about looking smiley in the sun. Cyclists and runners can be a bit of a vampire-and-werewolves situation but today even they were fairly considerate. My fear of dogs was less of a hinderance than usual, although I did cut out bits because I was scared of having my neck gnawed viciously into. Yes, it's irrational... but a lot of people are scared of spiders, aren't they?
I thought about Her along Orient Way. And realised part of it is that at least half the relationship was more unhappy than happy. So now that I'm not burning up with love and heartbreak, there's a dim sense of failure that only sharpens when we talk about our very separate lives. Which is why we don't speak often and why we shouldn't speak often. I cling to the remnants of the pain because they prove I am capable of long-term feelings (even if they are regret, pain and longing.) But... I' m stopping it now. Like the cutting, like the starving, like the endless check-ups on her Facebook page.I want her to be happy but I want to be happy as well.
In Vicky Park I thought about JW's theory that all the cool people should live in one place and decided that this is the case. But also, that having good friends is a good think wherever they are. Mousekiller and September are getting married soon; I want to be there. Weird how the relationships people formed in Amsteram all that time ago are mostly still going, after all that time Maybe I should have found myself a girl there (maybe my attempts are a whole other story)
And on the way home my thoughts came full circle and I wondered what it will take to be very happy. Concluded that I am mostly doing the right things and the right things don't hurt so much anymore. Though already I was burning for a drink. And I thought about this constant question of what to "do with my life" and came up short but luckily I had hit the turning into my Gran's street and I was saved from answering until next time.
God I love London.
Please excuse any horrendous typos- this is potentially the slowest cmputer I have encountered since my brief usuccessful foray into the hi-tech world of laptops.
2) Today I went running. I woke up really late and decided the only way to balance out the negative vibe was to run. And it was sunny. So I dragged my feet along to Hackney Marshes, picked up the pace along the canals, got a bit lost, turned back, did a little turn in Vicky park and came home to my Gran's. Sometimes the shower after the run is the best part; washing all the thoughts off and starting the day again. Haven't eaten, though- not in a diety way or a feeling-sad way. I'm just not all that hungry lately.
The run wasn't too hard. 12/13 K (8 miles?) People were out and about looking smiley in the sun. Cyclists and runners can be a bit of a vampire-and-werewolves situation but today even they were fairly considerate. My fear of dogs was less of a hinderance than usual, although I did cut out bits because I was scared of having my neck gnawed viciously into. Yes, it's irrational... but a lot of people are scared of spiders, aren't they?
I thought about Her along Orient Way. And realised part of it is that at least half the relationship was more unhappy than happy. So now that I'm not burning up with love and heartbreak, there's a dim sense of failure that only sharpens when we talk about our very separate lives. Which is why we don't speak often and why we shouldn't speak often. I cling to the remnants of the pain because they prove I am capable of long-term feelings (even if they are regret, pain and longing.) But... I' m stopping it now. Like the cutting, like the starving, like the endless check-ups on her Facebook page.I want her to be happy but I want to be happy as well.
In Vicky Park I thought about JW's theory that all the cool people should live in one place and decided that this is the case. But also, that having good friends is a good think wherever they are. Mousekiller and September are getting married soon; I want to be there. Weird how the relationships people formed in Amsteram all that time ago are mostly still going, after all that time Maybe I should have found myself a girl there (maybe my attempts are a whole other story)
And on the way home my thoughts came full circle and I wondered what it will take to be very happy. Concluded that I am mostly doing the right things and the right things don't hurt so much anymore. Though already I was burning for a drink. And I thought about this constant question of what to "do with my life" and came up short but luckily I had hit the turning into my Gran's street and I was saved from answering until next time.
God I love London.
Please excuse any horrendous typos- this is potentially the slowest cmputer I have encountered since my brief usuccessful foray into the hi-tech world of laptops.
Sunday 29 April 2012
I think "glum" is the best description of me today. Kind of an old-fashioned word, not too dramatic, not too much of a play-down either. Glum.
One day a kilo won't throw me into a panic.
One day not every song will have a line about her.
One day I won't read texts like they were poems, and meant more than they said.
One day misplacing an I-pod won't make me unreasonable and furious.
One day I won't be stupid enough to mess about with meds for a few days.
And I won't cry at Britain's Got Talent.
And I won't get so angry.
And I will have something interesting to say.
I wiped an entire music collection, more or less, so that I wouldn't get those stupid little jolts of memory. But it was fairly futile. Even Jeff Buckley messes me up now and she doesn't even like him. "Maybe I'm too young... to keep good love from going wrong..." Exceptexceptexcept I am not that young any more. It was hard to even watch The Apprentice the other day and see Edinburgh (right next to our bloody flat!) I will never go there again, even if that is cutting off my face to spite my heart. What the hell is this? Why can't I just get rid of it? If all feelings had a physical reality too them, I could sick it out.
We texted today- I wanted to let her know about the baby because, well. And I don't want to know more detail about her life than is necessary. I don't want to feel concern or anything at all. So I tell her little about mine. Probably also because I am ashamed of being a bit of a nothing.
My sis is back for a month, so I am going to be staying at my Gran's a lot. Maybe limited internet access will be good for me, who knows.
Happy thoughts: we are seeing the baby tomorrow evening. Names are being picked and I am so excited. One thing I do know: It will begin with K.
One day a kilo won't throw me into a panic.
One day not every song will have a line about her.
One day I won't read texts like they were poems, and meant more than they said.
One day misplacing an I-pod won't make me unreasonable and furious.
One day I won't be stupid enough to mess about with meds for a few days.
And I won't cry at Britain's Got Talent.
And I won't get so angry.
And I will have something interesting to say.
I wiped an entire music collection, more or less, so that I wouldn't get those stupid little jolts of memory. But it was fairly futile. Even Jeff Buckley messes me up now and she doesn't even like him. "Maybe I'm too young... to keep good love from going wrong..." Exceptexceptexcept I am not that young any more. It was hard to even watch The Apprentice the other day and see Edinburgh (right next to our bloody flat!) I will never go there again, even if that is cutting off my face to spite my heart. What the hell is this? Why can't I just get rid of it? If all feelings had a physical reality too them, I could sick it out.
We texted today- I wanted to let her know about the baby because, well. And I don't want to know more detail about her life than is necessary. I don't want to feel concern or anything at all. So I tell her little about mine. Probably also because I am ashamed of being a bit of a nothing.
My sis is back for a month, so I am going to be staying at my Gran's a lot. Maybe limited internet access will be good for me, who knows.
Happy thoughts: we are seeing the baby tomorrow evening. Names are being picked and I am so excited. One thing I do know: It will begin with K.
Saturday 28 April 2012
Friday 27 April 2012
Owl
I met with H and S at The Oxford in Kentish Town before the Ambit magazine launch. We caught up over pints and then headed over to the bookshop. Once we had sat down I remembered it was where one of my favourite teachers launched her first novel. There were poets reading, both of them were good. The first was a neat greyish-white-haired man who had a Welsh accent (although, I always think people are Welsh and it is quite possible that I am wrong). He had one poem about political non-shoe wearing in Ethopia that made me laugh. And think. http://www.chrisbeckettpoems.com/chrisbeckett/page2505
The second was a woman with a lullaby voice. There were some lines from one of her poems that I wanted to remember better but I can't. *Brainwave*- oh how I love Google:
Were you a bird I’d eat the skin, bone, feathers of you.
Though I would save one bone, one feather,
not as a keepsake for that would be within me,
– having gorged your strength, your gentleness –
but to make a mark on clay or cuneiform, papyrus
or paper, use your bone to press keys, your iridescent
feather for a quill to form letters in the old way.
- Ruth O'Callaghan, While Waiting For Bad News
Afterwards, we received a glass of complimentary red wine and bought books. I am trying to save the local libraries by quelling my book-buying compulsion but The Owl is an independent and truly lovely bookshop, so it wasn't so much a purchase as a moral action. H, S and I went to Pizza Express and continued chatting over dinner and more wine. It was so nice to catch up. We also devised a theory of broke-ness, whereby if you don't smoke or drive, you can consider yourself better off than your alternative self who does both. It makes you feel full-pocketed when you think about it like that. S is moving with T (her boyfriend) to Willesden in two weeks, so she will be closer-by. It's nice- I always love London more when there is somebody to convince. I have promised the sights of Epping Forest, the Hornbeam and Walthamstow Village.
It's odd; sometimes I have a strange perspective shift and I look at myself and other people as if I didn't know any of us. I am the small, dark one with the common name (H and S both have unusual ones). I am the unemployed one with the half-realistic ambitions. H and S have long-term partners and "proper" jobs and realistic goals and very nice skin. So when the perspective shifts I feel as if I've been walking backwards since we all met. For a few moments I feel disorientated... not jealous and not even sad, I don't think. Just a bit bemused, like when you miss the Tube but your friend gets on and you blink in shock as they pull away... you know you'll probably meet them on the platform at the next station but it's still a weird feeling.
Keep building skywards.
I cannot wait to meet my tiny cousin. It feels odd now, calling her "she" instead of "he-or-she." Before she was born we all called her Bambino, so now I guess it's Bambina, until she has a name. I'm so excited. I can feel the bit of me her tiny head will rest on :-) I already love her very much.
My cousin C was on c5 news yesterday talking about contraception. Proud of the family all round at the moment.
Mum, Dad and Bee (little sis) are back today. It's been kind of nice just me and Bro in the house but it will be so lovely to have them back, too. I can't wait to hear Bee's tales about Spain.
This week (starting today) I must:
The second was a woman with a lullaby voice. There were some lines from one of her poems that I wanted to remember better but I can't. *Brainwave*- oh how I love Google:
Were you a bird I’d eat the skin, bone, feathers of you.
Though I would save one bone, one feather,
not as a keepsake for that would be within me,
– having gorged your strength, your gentleness –
but to make a mark on clay or cuneiform, papyrus
or paper, use your bone to press keys, your iridescent
feather for a quill to form letters in the old way.
- Ruth O'Callaghan, While Waiting For Bad News
Afterwards, we received a glass of complimentary red wine and bought books. I am trying to save the local libraries by quelling my book-buying compulsion but The Owl is an independent and truly lovely bookshop, so it wasn't so much a purchase as a moral action. H, S and I went to Pizza Express and continued chatting over dinner and more wine. It was so nice to catch up. We also devised a theory of broke-ness, whereby if you don't smoke or drive, you can consider yourself better off than your alternative self who does both. It makes you feel full-pocketed when you think about it like that. S is moving with T (her boyfriend) to Willesden in two weeks, so she will be closer-by. It's nice- I always love London more when there is somebody to convince. I have promised the sights of Epping Forest, the Hornbeam and Walthamstow Village.
It's odd; sometimes I have a strange perspective shift and I look at myself and other people as if I didn't know any of us. I am the small, dark one with the common name (H and S both have unusual ones). I am the unemployed one with the half-realistic ambitions. H and S have long-term partners and "proper" jobs and realistic goals and very nice skin. So when the perspective shifts I feel as if I've been walking backwards since we all met. For a few moments I feel disorientated... not jealous and not even sad, I don't think. Just a bit bemused, like when you miss the Tube but your friend gets on and you blink in shock as they pull away... you know you'll probably meet them on the platform at the next station but it's still a weird feeling.
Keep building skywards.
I cannot wait to meet my tiny cousin. It feels odd now, calling her "she" instead of "he-or-she." Before she was born we all called her Bambino, so now I guess it's Bambina, until she has a name. I'm so excited. I can feel the bit of me her tiny head will rest on :-) I already love her very much.
My cousin C was on c5 news yesterday talking about contraception. Proud of the family all round at the moment.
Mum, Dad and Bee (little sis) are back today. It's been kind of nice just me and Bro in the house but it will be so lovely to have them back, too. I can't wait to hear Bee's tales about Spain.
This week (starting today) I must:
- Meet my cousin.
- Stop listening to KH "Dear" so obsessively. Seriously.
- Go to the Hornbeam and work tomorrow, not forgetting to bring: M's jacket; some writing on our project, as promised; some vague idea of the date so I don't commit to shifts I can't actually do.
Thursday 26 April 2012
"Please forget me, you were right dear,
I am cold and self-involved,
And though I'll miss you, recent lover
I am weak and therefore fold
Get distracted by my music,
think of nothing else but art
I'll write my loneliness in poems,
If I can just think how to start
Dot my i's with eyebrow pencils,
Close my eyelids, hide my eyes,
I'll be idle in my ideals,
think of nothing else but I."
- Keaton Henson, Small Hands
I am cold and self-involved,
And though I'll miss you, recent lover
I am weak and therefore fold
Get distracted by my music,
think of nothing else but art
I'll write my loneliness in poems,
If I can just think how to start
Dot my i's with eyebrow pencils,
Close my eyelids, hide my eyes,
I'll be idle in my ideals,
think of nothing else but I."
- Keaton Henson, Small Hands
Wednesday 25 April 2012
carpentry
In the morning I went for a run in the rain. I didn't feel like it but I forced it. Keaton Henson again. It rained quite hard and it didn't start to feel fun, so I made do with satisfaction in burning thighs. When I first started running it was another weight-loss campaign. Now I do it so I don't have to bully myself so badly when I put anything to my lips. Just a little bit.
Afterwards I came home, bathed, had wine and rocket leaves and went to M's to begin the project. When I got there I was drenched from hailstones that had hit me in the eyes and puddles up to my ankles. I borrowed some clothes, holding the trousers up with a shoelace. The actual carving was really good. M showed me a piece he had done. It was made from a wooden table but it didn't look like one. It looked like a wooden bed-head with holes and figures carved into it. It was in night time shades, purplish red and bluish purple. He pointed out a dragon on top and, whether they were meant to be there or not, my eyes picked out sprites and stars and other ragged myths. It had wings on hinges. It was weird and beautiful and reminded me of a fairlytale- original version, darkness included. It was like something I'd picture Briar Rose under: punctured with bad dreams but hinged with protective wings. I went a bit quiet because something about it caught in my throat and "cool" wasn't quite enough.
M told me that the mahogany I was going to use had come from Honduras in 1945. I looked up Honduran myths and found one about the cadejo, a dog that appears in both white and black. The white comes to protect travellers, while the black comes to kill them. In some traditions, the colours are reversed. They have varying forms of power. In its strongest incarnation, the evil cadejo is likened to the devil. So, I sketched and began to carve out two heads on one neck, the good and the bad face pointing in different directions. On one, I cut a diamond shape, later to be filled red like blood. M showed me to use a chisel and I began chiselling away the background so that the dual head will eventually stand in the foreground. I also used a drill! I had been pretty nervous about that side of things, as I'm stupid-clumsy, but it was fine. I drank cider and beer while I worked. Absolute radio blasted. I should have eaten, probably, but beer sat better. Always.
I can't be bothered with mood stabilisers any more. Why not go for gold, stick with the a-ds and hope for sunshine?
Afterwards I came home, bathed, had wine and rocket leaves and went to M's to begin the project. When I got there I was drenched from hailstones that had hit me in the eyes and puddles up to my ankles. I borrowed some clothes, holding the trousers up with a shoelace. The actual carving was really good. M showed me a piece he had done. It was made from a wooden table but it didn't look like one. It looked like a wooden bed-head with holes and figures carved into it. It was in night time shades, purplish red and bluish purple. He pointed out a dragon on top and, whether they were meant to be there or not, my eyes picked out sprites and stars and other ragged myths. It had wings on hinges. It was weird and beautiful and reminded me of a fairlytale- original version, darkness included. It was like something I'd picture Briar Rose under: punctured with bad dreams but hinged with protective wings. I went a bit quiet because something about it caught in my throat and "cool" wasn't quite enough.
M told me that the mahogany I was going to use had come from Honduras in 1945. I looked up Honduran myths and found one about the cadejo, a dog that appears in both white and black. The white comes to protect travellers, while the black comes to kill them. In some traditions, the colours are reversed. They have varying forms of power. In its strongest incarnation, the evil cadejo is likened to the devil. So, I sketched and began to carve out two heads on one neck, the good and the bad face pointing in different directions. On one, I cut a diamond shape, later to be filled red like blood. M showed me to use a chisel and I began chiselling away the background so that the dual head will eventually stand in the foreground. I also used a drill! I had been pretty nervous about that side of things, as I'm stupid-clumsy, but it was fine. I drank cider and beer while I worked. Absolute radio blasted. I should have eaten, probably, but beer sat better. Always.
I can't be bothered with mood stabilisers any more. Why not go for gold, stick with the a-ds and hope for sunshine?
Monday 23 April 2012
Wisdom From The "Employability" Course
Q: A dog is tied to a tree. 100m away there is a pond. The dog is thirsty but the rope he is tied with is only 50m long. He cannot reach the water. What does the dog do?
A: Nothing. The dog dies.
It has been about 6 weeks since I had to do that course and I still cannot fathom what kind of a lesson that was meant to be. Still it's more intriguing than the other things we learned. Did you know, for example, that it is very important to put your name on your CV?
And according to their assessment I was deemed as "needing further assessment to help understand what skills for life are required." Uh-huh.
A: Nothing. The dog dies.
It has been about 6 weeks since I had to do that course and I still cannot fathom what kind of a lesson that was meant to be. Still it's more intriguing than the other things we learned. Did you know, for example, that it is very important to put your name on your CV?
And according to their assessment I was deemed as "needing further assessment to help understand what skills for life are required." Uh-huh.
My little sister is hilarious. I was inspired to write this after tripping over a love-worn copy of Harry Potter 5, one of three books on the small bathroom floor. In the morning, she sometimes holds everyone up by reading on the stairs, blocking the way to the front door. Or getting engrossed in a book in the bathroom and forgetting where she is. Or (my favourite) trying to do up her shirt buttons and tie while holding a book open to the right page with her small, skilled toes.
Sunday 22 April 2012
half-done.
We smash our words to keep the silence.
They fill our mouths- sharp edges violent,
turning sighs into hazards and kisses to myth. I miss
hearing anything but the glassy crunch
of the things you won’t say on your fillings,
of the thoughts drumming beats in your eyes.
I’ve tried shaping my own lips round “Listen“ and “Love”
but my traitor-tongue twists ’til I’m spitting out blood.
They fill our mouths- sharp edges violent,
turning sighs into hazards and kisses to myth. I miss
hearing anything but the glassy crunch
of the things you won’t say on your fillings,
of the thoughts drumming beats in your eyes.
I’ve tried shaping my own lips round “Listen“ and “Love”
but my traitor-tongue twists ’til I’m spitting out blood.
Carving by Imtiaz Dharker
I keep seeing this on the Tube. I love it too much.
Others can carve out
their space
in tombs and pyramids.
Our time cannot be trapped
in cages.
Nor hope, nor laughter.
We let the moment rise
like birds and planes and angels
to the sky.
Eternity is this.
Your breath on the window pane,
living walls with shining eyes.
The surprise of spires,
uncompromising verticals. Knowing
we have been spared
to lift our faces up
for one more day,
into one more sunrise.
Theft, Oil Paints, Pubs
On Friday, I narrowly avoided having my phone stolen. Entering the gym changing rooms, I caught a woman mid-act, standing by my jacket. I checked my pockets. She said, "What are you looking for?" and I said "my phone." She flashed a phone -mine- at me and said, "well this one is mine." I went out and breathed a moment to make sure it wasn't just paranoia. Then I went back in and it was there on the bench beside her. I grabbed it, said that is my phone. She said "I'm glad you found it." Basically, that sums up Friday.
Until, several missed buses and a missed train later, I sat on Platform 8 at Stratford in the interesting weather and felt awash with peace. I realised, it doesn't matter that much. It's all just for fun. So I had a really good night with A and K, the last for a while as A goes back to Durham tomorrow (today, now.) We were quite civilised. We ate at Cosmo before giving ourselves over to the joys of wine and A and I left early after promising ourselves we wouldn't get caught up and hammered like last time. On the train home I felt a tiny bit blue and began to wonder why on earth NC is avoiding me. What with being me and being tipsy, I inadvisably called her but (un)fortunately, she did not answer the phone. The 4-month mystery stays unsolved.
Today at "work" happiness made me clumsy. I volunteer at a small vegan cafe, Walthamstow's finest and only, with a very interesting collection of people. M offered to pay me £10 an hour to help with an artistic project that involves chisels, hammers, wood and good oil paints. He also said I can take as many vegetables as I like if I help. He is quite intense. Once I let him read a story I had written and it made him cry. Sometimes I feel awkward because the third time we met he was drunk and I was getting there and he declared that he was in love with me. An awkward situation. It isn't right to lead somebody on- but I do really like wood and hammers and paint-spatter. He smiles a lot and sometimes looks as though he sees a picture I don't.
I was working with Kt. I like working with her. She has funny stories about her flatmates, which must sometimes be less than funny to live through. I don't know that being woken at 4 a.m. to the sound of someone pretending to do a strenuous poo, or talking to himself loudly. But it's all in the telling and she tells it so well.
After work I went over to SM's house. We watched The Voice and BGT and then the new Wuthering Heights with Kaya Scodelario. (I had to buy it, as a Blockbuster Leyton- which utterly, utterly reeks of sewage- did not have a copy. So much for embracing optimism!) It was interesting. A few too many shots of desolate moors, even considering that that is the setting. And some very uncomfortable moments. It was a fun, relaxing night. Really needed it. And SM, being a trainee physio, had a look at my weird shoulder- result! Last 86 and 257 and short walk home.
Spurs lost again.
I am currently reading 3 books. Half-poems get half-written. I'm a bit wired in the moments between epiphanies on train platforms. And in the moments between epiphanies and scrawled poems, I feel very quiet and I want to drink very much, or sit very still.
Until, several missed buses and a missed train later, I sat on Platform 8 at Stratford in the interesting weather and felt awash with peace. I realised, it doesn't matter that much. It's all just for fun. So I had a really good night with A and K, the last for a while as A goes back to Durham tomorrow (today, now.) We were quite civilised. We ate at Cosmo before giving ourselves over to the joys of wine and A and I left early after promising ourselves we wouldn't get caught up and hammered like last time. On the train home I felt a tiny bit blue and began to wonder why on earth NC is avoiding me. What with being me and being tipsy, I inadvisably called her but (un)fortunately, she did not answer the phone. The 4-month mystery stays unsolved.
Today at "work" happiness made me clumsy. I volunteer at a small vegan cafe, Walthamstow's finest and only, with a very interesting collection of people. M offered to pay me £10 an hour to help with an artistic project that involves chisels, hammers, wood and good oil paints. He also said I can take as many vegetables as I like if I help. He is quite intense. Once I let him read a story I had written and it made him cry. Sometimes I feel awkward because the third time we met he was drunk and I was getting there and he declared that he was in love with me. An awkward situation. It isn't right to lead somebody on- but I do really like wood and hammers and paint-spatter. He smiles a lot and sometimes looks as though he sees a picture I don't.
I was working with Kt. I like working with her. She has funny stories about her flatmates, which must sometimes be less than funny to live through. I don't know that being woken at 4 a.m. to the sound of someone pretending to do a strenuous poo, or talking to himself loudly. But it's all in the telling and she tells it so well.
After work I went over to SM's house. We watched The Voice and BGT and then the new Wuthering Heights with Kaya Scodelario. (I had to buy it, as a Blockbuster Leyton- which utterly, utterly reeks of sewage- did not have a copy. So much for embracing optimism!) It was interesting. A few too many shots of desolate moors, even considering that that is the setting. And some very uncomfortable moments. It was a fun, relaxing night. Really needed it. And SM, being a trainee physio, had a look at my weird shoulder- result! Last 86 and 257 and short walk home.
Spurs lost again.
I am currently reading 3 books. Half-poems get half-written. I'm a bit wired in the moments between epiphanies on train platforms. And in the moments between epiphanies and scrawled poems, I feel very quiet and I want to drink very much, or sit very still.
Thursday 19 April 2012
"There's no...modern romance"
When you first open a bottle of (good) whiskey, it smells like the taste of that stuff dentists put in your mouth with their gloves. This is not what I intended to write about.
This is:
Everyone tells you that it's not going to be easy, that it isn't just love you will have to think about. The daily rub of bills and dishes and rows will all play their part. They will all take their toll. It won't always be hearts and flowers. It isn't all about feelings. Anybody who pleads ignorance on that score is a liar. Everybody tells you that.
What they don't tell you (or didn't tell me) is that the love itself isn't easily sustained. The actual feeling. It doesn't just thrum away quietly beneath your struggles. You can't expect it to still be there when you find it underneath the real life stuff. Actually it's a bit like an Oyster card. Until you leave the city and trade it in, it will always have a basic worth but it needs constant input to keep it working. When you don't have anything to sustain it, you can leave it there, doing nothing, waiting. But for all intents and purposes it is empty in that state. One day, you will pick it up. For a while, you imagine you are holding the key to a whole city in your palm. Then you find you can't open a single gate.
That's a dismal comparison, and I know it.
Sometimes I wish I had a girlfriend. It's been nearly 8 months since N and I split up. I came back here feeling collapsed and worn out. Loud noises made me flinch and quiet ones made me bristle. I needed time to get past that. Then there was the up-crash and all the inadvisable stunts that that entailed. This is me. There have been temporary others. Of course there have.
I think I am mainly doing okay now. Blips and false starts are standard- ask anyone who has been through it. I have levelled out a lot and the meds help better now that I eat. Sometimes, though, when I look at things I feel a bit lost. I am 25 and I live with my parents. I don't have a job, or a clue what kind of job I might be good at. I have a place on an MA. I volunteer. I run. But last year I took so many steps backwards I'm not really sure where I am.
I have stopped crying at reminders of N. Food doesn't make me sick and laughter doesn't make me jump. The guilt is fading, the hurt is quieter, the anger has subsided and the sadness isn't constant. I'm okay. We don't speak much these days and it's better this way.
So... sometimes I wish I had a girlfriend. But despite the betterness, I don't know if I'm capable. I was going to write ready. But that's not what I mean. I am unfaithful, unreliable, intense or disconnected, clingy or non-commital. A little vain: maybe all I want is for someone to size me up and say I'll do. And maybe lazy: too lazy to do the work to top up the card to open the gates and have the world in my hands or whatever. Poor metaphor. And of course, my attitude to booze is not really conducive to an adult romance. So, even though I sometimes wish for permanence, I feel safer in a life of temporary fixes.
This is:
Everyone tells you that it's not going to be easy, that it isn't just love you will have to think about. The daily rub of bills and dishes and rows will all play their part. They will all take their toll. It won't always be hearts and flowers. It isn't all about feelings. Anybody who pleads ignorance on that score is a liar. Everybody tells you that.
What they don't tell you (or didn't tell me) is that the love itself isn't easily sustained. The actual feeling. It doesn't just thrum away quietly beneath your struggles. You can't expect it to still be there when you find it underneath the real life stuff. Actually it's a bit like an Oyster card. Until you leave the city and trade it in, it will always have a basic worth but it needs constant input to keep it working. When you don't have anything to sustain it, you can leave it there, doing nothing, waiting. But for all intents and purposes it is empty in that state. One day, you will pick it up. For a while, you imagine you are holding the key to a whole city in your palm. Then you find you can't open a single gate.
That's a dismal comparison, and I know it.
Sometimes I wish I had a girlfriend. It's been nearly 8 months since N and I split up. I came back here feeling collapsed and worn out. Loud noises made me flinch and quiet ones made me bristle. I needed time to get past that. Then there was the up-crash and all the inadvisable stunts that that entailed. This is me. There have been temporary others. Of course there have.
I think I am mainly doing okay now. Blips and false starts are standard- ask anyone who has been through it. I have levelled out a lot and the meds help better now that I eat. Sometimes, though, when I look at things I feel a bit lost. I am 25 and I live with my parents. I don't have a job, or a clue what kind of job I might be good at. I have a place on an MA. I volunteer. I run. But last year I took so many steps backwards I'm not really sure where I am.
I have stopped crying at reminders of N. Food doesn't make me sick and laughter doesn't make me jump. The guilt is fading, the hurt is quieter, the anger has subsided and the sadness isn't constant. I'm okay. We don't speak much these days and it's better this way.
So... sometimes I wish I had a girlfriend. But despite the betterness, I don't know if I'm capable. I was going to write ready. But that's not what I mean. I am unfaithful, unreliable, intense or disconnected, clingy or non-commital. A little vain: maybe all I want is for someone to size me up and say I'll do. And maybe lazy: too lazy to do the work to top up the card to open the gates and have the world in my hands or whatever. Poor metaphor. And of course, my attitude to booze is not really conducive to an adult romance. So, even though I sometimes wish for permanence, I feel safer in a life of temporary fixes.
The Pieces i'm Building
Some poems I wrote last year. I will try later, tomorrow, to write something newer. I have been using a missing fountain pen as a reason for my writer's block... truth is, though, I only lost the pen last week :)
18/4
Today on the ground, I found a heart: a huge, bruised petal in the shadow of a discarded crisp packet. It was an artist's heart, pale pink and shapely. Not a biologist's mangled potato. It looked delicate. An afternoon of rain and footsteps would have pressed it closer to the pavement, making it look like a chalk sketch. It would colour all over; the blanket bruising would make it seem as though it hadn't bruised at all.
Hearts are so good at perception-tricks.
I took a photo of it. It came out wrong, yellowish in tone, the heart looking host-thin and ghost-pale. I was getting some strange looks, so I didn't try again. I kept it, though.
Hearts are so good at perception-tricks.
I took a photo of it. It came out wrong, yellowish in tone, the heart looking host-thin and ghost-pale. I was getting some strange looks, so I didn't try again. I kept it, though.
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