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...
Wednesday 30 May 2012
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.
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