Tuesday, 25 October 2011

Webcam photos are good

I wrote a short story yesterday. It's just a first draft so probably mistake-ridden/not good and a bit weird I guess. 

I was early for work one morning. I am always early. Due to characteristic earliness I had almost planned in advance a trip to a café for some beans on toast. My God! I love beans on toast. I sat at a small, round table for one in the corner, by the window. I like to watch the people go by, you see. I’m a real people watcher. I barely even noticed anyone else at other tables; I was so absorbed in beautiful girls with legs like large-scale matchsticks, and myself.  The waitress brought over my tea, and distraction carried my gaze over to an elderly lady sat in the corner. She was nursing a teacake with slow, shaky, but measured precision. She had cream and butter, but no jam. It was all beige, and I imagined the mundane taste she would have in her mouth, all crumb and grease and fat in one undeterminable lump turned over and over, stealing all the moisture from her tongue. She wasn’t wearing any jewellery, and her clothes were made from textures of velvet, velour, and thick cotton. Watching her made my eyes droop and I wanted to let my head rest on the table, near to my steaming drink so that I would be warm when I slumbered. I kept watching her. When she felt preyed upon her eyes slowly rose to meet mine, and I half expected flies to creep out of her eyelids.

She and I became friends out of a necessity to lose ourselves in our own contexts. She was lonely and bored, I was a little frightened and alienated. These juxtaposing feelings worked against us, and a bond formed neither of us were prepared to break but that dragged us down daily. I was eager to be a part of the eras she had been kissed in, had danced in, I wanted to wear the dresses she laid on duvets lovingly to show me.  The records she would give me to play (for her hands were too knotted, twisted, and she couldn’t position the needle correctly herself). In the early days I longed for the time she might be close enough to me to unravel the plaited, regimented bun of hair positioned on the top of her head. I knew her hair would be long, untouched and silken in its silvery cascades, falling onto, and past, her shoulders.

I wanted to cry, hit, and kiss her. At the same time she repulsed me. That’s the worst thing about complicated emotions, they make no sense whatsoever and there’s nothing to stop the oddest urges strolling into your head like they always existed at the forefront of your thought processes. She had become so much more to me than I had imagined. Her recycled stories were beginning to bore me, and so I became more child-like in her presence, petulant. Any rebuffs aimed my way would dissolve me into tears and angry fist-balling.  This was because I knew I needed her to feel things vital to my ego. Youth, memory, and energy were things I knew she resented me for. Sometimes I would put on a record by someone like Ella Fitzgerald, or Wanda Jackson and dance slowly for her to watch how I could pull my arms, the shapes I could make. I would pretend I had somewhere to go after our meetings, and bring makeup and dresses to her house. She couldn’t take her eyes off me when I twisted my hair into chignons fixed at the nape of my neck.

‘YOU ROT MY PATIENCE’, she yelled at me, quite some time later. I think she meant it, but it’s so hard to be sure. I said nothing, and instead rooted through her larder for some Crackerbread I could dip into butter. I loved her food. It was simple and full of the things they never thought to remove for fear it would compromise the taste. I didn’t believe in such compromises either. I probably did rot her patience. I rotted lots of parts of her in those last years.  I never allowed her to be who she was in the 21st century. She was always twenty-one, and we were always in competition.  I had a lover, but then so did she. He was just dead, and she hadn’t seen him since 1958. He wrote her sonnets. I hated that.

Relief flooded my veins as I felt the pressure of a finger in the small of my back. We were like a psychedelic mating of play dough pushed and moulded together until our colours merged and bled together in the dim light of morning, I was not convinced that I was not still sleeping. Amongst other things, I felt something warm run down the back of my throat. I touched my nose, and it was bleeding. I said nothing, it was dark and the blood made me feel something I know not how to conjugate. I let it run over my hands, and dragged my finger over my stomach, chest and thighs, I could smell it in the air, and perhaps he could too? Where the red fern grows, time flowed horizontally and we could have been there two minutes or five hours, I couldn’t tell you. It went on, and when it ended I wanted everything else to too. I knew she was in the next room spreading marmite on crumpets. I didn’t let him turn the lights on, I asked him to leave.

‘Don’t just stand there, DO something!’ she said to me as I stood in front of her, brows furrowed. First, a forceful sigh, then, she thrust one, two, three, five, fifteen, thirty books at me. There were lamps and old dusty bird cages neatly left in the hallway. I couldn’t understand why she thought I’d want half of this crap. I wasn’t grateful. It was anxiety-inducing. Where would I put any of it? I steeled my jaw and kept silent. Why was she so angry that she had only me to leave every one of her possessions to? She could have done worse. I knew it was more than the task at hand which was making her so goddamn angry. She wouldn’t cry, but instead her bottom lip shook with fury and her nostrils flared intermittently. I had not the energy or care to detract myself from this scene. I wouldn’t be gracious enough to accept blame yet.

‘Don’t just stand there, DO something!’ I said. I can’t be sure that it was on purpose or by accident that I didn’t mean it. They did a few token things. Of course it was no good. They let me look her square in the face before they took her, and I could have sworn she was beautiful. Her eyes were flat and milky; they had lost the sharp narrowing I was accustomed to seeing. I thought about the process of putrefaction. The abdomen would swell with bacterial waste. Organs would begin to pop. Eventually, her body would collapse, deflate, and decompose. This was life and death as we would not yet recognise. I went home to watch my hamster climb horizontally across her three-tiered cage. I guess it does not matter how intricately our cages are wrought; we can stress our own freedoms but they are mini-triumphs, caught up in the mundane nature of the conventions we craft ourselves. I loved her until the end and all it did was ensure my three year-long stagnation of denial could go on forever as long as I could find someone else to share it with.

Friday, 21 October 2011

I've been so down in the mouth lately that sometimes when I bend over to lace my shoes there are three tongues

'...a century back
a man could be driven mad
by a well-turned
ankle, and,
why not?
there is hardly anything as beautiful
as a woman in a long dress
not even the sunrise
not even the geese flying south
in the long V formation
in the bright freshness
of early morning.'

Today is a Charles Bukowski day for me. I have read the entirety of his book of poetry; You Get so Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense rather than doing anything remotely useful.

Marjorie Cameron and Anais Nin.
Both women I've been thinking a lot about today. Anais was an erotic writer coming to prominence around the 1940s, I am eager to get hold of Nin's journals. As well as House of Incest (not as bad as it sounds), and Delta of Venus. Bit of heavy-duty, post-grad, summer reading. Anyone who calls themselves, 'the madam of this snobbish literary house of prostitution' is definitely worth my attention. Apparently, her and Henry Miller (Tropic of Cancer, Tropic of Capricorn) were both commissioned to write naughty literature for an anonymous man who was known as 'The Collector' with as much smut as possible. Delta of Venus is supposed to be the most risqué of them all. 

Marjorie Cameron was an artist, actress,and occultist. Both her and Anais were involved in Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome, (1954), a short film by Kenneth Anger. Cameron was cast as the 'Scarlet Woman'. I don't even know where to begin with this film. It is absolutely insane. The music is heavenly (literally), and everything on-screen is sensuous, psychedelic, absurd, and alienating. I might watch it again soon. It is STRANGE.
Such incredible, beautiful, and powerful women. I am not a RAGING feminist I swear.

I Ruminate Best at Night

I am bored so
I grasp at options at
Night when I am alone
Not physically, but consciously
I reach out for comfort
Your tiny heart beats
In its puny cage 
Matchstick skeleton 
You are so foreign cupped
Gently in my hands
My brain might explode 
If I stay in this bed
Or worse
I might crush you for 
Something to do
You always said nothing was wrong
Canvas and tea leaves and 
Niceties and endless nights
Of other people's success stories
190 minutes or so
In darkness, behind my eyelids 
There are mad fireworks in red 
When I open them there is still
Some red blinking light, only, 
It is a mere pinprick, a message
Good night, it reads
I will see you in six months
So remember to make 
Arrangements before you sleep,
Good night and Good luck.
There is no one I believe in 
The people most real to me are those
Who have been dragged about by their
Own people covered in their own blood
Which has been dry for some time 
Just like their hearts have been static
Make a martyr of those I could love
They will never be as vibrant 
As when they have fallen
Perhaps then they might 
Stimulate me when sleep
fails to find the switch to 
Anaesthetise what it should.

This was not a short story, nor is it a good poem, I apologise. Lynch is sexy and I don't care who knows it, I am going to watch the Elephant man now.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

First you are non-existent then you are invisible

Halloween is SOON.
I want an amalgamation of all the above in a costume. I am having a party, I want to dress my house!

I want to talk about maxi and midi skirts. I just think they were not appropriate for summer. I wear them NOW in AUTUMN, with long socks (possibly belonging to my brother but that's neither here nor there) and boots. Boom. My usual winter wardrobe, rife with clunky jeans, black tights, shapeless jumpers is just not becoming at all. At least now I look MODERATELY ladylike, plus, tell me if you wear maxi skirts you don't pretend to be a can-can girl on your own in front of the mirror? So sexy. Despite the dragging, demure hemline. I AM SO RIGHT ABOUT THIS.

So this happened today...

Awkward. I think I'm such a badman, going into Primark despite my ethical misgivings, (also that it is cheap and everyone buys the same stuff), then my favourite Urban Outfitters employee Natalie Horobin does the same and we look like dickheads sat next to each other in our Post-Colonial Literature lecture with tweed- panelled boots.

So sexy. My student loan has been completely dicked away on Barry M nail varnish and clothes I buy on e bay that never quite fit right like a fool.

My writing is irritating me, I apologise for this.

I’m so very tired,
I need to rest,
But I sleep all day and all night,
My head leant on a hand on a windowsill.
I imagine that in that room straight ahead,
There is a bathroom filled with steam,
Over there, a pink and dripping body,
Soft feet pad on the tiles,
Plump and gorged on piping hot liquid,
I can see twelve windowsills peering back at me.
I am a zoo attraction, am I not?
Maybe someone could jab me, swift in the side,
Wake me up for kicks,
Watch me weep and rub my head.
But as long as you can’t hear me,
Your conscience is so clear,
I could dance but I fear you would remain,
Unaffected, which would be so hurtful to endure,
(Though I do endure it daily).
So I will eat my morning grains,
Ignore any growing pains,
Watch for a while the Time of others,
Spent as though hamsters in cages.
Why is it you are always alone by your windows?
You are like me,
 Perhaps you all watch us when we are sleeping,
The people who watch through windows,
Who dream in their slumbers?
Of realities they foresee with desire,
On the hour of every hour,
Though we are forever weary, so,
We daren’t open our eyes.
However this could just be me,
And no one is watching.
Perhaps these figures I see crossing from window
To window, are mere spectres?
I check in a mirror to see if I am there,
I am, just as always, until
A figure passes in front of my reflection. 

I think I should put some short stories on here instead.

Also, I don't recall typing out the last entry. Humiliating turn of events when your drunk misgivings are merely writing a blog entry rather than having one night stands or breaking everything you own.

Friday, 14 October 2011



Gig at The Hope tonight; Mazes, Milk Maid, Fear of Men.
Never heard Fear of Men live before, but their music is reminiscent of Beach House to me. I feel this is inoffensive but hurm, Lets not compare them to PENS though how contrived and untrue? They sound pleasant and melodies are evocative of the times you remember swaying alone/in a lively way/and drunk to things like BYOP at age 15 but more modern/mellow/soothing. Rambles are irrelevant but yah I had a good time, they are quite good.
Already developed a thing for Milk Maid's bassist, (normal right?) and mazes made me swing my hips like Shakira (no?)
But seriously, I did have arabic men yell 'SHAKIRA' at me in Egypt as if it was some sort of lucid and sensical come on to which I should AT ONCE respond. (NB is sensical a word? Non-sensical certainly is.)

REGARDLESS, I blame Tom Cleall (eternally) for this torrid state of BULMERS(y) I am in. I am going to start a band once my dissertation is through. Despite my best efforts at masking any possible 'talents' I may be coveting, I may or may not have partial ones. (Non-sensical entry?)

Maybe I will become a lyricist in my band. My shoddy attempts at poetry are halfway there right?

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Tearfulness is a repugnant female trait

Champs Elysees, Charles Bridge
If I don't go away soon I will implode, and I fear I will be taking no one with me! I must go to Prague, I must not go alone, I must go soon...See how my constant need for instant gratification has holes shot in it already? 
I have very little coming up in the near future bar reading, writing and...there's a gig tomorrow...yep that's it. YEP. 
I just started reading Season of Migration to the North by Tayeb Salih for my Post-Colonial Literature module. It is good but it is early days.
I want to go for a swim with my hamster bobbing next to me in her awful plastic ball. I NEED FRESH AIR I fear i'm becoming a bedroom gremlin. I wrote this last night when I was drunk with my dad and typed it into my Sony Ericsson *saved as draft*. We were in his hotel room, he was in the bath and I was looking at the dead pier, it was raining.

I could wade into the ocean and become lost,
Whilst maintaining the pretence
that what occurred was sheer coincidence.
If I would, I could
Blend into the horizon in a straight line so that
The sun rises and sets with me in time
(I could undo the times my curiosity got the better of me)
Hello you! I love you and that and us and them,
But give me ten seconds and you will hear
How dreamy, sleepy smiles pave way for fear.
Every song I want to drape over my ear
Is a song that beats with the dead passion of past
(You CAN'T repeat the past)
(But of course you can!)
I have no right to peer into for which I am sorry
I tire of myself and melancholy.
I offer my sincerest apologies if I often weep
And prefer my life as it is when I sleep.

But here is something true, and lovely

Elegy: Image of her whom I love- John Donne
So If I dream I have you, I have you,
For all our joys are but fantastical.
And so I 'scape the pain, for pain is true;
And sleep, which locks out sense, doth lock out all.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

Dog Altogether

I cannot bear to read or write anything about Kafka today which I feel terribly about. But 'guilt is a wasted energy' (?) I was told yesterday, so this is at least mildly constructive in the scheme of things.
Post- it notes are far too garish but they are dotted about my room and in pages in various acrid colours, I should like to burn them, because I have never been consistent enough to write on every single sheet in a pad, which is either a terrible reflection on my note-taking/list making, or the Post-its seem to be setting me too much homework. I have nine books I have not completed lying on my bed around me being totally ignored.
I find it unsettling how I can feel so warm and kind but within one nanosecond of a linger upon a thought I am venomous and spitting acid. The remedy for this is more sleep, continuous hibernation, (and why not follow the routines of Kafka if he is to be the most important of my foci until May?) I wish I could eat, drink and move in the circles necessary to make this degree my entire life but instead I spoil myself, I love self-inflicted pure decadence and then despising myself for it, until out of sheer spite and anxiety I do it again.
After today I will stop trying to work in bed. It is far too tempting.
Yesterday I watched 'Tyrannosaur'. It was a very hard film to watch, as I am particularly sensitive to animal cruelty and, frankly, I do not like imagining any woman being rendered barren because their husband raped them with broken glass. Paddy Considine scares me quite a lot, because his films are so startling and brutal  which is strange because his face is so sweet and young.
This is what I am listening to, on repeat. The album that is. If I could work out how I'd put it all in this post.

Monday, 10 October 2011

I make nice birthday cards too


I have a silly hamster called Tilda, I eat corn and the cob, tire of it, and give her the dregs. She acts like a meercat and watches like an owl.

HE she is not 

I now sleep so much and so soundly during the day, I have greater weight while I sleep -p35

I am so boring, I claim that my dissertation is my life but all I do for it is read things that K says that I find strange and write them down. I hope that I can shape the BEST WORK BRIGHTON UNIVERSITY has seen by repetition and post-it love notes attached to each page. 

I realise that I have an abundance of things. Purples, mints, browns and reds litter my floor and make for cushioned stepping stones. A muddled bedroom is not enough, still I insist on creating a jumble sale complete with livestock! But I am now crying because she bit me, and I cannot bring myself to wipe away the blood because it is so red and dark and forms a perfect circle. Now I hate her in an instant! She is horrid, evil. 
(I put my finger in her bed to pet her head)
I am daydreaming of a place that smells like damp wood in the winter and of faint leather and faint flowers in the summer. These shoes and pollen are nowhere to be seen, which should be unsettling or maybe confusing, but it's only the beauty of the place. I toy with cats and follow chickens with tall plumes and blue beaks, until I tire and settle on an unsteady tree-swing until I get so high I can see the tops of chimneys, the stars and the back of my own head. There is always enough food and water and although I am always a little cold there are blankets to hand, which I much prefer than being comfortable enough to go without. Laughing is always subtle and seems to be background noise, as though somewhere children are running, zipping between the bushes in a park over the fence in a neighbouring street clutching ice pops until they melt in their hot hands and flop over, spilling their contents onto the grass and leaving sticky fingers leaving sticky marks on clean upholstery. Your hair is soft, that much I can tell without being close enough to touch it. It is blonder because we lie only in the light during the day. We can whistle and weave wires around plant pots so that music follows us wherever we potter. I sing faintly and hope you don't mind but you do. Do you remember this? I remember this, with a fondness much like my desire to repeat the past (But of course you can?) We were so cared for and cherished, maybe somebody made idols of us once, cold and unmoving, marble to the touch. This was your home more than it ever was mine but I pretend and I smile and I grill tuna when everyone else grills pork.

I really do make nice birthday cards. I like craft and playing with glue.