Tuesday, 1 November 2011

This must be the place

My weekend has directly resulted in an aggressive cold and I think it is sensible for me to go outside more, on walks. My bedroom (favourite place) has become a disgusting germ-pit. This week I am going to London for music and to make a friend feel better, and myself.
I've been thinking a lot about specific days from when I was younger and last weekend has made me think about one winter; February in particular. This also stems from being scared that it is November already. I am very scared.

No, I wouldn’t have it any other way, it’s the sound of it I hear and not the words I read. For once they are unimportant. All I can hear is
Do do do do do do dodo do
Ba ba ba ba ba ba baba ba
When I remember nothing it is dangerous, you’d think it was a blessing but it is a horror. I am alone in this room and all about me there are shadows at 3 o’clock which my eyes know not what to make of. There is a crackling inside my skin and a fire between my eyes. Is it possible this crackling is both a sound and a texture and a feeling and a state of being? Tearing it out made little headway but it all subsides anyway, isn’t that right? Give me thirty to forty minutes of immobilisation.
No I wouldn’t have it any other way, I am positively sure. I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry I think I am likely to be forgiven.
It’s always worth it because I need your sunny disposition, your filthy talk, I need your kindly ear, your mothering, your lack of, your pretty face, I need your tantrums, and I need your depression. Most of all I need you near me to the nearest centimetre with facts I don’t care much for and a dextrous hand that fits every contour with (unknowing) magnetic precision. You have four or five faces but there’s one in particular I fear to lose. You fear it too! You must, need is mutual, of this is I am sure. Baby I’ve got silver and I’ve got gold let me show you let me show you. But when push comes to shove, this is getting old. I have struck this sentence the moment it hits paper because it nauseates me.
And when you call I’ll be there as always, because soon it will be winter and I’m hanging on the telephone just in case you can replace old friends. We might replace her and go sledging, take stock together forgetting of all the songs neither of us can listen to any more because of each other and retire at four o’clock to tea and crackers. I can recall silent twenty-four hours in constant light behind snow clouds, wandering up hills of woodland as though looking for her somewhere. The snow never stopped and it never stopped being silent either. I had the odd sensation that I was thawing head to toe. Was it just us that day? We only held hands for photographs, and your hair was longer back then. You were more genuine but on the precipice of disintegration which you fully implement now. There was no part of you she would recognise and I still lived in slight fear I would pay at her hands for not doing more to help. You see you never recognised my trueness and constancy for the inherent selfishness it truly was. I loved you because I loved myself. You loved me because you needed me. It is hard to say who really deserved the ostracism.
Sunny sunny love
 You strike me upon a star and the sound is purer than that of musicians that drive me to the floor I am a tuning fork and I press my mouth to fur for comfort. Boastful photo collages make the beautiful symbols I want them to and cymbals make the perfect sound I ask them to. Warm warm I miss July and August but not for the sun.
There are 59 minutes of optimism until I must make my evening my own independent sphere of time

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