I AM SO DRUNK

MY CONCENTRATION LEVELS ARE WORKING AT 2384345 MPH

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?

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.

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.

I make nice birthday cards too

WHEN I WANTED TO GET OUT OF BED THIS MORNING I SIMPLY FOLDED UP. THIS HAS A VERY SIMPLE CAUSE, I AM COMPLETELY OVERWORKED. NOT BY THE OFFICE BUT BY MY OTHER WORK. I shall certainly be myself again by tomorrow.  p38 K's diaries, 1910

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.

It is not cold any more

I just came back from Egypt, where it was very hot. Whilst there I overdosed on Kafka and UV rays. Everything K says is just true. For example;

And if I threw myself to the ground in front of you, and wept, and explained, what more would you know of me than you do of hell, when someone tells you it's hot and frightful? 


So do not bother. I can't stop singing this

P.s

Judge me not for this! I am always vengeful and jealous. I feel like Kafka, EXHAUSTED AND MENTAL.

This is catharsis

This is a cage

I wrought the mesh myself

I bought a pocketful of snares

To face plant straight into

To tenderly share with you

Intruder, are you the pied piper

Of my semester of neglect?

My term of indifference?

I lurk and plot

To introduce you both

Don’t ask

I won’t tell

Have you met a friend of mine?

She’s the last you’ll see of me

It’s somewhat twisted

A little more constricted

Time to say goodbye,

She’ll be waiting

To scoop you atop her knee

Now there’s a face to benefit

From the sharp points of barbs 

Despite having a kidney infection,

I'm okay. I am going to Egypt tomorrow where I will do lots of work and write something interesting. I am becoming increasingly obsessed with Kafka and Max Brod. Read In The Penal Colony please.
I want to go back to sunnier days, sunnier photos to come though. Rancid, sweltering photos masking family feud! I cannot wait.

I love these two beyond reason

It is pitiful;

When love

Stares still the same but still desirable;

The, the shirts, the skin, the prick to fertilize my own talent and verse

The locomotive of success and the revulsion of feminin*

Of which I laboriously type into engines to locate a source of the same thing

Some intelligence * categorised with other intelligent*’ because they’re all the same

Pit of innocence, the warm stench lingers about my personage

Wishing I could grant access-all-areas to those words I hate

And whisper, amongst sobs, sweet things, Constancy, Committed, Creativity

I can’t do anything, but I can dance with my eyes closed

Dreaming of skin on breast on nose on palm

You are used, sir, manifesting my own inadequacy

The male gaze is a skill, but there’s a gap in the market left wide open

For you,  If you didn’t exist neither would she

Really, I love, but I am repulsed

Leaden eyes, the colour red, the only photographs I have on my wall are from times past

Three years, the halcyon representative of the lack of some instant and momentary

(Possibly falsified)

It was there though.

I’m still here too.

A scientist, a heroine, never the handyman, nor the hero,

ever the domestic, possibly a groupie, a rival, a creation.

Ex. Delivery boy? An expert.