Friday, 18 December 2009


So. A series of photos (depending on how many I can fit in here) taken by myself and a friend on a trip to a Steampunk exhibition. Some of the stuff we found was absolutely wacky. Amazing ideas... Some of it was so pretty... Like the three clocks which made us feel decidedly covetous.

Wednesday, 16 December 2009

"But if you unplug everything, it gets so quiet you hear that high-pitched empty-room hum. And then the whispers begin."

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Before this.

There's a little girl sitting on my shelf. She holds her hands loose in her lap and sits with her head on one side, contemplating the world. She does not say much, in fact she says very little, but her eyes gather in all that passes her and she thinks and she thinks and she thinks. She is unsullied, this girl. Maybe one day she will open those blue eyes of hers after a period of quiet and realize her hands are callused and cold and her brow is creased and her mouth is turned down just that little bit at the corners. Then she will realize her age.
But until then, she is still perfect. Naive, unique, quaint. Like a butterfly she perches on the edge of her seat, eager for learning and experience, and yet when it comes, will she welcome it? When it's drawn its patterns on her skin and left its mark on her pupils and traced its stain over her veins, will she still crave the excitement of the new?
She doesn't know how easy it is for her now, to view the world with unprejudiced eyes. She is safe and content in the little knowledge she has. When the moment comes that makes her reach for something she does not understand, or need, or should have, will that moment change her? Will the action of taking add its impression to that flawless body? A slight kink to the eyes, a crookedness of the fingers, a notch in those perfect little toenails? Will the sullied blotch on her soul show on her face? How many times of taking possession does it take before the dirt sucks the brightness out of her and patches up the livid, pulsing red?
There's a little girl sitting on my shelf. She holds her hands loose in her lap and sits with her head on one side, contemplating the world. She not perfect. Already the greed and desire is pouting her lips and tightening the clasp her hunger has on the world. It only takes one moment to change who she is. The moment she takes what she desires and uses it until it is exhausted and wanted no more.
And she takes, and she takes, and she takes.

Monday, 7 December 2009

Early Christmas.

A blue warmth settling on the gathered duvets. Reams of wrapping paper lying discarded in shadowy corners. A chocolate orange, its bright foil crumpled and torn. A book with its spine uncreased. Crumbs scattered over cushions. A half-grown plant, its leaves a deep sea-green in the faint light. A pair of jeggings folded under a pot of yellow eyeshadow. A crumpled copper scarf. A necklace in a score of paper boxes. A set of photos, their frames hanging from silver wire.
Voice drifting up the stairs. Echoes of singing lingering in the bedroom. Laughter rippling over the carpets.
An 'orange' bowl perched on a wooden head. A bottle of Oasis sat in the fridge door. A purple-wrapped chocolate bar slipped under a pile of papers. A blue bean bag hidden behind a sofa.
Bridget Jones and Kermit the Frog; Love, actually.
Four hours sleep and a glass of mulled wine. Birthday cake for breakfast and smiley potato cakes the night before. Mince pies in a paper bag and German sweets gathered in a bowl.
Chocolate coin wrappers littering the floor, glittering gold in the morning light. Mattresses folded away. Duvets and bags in lumpy piles on the living room floor. A scattering of farewells.

"We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year..."

Saturday, 5 December 2009

Home Alone

Background music; a friend in a quiet house.
Home alone. Spinning through empty rooms,
heart jumping, feet skipping in aloneness freedom,
This is showtime this is showtime this is showtime.

Meaningless words, nothingness joy,
reflection on glass picked up and spun round,
fly back that hair, flick at an absent audience,
Lights camera action action action.

Raising a song for appreciation; full notes,
shimmy away the hours, enthusiastic round of applause,
beauty in steps. Engine, voices, front door lock key,
Take a bow take a bow take a bow.

Thursday, 3 December 2009

She doesn't understand my... sorrow. Sometimes I think she's angry. But then the way she looks at me when I talk... She doesn't think, she... I think maybe she...

You too?

Well, it seems I am not alone in my emptiness.
She sits, as I do, at her keyboard, and the beauty of her mind turns the feelings into words that can allow her to pour out her pain onto the page and perhaps, just perhaps, ease the tightness and relax her emotions.
Some people talk about it. Some people hide it. Others, like us, the WordOnes, write it down.

I have nothing in particular to remind me today. Only the lingering hurt that crouches like a small child just under my ribs. Every now and again it uncurls itself and stretches arms and legs and body to reach far down into my stomach and up to the base of my neck. It sighs and my throat tightens. It sighs and my shoulders tense. It sighs and my fingers twitch. In my momentary panic I obey it's commands and I feel the fear rise up through my gullet to stain my tongue with the bitter taste of soured truth. Such power this small child has.
But sometimes the elf that brings to mind such saturating memories also brings a slight relief. With a laughing word she cuts a cord and it flicks back to sting at my skin and release a breath full of thanksgiving. A Uni course. A healthy body. A job. With each tiny bit of news she unlocks a further portion of my tiny hidden cage and lets out a little more freedom. The relief is incredible.
And then suddenly all the doors slam shut. A punch in the stomach. A thud round the side of the head. A broken rib. She didn't mean it, I know. She didn't know.

Does she have a place she goes? Or a place she avoids? Is her music disunited and segmented as mine is? We take refuge in our loved ones. But when all else fails we return to our writing. What else is there to do? We are the WordOnes.

Tuesday, 24 November 2009

Last weekend.

How did you feel? Were you upstairs, hiding from the shouting and the anger; were you nursing an anger yourself that was close to flooding over; were you unaware of the drama before... it happened? What alerted you? The shout. The crash. The cry. The noise of the stamping footsteps, the yelling voices? The din of your brother slamming into the room and hauling him away? The sound of your little sister's crying, sobbing screams?
Your feet pounded against the hollow stairs. You swung through the doorway and before you had even reached him, your hands were grabbing for him. Your hands grasping the rough fabric. Your wrists grazing his collar. Your fingertips digging, blunt, into his skin.
She is awkward on the floor, her hand cradling her arm. Is she crying out at you? Is she rising, fast as she can, to her feet? Is she reaching for you, clutching at your jacket, pulling you away? Who is it that drags you from him? Who is it that prevents the anger from making its mark, the fury from fulfilling its task, the guilt from paying its due?
Who is it that reaches for the phone: dials the number with cold fingers, asks for the authority with frozen voice, waits in stagnant silence until the doorbell rings?

She cannot answer your call. She sits in a heavy chamber and remembers and apologizes and prays. She cannot help you all.

Wednesday, 18 November 2009


All I can think to say is thank you. Just look at all that beauty. In a second of magic, the dreary, grey street is transformed.
Walking along in a cocoon of quick notes and harsh voices, deaf to the people marching by, and around me the trees suddenly burst into flames. They send flat, paper-like sparks swinging lazily towards the ground. At my feet, the tarmac's black gown glitters, it's burnt orange and bright green accessories complementing it's attire with surprising competence. Remind me to send my regards to the designer. Up above, nestling softly on grey cashmere, the cotton scarf shimmers with gleeful translucence. The wand that started the spell; the needle that embroidered the detail; the paintbrush that finished the picture.
I glance up at it and feel the smile spread across my face. It opens my eyes, soaks my head with colour and places a bright filter over my pupils. I look down at the street. The rain brushes against my cheeks as the sun pulls the clouds further apart to gaze down in surprise on the sudden beauty.
And all I can think to say is thank you. Just look at all that colour. In a second of magic, the dreary, grey street is... transformed.

Wednesday, 4 November 2009

One inch at a time.

The intensity with with you watch us scares me. Your posture is the same; leaning back slightly on your heels, your head tilted away as if you're observing something strange, but not wholly remarkable. And yet the look in your eyes...
What is is you want? If i could get you to understand us, I would. I would open up those half-lidded eyes to our plight and rub the dirt grains under your eyelids and press the sand granules into your cheeks. Maybe then you'd understand the pain.
We didn't want it to start again like this. But what can we do but answer the call? Suddenly now we have the energy to drag ourselves out of this mire. So that is what we do. Who wouldn't want to escape the deadening suffocation that was claiming us below?
You. Do you enjoy watching us? Do you enjoy seeing the way our gnarled fingers scrabble at the rocks and scratch deep into the mud? We've made progress since last you came. Now our wrists and elbows are free, reaching towards the sky like dead trees, swaying in the beautiful, oh so beautiful breeze. We crook our fingers towards the sun, clenching and reopening, straining skywards, pushing our limbs up, up, up towards it as if we can grasp hold of it and just float our way out...
Go away. We are dreading the first breath as it is. We don't want you to witness it.

Army Boots

Remember that Saturday when we were walking in the area where you used to live, round by the river? We'd left the river, and were walking towards the train station, through those new, red brick houses that rose, empty and lifeless, around us. The heels of my office-type wedges were clopping noisily against the rust coloured road, the sound echoing round our heads and bouncing off the walls. I felt like I would wake the emptiness. I felt I would see the curtains twitch and the irritated faces peep out. I felt so damn self conscious. Especially as you weren't making a sound. You never did when you walked.
At least I was still shorter than you in my heels...

Monday, 2 November 2009

"And when we meet, which I'm sure we will, all that was there will be there still. I'll let it pass, and hold my tongue. And you will think that I've moved on."


Blonde hair. She flickers.
Faulted porcelain, watching.
Blue eyes reflected.

Help me, I cannot
Get out of this cold world you
Stare at. Look at me.

Movement stops to look;
Fear, familiarity.
She gazes into me.

Help me, I cannot
Escape from this frozen slow
Show you watch me in.

Quick blink, think aloud,
She mouths the words that I say.
Each peach pear plum ripe.

Help me, I cannot
Break this sharp mimicking land
I mirror you in.
I mirror you in.

Stop thinking.

It has been a while. Sometimes life takes over and you forget that you write. You just know that you live and you breathe and you work and you relate and that's all that matters right now.
I used to think writing was something you had to work at. Some days it feels like every word you are putting on the page is being pulled out of you by a thread and it's like a marathon just getting something down. But that's only if you're working too hard at it. Because a couple of years ago I met someone who somehow proved to me that writing is something I, at least, do naturally. They didn't show me this by anything they said or did in particular, they showed me this by just letting me talk.
Okay, so some days it doesn't make sense. Some days nothing you write means anything when you look back on it. But then, does it? Because at the time it felt... right. The words just drifted, dribbled, dropped out of your mouth and onto the keyboard and were swept up onto the screen and it felt good. Because who says you ever have to write for someone else? Who says that writing, when someone else looks at it, has to be something someone can connect to, understand, be interested in?
I've realized that by spending those six months (was it really only six?) writing to someone else, it's somehow showed me how to write for myself. What a strange thought that is.
So here I am. Writing musings while the real reason I opened up a new post page is still lying dark and hidden in the shadows. I think I may well leave it there. It's not that important, anyway.

Thursday, 22 October 2009


It's a weird feeling. A kind of heavy achingness that slows you down, body and mind. You blink and your lids close slowly. You speak and your words come slowly. You move and your actions happen slowly. Slooooowwly...
And yet you feel light. Light and delicate, as if you've only just discovered where your joints are and how they work. This makes you awkward - walking is jerky and you find yourself thinking movements through so much more carefully. You feel as though you've been hit by a five ton feather pillow. THUMP.
I shouldn't be sitting like this. My head feels heavy, as if it's been filled with bean-bag-filling. I can almost feel the beans moving about - it's a strange, strange feeling.


Wednesday, 21 October 2009


Maybe I should ask who you are? You stand there, observing us. Watching our futile attempts, our scrabbling hands. You seem almost... bored. As if you know what it is you are watching but don't care. If you knew our story you would. But it doesn't look to me like you'd want to hear it.
Would you just go away? We didn't want to come back into the world like this, but what else can we do? Down there we were dying. Our fingers are covered in mud, reaching towards the sky like the parched roots of uptorn trees, crooking and clawing as we reach up, up, up... I wonder how much detail you see. Do you see the nails? Cracked and chipped and splintered. Can you see the slits in the worn skin; the leathery creases that have dried and opened in the sharp wind, seeping fluid? Can you see the black crusts that have formed along the nail beds and on the delicate webbing between our thin fingers?
Leave us alone. Leave us to crawl out of the filth that has been our home and the source of our pain for these many, many years. Leave us to suffer the shame alone.

Sunday, 18 October 2009

Two posts in one day..!

The blanket fort - come - den is complete. I didn't think I'd actually get round to doing it today, but there you are. My mum commended me on tidying my room to almost perfection this morning - little did she know that the main reason I did it was to clear the space for my den.
The curtains surrounding it have fallen down many times; at least twice each, I'd say, but I think we've finally got to the point (that is, my sister and I) where we can climb in and out without pulling down a curtain. Famous last words...

I’m in a small, blue place. There is nothing outside those thin walls.

When the lights are on inside and off outside, I can’t see out of the fabric, but everyone else can see me. Makes me feel like the woman in that song by Grace,
“What’s it like
inside your glasshouse?
People see in,
but you can’t see out.”
A wonderful song. No pun intended.

The walls are fragile, but they are there. Like physical extensions of my imagination.

I need more cushions, really. I could steal some of my sisters', but I'm not sure that would be appreciated. Now I'm finished I feel like I want to open it up to people. Not literally, it needs to be closed and quiet, that's the point, but to send out invitations. Allow others to come in for an hour and just... stop
for a while.

I feel safe.

It's a childish thing to do in one sense, but in another way it just makes sense. It isn't quite soft and close enough to feel exactly how I want it to, not yet, but I'm working on it. In the mean time I've fulfilled a childish longing and made myself a cubby hole at the same time. Tonight I'm expecting sleep.


I had a minimal amount of sleep last night. It makes things strange. It wasn't like I wasn't trying to sleep, okay so admittedly I gave up for a while at about twelve, and then again at about one, but sometimes there's nothing else you can do. Your thoughts start to wonder and it's at those times when I often feel I need to do something with my time. Otherwise I start to think too much. And I no longer have anyone to tell me to stop.
It's a habit one gets into, you know?

I see the strangest people while about my daily life. Particularly while in town. The other day I went past two men and a woman dressed in Steam Punk. This was the first time I had seen Steam Punk in reality and I ended up twisting right round in my seat on the bus to get a better look. The first man was wearing a long, gothic-type velvet coat that was a burnt orangy-copper colour and a top hat that matched. The top hat had what looked like brass goggles settled on top, and he had long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail. He was big. His wedged, buckled boots slammed down onto the pavement with each swinging stride, so that he looked like he was about to take off. The woman was wearing a rather unflattering outfit. She was thin and tall. She had on a skirt that flared just below the knees with little waves of black lace that fluttered above her black DrMartin boots. Her coat came down to just below her backside and was fitted at the waist. She had her dark hair up in a tight bun with a brass pin. But when she turned round slightly I saw a flounce of cream shirt and red tie curving between the lapels of her coat. The second guy was wearing a suit - pinstriped waistcoat and white shirt, tailcoat and black trousers with big black boots. He had long brown wavy hair, that fell to just below his shoulders, and a pair of glasses.
Epic moment. I wish I had had a camera and the chance to leap off the bus and the courage to ask them for a photo.

My typing and thinking tends to float softly out the window when I'm tired. It's a strange kind of tiredness. Unreal and constricting. At the same time, my adreneline supplies have kicked in, so my fingers are still fast, my reactions to people still evident. Just not always coherent.

I've tidied my room. A quick tidy, first thing in the morning, so that it's ready for the week start tomorrow. Also (though I would not admit this to my mother as yet) to make way for the blanket fort I am planning on making in my room. All over my room...

I'm still waiting for that release that comes once a month. Come on, femininity! Stop making things so hard. You know, before last night I've been considering hibernation. However, my body has just proved to me the impossibility of this for humans. It's a shame, as this could save me alot of bother and stress. Imagine being able to just send out an all-inclusive email - sorry, can't come out/to college or talk/write essays. I'm hibernating.

I need sleep. And some inspiration.

Thursday, 8 October 2009

And I have a red kite, I'll put you right in it, I'll show you the sky.

I write my letters in lipstick.

It flows very well.
The colour slides over the page - it is almost sensual.
As the letters grow, you can pretend you’re writing to a lover,
Not just your grandmother.

It appears very bright.
The paintbrush flicks over the paper - it is almost artistic.
As the colour spreads, you can pretend you’re creating a work of art,
Not just a note of thanks.

It looks very striking.
The words cut over the white - it is almost barbaric.
As the page fills, you can pretend you’re writing in blood,
Not just cosmetics.

I write my letters in lipstick.

Shh. Pretend you're talking to someone else. Ok? Pretend you're looking somewhere else. Alright? Pretend you don't realize I'm talking to you. Understand?
There's a girl standing behind you - shh, don't look! She's not supposed to know I'm talking about her. Has she noticed..? No. Ok, good. Well, that girl - she has this short brown hair. It was only cut a couple of weeks ago. Actually, only last week, in fact. She's still slightly self conscious about it, I think. Worried she looks like a boy. She blatantly doesn't. Does she? Sneak a quick peek. Only a quick one! She's too pretty isn't she? Anyway. That girl. She doesn't realize how special she is. Ok, so she doesn't seem that out of the ordinary. You only have to look at her to realize that - don't look again! She'll notice. Jeez, you're useless at being sly. She's shorter than alot of other girls. She never wears outlandish clothes or anything, but then... she's the kinda girl guys look twice at. As if they've realized they've missed noticing something different, and need to check to be sure it wasn't something important.
She funny as hell. Let me give you an example. One day in town, waiting for a friend, she noticed this guy opposite who was smoking his ciggarette like this:
*Drag* Eyes flit to left, right. Hold cig behind back. Eyes flit to left, right, breathe out. Check to the right again. *Drag* Eyes flit. Hide cig. Breathe out, slow, slow, gentle. *Drag* etc. This girl - take another look, quick, while she's not concentrating on us. That girl, she had these candy sticks, the ones we used to get as kids (bit of reliving the childhood, there) and she gets one out and leans against the pillar and goes: *Drag* Eyes flit left, right. Hold candy behind back. Eyes flit left, right, breathe out. Check to the right again. *Drag* Eyes flit. Hide candy. Breathe out, slow, slow, gentle... Until the guy noticed us and twigged what we were doing, and dropped his ciggaette and faked like he hadn't realized. That's what that girl's like. All over.
Short. Brown haired. Bet you didn't know all that, huh? She's special that girl. Bet you also didn't know she is one in three of people who can make me laugh so much I cry. And those two people don't really count that much any more. Which is partly why I cry, now... Ahem, anyway. Go talk to her. Go on. I'll pretend like I don't even know you, if you like. What, too shy? Shame. I can call her over - no? Ok, ok. Keep your hair on. Take another look at her. Just one more. See? See that smile. She's knows you're looking.
Go talk to her. Not now? Feeling self concious, huh? Fair enough. But if you see her again. If you see her in the street. If she goes past you with her friends, or with those guys she sometimes hangs out with, put out one hand and touch her arm. Introduce yourself. She won't think you're weird. And who knows? Maybe you'll have gained the friendship of someone special. Just remember what I said. She likes to laugh.

I'll leave you now. Just remember what I said.
And try writing in lipstick once in a while. You never know what might end up on the page...

Wednesday, 7 October 2009

Chuck Norris.

This is odd, starting a post off with this, but it made me laugh. A way of remembering it. I got told today to type 'Find Chuck Norris' into Google, and press 'I'm feeling lucky'. So I did. Anyone (likely) reading this, go try it.

Okay, so some days things don't turn out the way you want them to.

There's this place I know, far away from here. I've never quite been able to describe it to anyone. Partly because I don't really know what it looks like, partly because it doesn't exist. Anyway, I was listening to this song this morning, one I've listened to many, many times before, and suddenly realized that the place they were describing was my place. That perfect place out there, in here, next door.
I guess everyone has one, in a weird kind of way. This is the song: Love always remains, MGMT.
Go listen to it. Now.

I read this quote, only just now actually, that says "Poetry is not always words" A woman called Audrey Foris said that. Unfortunately, finding anything out about this woman seems to be impossible. Only her quotes seem to have remained; her person, character and humanity... ? Mmm, maybe you know something?
Anyway. This got me thinking. Poetry isn't always words, but images aren't always pictures either. If a tree or a painting or a landscape can be poetry as well as an image of some kind, images can also be words. Right?

Signing out. I need to make a rule not to do this when I'm incapable typing anything but my thoughts.

Sunday, 4 October 2009


So. Here I am. First post. Am I supposed to know what to write? Because it sure doesn't feel like it.

Thoughts on a page. I've done this before, only last time it was in a more concentrated format (ie. email) and considering that was going somewhere, it tended to have a direction. My mind's wandering already...

The trees are turning gold. Gloucester Green is beginning to show those beginnings of colour, those starts of beauty. One of those times when I wish I had a camera... Last time I was there, sitting on a cold metal seat with my legs draped over the arm, eating a baguette from the best blt makers I know (hands up for Harveys), there was this moment of complete hush... just a second of silence as if someone had pressed a pause button, and then a clattering rush of noise as every pidgeon in the square took to the air in a whirling, crackling sweep, up, out and away towards the cold blue sky. And then a kind of feather-like quietness descended before it was brushed aside by the blare of a taxi's horn and all returned to normal.
Moments like that make you feel like you've witnessed something unique. Surreal.

Another moment that almost had a fairy tale to it was the one this afternoon in Argos. Yes, kids, miracles can happen anywhere. It's such a simple thing - two people, a girl in beige and black, her hair tied back in a severe pony tail, and an Chinese guy in glasses and a striped jumper both leant forward to pick up the same catalouge at the same time, hands closing round it's edge simultaneously. Then the self concious apologies as the hands leapt back from their temporary sits and nervously grabbed for a different catalouge instead.
Okay, so she was older than him, and he was surly and certainly not in the slightest bit inclined to be romantic, but your imagination picks up on these moments and electrifies them. Just for a second. And then you're left feeling slightly put out, as if an amazing gift had been taken off you as soon as it had been offered.

The history essay and bed are calling. Time to stop my rambling and leave as is. Maybe this should be continued. Due consideration is certainly not in order, as would probably result in abandonment.
Night all.