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.