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.