Tuesday, 29 June 2010

'The Little Prince'

So, according to Google, today it is Antoine de Saint-Exupery's 110th anniversary. Anniversary of his birth, that is. If you haven't read his book 'The Little Prince' I suggest you do so now. Go..!

'The Little Prince' online.

Sunday, 27 June 2010

Quick post - No. 2

Hey, soul sister!

Because it's summer and the tune fits, and she's not here and the words fit, and I'm spending my days creating and the video fits.

Saturday, 26 June 2010

I saw you today.

I'm on my feet. Heat against bare legs so
oddly out of place; sun bright spotlights your
brown hair and white shirt. That unique walk. Oh, I do
remember. Sheepskin coat. River. White cotton soft.
Three notice my movements and misinterpret them.
They don't see you. But I do.
Sunglasses shield my eyes- and my identity?
Maybe with long hair and baggy shirt and clear eyes
I could have caught you. Dark curls between cold fingers.
I watched as you walked out of sight, away from me.
Busy bodies and open mouths and coloured words.
They don't see you. But I do.


So, it’s all over. No more exams, no more college. Ever again. It’s a strange thought. A very strange thought. For the last couple of years, college has been my life and suddenly- it’s over. After my last exam on Thursday I went out with a few of my classmates; we pulled four tables together in the pub nearest the college and spent three good hours talking and eating and talking and drinking and talking and laughing. We did a lot of talking. Many of these people I will never see again. Everyone’s going their separate ways now. Some are staying around to continue their education, some have jobs lined up to start, some are going travelling. Although some of us made promises to keep in touch, that dinner was mainly a goodbye for most of us. I’m going to miss them. It really is a strange thought.
I’ve just realized how down-in-the-mouth I sound about that. Well, yes, but at the same time: No more exams! Haha! I’ve been dancing on tables, in a purely figurative way, and dancing in the streets in a very literal way.

So the summer has come. And here I am, sitting on my bed at 6 30am, with the sun streaming through the windows, gazing around my room at the cardboard boxes, books, videos, clothes and general mess. I must hasten to tell you - it is not just my room that looks like this. I think that so far half the rooms in the house (bathrooms excluded) have had this same treatment. There are two reasons for this:
A) Dad's moving his office into the house
B) We have to have moved out of this house by the end of January (although we‘re hoping before Christmas). Our landlady wants to renovate.
Fifteen years of accumulated stuffs is finding itself rearranged and stacked and packaged. The loft is slowly, very slowly, being sorted through, one box at a time. So far fifteen bags of this-that-and-the-other have gone to charity shops, along with a chest of drawers, a bedside table and a cot, and the house feels even more full than ever. The fact that we will probably still be here in four months time appears to have escaped everyone’s notice. Then again, fifteen years of belongings is a lot of stuff. A lot of stuff.

Friday, 25 June 2010


Red, soft and silky. It hangs from a hanger on the lamp next to my bed. The black roses lining the top of the bodice soak up the light, the red buttons in the centre of each glinting in bright pride. The lace is draped across the skirt; pinned at the centre, it falls from the red heart and black rosette to sweep down in loops before joining in a bow at the back. Scraps of material hang limp and unwanted from the hanger, the different shades of red clashing with each other.

My shoes are placed neatly, side by side, beneath my bed. Black lace ruffles across the toe of one, white lace is pinned in a proud rosette on the other. Draped over them is the waistcoat, black velvet soft and covered, from lapel to lapel, in coloured buttons. Small purple ones march alongside large green ones, flanked by heavy silver and gold ones with detailed patterns scratched on their surface. A gold bow perches jauntily next to a small silver key, proclaiming their difference as the entire outfit proclaims its uniqueness.

A white apron is crumpled on my desk. Edged with blue ribbon, it is unfinished. Awaiting the dress it is to to cover.

Buttons and ribbons litter my floor. They create tiny islands on the mess of brown carpet beneath. Pins stick upright, heads sparkling in the light streaming through my window. Needles trailing lengths of black and white thread are balanced on the edges of pin boxes, or speared through the sides of plastic bags to keep them safe.

Two weeks and they'll be completed. Two weeks and our costumes will be aired - showed off to the world. Two weeks...

Thursday, 10 June 2010


And there she is. Black shape against the grey, crumbling wall. A smile spreads across my face. Her head is bent over her phone and her bag is at her feet. It's been, what, two months? Feels like so much longer; it's funny how slowly time goes when you're waiting for something. And suddenly I can see the end of college ahead of me, and the start of summer, and the days and nights and weekends with those I love. No longer just a wish, but a slowly approaching reality.

The relief is crippling. In two weeks this will all be over. A new set of responsibilities, but a new, beautiful freedom.

She lifts her head and returns my smile. Hello, summer.

Tuesday, 1 June 2010

Quick post - No. 1

Click it!

*thumbs up*
"I'm longing to linger till dawn, dear,
just saying this..."

Complicated simplicity.

No, no, no. That’s not creativity. It’s a form of communication - and not a real one at that, for who knows the truth behind the words, unless the person writing them is known? Written word is a form of creation, and a form of lying; a form of life, and a form of hidden deceptions. It builds images, detailed in their shape, but only half -made.

And it is not reality. Reality can be seen in the eyes and heard in the voice and felt under the skin. Don’t ask for those half-real conversations and remember with longing those snippets of ideas that ended up on the page. Don’t keep wanting the nominal, empty, black-on-white. The inspiration is floating around you on the dust particles, and how can you expect to create anything greater than a simple poem, when you rely on someone else..? Reach out your hand and grab at the images as they go by. And then fight your hardest to keep them safe, for no-one else can see what you can. Go looking for them. Come searching for them.

You know where to find us.