http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/ http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/ woohoo
Saturday, 26 December 2009
Friday, 25 December 2009
Tipping the Cupboard
I wrote this story about six weeks ago, this is the whole thing..feedback aaaaaaalways wanted
I just got lots of Patrick Kavanagh poetry, I'm excited - from what I can tell so far I like it! He has an interesting balance between honest and simple and more misty images. awww
Tipping the Cupboard
The summer was long, and the heat low and unforgiving. I was dazed in the Summer. I did not know what I was doing in New York; the only thing that was constant was the strange disjointedness in which I live my days. I lie around in the belly; the bricky, low-rise buildings of Queens. I watch the bridges reaching for the city, like uncompromising fingers. We all sweated that Summer. New Yorkers slid along the pavement, slimy and sexy and I sweated on my way to the shop, from the shop, between shops and tried not to compare myself with the tall buildings of Manhattan.
In August I spent my nights alone, relaxed. Lloyd came to visit four times, I counted. You have to knock on the window, climbing down to the garden from the street, to get my attention. I’ve no doorbell; I took it off when it got jammed playing White Christmas.
There’s a tension between me and Lloyd.
I like it I like it I like it, that’s what I say. Occasionally my tongue gets stuck talking to him and we have to clean it with some laughing. I think he knows too, and maybe you, that if we don’t keep our mouths clean they just don’t work well anymore. Just rows of teeth.
He helped me get rid of the curtains. The left-hand corner of the window is the only place you can see down to the houses on the next street and I wanted to see that. Then we moved lots of my belongings into boxes – I considered moving – and they’re still here now. I left my favourite chair in here. Not in a box.
I like Queens because it is gutsy. I can watch the girls, fleshy-voiced, festering on corners. I smelt their perfume of promises. I do quite a lot in the front room (also my bedroom only now most of it is packed), and so a view is a good thing here.
Only I did all that watching in the evening and this here is the morning. Almost midday in fact, and I’m sitting in the chair at the window looking at nothing; nothing has started of the day and everything of the night is over. Today I will begin some business. I am yet undecided what it shall be but it will have a start and hopefully a finish and definitely a purpose. It will be of no loss or gain to me; I shouldn’t like it to hinge on that. I once learnt that if any being scaled down their ambitions to those that were within the grasp of their own nature, or the type of creature they were, and still achieved such ambitions, said being could be called all-powerful. Power is everywhere, shaded neon or stretched over the skyline or shaking hands and minds. I imagine this little room aglow with my omnipotence.
The boxes are packed against two of the walls; the left and the right. They don’t quite reach the tip of the wall, where the right meets the wall with the window; instead stands a hefty cupboard. It’s made of dark wood, with a bulge at the top that almost meets the ceiling and along the inside of that a thin line of gold. I have never seen above, nor the wall behind, nor what is below the cupboard. Lloyd once dropped a coin there and retrieving it was a difficult and dusty task. I have realised if I moved this cupboard I could stack nearly all of the boxes along the rest of the wall, thus making more of the wallpaper visible. It’s a flush green, far too potent a colour for the room but I enjoy it. I know Lloyd would agree; he has admired the colour many times.
The first attempt at my task fails. Of course – or so I soon think to myself – the cupboard will not lift with the likes of my spindly arms. Lifting will be no use; I try next lifting a single corner at a time, and pushing the corner as I lift. I can lift past the pale indents in the carpet, but still not far enough. I take several breaks and soon afternoon slides into view. I am often out of breath, my heart beating quicker and my breath catching up first from my chest, then my throat.
I expect Lloyd to visit today; it has been days since his last and he said he would be back within two or three. I make another lonely attempt after a longer rest; the cupboard will not move and now slants across the corner, half budged. The scene is unchanged apart from the cupboard; there is no odour, no hidden or lost objects behind the wardrobe. Slightly, the wallpaper is rubbed like a cheek from winter wind, turned a lighter green. In the next row of houses, out the window, the light is lustrous. It stalls at the wall into the single row of paving stones dipping down from the pavement, and the light reaching me is a tinny glow that barely fills the window frames.
I try two new approaches; I first try tipping and dragging the cupboard at a slant, and next lifting half the cupboard a bit off the floor and dragging it as I do so. Although difficult, this seems the most effective. I can only move the wardrobe a little at a time, and the doors often open at the same time so the movement altogether is slow. I hope to move it by the evening. With Lloyd’s help the cupboard will probably move easily.
I persist with the lifting and dragging, careful not to make the cupboard tip. I must not lift it more than two inches or so off the ground or the wardrobe will dip, and the doors probably open. I take breaks often; the wardrobe is heavy, the movements small and the wood digs grooves into my hands. After a few hours, I am conscious of life in the flat above me. There are no vicious noises, nothing loud, just the soft passing of feet. Not disturbing, but present all the same.
I stop around six o clock. An ache strains the tops of my shoulders, drags itself down the plane of my back. I lie on the bed, and after a while lift the covers. A short nap, and awake later, will probably fix the pain. Everything in the room is greying with evening; the brash confidence of the sun gone. I can feel night treading in, inevitable as the horizon.
I just got lots of Patrick Kavanagh poetry, I'm excited - from what I can tell so far I like it! He has an interesting balance between honest and simple and more misty images. awww
Tipping the Cupboard
The summer was long, and the heat low and unforgiving. I was dazed in the Summer. I did not know what I was doing in New York; the only thing that was constant was the strange disjointedness in which I live my days. I lie around in the belly; the bricky, low-rise buildings of Queens. I watch the bridges reaching for the city, like uncompromising fingers. We all sweated that Summer. New Yorkers slid along the pavement, slimy and sexy and I sweated on my way to the shop, from the shop, between shops and tried not to compare myself with the tall buildings of Manhattan.
In August I spent my nights alone, relaxed. Lloyd came to visit four times, I counted. You have to knock on the window, climbing down to the garden from the street, to get my attention. I’ve no doorbell; I took it off when it got jammed playing White Christmas.
There’s a tension between me and Lloyd.
I like it I like it I like it, that’s what I say. Occasionally my tongue gets stuck talking to him and we have to clean it with some laughing. I think he knows too, and maybe you, that if we don’t keep our mouths clean they just don’t work well anymore. Just rows of teeth.
He helped me get rid of the curtains. The left-hand corner of the window is the only place you can see down to the houses on the next street and I wanted to see that. Then we moved lots of my belongings into boxes – I considered moving – and they’re still here now. I left my favourite chair in here. Not in a box.
I like Queens because it is gutsy. I can watch the girls, fleshy-voiced, festering on corners. I smelt their perfume of promises. I do quite a lot in the front room (also my bedroom only now most of it is packed), and so a view is a good thing here.
Only I did all that watching in the evening and this here is the morning. Almost midday in fact, and I’m sitting in the chair at the window looking at nothing; nothing has started of the day and everything of the night is over. Today I will begin some business. I am yet undecided what it shall be but it will have a start and hopefully a finish and definitely a purpose. It will be of no loss or gain to me; I shouldn’t like it to hinge on that. I once learnt that if any being scaled down their ambitions to those that were within the grasp of their own nature, or the type of creature they were, and still achieved such ambitions, said being could be called all-powerful. Power is everywhere, shaded neon or stretched over the skyline or shaking hands and minds. I imagine this little room aglow with my omnipotence.
The boxes are packed against two of the walls; the left and the right. They don’t quite reach the tip of the wall, where the right meets the wall with the window; instead stands a hefty cupboard. It’s made of dark wood, with a bulge at the top that almost meets the ceiling and along the inside of that a thin line of gold. I have never seen above, nor the wall behind, nor what is below the cupboard. Lloyd once dropped a coin there and retrieving it was a difficult and dusty task. I have realised if I moved this cupboard I could stack nearly all of the boxes along the rest of the wall, thus making more of the wallpaper visible. It’s a flush green, far too potent a colour for the room but I enjoy it. I know Lloyd would agree; he has admired the colour many times.
The first attempt at my task fails. Of course – or so I soon think to myself – the cupboard will not lift with the likes of my spindly arms. Lifting will be no use; I try next lifting a single corner at a time, and pushing the corner as I lift. I can lift past the pale indents in the carpet, but still not far enough. I take several breaks and soon afternoon slides into view. I am often out of breath, my heart beating quicker and my breath catching up first from my chest, then my throat.
I expect Lloyd to visit today; it has been days since his last and he said he would be back within two or three. I make another lonely attempt after a longer rest; the cupboard will not move and now slants across the corner, half budged. The scene is unchanged apart from the cupboard; there is no odour, no hidden or lost objects behind the wardrobe. Slightly, the wallpaper is rubbed like a cheek from winter wind, turned a lighter green. In the next row of houses, out the window, the light is lustrous. It stalls at the wall into the single row of paving stones dipping down from the pavement, and the light reaching me is a tinny glow that barely fills the window frames.
I try two new approaches; I first try tipping and dragging the cupboard at a slant, and next lifting half the cupboard a bit off the floor and dragging it as I do so. Although difficult, this seems the most effective. I can only move the wardrobe a little at a time, and the doors often open at the same time so the movement altogether is slow. I hope to move it by the evening. With Lloyd’s help the cupboard will probably move easily.
I persist with the lifting and dragging, careful not to make the cupboard tip. I must not lift it more than two inches or so off the ground or the wardrobe will dip, and the doors probably open. I take breaks often; the wardrobe is heavy, the movements small and the wood digs grooves into my hands. After a few hours, I am conscious of life in the flat above me. There are no vicious noises, nothing loud, just the soft passing of feet. Not disturbing, but present all the same.
I stop around six o clock. An ache strains the tops of my shoulders, drags itself down the plane of my back. I lie on the bed, and after a while lift the covers. A short nap, and awake later, will probably fix the pain. Everything in the room is greying with evening; the brash confidence of the sun gone. I can feel night treading in, inevitable as the horizon.
Monday, 21 December 2009
Does androgony work for fat girls and man boobs too?
google serves so well to the overtired brain
except one find just led me to bbc news, i did not pay for that shit
except one find just led me to bbc news, i did not pay for that shit
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
'Discreet Dating'...oh that's what they call it!
I've been legally responsible for quite some time now; I can do the hanky panky, buy a lottery ticket and that other desirable act - marriage in a small village in Scotland. Thankfully it's just over the border so the marriage could a kind of in-out job..much like marriage night with a 16 year old?
My marriage vision usually consists of a barefoot wedding on an island I can't quite pronounce, where I'm filled with 'the love of eternity' and have a six month long honeymoon; all this funded by my parents, who luckily still agree to pay half my rent till I've 'got this fashion thing started'. The years to come will see us buy almost matching, minimalist plates (if you don't know the sort you can view my parents' collection)and a North-East London (edgy!) house in which I will spend my days in a hazily-defined career writing articles for Sunday times style magazine about my lack of sex life unless my husband and I are on coke or with the neighbours. I'll be perusing Cath Kidston one day, looking for some new sugar jars (but this time with labels on!) when I'll overhear a woman about my age talking about 'The Ashley Madison Agency'. From what I can innocently gather, the agency provides picture-profiles of married people looking for, you guessed it, married people to have squelchy affairs with. It's kind of like in-breeding because of the fact 80% of them live in North London.
"A dating agency?" I think - "shouldn't I? Oh sure, my ass has seen tauter days, but people don't say 'aw hell no' to money...and I could try that bendy thing people do that I accidentally saw on my nephews laptop on Thursday.."
My hand slips at the thought and knocks an entire row of pink and white striped garden baskets. The ladies turn around. My breath gathers to a heartbeat in my chest and I am just with it enough to blab out my desire for knowledge.. and I leave with the details of the agency. If my hubby should see the URL on our search history, it'll simply look like a website for middle class womenswear. Think 'Laura Ashley', not 'I'm sucking off the neighbours son now, only I haven't made the link because it's all done my internet.' When they do, I can blame it on either investigative journalism or a mildly psychopathic mental disorder I've been harbouring, unnoticed, all this time. Or I was just 'getting tips'. Either way, it'll make unique "housewife rediscovers herself" literature given a year or two and a pseudonym stolen from a brand of candy.
to be continued...........
My marriage vision usually consists of a barefoot wedding on an island I can't quite pronounce, where I'm filled with 'the love of eternity' and have a six month long honeymoon; all this funded by my parents, who luckily still agree to pay half my rent till I've 'got this fashion thing started'. The years to come will see us buy almost matching, minimalist plates (if you don't know the sort you can view my parents' collection)and a North-East London (edgy!) house in which I will spend my days in a hazily-defined career writing articles for Sunday times style magazine about my lack of sex life unless my husband and I are on coke or with the neighbours. I'll be perusing Cath Kidston one day, looking for some new sugar jars (but this time with labels on!) when I'll overhear a woman about my age talking about 'The Ashley Madison Agency'. From what I can innocently gather, the agency provides picture-profiles of married people looking for, you guessed it, married people to have squelchy affairs with. It's kind of like in-breeding because of the fact 80% of them live in North London.
"A dating agency?" I think - "shouldn't I? Oh sure, my ass has seen tauter days, but people don't say 'aw hell no' to money...and I could try that bendy thing people do that I accidentally saw on my nephews laptop on Thursday.."
My hand slips at the thought and knocks an entire row of pink and white striped garden baskets. The ladies turn around. My breath gathers to a heartbeat in my chest and I am just with it enough to blab out my desire for knowledge.. and I leave with the details of the agency. If my hubby should see the URL on our search history, it'll simply look like a website for middle class womenswear. Think 'Laura Ashley', not 'I'm sucking off the neighbours son now, only I haven't made the link because it's all done my internet.' When they do, I can blame it on either investigative journalism or a mildly psychopathic mental disorder I've been harbouring, unnoticed, all this time. Or I was just 'getting tips'. Either way, it'll make unique "housewife rediscovers herself" literature given a year or two and a pseudonym stolen from a brand of candy.
to be continued...........
Friday, 27 November 2009
Obsessions
I've become fixated with 'Drop it Like It's Hot' ever since I got dirtileee low 2 it the other week
I've also had this ambition for a year or so to sleep with a male prostitute (a young un) ever since I saw these photos in an exhibition a year ago at the MOMA in New York. I can't find who the photos were taken by now, but the one I particularly remember is of a blonde shirtless boy (more boy then man) looking philosophically through some dirty glass with the sun behind his head. I find huge satisfaction in my naivety.
I've tried finding the photo again to no avail - it's just one of those things like a smell that has a presence but nothing quite definite in your memory.
I've also had this ambition for a year or so to sleep with a male prostitute (a young un) ever since I saw these photos in an exhibition a year ago at the MOMA in New York. I can't find who the photos were taken by now, but the one I particularly remember is of a blonde shirtless boy (more boy then man) looking philosophically through some dirty glass with the sun behind his head. I find huge satisfaction in my naivety.
I've tried finding the photo again to no avail - it's just one of those things like a smell that has a presence but nothing quite definite in your memory.
Sunday, 1 November 2009
Something to remember me by
Barcelona was increible, I will put a few more pictures and stuff up here in a bit
Thursday, 15 October 2009
I felt out of place as a pork chop at a synagogue
I haven't posted on here a while. I'm not really sure why I'm saying that or why anyone should ever say that as if apologizing to their legions of fans but ANYWAY
News is, as far as typing to a blank screen goes, I guess that I'm going to Mere Literary Festival on sunday to collect 1st and 2nd junior poetry prize....me n my parents tearin' up Wiltshire one poetry reading at a time..
My reading should be comfortably terrible considering my voice sounds like a tractor and people at my new college keep asking me if i'm 'still being sarcastic or not' and if i'm 'genuinely excited'.
Anyway here are the poems I won with:
The Dentist Episode
I unfold before you.
Prehistoric beverages excavated
by minty-fresh mini-drills
open-mouth thrills, and
long-forgotten lollipops
- demolished.
Your light interrogates cavities
Courtesy of some white-robed
divine vision, or celebrity
of the dentist's room.
Wordlessly, I marvel
at your rubber healing hands
that terrorize plaque
in crowded cracks
using sandpaper little strands
packing a punch for tongue plains.
By twelve, I leave clean and sinless.
Watching Day Break the Balcony
It is over.
The mood is down, and the sun is up.
Guitar strings, dangling like droplets from stars
have laid down to rest. The sun rules victorious.
Scrubs night’s corners clean.
The day is notorious
for new beginnings.
Where the light was soft,
with moonlight kisses for some,
and entwined pale bodies with milky light,
the day is hard.
Where night’s cover
let lovers run
with freedom filled lungs,
there was no tomorrow
till the day won.
It's somehow ended up that all I post on here is poetry, which is never really what I planned and also perhaps gives the impression I sit around translating my texts into olde English for jokez and crying in the bath, which is not entirely the impression I'd want anyone to get I guess. Not that this blog was ever going to be about my life; I don't go shopping and discover 'stylish London folk' on the streets or have sex with band drummers (holla if ya interested though)..recent highlights of my actual existence include rediscovering telly, waking up covered in puke, my FATHER having carried me up the stairs and discovering Edgware Road actually has really nice restaurants? Asian men and asian popstar telly all round.
I was just telling Ruqy that basically my blog is the most boring thing ever and unless you're Faith and take a charming interest in all things creative it's probably not all the interesting. I keep wanting to write about little stupid things I find out about and then not? I'll get on that. I'm so full of all these handy little facts that are just really fun to whip out, even if you're not with people.
I had to delete the paragraph about Spain due to unprecedented facebook addage... I am not going to become some weird cyber-formed weirdo..
Also I'm getting involved in my friend's new zine, which she has asked me to submit poems for - and anything I feel passionate about. Isn't that nice?! Things are always the most exciting when they're the fruit of individuals from scratch; everyone's got free reign and Ground Zero is the most exciting place to be! It will hopefully be coming out later this year, slammin' shelves all over east london..
I don't want to say lots but anyway I'm excited about it and will post again about it when things happen.
Lastly, here are some photos of Chris semi-naked...thought it might boost my blog views:
anyway yeah I will become an exciting person some time soon, I'll let you know
Wednesday, 9 September 2009
My eyes are burning from boredom but
(This image is pretty irrelevant but not entirely irrelevant - I'll write about this soon!!)
If September were a colour it would definitely be brown. Or worse, beige. It’s the least popular of all the months of the year, the sort of month every other month tries to avoid, with it’s sudden frenzy of nagging tasks, shit weather (but not snow yet), the return of responsibilities and general seriousness etc etc.
I’m feeling the return of the seriousness particularly heavily this time around. Or maybe it’s just my memory’s so bad, my mind has become so neglectful, that I can’t remember the pain of every other September in memory. It’s not that I haven’t done plenty of little creative things all summer, like sit in my room and write nice little songs and read books etc. I just think recently my concentration level has dipped so low you might as well just pat me on the head and put me in the ‘C’ set. Even writing this is sort of pushing my limits.
I’ll disclose now there’s not really any point to this little post I have going here, apart from to tear me away from the kitchen and treat my ears to that lovely sound the keyboard makes when you’re writing something and getting somewhere. But is there really a point to anything? Of course not, we’re all just a specimen of a common scientific occurrence whose only real benefit to everything else around us is to reproduce, which more and more of us don’t do anyway because we’re too busy tip toe-ing around the career ladder.
Other things I enjoy doing in my wasted time are going on the facebooks of people from my new school, viewing all my own facebook pictures from start to finish with the ‘perspective of an outsider’ to try to gage if they give off a ‘cool vibe’ and keeping up my hygiene standards, seeing how much of my fingernails I can peel off without ever biting them. I also love watching those youtube makeup demos because the women always look like crack whores and I have low self confidence.
Trawling my nothingness I also found out that apparently in a restaurant called ‘Snake Alley’ in Taiwan you can watch twice-hourly public snake feedings. The snake is fed a live mouse, which is seasoned with a bludgeon to the head before being served to the snake to crush before eating. Children come from far and over the street to watch, and rich people inside eat the snake after. I’m reminded of my belief humans are naturally prone to less compassion then they would like to lay claim to.
Although it’s nice to see the fruits of my internet hours blossoming into things I can just drop in to my already subtly intelligent conversations, I think it’s best now I get back to the heavier tasks. I’m teaching myself facial tricks – my latest is this sort of sideways twitch with my nose so you can see the bone inside in one nostril. I’m not sure how beneficial it is to my future mastering of the circus performer career ladder because you can’t see it unless you’re near…but all good trades are about practicing, right?
Wednesday, 2 September 2009
'Obsessed With Pipework' magazine and old poems.....
(These photos are entirely unrelated to the following post - but everyone likes a few of my old holiday snaps, right?)
I just went out with my brother and my dad enjoying the laborious, mountain-shaped conversation that is gap year decisions, which got me all thinking about future, which then made me think about past blah blah and anyway now I'm here.
I have this sort of weird feeling located somewhere between my diaphragm and my small intestine that my poems are getting worse. I think this is largely to do with a lack of raging spontaneity, linked mainly with the fact I keep stopping and starting nice new notebooks and not having pens ready etc. I got rid of my small black ones because I just couldn't write prose or really anything apart from poems in tiny writing and scribbles in them, but they were really marvels. I totally buy into all that 'Moleskin, the [overpriced] notebooks of genius' thing. Ah, material woes.
The only poems I have published seem to be my older ones; yet more whisperish evidence I'm just worse. Anyway I was just chatting to Charlotte about a poem I wrote this day last year, which prompted me to dig out an old blog I used to keep purely for my writing under a pseudonym (the days of embarrassment are over!). Thought I'd put a couple of poems from last year up; I've sort of grown affectionate to them. I was going to wait to scan in the poems from 'Obsessed With Pipework' magazine but I've come to face the fact the scanner will never be set up so I may as well just type them out. These are all very old!
Return
Between their palms
Summer,
Love,
and other things she could boast to her friends about.
Vacation : Utopia.
Now she stares one lost eye at me
Through a nail – hole in her hand
The size of my fingernail.
Their palms stretch now
Not towards each other, but the sky
Fragments of our lost afternoons
Summer,
swerving to crash on the gravel pavement.
The following poem has never had good feedback....
Untitled
My fingertips cling to the treetops
A field we had grown and reaped in together for three years.
Now expanses
of nothing-
Our field is in solitude.
Suddenly we both realized how far it was from home
How difficult to navigate.
You looked at our blanket of green and wanted new realms of stars
(Or starry-eyed people)
Realizing we knew no preservation techniques,
I stood on our branches as long day turned to night
(To breathe night air)
Wanting moon, I saw only bright lights.
----
From 'Obsessed With Pipework' magazine (available at Southbank Centre Poetry Library)
A Report
Found: Two sets of morals, one-night long intimacy.
Fucking insane drugs to help you with your freefalling
Or the fucking insane.
But freedom you will find
(In the form of no belongings)
And excitement when you misplace your money.
What have you lost?
(I was clearly a cynical gal when I wrote that!)
She
Quicklynow
She is under my skin
Captivated
Till we left little of my shell unbroken
Shivering
We lay, our work one joint and many slices of bread
Eating too her words of wisdom
Softening
We ease the outside offensive
Everything gentle and
Softening, softening.
An Invitation
“Love you” and “it’s new” and how to think
yourself thin – look at what they can offer you
Come, gloss, come shine come and sparkle come come for MORE
Hold onto ambitions for short-lived intimacies
Now – but never test the water with more then your foot.
Patent faces and flawless ideas
We will dance then sit then dance then away
Up and Up
- Still up?
And now my bloodied foot is here and I am 2lbs thinner.
Tuesday, 18 August 2009
'Maria and Romance'
This is a first draft of a short story I wrote a few weeks ago. I'm only putting a bit up, because realistically people will probably only read as far as they can before they have to move the scroll bar. The story is in two sections; the first is called 'A Grand History of Maria's Affairs, Aged 19 to 22' and the second is called 'The Story'. I may post a more edited extract at some point...
From 'A Grand History of Maria's Affairs, Aged 19 to 22'
Maria dated again aged 29 and a few months. This time it was Charlie, whose life was frozen in long, flimsy days on his sofa or yelling at the football with his mates. He had stopped building in the middle of a large project because he “wanted a change”. Maria found this out-of-character decision intriguing, as if a hint to a little more guts and promise to him. His most motivating decisions on most days became which channel to watch. Charlie had picked Maria up in a pub in Stroud Green. There is an overheatedness to the drunken state that made him very forward and his attempted, slurry charm amused her. He kissed her that night heavily. England Cornwall
From 'A Grand History of Maria's Affairs, Aged 19 to 22'
Maria dated again aged 29 and a few months. This time it was Charlie, whose life was frozen in long, flimsy days on his sofa or yelling at the football with his mates. He had stopped building in the middle of a large project because he “wanted a change”. Maria found this out-of-character decision intriguing, as if a hint to a little more guts and promise to him. His most motivating decisions on most days became which channel to watch. Charlie had picked Maria up in a pub in Stroud Green. There is an overheatedness to the drunken state that made him very forward and his attempted, slurry charm amused her. He kissed her that night heavily.
Maria was not a loud woman. However, there was, activated in her, a snappy intelligence and eyes equipped for long, low observations. She had a fiery agitation that motivated her to her own achievements, and a satisfaction that meant for the previous mentioned yeas she desired little from her men, or romance. In these years Maria was given over to a sort of observation of men greatly unlike herself.
The Story
They had been dating two years, and living together eight months. Maria had received a promotion at work, and as a reaction Charlie suggested they move into a new flat. They had yet to find one.
“I was thinking, well, me, Rob, Tango and Neil were saying the other day we should really move further East.” He looked across the seats, then looked forward again, his shoulders swaying a little with the movement. He tapped the bottom of the window in a rhythm. Maria agreed, she would be happy enough to move East.
“We don’t have to move far East. Maybe Hackney or Bow or somewhere a bit more South. I could be near to my mates.” Maria showed some consenting interest, nodding in agreement. The sky was a low hum of grey, although quiet patches of sun were nodding into visibility.
“Listen though. We really should get our act together – make a decision, you know? When we get to your parents’ I’m going to do a search and we can go look at houses when we’re back.”
“Yes, I’ve got a few days off work so we can look then.” She returned her eyes to the road.
“What do you think, really?”
“About what?”
“The flat, obviously. Bow or further South?” She was thinking about the route, the turning. As well as her new job and what it would be like seeing her mum.
“Let’s just see.”
“See what?”
“What happens when we get there.”
“Just stop the car Maria. Maria paused, then indicated sharply left onto the hard shoulder, the rain slamming against Charlie’s window as she did so.
“You just don’t give a fuck, do you?” He undid his seatbelt and turned his body to look at Maria, who was aware of his movements.
“About what?”
“ – the flat. What we’ve just been talking about. I’m trying to find us a fucking place to live and you’re just sitting there.
But, you know, you don’t give a fuck about any of this. You’re not even saying anything now.” His breath was getting heavier, coming in lurches now. It has stopped raining. “Just let me do all the fucking work.”
Maria had been bathing her eyes in the rain outside the window, both pleasantly preoccupied and unhinged slightly, propelled into observation of things outside the car by the remarks made inside by Charlie.
He leant clumsily towards her, reaching out to grasp her arm, the delicate flesh rising between his fingers. The seat made an uncomfortable, pressing noise and the handbrake dug into his stomach a bit as he leant to kiss her. The kiss was simple and lumbering, with Charlie’s thumb resting too heavily on Maria’s chin. She allowed this, a little absently. He laughed a little. Something in his oafish attempt at sympathy is hard to watch here.
“I love you.” Moving forwards. Maria looked at him. The sun had begun to adorn the sky, a new rhythm after the rain. It is hard to tell if her eyes, following her half-smile, own an expression of confusion, amusement or a tinge of anger. The sun, all those light years away, grew stronger and she squinted. His face narrowed a little. They drove on in near silence.
Friday, 14 August 2009
Tuesday, 28 July 2009
Slightly edited
Still not sure about ending. But work is there to be looked at - a creative object belongs to nobody! Let's all look and be skeptical about the ending.
Above the Sky
By september, you will find me strapped and stretched
and exiting by way of tracks
cross mind, straight face
straighter with each nail, nail, nail and thoughts
"WHERE DO YOU WANT TO GO FROM HERE?
We'll lay the groundworks,
spread the word
our clack clack clack
and perhaps we can wave you goodbye"
as an aside:
no-one here wants
just flesh and blood
to stream all the way up to our
steel-capped tips and claw
and put up functioning signposts to
"ABOVE THE SKY."
By september, they will write me an equation for sleep
programme the sun to not disturb
patterns of decision
By september you will find me tightened and torn
looking much like a textbook
my fingers gnarled
to the shape of words
By september perhaps you will shut this story
to it's golden, grizzy end
leaving only my tracks
.
Sunday, 26 July 2009
THIS IS NOT FINISHED YET
I just wrote this today - just gonna take a madman leap and put it out there. It's only a first draft; I will revise a few lines here and there, I think especially the ending....also the structure I quite like but hmm possibly needs work and well anyway I've heard in various places never point out flaws in things and now I'm just talking in my head-voice at the computer screen so
Above the Sky
By september, you will find me strapped and stretched
and exiting by way of tracks
cross mind, straight face
straighter with each nail, nail, nail and thoughts
"WHERE DO YOU WANT TO GO FROM HERE?
We'll lay the groundworks,
spread the word
our clack clack clack tracks
and perhaps we can wave you goodbye"
as an aside:
no-one here wants
just flesh and blood
to stream all the way up to our
steel-capped tips and claw
and put up functioning signposts to
"ABOVE THE SKY."
By september, they will write me an equation for sleep
programme the sun to not disturb
patterns of decision
chaos of sky
will write itself a redundancy note
leaving clouds listless
and all around me those hungry stone jaws
tracks for teeth.
Tuesday, 21 July 2009
Characters among us
"Cuddle up, kids!"
Bouncers have long intrigued me. As creatures soley belonging to the night, they're right up in the deep dark ranks of night society with toilet attendants, djs whose cds are scratched and the omnipresent 'lads go electro' army always just a little too close on the dancefloor. I have many beautiful bouncer quotes floating around my head. They're touching moments, real golden memories, such as being told to "put it away love" by the four-strong squat team that man a certain haunt of my younger teenage years; being described as "just a kinky bitch" by a certain fave or even better, that very same charmer telling my friend "You're beautiful and small....I'd just put you in my pocket, take you home and bury you next to my wife and kids." High fives all round. Yet who, behind the body bulk, are these real life men in black? What makes them tick? Do they have a day job at nurseries scaring children and stealing souls? I ask you these perplexing questions as I have no answers of my own.
In my mind, they hold auditions for bouncers across the country, kind of like talent shows for the hairy and scary among us. Once they have their undiscovered talent, they send them to huge disused industrial warehouses or purpose built camps in the countryside; these are protected by all those ingenious methods the Americans use for their alien-finding HQ or atomic testing or whatever. Akin to sumo wrestler camps in Japan, here our young 'uns are fed on super secret miso-soup esque concoctions from giant, bubbling cauldrons, have tiny black suits regularly fitted to them, wrestle naked and are taught dark arts such as searching your bag without ever actually finding anything. The weaklings fall at the first hurdles, and return home (their memories of course blanked first). They spend the rest of their life trying to get into politics; I've always strongly maintained the bouncing career field is alive with those who crave power but were never quite clever enough for politics.
Bouncers are mysterious, yet far from desired. Silent movers of the night, fake-ID demons, I salute you.
Miles of Smiles for Giles
...I should definitely work as a pun-thinker for Henry Holland himself
os/40333943@N04/
I went to a Giles show last week, here are a few photos:
Photos are so fun to take when everyone's good looking..
As usual ( - usual being that i've uploaded two sets of photos), tonnes more on my Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/phot
Sunday, 19 July 2009
Saturday, 18 July 2009
Waxing, wanking and old people, all in one place
Brazil was a-maze-maze-mazing
(PEDRO)
When I looked up into the blaring sun as it was shaded slightly by a potbellied, butt naked Brazillian farmer wanking, or read an entire book in between two words Naomi's grandpa John put together himself (less then lucid conversation!), it was all worth the 30 hour journey.
Back on task, it was actually a fantastic holiday, for more reasons then just our housekeeper Pedro.
Here a few photos from up down and around Brazil (loads more on my Flickr):
(PEDRO)zzzzzz can't be bothered to upload anymore, visit here in your burning curiosity: http://www.flickr.com/photos/40333943@N04/
underway
Musical
A switch in still decision. Found and flicked
clicked and ticked off,
chucked to silence.
In exhaustion of the inner show
the bass notes toast themselves.
Rhythm is an aggravate, all clammed;
slam
slam
slam slam slam slam
outside out the clouds are woven rocks in sky.
The treble howls, an annihilating itch.
Writes my face in stone.
A switch in still decision. Found and flicked
clicked and ticked off,
chucked to silence.
Forward dive, arrive and sing and sigh.
A boat is nauseating in motion and stale
inside, but the sea loves the deck; it sends droplets and fresh waves.
Just like this, a switch flicks
and the world is on again.
Early
Obstructive tiredness
Sat on the mattress a fat baby
comic dollops of limbs,
a catalyst to the near quiet.
This is an observation, from
half glowing eyes, almost seduced by the half day morning
(croaks of a half-hearted temptress, the cheap
whiteness of clouds).
Dreams of Country Green with Envy, Unseen
Outside, London allures itself;
cars press the day for speed
Stereos beat a heartless engine-chest
Women who are good at dressing
waists like wiggly pasta
their appearance unhinged; now owned
by a shop front
men who would not swap money
for a lie detector test
- together, the star-flossed lovers are a paced, mechanical beast.
Importance seduces everywhere
petty
Stories lie flat on the pavement
or disheveled in the cracks -
flat
Gossip
survives;
birthed by magazine pages,
hung from a mortuary newsstand,
or stuck to lips.
The cafe shade capitulates sunshine.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Work is always in progress
A few things I've been working on recently:
A Scream by the Music College
Held, in the fist of the throat
filched from lungs, spilched over
the voicebox
a shriek that has me
in a panic
a Hotscream
you were
enough to confuse anyone
gutteral, and a tribal dance on your tongue
to run run run on the overheated
singe of summer evening
it's audio snatch
a flotsam
a rogue, roamer of eardrums
sanity pinched long ago
by a breaking voice
the garden, the hedge,
diaphanous
stands a paltry referee
in all of this
mediating from me only
your vision
the last minutes of
the fifth hour
of post meridiem
die and the
good day gnarled itself
When I can
look, you're just a boy
playing football.
What if
Clutching the moon one night
in your cased eye
propped lids
manufactured, cased head
the moon were to drip,
trickling and tickling
treetops
shivering the backbones of petty clouds
taking with it distractions of stars
a frozen, pyroclastic flow of landscape
as she licks the floor
swoops in her grasp
a little bit of space currency
- you would be avaricious.
She will both engulf and cradle.
After her felling of dark,
she enraptures, captures worthless values
as she simmers at the window
A Scream by the Music College
Held, in the fist of the throat
filched from lungs, spilched over
the voicebox
a shriek that has me
in a panic
a Hotscream
you were
enough to confuse anyone
gutteral, and a tribal dance on your tongue
to run run run on the overheated
singe of summer evening
it's audio snatch
a flotsam
a rogue, roamer of eardrums
sanity pinched long ago
by a breaking voice
the garden, the hedge,
diaphanous
stands a paltry referee
in all of this
mediating from me only
your vision
the last minutes of
the fifth hour
of post meridiem
die and the
good day gnarled itself
When I can
look, you're just a boy
playing football.
What if
Clutching the moon one night
in your cased eye
propped lids
manufactured, cased head
the moon were to drip,
trickling and tickling
treetops
shivering the backbones of petty clouds
taking with it distractions of stars
a frozen, pyroclastic flow of landscape
as she licks the floor
swoops in her grasp
a little bit of space currency
- you would be avaricious.
She will both engulf and cradle.
After her felling of dark,
she enraptures, captures worthless values
as she simmers at the window
like a rhythm at full flight
the promise of intimacy a white temptation.
Open the window then
for this mysterious, swimming creature.
After her journey she is a clamour of pallor.
Oceanic light, evading eyes
pervading sighs
and pushing, pushing
Sing and sigh.
She is poised; the glow props open your mouth,
pillowy between teeth.
Do I speak of another world?
Dripping moons?
Her only tides for the shores of dawn:
lashings of adventure, lyrical history and mystery -
the careful mechanics of an epic;
the residues of all stories.
She is poised;
and in her, you see, we are all just the faces of characters
...this one is quite old but mixing it up a little (time wise):
First Minutes - An Account
The day is hard.
The sun accusatory - a final win over the moon
it stands proud, livid, charred
it's armies on my bed sheet.
I turn, we face each other.
Defensive, I am at a whirlwind of petty sheets,
- that will do little to soften the sun's perseverance.
Blazes the windowsill, seethes
and finally my eyes are conquered. Half of me gone.
A finished and fruitless cornfield
the sun has caught me raw.
Only the sun's heat rash on my cheek,
I have not once woken to a lover.
We note each other's solitary ways.
Unchallenged, he is at once immodest.
His armies weigh a tonne.
Undefeated, Ozymandias of the sky, his kingdom did come.
A sharp, early horizon and raiment of rooftops,
he has all but conquered the bedroom wall in his mercilessness.
Alone, I rule the bedside table. I am done.
the promise of intimacy a white temptation.
Open the window then
for this mysterious, swimming creature.
After her journey she is a clamour of pallor.
Oceanic light, evading eyes
pervading sighs
and pushing, pushing
Sing and sigh.
She is poised; the glow props open your mouth,
pillowy between teeth.
Do I speak of another world?
Dripping moons?
Her only tides for the shores of dawn:
lashings of adventure, lyrical history and mystery -
the careful mechanics of an epic;
the residues of all stories.
She is poised;
and in her, you see, we are all just the faces of characters
...this one is quite old but mixing it up a little (time wise):
First Minutes - An Account
The day is hard.
The sun accusatory - a final win over the moon
it stands proud, livid, charred
it's armies on my bed sheet.
I turn, we face each other.
Defensive, I am at a whirlwind of petty sheets,
- that will do little to soften the sun's perseverance.
Blazes the windowsill, seethes
and finally my eyes are conquered. Half of me gone.
A finished and fruitless cornfield
the sun has caught me raw.
Only the sun's heat rash on my cheek,
I have not once woken to a lover.
We note each other's solitary ways.
Unchallenged, he is at once immodest.
His armies weigh a tonne.
Undefeated, Ozymandias of the sky, his kingdom did come.
A sharp, early horizon and raiment of rooftops,
he has all but conquered the bedroom wall in his mercilessness.
Alone, I rule the bedside table. I am done.
Sordid lives
I have a glass front door; in fact, a large portion of my house is made of glass. Life is one of involuntary exhibitionism, and a constantly clothed state, or darkness. Just now I was passing the door, and therefore had to open it, to a squat man shorter then me, who said nothing but "From the Treasury", handing me a huge brown envelope. The envelope is addressed to my dad and contains something of indescribable, three-dimensional shape.
Another thing you'd like to know about life in my house is I found a pair of pants in my "slut box" (which is basically a trunk with my underwear in but it also contains half my clubbin' gear hahaha) that are a thong, made of cheap grey striped jersey and say in pink letters "If ur seeing this you're a lucky fella!". All fitted neatly into the centre of the crotch!
Anyway I'm pretty sure they're not my brothers so they must be my mum's?
ps: I tried to find a photo of my mum to go with this, but a quick google later reveals she shares her name with an obviously better-known African-American news reader and:
Another thing you'd like to know about life in my house is I found a pair of pants in my "slut box" (which is basically a trunk with my underwear in but it also contains half my clubbin' gear hahaha) that are a thong, made of cheap grey striped jersey and say in pink letters "If ur seeing this you're a lucky fella!". All fitted neatly into the centre of the crotch!
Anyway I'm pretty sure they're not my brothers so they must be my mum's?
ps: I tried to find a photo of my mum to go with this, but a quick google later reveals she shares her name with an obviously better-known African-American news reader and:
Mystery
Naomi
lol yeah but still its so entertaining
lets not tell anyone we read it tho
it can be our little seccret
LOL
21:04Ali
hahahahhaah
excellent, masturbation and acid trips all round
i'm gonna go catch up on my Oedipus Tyrannus
Naomi
okkkkay good luck with physiccs tomorwow
xxxxxxx
lol yeah but still its so entertaining
lets not tell anyone we read it tho
it can be our little seccret
LOL
21:04Ali
hahahahhaah
excellent, masturbation and acid trips all round
i'm gonna go catch up on my Oedipus Tyrannus
Naomi
okkkkay good luck with physiccs tomorwow
xxxxxxx
Monday, 8 June 2009
Seeing Britney on Thursday
Britney's a slice of celebrity-culture genius. She's a hybrid of hundreds of Americans' 'creative' visions, a maxim of pop culture, and I for one strongly suspect her entire life is scripted?
She's also a blank canvas of a person; everyone can have their own Britney:
She listens in class:
Likes to relax in the great outdoors:
She's an animal lover:
She will maybe give you head after class, if you buy her sweets after:
She's goofy, just likes to have fun:
.....just one of the gals:
She'll have your kids (so no generation is ever without a bit of Britney):
World hunger angers her:
...but she has a sensitive side too!
She's got a non-discriminative love life :
She likes to play around with her appearance:
and occasionally powdered methamphetamines :
Some personal favourites of Britney lyrical stylings:
And I don’t want to explain tonight
All the things I’ve tried to hide
I shut myself out from the world so I
Can draw the blinds and I’ll teach myself to fly
I love myself
It’s not a sin
I can’t control what’s happenin’
‘Cause I just discovered
Imagination’s taking over
Another day without a lover
The more I come to understand
The touch of my hand
Sometimes I think she's writing just for me:
Im not a girl
Im not a girl dont tell me what to believe
Not yet a woman
Im just tryin to find the woman in me, yeah
All I need is time
Whoa, all I need is time...
A moment that is mine
... thats mine
While Im in between
Im not a girl
Not yet a woman
all this googling around I'M SO EXCITED AAAAH
She's also a blank canvas of a person; everyone can have their own Britney:
She listens in class:
Likes to relax in the great outdoors:
She's an animal lover:
She will maybe give you head after class, if you buy her sweets after:
She's goofy, just likes to have fun:
.....just one of the gals:
She'll have your kids (so no generation is ever without a bit of Britney):
World hunger angers her:
...but she has a sensitive side too!
She's got a non-discriminative love life :
She likes to play around with her appearance:
and occasionally powdered methamphetamines :
Some personal favourites of Britney lyrical stylings:
And I don’t want to explain tonight
All the things I’ve tried to hide
I shut myself out from the world so I
Can draw the blinds and I’ll teach myself to fly
I love myself
It’s not a sin
I can’t control what’s happenin’
‘Cause I just discovered
Imagination’s taking over
Another day without a lover
The more I come to understand
The touch of my hand
Sometimes I think she's writing just for me:
Im not a girl
Im not a girl dont tell me what to believe
Not yet a woman
Im just tryin to find the woman in me, yeah
All I need is time
Whoa, all I need is time...
A moment that is mine
... thats mine
While Im in between
Im not a girl
Not yet a woman
all this googling around I'M SO EXCITED AAAAH
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
