beware the glitterball, my son

i'm all aching as if the running in my dreams was real but need to be fresh as a daisy for party purposes & so will go trip-trapping into town to buy a frock or similar
- will of course most probably wind up with nothing -
all a-flutter at the prospect of free drinksies & the company of mes amies or at the very least mes colleagues, although in absolute starkhonesty there is one who concerns me slightly....
but that's not for the telling, not in the here-now anyway
... where was i?
oh yes, with the trip-trapping & the daisyness. party party here we come
(soon)
many sorries to be extended to you who be reading for the deplorable stream of nothingness but i thought it best to record where i can before i forget what i've writ in the past
& so hence all the worrrrrds & yes, sorry, a lot of feminism
n the like
.
but onwards! perchance i shall exchange these batteries
- too many aaaaaaa -
for something glitterable & funkynstuff
laters laters

archive # 6 - awakes

The "killing" of oneself into an art object - the pruning and preening, the mirror madness, and concerns with odors and aging, with hair which is invariably too curly or too lank, with bodies too thick or thin - all this testifies to the efforts women have expended... trying not to become female monsters.
- from The Madwoman in the Attic, Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar

Open eyes, sleep-heavy,
burning slumber-filled
into unwelcome half-light -

centuries of dusty air wrench, heaving, from lungs
moss-thickened and decaying -

tongue twists free from a cage of rotting teeth.

As deeply I roar.

Serpents uncoil slowly from scalp,
awakening -
all coal-black of eye and
darting.

Bones lie scattered,
hung with fly-
trap
flesh congealing,
torn from remains of heroes.

As I rise creaking

scales slide smoothly over powerful frame,
tail whipping festering sheets into disarray -

the body of another revealed,

buried in muddied sheets,

bloodied face broken chest.

Rip from ribcage the heart still warm and devour

as blood drips from cracked lips

breathe shield-melting flames

and watch wallpaper blacken and curl

as it melts into ash

as it dances in the putrid air

and comes to rest on my skin -

my deadened skin
my human skin
empty skin.

To pull it on,
this skin -

to scour scales from crinkled green,
to watch them fall
and pile at my clawed feet -

to hack off these wings,
this tail,
and veil the bloody stumps with smooth flesh -

to reduce this pulsing strength
to pathetic pink bone cage,
plucked powdered perfumed -

to squeeze monstrous form into one
which daily shrinks,
revealing

teeth
claws
blood
spittle
mud
sweat -

as deeply I roar,

wings unfurl and stretch creaking
long-folded
and creaking

and flex with a snap

shaking free dampness


and dead skin



as I rise creaking




and








fly






Discarded,
human skin lies shredded bloodied
(and
as an afterthought
defiantly scorch-marked) -

without it,

monster




I remain

* * *

impossible to edit the layout to mirror the words' original shape on the page/needless to say this was erratic/breaking of form &c &c, spring 2005

archive # 5 - be perfect flesh

presented in chapbook form, each separate piece framed by virgin page

* * *

"A man found a cocoon of a butterfly. One day a small opening appeared. He watched the cocoon for several hours as the butterfly struggled to force its body through that little hole. Then it seemed to stop making any progress. It appeared as if it could go no further. So the man decided to help it. He took a pair of scissors and snipped off the remaining bit of the cocoon. The butterfly then emerged easily. But it had a swollen body and small, shrivelled wings. The man continued to watch the butterfly. He expected that at any moment the wings would enlarge and expand to support the body, which would contract in time. Neither happened! In fact, the butterfly spent the rest of its life crawling around with a swollen body and shrivelled wings. It was never able to fly."

- Anon

bleakly. she sits. her veins have burst from her
body and clear liquids pulse through them, rush-
ing into her arm and filling her up.
traitor veins. traitor arm. heavy it lies.
but. she is light. her veins carry light. she
is light and she is cold. the still air chills
her buffets her bruises her. her skin. of
spun light, brittle

bums and thighs, she. carnival pear-shape in
harsh light mirrored, diamond and stone-centred.
big behind her. these gape, these cling, big bum
thighs bursting out betraying slim waist pert
and clear-skinned. betrayed by her middle, she
dreams brazilian beaches and sun-kissed
worship of bum and thighs others. dreams her-
self perfection

glue fingers trace bodies. happy bodies.
cut them free. paste them down, a crowd of tans
and smiles of white teeth. beautiful bodies.
glue in her hair, drying greyly on her
fingers. she peels it in strings, feeling the
tug on her skin. her unhappy skin, grey,
blotchy and peeling, hanging sad on her
shadow body

her feral hair splits and shrieks. gasping, she
waits, eyes narrow. attacks. it rips, squeals, twis-
ting from he grasp. a hold. she holds, fighting,
and tames it with a blow. feebly it crawls.
she stops it with a second blow, brands it
with fire, flattens. and lies in wait for the
next victim. eyes narrow, she waits, gasping.
feral, her hair

in dark. she touches her face. feeling. if
it were blank. a canvas. a block of clay.
to remould. her fingers soften the lump
between her eyes, her trespassing brain, push-
ing it gently back. smoothing. she straightens
her new brow. hot weary tears journey a-
long uneven contours as her skin,
stubborn, reforms

inhale. flex. pull in. strain. hold. taut, burning
core of her. she wills it iron. release,
lower, relax. muscles like stone, pressing
her breath hot, burning from her core. iron
core. strength. inhale. flex. pull in. strain. hold. burn-
ing muscles pulse, she feels pulse, she is pulse,
pulsing, the fire licks at her eyes. she wills
herself iron

made in romania punishment of
cotton. the too-much body which swallowed
whole. swallowed all. refuses, bulging, its
former trappings. she punches too-yielding
flesh, pulling it back into shape, feels it
push against her fingers, mutinous soft.
organs bones blood float free atide the swell
inside she-whale

quick heeled, she marches. sharp heeled, claiming con-
crete. calves tension tight, toe-tied in lycra
tan, her legs stretch through her body and in-
to the sky. pain of precision, muscles
toned to a point, of tapering toes and
tender soles rubbed raw, worn through, one two one
two these machine legs these dead feet this sharp
step battle heeled

red-rimmed eyes as she rubs them, rubs them, blood-
shot, rubshot, rubbed raw. returns to the mir-
ror, tries to rub them away. the freckles.
sobbing the freckles the freckles. staining,
staining her, marking her. freckled. stained. sun-
stained, sun-marked, sunshot. she screams at her mo-
ther who hands her a new powder face, nude,
number 15

red-rimmed flesh mouth gapes at his touch, spilling
butter yellow over his invading
fingers and invading knife. he pulls and
she yields, fleshily, spare flesh, splash. over
his fingers. the knife. the sculpting knife. the
sculptor. his saving fingers. his saving
knife. saving flesh. saving her flesh. soon to
be perfect flesh

this is becoming. she lifts the soft cot-
ton pad, daubed with fresh skin, and erases
her face. a sweep. jawline. hollows. blankly,
she glows. a mist of gold, a shimmer. dust.
glimmering. eyelids flutter and blush li-
lac, and she arms them with blackened spears. rose-
rub lips bleed a lustre smile, cloaked crimson
red and deadly

under cool light. dry mouth. body lies flat,
laid bare. cool hands press, a movement. sudden
searing flash of hot melting, cooling then
stripped. her body stripped bare. screams. she sits, gum-
my naked skin. dresses. feeling beneath
her clothes the wind as if on her. close. a
butterfly, she emerges, her skin a-
quiver, drying

* * *

spring 2005, ongoing exploration of the body as text, writing theory and writing the female form; see 'awakes' for gilbert and gubar quote

archive # 4 - temptress

Sweet flames to engulf all,
leaving blackened in their wake another cut
of my once again dance around the house soul,

its puppet saint flames to silently burn all,
vain sigh of defiance dying -

a drowning darkness, calling to rise up
to newly-distant wings

tears of helpless defeat,
of weak-willed submission to this snake
is sinuous, it coils tight within my heart
whispering dark forbidden and unashamed.

And for such a one as I to burn, what's this?
Temptress. The word.

* * *

with thankful debt to william burroughs's cut up machine, unkown date

archive # 3 - return to (from)

Breathe.

A bright moment,
my space.

These my colours, shouting from the white that I am here! & welcoming me
with vibrant voices back into the arms
of sweet, pink present.
Flagship of the recent past, this, mine!

Breathe.

So soon (too soon)
to pass into patchwork history, my story -

green muslin beginnings
explosions

- & to join all those who first
embraced me

blue clouded rest,
flowered mess overflowing,
apricot warmth retreating & dissolving,
a confusion of colours bursting from the walls & bursting into flames in the afternoon sun,
sacrificed to childhood

but for now brightly,
loudly,
now.

* * *

continuation of escape from (into), ongoing autobiographical project after lyn hejinian, unkown date

archive # 2 - the o.c.

love on the walls over and over

(conversations)

who knows, perhaps I should -


you chose me.

this weekend,
your own Happy Valentine's Day

be
lonely.

eligible for sainthood, roaring round the house,
I'm a total mess
left (for you?) at the door.

sweet ruins, just somebody unspoken

love in a box,
dark twisted pan and pink drapes
- it's always been summer,
(we have sunshine here you know) -

I'm the one for laughing
Tomorrow.

Another day of wisdom;
don't think talk think talk think talk think talk about it, you know how
it goes.

Back to normal,
reminding me -

Tomorrow.

I'll get a little holiday spirit,
reflecting on tomorrow -
I survived.

* * *

'automatic' writing edited via Hannah Weiner's Clairvoyant Journal, october 2004

archive # 1 - orthodoxy

Orthodoxy denies desire to create through the act of
writing.

Its particular tradition?

Structures,
associated intellectually by
unwashed labour from
scripture
and the dung goddess;

implied levels and
nationhood
from discreet history.

After all, a tablet
in much the same way possesses stories,
implicit for authors
who (linearity as stylistic terror and
elation/rejection)
become the background.

"There, she - "

Hands hit upon a method,
promote it.
Chaotic
tumbling
of narrative
around lifelong passages,
long ago transcribed, has meaning, little
background
(more radically than any notion
of delirium)

Back to the story, waiting patiently to enter the
narrative.

* * *

procedural writing using grid & source material (Timothy Brennan's Salman Rushdie and the Third World) october 2004

song for someone else

baby, you're a death scene;
i can see my outline
chalked into the mattress where i lay beside you.
i'll walk away tomorrow,
but for now i'll keep my breath slow,
pretend that i'm already gone,
try not to wake you.

the bruising pain of your kiss
and the blood like blame on your lips
like marks you made, they soon will fade,
i can forget this
and hold onto the days when
we'd talk until the sun came;
before the words were lost and swallowed
by this hunger for skin.

for a moment there, it felt like i was feeling
something like the way i used to feel before;
for a moment there, it felt like i was smiling,
but i don't leave here smiling any more.

bathed in the candlelight, holding onto you tight,
i thought you might be a dream;
bathed in the candlelight, i thought that we looked like
lovers in movie scenes.
but bathed in the candlelight, i couldn't see you right,
i never thought this would be
nothing but candlelight, struggling through the night,
dying in morning breeze.

you never saw me cry,
but since this is the last night
these tears i'll shed into your bed
for you to find.
i'm breaking with the new day
and rising from this cliche
as shadows die, i feel like i'm
already miles away.

song for someone

smiling faces from a past we thought we knew
make a fool out of me and empty shadows out of you.
boxes of photographs, eyes that stare into the gloom
of the cupboards where we leave them, and the albums where they're hidden
from our time-embittered view.

you said i'd someday leave you, and i was saddened at the sound
of your voice, so calm and steady, as you told the tale we knew now had no choice but come around;
but i do feel guilty sometimes, when i get to thinking how
i discarded you completely just to turn to cheaper comfort with new families i've found.

no-one holds onto the light the way you do,
so keep it glowing and reflecting, always growing, always warming
all the cold places in you.

so i'm sorry that it didn't turn out the way you would have planned,
if the cruel forces of time and age had not crept in and dealt too many jokers to your hand.
an old reflection haunts me - my frame an image of no care -
now illusion's taken over, stolen all emotions, keep on checking but they're still not there.

numbly we forgave you for your despair on that dark road,
knowing that your words were dragged from somewhere in your soul that someday
our own aging souls would know;
and i hope you can forgive me my apparent lack of time,
it's just remembering your existence often makes me angry that i feel such little now for mine.

she went to beachy head, and all i got was this lousy sunburn

i decided fuck it, in the end, and walked up onto the cliffs, sandals or no sandals. it was worth it, just to sip atop, the sea magnificent and wedgewood blue beyond a fringe of dancing grasses. on my way i disturbed a couple, who took a good while to notice me ambling past but an amusingly short amount of time to rearrange themselves into a nonchalent tableau of repose.

it's a strange feeling, going back to the place where i was born. i go there with expectations, holding my breath for a flood of emotions, but as i look across the town painted before me i find i'm still waiting. do these hills, these beaches, remember me? does my presence fill an otherwise empty gap? it doesn't. so why do i always approach with such anticipation?

earlier in the day i sat at the foot of a statue in victoria, sharing cigarettes with a man from america who was waiting for the guy he'd been conversing with when i arrived to return with booze. he invited me to join them, but even i have to draw a line at drinking in public spaces with complete strangers before 9 in the morning. at least when i'm waiting for a train.

what struck me, always strikes me, was the sheer simplicity of it all. after wandering along the seafront and up into the hills, then making a quick stop in the town centre to confirm that yes, it's still a shitty shopping arcade, i went to the pub around the corner from the b&b and spent a good hour and a half talking to locals (one of whom tried not to insult me by insinuating that i wasn't a local myself - 'i mean, i've seen you here before' - and another of whom tried to chat me up before finding out i was from 'that dangerous, noisy' london), playing with their dogs and children and generally being made welcome in a place where literally no-one knew my name. today i sat in my mum's boyfriend's garden, drinking wine and reading the daily mail, and even reports from the other 'home' of my maleparent's latest foray into insanity were just another part of this strange, family life that more often than not nowadays seems to resemble a slightly more disturbing pastiche of eastenders. nothing could burst the bubble. and sitting for breakfast in the b&b this morning, i was surrounded by a family that could well have been my own, their oh-so-familiar sussex-by-way-of-essex accents tripping over tales of wedding dresses and bar brawls.

and do you know, i love all that shit. too often i feel like an imposter, no matter where i am - at home i was always slightly different, too book-ish, too inane, and as a student i was always hankering slightly too much after the tv dinners, pubs and football matches that were, in my head, the normality of life, as opposed to the reading-artwatching-newspaperreadingness of daily academic existence. i'm never on one side or the other. and when i say home, well, the place that i grew up in really wasn't. so it is nice to go back south, occasionally, and feel part, just for a moment, of a community that talks the same way i do and that, even if only in isolation over a period of hours, makes sense.

and then of course i can come back to my books, and my inanity...

volare

not an everyday evening, although somehow when these things are happening you wish it were everyday
flamenco dancers and some dude from the gypsy kings on guitar, in canary wharf of all places
i sat on the lip of the fountain and ate a punnet of tomatoes in the low london sun
whilst the crowd shook their hips and clapped
mostly out of time

in a few hours i'll be on a train to the coast
my first proper weekend away, alone

but one of my heels is broken so i'll be in sandals, which makes me sad
they're such pretty shoes

brilliant disguise

a recent almost-dispute at work (caused partly by my own shoddy organisation skills and slack pace of late) has finally come to an end with an email from the disputee.

i'm a little bit in love with this strange, little man since he said this:

'The confusion would have been avoided, had I known there was a General manager above you who I could have contacted. I thought you were THE BOSS and nobody said to me anything to the contrary.'

he thinks i'm bruce springsteen!

it was at that moment

there's only really one thing to do when in emotional turmoil - which, clearly, i am - and that's watch scrubs. so i did. all night. it's so comforting to listen to someone else's neurotic internal monologue for a change, fictional or not. plus it really helps me focus on what's important in life.

okay, so that last bit's bull, but it is nice to escape into a world where every half hour is themed, where relationships can be plotted as they come and go, develop and disintegrate, and where everything is finally and neatly summarised.
oh, and with theme music. i think if life had theme music it would somehow make everything okay.

and just to save this all from the whiny nonsensical niche which i seem to have carved out for myself - everything is okay. i just wish certain people hadn't already pigeon-holed me as a big, fat, histrionic mess. maybe then we could start afresh with all the normality i was spouting on about last night.

i also wish i'd slept at least for an hour or two but hey. for today at least my life will be narrated by my mind's impression of zach braff. definitely worth it.

i started nothing

i was on a bus at the end of the day - travelling in daylight was slightly surreal - and staring through the neat frame of the bridge at highgate towards the spread of the city below, st pauls and canary wharf swimming into view like matchstick models, and a sudden, sinking realisation hit me. i couldn't meet him, was actively avoiding him, because i couldn't go looking like this, which is - well - like me, and more to the point, i couldn't meet him sober. i want to be perfect for him, want to be perfect for everyone, not to present this sad visage as my only offering to an occasion, not to turn up with only myself to fall back on. and it was heavy in my stomach and on my brow, this knowledge suddenly, clearly, that i'm nothing, that i'm ashamed of this... dependence. and yet.
and yet i still stopped by the shop and bought some, and as soon as i had it in my hand i was fine again, even if i was frowning with this weight, this shadow, this knowledge of myself that was as laid out to me as the peaks and spires of london, in relief against the mist of distance
- all day i've been mistaking shapes and colours for things, shrinking from inanimate objects or double-glancing into the faraway as if the shapes were something more; i never thought i'd miss my glasses until they were gone -
i am ashamed. and a little scared. and all this while, all i want, really, is normality. warm, comfortable normality. like this time last year, or some such time, when i piled into the car with my ex and his housemates and we went into town and shopped, just shopped, in second hand stores and supermarkets, and bought barbecue food and rum, and then sat until the shadows fell and i could barely walk for rum and weed, and i felt as if i was part of the stream of life that usually passes me by, if only briefly.
i'd like to fall asleep next to someone and wake up with them still there, and just be normal.

that's not a scene from requiem

he's holding it right up in my face
- i'm telling you, it's not right -
and i'm trying to step away without offending him, but all the while he keeps on edging closer and closer, and when my foot hits the wall behind me i know i'll need to try another tactic
- look, love, i didn't ask for this either, you know -
so i fake a call, feeling around the buttons blindly until my phone is convinced to sound out from my pocket
i'm rather impressed by its urgency
got to go! sorry! people! waiting!
and it's a very physical relief that shrugs through me as i walk away
and a very small sprinkling of guilt
as i remember his arm all webbed white with scars
and seeming to be bursting at its seams in ugly purple
and really not looking right at all

hook line sinker

pathetically, i realised yesterday that i really really like smoking. and that i have to be able to enjoy a few bohemian puffs whilst sitting on the beach at the weekend. and that if there's a work party imminent, i need to be one of the smokers in order to get all the juicy gossip outside.
sad, but true.
i'll give up when i'm good and ready.

girl i wanna make you sweat

ub40 and peter andre playing at the party over the road
and yet despite all the constant noise

this is a relatively quiet place after dark

without headphones i'm too jumpy in hackney

this week i will make a dedicated start (without hindering my progress by losing anything) at being a proper human being

i had my last cigarette a few minutes ago

so....

go

carrie bradshaw knows good sex

i've just shaken myself from that particular malaise that only a saturday evening spent slumped in front of the television can bring about. in all fairness, a good dose of friends did cheer me up immensely, but i had to drag myself away from a second episode of sex in the city.

my rare, if brief, indulgence in american tv did, however, make me think. mainly about dating, which isn't exactly the most profound of pastimes my lazy mind could muster up, but after spending the best part of three days in bed, any kind of thought (beyond 'how best to get downstairs without falling over?') is a productive one.

i mean, dating. for me, it's a bit of a foreign concept. my admittedly few 'relationships' (i'm sticking with the inverted commas), or indeed any kind of fleeting flings, have come about mostly by chance and alcohol, which is to say i've either ended up with a pre-existing friend/colleague because i'm drunk, or i've ended up with some random because i'm... well, you get the picture. now, obviously that hasn't really worked out for me in the traditional sense, in that i've now been single for coming up a year (yelp! and no, i'm not counting aforementioned 'flings', because no-one does), but in the short term it's suited me down to a tee.

imagine, then, a date. you have to put actual effort into getting to 'know' someone, or at least get on with them, and for part of that time (unless you've pre-prepared) you'll be flying without alcohol! added to which, you both know exactly why you're there (and of course being a dirty cynic i don't really go for the 'looking for the one' line, which really only leaves one realistic goal) which is, let's face it, slightly embarrassing. no? why do people put themselves through all of this?!

both friends and sex and the city, naturally, had me suckered in for a little while. for a teensy moment i was sitting (okay, okay... slouching) on my sofa, thinking 'yes. i could do this. i could wear pretty dresses and meet cute guys and go on dates and then decide to break it off because of this and this, or to keep seeing them because of this and this, and did i mention the pretty dresses?'. until the inevitable, crushing realisation that not only do i own less than three pretty dresses (i have two), i also live in what is possibly the most date-defying city in the world.

or rather, i've no idea how one goes about trying to get one, or even if i'd want to 'do' dating full-stop. it all sounds very stressful. apart from the pretty dresses.

one of my colleagues seems to be on an endless stream of dates. he's gay. most of my other friends are happily partnered. so where oh where the boys? and do people still go on dates? i went on one or two when i was younger, and they were mortifying.

to be absolutely, frankly, sex-and-the-city honest - if we've actually made it to the date stage, the chemistry probably ain't there in the first place. whether this says something about my lifestyle or my general personality is, i hope, besides the point.

oh, what a girly rant. i promise normal, depressive service will resume shortly.

l'apres midi

my friend who is soon to be married has given me the greatest gift i think she could have, short of converting me and marrying me off into christendom
- at her wedding i will play
in public
which i haven't done in three years (the three year anniversary of the death of my grandad is tomorrow, and it was at his funeral that i last played for anyone to really hear) -

over the past month i've toiled and sweated and cursed my keyboard in the unrelenting light of the east london sun through my window as i've failed and failed again to produce anything of worth, the pain made worse by the pressure of the wedding and the knowledge of my general failure to Live Life Normally*
but finally
finally!
i can play the first of the three pieces
and it's as easy as breathing once more
albeit breathing that's come as an all-or-nothing gasp through fluid
but still
i can play, i can achieve, i can try and i can succeed

all things that i'd give up on

on the subject of my grandfather's death, actually
- it was in the shop, some while ago now, in a strange mood, that i picked up a book, casually**
and then threw over my shoulder to one of my colleagues
'i was reading this the night i watched my grandad die'
- which is true but the fact of the statement itself unnecessary

and so t, if you're reading, i'm sorry for my flippant unprofessionalism
generally

*for which read Meet Somebody, Achieve Something
** Julie Orminger, 'Breathing Underwater', i think

mourners of mourners of mourners

secrets are odd things

i'm pre-disposed to telling everyone everything and yet even i have a couple, which vary in importance and strength depending on the circumstances
it was at the end of two novembers ago that i told one of mine for the last time, thinking mistakenly that shared it would be halved &c
but

the next autumn i held my tongue and bit my lip and kept things hidden that i thought were desperately pertinent to the situation and it turned out
that without them
i was fine
gradually

some secrets are none of one's business in the first place and so aren't one's to tell
and that includes anything that has a tangible place in the life we live everyday
or that might hurt or influence or change
pretty much anything

my secrets
i learned all by myself
aren't on this list and yet still fall under the category of not to be told

unmentioned, they can fade into nothingness, even for me

and so it was that i told him i had all but forgotten my past

it's true. without me feeding it, constantly, worrying at it like a scab,
i can and do forget, finally
and there is no freezing (or at least only occasionally)
only a once-in-a-while, sudden, takes-me-by-surprise moment that will shock me into tears but which i can then analyse and file away for future reference

because some things should remain hidden, so that they can be buried, so that we can pass by on the other side as at a stranger's funeral and watch the figures moving, darkly, slowly, away, and know with an unexpected lump in our throats that something is sad

and yet not quite know what, or why, that is

the beauty is that occasionally there will always, always be that solitary figure who
(like on the day of my grandmother's funeral as we drove through the streets)
actually takes notice and truly, truly sees through the darkened window and tactfully says nothing,

just raises his hat in respect

and moves on