Wednesday 31 August 2011
Tuesday 30 August 2011
A Day in Thoughts.
04:38 - Woke up sweating from a horrifying dream. Thought 'remember not to use
your toilet it's getting fixed, walk down the hall'.
your toilet it's getting fixed, walk down the hall'.
07:50 - Woke up groaning audibly, yet again from the same or similar horrifying
dream. Thought 'death' and 'dying' and 'tiring'.
dream. Thought 'death' and 'dying' and 'tiring'.
09:57 - Walking to the bathroom thought 'my jeans are fantastically tight and I'm
ready to party'.
ready to party'.
10:09 - Thought 'fuck this fuck this fuck this'.
12:00 - Watching my creative director design a calendar thought 'yes', 'Investec' and
'put a grid on it' in the same tone that I would have said 'put a bird on it'.
12:39 - Thought 'fuck this shit'.
12:44 - Thought 'I would almost marry you if we weren't completely different people
and if you cared about me'.
12:44 + 3 seconds - Thought 'that was a lie thought'.
13:03 - Looking at myself in the mirror thought 'my boobs are rocking' and 'wish my
period boobs were my regular boobs'.
12:00 - Watching my creative director design a calendar thought 'yes', 'Investec' and
'put a grid on it' in the same tone that I would have said 'put a bird on it'.
12:39 - Thought 'fuck this shit'.
12:44 - Thought 'I would almost marry you if we weren't completely different people
and if you cared about me'.
12:44 + 3 seconds - Thought 'that was a lie thought'.
13:03 - Looking at myself in the mirror thought 'my boobs are rocking' and 'wish my
period boobs were my regular boobs'.
13:36 - Locked eyes with a man also eating an apple in a crowded shopping mall and
thought 'yes', 'we are different' and 'should we stop and chat'.
thought 'yes', 'we are different' and 'should we stop and chat'.
shop and they're on the mannequin so lots of girls will buy them I don't want
something everyone will have more so because others will look better in these
than I will' but with no self-deprecation, just observation.
14:16 - Thought 'hot ham'.
15:29 - Thought 'my goodness I am an adult this should not make me feel so trembly'.
19:52 - Buying cigarettes for my brother at the gas station thought 'do I look
awkward because I feel it' and 'hate the fact that the guy behind me now thinks
that I smoke'.
19:56 - Thought 'it would be good if people saw me singing into my hand microphone
it would make them smile maybe and even lighten up' but instinctively lowered
my hand when the next car drove by. Thought 'I am a disgrace'.
20:04 - Thought 'I do just imitate the singer's voice in a song' and 'I don't know what
my own voice sounds like'.
20:08 - Thought 'everyone's stoned on the highway they're all driving at 80'.
20:10 - Thought 'I don't know what my own voice sounds like' but in an exclamatory
way and 'it's hard to sing with it I don't even know how' in a sad way.
20:11 - Thought 'highway'.
20:56 - Thought 'this is what's wrong with the world' repeatedly.
21:15 - Walked on the treadmill and thought
'Uni Freight'
'Chipkins'
'Sea World'
'Triton Express'
'Greyhound'
21:43 - Really felt like scrambled eggs, found two hard boiled eggs in a pan on the
stove and thought 'yes' very happily.
21:45 - Cracked one of the eggs on the counter and raw egg ran out. Thought 'no'
very sadly.
22:16 - Thought 'sleep'.
23:07 - Thought 'sleep'.
Monday 29 August 2011
Friday 26 August 2011
Layover.
Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men – poor folks –
work.
That moment – to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.
Charles Bukowski
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men – poor folks –
work.
That moment – to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.
Charles Bukowski
Thursday 25 August 2011
25/08.
I distinctly remember trying to trade a tampon for some sort of foodstuffs a gentleman had in my dream last night.
Tuesday 23 August 2011
Sunday Morning.
Best enjoyed alone.
In a place that is not your own.
Lying in the bath, or on the floor.
Heard softly through the closed door.
With the faint layer of human sound that is an apartment building,
creeping up the gap where the water drains.
Monday 22 August 2011
Sunday Afternoon.
Nuclear family with two small boys sit near you in the park. They are foreign so you relax.
They are speaking a beautiful European language.
You ask what it is.
It is German.
You would have never guessed German.
Think how an international female spy would not only have known it was German, but would have been able to understand and fluently speak the language.
Sincerely and intensely for not the first time rue the fact that you never became an international female spy.
They are speaking a beautiful European language.
You ask what it is.
It is German.
You would have never guessed German.
Think how an international female spy would not only have known it was German, but would have been able to understand and fluently speak the language.
Sincerely and intensely for not the first time rue the fact that you never became an international female spy.
Monday 15 August 2011
Memorable Weekend Quotes.
"I'm not making fucking art here, Amy. I'm just looking to make some money." Gold.
"He will break you and I will not intervene."
"They're obviously trying to make a point."
"You've got to be hardcore to be on crutches, and cause shit."
"We would have the deepest conversations on the beach."
"And in the split second before it happened I said, show me that you are here. And then right after that I said no, because faith is about not having to..."
"He will break you and I will not intervene."
"They're obviously trying to make a point."
"You've got to be hardcore to be on crutches, and cause shit."
"We would have the deepest conversations on the beach."
"And in the split second before it happened I said, show me that you are here. And then right after that I said no, because faith is about not having to..."
Sunday 14 August 2011
I'd like some food brought to me please.
Like fish.
And chips.
With vinegar.
And salt.
Tomato sauce.
And greasy grey paper.
A lemon to squeeze.
No napkins.
I don't care for them.
It may come in a packet.
Or in a box.
It does not matter.
So long as it fills me.
And crunches when I bite it.
It must stay hot.
All these things.
Just these things.
...
It could also be cake.
Like fish.
And chips.
With vinegar.
And salt.
Tomato sauce.
And greasy grey paper.
A lemon to squeeze.
No napkins.
I don't care for them.
It may come in a packet.
Or in a box.
It does not matter.
So long as it fills me.
And crunches when I bite it.
It must stay hot.
All these things.
Just these things.
...
It could also be cake.
Friday 12 August 2011
Thursday 11 August 2011
Wednesday 10 August 2011
Pink Bullets.
I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole
You held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold
Oh what a contrast you were
To the brutes in the halls
My timid young fingers held a decent animal.
Over the ramparts you tossed
The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers
Tied to a brick
Sweet as a song
The years have been short but the days were long.
Cool of a temperate breeze from dark skies to wet grass
We fell in a field it seems now a thousand summers passed
When our kite lines first crossed
We tied them into knots
And to finally fly apart
We had to cut them off.
Since then it's been a book you read in reverse
So you understand less as the pages turn
Or a movie so crass
And awkwardly cast
That even I could be the star.
I don't look back as much as a rule
And all this way before murder was cool
But your memory is here and I'd like it to stay
Warm light on a winter day.
Over the ramparts you tossed
The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers
Tied to a brick
Sweet as a song
The years have been short but the days go slowly by
Two loose kites falling from the sky
Drawn to the ground and an end to flight.
You held a warm stone out new flowing blood to hold
Oh what a contrast you were
To the brutes in the halls
My timid young fingers held a decent animal.
Over the ramparts you tossed
The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers
Tied to a brick
Sweet as a song
The years have been short but the days were long.
Cool of a temperate breeze from dark skies to wet grass
We fell in a field it seems now a thousand summers passed
When our kite lines first crossed
We tied them into knots
And to finally fly apart
We had to cut them off.
Since then it's been a book you read in reverse
So you understand less as the pages turn
Or a movie so crass
And awkwardly cast
That even I could be the star.
I don't look back as much as a rule
And all this way before murder was cool
But your memory is here and I'd like it to stay
Warm light on a winter day.
Over the ramparts you tossed
The scent of your skin and some foreign flowers
Tied to a brick
Sweet as a song
The years have been short but the days go slowly by
Two loose kites falling from the sky
Drawn to the ground and an end to flight.
Monday 8 August 2011
Saturday 6 August 2011
124-130.
He walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and saying nothing; and then suddenly he broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't write to me that way."
"It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and believe that."
"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone, but we can't believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you should admit you do-"
"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.
"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said nothing, and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice."
"I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made his heart contract.
"I should like very much to know it."
"I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it."
"Excuse my saying that in the meantime I must doubt of it."
"You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.
"I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but he apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. " Do you prefer some one else?"
"That's a question I'd rather not answer."
"Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.
The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I don't."
He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "I can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand them."
"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the same to you."
Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery, and stood there showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned around her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. "That reason that I wouldn't tell you-I'll tell you after all. It's that I can't escape my fate."
"Your fate?"
"I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."
"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as anything else?"
"Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's not my fate to give up-I know it can't be."
Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. "Do you call marrying me giving up?"
"Not in the usual sense. It's getting -getting- getting a great deal. But it's giving up other chances."
"Other chances for what?"
"I don't mean to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.
"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more than you'll lose," her companion observed.
"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I shall be trying to."
"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.
"I musn't-I can't!" cried the girl.
"Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none for me."
"I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be. I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by turning away, by separating myself."
"By separating yourself from what?"
"From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people know and suffer."
Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why, my dear Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could, depend upon it I would! For what do you take me pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing whatever-not even from your friend Miss Stackpole."
"She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for doing so.
...
After it, without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs Touchett, who had stopped on her way to the saloon. "I may as well tell you," said that lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord Warburton."
Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times."
"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs Touchett dispassionately asked.
Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better."
"Yes, but I know you better."
"I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.
"Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better."
"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.
"It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and believe that."
"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone, but we can't believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you should admit you do-"
"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.
"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said nothing, and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice."
"I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made his heart contract.
"I should like very much to know it."
"I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it."
"Excuse my saying that in the meantime I must doubt of it."
"You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.
"I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but he apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. " Do you prefer some one else?"
"That's a question I'd rather not answer."
"Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.
The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I don't."
He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "I can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand them."
"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the same to you."
Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery, and stood there showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned around her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. "That reason that I wouldn't tell you-I'll tell you after all. It's that I can't escape my fate."
"Your fate?"
"I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."
"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as anything else?"
"Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's not my fate to give up-I know it can't be."
Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. "Do you call marrying me giving up?"
"Not in the usual sense. It's getting -getting- getting a great deal. But it's giving up other chances."
"Other chances for what?"
"I don't mean to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.
"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more than you'll lose," her companion observed.
"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I shall be trying to."
"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.
"I musn't-I can't!" cried the girl.
"Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none for me."
"I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be. I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by turning away, by separating myself."
"By separating yourself from what?"
"From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people know and suffer."
Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why, my dear Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could, depend upon it I would! For what do you take me pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing whatever-not even from your friend Miss Stackpole."
"She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for doing so.
...
After it, without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs Touchett, who had stopped on her way to the saloon. "I may as well tell you," said that lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord Warburton."
Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times."
"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs Touchett dispassionately asked.
Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better."
"Yes, but I know you better."
"I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.
"Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better."
"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.
Thursday 4 August 2011
04/08.
"Does she know you love her?"
"Of course."
I paused. The obstacle seemed unreal to me.
"If you love her," I said, "you'll love somebody else someday."
I paused. The obstacle seemed unreal to me.
"If you love her," I said, "you'll love somebody else someday."
- Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar
Tuesday 2 August 2011
Monday 1 August 2011
This Morning I Realised.
I hate Bob Dylan's voice.
So much.
It drones, and wanes and WAILS.
It ball-drags.
Like chalk on my soul.
Up and down and up and down and up and down again.
Screeching as I try to enjoy my morning smoke.
Up and down and up and down and up and down again.
I hate Bob Dylan's voice.
I hate it.
So much.
It drones, and wanes and WAILS.
It ball-drags.
Like chalk on my soul.
Up and down and up and down and up and down again.
Screeching as I try to enjoy my morning smoke.
Up and down and up and down and up and down again.
I hate Bob Dylan's voice.
I hate it.
- My dear friend Lauren on a Monday morning
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