September 30, 2010 § Leave a comment
At what point did I stop believing in unbelievable ideas? An idea of you? Of what I want and am?
Perhaps that afternoon in two-thousand-and-nine, the one I regret more than anyone or anything. I thrifted hope for my ration of sense. ‘It’s a lie. Why, I’d rather not be loved at all, than to bear hope, and have the possibilty of love.’ I killed hope to kill the potential, the possible, as my pain stemmed from that potential. And I moved on speedily like a child sporting armbands, to the deep end.
That friend, she turned me over again and again, possibly even more times than she turned to herself. I know there is an ounce of goodness there somewhere. What is this? Nonsense? Hope? Am I to be ridiculed? I guess it is my ovaries that fell for you last Friday, rather than my strength or self-respect. Yet something else calls and I want to be deaf to it I don’t want to hear it. That I don’t.
I lipstick. I love. Would I rather eat curry in my pyjamas? I’ve been there. I don’t know anymore. I’m just figuring out this hit-and-miss trail. I’m just testing the current, trying the water out with my colourful toes. Some mornings I miss that experience. You testing my water. For me. Pouring OJ. Pancakes.
I think I’d rather be alone than lose that again. And again.
So why am I listening for the key the damn key in the door? I try not to, I ignore the muffled kitchen clinks and clanks below. But my ears are blindly in love with you, unlike my gone gone gumption.
I might mention, also, that each morning I see that boy, with his silver-streaked black eyes, biking down Alexandra Parade to work. Backpack replaces shovel. I want to ask him politely if I might paint his eyes but I am terrified of drowning in those lochs.
And his bicycle flies by faster than my own, Chester.
September 29, 2010 § Leave a comment
I don’t blog when I’m happy. I’m usually too busy being happy.
However, it’s a grey day today, hadn’t you noticed? It’s a grey grey day, less colourful even than the squirrels in Alexandra Park or the puddled pavements or the overcast faces of the blind forecasters. It’s a grey grey day. A sudden change. Acceptance. I was adrift between the clouds and beams and trees, and cast off from my own footholds. We are here now, we are winter. We have become what we watched coming. And I’d rather know this, and reckon this, and layer fleeces over sheets to ward off frost, than suddenly substitute this sky for a visible ray. Give it seven months. Six if fortune favours us.
Soon the white flurry will arive and we will keep our coats on as we dance, and we will whisper our evidence in pale mouthed clouds. I thank you for carpets, and toast, and not living in squats.
I’m happy here, now, because I know I don’t have to be happy if I don’t want to be. I choose to be. I’m happy here because I know I will be unhappy, also. I’m happy here because I posted you a postcard with a ‘haggis refuge centre’ on. Write me. Write me soon.
It eludes me; that evasive thought escapes my thinking cap. I mean, I want to say I’m happy here because I belong in a certain uncertainty, but that isn’t it, that isn’t happiness. Experience, perhaps, but not happiness. Always thinking there is something more, something I’m not experiencing or living true to; that is my unhappiness. I want it all, I want to fill my days with feeling from break to nightfall. Yet now at noon I’m happy knowing I have a little of everything, and I can be contented with the grey and with this feeling.
It’s gone. It has avoided my grasp. And should I ask for a return, it would reply to I: I know you will not harm me, but you are not reaady for me and you cannot understand me. Not now.
And I can be contented with this feeling.
September 26, 2010 § 3 Comments
Whenever it feels like there is a hole in my chest instead of a heart, I console myself with the question ‘what would Amelie do?’ I mean, she would probably go and and stick heart-shaped post-its with poetry scrawled on to some bicycle baskets. I did that once. I did.
In this situation I’m not sure what to do. Leave Glasgow? Or just this street? I sure as hell am not leaving this world because I’m not fourteen anymore and I don’t try to see how far I can hang from fifth-floor window ledges for the rush. I haven’t stopped wanting to, but I’m tired of being some Lady of Shalott-alike. I would have stayed on the island, Lady, where there were eats and wine. And I would have dealt with it. In time.
I think it’s okay to postpone pain, but if you postpone more than one problem everything kind of builds up and bowls you over. It’s like some are born of sand, and we will always crumble when held. I just don’t want to slide through your fingers every morning like a waif who couldn’t keep her head down.
I’m no ghost, I am a being. And I’d rather you didn’t jog-on-the-spot in your shiny blue spiked running shoes on this particular spot. It’s my heart, and I rather like it. I’m tired of having to pump it back up every time I get a puncture. I didn’t make it so flimsily, it was given to me this way, y’know, like thrift toys with missing eyes.
I cannot choose what you do, for you. I know my 8am dream was just a dream it was just a dream, and I had to strum Dorothy to rid my head of your voice, but I’ll thank you kindly to leave me alone when I’m trying to get some kip. I have to deal with falling for you every morning, and when you appear in the early AM, you are no vision. And I am not alone.
September 23, 2010 § Leave a comment
“There’s a gap in between
There’s a gap where we meet
Where I end and you begin
And I’m sorry for us.”
Sometimes it’s wider than I can imagine. I am a painter, I think in colour, and often in line. You are a dream you are not a being; you cannot imagine. You are my imagination.
September 23, 2010 § Leave a comment
Seems like we’re either careful, careless or carefree, either way, neither belong to me. I’m a nobody. I always care too much. What I wouldn’t give to be somewhere in between careless and carefree, and care for nobody.
Oh Emily, she wrote:
“Why do I love” You, Sir?
The Wind does not require the Grass
To answer—Wherefore when He pass
She cannot keep Her place.
I cannot keep my place, I cannot keep your pace. You have years; I still have heart and I’m young enough to be proud of it. I would not replace it with this writ for all the world.
I just want everything to hurt less, and not all at once. It wanes gradually now, and then I feel the fatigue inside of me like a flame that eats me wholly hungrily angrily.
Is this the ‘jaded’ definition? When I feel that itch I want not to feel it, and when I cannot feel I want to feel anything, as I fear the numbness more than feeling.
And I’ve been crying out for help for my whole life and I’ve hung from balconies, jumped out onto motorways, screamed in parks and crept to the edges of rooftops when no one would listen to the sound of me breaking from the inside out.
Soon you will lose me you will lose me you will lose me, not even blindness will save me. I can scent the end as surely as your morning shower, for it is chemical and unromantic and a vision to behold for the blind behind your blackout.
What will it be, asks the dew of the tree. Will it be lightning, asks the dew. Will it be death by dearth? I know not, replies the tree. I know not why I crackle in this breeze. I know not why I shiver in the sun. I know not how I know that I am broken. Who has told me, who? asks the tree of the dew. Was it you?
There is no reply, the dew being swept like sleep from an eye under the sunshine.
It is morning. I am broken.
September 21, 2010 § Leave a comment
Once upon a time, in a far-off land, lived a fairy queen. And damn she was happy about being queen. Being queen was everything. And she lived alone and she was happy and she was queen.
Once upon another time, this son-of-a-sawn-off entered a kingdom. She was still alone and yet his presence meant that her aloneness had taken on another meaning. And this angered her.
And so she climbed the highest tree in the far-off land, and she waved her aloneness away with her embroidered Etsy-purchased twee hankerchief.
And that was about it. She never told the son-of-a-sawn-off that she wanted to spend the rest of her life living with him in a queen-size bed, and never leave, and be fed through tubes if she had to, and bounce on the bed if exercise was a must.
She never told that son-of-a-sawn-off because she, in her queen-of-hearts, did not believe that this son would take her hand, and lead her down to the garden, and say nothing, and mean everything.
It’s when you speak that I am frightened, you see. It scares me. I am not brave. I am born this instant, dreadfully, and with a hunger. Reach.