Love is rain in Glasgow

September 11, 2010 § Leave a comment

Or so says the boy from Arab Strap who is no longer a boy.

So I’ve arrived. I finished my last collection of words and well, it’s the seventeenth at least methinks- somewhere in that land there’s a chest full of bad handwriting and pretty Papermate hardbacks. Some angst, some wank. Less honesty.

I’ve started anew. Again. This one is called ‘How to Come’ but the ‘to’ is crossed out so it’s kind of ‘How Come’ as well, and almost witty. By my standards. Really it’s more ‘how to become’ but it’s not a guide, y’know? It’s just a documented experience of loss and gain and no sex. Touch, untouched. I have so much to impart but not yet. I know everything and nothing. I’m strung up in a limbo of twenty-something nothingness feelingless. Sparks.

I was writing my wee letter to James and there it was. The thought of how different these two things are: speaking to a world through art, or being spoken through by… art I guess. Sometimes I wonder who is the unmade maker and who is the labourer. The park is so beautiful I want to bottle it and drink it before bedtime for sweet dreams. Nothing more striking than a slice of country on a plate of city.

I’m learning to swim. Not physically, no, never, not after my near-death-bathtub-hour. Metaphysically. G’lord I drowned last year. Which is proof if ever there was that I’m a cat, a very special type with nineteen lives and three tails.

Rather a feline being than a bird in a cage. Walking back with her in the early hours of the morning up Adelaide Road, couple weeks ‘go, we were learning: a shul’s intent, a spent woman. I feel in some lights and some tunnels I’ve had to prove myself not as a person but as another person. Not me. I’ve refused to see my left ovary. I don’t know. Just traffic I think, and I have to wait to cross that street or…

And I’ve taken the ‘or’ before. There is little pride in waiting. I’d rather just ‘become’ at once and not stand by nodding at experience as it passes through the lights.

I’ll work it out.

‘It seems I’ve changed and I can’t hide,
I’ve nowhere to hide.’

Well, I’m just out there. Being. And if it hurts one, or three, I’m sorry, I’ve felt that way. I’m really sorry. But I still need to be.

I feel I’ve worn the wrong colour of shoes for a long time, and looked down, and the realization has shocked me more than the fact itself, the fact of my own fallibility.

But that was a lifetime ago. Better to breathe than grieve, better to sit on hardwood and watch the teenagers make merry as the sun goes down.



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