After Angela

Susan liked sounds and anti-sounds, she liked to write lists of her favourite words, sounding them out as she wrote them in a whisper and circling the silent parts of them.

"sweetheart" that inaudible 'th' soft, like a caress.
"phonograph" the long and short combinations.
"knight" the sister word to night, its secret letter only revealed on paper.

Susan lived with her grandmother, a loud woman whose voice carried through the house. Susan would listen sitting on her bed writing out her lists, as her grandmother talked boomingly on the phone, or while she entertained friends.
Susan became an eavesdropper to conversations over tea and chocolate cake.

Abruptly one summer, her grandmother died, leaving her alone in the house. The house had been in Susan's family for generations. her distant ancestors had brought the land and built it, but now Susan was the only one left. After the death of Susan's grandmother, it seemed that the house had been only held together by her shouts. It began to creak and sway in the wind that perpetually blew.
At night Susan listened to the rattling windows and shifting of the floor tiles. It seemed that the house spoke to her, whispering secrets of the long since past.
As Susan walked about the house, or shifted in her bed at night, it was as if she replied to those creaks, those muffled moans through cracked brick and broken mortar. The sweep of her corduroy trousers answered the wind blowing under dusty doorways, the crackling of her satin bedspread as she turned over spoke to the popping window panes.
She continued to write out her lists, including the soft language between her and the house. When she ran out of paper, she wrote on the walls, over the pinstripe wallpaper. The house became it's own reference to her new language, and new words continued to spill from it's rusty hinges.
Susan wrote letters to her house colloquist, and posted them in the dark cracks between the window sash or through the floor boards. The letters gradually seeped out, becoming like a second skin over old brick. Her fingers were blackened with ink, so that she herself became stained with her own words. "I am full up of new words" she would think as she wrote, " I am brimming with stories".
On the anniversary of her grandmother's death, two young boys passed by her house talking in loud voices. The loud sound remained her of her grandmother, so she peered through the brass letterbox and listened again to the speech of others. But Susan had spent so long in her house, that she thought that the boys words were the same as the gentle communion between her and the house.
In actual fact, as Susan had passed her quiet existence alone in the house, the once wealthy neighbourhood had become derelict.
Her new neighbours were Koreans, Germans and french new Caledonians who had moved to seek out a new life, only to find the new place was hard and cold. Their savings had been so meagre that Susan's area was all they could afford.

Susan leapt out of her door, speaking her soft housewords in hope of communion with the outside world once more.
The two boys looked at her dusty clothes, stained hands and white face. Their eyes became saucer-large and they ran off down the street screaming about witch women. Susan sighed and rambled to her house, then silently closed the door on the world once more.

Inkling and me

At 5pm I went to feed Inkling my Octopus his regular snack of tuna fish sandwiches. I looked into his tank of silver and blue, but to my surprise, Inkling was gone! There was a shiny, slimy trail leading away from the cage and out the door.
I knew what to do. I put on my Octopus hunting costume:

One long Octopus tentacle glove
Silky green dress
Long shiny embroided coat
Octopus tracking boots

I followed the trail. I went over bridges, under street lamps, and through tunnels. I arrived in town to find that the trail had stopped. Where was Inkling?
I sat down on a stone step and cried aloud " Alas my Octopus!"
Then I became aware of the sounds of a party, coming from a nearby apartment building. I looked up. The window was covered with cutouts of seaweed, shells and silvery fishes. A perfect place for a runaway octopus!
I marched through the door and up the stairs. There, in the centre of the party was Inkling. He was slithering from shoulder to shoulder in the crowd, his tentacles entwined around fingers, crusts of bread, cake and a cup of something greeny. I watched as he dove into the guacamole and climbed up an unsuspecting arm, now leaving fresh stains of guacamole behind him.
"Inky!" I shouted " You naughty Octopus!" He made his eyes all roundbutton-like and reached out a slithery tentacle in my direction. " What are you doing leaving trails of guacamole and crumbs on shoulders everywhere?" He looked abashed. The surrounding people said " It's ok, we like him and we don't mind his slimy stains".
I wiped off the guacamole and he climbed onto my shoulder and gave me a pleading look. " Please stay" said the others, " I looked at Inky and sighed "ok" and Inkling wrapped two clammy tentacles around my neck. Then he lowered his eyelids halfway, and wavered a tentacle at the dancefloor. We stayed and danced under a ceiling covered in all manner of fishy things, even an octopus! while green and blue lights flashed on and off. Inkling curled and uncurled his tentacles, and I tapped my toes and shook my hips, rustling the silky dress.
On the way home, Inkling sat on my head like a heavy hat, his tentacles drooping with tiredness.
I put him to bed in his tank of silver and blue and crawled into my own bed.
"Night Inkling" I called, but he was already asleep and dreaming.

I am scared of my reflection

It's funny how you feel when meeting people that you have not seen for 4 years. There's a sort of strange moment, when in catching up, you become aware that there are quite a few changes and things done over that period. I don't think of 4 years as a lengthy amount of time, but then it's weird to think of all that is happened. I feel so changed from that other person, the one who once knew this person I am speaking with. We still recognise each other physically, but there's all this space of what comes between.
It reminds me of how I become late at night, when sneaking quietly through the house to use the bathroom. I am this shadowy thing, guided by the smallest amount of light, stepping softly when I would normally pound the floor. Sometimes when these lastnightbathroomvisits are fulled by my imagination I cannot look at my reflection, for fear of what I might see, who I might have become in the dark, or what is lurking just past my shoulder. As I pass the mirror I avert my eyes or lower them, like some meek creature.
Have I become this nightime ghast in my present life, or is it the ghost of my old life that wants to tap me on the shoulder, and have me look at it full in the face so that I can see how changed I am?

symbols

How can there be so much attachment in something so arbitary? When I see things that are connected to other moments, people, thoughts of the past, these past things leap back into my present mind. I know it's cheesey, but I always think of the symbols on the atheilometer (sp?) in those books by Phillip Pullman. There is an object with signs like a clock, yet the meanings of those signs are greatly varied, they lie beneath the surface, each able to click into place with the approprate question.
I have my own symbols, such as the star tatoo, with this same, multi dimensional levels of meanings, perhaps as time goes on, I will aquire more, deeper levels to add to those I already have. I have other, more one dimensional symbols, that nevertheless stir me to remember those other moments where those things have been important to me.
It's funny how the moon is considered something personal, it has so many connotations and connections as a symbol. It's somehow a comfort to us to know that the moon is universal, that wherever you are, it can be visible. That perhaps as you look at the moon, there is someone else doing the same. The moon is so invasive into our thoughts, yet we allow it safe passage, and don't want to let go of it. What if it is discovered that the moon is just like pluto? One of many. Does that change anything?
Enough of this, I will descend into a big soppy mess, but I hope that there is someone out there, looking in the same direction occasionally. Perhaps musing in a similar manner.

In my dream I descend a staircase, an institutional one, like something out of a hospital, or office block. Under the earth there is a nether world. The sky is weirdly white, there is no sun here, except what can filter through all that soil, yet there is light, a natural sort of light. I walk about, confused at the familiarity of my surroundings. Here is the building that I attend class in, inside the desks look the same, even down to the bored scribbles by so many students. I pass through a glass door, wondering at this weird world. The dream turns on me, all around there are people with a indefinable sense of loss. What has happened? A woman sits on a park bench, she has a black bob and a high necked black sweater. Her face is covered by fine lines, and her back is stooped, yet she dresses youthfully. She looks so very young, yet old, and the sadness cloaks her like an odor. Nearby is a young athlete with no leg beyond the knee. He looks so strong and fit, as if the missing foot is still there, like he is haunted by the spirit of his own lost leg.
I am aware that there is a connection between these people. Then as is it is beamed from the sky, the information comes to me. There is a disease here, it manifests itself through red, yellow and purple flowerlike legions that grow from the collarbone with long hairs in the centre, like stamens. These two people are victims of the diseases, which can only be cured by giving up something. " See "said my dream self this woman gave up her youth, the man his foot.
I am filled with revulsion, pity, and a nervousness grips my stomach.
Then I feel something pushing from my foot. I look down, a long dark hair is curling from my right foot, I pull it out in horror. But then comes the sensation again, something pushing, twisting through layers of skin to reach the outside world. I can see the hair curling through my skin and it grows thicker and thicker....

I believe in chills

On the coldest day of the year I went to Piha. I took my shoes and socks off to better feel the lack of heat in the sand. I walked to the river and sank in the sand up to my calves. The black sand sucked all the colour from my feet untill they were as pale as albino mice. I walked up the lion shaped rock thinking about frostbite and wincing at the hard ground, still as I could feel it, it meant there was hope for those toes. I got sick from that expedition, all hot and cold and achey. It seems that this is like a physical manisfestation of the current mood of everyone.
Later, as my feet burned up with returned warmth, matching the fever in my head, I thought about love.
When I was little, my mother once said to me "what is this thing called love?". It can be taken in two totally different ways, depending on the intonation, which was her point in saying it to me, yet it has always stuck with me, reoccuring on occasion in my thoughts. Do we just reach an age when we settle for something, when we think that maybe this time we'll win? Maybe sometime?
When you've put so much effort into someone and so it's easier to stick by them, for better or worse. When the romance of the new looses its flavour? Or will there always be the tantilisation of something better? I like the nervousness, that twist in your stomach when you see your lover, I like the thrill of reminders, memories, the knowledge that someone is thinking of you, and maybe they will bring you biscuits and hug you when you're tired. I'm an idealist, I'm hunting for permanance, I'm trying to juggle and I'm loosing the game. But I believe in chills, I'm old fashioned, romantic and yet modern in my quest. How many more notches do I need in my belt? Or is it just all about funandgoodtimes?

Rapey, Jesus and me.

Finally I have dragged myself from the penetrating gaze 0f a mother crazed with the idea that her daughters lives are no longer something she has control over, to be free. I am queen of a harem filled with red fabric and warmth generated by the smiles of my lovely girls. I skip home to just be there, lazing, chatting, feeling happy and more relaxed than I have been in months. I crow my delight in the gloaming through my window.

A sight for sore eyes

My face is covered with welts and blisters. These explode in little volcanoes of pus and I scratch at them until they bleed and scab over. My skin is craterous, my whole body is erupting in sores and I walk along itching at myself like a rabid destitute. I should wear a shroud to hide my diseased figure. I'm not attractive today, I am retreating from swan to cygnet, just like a reverse fairy story. Where is my fairy godmother to magic this all away? Where are my glass slippers to cut my feet until they resemble a bloody pulp like the rest of me. Perhaps at midnight I will return to my pumpkin state, at least then the many bumps and hollows will have some sort of delicious quality, due to the silkiness of the flesh underneath.

The phoenix paragon.

I will buy you a gilded cage. It is tall enough so that you can stand, but your head is against the bars and your knees are bent. Your hips jut out at an angle and your twisted posture accentuates the curve of your thighs. I will poke you with carrot sticks and dribble water from my fingertips to keep you saited. You peer at me with your big eyes, watching, always watching. You grow crookedly, your head is forced downwards, elongating your neck. After a long time I open the door to the cage and hunker down on my haunches to watch you. Your eyes are saucerish, darting from my face to the open space beyond me, yet you will not run. You can no longer squeeze through the gaps, but remain, mute in your cage, my pet. I am responsible.

On the quest for gentilezza

I have intelligent things to say
if only someone could unsew my lips and unstop their ears
perhaps we could talk.

Smile on you crazy diamond

I was thinking today about smiles. How a simple lip streaching can have such a profound effect on somebody's day.
I decided to count the people that I smiled at. There was the yound girl sitting expectantly on a park bench, the old woman carrying her handbag crookedly by the strap and the balding librarian I vaguely know. Then I thought that perhaps I was too conscious about cataloguing the people that I smiled at, so therefore the smiles wouldn't be truthful. So I stopped and just stared at people instead.
However as I walked to work I looked at the clouds that looked like pheonixes (sp?), swanlike birds and reclining woman. My best smile of the afternoon was for those heavenly shapes.

devil-may-care

I feel impulsive. I was standing outside with a cup of coffee and I had a sudden desire to hurl the cup onto the paving stones. I resisted the urge, but then I examined this feeling. I wasn't angry or upset, I just had a desire to take a whole thing that was unblemished and smooth and turn it into jagged shards. If I had done it, then what would the consequences be? Would I cut up my feet? Would I have to find a brush and shovel and sweep up the shards to hide my actions? Would I leave it there in it's broken state for someone else to puzzle over?
At this moment I am following another impulse and looking into flights to Rome. It would cost me $3000, but I want to do it. Impulsive no? How about capricious, changeful, commutative, convertible, fickle, fitful, flighty, fluctuating, fluid,, inconstant, indecisive, irregular, irresolute, irresponsible, kaleidoscopic, mercurial, mobile, movable, mutable, permutable, protean, restless, reversible, revocable, shifting, skittish, spasmodic, transformable, transitional, uncertain, unpredictable, unreliable, unsettle, unstable, unsteady, vacillating, vagrant, variable, variant, varying, versatile, volatile, wavering, whimsical... yet also.... adventuresome, audacious, bold, brave, cheeky, cocky, courageous, crusty, fearless, fire-eater, foolhardy, forward, game, gritty, gutsy, gutty, impudent, intrepid, nervy, obtrusive, pizzazz, plucky, rash, reckless, salty, smart, spunky, temerarious, valiant, venturesome.

Won't someone take me away?
I'll be so very good.

Bastian

Last night I went to a lovely cafe/gallery called Forest. after last night when I went there to see some music and ended up drinking champange (for free) and dancing in a smoke machine fug.
I ended up smoking spliffs in a courtyard, dancing in a rubber mask, and grinning from ear to ear the whole time.
....then a junkshop where I brought a beautiful old tobacco tin,and then got offered mint tea, cake, a job and a flat in the space of half an hour by the old man owner. When he offered me dinner I decieded it was time to go, but the job could be good. He said just to go in anytime.....

Last week I wrote a email about how much I didn´t get relationships right now, all the jealousies and effort for just a little bit of physical pleasure. But then last night as I was third wheeling along with Natalie and her beautiful Nigerian girlfriend, I looked around at the soft, spangly blue lights in the trees and the ropes of white bulbs between the lamp posts and I imagined looking at the soft light falling on my lover´s face, and then I remembered that´s what it´s all about!

I just watched the Motorcycle Diaries, which I feel perfectly justified about as summer has dumped me,it's wet, cold therefore typically english.

I catch red double decker buses and think in phrases

like ' getting plugged in' to the London scene. I see ads for jobs in scummy pubs and think I could do that,I could again have a life of work 5 days a week,eating chips and drinking beer and hanging out with Laura and the hubby. Living somewhere and gradually amounting too many possessions to bring back with me, having my own duvet, a phone, connections and some kind of romance. But then I watch the motor cycle diaries and think
about being asked what I do and being able to reply 'I'm a traveller' . Travelling is an addiction and the pull of the stable life also feels like an addiction. Yet while the two cannot coexist simultaneously.
I like to think that I could one day have a nice wife to keep house while I'm gone. So I am still here, the thoughts in my heart are inspiring me to move again soon. To travel alone is true freedom, there is no one to get mad at you for being late for the train, no arguments about where to go or what to do next, no headstrong bastard who thinks he knows whats best for me. Why is it that there are so many headstrong, beautiful women who become subdued by some nothing of a man?
And why is this considered a good thing in mainstream society? At the moment I see it everywhere, along with all that is negative in a relationship, the petty arguments, the jealousies..
The other night I dreamt I had this amazing relationship, passionate andbeautiful, but I spoiled it by being jealous and guarded and chaining down my lover through my own insecurities. Jealousy is the ugliest thing.

This was my life running backwards from Edinburgh to London. In between I had many other crazy adventures, but like they say at the end of the film The Neverending Story, " Bastian made many other wishes, and had many other amazing adventures - before he finally returned to the ordinary world. But that's... another story" That comment was the biggest dissapointment for me when I saw that film as a little girl. I think it had some kind of profound effect on my existance.
My return to the ordinary world is nigh.

Mor on Love

I wrote this to some pretty redhead girl on myspace. I never got a reply, I'm not that crazy, still I guess random people sending you stuff seems to be a feature of the internet, and I admit I never know what to do when people message me.

Hi, it's so weird when little acts of serendipity affect your day. I have been looking at all these angles of love, like from a chemical perspective, it's just that, people are like drugs, you become addicted and then, that's it. Your craving for someone, is just the craving for a chemical that you get when around that person. So does that person create the chemical? Is that love? Then you think about how we as humans are so ruled by emotion, but it seems so rare that someone will actually lets go. To give up yourself to someone leaves you so vulnerable. Then I have been studying neoplatonism, which states that love should be rational, harmonic and opposite to this is the irrational, which love hates, yet who ever heard of rational love? Isn't falling in love all about making an arse of yourself? Love is blind, and mad. It is power, control, submission, beauty, aesthetic, intellect, sensitivity and equality. I don't know if I have ever been in love.
I don't know you, I just was bored and liked the look of your picture. Sometimes it's easier to write down the things that are in your head. I guess I wanted to write and say I liked your blog on Romance, but then all this other stuff came out.
So please excuse me

I am a cheater.

I wrote this a while ago and left it sitting as a draft in my email. but I couldn't think who to send it to, and it seems appropriate just to leave it here.

I had my Korean literature class today. We were learning about this type of poetry that only the elite males of the highest social class, and the females of the lowest social class ( like the Geisha) could write.
It's really funny to think of it in terms of the makeup of the community. Although there is this low class of women who are despised by the higher classes, they are the most educated of all the females, and can write poetry that only the highest men can write.
I read the other day that the western concept of love is a fairly new phenomenon. It's really only since the 1800s, in the period before Jane Austen, who in turn popularised it through her novels. Before that time, there was no choice over who you married. Even in Shakepere, most forms of marrige are arranged, or the love aspect of something like a love triangle is resolved by someone quickly having a change of heart to fit the happily ever after bit. I guess you have exceptions in the tragedies, like Romeo in Juliet..
I then went out to a music gig and ended up talking to someone about how your body produces endorphins when you are around someone you love, so therefore that person become like an addiction.
In this kind of Korean soceity, the men married women of their own class, to produced superior offspring, but they had these female entertainers, who were companions on more than just a sexual level. It's such a different idea to the western forms of prostitution.
So I guess the question is, as a woman, would I prefer to be of low social standing, but well educated, or of high social standing, but stupid.
Dilemma, no?