Monday, 11 January 2010

'wishes all weekends were three days long'

Post started hours ago named 'Last roast Recreio'. Post got refreshed with 'Pears are the new apples' at around 4pm. A great Sunday, knitting, floating, film night, cheese platter, cutting out courses from the Mary Ward Centre (a friendly place to learn), searching outdoor activity wear, pitta/boiled egg in bed, googling galleries and Michael Portillo, watching Great British Railway Journeys. Entire catalogue of Joanna Newsom to which I now prance around in ballet shoes, when first time round I was so miserable I couldn't even pick up my own feet to put me in a better place. I watched Liverpool-to-Manchester and felt a strange warmth, why was I so cruel. An absurdness.

I have been thinking a lot about Judgement. Without judgement or criticism. I like the tarot a lot, it makes me believe in something, I don't know how or why, why I should listen to it over a voice in my own head, above a friend? Perhaps it attaches to a part of my head that is just shouting and shouting but I'm just not listening. I sat and watched the films and felt a bit of a wobble, that same one where I'm just spinning and my past doesn't relate to who I want to be, and my present says I can't do the future. I listening to it and showed it the Judgement card, and it sat cross-legs-fingers-on-lips. The best I could hope for.

I have a problem with believing in my future. I think about who I am now and the chronic panic about the chronic sets in, things are this way, that's that. I am constantly bothered by my past, how I seem completely erratic, a working class upgrade, not intelligent enough to be as intelligent as I want to be. I didn't have a conversation with my dad about fiction over the Christmas table, I didn't call my sister for this week's pep talk, my mum didn't recommend that recipe, and neither have I seen that exhibition at the National Gallery. I can't discuss my being with anyone. My person that was my person didn't particularly care at the best of times, and is now missing.

A uniqueness about me, a completely designed self that doesn't relate to anything that came before! My beliefs, my aspirations, tastes, preferences. I had a nightmare with Jayne Cork in it the other night, and I'm going to write that like she's never going to read it, because come on she never is. I was at her house that she'd earned, along with a scrappy old boyfriend, like some sort of preacher, upgrade shot back. That was funny when Miss Wyn saw me in Keith's, "I caant believe anyone's gor outta Tivi'!" Wonder what she'd think of me getting out of Liver. It took me about ten days to get over going home. Get out of a place that no-one could believe, back into me. Whatever this me is.

I was reading about her party, me having a melt down over their concentric Le Parfait jars, their cookbooks, whitewashed floors and Duplex tumblers. All these readymade signifiers, things I had to learn. I am aiming for another's default consciousness, am I? How fake is that?

Sorry ignore me I'm waffling. I've been absent here for a while owning to this feeling of exposure, of traceability. I need to take her advice. Jayne Cork is not reading this. Write like no-one else is either. I am splintering into various books and making an effort in my new Studio tomorrow. studio, Studio, 'studio', studio. I am too conscious here now and need to repair and replenish in private. I just hope I can stop talking about this action and get some results.

No comments: