Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life? Cripes I do not know! I wish wish wish I knew! I always think of this quotation, I looked in the mirror at the 30s German party, admiring my smooth hair and frankly beautifully darkened eyes. Asked myself, what do you want? What do you want, look at your eyes, what is it you want?? I was only slightly lucid, there was no answer in that mirror.
I think I honestly like too many things. I am equally fired by cooking an immense 4 hour 2 course meal for 6, as I am eating mash out of a bowl with garlic mayo past midnight. I am as excited about Homework tomorrow night as I am about ballet on Thursday, as I am about dancing Saturday, as I am about The Approach Sunday. I am as edgy about writing a new sentence as I am about making a new mark, as thrilled by a new colour-fabric combo from the gods as visiting cookshops and dripping over the financier tins and Mason Cash batter jugs.
I have flitted a fair bit since I moved to London. I have been like an overexcited child, one moment studying writing and making things for Shona, doing duty to most excellent coffee and answering phones and bigger things at the School. Now I am working three days in order to 'write', whatever that may be, or whatever else it could be. I'm going out a lot. I'm having the fun of a 21 year old under the weight of (almost) twenty eight shoulders. I'm trying to live a dual existence, one which concurrently erases and undermines, and trusts and builds on my histories. In short, I'm all over the shop.
I'm too tired for resolutions or interesting words here, apologies, I just ran out of pen ink and needed to out. All I believe, is that a conversation in reality can eke out things I've not even realised I thought yet, so I am looking forward to meeting with him tomorrow, in whatever context. All I know, is that in light of a potential change, today wooshed by as quick as hell. Efficency came as a byproduct of lightness, an excitment that things might change, things need to change. Sadly, they do. Leave the party whilst it's still good, get your haircut when it suddenly looks ok, ish. You know change is whipped up in the wings and denying it is a very wrong thing.
Wednesday 29 September 2010
Friday 24 September 2010
One is fun
We tossed a coin and it was wrong, you're disappointed, he said, you should go. I stuck out my arm and paid two pounds and before I could feel the burden I was stomping down Old Compton Street. Pockets, a tenner and a house key, I felt free. I skipped the familiar with lightness offered by those shoes, like nature, they know what to do. Hopping up kerbs and down pavements, noticing no-one, I spotted the grail of a sign that is Wardour Street W1. What the fuck am I doing, I smirked, it didn't work last time, maybe it was the mojitos but my doubt now was quite the fallacy.
I paid in past the ropes of privilege and was dancing before I thought about it, Tim Jumpin' Jive stashed my coat in the dj box and became my ally. Tim Jumpin' Jive! With his itchy suit and grim pallor, he chatted at me and for once I listened because, I don't know anyone here, I'm out, alone. He warmed. He actually warmed, smiled, looked at me and I swear we touched cheeks on some of those turns, and I don't like that memory one bit. I like it less than remembering being snared by a man in more eyeliner than me. I re-read my sentences and don't know which one turns the El Salvador in my stomach more. Let us not think about it.
Anyway, wannabe-models and kids and application forms for cool clubs aside, I had a fun time without the potential heaviness of a sole self. There was a lovely glorious moment, when I went outside to cool off, where I dipped into the 30th anniversary book. I'm not late, you're lucky. Hang on. I'm not late, you're lucky. Shit! That wonderous mono-thought of a quote which stuck in my head, stuck on my old college toolbox, was Emin to the bouncer at Gaz's when she worked the cloakroom back in the day. I love that. That sort of thing makes me so calmed, when you feel like a circle you never planned rolled round your way. A marker of things being right.
I'm leaving, you coming, he said. No, I smirked. It's over anyway he said. It was over but I'm glad I lost him. What the fuck was I acting. Glad I had the last minutes where I danced on the stage with the man himself, who so pissed fell over, missed the record ending, and dropped his wallet. I checked the contents, pulling out a grubby tenner and a membership card, pushing them back cus it wasn't mine, and look at him, he fucking needs it. I watched him lech on a cute vacuous thing, a puzzled look on my face at her bewilderment. A lost animal. It was over now.
I almost walked home. Instead I walked to Kings Cross and bought a Twirl and didn't buy a Big Mac. I don't know if I'll go there ever again. I'm not sure I need to. It feels like an experience which stands for something, a story in itself that can't be re-read. I imagined it a certain way, it hit certain marks and offered reasons and examples. I acted my way through the evening, with no-one watching, the self is ultimately loose. Character building really. I gave him my last two pounds and got on and that was the end of that. Delia was right, One Is Fun.
I paid in past the ropes of privilege and was dancing before I thought about it, Tim Jumpin' Jive stashed my coat in the dj box and became my ally. Tim Jumpin' Jive! With his itchy suit and grim pallor, he chatted at me and for once I listened because, I don't know anyone here, I'm out, alone. He warmed. He actually warmed, smiled, looked at me and I swear we touched cheeks on some of those turns, and I don't like that memory one bit. I like it less than remembering being snared by a man in more eyeliner than me. I re-read my sentences and don't know which one turns the El Salvador in my stomach more. Let us not think about it.
Anyway, wannabe-models and kids and application forms for cool clubs aside, I had a fun time without the potential heaviness of a sole self. There was a lovely glorious moment, when I went outside to cool off, where I dipped into the 30th anniversary book. I'm not late, you're lucky. Hang on. I'm not late, you're lucky. Shit! That wonderous mono-thought of a quote which stuck in my head, stuck on my old college toolbox, was Emin to the bouncer at Gaz's when she worked the cloakroom back in the day. I love that. That sort of thing makes me so calmed, when you feel like a circle you never planned rolled round your way. A marker of things being right.
I'm leaving, you coming, he said. No, I smirked. It's over anyway he said. It was over but I'm glad I lost him. What the fuck was I acting. Glad I had the last minutes where I danced on the stage with the man himself, who so pissed fell over, missed the record ending, and dropped his wallet. I checked the contents, pulling out a grubby tenner and a membership card, pushing them back cus it wasn't mine, and look at him, he fucking needs it. I watched him lech on a cute vacuous thing, a puzzled look on my face at her bewilderment. A lost animal. It was over now.
I almost walked home. Instead I walked to Kings Cross and bought a Twirl and didn't buy a Big Mac. I don't know if I'll go there ever again. I'm not sure I need to. It feels like an experience which stands for something, a story in itself that can't be re-read. I imagined it a certain way, it hit certain marks and offered reasons and examples. I acted my way through the evening, with no-one watching, the self is ultimately loose. Character building really. I gave him my last two pounds and got on and that was the end of that. Delia was right, One Is Fun.
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Catharsis
I haven't done any writing for some time, I said to him, I'm really worried, I haven't done any writing for ages, I said to her. I kept saying it as though a mental marker to myself, something I hoped would trigger off a train of brain thought that would tip the idea into a good vat of action. I had that thing a few years ago, where I would begin to say ideas and plans out loud, and believing it was the place where they first bed down, take root, make sense, exist.
It seemed to correlate with the time I'd spent on him the past month, see, I've been missing for a month, and yes there's been festivals and train journeys and sunny outings and locality explorings, shows and eats and films and a fucking lot of walking actually, but mostly, it was time spent with a boy. Not volume of time, but mentality. Remember that weird bit between 2004 and 2008 where I didn't really do anything? Rememember I stopped talking to myself, stopping the jottings, diaries, collectings, pastings, paintings. Ideas? And remember thinking this was an 'odd thing' but this must be a 'good thing', what a relationship is for in essence, to be able to stop the talking to oneself like a mentalist and say these things out loud?
Well I believe I have a problem. If I can only put my creativity (there must be a better word but I like how shit this one is, as shit as that talk, which if I can get a sentence out of for 8quid, maybe it was worth it) ... into one direction at a time, outward or inward, well I'm just setting myself up for implosion. I'm attempting a vacuum either way that is boundlessly fruitless, frustration-definite and self destroying.
Or more plainly, it might just be the meet a new boy tell him your surname he Googles you and is watching thing. Suddenly instant self-publishing feels violating and a bizarre self-censorship ensues, where you can't think him into the present as it's too close, he'll end up in words and you'll both be waiting to read them. Best not post for a while then. I hate that. We were talking last night about the instantaneous nature of a blog, the power, the frailty. We were talking on Saturday about the left/right hand fact/fiction thing. We were talking Monday about the melting of catharsis into creation. Again there must be a better word but I'm sorry.
Or maybe all of these times I was saying out loud what I should be saying to the page. I sat down half an hour ago, for it takes 30 minutes to write one of these bites, and my arms were full of that thing they learned May Oh Eight. Full of what, words, ideas, repression, stress, blood, electricity, the Sage? Whatever it is, it dripped onto the keys, tapped from a brain place, slight but different to the pen, a mix of catharsis and creation. I'm wanting to evolve, the truth depends on the melange and I can only trust in the unknown. This is just wordy words for 'get on with shit'.
It seemed to correlate with the time I'd spent on him the past month, see, I've been missing for a month, and yes there's been festivals and train journeys and sunny outings and locality explorings, shows and eats and films and a fucking lot of walking actually, but mostly, it was time spent with a boy. Not volume of time, but mentality. Remember that weird bit between 2004 and 2008 where I didn't really do anything? Rememember I stopped talking to myself, stopping the jottings, diaries, collectings, pastings, paintings. Ideas? And remember thinking this was an 'odd thing' but this must be a 'good thing', what a relationship is for in essence, to be able to stop the talking to oneself like a mentalist and say these things out loud?
Well I believe I have a problem. If I can only put my creativity (there must be a better word but I like how shit this one is, as shit as that talk, which if I can get a sentence out of for 8quid, maybe it was worth it) ... into one direction at a time, outward or inward, well I'm just setting myself up for implosion. I'm attempting a vacuum either way that is boundlessly fruitless, frustration-definite and self destroying.
Or more plainly, it might just be the meet a new boy tell him your surname he Googles you and is watching thing. Suddenly instant self-publishing feels violating and a bizarre self-censorship ensues, where you can't think him into the present as it's too close, he'll end up in words and you'll both be waiting to read them. Best not post for a while then. I hate that. We were talking last night about the instantaneous nature of a blog, the power, the frailty. We were talking on Saturday about the left/right hand fact/fiction thing. We were talking Monday about the melting of catharsis into creation. Again there must be a better word but I'm sorry.
Or maybe all of these times I was saying out loud what I should be saying to the page. I sat down half an hour ago, for it takes 30 minutes to write one of these bites, and my arms were full of that thing they learned May Oh Eight. Full of what, words, ideas, repression, stress, blood, electricity, the Sage? Whatever it is, it dripped onto the keys, tapped from a brain place, slight but different to the pen, a mix of catharsis and creation. I'm wanting to evolve, the truth depends on the melange and I can only trust in the unknown. This is just wordy words for 'get on with shit'.
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