I don't like that word. Six letters. The only six-thing that I don't like.
My secrets soft and hid.
11 years ago
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Thursday, 23 June 2011
The most beautiful thing I have ever seen:
He pulls her hands and the chair moves closer. The wheels move slowly. He keeps hold unwilling to let go until he has to and it is clear that we're no longer there.
He strokes her knucles with his thumb, "I'll be home on wednesday."
"And I'll be waiting." I can't see her face but I know she's smiling.
The repeat the words like a chant, both trying to convince the other that they mean it even though the other already knows. She doesn't want to leave and he doesn't want her to go. She is here, there is no doubt that she is here and she is his and he is hers.
Their kiss is soft and their eyes spell love with every look; they don't want to blink, to miss each other, but they know they have to. They repeat the words and whisper things that I can't hear.
It is not a goodbye, not really but they look at each other as if it is - my chest heaves. Wednesday. The word is a prayer.
They kiss again and everything is okay,
"I'll be home on wednesday."
"And I'll be waiting."
Sue wheels her out and she waves. He smiles after her from his seat by the bed. He looks up at me, eyes filled with words he doesn't say, "take care of yourself."
"I'll see you soon."
I can't help but smile as I walk down the corridors. I have seen love.
He strokes her knucles with his thumb, "I'll be home on wednesday."
"And I'll be waiting." I can't see her face but I know she's smiling.
The repeat the words like a chant, both trying to convince the other that they mean it even though the other already knows. She doesn't want to leave and he doesn't want her to go. She is here, there is no doubt that she is here and she is his and he is hers.
Their kiss is soft and their eyes spell love with every look; they don't want to blink, to miss each other, but they know they have to. They repeat the words and whisper things that I can't hear.
It is not a goodbye, not really but they look at each other as if it is - my chest heaves. Wednesday. The word is a prayer.
They kiss again and everything is okay,
"I'll be home on wednesday."
"And I'll be waiting."
Sue wheels her out and she waves. He smiles after her from his seat by the bed. He looks up at me, eyes filled with words he doesn't say, "take care of yourself."
"I'll see you soon."
I can't help but smile as I walk down the corridors. I have seen love.
Wednesday
Her smile is contagious: he's coming home. She's been talking and laughing and explaining things we already know but it doesn't matter because he's coming home.
She fidgets in her chair as we hear the crutches, she wants to get up but she knows she cant, she has to wait. She hears his voice before she sees him and her smile widens. He smiles too as he moves to his chair, the one beside hers. We hear dad laughing in the hall, he's on the other crutches. They both shake their head. She says something no one understands but it doesn't matter because she's happy and he's home.
There is a childish excitement in her, she wriggles and squirms next to him, fussing over whether he's alright. He's annoyed about the doctors and the hospital and his medication coming by taxi. She hears what he says but her mind relays it differently. She speaks and he looks confused but it doesn't matter because they're together again.
She fidgets in her chair as we hear the crutches, she wants to get up but she knows she cant, she has to wait. She hears his voice before she sees him and her smile widens. He smiles too as he moves to his chair, the one beside hers. We hear dad laughing in the hall, he's on the other crutches. They both shake their head. She says something no one understands but it doesn't matter because she's happy and he's home.
There is a childish excitement in her, she wriggles and squirms next to him, fussing over whether he's alright. He's annoyed about the doctors and the hospital and his medication coming by taxi. She hears what he says but her mind relays it differently. She speaks and he looks confused but it doesn't matter because they're together again.
22/06/11
She stares at the faces, smiles and clutches the yarn between her fingers. The needle is an old friend, a tool, a relic from a past life flowing with children and prams and homemade blankets. She runs a finger down the thread and on to her creation, the square is still soft in her grasp but yellowing stains crawl up its surface. It is old.
"I can still do it. I haven't done it for years but I can still do it." The thread is wrapped around the needle and the hook grabs at the blanket. The yarn slips from the metal. She smiles, "see, I can do it."
There are photographs everywhere: children, children's children, siblings, spouses. They decorate the room in mismatched frames and those that don't sit in a bag smelling of age and happiness. We look through them, thirsty for knowledge of family. I see my parents smiling, it was the day they met but already they look together. My dad tries to hide pictures of himself, silly hair and protruding ears. I see a woman and a child, my dad calls her a witch and the child Charlene. Mum and I puzzle over whether the long-haired young man in the photo is Dad or Uncle Stephen, even he has trouble. His sister sits to my side and laughs as she finds my dad's face peeking out from behind her, three brothers and another sister. I look at his siblings, my family, and try to guess which face belongs to which. She smiles at us, "Those are my memories."
She sounds far away, looks to the window and frowns. There is a cactus in the way but she sees through it past the curtain and past the glass, past the cars outside. I wonder what she's looking at.
"I have a photo of us," her hand waves towards my grandfather, "over there on the wall." The photo is enlarged and filled with vibrant colour. It sits in a gold frame. She smiles.
"That was at Micky's wedding." She looks smug.
"You're not wrong," my dad smiles and then a laugh creeps into his voice, "who's Micky?"
She stares at him, looks at us and stares again. She stays silent. He tests her again and I sink back into my seat. His question changes, "who am I?"
More silence. She blinks and wetness creeps under her eyes, not enough to spill over but the sheen remains. She's trying but it doesn't come. She clutches at her cardigan, blanket discarded.
"He's Micky. That's Micky." Grandad points. Dad laughs. You have to laugh... He can do nothing else.
"I know!" She's louder than before and she repeats the words, "I know it's Micky."
She stares at the faces and the photographs and I stare back as my family talk around me. She looks at the walls and the floor and the window.
She doesn't know their names.
"I can still do it. I haven't done it for years but I can still do it." The thread is wrapped around the needle and the hook grabs at the blanket. The yarn slips from the metal. She smiles, "see, I can do it."
There are photographs everywhere: children, children's children, siblings, spouses. They decorate the room in mismatched frames and those that don't sit in a bag smelling of age and happiness. We look through them, thirsty for knowledge of family. I see my parents smiling, it was the day they met but already they look together. My dad tries to hide pictures of himself, silly hair and protruding ears. I see a woman and a child, my dad calls her a witch and the child Charlene. Mum and I puzzle over whether the long-haired young man in the photo is Dad or Uncle Stephen, even he has trouble. His sister sits to my side and laughs as she finds my dad's face peeking out from behind her, three brothers and another sister. I look at his siblings, my family, and try to guess which face belongs to which. She smiles at us, "Those are my memories."
She sounds far away, looks to the window and frowns. There is a cactus in the way but she sees through it past the curtain and past the glass, past the cars outside. I wonder what she's looking at.
"I have a photo of us," her hand waves towards my grandfather, "over there on the wall." The photo is enlarged and filled with vibrant colour. It sits in a gold frame. She smiles.
"That was at Micky's wedding." She looks smug.
"You're not wrong," my dad smiles and then a laugh creeps into his voice, "who's Micky?"
She stares at him, looks at us and stares again. She stays silent. He tests her again and I sink back into my seat. His question changes, "who am I?"
More silence. She blinks and wetness creeps under her eyes, not enough to spill over but the sheen remains. She's trying but it doesn't come. She clutches at her cardigan, blanket discarded.
"He's Micky. That's Micky." Grandad points. Dad laughs. You have to laugh... He can do nothing else.
"I know!" She's louder than before and she repeats the words, "I know it's Micky."
She stares at the faces and the photographs and I stare back as my family talk around me. She looks at the walls and the floor and the window.
She doesn't know their names.
You're ready to go
Text from a blackout poem I put in India's leaver's book, made from our student news paper:
summer is here we know
the last
long
lazy after-
noons promise
lovely weather
and
you're ready to go.
what better way to fly
across the land
to
have done us proud.
So, carry on
into the Summer,
With a long break
and
plenty
to look forward to,
don't forget!
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Things I should do more often:
Empty the bin.
Write.
Put clothes away,
in proper places and not
on the chair.
Stop thinking about the scent
of you.
Go to bed early.
Get up early.
Have meaningful conversations.
Remember the faces of strangers
once met.
Talk to people
sitting on trains.
Think about nothing.
Rest.
Write.
Put clothes away,
in proper places and not
on the chair.
Stop thinking about the scent
of you.
Go to bed early.
Get up early.
Have meaningful conversations.
Remember the faces of strangers
once met.
Talk to people
sitting on trains.
Think about nothing.
Rest.
Stop
She tapped her fingers and hoped the words would happen. They didn't. She knew the story, she knew what happened next but the words didn't come. She couldn't find them.
The books were sprawled on the floor, pages crumpled. He knew what he was looking for, he had seen it before. It was a not-far-off memory but his search halted.
All ahead stop.
The books were sprawled on the floor, pages crumpled. He knew what he was looking for, he had seen it before. It was a not-far-off memory but his search halted.
All ahead stop.
A moment
I walk walls. Dark walls. He sits in the same spot and stares at the road. Grey hair in black night. I watch as he sits. He doesn't move. I pass by. Minutes. Then return. Still he sits.
I leave. Walk my walls. Walk home. He sits.
I leave. Walk my walls. Walk home. He sits.
Monday, 25 April 2011
Follow me
We walk with Abandon, we travel with Neglect and hold hands with Abdication. Desertion waits for us, the fork in the road is highlighted by his form and Forsake lingers behind. Relinquish takes a sip from the stream before he joins, broken trees bow to Rejection and Renouce and the party-pace quickens. We do not meet each others eyes, fear for them what lies in mine and fear for I for what might be found. Stop halts us there, at the fork and the last figure enters.
Guilt holds out a hand and a smile, teeth crooked, he beckons: follow me...
Guilt holds out a hand and a smile, teeth crooked, he beckons: follow me...
Saturday, 29 January 2011
Lens
My eyes are lenses and the world is distorted through them. Each moment is collected, archived by my retinas and sent down the nerve into my brain. Once there they settle and carve out houses in the grey matter. And wait.
Friday, 31 December 2010
Next Stop, Please
The sketchbook is crinkled and browning from use, its covers are in tatters and the gold writing is too far away to decipher. The pages are not used in order but opened at random and spattered with ink.
He uses a brush tipped pen and his eyes never leave their target; his strokes are strong, swift, decisive and taken in with that eye. The eye that he tries to hide from the people around him. That eye, his eye.
He wears no bright colours, nor dark. Khaki greens and washed out greys and the kind of shoes favoured by those who take long walks, an inconspicuous coat and the startings of a beard. He is ordinary, time has etched premature lines in his face. He has the expression of one that does all the watching, he sinks into his sketches as he sinks into the surroundings; no one would watch him, he isn't there. He is colourless. He sees everything.
And yet, in his periphery he is being watched. Blue eyes follow his pen and his face and wish that they too had a note book to scrawl in. Both observers look now to the same face, just woken up and tilting the corners of his mouth downwards. The bottle in his hands is bent and almost empty but he still drinks from it, as if it is a lifeline. Perhaps, it is.
The invisible man stands, it's his stop.
And mine.
He uses a brush tipped pen and his eyes never leave their target; his strokes are strong, swift, decisive and taken in with that eye. The eye that he tries to hide from the people around him. That eye, his eye.
He wears no bright colours, nor dark. Khaki greens and washed out greys and the kind of shoes favoured by those who take long walks, an inconspicuous coat and the startings of a beard. He is ordinary, time has etched premature lines in his face. He has the expression of one that does all the watching, he sinks into his sketches as he sinks into the surroundings; no one would watch him, he isn't there. He is colourless. He sees everything.
And yet, in his periphery he is being watched. Blue eyes follow his pen and his face and wish that they too had a note book to scrawl in. Both observers look now to the same face, just woken up and tilting the corners of his mouth downwards. The bottle in his hands is bent and almost empty but he still drinks from it, as if it is a lifeline. Perhaps, it is.
The invisible man stands, it's his stop.
And mine.
Monday, 27 December 2010
Wasteland
Everything is white, the fields, the roads, the pathways, the sky. Everything is covered in the pure absence of colour. Nothing stirs, nothing disturbs the peace that is found there. Only the clouds roam above, their faces staring down at the sleeping wastelands below.
She sails foward, arms outstretched, pulling her cloak behind her. Her flight is as silent as the world below, her cheeks are rosy and her breath clouds the air but she is cold. Her hair flies behind, brittle as ice and her skin glistens, the moisture it may have once had gone. Her pure white eyes stare down at her creation, her season, her time and she smiles a wry smile.
In years past people had asked, begged and prayed for her to bless them with the tiny flakes of her dominion but she had not relented. She could not. But as she sat in her throne, resting between that last rule and this she had heard the other seasons plotting, warming and pushing her out. They were all so different, so separate from her, they all wanted the warmth, they wanted colours and she was neither of those.
There was nothing she could do but wait. She could not act while another was in power. The months seemed to her like years as her plan formulated, wound itself around her fragile senses until there was nothing else and ebbed away at her. Then the time came. Her time, and she leapt from her throne with a mighty cry. To those below it sounded like nothing but the whistling of the wind.
She cast her eyes on the other seasons, her smile moving to light her cold face, and she remained there for a few moments, allowing them to look upon her and think about what they had done. She said nothing as she left them and began her descent, throwing her vast cloak upon the world until everything was covered and no one moved. No one could. So cold was the world that nothing could break through the white, nothing could cry out to the other seasons and even if it could they would not be able to answer.
Her work was done, her frozen dominion created and the others looked on, powerless, as they watched the world suffocate under the cloak of their sister. There was nothing they could do.
Winter rose up and returned to her thrown, looking down upon her wasteland with a sick sense of triumph. This was her prize. This was her place. It always would be. Cloaked in the cold, pure white absence of colour.
She sails foward, arms outstretched, pulling her cloak behind her. Her flight is as silent as the world below, her cheeks are rosy and her breath clouds the air but she is cold. Her hair flies behind, brittle as ice and her skin glistens, the moisture it may have once had gone. Her pure white eyes stare down at her creation, her season, her time and she smiles a wry smile.
In years past people had asked, begged and prayed for her to bless them with the tiny flakes of her dominion but she had not relented. She could not. But as she sat in her throne, resting between that last rule and this she had heard the other seasons plotting, warming and pushing her out. They were all so different, so separate from her, they all wanted the warmth, they wanted colours and she was neither of those.
There was nothing she could do but wait. She could not act while another was in power. The months seemed to her like years as her plan formulated, wound itself around her fragile senses until there was nothing else and ebbed away at her. Then the time came. Her time, and she leapt from her throne with a mighty cry. To those below it sounded like nothing but the whistling of the wind.
She cast her eyes on the other seasons, her smile moving to light her cold face, and she remained there for a few moments, allowing them to look upon her and think about what they had done. She said nothing as she left them and began her descent, throwing her vast cloak upon the world until everything was covered and no one moved. No one could. So cold was the world that nothing could break through the white, nothing could cry out to the other seasons and even if it could they would not be able to answer.
Her work was done, her frozen dominion created and the others looked on, powerless, as they watched the world suffocate under the cloak of their sister. There was nothing they could do.
Winter rose up and returned to her thrown, looking down upon her wasteland with a sick sense of triumph. This was her prize. This was her place. It always would be. Cloaked in the cold, pure white absence of colour.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Moleskine
It has a life of its own and the figures move inside it when no one's looking. They may be messy and some might be unfinished but they take on the pages as a knight might take on a dragon. The book was coveted, wanted for so long and now that it sits closed on the table, I can't help but reach out for it, grasp the pen and scribble more life onto its pages.
Welcome to the family.
Welcome to the family.
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
Where Else
I don't like this, this ever-growing cycle of negativity. It's ugly and it's cold.
But there's no other way. I can't say how much it hurts. I can't say how each beat labours against my chest. I can't say how it feels to lose that breath, that life. I can't make it go away. I can't give some reason, some meaning behind it. I can't make it stop.
So this is my canvas. These words are all I can do.
Nothing can stop this repulsive, retching spew of of ice and burden and evil. Nothing can quell this shivering fear.
So where else shall I do this? Where else but here.
But there's no other way. I can't say how much it hurts. I can't say how each beat labours against my chest. I can't say how it feels to lose that breath, that life. I can't make it go away. I can't give some reason, some meaning behind it. I can't make it stop.
So this is my canvas. These words are all I can do.
Nothing can stop this repulsive, retching spew of of ice and burden and evil. Nothing can quell this shivering fear.
So where else shall I do this? Where else but here.
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Music
There is happiness in these notes, even if the words do not agree. There is a smile waiting there in the sound of each instrument. Each track is new and exciting and each track makes me listen. I do so gladly.
There's nothing quite like it.
There's nothing quite like it.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Curve
It's getting there, slowly. It's not, nor will it ever be, perfect. It's almost right. Almost. It will be. Soon.
Keep it up, girl. You're getting there.
Keep it up, girl. You're getting there.
Wednesday, 24 November 2010
Gratitude
I tell everything to these pages, and to you, and they and you both listen. Rare is an explanation, rarer still is any further mention but still they and you remain and listen. The words aren't clear, each typing breath pulls its riddles close and keeps its secrets, but there's always that comfort that these pages keep, that you will read it.
I never really say thank you.
I should.
I never really say thank you.
I should.
Tuesday, 23 November 2010
Everything
Everything is sped up, except the time. The time stays steady and constant as the world and I thrum around it, thrumming and thrumming until something clicks to make us stop. Through the speed I see shapes and visions and memories and moments just out of my reach and I feel like running to catch them. But I can't run. I can't stand. It gets light then, lighter and airier than it is already - and it is very light. I do not feel that I am inside this body and this body doesn't feel me. I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything is erratic, everything flicks out and snatches and catches at the air. I catch at my teeth as the words try to slip through, out of their cage and into the space in front. It is not the words and the mouth that misbehave; it is the letters and the fingers that tap out their treachery and I can do nothing to stop them. They just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything is twisted, wrong and the wall doesn't look like it should do. Instead it stares out, each small lump gazing at me and following as I move. All the colours seem to have changed in this haste, as if they might be different when I'm not looking but quickly turn back so that I don't see them. I'm too fast for them now. I'm too fast and they're forgetting and they're different. The words on my wall pulse, they want to be read, they want to be known. I won't look at them, scared they may not say the things that I'm used to, worried that their words might twist and become darker. They're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything is so loud but there is nothing but the unfamiliar music drifting in and out of my ears, and the tapping. Still there is a buzzing inside my head and my room and the space around. Sometimes the familiar sounds creep up and shock me, I don't expect them but they come anyway and I find myself clinging to the strings between this body and I. If all was quiet and this music was away from my senses I would be forced to listen to the silence and the walls would continue to stare and I would shrink smaller and smaller until I was no more. But the music keeps playing. There is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything breathes a scent remembered but it runs away and it doesn't let me hold it and recognise it as I should. I can't find it when it hides between the clutterings of this room; I know it's there but it slips past, it doesn't want me to find it. And I don't want to make it angry, so I let it slip. It keeps sliding away and between and there is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything feels alive, my fingers recoil as if bitten and they don't stay in the same place for too long. They can't. They don't want to be caught and I don't want them to either. I don't understand why these living things are so eager to hurt and scrape and I don't understand why they're not moving. They stay still but I don't want to turn away. Just in case. They bite at me and it keeps sliding away and between and there is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything is angry and sad and malovent but it still grins and emits happiness - so much so that it must still feel it. Everything is mixed up in this room and nothing knows where it's going and my body seems far away. I want to move towards it, to reclaim it like I should but everything is strange and I and my body keep moving further apart without meaning to. My voice doesn't work, I want to speak but nothing happens. It is still there, sitting in the back of my throat along with my body but I can't make my body use it, we're too far away. I want to tell everything to calm and to move back to their normal places and colours and sounds but I can't and I'm stuck here. It grins and they bite at me and it keeps sliding away and between and there is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
And I'm stuck here.
Everything is erratic, everything flicks out and snatches and catches at the air. I catch at my teeth as the words try to slip through, out of their cage and into the space in front. It is not the words and the mouth that misbehave; it is the letters and the fingers that tap out their treachery and I can do nothing to stop them. They just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything is twisted, wrong and the wall doesn't look like it should do. Instead it stares out, each small lump gazing at me and following as I move. All the colours seem to have changed in this haste, as if they might be different when I'm not looking but quickly turn back so that I don't see them. I'm too fast for them now. I'm too fast and they're forgetting and they're different. The words on my wall pulse, they want to be read, they want to be known. I won't look at them, scared they may not say the things that I'm used to, worried that their words might twist and become darker. They're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything is so loud but there is nothing but the unfamiliar music drifting in and out of my ears, and the tapping. Still there is a buzzing inside my head and my room and the space around. Sometimes the familiar sounds creep up and shock me, I don't expect them but they come anyway and I find myself clinging to the strings between this body and I. If all was quiet and this music was away from my senses I would be forced to listen to the silence and the walls would continue to stare and I would shrink smaller and smaller until I was no more. But the music keeps playing. There is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything breathes a scent remembered but it runs away and it doesn't let me hold it and recognise it as I should. I can't find it when it hides between the clutterings of this room; I know it's there but it slips past, it doesn't want me to find it. And I don't want to make it angry, so I let it slip. It keeps sliding away and between and there is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything feels alive, my fingers recoil as if bitten and they don't stay in the same place for too long. They can't. They don't want to be caught and I don't want them to either. I don't understand why these living things are so eager to hurt and scrape and I don't understand why they're not moving. They stay still but I don't want to turn away. Just in case. They bite at me and it keeps sliding away and between and there is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
Everything is angry and sad and malovent but it still grins and emits happiness - so much so that it must still feel it. Everything is mixed up in this room and nothing knows where it's going and my body seems far away. I want to move towards it, to reclaim it like I should but everything is strange and I and my body keep moving further apart without meaning to. My voice doesn't work, I want to speak but nothing happens. It is still there, sitting in the back of my throat along with my body but I can't make my body use it, we're too far away. I want to tell everything to calm and to move back to their normal places and colours and sounds but I can't and I'm stuck here. It grins and they bite at me and it keeps sliding away and between and there is a buzzing in my head and they're changing and twisting and they just keep tapping and tapping and tapping and I keep thrumming with the world.
And I'm stuck here.
Wednesday, 10 November 2010
I, she, we
I watch her, she moves differently and she thinks differently and she is not entirely there. And I watch her. I cannot say where I am; I've never been here before and I cannot tell you its name. She and I are connected, we hear, we see, we speak, we breathe the same and yet, I can't understand her. Not now. Not as I drift behind and I watch.
I'm out and she is in; we should be together but something separates us, something we can't see. We can feel it there, like a thin sheet not substantial enough to block out the warmth of our identical features. She is the concrete and I the abstract. It is a wrong sensation, it does not fit with what we know; we do not fit with what we know, we are different.
We move now, together, but still there is a breath between us and we remain separate. We remain two.
In this moment, I don't recall that normal sensation of being only one.
I'm out and she is in; we should be together but something separates us, something we can't see. We can feel it there, like a thin sheet not substantial enough to block out the warmth of our identical features. She is the concrete and I the abstract. It is a wrong sensation, it does not fit with what we know; we do not fit with what we know, we are different.
We move now, together, but still there is a breath between us and we remain separate. We remain two.
In this moment, I don't recall that normal sensation of being only one.
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