green is not a creative colour.

So we all knew I was lying when I said I'd blog every day. BUT HEY AT LEAST I'VE BEEN BEING CREATIVE.


I'm in the library at the moment, doing nothing. I do this a lot because I have to trek in to class all the time and I live in Ireland so it's cold and I can never be bothered to go home. It's 12:41 and the next thing I have is at 6. I'm cool. I actually really like the library, tbh. It's a legal deposit library so I can read whatever the fuck I want. Which I do. Just not the stuff I'm supposed to be reading. But the library is awesome. There are so many books. It's like having friends.

I auditioned for a small part in a play today. It's called The Crazy Locomotive and it sounds like my kind of scene, really. I think there's going to be an actual train-set-set. Lifesize, you know. I'm a traindork. It's too early in the morning to actually have anything to say, although thanks to the grace of my lecture this morning I'm a little more enlightened about being a person. I'll explain it to you one day.

There's a tea-party in my brain
and no one's invited
they same i'm insane
but i'm just excited
the china is brilliant
the cakes are absurd
the weather's resilient
but I'll have the last word

I should probably eventually sleep.


...WHEN I'M DEAD

Have I mentioned recently that I hate boys? They should text you when they say they're going to text you and actually tell you when they want to see you so you don't obsess about ewsrt5yfghbnj. I just feel dumb because obviously, dusk was right and Pratchett didn't want nothin' but what they all want. END OF DISCUSSION ABOUT MEN.

OK I'm DONE.

x
day

Dial-a-Cliché: 'Happy as Larry'

The question: who is the happiest person you know? For the purposes of this project, I asked around (OK fine, I made a poll on facebook) and the response was almost unanimously Larry Knight. I don't know Larry Knight. I hit google, and google knows neither. Ctrl+T, http://facebook.com, enter, Search..., click, type, L, dropdown Laura Haynes, Leo Mates, Lydia Fowler, Emma Loveday, type La...dropdown Lawrence Knight, click. 89 mutual friends. I only have 92. He's friends with my parents?! +1Add Friend? Click.


Lives in Los Angeles, California
Knows English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Russian, Arabic
Has worked at Hollister Co.
From Brussels, Belgium

Notification: Lawrence Knight has accepted your friend request.
 Score.

chat bleeps.

Larry: You're the new kid, right?
Me: Well, not really, but for the purposes of this conversation, sure.
Larry: cool.
Me: Can I ask you a few questions? It's for a...sociology project or something.
Larry: Shoot.
Me: OK. Are you happy?
Larry: Yes. Why?
Me: What would you say is the leading factor in causing this happiness?
Larry: Gee, I don't know.
Me: Your family?
Larry: Sure, that's part of it, I mean my parents love me and my sister, we live comfortably well...
I guess my parents are getting divorced and that kind of sucks, but their marriage has been on the rocks for ages so it's kind of better this way and you know that's just the way the cookie crumbles, or whatever. and they're entering into a custody battle in which I apparently get no real say...but whatever I'll be out of here next year anyway
Me:so...you're happy with your family?
Larry: well. not with all of it, but ostensibly, yes.
Me: OK...what about your friends?
Larry: Oh, my friends are awesome. Love them.
Me: Who's your best friend?
Larry: Oh well I couldn't say, you know. People would get jealous...haha just kidding, uh...I don't really have a 'best friend' I guess...not since, like, kindergarten or whatever. I mean I just have a whole group of people...actually we don't really hang out as individuals. Actually there wouldn't be much to talk about if we did...we have more fun like, doing things...
they're kind of superficial really. but they're honest, at least. Or, they're loyal, anyway.
Me: but you're happy
Larry: Well, I guess maybe I could do with finding someone who I can actually talk to, haha, I've never really thought about that. But yes, I'm happy.
Me:...and what about girls?
Larry: well, like? uh...I don't know.
Me: From what I can glean there's a lot of interest
Larry: yeah, but like...I'm not really interested
Me: Why's that?
Larry: I'm just not. What do girls have to do with happiness anyway? Shit, next question.
Me:well, you know...we're programmed to want them...for mating rituals or family or something
Larry: next question
Me: do you like your appearance?
Larry: yes, of course. Not that I think about that. I just...don't not like my appearance and yeah uh, like you said...uh nevermind, yes. yes I'm happy with how I look.
Me: there's nothing you would change?
Larry: Well of course there is, but, everyone would change something if given the chance
Me:...not someone who was happy with their appearance
Larry: Well, like, I'm not entirely happy then, but like I said, I'm not not happy.
Me: OK.
Larry: I'm just a normal guy.
Me: I did a survey and apparently you're the happiest guy people know.
Larry: oh, cool.
Me: are you happy?
Larry: Well, sure. I mean, not about the things you've asked but like...there's more to happiness than that
Me: So...what is happiness then?
Larry: I mean...yeah well maybe there's not. But there's more to life than just being happy. Like, I wouldn't choose to have a lobotomy that would remove all my dissatisfaction with my lot and leave me in happiness
Me:ignorance is bliss?
Larry: yeah, but like I said, I wouldn't choose this brave new world shit because there's more than that...you need the downs to have the ups, you know? I mean I wouldn't be happy at all unless I knew sadness
Me: so,
Larry: you know that void that swallows you up just because you ask probing questions that the universe doesn't have an answer to?
Me: kind of
Larry: yeah that's where I live, I guess. Like, everyone else sees me as what they think is happy, I guess: I have good grades, my parents love me, I'm rich, sports star, whatever...but my head's just in agony sometimes...whoever wants to be happy as Larry's gotta give up a few things, first.
Me:...happy as Larry. I like that.
Lawrence Knight is offline. Send him a message?

Reclaim a cliché: 'Show them the ropes'

The elegant white form of The Queen Bathsheba sliced through the water like a scimitar, glistening boldly in the Caribbean sun. And slicing was exactly what she was doing—her deliberate edges carving a path with ease and precision, as per the careful design of W. J. Wheeler & Sons.; merchant shipwrights of highest renown. Every part of her that was meant to gleam, gleamed; from the brilliant white of her crisp sails to the spotless chrome capstans. And the parts of her that didn’t shine—the rich teak on the deck, the matching sun-loungers—they were scrubbed so that not a hint of salty residue remained. The whole ship was a carefully crafted, polished, sailing machine: and that included the men running it. Each of the 12 resident crew, from the first mate to the lowest deckhand had been personally selected by Wheeler & Sons.—all as part of the service.

Sitting under the canopy roof on the upper deck, Richard was also glistening. The little beads of sweat persisted in forming on his forehead just moments after he destroyed their predecessors in yet another exasperated wipe of his palm. He had installed a tinted glass spray so that he could work on deck with his laptop, cell-phone and any important business papers he might need without fear of an errant wave soaking the lot. That same screen now also served to direct the healthy 10-knot sea breeze that was propelling them deftly though the water away from where it was sorely needed – his face. That was a mistake, Richard thought to himself. In fact, the whole thing had been a mistake; the idea that an executive yacht would make a good escape from the day-to-day stresses of running a business. Especially when that business was in boats.

Looking back, it almost seemed to Richard to be almost laughable. Admittedly, the boats he was involved with were a stretch different to this one – huge passenger ships, providing everything from executive cruises, to teambuilding weekends to party trips. And while he rarely visited these vessels, and never sailed on them (he had only recently found his sea-legs), they were nevertheless a constant feature of his life. As such, sitting on one now didn’t really feel like much of a holiday. A busman’s holiday, thought Richard.  Maybe it would have been all right in the days before universal network coverage, when leaving harbour meant leaving the office behind; now, however, Richard found himself firmly moored to the mainland via his cell-phone. He had spent the fine, cloudless morning speaking to various suppliers, clients, and Mark, his assistant. They were soon to augment his fleet with another three enormous sailboats; the scheduled launch day was looming and they were still short of crew and supplies on one of the ships. It was all turning into a bit of a headache.

Richard pressed his thumb and forefinger firmly onto his eyelids, as if somehow trying to squeeze out the stress from behind his eyeballs. He took a sip of his gin and tonic, only to find that the ice had all melted, and the drink was now watery, and slightly warm. He fished the slice of lemon out of the glass and sucked it thoughtfully, relishing its refreshing sourness. For the first time that day, he leaned back in his seat and took in the air around him. He watched as they skated along the sheer cliffs that lined the edge of Redonda, a black island of volcanic rock set inexplicably alone in the deep blue Caribbean waters. They were beating a gentle course parallel to the eastern edge of it, in the quiet, almost windless lull found in the shadow to leeward of any big rock. Richard tilted his chair back and pressed his eyes shut once again. He could hear the thick accents of the men on the working deck below, rising up in occasional yells and bursts of laughter.

Suddenly, as the slender form The Queen Bathsheba passed out from the shelter of Redonda’s rotund form, the wind in the sails whipped across to the other side of the boat. The smart white sail luffed uncertainly for a second, and Richard almost felt alarmed, but from below he heard the first mate’s voice firing a volley of orders and seconds later the boom swung across the deck, the sails filled with wind and they cut on through the water away from the rocky mass behind them.

Richard opened his eyes again, stood up, and walked over to the chromium railing where he could look down on the men as they worked. His phone vibrated and rattled on the glass table next to his warm gin and tonic, but he ignored it, gazing at the men below. Having finished adjusting the sails, most of them were squatting on the shining chrome capstans or in the large coils of rope. Two of them were clearly engaging in a battle of wits, and the eyes of the rest darted from one to the other between outbursts, flanked with laugher and shouts of derision. The first mate, Martel, was standing leaning against the thick trunk of the mast, grinning. On the upper deck, Richard suddenly felt an urge to join them, to be down there on the bottom deck as one of them, joking and working as they did. He started down the scrubbed teak staircase. 

As Richard reached the bottom step one of the crewmen noticed him, and the gleeful hooting fell to hush, so that the sound of the wind rushing over the sails became suddenly audible. It was unusual for Richard to come down unannounced. They felt nervous. Had they done something wrong? The men who were sitting lazily on the big round capstans got up and stood awkwardly, watching their employer with an air of anticipation. Down here on the deck, Richard felt out of place and alien; a stranger on his own ship. Martel, however, had been as highly trained in hospitality as he had in boating – all part of the service. He beamed a broad white smile.

“’Tis a boutiful day, isn’ it, cap’n? We got abou’ 20 knots’ o’ wind behin’ us, I reckon.”
Richard mumbled a discomfited assent.
“An’ how can we help you today, cap’n?”
Richard furrowed his brow a little. Despite the fact that he was speaking to an employee, he felt more than faintly embarrassed. After a moment’s consideration he said, “Actually, I was wondering if I could help you.”

While not exactly a snigger, Richard could certainly discern a distinct ripple of something pass between the on-looking crewmen. Now it was Martel’s chance to look embarrassed. The beaming smile briefly flickered off his face, as if he was taken aback by the request, but with the professionalism and enthusiasm for which he had been selected, he quickly restored it—“Excellent, sir. We just tinkin’ abou’ raisin’ anuda sheet, what wit’ the fine wind we got, an’ we could certainly use anuda pair’a hands, right.” He clapped his own big hands together and nodded at the men, still baring his dazzling teeth in what appeared to be genuine enthusiasm. The frozen crew melted into action.

Two of the men began unrolling the extra sail, and shackled the top of it to the halyard: the long rope running all the way up to the top of the mast and back down onto the lower deck. Martel took the lose end and wrapped it four times around the big silver drum one of the men had been sitting on, so that it coiled up from the bottom like a snake, with the head at the end of the rope coming towards Richard.

“You seen a capstan before, right?”
He nodded.
“As my men crank dem sail up, you gotta tail the rope; keep it nice an’ right all the time, and keep youself low”.

The men had settled onto the coffee grinders; the tall pedestal winches they used to crank the capstan around and raise the sail. They were standing in pairs, one on each side of the grinders, which had two opposing arms, quite like the pedals of a bike, except with a handle on each end. The deck was unusually silent, Richard noted. The men seemed tense and uneasy, as if he were there to judge them in some way. Crouching down next to the silver drum in his deck shoes and chino shorts surveying each of them, he felt vaguely ridiculous; he in his expensive, custom bought ‘boat wear’ which was entirely inappropriate for any practical boating and while their baggy shorts and sun-beaten torsos looked just as if they had been born on deck. Each man has his bare feet set squarely for added hold, and was leaning in towards his partner: eye-to-eye; hands next to each other, one on each pedal, ready to work together as one.

“All ready?” called Martel. This was less a signal for the already alert crew but more for Richard, whose rope was slack and limp around the drum. He pulled it taught, and rebalanced himself so that his weight was pulling him backwards against the rope.
“And: Hoist!” came the call.
The men leapt into action, arms spinning furiously on their pedestals which, in turn, turned the drum upon which Richard was keeping the rope tightly wrapped. Each man was cranking silently, without a grunt or a strain. Martel was the first to break the silence.
“Come on you boys!” he taunted. “Pull it like you’ fifteen years ol’ again.”
The men laughed appreciatively and kept turning. Richard laughed. The taut rope wrapped further round the turning drum as the sail inched its way up the mast. He had to keep working his hands down the rope as it slowly snaked out onto the deck behind him, all the while straining to keep it tight.
“I seen my granny at a bar pull faster than you guys!”

Howling laughter rose above the sound of the spinning arms, Richard’s intermingled with his crew’s. Even though he knew he wasn’t doing a tenth of the work of any of the men on the grinders, he could feel his arms aching, just as theirs were surely beginning to. Beads of sweat were again beginning to form on his brow. He blinked them off, gasping with the joyous exuberance of it all. Before his eyes he could see the great triangle of heavy white canvas creeping slowly up the big trunk mast, willed by their collective force. He felt proud. They were almost at the top now, and Martel’s shouts had turned to encouragement. The men, Richard included, worked as one to creep up the last few feet towards the end. Richard felt exultant, spurred on by the shouts of the men, and the ache in his muscles and the feeling of collective achievement.

He stood up a little, so as to better see the progress of sail as it reached the very head of the mast. As he did so, the rope he was holding slipped over the top of the drum and as it did the loaded force of a hundred kilograms of heavy white sail pulled in the newly created slack, whipping the rope from Richard’s hands. Suddenly, Richard’s world exploded with noise. The rope he had just been holding was now rapidly whizzing round the drum with a high pitched singing; some of the crew had stopped turning and were shouting at the others to stop too, and all the while the heavy canvas of the sail was now flapping angrily, beating a rapid succession of thunderclaps as it hurtled from the top of the mast down towards the deck. Richard watched stupidly for a second at the rope whipping past his knee and then reached out his hand to grab the errant chord and bright the racket to an end.

“No!” Martel’s booming voice rang clearly through the cacophony, and Richard looked up and watched the great man’s bare, muscled arm reach past him and slam closed the jammer cleat that the rope ran through before it reached his capstan. All at once, the world became still again, with the exception of Richard’s heart, which he could still hear thumping in his chest. He was visibly shaking. He looked at the rope that he had been just about to touch: at the speed it was going, it would have burned all the skin off his hand before he could have got a grip on it. And if he had managed to grasp it…  Richard followed the rope round the drum and through the thick metal jammer: what it could have done to his fleshy arm didn’t bear thinking about. One of the crewmen groaned. He looked up. The sail was now back down to just above half-mast, hanging limply as a white flag on a windless day. The crew were exhausted, and now had half of what they’d just done to do all over again.

“I, I… I’m so sorry.”
“No,” replied Martel, smiling again, but this time without the brilliant teeth, “The fault is mine. I should ha’ warned you about the rope. Are you hurt?”
Richard shook his head, feebly.
“I mus’ apologise for shoutin’ at you too, sir, it’s just the rope would ha–”
Richard nodded. “Yes. I know. Thank you Martel. I’m so sorry.”

He stood up, and turned towards the stairs, trying to avoid eye contact with any of the men. Thankfully, they seemed to be doing exactly the same thing. He climbed the stairs to the upper deck, and sat in his chair, still shaking, the sound of the flapping sails rushing in his ears. Despite the sunburn, he could tell that his ears were flushed. From the lower deck, he could hear Martel encouraging the men into starting up again. Richard scolded himself fervently. What good was he on board if he couldn’t even tail a rope? What right did he have to pretend he could run a boat business if he didn’t know the first thing about sailing himself?

As he stared woefully at his boat shoes, an idea struck him. He reached for his cell-phone and dialled his assistant.

“Mark? Hi, yes. Listen: do we still have a space for another crewmember on one of the new fleet? No, nothing like that; just some deck work… No, they’re not experienced, but they’re keen to learn, and need someone to show them the ropes.”


— Dusk

There is not a grain of dust, not an atom that can become nothing, yet man believes that death is the annhilation of his being

I was thinking about the paranormal over halloween, as you do. It seems to be getting harder and harder to scare people these days. We pride ourselves on bravery; hear kids competing with one another over how many horror films they've not been scared by; we joke about people who actually believe in silly things such as apparitions and ghosts. We're too smart for that; the age of reason's kicked in and God has, well, kicked it. The gaps are glued over and above all else, logic prevails.

It strikes me as odd then, that as soon as we channel the right mood, atmosphere, lighting, it becomes quite easy to scare ourselves, and each other. No matter how much reason governs our mind during daylight hours; darkness and the unknown will always shut the rational consciousness out and allow that prickling on the back of our necks to take over. The truth is, the more used we get to scientific, logical elucidation, the more we are scared by phenomena we are unable to explain and we recourse to what we had once ruled out as ridiculous. We choose ghosts because, well, they're inescapable. Even if we deny their presence in real life, we constantly encounter them in the novels we read, the films we watch, the plays we attend...whatever the medium.

But here's the rub. We still don't really believe in ghosts; we're just so desperate for an explanation, no matter how absurd; we simply cannot face the void. 

x day

sparklers in the dusk, baking and luck;)

...shit. I can't even do this. I have a good excuse for missing two days though...I was really sick, embarrassingly so. BUT I'm all better now. My passport still hasn't arrived, it's got me really bummed out.
HA. I just got back to this. Make that three days. I officially promise to be good from now on.

So yeah, I've pretty much done fuck all since our last, but hey, things could be worse.

My tonsils are swollen like a bitch, but if its any consolation, Pratchett will probably be feeling the swell any day now. Yes, I've been naughty. It's actually great because it gets Rodeo out of my mind ... hopefully this won't mean I develop an infatuation for Pratchett who as it turns out is actually pretty cool. I'm glad a gave him another chance to make an impression. No concerns really, I like him and all, but there did seem to be something lacking, besides my attention span, that is. At least it felt that way until last night...I'm weirdly comfortable with him, to the point of my mind going to some kindred spirit place, not in an 'omfgIfoundmySoulMate<3<3<3' kind of way but a totally friendly--and ok maybe a little sexual--way. I need to figure out how to dash on this thing.

Meanwhile, I'm consuming a fruit loaf, drinking lemsip and calmly, patiently waiting for my passport. OMG WHY ISN'T IT HERE YET? I may actually leave the house today, you know what they say about all wait and no play...I think I'm stir crazy, so I'm glad that Pratchett came over and chilled. I literally don't have that much to say. But I shall endeavour to create something today.

more profound at some point,
xx
day

a thought- could there be day without dusk/ dusk without day?

PoMo Promo

On being asked what literary movement I think I am most like
 

• 
  

  Having thought about it, I am definitely postmodernism. Totally po-mo. The whole concept of the ironic use of form with no actual substance, the play-for-play's sake; never making any real point except meta-level jokes about the medium itself. Never arguing for anything I actually believe in, since there isn't any objective truth anyway. Skilled as a mimic, and sometimes capable of loving pastiche, but always without sincerity, and usually with a jealous glance over the shoulder at the modernism I define myself against.
  
  Thinking myself 'too cool' for all that fussy stuff, but not in the carefree way the beat poets had, but instead nervously checking that everyone else in the room has noticed — like the 15 year old boy self-consciously clutching a copy of Nietzsche.
  
  Damn you, classicism, with your easy clichés and your majestic grandiosity. Damn you for the glowing admiration you get for your uncaringly showyness and your long golden locks. You spend your nights with nymphs and cherubim: here I am, alone, sitting waiting for Godot.

— Dusk

Subject: Did you ever... Date: 25.01.2007

Hey.

You left in the ridiculous position of waiting for me to call; remember - all
men are bastards. Luckily, as you pointed out, I would make a good girl,
especially without the ginger beard.

So how are you? I assume that if you're reading this, you either got home
safely, or you've found a really really crap way to spend your dying minutes as
your plane hurtles towards the crazy Belgian soil.

My journey was crap. We almost missed the bus because of my lame dad (literally
- he twisted his knee whilst sliding down the slopes the ones which aren't
tea-trays. The drainpipe-looking ones).
But yes. We got there. In the airport there was this giant chupa chups lolly,
the size of my brain (two fists?) and it made me think of you. But it was €15
and also my mouth isn't that big.

One last thought... did you ever meet someone on holiday, and despite the fact
that they live in Belgiumland, they're almost 4 years younger than you, you're
on a date with your girlfriend, and you'll probably never see them again, you
still can't get them out of your head? If not, then take a good long drink of
vodka and email me back. If you have... then stop flirting with 10-year-olds!

dusk.

Being in a relationship, that's something you choose. Being friends, that's just something you are.

Oh hi it's me again. So soon, I know. I did say I was going to do this blog-every-day thing. There's an essay on Marxist literary theory waiting to be written somewhere and that probably helps. Last night instead of going to sleep I bought-with-one-click-and-delivered-via-whispernet John Green&David Levithan's Will Grayson, Will Grayson on my kindle and read into the night. I liked it, only it's vexingly sent me into this post-one-sitting-read sort of euphoria and I feel exactly like I've been flung headlong into what can only end in weltschmerz

it's the depression you feel when the world as it is does not line up with the world as you think it should be.

and I'm Romanticising my life as though all those moments that happen in literature could actually happen to real people, irl. I've been invited over for dinner by Pratchett, who wants to cook for me and I'm actually letting myself believe it's for something much more passionate and loving than a cheap ploy to get me to have sex with him.

The closest I've ever got to a real-life-feeling-novelesque-love has been dusk. He features in my life, my thoughts, my dreams but to cross the lines, blurring our perfection into too certain realms, might ruin everything. I don't care what they say about falling, because you always have to land eventually. That's a certainty I can't risk...again.

day x

Forbidden pleasures alone are loved immoderately; when lawful, they do not excite desire.

You missed the previous posts because they happened elsewhere, but I'm going to blog every day in November because I'm not even going to kid myself that I'd win at NaNoWriMo. This, maybe. I figure as long as I'm writing something I can still call myself a writer, right? er...

I'm annoyed at the moment because it's reading week and I was meant to get a flight home this morning but my passport, which had been in the post for about a week didn't arrive on time and so I'm stuck at home. I guess the bright side is that I have a few more days to do some actual reading. Or no excuse not to...Whatever.

I want to talk today about The Chase. You know, the thrill of it. I don't understand precisely why, but I become instantly attracted to a guy if he's got game. Even if he's not physically attractive, he can excite me. Example-I have two guys on the go. Pratchett is attractive, older, cooler, knows lot of useful people, is interested me, and Rodeo is not attractive, or useful in any way apart from the fact that he's semi-literate and yet HE is the one who occupies my thoughts. He waits days to respond to my texts, and doesn't act interested when he does: he's playing The Chase. I get infuriated to the point I have to delete his number from my phone to prevent me texting back. To end it all he'd have to do would be act interested and I'd lose interest. I hate being female sometimes.

I'll be more interesting soon, I promise.

x
day

The Body Butter Plot.

On either side the Liffey lie

Long floods of traffic and of sighs,
That fill the city and the sky;
And thro' the floods the road runs by
Towards a place called Body Shop;
And up and down the people go,
Sniffing at the window show,
A sweet perfume of mango:
The body butter pot.

Men are transfixed, women quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the scent that is delivered
From the pot, along the river
Flowing down to Body Shop.
Smeared on bodies after showers,
An aroma, mango flowers,
That releases untold powers:
The body butter pot.

The gold container's deep expanse
Holds all bold seers in a trance,
Seeing all their own missed chance --
In its creamy countenance ;
Glittering from Body Shop.
Once purchased, at the close of day
They loose their clothes, and down they lay;
The unctuous balm carries them away,
The body butter pot.


Alas there is a darker notion,
Hid, concealed within this lotion
Beneath perfumes, a noxious potion,
Through shallow balm the deepest ocean
As devised by Body Shop:
But who could know they’d had a hand?
Who could have foreseen what they’d planned?
The scheme that captured all the land:
The body butter plot.


Only children curbed the spell,
Their purity shields them from hell,
They alone resist the swell,
Engulphing souls into the well;
Bricked over by the Body Shop.
These innocents can nothing tell,
of the dark domain where adults dwell,
Lambs bleating, parents trapped in cells
with body butter pots.


The gaol works by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
That turns divine into decay,
And once ensnared forever stay
The victims of the Body Shop.
Kids know not what the curse may be,
But that it worketh steadily,
And that there is no chance to flee
The body butter pot.


For weeks and weeks the blight did bloom
And every grown up did consume,
Locked away as if entombed,
Deep inside their private rooms
All because of Body Shop.
The youths of town, they were perplexed,
Long days passed, left them unchecked,
Motherhood replaced by sect
The body butter plot.


From chaos came an answered plea,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy
From whence came Peter Doherty
As he rode down to Body Shop:
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
O’er body butter pot.


He sprinted fast around the bend
The only one who could defend
The blameless bleaters, who could mend;
to machinations bring an end
as he flew down to Body Shop.
From his lips poured forth a song
that called attention to the throng
began to recall right and wrong
from body butter plot


Doherty’s hymn, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till all blood was frozen slowly,
And all eyes awakened wholly,
To evil deeds of Body Shop.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The plastic crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is broken!" children cried
as coppers closed the body butter shop.

Could I be?

So I know this is overkill, but as I was sitting down last night to write about just why you should let me in your club I went out and got drunk instead. This morning, hungover, I write about how that happened. I am fully aware that in the time it took me to write this I could probably have given actual reasons as to why you should pick me.

The Undergrad's Tale

-- Prologue --

"Praye tell" so said our Hoste 

"Whither did go thy moste

Weighty plea to join this band

Of learned men hither at hand?" ...

-- The Tale --

A girl while in her room a'write

At reasons wherefore she might

Mete with group of men genteel

This girl, whilom filled with zeal

Felt she could there pen no more

And presently fell a knock adoor

And therewith entered in a maid

Knowne to the girl who her bade

Go to tavern hence, for merryment

So thus was that girl's eve spent

          ***

Once upon an eve of waiting, while I sat procrastinating,

Avoiding penning letters for post I was applying for.

In my chamber, nodding off 

I received a call to quaff

Dropping here my quill and off, I headed out the door

Abandoning my penmanship and heading out the door.

And left was this: and nothing more.

          ***

being (as i was) oh

-so thirsty;and but while

there (always was to

                   do words and allthings:

i Took my coat phone face

book keys and

Left shutting the door

leaving 

          in

        stead 

this.

***

A Stygian quake in bones and sinew

Arch-aching to succeed, and join you

I can sew I can cook I can talk

I’m a woman-deluge, distracted, called away, and put on shoes

Submerge myself in swill, chug and shut out

What remains, contains me, neglected naked page.

***

At desk my head bellowing burping writhing trying to knock out the sense meaning who am I where do I a short notice utterance missed missed me like the jusshquoi of millions I will forge this heavyheaded tight pen writing writing nothing and purloined by friend of ourn unnamed to pointandplace to drink drink drink and plod home along grafton prumptly trailing garliccedchips and overlooking to write to employ to mean.

***

The ivory-laid pen lay still upon the desk and as she mused upon its scratchings, her gaze was drawn back to when the whole carrel belonged to her grandmother. The family would visit her house in Fleet Street every Noel, the only time of year that she would take it upon herself to risk inhaling the effluvia secreted by her penurious relatives and open her door to the whole greedy lot of them. In those Winter months when for everyone else the pipes had frozen over and the price of coal driven up so exorbitantly that children perished like matchsticks in their mothers arms overnight, the old woman’s chimneys perpetually belched smoke as she sat couched by the fire drinking scotch with freshly made ice. Blanketed inside, the girl would, for the most part, sit in the window seat and think of others suffering outside. She would sit unstirringly, that is, until both generations of parents began to snooze by the embers, whereupon she would take it upon herself to steal upstairs to the study and examine the bureau. She was always intensely impressed by its magnificence; it seemed to carry a mystic feel to it, with its ornate legs twisting right down to the carpet like the branches of some beautiful knarlled oak with dark whirls peppering it surface. The myriad letter slots and shelves were entirely foreign to her then, much like the flecks of gold engraving on their brass handles. She would stare into its knots and escape into worlds of epic quest, diving into the fountain of knowledge, swallowing all that she could, and then would steal back out again and write about all that which she had seen in the folds of that ancient rolltop on the back pages of her Bible, the only book she owned in that time. She was now staring straight into those same knots, devoid of inspiration. Her fountain pen still lidded, the crystal decanter winked and whistled, fluorescing in the lamplight.

Apologies to Geoff, Ed, Ed, Sylvia, James and Charles.

Love.

One Under

Dear guy-who-was-sitting-opposite-me-on-the-tube-that-day,

       I remember I wasn't sure whether you'd half-acknowledged me with that smile because I’d stared at you for too long before you sat down or whether it had actually been one of those "hey, do I know you?" looks. I thought I recognised you from somewhere but I couldn't exactly double-check in case yours had simply been that smug smile of the consciously good looking. I remember all these crazy things going on inside my head, like maybe you’d found me attractive too, and this was that romantic moment I'd been waiting for. Maybe you'd seen that we were both reading The Great Gatsby and we'd just shared an intimate, kindred spirits kind-of-smile. Which, typical of me, I had missed. There I was sitting in that stuffy carriage gazing at that strawberry web of pink bubbalicious stuck between the doors and The Most Romantic Moment of my Life had come and gone! 

In reality though, you wouldn't have noticed that we were reading the same book because yours was some ancient second-hand copy that hipsters like you carry around and I was reading mine on my Kindle. It's weird; I don't even remember the smile now, but I obsessed over it for the next 6 stops. I wondered whether I'd gone to school with you because you sort of looked like one of those indie guys who used to sit and smoke on the steps outside the art rooms at lunch… but that might just have been because you had that dark, carefully tousled hair consistent with that type. Maybe you'd served me in the cinema once and you were smiling because I was the girl who couldn't choose and so ordered a large popcorn AND ice cream. Or perhaps you worked in my local independent bookstore and had always admired me from afar for my good looks and impeccable taste in Russian literature…I remember fixing my head straight at the man in the heavy overcoat next to you so I could peer at you without directly looking and then stopping quickly as he started smiling back at me.

When the train stopped so suddenly I remember you rolled your eyes at me as if to say "Great. Now we're both going to be late" but I didn't mind, because I'd pretty much idealised myself into being in love with you by that point. When the lights shut off and the engine stopped, the suited collective sighed and closed their newspapers, and you alone kept reading. I remember you then, once that anxious muttering started up, your head lifted from your book, half biting your bottom lip as though you were silently musing on something when the voice buzzed over the intercom and the lights flickered back on.

There will be a delay to your service. We anticipate that service will resume sometime within the next 20 minutes. London Underground wishes to apologise for any inconvenience that this may cause to your journey.

I remember that through the rise of general indignant tutting, your face looked slightly relieved and I wondered if you now felt silly because, like mine, your mind had jumped to terrorism and you were silently apologising for thinking awful things about that harmless businessman sitting three seats along from you. Maybe you were musing on how the media had made us so paranoid that we jumped to racial prejudices before considering a simple signaling problem. I wanted to say something to you then but I still wasn't sure if I knew you from somewhere.

We're sorry for the inconvenience: there will be severe delays on this Jubilee line service. A person has gone under the train.

The intercom’s crackle was met with a silence the carriage hadn't yet seen. Intermingled shock and horror clouded your eyes. As the suited collective gathered its breath there was a moment of recovery giving way to a few tuts and muttered "selfishness" from several people whose empathy had already been devoured by impatience. I remember forgetting not to look at you and how our eyes met in a frisson of empathy for that person, and the driver, and the innumerable lives that had been forever altered by our train journey. I remember that soul-wrenching need for comfort that I felt and how your eyes delivered me through that moment until we got off at Euston and you slowly sped away from me, wordless.

I just wanted to thank you, I guess.

Yours.