Writing can be a bit like drowning in your own shit.
I'm up at about three in the morning writing poetry. My portfolio has to be 900 lines and I've written one and a half poems at this point. I would have done more work earlier in the day but procrastination insisted I shouldn't. They not edited poems, they are lopsided creations that need shaping. I'm trying to be post modern. Despite trying new ideas, I'm still too fucking abstract. I have a notebook that I use for inspiration, mainly for poetry rather than short stories. The little things I collect from life, I write in there. It also contains poems I'm working on or premature ones that I knew not to finish. Plus several completely dreadful ones that I've scribbled out or scrawled profanities over. This poem is one I wrote after Tom broke up with me. Reading it now the feeling/emotion recreates itself in a stilted form, I do not understand it though. Neither do I remember what it is about. I think it may have been influenced by some philosophy theory I was reading. Or one I was delving into. Fuck knows.
Mantras and masochism
Spiritual animal I am,
Seeking higher sensations.
We creatures wading
In mud to grasp a pure concept,
Through the wiggling legs
and arms and torsos
breasts, both genitals.
Hidden is my secret streak of feeling,
That I take out to examine.
A silk frayed ribbon,
Coloured and beautiful,
Like a bruise.
Actually now it vaguely resembles some of my thoughts on hedonism. I wish I had given it a title when I originally wrote it. Then I would have some clue to its origins and more importantly wouldn't have to give it a guessed title now.
Copious abstractions, I'm doomed.
BOOGIE.
Labels: poetry
I'm a naughty bisexual seahorse
http://www.recessmonkey.com/2007/01/31/church-to-turn-against-gays/
I Found this whilst randomly browsing. I have to say it amused me a fair amount especially because I was considering getting a seahorse tattoo due to their gender distorting qualities. The males famously give birth. I've seen a clip on TV of a seahorse birth. He shot a stream of babies out of what would be a belly button on a human. The action was like someone squirting a water pistol, the daddy seahorse was very much firing his babies into the water and sticking his belly out for the camera.
Now I find I am rather like a seahorse in my more subversive qualities. It's relevant to me in another way. My boyfriend Joe joked that he was a pregnant seahorse and was only with me for the baby. He then he noticed that seahorses have mohicans like him and was highly amused.
My particular favourite sentences from the link are:
“This is a major problem for the Vatican. There is nothing worse in the church than gay sex and the Pope is going to have to consider “casting out” seahorses as works of Satan rather than works of God.”
"The Vatican is set to hold crisis talks later today to consider how they can prevent gay seahorses from taking part in the rearing of their young."
Both are of such a comical essence. I'm not sure if this actually happened because if so the Vatican would be having a crisis almost every day. A vast amount of animals engage in homosexual sex. Some have heterosexual sex when it is not necessary for reproduction purposes, suggesting that they do it just for the pleasure of it.
Look at me shaking my smutty seahorse tail.BOOGIE
Labels: nature, sexuality
Naomi Wolf rocks.
It's a trait of mine to have a taste for the things that cause damage to myself. Perhaps I'm inherently self-destructive. My masochistic tendencies appear to be trespassing into the less furtive areas of my life; although the bruises tend to be blatant. For a large period of my life I've found the need to degrade myself, as if I do not deserve anything without a degree of suffering. Food is a pleasure I must earn. To truly enjoy a huge meal I have to be starving. Eating after depriving myself creates such a rush of blood sugar that I get high. After starvation a meal is an enhanced act. The desire for it becomes increased with the smog in my head and the pain I'm riding out. Once the fast is broken I am lifted at such a speed, that giddiness prevails.
Binary makes the craved opposition sweeter, though both sides are addictive. It is a controlling factor in most of my relationships. Either the person is someone I shouldn't be with and who treats me like shit. A strangle hold of degradation, they dominate you deciding which gasps you are allowed.You begin to rely on them for your air, as if they are the sole source of it. Or they are nice and caring, making me love them intensely. There is always a catch; a payment that makes it bittersweet. With Tom it was the distance. Being apart from him caused me to relish even the smallest amount of time spent together, until one of us would have to leave and the longing would commence once more.
Recently I'm suspended between possibilities. Essentially I've committed to waiting for a sign of confirmation. The fix ,when he appears to want me usually outweighs the misery of his apparent indifference. He turns me into a fetish; I am a symbol to him. An instrument for his development, a means in between plans. Not a person. Still the temptation of potential binds me.
The punishment is a deserved part of any pleasure. Drugs are happiness too condensed, concentrated to an extreme, they have a cutting keenness.
This holiday I've been trying to overcome my instinct to destroy myself. A book that I've found to be reassuring is 'The Beauty Myth - How images of beauty are used against women' by Naomi Wolf. I identified with many of the feelings she reports in woman, the low self worth we are encouraged to nurture. Talking about sexual imagery in the media and objectification she says, "The harm is apparent in the way such imagery represses female sexuality and lowers woman's sexual self-esteem by casting sex as locked in a chastity belt to which "beauty" is the only key."
After reading this book I've started to control my relationship with food, I don't obsess over it as much. I've started to accept myself, I've become weary of trying to destroy myself.
BOOGIE
Labels: masochism, The Beauty Myth
Exposure
They found him in a bad neighbourhood walking the streets. Headlights and tower block windows reflected off his pupils to such an extent they thought his eyes themselves where shining. When they got closer they realised that it was their own car’s lights bouncing out of his eyes. They came across him walking, soaking up the pollution from traffic, the smashed bottles and the prostitutes patrolling the end of the road with his black eyes. The man appeared to have no irises what so ever, only black absorbing pupils. Holes to take in his surroundings with perfect clarity. Prostitutes scattered into the night, fleeing from the police van as it pulled up next to him. His bare arms were left out to be victims of the cold, winter weather. Stopping to face them he sucked in bug gulps of car emission saturated air with his mouth, whilst sucking in the depravation surrounding him with the two dark whirlpools set in his skull.
Searching desperately for any clue of his identity they discovered it was if he had appeared into the world to walk the streets that night. Nobody knew him; nobody claimed to have met him before. He had no name, no nationality.
When they did the first overall check of his condition they found he was filthy, his skin stained with dirt and grime. In his malnourished state his protruding ribs appeared as if they were trying to escape from his body. He did not speak. His hearing sight and ability of speech were healthy, yet he never talked. He only made communication only through emotions. When they placed a plateful of carefully selected food in front of him he started to laugh. The sight of the food sent him into hysterics. He threw his head back and laughed, howling manically as if laughter itself had possessed him. They were so astounded at his reaction that they let him continue laughing. Eventually he forgot to breathe and was strangled by the emotion. Still whooping slightly in hysteria, he passed out.
They labelled him crazy. Insane. Not in touch with reality. No sense. What they never discovered was that he had sense. More sense than anyone had come close to owning before. Scaling heights was no problem for him; he'd climbed to the highest point. Clouds swirled at his feet rolling back at his whim to leave the view open for him to survey. From his vantage point he could see everything. Before his eyes it fell in to place, revealing the logic and he found that it had been there in front of him as long as he had existed. It simply made sense. Perfect sense.
They sent him to an institution for the mentally unwell. For a while they gave him the nutrients his body needed to survive through a drip, blindfolding him before they inserted it. As he felt the drip enter his arm he giggled but the manic laughter did not follow. The hilarity stayed away as he could not see the life entering his arm. After a while they managed to integrate solids, taking him off the drip and feeding him blindfolded. After that they moved onto meals without the blindfold. Only simple, short meals six times a day, instead of the three large ones most are accustomed too. It had to be plain food that supplied his dietary needs; luxury foods were dangerously amusing. Even with those measures taken he would still chuckle for a while afterwards.
Dr Knotts found herself fascinated with him. After observing him and a few sessions of trying to encourage him to speak she decided there probably wasn't very much they could do, so unusual was his case. The professional urge she had in her to find new things out from him was strong to such a degree it disregarded the patients well being. Justifying her actions to herself and her professional learning’s she wrote herself into a conclusion where by some sort of drug would help his current state. With mounting curiosity she placed anti-psychotic drugs in front of him. As she explained what the medicine could do to help him he examined the white tablets in great detail. When he finished his task he smiled to himself in a knowing way. Knotts, annoyed in a petty manner that he had not maintained eye contact with her during her speech broke the control which she always brandished in front of more "difficult" patients.
"Are you even listening to me?" She snapped violently I an attempt to wrench the infuriating, knowing smile from his face and get him to certify her. Surprised at her outburst and loss of discipline she found herself pouting like a toddler in a tantrum. When she noticed this she felt another jolt of anger at the unprofessional behaviour.
She had captured his attention and for once he seemed to be focusing, almost communicating instead of letting his surroundings reflect off his eyes; each image swirling in them briefly. It was odd, she thought, that very precise way he choose to stare at her, reminded her of something. The quirk of the head to the side made her think of her dog at home Bramble. Sweet, loving bramble waiting patiently at the front door, tensing up to bark as she fumbled for her keys. When Bramble was confused her head made cute jerking motions to the side. Ah Bramble. Before Bramble it was Jock welcoming her home from college. Using Jock she would show her achievements to her family, a little performance of tricks leant from the animal psychiatry part of the course. It was satisfying knowing she could twist his mind in order for loyal Jock to act human.
When Dr. Knotts arrived home that night Bramble seemed larger. Her paws made a louder noise on the kitchen floor; she seemed to be at her side constantly.
Sarah Knotts remembered being in college. She remembered what she felt then, she knew what she felt now. Neither of these reasons was officially given foe resignation.
They worried that he was not stimulated enough. Books were interesting for him, but not to read. He tried to eat Charlotte Bronte. Music encouraged them at first, but it was dangerous. Some pieces could have been weapons they set off such fierce reactions, watching him cry was horrible. Seeing him silently curled up weeping for hours made others sad. A poster was blue tacked on his door, “No Blues music allowed without consulting management. “
Perhaps, they thought, eating his special lunch with the other residents would give him something of interest in his day and a chance for interaction. In a way this was an accurate prediction. But then again it depends on how you define interaction.
Patti had many childhood scars. The majority others couldn’t see. Even her boyfriend who loved, “absolutely everything about her.” Couldn’t see. When it happened he left her. Patti still thinks about him sometimes. Talking stopped after her aunt admitted her, the shock somehow numbed her tongue and the sense of betrayal dulled her will. There was a lot of hope for her though, she was young eventually something would break through.
He was carefully placed at a table in the cafeteria his and trey presented to him. One concern was that he would find the many varieties of food on the surrounding tables overwhelming. But he showed no interest in them, or anything else happening around him. Patti was all he seemed to notice. Even her minor movements transfixed him, when she raised a fork his hand he twitched.
The member of staff next to him turned as a resident in the lunch queue dropped a tray. Patti leant across the table instantly; she leaned a hand off his neck and cupped the other around his ear to shield her whispers. He appeared to listen, then give a few seconds before he took action.
His chair smashed through a window to his right.
Residents fled from the room dropping their food treys and falling over each other. Cups turned the floor into a slippery chaos. Staff fell over trying to restrain him; some held back his arms but his legs still whipped furiously. He writhed on the floor, fighting against many hands, his face the concentrated projection of fury.
Patti was the only resident that stayed. She watched them sedate him and carry his motionless body down the hall. Never once did she look away or stop nodding in a slow, methodical way.
Later that evening a doctor checked him over, he remarked that although he had an array of violently acquired bruises he was smiling in sedation. Lying with eyes closed and body useless, yet smiling as if he was soaring far beyond the blank walls of the hospital room enclosing him.
Boogie
I wrote this when I was sixteen. I've only done a quick alteration of it and there's still a few sentances I really dislike but I'm feeling lazy today.
8/8/08
Religious experience can be defined in many ways. One sensation people have reported is that of seeing god in nature. Finding him/her in the beauty of nature, like a watermark on a piece of paper. I've found enjoyment in nature but never such moments of sheer beauty as those that break their way into my everyday life. People have such edges to them, to find them in their pure elements is to be repulsed or to discover acts of sporadic kindness. When I was sixteen I lived in a state of euphoria. I fell in love with the world and was tuned to every ripple and molecular vibration. I felt as if the construction around me was thin and could flake off like paint revealing something marvelous beneath it. Picking up these moments and collecting them was earning a new vision, touching the divine that is hidden.
After having such a blissful existence losing it was a tangible loss. Whereas before I felt at the pinnacle of living, after being deprived of my insight numbness restrained my senses and encumbered my life.
On Friday my sight was restored and I spent the whole day devouring the bliss I swam in. The links between such small, unrelated incidents appeared like fine roots delving into the depths of everything. The day was sheer, its minor moments profound. I was on the edge of everything, verging on happiness and sadness at once.
The present and the future came to a point. The love based on the past from my two of my best friends and the potential of both of them meeting, to bring a heightened awareness of their importance.
GiGi and I walked to town, it is a special thing when you know a city so intimately (almost carnally, you know a side of it not many encounter) that places in it have been symbolised by former versions of yourself. There was a busker in the subway playing an unfamiliar song. The subway became a tunnel of frothing music, which took you in along with the shade of the underground place. After the music I felt elated and got wildly over excited when I saw a guy wearing a Jello Biafra t-shirt. Rosie and GiGi obviously did not share my hand clapping and jumping.
More exciting than the surprising good taste of a stranger was the accordion man playing outside of Waterstones. Accordions are such odd instruments that they make me intensely happy. Reading 'The Book Thief' also encouraged my obsession. As well as this Becky did nothing to deter their mysticism for me. I love her story of the coke lid she spent a year trying to scratch a hole into it. The day she managed to achieve this, in her excitement she dropped the lid. An accordion man's dog near by chewed it, then spat it out.
In the oxfam bookstore I did my usual indecisive dance (it literally is a dance, I jump from foot to foot and stamp my feet) about which book to buy. When in a bookstore I usually have to pick between five books. It's a very traumatic having to leave books. Behind me a lady was looking through the shelves and talking on her phone. Picking up a book she said, "I read this book when I was in college." After opening it's worn pages she realised it had her notes in it. She brought it.
The world hit us in waves. A whiff of Guns and Roses' 'Sweet Child O Mine', a feather nearly brushing our noses on it's decent to the floor. We took our picture inside a photo booth to commemorate us. Why do photo booths have such a romance?
On the bus Rosie and GiGi discuss their musical addiction. I ignore them and ease my boredom of they're meaningless trite by listening to my i-pod. A baby in a push chair appeared to be following their conversation. His head turned to whoever was talking and his expression seemed to be created by consideration of the actresses in 'Wicked'. As his mother pushed him off the bus he waved goodbye slowly.
The pestilence of Rosie and GiGi's 'Wicked' mania continued as we walked to the elms. The stable order of the pair singing some cult obscurity, coupled with me fiercely ignoring them was interrupted by a bee above them. Their singing stopped in unison to scream,"A bee!" then run down the street. The bee was obviously one of my loyal followers who saw that my friends where torturing me. This brave soldier risked his life to put a stop to my suffering. The insects are misguided in claiming me as their queen. Yet in this instance I was glad of their mistake.
The Elms used to be an institution central to many afternoons of our lives. Every Thursday we three would walk through green belt to have dinner. Then Harvester brought the establishment, violating the tradition.
Once there hysteria settled over us. GiGi ate sexily as usual, denying any knowledge of creating an alluring dance with her fingers. Rosie kept trying to persuade me to eat more, laughing when I took struggled bites.
Adam discovered us during a meal with his family, taking a table next to us to have after meal drinks. His family were completely unlike him in looks and what I could tell of their personalities. They were very bemused by our continuous laughing and my manic state. GiGi threatened to kill us in our sleep without completely realising what she had said. She then drew a cat with a very disapproving expression, which looked as if it was unamused at our behavior. She christened it the 'Rosie Cat' because it did not approve, such is Rosie's job in life. Then similar to GiGi's homicidal blurt, I accidentally muttered out loud a thought that had just occurred to me. Had I left my vibrator out? Thankfully, only GiGi, Adam and Adam's sister heard my fear.
We left The Elms a ridiculous amount of hours after we had first arrived. We enclosed ourselves in the wedge, an ominous spread of countryside in the dark. The presence of the wildlife was threatening in the night, birds made jeering noises that were alien. Droplets of water fell from branches reminding us of the movement and life sustained in what surrounded us.
We sat on the usual log and played 'I've never'. Rosie noted that perhaps the squirrels were playing the same game above us, to which GiGi responded, "Yes because a squirrel deep throated another squirrel." This was meant to be a comment of cutting sarcasm but came out in a GiGish way; misdirected in it's execution, it became surreal.
Words are too incompentent to completely describe a transient encounter, now residing only in the memories of us three. Defiled by our reproductions; the faint echos of it. I read somewhere that 888 is the number of resurrection. Life was fully present, each layer revived; even the minute illuminated.
BOOGIE
Labels: friendship, happiness, religious experience, simple things in life
