through the yellow haze of a dying monitor

(things re-written + + + +)
 
d   r   a   w         i                       ng.          dot......................................joining.          we make marks on it all like memory which we don't understand but with which we are so very intimate. the more marks the closer we get to. knowing. what marks are made on us. who or what names us.  calls us. points to us, saying we want you to see this thing.  and then to name it in return
 
get the feedback looping-mutating (thinking)- looping right and we can be. carried by lines drawn in pencil away away away away ask ask ask for what you really want.                 +
 
H AY LE Y N E WMA N   kissed a stranger against a gallery wall, her right hand leaning on the wall writing a description of the event...
 
my mother says that studying drawing sounds like something out of alice in wonderland. which suits me fine.
 
 
 
 
 
lets go

again

so this is again. just quiet little fumblings it is to start with while no one's watching.  soon it'll be time for the whoarewes and the whatarewedoingheres.  why, how far and howmuch, who and who-for and in-what-shape?  forms and their shiftings and rules made and broken and rebuilt out of their own rubble. then the screams and giddy yells and promises and asking for what we really want. (                  since each of us was several there was already quite a crowd           ) all in good, good time.  for now lets play with these new toymaking machines.  see what we find.
 
 
heroine

 

                                           

paradigm  

                                                                                                                                    xx (it's all your fault )

 

andthefuckingrest... is on        it's                                                      way.                                               x

                                                                                                                                           x                     x

begin again

on saturday i lost my pencil case and my notebook.  somewhere between oxford circus tube and berwick street.  green. my old zip up one.  it had a lot of loose gold glitter in it that had been kind of annoying me for a while.  also a lot of my favourite pens (stabilo fine liners, worn out felt tips and a big black permanent marker) and coloured pencils.  it had a sticker with george bush's face crossed out that mimi made and i bought it in woolworth's when i was at sixth form college four years ago.  i made the notebook myself out of scrap paper left over from pictures because i like the ones tom makes so much.  it had a polaroid of me stuck face down on it and an envelope on the back.  i felt sort of pretentious carrying it around but i also really fucking liked it.  i'd written good stuff in it since i made it which was on the 13th of june.  i didn't write enough.  i never do. but it was supposed to be a beginning.  like this is.

:      :             :  : : :              :  first page was:  :        :       :           ::

 

i found my secrets again.

 

they used to be lying around for anyone to pick up off the ground; now they are secrets. 

 

on my arm                       close to my favourite scar                      here where it's            (safe)

it's always coming back. and it's always THIS GOOD

 

 

 

can't remember any more.  it was important.  begin.  again.

 

and the next page  ::   :

 

                          i leave traces.

 

                          to remind myself of it being this ok

 

(exhibition. another study for a life worth living)