picking up and picking up and picking up

...all these pieces


too many people are dead this week.






...some footsteps to follow in.

the only thing left in box was hope

i tried to do magic and failed.

(walked too far and can't get home)

don't go back to sleep

and the word ruin into my right. because i owe these things to drawings made months ago. stories read years ago. to conversations everyday with these others who i won't let give up.

a plan to get wings (more hermes than icarus) which might be just a beginning, just a way of getting this girl somewhere.somewhere. somewhere where you cans see better and make more. a promise to myself. that my words are audible and that i bleed under a knife.

i wrote a message: 'i just tattooed my left heel...'

reply: '!!!how come? with what? revolutions, fire- the patient work for our impatiencefor freedom. x' something to do with foucault, you said

this is the beginning.

someone a while away wrote to me today:

Are you coming





If so bring the masses





Do a performance



GO ON





ya will

Bring the masses and the more dressed up the better, maybe that old ball gown



Love

and the band played.....

H A N G O N T O E A C H O T H E R

blood and ink

(plan to get wings)






i just tattooed the word hope into my left heel





on wednesday it all fell away. i fell. away from it all because she finally didn't tell me it was all ok and the pieces broke apart and my eyes ate up my heart with their thirst and their years and years and for a while there was nothing. at. all as i tried to go back to sleep. don't you fucking dare go back to sleep.

mouth lit up

iris murdoch is burnt into my head and is it possible she looks like my mother who gave me her books to read burnt burnt burnt so its grafted into me and hurts. it joins up everywhere in alice in wonderland and the colour green and getting called joan of arc and talking talking talking til you think its never going to be something you can stop.





++ ++wanting to follow in gudrun's coloured stockings in women in love. stealing a little bit of power from under dh lawrence's nose. ha. i bought eleven pairs of stockings and tights today for pennys, all kinds and colours, christian dior for fifty p rescued from flooded shop basements is my kind of + real world where if you treat liberty's like a museum its the best place ever.

clothes are important. +











(i'm that girl who's put up pictures in her studio of knickers and tattooed freaks and stuff so none of this is important)

sleepyheaded wishings to go (home)

wishing. to make things. better.wishing to hide.wishing to be able. to get soft like a cat again.because i miss you.all.wishing.to run very fast.wishing for familiar old faces.to just go home and sleep and tell them my adventures.





(towards a far better post which may one day be entitled B L E S S O U R H O U S E A N D I T S H E A R T S O S A V A G E)

red skirt, red hockey socks, red shoes, red jumper with holes

I O U:



joanna newsom is a fightingfuckingsinging in torrents of cleverness clutching the harp like a mast and resting her head eyes closed against it for safety in storms of it all. fireworks night for bright sparklings and explosions over and over and over the whole city so for once you can't forget how big it is how small you are underneath this sky. sleep in front of a fire hissing. letter over breakfast full of goblins and books about magic realism real magic post colonial literature and the who, are, we, who am i writing too?(of course i want to hear about your marrow babies and roller skates and drying lilies). warm in bed bed bed all day, was it days? ani difranco and a sadness and another ,jolting, bit, more grown up at least there are those two remembering words and chords crying along with me. words. more words, getting faster,creeping up in me like days without me noticing. walking. new shoes. no phone. no numbers no old messages never again what fucking time is it? black shoes , black and cream dotted skirt, black sweater, black coat with red buttons, hair tied back and lipstick interview. ladies wear blazers and their hair loose. sore feet stumble home home. talk. eat. talk. sleep. letter about orchids and wasps and what you said gertrude stein said and how nice it is to recognise you. train. sleep. tutorial. sleep. virginia woolf would have loved to read that letter. train. kiss. talk. fight. sleep. cry. shower.kiss.orange jelly fish. kiss kiss laugh . eat eat eat. laugh. ride the bus. held tight. it came from outer space with 3d glasses and music from someone elses planet. talk talk talk. the oldest and best and sleeping at the beach. scrabble. walk. sleeping. wake. cry. if fists against cold walls won't fix it we'll fix it. cry. holding tight. drink tea. walk. eat. kiss. walk. kiss.and the and and and open your eyes. abre los oros is not as good as yellow wallpaper or through a glass darkly and. and. and. warm.and the oh oh oh oh. just one more kiss, the red wine i'm so glad sleep. and wake and sleep and wake and eat porridge you made with sultanas in it and honey for me and jam for you. train. sleep. bus. walk into the getting dark early cold. sleep in front of fires hissing.




(it gets so hard to keep up)

spiders and disappearing into yellow wallpaper

things

need to catch up with themselves. throw ingmar bergman (through a glass darkly) against arbitrary sleep against the naggingly unwritten aginst really curly hair against belted hippy dress (mama's), jeans tucked into big socks and converse and a pink cardigan and a really long blue-ish scarf and two tiny scary houses with doors i had to be braver than myself to open and couldn't shut behind me and the oh oh oh can't wait at all to get home and be held. throw it all (like a girl)against the naggingly in circles...against the making it ok and the dressing up up up up to the top of all the stairs and falling down the longest night for a long long time through rooms and streets and more rooms, lost myself and the converse, had them both found for me. throw all of it against this week and its fucking wednesday already and avi voted for the first time ever yesterday and i really miss her and what i should really be doing is throwing cy twombly at deleuze and guattari and catching six thousand five hundred of the sparks given off in microsoft word before completing an extensive bibliography.

(i was scared of the really big sparklers how stupid. this is all so disappointing)

i had honey in my tea for the first time last night. no more sugar for hestia i want the real wierd sticky dirty sweet. always.

the back of alice's petals are wierdly bleached to pink with some bruises i don't know why and i've not been very well.

...

remembered

(what if we can't spare you?)
x


x

how to catch fire; or if only i could ('you're so good to me honey...

...at night at night
at night' )

i tried to tell you that alice was going to have flowers but in my head all i could say was that she was about to catch fire.


they've started letting off fireworks. and the leaves were the same colour as i want to be (the slow burn and the sudden blaze )
'' ' ''' '
' ' ''' '

' '
she was difficult and weird and brave and funny and brilliant and on stage and on fire by herself like girls still aren't supposed to be

makeafuckingwishquick lets get it alight ('i can't wait for the morning i gotta go NOW'))))))))

begin or die (and tomorrow and tomorrow...)

all this not starting has got to .stop.



'(when your head's exploding with ideas you have to find a reason. therefore scholarship and research are forms of schizophrenia. if reality's unbearable and you don't want to give up you have to understand the patterns...' ck


its my dissertation vs. chris kraus (i love dick)


+++++ + + this




.............. scurried through the ghetto streets, seeking in the myriad-colored shop windows the one hat and the one dress that would voice the desire of her innermost self. at last she espied a shining straw with cherries so red, so luscious, that they cried out to her, "Bite me!" that was the hat she bought. the magic of the cherries on her hat brought her back to the green fields and orchards of her native russia. yes a green dress was what she craved. and she picked out the greenest, crispest organdie .


. . .. ..from anya yezierska: hungry hearts and other stories . .

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)