'tic', go to sleep, 'toc', get up, 'tic'...

'...to have to give up all hope of ever being a famous writer! the sorrow i felt over this, as i daydreamed alone, a little apart from the others, made me suffer so much that in order not to feel it any more, my mind of its own accord, by a sort of inhibition in the face of pain, would stop thinking altogether about poems, novels, a poetic future on which my lack of talent forbade me to depend. then, quite apart from all these literary preoccupations and not connected to them in any way, suddenly a roof, a glimmer of sun on stone, the smell of the road would stop me because of a particular pleasure they gave me, and also because they seemed to be concealing, beyond what i could see, something which they were inviting me to come and take and which despite my best efforts i could not manage to discover.'

remembrance of things past

maybe its all coming soon.

ignorable as

i feel like matilda with the burning behind the eyes. staring at pencils trying to make them move.





move D A M M I T . . .. ... . .. ........ .


this is the start, again. lets catch it by surprise when its not looking, begin without meaning to, by accident.


oh for FUCKS sake

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.