Tuesday, 20 April 2010

Bird.

Bird on the ledge said it's not Spring yet.
Dishy little madam never danced on own toes, talons exposed
and roof gutter jumps lent themselves to glides from great heights.
Slide the double glazing down on her advice, tuck in the bed sheets
Kick carnal carnage beneath that bed frame with fluff from cardigan pockets
and pencils that rolled away from love letters like they were bank robberies.
You were an accomplice, lead.
I can see it eating away at you, you look smaller every time.
Now the dust is clinging to our favourite books like unwelcome advances at office parties.
The buses are running late outside
so it doesn't matter that we should have left this town before the season landed.
Give up on our loose ends and tie your shoe laces.

Monday, 19 April 2010

Did your mother have any kids that lived?

My poetry blows at the best of times. I like to think I might get better the more I practice, plus pages always burn, right?

Then along came a year nine student with this stunner:
I love my nan.
She looks after me.
She cares for me.
Sometimes she gets on me nerves.

Another one had written about her mother and uttered the lines "Finally, at the age of 24, the first joy in her life: Me. / And now fourteen years later, our relationship is over."


Where do you go from here?

Saturday, 17 April 2010

I won't be waiting on the dock.

I entered a writing competition recently and fully expect to hear no more. So it's not a complete waste, here's one of the submissions about personal memory. (They wanted it lengthy. Sucks to be you, reader.)


The bar was in a basement and my lips were occupied by a fake smile, like a school kid truanting so as not to let the weather go to waste. This 22nd birthday was languishing in the company of the first person to arrive; a sweet, yet dopey skinhead that I hadn’t had the heart not to invite. Earlier that day, he'd encouraged me to meet him for coffee and presented me with a James Dean ceramic cookie jar, a gift neither expected nor warranted and thus awkwardly received. I was already wondering if it would suffice as a decent bin; my current one marred by a bad first attempt at home waxing, with oily swamps of paper clinging to its base in a way that reminded me of my failure each time I finished a banana or disposed of a tissue.


The late arrivals of the rest of those invited were in need of improvement, but more so was the inappropriately timed job interview scheduled for the next morning. I was due to spend a day in a city an hour away for a job way across the globe. A desire to get away had been enveloping me of late, a tongue licking the glue into action as my final year of University was drawing to a close.


Culture shock seemed the most appealing way to stay the right side of growing up, just foundering enough to keep the days interesting and my mind spry. I wasn't overanxious to join the lethargy of the workplace. I was making it work to seem worth my while.


But now there’s nothing worse than living a moment - a birthday, a conversation, a kiss - that you know right there and then won’t be remembered. Yet these happen and this was one of a batch. It was like testing out your astrology in a sky flooded by city light. The futility didn’t automatically lift when he walked in, he worked no miracle. He was merely a boy I’d shared a few kisses and more arguments with, a volatile storm that I’d quite conversely felt little emotion in response to. One that I could somehow sleep through.


But he made my evening and I have no idea how, can’t remember a thing that he said. I felt shell shocked by the surprise of being amongst all my favourite people and being fondest of him over them all. Everyone was dancing but my feet were against the idea, as if that would allow it to be any other night where my mind tired before my soles. I wanted him to walk me home and I didn’t want to sleep, hoping that I swerved misinterpretations of sordid intent by inviting him in distinctly for a cup of tea rather than coffee.


My bed was the size of a washing line, so we were cloyed to each other like slightly sodden flannels. I was stuck between his armpit and the 1990s having drunkenly slid a much adored dvd into the player. I liked how often his big pillowy lips parted into a smile and my eyes probably moved down to them too often.


We were accomplices to a crime when he dropped me at the train station. Briefcases and suits were heading into work with their owners who, if underslept, had certainly not chosen to be so. We had purposefully not shut our eyes so we could look into each others in a criminally gooey fashion. And so I was doing time with a full-day of nerve wracking torture ahead of me whilst he headed back to a Queen size bed that would feel luxurious after my own.


After a few weeks passed, I was given the job by Japan with a side of congratulatory sushi from my Mother. I high fived friends as I broke the news and kept requesting 'Turning Japanese' in nightclubs. My eyeliner application took on an oriental lean. I saw the boy quite often, but then I always had. It had just begun to feel different. I would watch the way he moved his limbs when he didn't know and there was no need, as if conducting secret research unsure of what outcome was expected. An uncontrolled experiment with pretty dangerous chemicals.


The end of summer fast approached and, only a month or so before I was due to catch flights, an English girl my age and occupation was found cold like the ceramic of the bath tub where she lay. Fears simmered over dinners and I latched my excuse to stay onto those. I felt like a little liar.


In what was most definitely the autumn, I exited a bar that wasn’t in a basement and where a smile hadn’t left my face for three hours. My home was less than four minutes away and he would be in New York for five more days. I called him on my walk back because I couldn’t wait to tell him, "I think I'm in love with you, you know" for a first clumsily emphatic time.


Amongst all of this, the cookie jar made the most goddamn awful bin.

Tuesday, 13 April 2010

Dearest.







She stared at them, not saying anything for a while. How quiet and beautiful they looked and then she said, 'Daddy, take off the deer's head and put it on my head. Take off the deer's feet, put them on my feet. And I'll be the deer.'

- Richard Brautigan

Thursday, 8 April 2010

WHAT THE HELL

Two and a half months until I go to America! YEAH!

Everything better be bigger and - well - better over there. And if not, at least I can eat peanut butter m'n'ms to my heart's content.

Spending today looking at Dave Cole's work. His knitting's never for at home on the sofa due to the need for arm/eye/body protection in its construction. Craftwork at its most brutish and manly, bullets and electric cable as materials. If you've never read Knitknit, dredge a copy out of the hobby section of your local library. He talks you through how he made his huge fibreglass teddy bear.

Beast.

Wednesday, 7 April 2010

Your skin is something that I stir into my tea.

I believe it's always ace to stretch yourself and be dead ambitious in what you can one day achieve. Hence I just posted my entry to a haven't-a-hope-in-hell writing competition at lunchtime and have decided my new knittery role model is Sandra Backlund.


The shapes are often organic, as if they're shells or arteries, and the cuts are almost entirely impractical for everyday wear.


The lingerie above has made me reconsider the concept of woolen underwear, before always a 'no, I draw the line there'.


The colour of this final dress is the perfect blood red. I'm gonna get me some balls and be brave.

Tuesday, 6 April 2010

ALL I EVER WANTED WAS TO BE YOUR SPINE

Vice have branched out with a fashion website, Vice Style. It's a splendid idea and comes just at the right time, when I now have to pacify my shopping habits for a time with brazen window shopping and wish lists instead.

The photo shoots they have up so far are supreme. I want to be the girl below so bad (or maybe this one).


In keeping with their general ethos, it's a gritty, porny, dirty, sexy take on fashion. I particularly like the article on veils because the photos are filthy and the write-up informative whilst remaining typically amusing (you really must read to the end).

It's live, sick and added to my morning trawl.

Oh! And the new Vice magazine is fashion based too! THEY, LIKE, TOTALLY GET ME, Y'KNOW?

Friday, 2 April 2010

Brogues to match my bicycle.

Powder blue's my favourite shade. It was the colour of my first ever bicycle that had a white rubber flower on the end of each handle and that the BMXer down the bottom of my road once got into a heap of trouble with my Dad over (he'd talked a five-year-old me into letting him borrow it for tricks).

I pretty much bought the adult version of said bike last year. Its home is the living room because I can't bear to keep it in a shed when it's not in use. Also knitted a hat in this shade today too; I don't even always realise I'm buying it.

Thursday, 1 April 2010

NO WAY

SNOW DAY photos from way back in Janvier.



It was the first time I'd used my Holga.

Last night I dreamt that the 15 year old family dog who passed away a fortnight ago came back. I had to paint him black using my eyeliner so that everyone would think he was a new pet pig, and not be suspicious, and let him stay.