'we both have shiny happy fits of rage'
my half-chemical romance now decidedly dead, and what have we learnt? that is only fine fettle, dry bones plucked clean of living flesh. if everything is not a lot clearer, it is a lot bolder & brighter & burning, if not always in the best ways - all apart from that old pain, it seems to have died down a little, or a lot, or been buried. i am ready, i suppose to fall back into it & i am glad about that, but people are slipping away. how can i stop it?
in other news- my favourite painting is back in the tate modern, and i could stand looking at it forever, who knows why (but perhaps to discover it with you was not for the best). i have changed a fuse in a plug since the last time we spoke - be proud! who knew i was so handy with a screwdriver? i have stopped drinking for the five thousandth time, currently for lent & this time it is going very well indeed! no drunken slurring or faltering from me, oh no. and i think we can agree this is for the best. since we last spoke?
grandad's jelly party; on what would have been his seventieth birthday. i only opened my little rememberance of him today & i cried again.
cork, i suppose - do you remember that? lots of tears & poker chips. but i found your front door grandad, which i think is the only thing worth salvaging.
summer in new york & new england. sunken sky & streaked lights & coffee everywhere, oh heaven! trips to the theatre, a dingy comedy club & cheesecake breakfasts. drive-in movies with poptarts and apple-cinnamon cheerios, it was a good summer to be buried away with my family.
back to the green with my boys, in our house, then with my girls. collecting people, falling out with people, puntured arms and tears, a worrying lack of blood. tents in the front room, watching the three colours & donnie darko with tall blond boys who would leave again just as soon as they appeared. apologies disappeared and mopped up with alcohol, and new things fallen into. caf� jules lunches & falling into the ranks in the lecture theatre. plato & derrida & woolf & huxley & chaucer & shelley & byron & blake & rhys & orwell & freud & lacan & so many others, falling out of my mind. my fingers are rusty, haven't done this for so long. but i want to write again, i'm still falling, i think out of this chemical haze & stupour. keep you posted, chickens.
i need to get it back. perhaps it will help.
Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending: