Spurkle.
It's been ever so tiring, and full to the brim, over-stuffed. With, with: face powder, and red-bow lips; boys curled eyelashes and razorlite scars; cameras and film, and rhubarb and cheese; mouthing vowel sounds, foul sounds, and laughing too much. It is a fancy dress party on Monday - where I had nothing to eat, and got drunk very quickly, where my 'soulmate' & I somewhat collided, hands under skirts and curled round your waist. where I screamed and shouted and cried and laughed, and threw myself around in the dark. And Mark bought me chips, which I poured all my love into, because stupid, little, is full-to-the-edge with meaning. And then tuesday - I forgot, I forget.
Wednesday, sounds like a plastic rain mack, red and shiny and it sounds so very crackly. (Monday I shouted at my best friend, I shouted and screamed and cried, and I'm so sorry) (Then I threw my arms round you & begged you not to leave, that you couldn't ever leave). Wednesday arrived quickly, with filming HAIR IN CURLERS, IN CURLING TONGS. I felt like a movie star. I like. It is, was, in my memory, is such a break from reality. And we ran around with cigarettes, and fake champagne, wobbly highheels and lipsticksmeared wine glasses. Smoke still clings to the curtains and everyone got pie and mash takeaway for lunch. And I am being carried forward by a wavering wave of momentum, soon I think I'll collapse. I have instructions for christmas and 19 hours to work next week. Also five essays and one in german, which presents the biggest challenge. I think perhaps I shan't sleep tomorrow night. Is 'shan't' a word at all? My parents are back from Madrid, and have bought me castanets and cheap colourful childrens' tights. Today I was a devil at work, who also had wings and a short skirt, which I somewhat regret. Hopefully tomorrow it will provide a little break, before the massessaywriting. Perhaps I'll run away. But first I will visit Libby in her beautiful Lingerie department. Actually, I don't know what the department is like, but I know that Libby is beautiful & I also know that I like Lingerie. And buying it. But I'm still tapping my foot & rolling my eyes - WAITING TO BE PAID (for my slavery)
I have been hoovering and cleaning, shall I wait 'til I drop? I might. But it's nice when everything is clean. It would be so useful, if I had Bernard's watch: I would stop time and write essays. I would also run around and paint things beautiful, walls and houses and bridges and things. I would write poems all over the place. Take pictures of frozen people, if that were allowed. I give people surprise presents. I'd see if people really were frozen.
It's beautiful, sure, when you lay on your back, look at the stars and smoke, drain your lungs away, but it's sad. I wish I could help, I wish I were back, back somewhere, in someone's life. I had one, except, no I didn't & now I do, and I am lost. My head, once so fully immersed in swimming swirling thoughts, and pain and feeling, drenched and dripping. It was beautiful & it pulsed & burned & it was alive (I was alive//!) , corrosive & stinging - I FELT IT. It burned through my skin AND THAT WAS PERFECT.
But I lost grip, I have lost hold on my mind and have sunk, let go & am lost in this reality, and not fully existing, I have lost grip on this time that belongs to existing or feeling, the self-indulgence and luxury of feeling and pain, apart from tiredness & shackledness, wracked with boring, scored lined, neat & tidy living. PRACTICALITIES. I do very much wish;

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FILL IN THE BLANKS

Feeling:
Listening to:
Pretending:

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