My work life has become all consuming.
I know that it will end, somewhere between mental exhaustion and the murder of my laptop, but right now it feels as though I am on an endless loop of number crunching and rationed fast food. I haven't been running. I haven't been sleeping. I don't remember the last time I rolled around in bed in blissful glee. My body is aching with the need to stretch and shake off this adamant indifference. I stumble around blindly trying to find my reading glasses before embarrassingly realising that they are perched upon my nose. I am littered with dark bruises from tired induced spatial unawareness. I haven't written a story or a poem or a haiku or a shopping list in what seems like a century, words building up in my head like a giant wobbling Jenga. Urgh. Bring me thy blanket and thy Netflix, for art thou fucking knackered.
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The first time I met you, you pulled at my long hair and called me adorably small as you winked and flashed me the cheekiest grin, and it felt as though a thousand bees had stung my chest leaving behind an ache that was as pleasurable as a rainbow on a rainy day.
And my mum warned me that I’d never fall in love as deeply as I would the first time. But as you made my cheeks blush and my heart beat faster, as I blossomed right before your beautiful eyes, you became the first boy to teach me that I wasn’t good enough to be anyone’s first choice. And as the clouds cry and my emotions spill all over my barstool, the ropes tangling themselves inside my stomach, I remember you. In a moment of tequila fuelled tipsiness, I thought it would be intriguing to use Google autocomplete to fill in a dating profile.
Why, you ask? Well because tequila, obviously. Name: My name is Jeff and my mother calls me ugly Age: My age is in Française Location: I live inside my shell Nationality: I was born under a wandering star Body type: My body aches I am looking for: I am looking for a girlfriend who enjoys kissing boys. I enjoy: I enjoy being a girl. I like you just the way I am. I also like to move it, move it. My ideal partner would be: A person who is travelling and only eats fish. Turn ons: Hugging and kissing Turn offs: Being told what to do I'm 99.9% sure that Google can find us all a little bit of love ❤️ I can see you, you know.
Well .. I can’t actually SEE you but ‘unique visitor data’ tells me that you are here. 89 of you in the last couple of days in actual fact. But you are all so, so quiet and I’d hate for you to think that we can’t hang out. So if you are reading this, and if you have been unfortunate enough to pop along and read my previous rambles, and if anything I have done has evoked even the tiniest flicker of recognition, then please let me know. I didn’t start this to gain an audience, I’m actually pretty shy. Ok, that’s a lie. But I do spend half of my time as a graceful social butterfly, and the other half hidden within my shell. The point is, I don’t want your undivided attention. I don’t want unnecessary compliments and fake platitudes I just want you. To talk. To tell me how your day is, and whether you have any snow, and what you think about spoken word poetry, and did you really do that last night?!, and magic, and conspiracies, and living, and hobbies, and love, lust, fears, demons, books, eye colours, quirks, kisses, memories, cheesecake, and all of your sins… Let’s hang out. Jx I’m hungover
hungover as fuck “Come out for a drink”, they said “It’ll be great”, they said “Remember when we used to call them Wankered Wednesdays?” they said, they said, they said It’s like a drill, you know reverberating inside my skull Worse than a drill whatever worse than a drill is And I am craving craving c r a v i n g Eggs Benedict with the fluffiest of eggs and lashings of ham the freshest of muffins the decadent drizzle of hollandaise and a healthy pinch of pepper It’s calling to me, begging to be had Perhaps a small serving of hashed potatoes on the side and a gallon Yes, a gallon, of tea Earl Grey, brewed for 180 seconds as the bergamot scent invades my mind and calms the drill But as the dog vomits all over the floor I forget all about food and woefully go about my day. I am not religious.
But I am spiritual. I do not believe in a higher power. But I have a depth of character that allows me to be moved by beauty and mystery. Last night, whilst hurriedly preparing for bed in temperatures that make me gloomy, I heard the distinct sound of an email arriving. I wouldn’t normally read such things before climbing under the covers but there is this gent who .. well, I digress. And so I read it. It happened not to be the longed for goodnight message, and it was far lengthier than I had anticipated. But what I read has resonated with me with such force that even now, the next morning, I feel winded. Regardless of your belief system, this is a rather wonderful story and I encourage you to take a look. For those reading on Facebook, I shan’t copy and paste but will provide a link. ********************************************************************* The Egg – by Andy Weir You were on your way home when you died. It was a car accident. Nothing particularly remarkable, but fatal nonetheless. You left behind a wife and two children. It was a painless death. The EMTs tried their best to save you, but to no avail. Your body was so utterly shattered you were better off, trust me. And that’s when you met me. “What… what happened?” You asked. “Where am I?” “You died,” I said, matter-of-factly. No point in mincing words. “There was a… a truck and it was skidding…” “Yup,” I said. “I… I died?” “Yup. But don’t feel bad about it. Everyone dies,” I said. You looked around. There was nothingness. Just you and me. “What is this place?” You asked. “Is this the afterlife?” “More or less,” I said. “Are you god?” You asked. “Yup,” I replied. “I’m God.” “My kids… my wife,” you said. “What about them?” “Will they be all right?” “That’s what I like to see,” I said. “You just died and your main concern is for your family. That’s good stuff right there.” You looked at me with fascination. To you, I didn’t look like God. I just looked like some man. Or possibly a woman. Some vague authority figure, maybe. More of a grammar school teacher than the almighty. “Don’t worry,” I said. “They’ll be fine. Your kids will remember you as perfect in every way. They didn’t have time to grow contempt for you. Your wife will cry on the outside, but will be secretly relieved. To be fair, your marriage was falling apart. If it’s any consolation, she’ll feel very guilty for feeling relieved.” “Oh,” you said. “So what happens now? Do I go to heaven or hell or something?” “Neither,” I said. “You’ll be reincarnated.” “Ah,” you said. “So the Hindus were right,” “All religions are right in their own way,” I said. “Walk with me.” You followed along as we strode through the void. “Where are we going?” “Nowhere in particular,” I said. “It’s just nice to walk while we talk.” “So what’s the point, then?” You asked. “When I get reborn, I’ll just be a blank slate, right? A baby. So all my experiences and everything I did in this life won’t matter.” “Not so!” I said. “You have within you all the knowledge and experiences of all your past lives. You just don’t remember them right now.” I stopped walking and took you by the shoulders. “Your soul is more magnificent, beautiful, and gigantic than you can possibly imagine. A human mind can only contain a tiny fraction of what you are. It’s like sticking your finger in a glass of water to see if it’s hot or cold. You put a tiny part of yourself into the vessel, and when you bring it back out, you’ve gained all the experiences it had. “You’ve been in a human for the last 48 years, so you haven’t stretched out yet and felt the rest of your immense consciousness. If we hung out here for long enough, you’d start remembering everything. But there’s no point to doing that between each life.” “How many times have I been reincarnated, then?” “Oh lots. Lots and lots. An in to lots of different lives.” I said. “This time around, you’ll be a Chinese peasant girl in 540 AD.” “Wait, what?” You stammered. “You’re sending me back in time?” “Well, I guess technically. Time, as you know it, only exists in your universe. Things are different where I come from.” “Where you come from?” You said. “Oh sure,” I explained “I come from somewhere. Somewhere else. And there are others like me. I know you’ll want to know what it’s like there, but honestly you wouldn’t understand.” “Oh,” you said, a little let down. “But wait. If I get reincarnated to other places in time, I could have interacted with myself at some point.” “Sure. Happens all the time. And with both lives only aware of their own lifespan you don’t even know it’s happening.” “So what’s the point of it all?” “Seriously?” I asked. “Seriously? You’re asking me for the meaning of life? Isn’t that a little stereotypical?” “Well it’s a reasonable question,” you persisted. I looked you in the eye. “The meaning of life, the reason I made this whole universe, is for you to mature.” “You mean mankind? You want us to mature?” “No, just you. I made this whole universe for you. With each new life you grow and mature and become a larger and greater intellect.” “Just me? What about everyone else?” “There is no one else,” I said. “In this universe, there’s just you and me.” You stared blankly at me. “But all the people on earth…” “All you. Different incarnations of you.” “Wait. I’m everyone!?” “Now you’re getting it,” I said, with a congratulatory slap on the back. “I’m every human being who ever lived?” “Or who will ever live, yes.” “I’m Abraham Lincoln?” “And you’re John Wilkes Booth, too,” I added. “I’m Hitler?” You said, appalled. “And you’re the millions he killed.” “I’m Jesus?” “And you’re everyone who followed him.” You fell silent. “Every time you victimized someone,” I said, “you were victimizing yourself. Every act of kindness you’ve done, you’ve done to yourself. Every happy and sad moment ever experienced by any human was, or will be, experienced by you.” You thought for a long time. “Why?” You asked me. “Why do all this?” “Because someday, you will become like me. Because that’s what you are. You’re one of my kind. You’re my child.” “Whoa,” you said, incredulous. “You mean I’m a god?” “No. Not yet. You’re a fetus. You’re still growing. Once you’ve lived every human life throughout all time, you will have grown enough to be born.” “So the whole universe,” you said, “it’s just…” “An egg.” I answered. “Now it’s time for you to move on to your next life.” And I sent you on your way. ********************************************************************* We’ve just bumped into one another at the Supermarket and, after an awkward 7 minutes of ‘catching up’, we say our goodbyes and start to stare intensely at the canned goods until one of us is brave enough to walk away. But then we see one another in the next aisle, and the next, and possibly at the checkout.. not through any fault of our own but social standards dictate that one must travel through the supermarket in a certain way so as to not upset the flow of shoppers. Do we need to nod at one another in every aisle? What if I have bumped into several people and my consistent nodding causes me to abandon the weekly shop and choose to starve? Is it ok for me to pop my headphones back in, continue to ignore the world, and purchase my cheese stash in ignorant isolation?
I’m sat picking at my panini after bumping into you at the supermarket and accidentally making a lunch date, and my phone rings. You look pointedly at my phone and you raise your voice whilst continuing to talk at me (you haven’t stopped since I got here) in an attempt to make me ignore the ringing. Why can’t I interrupt you, apologise, and take the call? What is so socially disturbing about speaking to someone else quickly before returning to the conversation? What if I have now had 7 missed calls from my mum and she is in the process of sending the British Army to track down her missing daughter? If I hold my hand over my mouth whilst I yawn, why do I also need to back that up with an ‘excuse me’? Why do you assume that you are boring me (you are) and why do I have to explain why I’m super tired? And do I really even need to say ‘excuse me’ or am I confusing myself with burping? And as we leave my half eaten panini, when exactly can I stop holding the door for you and the plethora of people who decide that they, too, will stroll on through? Is it socially acceptable to hold the door open for 27 people and then slam it in the delectable face of the 28th? Is this my new job now? And as we (finally) step outside and say our goodbyes and you place a kiss on my cheek, why on earth would you go for the double cheek kiss when you were brought up on a council estate in Clacton-on-Sea rather than the rounded hills of Tuscany? And .. wait .. three cheek kisses? Where will it end? Do we now need to proceed into full snogging territory? And when you shout ‘CALL ME!’ as my little legs move as quickly as they can up the High Street, why can’t I turn round, look you square in the eye and say “No, I won’t be calling you. We are exceptionally incompatible in every way and I don’t think it’s fair for you to assume that I would like to do this again. Farewell and good luck in your future endeavours (you absolute troglodyte, I’d rather hit myself in the face with a chair than endure your fucking company ever again..)?" For every group of overly cheery carol singers, there's a person who will happily slam a door in their face. That'd be me. I mean, what's so special about Christmas anyway?
I'm an out and out atheist who categorically lies my big fat face off and 'believes' in Baby Jesus for the entirety of the festive period. I once attended midnight mass after being in the pub all night because "I've had too much tequila and I really like singing carols". I am a self confessed hypocrite that has jumped on the Christmas bandwagon with absolutely no respect for the religious connotations and I am here to confess my sins. But in my humble defence, I'm not the only one, and Christmas has been getting out of control for some time. There are rather too many Christmas traditions that are entirely appalling. I'll give you a piece of folded card, and you'll give me a piece of folded card, and we'll pretend that they are the complete meaning of Christmas whilst secretly being a bit pissed off that the neighbour has more pieces of folded card than you, and bringing out last years to up the numbers.. It's a time of greed, and high electricity bills to pay for the outside lights because your front garden has turned into Las Vegas. It's also a time of hating Mariah Carey even though you know all the words, and having to spend time with people that you don't really like. And who decided to heat up red wine and fill it with sugar, lower the alcohol content and then sell it at double the price? The shops are full to the brim with stress and anxiety and fighting and crying and sneaky sips from the hip flask .. ok perhaps that's just me .. but the lengthy queue for the checkout whilst pressed up against a stranger's armpit is not the epitome of festivity. I've been practising my present-loving-face since September, about the same time that the supermarkets started stocking mince pies. And turkeys. What's the fascination with turkey anyhow, and how did it become the chosen one? It's dry and dull and the far inferior cousin of the chicken. I once served salmon and almost started a revolution. And kids are complete little shits at Christmas; acting like they are on crack and hyped up on excitement and lies and then playing with the cardboard box and disregarding the £100 gift you have deigned them with. A present that will cost £30 the very second that Christmas is over. And don't get me started on so called 'Christmas films' .. A film set during the winter with a fluttering of fake snow doth not make a Christmas movie. And yes, John McClane, I'm talking to you! But it's not ALL bad, because today I get to put up my chintzy decorations whilst belting out All I Want For Christmas with a lovely warming mulled wine until the tree looks like I vomited tinsel on it and I've strangled myself with the lights. In the future there is a small, quiet room that is just yours, where you are safe and where you are free. Your hands will finally stop trembling and you’ll be able to look up from the ground and sense the blissful peace that envelops you like an old friend. No one can come in unless you let them. No one can make you fly so close to the sun that it no longer feels like a warm hug. No one can make you become the unsung song of your short life.
In that clean quiet space, you will recover and you will endure. You will love and you will heal. I know this to be true because I am there with you. We are there together because you saved us. You saved us because you were so very brave and never stopped living. Hold on tight, my darling, and I shall see you there. Jx Having told a gent last year that I adored sushi but had never frequented a traditional sushi restaurant, he promptly took me on a date and I found myself in Covent Garden stood outside a dilapidated building; an array of folk spilling through the doors.
Being the kind of girl that's easily pleased, I was super excited. And perhaps my excitement was the cause of the utter disappointment I felt when we left 45 minutes later. There was no tingling of taste buds, no 'oh my gosh, you've gotta try this!' belted across the table, there was no foodgasm or declarations of foodlust whilst wildly holding chopsticks in the air.. And so, several hours and several beverages later, we created the following: Sushi Syndrome: To have a desire, based on expectation - an expectation based on nothing - and to find that experience disappointing. Am I the only one who sees my characters as real and tangible beings, stuck within the confines of my mind and almost writing the words themselves? Personalities that started with a keen mannerism, evolving into something with arms and legs and beautiful looking nether regions?
At this point I should assure thee that I have no psychological disorders .. that I'm aware of. I'm feeling rather disconnected to my characters at present. They have, quite literally, abandoned me. In a moment of lust induced euphoria, I changed the direction of the storyline – not quite another country, more like a different route to the same destination .. or perhaps the next street. The characters didn't settle with this change. The male one was already arsy due to the fact he doesn't yet have a name, and is currently referred to as 'Bloke 1'. I have this horrid feeling that they aren't coming back; that they have run away together into the English sunset (complete with drizzle), holding hands and most likely fucking skipping. They'll probably get married and have sex inside and outside and in all the rooms and all the local libraries, before they settle down with a crippling mortgage and a couple of snotty kids, COMPLETELY ruining the fact that the book was about NOT being with the one you love, with no happy endings and no god damn holding hands whilst the sun sets. If I was a script-writer right now, one of them would be falling down an elevator shaft. Nondescript doodles
amusing wrist flick mouths talk attentions sink desperate yawns whist the lights flick I'm walled in coffee breath feeling pretty fucking sick For Mr. Wilson who wished to see my doodles.. and a small ode to the insanely dull meeting this morning. My experience with spectacles has only ever been limited to sunglasses; oversized ones that take over the majority of my face like some sort of wannabe It Girl. Exceptionally handy for hiding hangover-face, walks of shame, ignoring the world, and .. most importantly, leering over beautiful arses and swoonworthy smiles whilst pretending to read a book.
So, when I recently had to start wearing actual spectacles because, let's face it, I needed more geek points .. imagine my horror when I placed them upon my face, sat back in the book shop cafe with my copy of Moby Dick (very challenging; I'm at the stage when the book appears to be dedicated to whaling - you're not really reading Moby Dick until you know how spermaceti is gathered), and I digress from my reading to do a little people watching. There is something thrilling about looking at what other people are reading, how they take their coffee, whether they like to sit in the corner of the room like me, whether they take a sneaky peek at the last page before they commence reading... So there I sit (pretending to read about whales, black decaf coffee, sitting in the corner, no sneaky peeks but tempted to skip several chapters) and I spot a gent that looks so very similar to someone I rather like (in a stalkerly fashion) and I, quite literally, just start to swoon over the fantasy scenario of bumping into said gent right here in my favourite book shop cafe, and I notice he is engrossed in whatever he is reading (don't dare tell me that you don't find reading sexy) .. he looks up at me a few times, and I'm most definitely smirking by now, knowing full well he has no idea that I'm leering at him, and .. oh, hang on, why am I wearing sunglasses indoors, I must look like an idiot .. OH! HANG ON! I'M WEARING NORMAL GLASSES! HE CAN SEE ME THROUGH THEM! HE KNOWS I'M STARING! FUCK! So I do what all classy girls do; stand up, spill the coffee, drop the book, cause a scene, mutter apologies, and leave. |
AuthorThe tornado of roses, with all the chaos and less of the beauty.. Archives
December 2017
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