Breathing, wine, stairs

Bannister-dented, I loll my head to the side, taking a moment, breathing a “huuuuu” into my wine glass and smirking, tucking my knees up to my chest – or my chest down to my knees – not caring enough anymore to keep tugging my skirt down. Stroking the bobbled wool of my tights, I feel cozy and safe. And tired. I let my eyelids droop as the inevitable call comes from my housemate’s room, and give the only reply I am capable of: a drowsy, contended “Mmmmm”.

Written in response to a prompt from Creative Collective during isolation from Coronavirus.

Words in print

Good morning, happy whatever-day-it-is-when-you-read-this. The rain is pouring down here in York today and the trees are willing Autumn on to deliver their yearly release.

It’s been a while since I created and shared anything new on here. But I’ve been stretching my writing muscles in reviewing on other platforms, and performing in plays and other such nonsense.

This is a quick announcement to day that you can now buy physical, hold-in-your-hand-and-give-to-your-friends collections of my writing on Etsy at https://etsy.me/2LcKcsG

There are currently three items available: Victoriana-inspired love notes, break-up stories, and a collection of 100 poems that I wrote in two days. I’m working on a listing of all three as a package deal too, which will hopefully be up soon.

Even being back here in the post writer in WordPress makes me feel warm and welcome and heard. I missed this.

Please take a look and consider supporting my work, so I can continue to write. Spoons and time are hard to come by. But words are buxom, pressing. The magic of the world needs documenting.

I’m unsure yet, but I think I’d like to maintain this archive of my work online that is accessible for free. My printed books will be for those who have the means to supoort my work, and wish to hold something tangible, smooth, immediately present, to read with their hands and to show and tell with in the good old-fashioned way.

Thank you all, whomever is still here, for your continued commitment and support. You make the transient arts arts possible.

See you soon…

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04-03-18 #3

No comment
No comment
No thank you
Speak to my secretary
I’m sure I have said all I have to say on the matter

I won’t give them even a scrap of it,
That darkness belongs to me and I won’t let go of it no matter what they come at me with
Sacred and locked up, only I get to feed it
And I am sure that it is best that way

26-11-17 #2

She came to me on roller blades. In her audition, I wondered if anyone else was as blinded as I was. I fetched her coffee for several weeks, collecting her grateful flashed grins and stowing them in my jacket, next to my chest. There was always a second, at least, for her to look at me before someone called for her attention again. Everything was always moving, but she knew how to pause. “Where’s yours?” she said once, at some time in the morning that you only share with foxes and a crew you won’t know in six months. Later, we drag the dregs in order to stay in each other’s company, suspending the moment, steam rising between us, a smoke signal in the middle of the American diner. We walk quickly against the cold, quietly buzzing, boots clopping in a way that means we don’t have to say it. I show her where mine is at some time of the night that I now only share with her.

25-11-17

I think about what kind of gift I would give her if I dared. An image comes into my mind of a glossy paperback with a rough stick wedged through it. Not placed inside but stuck through the cover and the pages, piercing them, almost sewn in like thread, right across the middle in a vertical line. Impossible, the inexplicable violence of it completely at odds with what it means about us, her, my feelings towards her, and yet it feels like the only right answer. Earthy, and all that mothers. Who’s to answer for our such wild notions? I picture her taking it from me, looking at it seriously, and at me, eyes asking, This Is For Me, From You, This Is The Answer? I almost nod, she almost reciprocates, taking the book. The air between us presses like a vacuum, compressing us into a still scene, each part of my intention crumbled like charcoal and dried into paint. She does not touch the stick, but we both feel it as if it were caught through our bodies. We are both here, but are we ready?

The Lost Thing

She could have lost it on purpose, of course. That’s what he liked to remind her. It was a possibility. Well, she would prove him wrong, and never find the damn thing. Someone else would have to find it for her, because she had already checked everywhere, and exhausted all the possibilities she could imagine. The answer was external, it had to be, she huffed. She was clearly the victim of some mean, contained conspiracy, designed to teach her a lesson. That was not unheard of. That was a possibility, she aired. The suggestion seemed to bounce off his arrogance-coated ear and crack dully on the kitchen tiles.

‘The Giant’: a little bit of prose

A part of her, at least, became conscious again. Thankfully, not any part of her that could suffer from pain or sickness; a graceful mercy by the universe. That is to say that she, the ‘she’ that she was now, could still house those feelings; or rather, provide them with temporary shelter. But they would no longer damage her, fill her, consume her. No, she could never again be consumed.

Instead she was suspended, supported. Cushioned and floating. Her skin was now translucent, freely giving and receiving all matter around it, without either control or injury, in contrast to her cautious life before. She watched as pink and purple lava flowed in, around, and out of her body. Fluid jellied shapes continued their steady journeys like working ants, without awaiting her permission. Nothing was considered, it simply was happening.

She titled her head upwards, slowly, as if on the edge of a bath. Comfortable enough not to be moved by anything she saw, but curious enough to look. She watched her hair swim after the previous moment’s urge of her neck. Everything was happening at a speed that meant you could continue acting in the present, while still watching the recent past happening at your side. Living, breathing nostalgia.

She felt nothing of the previous night, though. Nothing of the alcohol, the exhaustion, of the drugs that she had been unaware she was putting into herself. The giant had found her, filled her, and finally, consumed her.

She was now a part of him, and instead of all these muscle memories fizzing inside her, they passed idly through and around her, swimming with those jellied shapes, as if forming a jigsaw of a time past. Except that they were not building anything.

The giant had not accounted for this, and he was not built for such things. His chest was cavernous, but it would never be strong enough to house what he had put there. He was full, cramped, heavy, his body strapped into a thick decline.

Trapped inside him, the girl was freer than she had ever been. She was now nothing more than a sentient membrane of a soul, but she was there, and one day, she would finally consume him.