I sat there
with one foot in the past
and left a record that I was searching
for days that were bigger than I.
Took deep breaths
in an attempt to fill myself with air
and float above
what I know I cannot hold onto endlessly.
When music plays you should sing
and if you get to choose
always run towards arms
that are open.
And keep looking,
be willing
and know for sure
that I am here,
searching with you.
If there is each other
then we already have everything.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Because it is you
Sweet is the sound of you
and you are all that I hear
as I go about my day
eating custards creams
and watching cars.
And my steps are heavy
each time I walk
the long way round
farther from you,
and wait once again
for you to follow.
Each minute only seems
like one minute
if each one of those
was made up of ten.
I am taunted
by passing time
passing slowly.
And still I wait.
Because it is you.
It is always you.
and you are all that I hear
as I go about my day
eating custards creams
and watching cars.
And my steps are heavy
each time I walk
the long way round
farther from you,
and wait once again
for you to follow.
Each minute only seems
like one minute
if each one of those
was made up of ten.
I am taunted
by passing time
passing slowly.
And still I wait.
Because it is you.
It is always you.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
How I see it
Each line that I write is a rope
that is tied to an anchor
in the middle of everything else.
I will stare at the sun
until the light obscures what I see
and alters the steps that I take
so that each line I write
will become a rope
that is tied to fighting chance.
And I will walk
with a souvenir in my hand
of what it once was
and
will be silenced only by death
and not the fear
that what I say is meaningless.
that is tied to an anchor
in the middle of everything else.
I will stare at the sun
until the light obscures what I see
and alters the steps that I take
so that each line I write
will become a rope
that is tied to fighting chance.
And I will walk
with a souvenir in my hand
of what it once was
and
will be silenced only by death
and not the fear
that what I say is meaningless.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
A reason for being
I have built
words
on top of
words
in hopes
that there will be a day
when all that I need
will be inside my pockets
and I shall run til comfort
is all that I am seeking
and all that I will find.
It's OK to fall down sometimes.
words
on top of
words
in hopes
that there will be a day
when all that I need
will be inside my pockets
and I shall run til comfort
is all that I am seeking
and all that I will find.
It's OK to fall down sometimes.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Then,
Then
I realised that you would end
and untied the strings that tethered
my heart
to
your hands.
I walked through days bound only
to an indefinite call from a future
that had been freed
from definite calamity.
And I walked singing.
It should have been me.
But it wasn't.
Until I realised that it was wholly
as it should have been
and it was only me
crying for otherwise.
I realised that you would end
and untied the strings that tethered
my heart
to
your hands.
I walked through days bound only
to an indefinite call from a future
that had been freed
from definite calamity.
And I walked singing.
It should have been me.
But it wasn't.
Until I realised that it was wholly
as it should have been
and it was only me
crying for otherwise.
Friday, January 20, 2012
Something I thought I'd forgotten
I wore your skin for too long and
became myself in your likeness.
Danced steps
over
and
through
until my face disappeared into yours
and spoke only words
to ease the distance
between
you
and
he.
Carelessly you wrote stories on your hands
and held them to my chest
so that my insides would know only you
and would wither when you were not here.
And you are not here.
And you were never here.
Now I hold onto time
like I will find answers there if my grip is tight,
knowing all the while
that I will find only what you left
and that even nothing won't grow into something
no matter what I do.
became myself in your likeness.
Danced steps
over
and
through
until my face disappeared into yours
and spoke only words
to ease the distance
between
you
and
he.
Carelessly you wrote stories on your hands
and held them to my chest
so that my insides would know only you
and would wither when you were not here.
And you are not here.
And you were never here.
Now I hold onto time
like I will find answers there if my grip is tight,
knowing all the while
that I will find only what you left
and that even nothing won't grow into something
no matter what I do.
Thursday, January 19, 2012
A possible solution
I'm going to give you a pencil
and walk you to the foot of a mountain.
Standing there
I will watch as you draw what
is in front of us.
I will study each line
and curve
and detail
as we stand,
side by side,
pencils in our hands.
I need to know for certain that
what you see
is
what I see
because as of right now
you've made nothing clear
and I don't know
how else to be sure.
and walk you to the foot of a mountain.
Standing there
I will watch as you draw what
is in front of us.
I will study each line
and curve
and detail
as we stand,
side by side,
pencils in our hands.
I need to know for certain that
what you see
is
what I see
because as of right now
you've made nothing clear
and I don't know
how else to be sure.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
There is nothing I can do but
Today
I won't eat any food
or drink any water.
I won't walk outside
or answer
any questions
asked by
any people
in any place.
I won't turn on the radio
or dance in my kitchen
or do cartwheels
in the hallway
in my pyjamas
with a smile on my face
and my phone in my pocket.
I won't answer my phone at all
in fact
or pick up books
and read the last page
and put them down
again.
I won't take a bath
and make shapes in the bubbles
or put a flannel over my eyes
and count in multiples of seven
trying not to use my fingers.
I won't rearrange my cupboards
or sort out the medicine cabinet
or flip through the TV
until I find infomercials
selling hair
or cushions
or hot dogs
or more time.
I won't.
I will just sit still
on the top stair
with my hands by my sides
hoping that if I stay here long enough
I will dissolve into the floor
and reappear
where you are.
I won't eat any food
or drink any water.
I won't walk outside
or answer
any questions
asked by
any people
in any place.
I won't turn on the radio
or dance in my kitchen
or do cartwheels
in the hallway
in my pyjamas
with a smile on my face
and my phone in my pocket.
I won't answer my phone at all
in fact
or pick up books
and read the last page
and put them down
again.
I won't take a bath
and make shapes in the bubbles
or put a flannel over my eyes
and count in multiples of seven
trying not to use my fingers.
I won't rearrange my cupboards
or sort out the medicine cabinet
or flip through the TV
until I find infomercials
selling hair
or cushions
or hot dogs
or more time.
I won't.
I will just sit still
on the top stair
with my hands by my sides
hoping that if I stay here long enough
I will dissolve into the floor
and reappear
where you are.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
It is only today
It is only today
I realised
that days spent wishing
are days spent poorly
and
that waiting for change
is no better
than watching
time become something else
to forget about.
It is only today
I realised
that I am not Tracy Chapman
and I never will be
no matter how many times
I repeat her name in the mirror
and blink three times.
No matter if I braid my hair
and sing fast car
whilst driving
a fast car
'cross the border and into the city.
And if I work at the market as a check out girl
then I will be no closer to being her
because it will just be I
in a market
scanning tins of macaroni
and asking a middle aged man in an apron
and old trainers
for a price check on brown rice
over the tannoy.
I won't be Tracy Chapman
even if I drive so fast
that I feel drunk
and start talking about a revolution
at the top of my lungs.
And if it sounds like a whisper
and I run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run
I could never run far enough
that I would somehow shed my skin
and be re-birthed as a middle aged
American
singer-songwriter
with four grammys under my arms.
It doesn't matter what I do
because I will never be her.
I can only build my life up from here
and do my very best
to not fuck up the only one I have.
I realised
that days spent wishing
are days spent poorly
and
that waiting for change
is no better
than watching
time become something else
to forget about.
It is only today
I realised
that I am not Tracy Chapman
and I never will be
no matter how many times
I repeat her name in the mirror
and blink three times.
No matter if I braid my hair
and sing fast car
whilst driving
a fast car
'cross the border and into the city.
And if I work at the market as a check out girl
then I will be no closer to being her
because it will just be I
in a market
scanning tins of macaroni
and asking a middle aged man in an apron
and old trainers
for a price check on brown rice
over the tannoy.
I won't be Tracy Chapman
even if I drive so fast
that I feel drunk
and start talking about a revolution
at the top of my lungs.
And if it sounds like a whisper
and I run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run
I could never run far enough
that I would somehow shed my skin
and be re-birthed as a middle aged
American
singer-songwriter
with four grammys under my arms.
It doesn't matter what I do
because I will never be her.
I can only build my life up from here
and do my very best
to not fuck up the only one I have.
Monday, January 16, 2012
A pond of blue dots and thoughts of you
If I drew a blue dot on my hand
for each time
I have thought of you today
or written your name
on paper stacked high
upon my desk,
they would have joined up
hours ago and
become a bottomless pond.
An aquatic archive
of what my day is.
And, as minutes tick by
and the water gets deeper
I sink further
and further
into a pond of blue dots
and thoughts of you.
I do not swim against the tide.
I am powerless to even try
and I'm not sure I want to.
for each time
I have thought of you today
or written your name
on paper stacked high
upon my desk,
they would have joined up
hours ago and
become a bottomless pond.
An aquatic archive
of what my day is.
And, as minutes tick by
and the water gets deeper
I sink further
and further
into a pond of blue dots
and thoughts of you.
I do not swim against the tide.
I am powerless to even try
and I'm not sure I want to.
Friday, January 13, 2012
The night between rock and ocean
It was you.
It was you who stood with me in darkness
and spoke colour through your lips
and painted pictures on walls with the words
that you spoke,
there in a darkness I had not recognised
until you coloured sentences
and showed me how bright light could be.
For a second,
in that darkness,
I thought the moon was closer
than it had been before
but I wouldn't be certain
of that being true
because I don't remember much
of anything clearly.
It was you who stood with me in darkness
and spoke colour through your lips
and painted pictures on walls with the words
that you spoke,
there in a darkness I had not recognised
until you coloured sentences
and showed me how bright light could be.
For a second,
in that darkness,
I thought the moon was closer
than it had been before
but I wouldn't be certain
of that being true
because I don't remember much
of anything clearly.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
I want to help
I want to hold your hand
and pull you up
and out
and remind you that
I am inside your heart
and that you are not alone.
I want you to remember
that there was a you
once before
who,
drenched in light,
danced barefoot through days
and held your hands up
in surrender
to what was going to be.
I want you to dance again.
I want you to realise
that what you are now
is just shadow
and that shadows are cast
where light shines
and that there will always be
something
to run towards.
I want you to know
that I will go nowhere
if you do not come
because my hand
is in your hand
and we are in this
together.
and pull you up
and out
and remind you that
I am inside your heart
and that you are not alone.
I want you to remember
that there was a you
once before
who,
drenched in light,
danced barefoot through days
and held your hands up
in surrender
to what was going to be.
I want you to dance again.
I want you to realise
that what you are now
is just shadow
and that shadows are cast
where light shines
and that there will always be
something
to run towards.
I want you to know
that I will go nowhere
if you do not come
because my hand
is in your hand
and we are in this
together.
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
Where are we going?
There is a minute
between the end
and the beginning
when neither one is more
than the other
and nothing is better
than what was before.
Because knowing that change
is the only choice
does not make it easier.
It only becomes harder to find
salvation in what you have
as you move farther from what you know.
The farther I walk
the faster I realise
that I know not nearly as much
as I thought I did.
between the end
and the beginning
when neither one is more
than the other
and nothing is better
than what was before.
Because knowing that change
is the only choice
does not make it easier.
It only becomes harder to find
salvation in what you have
as you move farther from what you know.
The farther I walk
the faster I realise
that I know not nearly as much
as I thought I did.
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
It doesn't matter
It doesn't matter what I am told
or what I know
or if I know nothing at all.
It doesn't matter if I smile
and you look someplace else
and pretend you didn't see.
It doesn't matter if
you get up each morning
and go to bed each night
walking through each day
without one single thought of us.
It doesn't matter
if it is matter of fact
or matter of opinion
or if I'll never be certain either way.
Because all that matters
is that you are here
and I am here
and that maybe one day
we will be here
together.
or what I know
or if I know nothing at all.
It doesn't matter if I smile
and you look someplace else
and pretend you didn't see.
It doesn't matter if
you get up each morning
and go to bed each night
walking through each day
without one single thought of us.
It doesn't matter
if it is matter of fact
or matter of opinion
or if I'll never be certain either way.
Because all that matters
is that you are here
and I am here
and that maybe one day
we will be here
together.
Monday, January 09, 2012
Where light used to be
I have left a piece of my heart in so many places
that there is none left
and I can see only what is wrong
and nothing else.
Now there is a gap where light used to be
because people told me their truth
and disregarded mine
and I was silent
and I was silenced.
Pulled under and into days
made in somebody elses likeness
and disappearing beneath words
that are said only to fill holes
is still not enough to quieten
the one truth I know for sure.
That there is something else.
Always.
that there is none left
and I can see only what is wrong
and nothing else.
Now there is a gap where light used to be
because people told me their truth
and disregarded mine
and I was silent
and I was silenced.
Pulled under and into days
made in somebody elses likeness
and disappearing beneath words
that are said only to fill holes
is still not enough to quieten
the one truth I know for sure.
That there is something else.
Always.
Friday, January 06, 2012
Nothing but your name
If you could see inside my head today
you would see nothing but your name
scrawled on every surface.
Each letter written in marker pen
and drawn with an unsteady hand.
Though each task I face
has become most impossible to complete
it is a burden that I bear gladly.
With relish I will walk through today
unable to behave accordingly
if it means my thoughts are filled with only you
and you are here
without really being here.
you would see nothing but your name
scrawled on every surface.
Each letter written in marker pen
and drawn with an unsteady hand.
Though each task I face
has become most impossible to complete
it is a burden that I bear gladly.
With relish I will walk through today
unable to behave accordingly
if it means my thoughts are filled with only you
and you are here
without really being here.
Thursday, January 05, 2012
What the Reb taught me.
There is nothing underneath my feet
because I don't believe
and I don't see how I can.
Whilst I move even nearer to nothing more
I consider opposing ideas even less
but come no closer to unshakeable truth
only further away from where I started.
And I am envious.
And I shouldn't be.
I have spent too much time preoccupied
by the need for certainty.
All the while knowing,
that having faith
means needing no proof
at all.
I need only be willing.
because I don't believe
and I don't see how I can.
Whilst I move even nearer to nothing more
I consider opposing ideas even less
but come no closer to unshakeable truth
only further away from where I started.
And I am envious.
And I shouldn't be.
I have spent too much time preoccupied
by the need for certainty.
All the while knowing,
that having faith
means needing no proof
at all.
I need only be willing.
Wednesday, January 04, 2012
If I was brave you would love me. Attempt number two.
I am tongue tied when we speak
because in my head you are somebody else entirely.
We eat sandwiches in the park and you talk about your parents.
Your mum was raised by the ocean
and skimmed stones in the water.
She's frightened of most things now
because life didn't turn out how she thought it would.
Except for you.
You are her anchor to the good she used to see everywhere.
You are the good that I see.
I write notes on scraps of paper and tuck them into the pockets of your jeans
so you'll find them when I'm somewhere else
and you're missing me.
And when you come home and I am there
I know for sure that it is right
Because it is us.
And I am the good that you see.
So when we speak I forget my words
and make jokes to fill gaps between your questions
because I remember what we are somewhere else
and I want you to know.
because in my head you are somebody else entirely.
We eat sandwiches in the park and you talk about your parents.
Your mum was raised by the ocean
and skimmed stones in the water.
She's frightened of most things now
because life didn't turn out how she thought it would.
Except for you.
You are her anchor to the good she used to see everywhere.
You are the good that I see.
I write notes on scraps of paper and tuck them into the pockets of your jeans
so you'll find them when I'm somewhere else
and you're missing me.
And when you come home and I am there
I know for sure that it is right
Because it is us.
And I am the good that you see.
So when we speak I forget my words
and make jokes to fill gaps between your questions
because I remember what we are somewhere else
and I want you to know.
Tuesday, January 03, 2012
Me. January 3rd 2012.
How can I be anything
when anything is,
in equal parts,
both too much
and not nearly enough?
I acquiesced and am to blame.
I am tired.
I am tired of waiting.
I am ready for this to be what it is supposed to be.
Until then I will stay
because I don't know how not to
because there is nowhere else to go
because faith that it will work
is sometimes better than
nothing
at
all.
when anything is,
in equal parts,
both too much
and not nearly enough?
I acquiesced and am to blame.
I am tired.
I am tired of waiting.
I am ready for this to be what it is supposed to be.
Until then I will stay
because I don't know how not to
because there is nowhere else to go
because faith that it will work
is sometimes better than
nothing
at
all.
Not Big Enough
I’ve discovered carbon paper. I knew it existed of course but now it’s become all that I think about, sort of.
This poem is about being a carbon copy of what you were before without any of the substance. Forgetting yourself in order to survive or get through rough, horrible, awful life shit.
Its about putting on a brave face and keeping on going, even when you don’t know how.
This poem is about being a carbon copy of what you were before without any of the substance. Forgetting yourself in order to survive or get through rough, horrible, awful life shit.
Its about putting on a brave face and keeping on going, even when you don’t know how.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Saturday, December 03, 2011
Garlands join me
It’s a birthday gift to my friend Esme. My wonderful, beautiful friend without whom I would disintegrate. It is everything that I want her to know, always.
Happy Birthday Esalmeberry.
Happy Birthday Esalmeberry.
A love letter for Joanna
I’ve been reading and rereading John Keats love letters to Fanny Brawne for the last few weeks. His devotion to her has kept me buoyed and has reminded me how good love is.
This is my love letter to Joanna Lumley. It is everything I would say to her if our lives were different. They would have to be pretty different mind but somehow, love would be champion. The woman is utterly magnificent. Thank goodness there is somebody in the world living a life as full as hers.
This is my love letter to Joanna Lumley. It is everything I would say to her if our lives were different. They would have to be pretty different mind but somehow, love would be champion. The woman is utterly magnificent. Thank goodness there is somebody in the world living a life as full as hers.
Monday, November 07, 2011
As I walk through streets
It is about being on the edge of something, too frightened to move forward whilst knowing that its the only thing there is left to do. Nothing changes if nothing changes.
If I end up in the same place
It is really about surrendering yourself to the inevitability of never really knowing. There is nothing more than what we have and no matter how we go about things the result is going to be the same.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
I wish it looked like something else
This week I’ve been unable to shake the feeling that I’m screwing up every aspect of my life. That combined with having a pencil and notepad by the side of my bed at 11.30pm has resulted in this poem. It isn’t how I feel always, just how I feel at the moment.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Sunday, September 04, 2011
Friday, September 02, 2011
Somehow I cope (a time for something)
Its about doing what you can to get through each minute, coping mechanisms and indiosyncrasies that help us not to drive into the sea.
Its about finding what works.
Its about finding what works.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Phantom Lego Bricks
Its about being distracted by technology. It is about being hopeful. It is about wanting to move forward into something in spite of the fact that you can’t know the outcome. Sometimes its just enough to try.
Substitute for a Breakdown
Its about looking for answers in the wrong places, trying to find some sort of solace in the act of ignoring what it is you need to be doing instead. Its about Carly Simon, its about her mouth, its about swearing when you probably shouldn’t.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The lost art of letter writing
I found a most wonderful website.
Its called http://www.lettersofnote.com/ and is, according to site Editor Shaun Usher, 'an attempt to gather and sort fascinating letters, postcards, telegrams, faxes, and memos.'
Last evening I spent two hours filing through pages and pages of them.
It made me sad that the art of letter writing is disappearing and it filled me with such heady, refreshing joy that something like this exists in the world. I think you should check it out.
The below is from the website. I almost wept reading it.
On August 5th of 1962, 36-year-old Marilyn Monroe was found dead at her home. The next day, the following unsent and seemingly unfinished letter, addressed to ex-husband Joe DiMaggio, was discovered at her desk, folded up in her address book. It is thought they were planning to remarry.
Dear Joe,
If I can only succeed in making you happy — I will have succeeded in the bigest and most difficult thing there is — that is to make one person completely happy. Your happiness means my happiness.
Its called http://www.lettersofnote.com/ and is, according to site Editor Shaun Usher, 'an attempt to gather and sort fascinating letters, postcards, telegrams, faxes, and memos.'
Last evening I spent two hours filing through pages and pages of them.
It made me sad that the art of letter writing is disappearing and it filled me with such heady, refreshing joy that something like this exists in the world. I think you should check it out.
The below is from the website. I almost wept reading it.
On August 5th of 1962, 36-year-old Marilyn Monroe was found dead at her home. The next day, the following unsent and seemingly unfinished letter, addressed to ex-husband Joe DiMaggio, was discovered at her desk, folded up in her address book. It is thought they were planning to remarry.
Dear Joe,
If I can only succeed in making you happy — I will have succeeded in the bigest and most difficult thing there is — that is to make one person completely happy. Your happiness means my happiness.
Filled with Empty
Its about sitting incredibly still when situations feel overwhelming and trying to get your head around the things that you perceive are standing in the way of what you could achieve. It is about love. It is about being consumed.
Lo and the Beholds website launch
One of the 'best upcoming acts in London', Lo and the Beholds have launched their brand new website and it features one of my illustrations. Take a look at their site here
They sound like I imagine the baby of Madeleine Peyroux, Emmy the Great and Emmylou Harris to sound.
Love the music, love the illustration, love the design. I can't ask more than that.
They sound like I imagine the baby of Madeleine Peyroux, Emmy the Great and Emmylou Harris to sound.
Love the music, love the illustration, love the design. I can't ask more than that.
If your heart was a unicorn
This poem should be read fast. At least thats the way I wrote it to be read. You should not stop for breaths. If this was a script from a Woody Allen film it would come near the end when Woody (the neurotic, insecure lead) would realise that the only way he can win over his love interest (no doubt played by Diane Keaton) is to lay everything out without thinking or editting himself-she needs to know all of him. I’ve been told I do a good impression of Woody Allen, now its seems to have spilled over into the words I write. (transcript below)
'if your heart was made of clay' i shout
'then i would wrap my hands around it and form it into
something else
something new.'
'Like a unicorn.
Unicorns never made anybody unhappy.
and they're made of glitter
and I'm sure they can grant wishes like genies
and ladies who sit on ends of piers
in headscarves
and dresses with beaded fringes
and floral prints.'
'I wish it was a thousand unicorns that would stampede and burst through your chest like that part in The Lion King that I can't watch cos Mufasa dies and it doesn't matter that Simba becomes King at the end and marries Nala and has babies because Mufasa is still dead.
I don't want to die though.'
'and now theres a hole in your chest from the aftermath of the stampede and I would put my hand inside and it would be the first time I got to go inside fully and my hand would be there and you'd smile and I would smile and the clay heart unicorns would be running free through clay heart forests on some new course and music would play amongst clay heart sticks and all the other clay heart animals that had been freed before by someone else.'
'But your heart isn't a unicorn.
Its not even a horse.'
'if your heart was made of clay' i shout
'then i would wrap my hands around it and form it into
something else
something new.'
'Like a unicorn.
Unicorns never made anybody unhappy.
and they're made of glitter
and I'm sure they can grant wishes like genies
and ladies who sit on ends of piers
in headscarves
and dresses with beaded fringes
and floral prints.'
'I wish it was a thousand unicorns that would stampede and burst through your chest like that part in The Lion King that I can't watch cos Mufasa dies and it doesn't matter that Simba becomes King at the end and marries Nala and has babies because Mufasa is still dead.
I don't want to die though.'
'and now theres a hole in your chest from the aftermath of the stampede and I would put my hand inside and it would be the first time I got to go inside fully and my hand would be there and you'd smile and I would smile and the clay heart unicorns would be running free through clay heart forests on some new course and music would play amongst clay heart sticks and all the other clay heart animals that had been freed before by someone else.'
'But your heart isn't a unicorn.
Its not even a horse.'
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
I want only great things
It is everything I want to say but never can. It is a love poem. It is a dedication. It is a physical reminder that there is light somehow, always.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Living without Parallels
This week my first solo edition of 'The Inside Thoughts of Now' appeared in Creature Mag. Its about feeling like you are on the outside of things. Its about the moment you realise that reality will inevitably not match up to the fantasy you have in your head and its about being alone.
Having complete control over the work I was creating was immensely satisfying and being able to introduce the sorts of images I make was an utter thrill. I will be continuing with my solo pieces for CreatureMag fortnightly in hopes that you will come to completely know all of me. This is a fine place to start.
Having complete control over the work I was creating was immensely satisfying and being able to introduce the sorts of images I make was an utter thrill. I will be continuing with my solo pieces for CreatureMag fortnightly in hopes that you will come to completely know all of me. This is a fine place to start.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Paper Shell
My latest poem for Creaturemag is called ‘Paper Shell’. Its about saying goodbye and trying all you can do to hold onto some element of something that isn’t there anymore. Its about love. Its about endings and its about dealing with what is inevitable.
It is the final collaboration between me and illustrator Steven Jarvis but I will continue working with Creature Mag with a brand new format. I will be in control of both the words and the illustrations and I am very excited about the possibility of what I am now able to create.
I will lay paper on the ground
and draw lines around your shadow as you go
so that when you're gone I will have something to look at
and a part of you will have stayed.
The outline of your body,
now pinned to my wall,
will have to be enough
because your inside was clogged with
a truth that was not my own
and I never saw all of you.
I will take coloured pencils and fill the paper shell with yellow lines
each one starting at your heart
and ending where the pages stop.
I would have breathed light through your lips
if you hadn't gone
but staying was beyond us both.
It is the final collaboration between me and illustrator Steven Jarvis but I will continue working with Creature Mag with a brand new format. I will be in control of both the words and the illustrations and I am very excited about the possibility of what I am now able to create.
I will lay paper on the ground
and draw lines around your shadow as you go
so that when you're gone I will have something to look at
and a part of you will have stayed.
The outline of your body,
now pinned to my wall,
will have to be enough
because your inside was clogged with
a truth that was not my own
and I never saw all of you.
I will take coloured pencils and fill the paper shell with yellow lines
each one starting at your heart
and ending where the pages stop.
I would have breathed light through your lips
if you hadn't gone
but staying was beyond us both.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
It would be easier to believe
Here's my latest poem for CreatureMag
Lots of trying things have happened to both me and those around me in the last month or so which has led to a lot of talk about free will and whether or not God exists. It has also encouraged discussion about ones own strength and ability to overcome trials and whether this would be easier to do if you believed that a higher power had a hand in the things you experienced.
It would be easier to believe,
because life is fact
and ease is hard to come by.
My eyes aren't open and
I lay as today becomes something else to remember
and the world fills with yet more holes.
If I was certain that what I was looking for was more than wishful thinking
I would search around corners and up stairs
take journeys to places where water tastes different
and people smile for other reasons.
I would take chances on good
and sing songs in bustling streets.
For now I count seventeen penny coins in my hand
and throw them onto the ground.
Knowing that I changed the way the earth looks
and the distance closed a little
I continue forward,
and I continue to search,
because there is nothing else I know
and I want to be certain.
Lots of trying things have happened to both me and those around me in the last month or so which has led to a lot of talk about free will and whether or not God exists. It has also encouraged discussion about ones own strength and ability to overcome trials and whether this would be easier to do if you believed that a higher power had a hand in the things you experienced.
It would be easier to believe,
because life is fact
and ease is hard to come by.
My eyes aren't open and
I lay as today becomes something else to remember
and the world fills with yet more holes.
If I was certain that what I was looking for was more than wishful thinking
I would search around corners and up stairs
take journeys to places where water tastes different
and people smile for other reasons.
I would take chances on good
and sing songs in bustling streets.
For now I count seventeen penny coins in my hand
and throw them onto the ground.
Knowing that I changed the way the earth looks
and the distance closed a little
I continue forward,
and I continue to search,
because there is nothing else I know
and I want to be certain.
Sunday, May 08, 2011
Rebel without a Cause-Finished
Here it is-my Ritzy Cinema 100 Poster competition entry.
Its taken FORTY HOURS to complete but I'm almost sure its worth it. No doubt this is exactly how James Dean hoped he would be remembered-I only wish I could be sure he'd like me.
Let me know what you think maybe-that could be nice.
For your reference, here is the original.
Its taken FORTY HOURS to complete but I'm almost sure its worth it. No doubt this is exactly how James Dean hoped he would be remembered-I only wish I could be sure he'd like me.
Let me know what you think maybe-that could be nice.
For your reference, here is the original.
Monday, May 02, 2011
Sunday, May 01, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Two and a half more hours complete. CURRENT SEWING TIME=9 1/2 hours.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
James Byron Dean, Ritzy Cinema
Here is my entry in progress for Ritzy Cinema's 100 Poster Competition. I'm sewing the 'Rebel without a Cause' film poster (see below) and I started James Dean yesterday. Sewing with my hands makes even the darkest days seem a little more worthwhile and I can only assume that being remembered with a needle and thread was exactly what James Dean always hoped for.
CURRENT SEWING HOURS = SEVEN.
CURRENT SEWING HOURS = SEVEN.
If I was brave you would love me
This is the latest poem for CreatureMag. To check out the illustrated version click here.
Everybody at one stage or another has wished they had the guts to say something to somebody they care for and this is my experience of that. Sometimes it is easier to imagine grand gestures as opposed to tiny moments when truth is all there is between two people and that is where this poem stems from. I wanted to write something utterly personal that had universal appeal and would perhaps encourage people to step up and be brave.
I consider painting my eyes onto your face
so you could see what I see.
I spend time wishing I could fill your head with my thoughts
hoping you would breathe them into words
and make them into something real.
I walk with you along beaches and
write things I'm too afraid to say into sand
knowing that ocean will erase any proof
before you have the chance to see.
I pick up rocks and collect them in my pockets
because I feel heavy and it's all I know how to do.
Given the chance I would cover your floor with matches,
knowing that even the greatest fires start from tiny sparks,
and hope that even one step
would light even one match
and things between us would be new.
If I was brave you would love me.
Everybody at one stage or another has wished they had the guts to say something to somebody they care for and this is my experience of that. Sometimes it is easier to imagine grand gestures as opposed to tiny moments when truth is all there is between two people and that is where this poem stems from. I wanted to write something utterly personal that had universal appeal and would perhaps encourage people to step up and be brave.
I consider painting my eyes onto your face
so you could see what I see.
I spend time wishing I could fill your head with my thoughts
hoping you would breathe them into words
and make them into something real.
I walk with you along beaches and
write things I'm too afraid to say into sand
knowing that ocean will erase any proof
before you have the chance to see.
I pick up rocks and collect them in my pockets
because I feel heavy and it's all I know how to do.
Given the chance I would cover your floor with matches,
knowing that even the greatest fires start from tiny sparks,
and hope that even one step
would light even one match
and things between us would be new.
If I was brave you would love me.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Bryan Adams and the Ritual of the Curtains
My brother must still have been in a wheelchair
because we pushed past high rises
and people who were respected at five
and drunk by seven.
I threw pennies at the Carnival Queen.
"Don't aim for her face" someone shouted.
Now it seems I was smaller than I was but
I'm sure I saw more than knees
and hightops
and plastic cups filled with Carnival nectar.
Later, my hands greasy with vinegar and the memory of chips,
we walked up the hill that unfolded into the sky
Unending
and unforgiving
At home, Bryan Adams played on the radio.
I realised then that my family would die.
Thats when it started.
Vinegar hung heavy like dustsheets over everything.
It's what I remember most.
That smell of vinegar and the overwhelming realisation
that I controlled my families future
with the ritual of the curtains.
because we pushed past high rises
and people who were respected at five
and drunk by seven.
I threw pennies at the Carnival Queen.
"Don't aim for her face" someone shouted.
Now it seems I was smaller than I was but
I'm sure I saw more than knees
and hightops
and plastic cups filled with Carnival nectar.
Later, my hands greasy with vinegar and the memory of chips,
we walked up the hill that unfolded into the sky
Unending
and unforgiving
At home, Bryan Adams played on the radio.
I realised then that my family would die.
Thats when it started.
Vinegar hung heavy like dustsheets over everything.
It's what I remember most.
That smell of vinegar and the overwhelming realisation
that I controlled my families future
with the ritual of the curtains.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
A Poem for Katy
Here is my latest entry for creaturemag. My friend Katy and I had a very compelling late night visit to the West Hill recently. It was during the Super Moon and as we stood, cold and still, staring as the sea glimmered under extra big moonlight, we spoke about the sky and the moon and how we’re all connected and how we’re all made of stardust and how we’re all falling, constantly falling.
This poem is for her and it is for that night. Its all I could do to ensure that I didn’t forget.
I fall deeper into billowing sheets of grey and blue
anchored only by lights that shone once before
and just for a minute.
I scribble words onto sky and watch them glitter and drop onto ocean
and into your hands
finding it difficult to seperate you and it
so intertwined you have become that it seems unnecessary even to try.
As we stand before magic that exists not only in our eyes
I consider piling sticks
one
on top of one
on top of one
so you could climb above and see what tonight looks like from another place.
As evening breathes into night
and blue and grey part company for black
we pause and anticipate involuntary change.
Buoyed by our own design.
If music had been playing I would have danced with my eyes wide open.
Cosmic rhythms.
It isn't always easy to be brave.
This poem is for her and it is for that night. Its all I could do to ensure that I didn’t forget.
I fall deeper into billowing sheets of grey and blue
anchored only by lights that shone once before
and just for a minute.
I scribble words onto sky and watch them glitter and drop onto ocean
and into your hands
finding it difficult to seperate you and it
so intertwined you have become that it seems unnecessary even to try.
As we stand before magic that exists not only in our eyes
I consider piling sticks
one
on top of one
on top of one
so you could climb above and see what tonight looks like from another place.
As evening breathes into night
and blue and grey part company for black
we pause and anticipate involuntary change.
Buoyed by our own design.
If music had been playing I would have danced with my eyes wide open.
Cosmic rhythms.
It isn't always easy to be brave.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Weightlessness of Knowing
This is my latest poem for Creaturemag Its called 'The Weightlessness of Knowing.' You can see the illustrated version on their website but for those of you who just want the words, here they are.
I almost saw a fortune teller today
only a wall between us.
Between me and her,
the future and I.
A plasterboard representation of the barrier that keeps me held back,
suspended here.
As others have their fortunes told I sit.
As doors are opened into and towards untouchable things I wait.
Nothing but now crammed into my pockets.
Later, as I sit in bed I consider what I could have seen.
With the lights off, the smell of clean hair fills the dark,
knotting itself around bedposts and door handles.
And I lay
thinking about what she may have said and
how I would have tied one end of strings to each of the stories
and the other to my wrists
allowing them to pull me into tomorrow
carried by the wind
and the weightlessness of knowing what is waiting there.
I almost saw a fortune teller today
only a wall between us.
Between me and her,
the future and I.
A plasterboard representation of the barrier that keeps me held back,
suspended here.
As others have their fortunes told I sit.
As doors are opened into and towards untouchable things I wait.
Nothing but now crammed into my pockets.
Later, as I sit in bed I consider what I could have seen.
With the lights off, the smell of clean hair fills the dark,
knotting itself around bedposts and door handles.
And I lay
thinking about what she may have said and
how I would have tied one end of strings to each of the stories
and the other to my wrists
allowing them to pull me into tomorrow
carried by the wind
and the weightlessness of knowing what is waiting there.
Thursday, March 03, 2011
The elephants are becoming everything. A reminder, for now, that there is more.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
We are gold-dust
I think Joni Mitchell is saving my life today. Without her I'm almost sure I would have held my breath until my eyes closed.
End. Period.
I sat on the step into the kitchen where I've sat for a decade and then I got up and it was the last time I sat there.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
You make the sky less scary big.
I sewed a little picture to celebrate Valentine's Day and I gave it to creaturemag.
Now I give it to you, with love.
Now I give it to you, with love.
Observations that stem from getting nowhere fast
This is my latest entry for creaturemag. Last week I had a few days when I was questioning the direction my life was taking, doubting whether I had the tools to build a successful life for myself. It all came to a head when I text Katy saying ‘I don’t know how to exist in this world’ and, whilst that sounded like a suicide note, it opened up the flood gates for me to reassess how I feel about the energy I put out into the world. This poem is what manifested from those days.
‘I think I would be better served with the elephants'
is something I thought today,
and yesterday and some times before.
I'm not sure I know how to exist in this world
and no matter how dramatic it sounds I know it to be true.
The rain falls too hard
and I don’t know which way to turn my head.
Thelma and Louise bleeds from the television
and I want them to drive into the gap between the two sides
because here doesn't understand how their minds worked
and anything but the gap between the two sides would be
wrong.
Thinking about the elephants, I touch the ground with my hands
wondering how they feel the earth as they move across it.
When one of them dies they visit the spot year after year
to mourn and to remember,
Saying everything they need to say without the words I take
for granted.
They stand and they wait.
'They would understand me'
I say inside my head as my hands sweep the ground.
The thought makes me self-conscious and so I erase it,
leaving only a faint mark behind-
I don't want to lose it entirely
because today I don't know how to exist in this world
and the elephants are making me forget.
‘I think I would be better served with the elephants'
is something I thought today,
and yesterday and some times before.
I'm not sure I know how to exist in this world
and no matter how dramatic it sounds I know it to be true.
The rain falls too hard
and I don’t know which way to turn my head.
Thelma and Louise bleeds from the television
and I want them to drive into the gap between the two sides
because here doesn't understand how their minds worked
and anything but the gap between the two sides would be
wrong.
Thinking about the elephants, I touch the ground with my hands
wondering how they feel the earth as they move across it.
When one of them dies they visit the spot year after year
to mourn and to remember,
Saying everything they need to say without the words I take
for granted.
They stand and they wait.
'They would understand me'
I say inside my head as my hands sweep the ground.
The thought makes me self-conscious and so I erase it,
leaving only a faint mark behind-
I don't want to lose it entirely
because today I don't know how to exist in this world
and the elephants are making me forget.
Thursday, February 03, 2011
The moments in between the big things
I picked up a sticker and stuck it over and over
on my jeans until the stick disappeared
and there was just space in my hands.
I smiled for a moment and then stopped myself.
There is a time to laugh and a time to cry.
Now was neither.
on my jeans until the stick disappeared
and there was just space in my hands.
I smiled for a moment and then stopped myself.
There is a time to laugh and a time to cry.
Now was neither.
Wednesday, February 02, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
The end of the thing that never actually began except inside my head once.
I had a dream about you last night
You had a convertible.
I had a puppy.
She was dressed as an Avatar.
The roads were very big and it was busy.
You took us to the airport.
We didn't have any luggage.
'I'm gonna cry in bed when I get back to England tonight.' I said.
'You probably will.' You said.
At one point we held hands.
You had a convertible.
I had a puppy.
She was dressed as an Avatar.
The roads were very big and it was busy.
You took us to the airport.
We didn't have any luggage.
'I'm gonna cry in bed when I get back to England tonight.' I said.
'You probably will.' You said.
At one point we held hands.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Today I wrote
Today I wrote something new and I sent it to Popshot.
It's called 'Bryan Adams and the ritual of the curtains'
I want them to fall in love with it.
If they don't I'll give it to you.
You must keep it safe, it has my heart inside.
It's called 'Bryan Adams and the ritual of the curtains'
I want them to fall in love with it.
If they don't I'll give it to you.
You must keep it safe, it has my heart inside.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Sheridan and the things that happened then
'You make me feel like a sghetti hoop prostitute.'
Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange
Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange
Thursday, October 07, 2010
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Changes at home
"You never made it clear that this meant something." He said.
"You never made it clear that it didn't." She said.
"You never made it clear that it didn't." She said.
I could have done something else, anything else
"I saw you sitting on the side of the road today." I said.
"You did?" You said.
"You looked broken." I said.
"I felt like I couldn't try anymore." You said.
"Perhaps if I'd been braver I would have stopped." I said.
"Perhaps if you were a lot of things this would have been different." You said.
There didn't seem to be anything else to say so I sat at the table and played with the zip on my jacket.
You looked out the window.
I knew you were somewhere else but I didn't ask where.
I wish I had now.
"You did?" You said.
"You looked broken." I said.
"I felt like I couldn't try anymore." You said.
"Perhaps if I'd been braver I would have stopped." I said.
"Perhaps if you were a lot of things this would have been different." You said.
There didn't seem to be anything else to say so I sat at the table and played with the zip on my jacket.
You looked out the window.
I knew you were somewhere else but I didn't ask where.
I wish I had now.
Wednesday, September 01, 2010
This is me
New, age, technical, from object to new object. Travelling. This is then.
Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange
Sent using BlackBerry® from Orange
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Some place else, anywhere else.
He's on the tube now.
He sits there, everyday in the third carriage, sweater on, thermos of vegetable soup tucked between his legs.
The journey is relatively quick if not a little inane, repetitive, arduous and hot.
Today he took a book, thought it would break up the mundane, the normal.
He's on the tube now.
The pages are open, the words have rendered him paralysed, the tips of his fingers completely numb, he feels his face flush. The carriage is smaller somehow.
He's on the tube now.
Yes, he's on the tube now but the words have taken him some place else, some place sad or nostalgic or dangerous or ridiculously happy. He doesn't know anymore, the feelings are confused or forgotten. It's not how he got here that's important. It's how not to cry in front of these strangers in their suits and their shoes, holding double shot espressos and iPhones, judgements on the tips of their eyes.
His eyes have blurred, the words shift on the page, impossible now to make sense of the sentences.
He's on the tube now.
But he knows that once he gets off a tiny part of him will be left here in this moment, doomed to repeat it all, because the words.
The words.
The words.
They own him now and its all he can do not to turn into liquid and evaporate into the pages.
This book will forever be a part of him.
He's on the tube now.
But all he wants is to survive it.
He sits there, everyday in the third carriage, sweater on, thermos of vegetable soup tucked between his legs.
The journey is relatively quick if not a little inane, repetitive, arduous and hot.
Today he took a book, thought it would break up the mundane, the normal.
He's on the tube now.
The pages are open, the words have rendered him paralysed, the tips of his fingers completely numb, he feels his face flush. The carriage is smaller somehow.
He's on the tube now.
Yes, he's on the tube now but the words have taken him some place else, some place sad or nostalgic or dangerous or ridiculously happy. He doesn't know anymore, the feelings are confused or forgotten. It's not how he got here that's important. It's how not to cry in front of these strangers in their suits and their shoes, holding double shot espressos and iPhones, judgements on the tips of their eyes.
His eyes have blurred, the words shift on the page, impossible now to make sense of the sentences.
He's on the tube now.
But he knows that once he gets off a tiny part of him will be left here in this moment, doomed to repeat it all, because the words.
The words.
The words.
They own him now and its all he can do not to turn into liquid and evaporate into the pages.
This book will forever be a part of him.
He's on the tube now.
But all he wants is to survive it.
Saturday, August 07, 2010
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Dr Maya Angelou and I
I sit down for coffee and wait for Dr Maya Angelou. Somebody has arranged ginger biscuits and peaches on a plate on the table and the scent of summer bleeds into the air. This moment feels like its taken a lifetime to arrive and now that its here I realise the importance of living in the present, making sure I take in all that she says.
She walks in to the room. Immediately I am awestruck. I feel ill, itchy, like I need to escape, pick up and leave. Only problem is that I can't move. I'm frozen to the spot, can't even stand to welcome Dr Angelou, thank her for allowing me these moments. I'm intimidated, embarrassed to be nothing more than myself.
She smiles that broad, delicious smile.
For a moment I forget myself.
I see only her.
My eyes fill with tears. I don't want to cry-she hasn't even spoken yet. She adjusts her necklace, big red and yellow beads, sits down, touches her hair and straightens out her skirt. I still haven't moved.
"Hello Thom." She rasps. Her voice is as rich and filled with as much wisdom as I always imagined.
I manage a smile. I can feel the sweat drip under my arms. She's looking at me. I hope she can't see my nostrils flare. I'm only glad the thoughts inside my head aren't visible. They would fill the room, fast and liquid, drown the both of us.
She's still looking. I know its my turn to speak. She's not trying to make it easier, stuffing the gap with niceties. I respect her even more now. It would be easy to pacify the situation by saying its OK. She's teaching me perseverance and we both know it.
I'm mustering up the courage to speak, the words are boiling up inside of me, travelling through my body, into my throat. I'm about ready to burp them out. I close my eyes and hope for the best.
"Hi Dr Angelou. Thank you for meeting me."
I said something. My body is lighter, the cloudy fog that I created around myself is lifting.
Maya reaches for a ginger biscuit and bites into it. I can hear each crunch, each one louder than the last. I'm comforted by it somehow and I smile. She's caught my smile. She's smiling back.
"I'm so worried about what I might say Dr Angelou that I think its almost safer to remain silent."
She takes a moment, she's breathing deeply now. I think she choosing her words carefully.
This is everything that I need today. I can't stop the tears now. They are streaming down my cheeks. I don't even try to dry my face, I'm just sitting with Maya Angelou, living in the now.
She's right.
If I remember nothing else about today I will at least remember how I feel now.
Dr Maya Angelou has given me that and today it is everything I need.
She walks in to the room. Immediately I am awestruck. I feel ill, itchy, like I need to escape, pick up and leave. Only problem is that I can't move. I'm frozen to the spot, can't even stand to welcome Dr Angelou, thank her for allowing me these moments. I'm intimidated, embarrassed to be nothing more than myself.
She smiles that broad, delicious smile.
For a moment I forget myself.
I see only her.
My eyes fill with tears. I don't want to cry-she hasn't even spoken yet. She adjusts her necklace, big red and yellow beads, sits down, touches her hair and straightens out her skirt. I still haven't moved.
"Hello Thom." She rasps. Her voice is as rich and filled with as much wisdom as I always imagined.
I manage a smile. I can feel the sweat drip under my arms. She's looking at me. I hope she can't see my nostrils flare. I'm only glad the thoughts inside my head aren't visible. They would fill the room, fast and liquid, drown the both of us.
She's still looking. I know its my turn to speak. She's not trying to make it easier, stuffing the gap with niceties. I respect her even more now. It would be easy to pacify the situation by saying its OK. She's teaching me perseverance and we both know it.
I'm mustering up the courage to speak, the words are boiling up inside of me, travelling through my body, into my throat. I'm about ready to burp them out. I close my eyes and hope for the best.
"Hi Dr Angelou. Thank you for meeting me."
I said something. My body is lighter, the cloudy fog that I created around myself is lifting.
Maya reaches for a ginger biscuit and bites into it. I can hear each crunch, each one louder than the last. I'm comforted by it somehow and I smile. She's caught my smile. She's smiling back.
"I'm so worried about what I might say Dr Angelou that I think its almost safer to remain silent."
She takes a moment, she's breathing deeply now. I think she choosing her words carefully.
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."
This is everything that I need today. I can't stop the tears now. They are streaming down my cheeks. I don't even try to dry my face, I'm just sitting with Maya Angelou, living in the now.
She's right.
If I remember nothing else about today I will at least remember how I feel now.
Dr Maya Angelou has given me that and today it is everything I need.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
O!
I just found out Oprah Winfrey is left handed.
I think this explains why I love her so much.
Its at least a factor I suppose.
I think this explains why I love her so much.
Its at least a factor I suppose.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Please forgive all that I could not do
In my darkest moments I worry that I would have only fed the flame, exasperated the situation, made it so much worse. I worry that I would have dismissed all that she felt as some sort of high maintenance nonsense, unimportant self doubt. I worry that I would have laughed in the face of the deep seated fear that buried her.
Moments like that make me ill. I feel nothing but guilt and repulsion, drowning in my own ignorance.
As I slowly recover from a situation that I've created wholly inside my mind I am reminded that I am an empathetic person. Somebody who would comfort, cajole and distract. I would love and listen to all that she had to say and if I had no advice to offer, I would listen some more. She needed somebody who would listen without judgement or motive. Above all else she needed to know that she had that.
I would lie with her and be with her through long nights that she thought would never end. I would brush her hair and make her bagels and cups of tea with lemon. I would run her baths and read her books. I would be all that she didn't have.
And whilst I am relieved by the realisation that I am good, these thoughts do nothing to lift the blues that fill all that I am.
Because she is still gone.
I could not save her.
For that I will never forgive myself.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
My friend, the wordsmith
Katy wrote:
"Your blog is lyrical wizardry. I had no idea -NO IDEA- that whilst we were whimsically battling Rolf Harris anecdotes across the social ping-pong table, you were casually cultivating a writing style that makes my womb seep. Amen sister. Amen."
I'm typing through tears.
This is going to be the quote on the sleeve of my first book, it has to be.
"Your blog is lyrical wizardry. I had no idea -NO IDEA- that whilst we were whimsically battling Rolf Harris anecdotes across the social ping-pong table, you were casually cultivating a writing style that makes my womb seep. Amen sister. Amen."
I'm typing through tears.
This is going to be the quote on the sleeve of my first book, it has to be.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
I've been thinking lately...
...that whilst its good to have money I imagine that having any substantial amount in the 1970s would have been a waste.
From what I've seen I can only assume that everybody was spending their cash on tongue and groove, shag carpetting, polyester suits, teasing combs and acid in between trips to the local Discotheque and time spent sticking it to the man.
Upon reflection I'm sure that all the nouveau riche from the 70s wished that they had put their spare change in a savings account and kept the dough until high end products weren't made entirely of melamine and crotchet.
Just a thought.
From what I've seen I can only assume that everybody was spending their cash on tongue and groove, shag carpetting, polyester suits, teasing combs and acid in between trips to the local Discotheque and time spent sticking it to the man.
Upon reflection I'm sure that all the nouveau riche from the 70s wished that they had put their spare change in a savings account and kept the dough until high end products weren't made entirely of melamine and crotchet.
Just a thought.
Cancer Research Knitwear and all the things that make me warm
Dear Dr Cosby,
Thank you for all that you did and for everything that you created.
Because of you I am warm in the winter and the talk of the town.
Yours gratefully,
Thom
Saturday, June 19, 2010
I love Boxie
I wear mine with pride, safe in the knowledge that Jackie Kennedy Onassis knows everything that I need her to know. Our love is real, I'm sure of it.
The beautiful girl with pixie short hair models it delightfully and if I'm honest her green denim jacket fills me with nothing but envy.
The story behind the T-Shirt can be viewed here.
www.thomatronics.com-where history is made.
I'm considering sticking this on my mirror....
....a regular affirmation to keep me from crying into my Ready Brek each morning.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Writings for Popshot perhaps
.....If this is modern living
then I don't want that
I'd rather live in yesterday
or Monday even.
then I don't want that
I'd rather live in yesterday
or Monday even.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
On a Wing(er) and a prayer.
I read Debra Winger's book 'Undiscovered' today. Front to back, just let the words penetrate my mind, become what I tried so hard to say.
I didn't like Debra before and now she is so unrecognisable as the person I thought she was that I feel guilty, embarrassed by my ignorance of her. I almost let snap judgements rob me of a chance to understand all that she is. I will be forever grateful that I didn't.
'Disappointment is a misplaced hope. But bitterness will kill you.'
I could hardly breathe as I read the words. I felt each and every one stab my skin, tattooing themselves on my very being.
Bitterness will kill you. Its all I could do not to tear the page out and physically eat the paper.
Bitterness will kill you.
Words to live by. Perhaps something to consider today.
I didn't like Debra before and now she is so unrecognisable as the person I thought she was that I feel guilty, embarrassed by my ignorance of her. I almost let snap judgements rob me of a chance to understand all that she is. I will be forever grateful that I didn't.
'Disappointment is a misplaced hope. But bitterness will kill you.'
I could hardly breathe as I read the words. I felt each and every one stab my skin, tattooing themselves on my very being.
Bitterness will kill you. Its all I could do not to tear the page out and physically eat the paper.
Bitterness will kill you.
Words to live by. Perhaps something to consider today.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Baby Kenwood
I've been trying to write today. I've been unsuccessful. Everytime I go to type I get distracted and end up sitting in front of the telly with a bag of liquorice watching the last scene of 'The way we were' over and over and over, tears in my eyes, lips moving in time to the words that are now forever etched in my mind. ('You're girl is lovely Hubbell.' She sure is Katie, but she'll never be you.)
As much as I love that film, and believe me, I do love that film, I can't help but think that my time could be better spent. Its Sunday, I had no plans. I should be writing towards my future. My Dad's words from my childhood-'You're letting nobody down but yourself'-are swirling around my head. And I know they're right. Even my new espadrilles can't distract me from the gaping hole of unfulfilment that is slowly taking over the inside of my body. I swear soon I'll just be a voice without a body.
'Think of all I could have done' I'll be shouting to myself or at least to the empty area where myself used to be.
I read a quote in O Magazine yesterday. It was from an interview with 90s Rock/Pop Queen Sheryl Crow and she was talking about the adoption of her son.
'...When I let go of what I thought my life was supposed to look like, Wyatt found his way in.'
Whilst I'm happy that Sheryl had such a grand epiphany and her life is now everything she subconsciously knew it could be, I can't not wish that it was that easy for me. That I too could sit in my plush, eco-friendly house on the beach, paid for with 'All I wanna do is have some fun' money, rooting through Susan Jeffers and Dr Phil self help books and suddenly realising that once I let go of all my unrealistic expectations of my future, a child, who may or may not have a name that sounds suspiciously like an electrical appliance, will drop into my living room and we'll live happily ever after.
Of course in my case, baby Kenwood Food Processor would be a career in writing or film-making and not an actual baby (I dont know much about my future but I know a screaming baby does not feature.)
So please Katie/Hubbell/Oprah/Sheryl/Kenwood-send me a sign, let me know that the expectations (that I have now officially let go of!) are not merely dillusions.
Let there be light.
As much as I love that film, and believe me, I do love that film, I can't help but think that my time could be better spent. Its Sunday, I had no plans. I should be writing towards my future. My Dad's words from my childhood-'You're letting nobody down but yourself'-are swirling around my head. And I know they're right. Even my new espadrilles can't distract me from the gaping hole of unfulfilment that is slowly taking over the inside of my body. I swear soon I'll just be a voice without a body.
'Think of all I could have done' I'll be shouting to myself or at least to the empty area where myself used to be.
I read a quote in O Magazine yesterday. It was from an interview with 90s Rock/Pop Queen Sheryl Crow and she was talking about the adoption of her son.
'...When I let go of what I thought my life was supposed to look like, Wyatt found his way in.'
Whilst I'm happy that Sheryl had such a grand epiphany and her life is now everything she subconsciously knew it could be, I can't not wish that it was that easy for me. That I too could sit in my plush, eco-friendly house on the beach, paid for with 'All I wanna do is have some fun' money, rooting through Susan Jeffers and Dr Phil self help books and suddenly realising that once I let go of all my unrealistic expectations of my future, a child, who may or may not have a name that sounds suspiciously like an electrical appliance, will drop into my living room and we'll live happily ever after.
Of course in my case, baby Kenwood Food Processor would be a career in writing or film-making and not an actual baby (I dont know much about my future but I know a screaming baby does not feature.)
So please Katie/Hubbell/Oprah/Sheryl/Kenwood-send me a sign, let me know that the expectations (that I have now officially let go of!) are not merely dillusions.
Let there be light.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Things that make me feel safe.
I like to know that you know me.
I'm comforted by that fact.
It keeps me warm.
I'm comforted by that fact.
It keeps me warm.
I can remember what you said.
I hope you feel better.
I feel fucking lousy.
My hair wont go right and I bet you're laughing right now
or drinking a coffee and thinking about how much
better.
you.
feel.
I think you should get fucking lost.
I feel fucking lousy.
My hair wont go right and I bet you're laughing right now
or drinking a coffee and thinking about how much
better.
you.
feel.
I think you should get fucking lost.
All the things I see, all the things I hope for.
I never knew what it felt like to want every moment between us to move faster than they do,
to want each now to be a now we experience together,
to feel that time apart is wasted time.
Moments without you make me wish I was even one step closer to where you are.
.....I never knew until you.
to want each now to be a now we experience together,
to feel that time apart is wasted time.
Moments without you make me wish I was even one step closer to where you are.
.....I never knew until you.
All I really wanted.
'If I fuck you I'll have to stay' he said whilst buttoning up the final button on his jeans and reaching for his jacket.
'And if I stay I may never leave.'
He zipped up his jacket and took a gulp from a glass of water on a cabinet next to a stack of old magazines.
'And if this cycle starts up again I may never get to see Paris.'
'I'm not ready to be a victim.'
'And if I stay I may never leave.'
He zipped up his jacket and took a gulp from a glass of water on a cabinet next to a stack of old magazines.
'And if this cycle starts up again I may never get to see Paris.'
'I'm not ready to be a victim.'
Stay because you'd die without me.
'Why dont you want me to go?' you said.
I stumbled for words, trying hard to find what it was I needed to say.
'I dont want you to go because I want you to stay' I said.
I was embarrassed by my lack of eloquence and I felt my cheeks flush.
I hoped you'd look passed my inability to explain what I felt and understand what it was I wanted you to hear.
You did your shoelaces up and sat back on the sofa. I signed a cheque for the bank and took a bite of my sandwich.
Life seemed uncertain then.
I stumbled for words, trying hard to find what it was I needed to say.
'I dont want you to go because I want you to stay' I said.
I was embarrassed by my lack of eloquence and I felt my cheeks flush.
I hoped you'd look passed my inability to explain what I felt and understand what it was I wanted you to hear.
You did your shoelaces up and sat back on the sofa. I signed a cheque for the bank and took a bite of my sandwich.
Life seemed uncertain then.
See me.
'Sex isn't all I see in you' I said.
'But you do give fucking fantastic head.'
You smiled an awkward kind of smile but I could tell that I'd hurt your feelings. I wanted to move on but my comment lingered in the air like perfume and your eyes said all that you hadn't. It was impossible to ignore the upset I'd caused.
'I just wanted to make you laugh' I said.
'You made me feel like a prick' you said.
'But I just wanted to make you laugh' I said again.
There was silence and I fought the urge to fill it with a joke.
You poured some more wine into your glass and did the zip up on your jacket.
I scratched my head and looked out the window. A man and a woman sat on a bench by the park. It was cold and they wore hats and scarves. The woman linked arms with the man and tucked her hand in his pocket.
For a moment I forgot about you.
'I just hope this is something' you said.
I blinked a few times because I didn't know what to say.
'But you do give fucking fantastic head.'
You smiled an awkward kind of smile but I could tell that I'd hurt your feelings. I wanted to move on but my comment lingered in the air like perfume and your eyes said all that you hadn't. It was impossible to ignore the upset I'd caused.
'I just wanted to make you laugh' I said.
'You made me feel like a prick' you said.
'But I just wanted to make you laugh' I said again.
There was silence and I fought the urge to fill it with a joke.
You poured some more wine into your glass and did the zip up on your jacket.
I scratched my head and looked out the window. A man and a woman sat on a bench by the park. It was cold and they wore hats and scarves. The woman linked arms with the man and tucked her hand in his pocket.
For a moment I forgot about you.
'I just hope this is something' you said.
I blinked a few times because I didn't know what to say.
Monday, June 07, 2010
All that she is.
He always felt that Jackie O would have loved him if they had met. He would dedicate notebooks to her and if he saw something funny on the TV he would write it down thinking that her spirit would somehow absorb the words-a feeble attempt at a connection. He finally came to accept that their love story wasn't meant to happen when he saw footage of her holidaying in Capri, roman sandals in hand, sand at her feet.
He saw colours differently from then on, everything seemed grey.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Premiere Delight
I had a Premiere to celebrate my film. It was a triumph. The glitterati of town came out to support me and the film went down astonishingly well. There were laughs in the right places, sighs in the right places. I think I heard HRH Queen Elizabeth II sobbing during Breakfast at Tiffany's. I never could have hoped for more. My eyes filled with tears, I took to the floor and thanked the crowd from the bottom of my heart. A star was born that night, and he wore Clark Kent spectacles.
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