Facebook is a bitch. I'm on it all the time and it drives me crazy. I haven't written on here in ages as thoughts have become a simple 'status update'. No structure, no soul, just my name followed by an empty adjective.
I'm in Paris. It's been nearly three years. I'm itchy, as ever. I should be making the most of my talents, I know, but I'm confused and scared. What are my talents, for chrissakes. And how does one make a career out of them?
I love my boyfriend. Waking up to him every day is incredible. My heart is stimulated but my head is lagging. I'm worried my brain is going grey, fading, almost gone. I have the attention span of a....sorry, what was I saying? Interests are piqued and then dropped and roll under the bed, lost.
It's warm here, summer. I've spent the weekend watching 'Grey's Anatomy'. It reminds me of years ago, when I was a fan of 'Dawson's Creek', and how everything was open and possible. I find myself watching Grey's and thinking how sad, how very unfortunate, that I've missed out on so many possibilities. I don't want to be a doctor, sure, but what about the acting thing, the study, the thirst for knowing, learning. All under the bed, collecting dust and fur balls.
I'd like to know the secret to discipline. Does anyone have it? Tell me. Please.
Sunday, 12 July 2009
Tuesday, 18 November 2008
Thursday, 9 October 2008
Wednesday, 8 October 2008
Sawdust
A while ago, I started this blog. I wrote. And then I dribbled zigzags.
How bland and horrid my most recent posts are. Like I shit out my creativity and then didn't wash my hands. I wasted so many words on blandness. Toast with no butter, no spread, just toast. Gritty against the roof of the mouth. So boring, it makes boring look interesting.
I won't do it again. I might. We'll see.
How bland and horrid my most recent posts are. Like I shit out my creativity and then didn't wash my hands. I wasted so many words on blandness. Toast with no butter, no spread, just toast. Gritty against the roof of the mouth. So boring, it makes boring look interesting.
I won't do it again. I might. We'll see.
Fouchon is white with black and white whiskers and a grey stripe or two
I was thinking that I haven't written on here in an age and that I finally felt like writing something when the doubt emerged. It said that there wasn't any point in writing something on my blog because I let it go for so long that it has no meaning anymore. Then it said I don't have the time. This got me thinking about time, and about apparently not having any. It's a bit crap, really, this idea that we don't have time even though we live and breathe and die and are born again by it. Imagine a life without clocks, without tick-tocks...what would that be like? How funny that we 'have' time, as if we own it, as if it is ours to use up...to spend.
I spent 40 euro today on an hour with Fiona. She is a woman I talk to. Walking home afterwards, I felt normal for at least three minutes (at most, six). It was incredibly lovely. Normal tastes like sunshine. Clear and happy. I envy those who feel it often. I even envy those who feel it at all. Not envy in an angry way, I'm not angry that others have it and I don't. I just think about it, how normal is so abnormal for some people.
I miss my boyfriend. It's as though I have no shadow, no supporting force. I am without the very real sense that I am in within the radiance of his presence. Five sleepless sleeps until he gets back to Paris. Monday, I want you.
Our cat purrs and it makes me smile from the inside. Such a little fluff-ball of positive energy, so at peace with living. The French verb for 'purr' is 'ronronner'. I like this better. And who cares if my black clothes are now speckled with grey and white? Our cat, the fashion designer.
I spent 40 euro today on an hour with Fiona. She is a woman I talk to. Walking home afterwards, I felt normal for at least three minutes (at most, six). It was incredibly lovely. Normal tastes like sunshine. Clear and happy. I envy those who feel it often. I even envy those who feel it at all. Not envy in an angry way, I'm not angry that others have it and I don't. I just think about it, how normal is so abnormal for some people.
I miss my boyfriend. It's as though I have no shadow, no supporting force. I am without the very real sense that I am in within the radiance of his presence. Five sleepless sleeps until he gets back to Paris. Monday, I want you.
Our cat purrs and it makes me smile from the inside. Such a little fluff-ball of positive energy, so at peace with living. The French verb for 'purr' is 'ronronner'. I like this better. And who cares if my black clothes are now speckled with grey and white? Our cat, the fashion designer.
Sunday, 27 July 2008
A picnic.
On the river Seine. The clouds were pinky-purple behind the Eiffel Tower. Lot's of people. Summer in Paris.
Rendezvoused with J and Q, my entirely gay friends, at the big and welcoming bridge called Pont Neuf. They brought along another friend and also a couple who had just arrived from Australia. Discussing jobs, I learn that the Aussie bloke plays guitar for a popular band. I used to listen to this band when I was a kid, hoping desperately that it would make me cool and normal and like everyone else. It didn't, of course. And this is possibly why the group continues to be successful.
We all ate tomatoes and eggs and blue stinky cheese and drank wine and Perrier and spoke broken French and English. Danced to a brass band. It started raining. I took the metro home.
Climbed up the six flights of stairs to an open door, my boyfriend and our cat. Sleep.
I snored (apparently).
Rendezvoused with J and Q, my entirely gay friends, at the big and welcoming bridge called Pont Neuf. They brought along another friend and also a couple who had just arrived from Australia. Discussing jobs, I learn that the Aussie bloke plays guitar for a popular band. I used to listen to this band when I was a kid, hoping desperately that it would make me cool and normal and like everyone else. It didn't, of course. And this is possibly why the group continues to be successful.
We all ate tomatoes and eggs and blue stinky cheese and drank wine and Perrier and spoke broken French and English. Danced to a brass band. It started raining. I took the metro home.
Climbed up the six flights of stairs to an open door, my boyfriend and our cat. Sleep.
I snored (apparently).
Sunday, 18 May 2008
pee oh ee em
O Could One Write as One Makes Love
O could one write as one makes love
when all is given and nothing kept,
then language might put by at last
its coy elisions and inept
withdrawals, yield, and yielding cast
aside like useless clothes the crust
of worn and shabby use, and trust
its candour to the urgent mind,
its beauty to the searching tongue.
Safe in the world's great house with all
its loves and griefs, at ease among
its earthly fruits, original
as earth and air, the body learns
peace, while the mind in torment burns
to strip the cloak of daily use
from language. Could one seize and move
the stubborn words to yield and sing,
then one would write as one makes love
and poems and revelations spring
like children from the mind's desire,
original as light and fire.
-- Gwen Harwood
O could one write as one makes love
when all is given and nothing kept,
then language might put by at last
its coy elisions and inept
withdrawals, yield, and yielding cast
aside like useless clothes the crust
of worn and shabby use, and trust
its candour to the urgent mind,
its beauty to the searching tongue.
Safe in the world's great house with all
its loves and griefs, at ease among
its earthly fruits, original
as earth and air, the body learns
peace, while the mind in torment burns
to strip the cloak of daily use
from language. Could one seize and move
the stubborn words to yield and sing,
then one would write as one makes love
and poems and revelations spring
like children from the mind's desire,
original as light and fire.
-- Gwen Harwood
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