Friday, 22 March 2013


I stretch and I stink and the day has got to go somewhere, it's been a while since writing, so how about here? Are the words a bike you can ride upon or are the words more like a foreign tongue from a cobbled town you left a while and have forgotten how to stand in the baker and ask for a loaf? I hope they are one and I fear they're the other, but I guess the bottom of the barrel is for neverminds because whether one or the other, it matters not, all we've got is that sooner or later you need to come back to this proud horse and find your stirrup feet, your trot.

Today I'm going to buy red roses and scatter the petals in the snow, or at least geraniums, because we are money poor and time rich and we laugh at the people who made the other trade. Today I am going to shop in the market for outcrops of vegetables, for vine leaves to wrap around squidgy, nutty rice, for pillows of Turkish bread dappled with black cumin, for dinner. Never mind the snow that is still all over the ground, never mind the frozen canal.

We are sober and it is day, and this is a wonder of small proportions, but look! A notebook, a black ink pen, a hot shower, a limp daffodil. A day, a morning, tired yoga legs, who would have guessed? The kitchen is full of broken mussel shells from yesterday's feasts. The bed is full of sleeping boy. I have a tabletop and I am good with this, I have decided, I am up and fine. Hot coffee headphones heartlight and happiness. Loud loud music, straight down the ear canal.

I say I am fine but also I am furious at the everlasting snowfall. Where is my dandelion clock picnic, my avocado breakfast, why are our feet still sliding? At the laptop, distractions float to the surface like white froth in a wide lake and I turn my head because I have been Cassandra, that girl, always trying to predict what the future has got to hold and seeing the world laugh and turn until finally I lose my mind twenty thousand comments under the sea.

I have not read the news so far this year and things are better because, I am unashamed to admit, the world is too vast and unwieldy and full of broken saucers I have no glue to mend. Full of night terrors I lack the alarms to wake from and full of smug and full of shit, and when did we decide it was better to spend the day holding a magnifying glass to curdled scum, trying to get it to smoke and go bang? If you are sitting at the umpire chair looking out and judging the screeds that unfurl, I salute you from the spot I am floating, deep out to sea. Perhaps one day you will need to come out and rescue me with a bright red plastic ring, but right now I can't bear it, right now I am fine.

I wonder if we all gave up the news for encyclopedias from days of yore, maybe we'd all believe that our future was in formica and the surface of Mars, spaceships, white undulating surfaces, robots, love. I wonder if we could trick ourselves to believe in all the kinds of future off-space and in-sky, I wonder if we'd believe we didn't need it, I wonder if we could be not scared and just grinning, I wonder if the atom bomb has to be real.

Of course, you know me, I am besotted by apocalyptic futures and space monkeys and stars that you stare at in far far distances, stars you want that you wish upon but the light has taken so long to travel that they're already dead.

Last week was the long night of museums here and I wanted to go to the observatory but it got too late and the stars all gave up and went to bed. I'm going to look at that now because there is nothing else I can think of to rip us out of this forever winter than the chaos of hot stars in cold space as seen through a pretty telescope in a field surrounded by statues of Russians. You think about drifting and it is the air that is cold, but the thing you are going towards, the bright light suspended in the dark endless factory roomthat thing is pure white heat.

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