Ode to albatrosses

Without the pomp and without the fanfare,
I say goodbye with only a kiss.
Without the cries of "you're going nowhere!"
I just pray that I will be missed.
Without the tears and without the sorrow,
I stand alone as I wait to depart.
Without "we'll miss you"s and without the goodbye's,
The only sorrow is within my heart.

Labels: Poetic licence

Her voice is tired, husky and dry. Her hair shows the remnants of styling, but has been mussed up and is now messy across her face. The bed she sits upon is a wreck; sheets twisted and tangled together, the pillows pushed right up against the wall.

She stands, crosses the room, walking over her own clothes as she does so. Looks in the mirror. Makeup smudged, eyes dark with mascara and eyeliner. And for a while, she doesn’t move. She just stands as if mesmerised. Trying to work out whether she’s happy or sad, trying to work out why it doesn’t hurt more. Trying to work out why all she feels is a quiet euphoria, a sleepy contentedness that creeps up from her toes and through her limbs like a dull fire.

Maybe it should hurt more. Maybe it should make her cry. Maybe she should be sitting realising how much she can’t have. But maybe it’s enough to know that she has had it for a while. Maybe it’s enough to get on with being for a while, and forget about the falling.

She drifts. It isn’t that this moment is exceptional; it isn’t that it hurts more than everything else; it’s just that it seems to sum everything else up. Standing staring at a reflection is hard when you realise that you aren’t just facing a façade, you’re facing yourself. And knowing what’s going on inside your head to give you that expression is like staring into the ocean and suddenly being able to count every fish beneath the surface.

She isn’t happy or sad. She hasn’t been hurt, and she hasn’t felt the need to cry. She’s had happiness, and just because it isn’t there anymore, that doesn’t mean that she’s suddenly going to realise that the loss is any bigger than before, it’s there, it hasn’t changed, how can it be different?

She grimly smiles at her reflection, wipes the makeup from beneath her eyes, and runs her fingers through her hair. It will happen again, and there will be the same recognition. There will be the same joy, and the same pain. Things repeat themselves, and all we can do is work out each time whether it was good it was repeated, or if we wish to avoid it again in future. And each time, we have to work this out for ourselves. Because people will think they know what’s best, people will make their own judgements, people will tell you what they think, and it will make sense.

But the girl who stares in the mirror is the one with the view of the fish. We can stand next to her and stare at the sea, but we’ll only see the breakers and seagulls, she sees what lies beneath. Only she can tell you what’s in her heart.

Labels: Falling, Mistakes, Poetic licence, Theatrics

Yesterday I took a trip down memory lane. We went to North Shields, and while there decided to take a trip past our old fortune cookie factory. I remember the place being dark, cold, and metallic, but now it’s simply dilapidated. I couldn’t believe it. There was actually a big sign on it that said “Warning Fragile Roof”.

It’s been nearly fifteen years since I was there. The last memory I have is of being perched on a cold metal surface by my mom and watching as her, my dad and a whole load of workers bustled around in white jackets and those horrible catering hats where you have hair nets attached. The whole concept intrigued me. You started off with some flour and whatever else, and fed it all through a whole load of mixers and other scary machines, and then you came out with cookies.

But I had my job. I looked after my sister as she slept in her portable plastic cot. She was an adorable kid, and they really did need someone to look after her. I remember the time when I’d been sleeping in the car and woke up to find dad frantically searching the factory while my mom stood by the door to the office saying, “I just don’t know where I put her. I was so sure that she was on the desk here.”

The factory was the reason I was sent to live with my Gran. It wasn’t a good place to bring up a child, and my mom and dad ran it together, my mom would have made a pretty crap housewife anyway. So my Gran took me. She couldn’t take my brother on top of that, he was six years older than me, and it would have been too much for a seventy year old woman to cope with.

My gran had a stroke just before my sister was born. She still looked after me, but couldn’t take my sister as well. I went home at weekends, and started to notice the difference between being at home and being with my gran. I adored living with Gran. You should have heard my bawl every Friday afternoon when my dad came to pick me up and take me home. But I also felt incredibly left out. My brother and sister were so close, and though home wasn’t a happy or calm place to be, I still felt like they couldn’t love me if they sent me away every Sunday night. The logical reasoning behind it was lost on my three year old ears.

I got to move back home again when things started to go wrong. My gran had a heart attack, the company van pretty much exploded, and due to a series of unfortunate events the once thriving business ended up bankrupt. Mom became a housewife just long enough to decide she didn’t enjoy it, and divorced my father.

I remember that conversation vividly. Dad sat down with me, my sister, and my brother in the kitchen. I was rocking on the back of the wooden chair, and he told me to stop, we had to talk. It all sounded so serious when he told us that mum was moving to New York without us, and that the four of us were going to move house, move somewhere else, start over.

If you were to ask me when I was happiest, I’ll tell you with certainty that it was the year after my sixth birthday. My mom had just left, we’d moved to the best house in the world, it had a huge garden and the back gate opened up to a gorgeous hillside, a stream, and basically a huge public woods that as kids we explored and made our own. It was a new school, and everything seemed to be working out.

My dad went back to art. He’d become disillusioned with the field nearly twenty years before when exposed to the politics and the “if you rub my back” attitude behind the scenes. He gave up what was published to be a “promising talent” and went to seek his fortunes in the states. Where he met my mom. And finally moving back home when my brother was three.

In the new house we were living as a family finally. My mom wasn’t there, but she made home a battle field whenever she was around. When she was there it wasn’t home, it was just painful.

A few years later things fell apart a bit again. I don’t know if it’s just that I stopped being such a child, and started to realise what was going on around me. Or maybe things started to get old, my dad started to get tired, and the house with its many wonderful mysteries and oddities, became mundane. Whatever it was, I started to realise that my dad was unhappy, my brother is scarred, and my sister is who she is. She’s superficial, and completely insecure.

And now we’re where we are now. My dad’s even more disillusioned with art, and pretty much despises the fact that he relies on it for an income. I now understand why my scars are there. I know the reason for my cynicism, and I understand why I find it so hard to trust love. It’s all so far from the fuzzy memories of being chased round the factory by my brother. It’s a long way from standing in the garden with mum and waving our van goodbye. And its far from Floppsie the Bunny and playing hide and seek in the grave yard while dad painted the church.

I grew up a little; I learnt that life wasn’t like those cut out moments. And I learnt that grown ups are sometimes less adult than their children. Going to the factory brought back many memories I’d forgotten, and it was sad to see the place I only remember as full of life, to be so dead and decrepit. But they’re just memories. And they’re long gone.

I’m scared. I’ve got to go out there and be an adult. I’ve got to forget someone I love, and I’ve got to give up a comfortable home and life style, to have cooking disasters, wake myself up in the mornings, and stop relying on other people. And it’s made me retrospective. I’m spending my hours thinking of the past with a certain amount of nostalgia, and even though a lot of it isn’t that great, writing it all down frees me to look forward to the future, while still having something that is a firm reminder of how I got here.

Labels: dynasty, Flying, Past tense, Poetic licence

Apparently Blog Reviews have rated my blog "top of all blogs". I have to admit, when I received the random stars in my comments on my Dating Requirements, I was slightly at a loss as to what they meant. Oh well, as I am never one to dwell upon the reasons for praise, and am more the type to grab the compliment and run off in the opposite direction in case they change their mind, I shall move on.

I’m getting rid of the disorder. It’s hard, but to leave I’ve got to leave properly. I refuse to leave unfinished thoughts behind. I guess I will have to include Him in this. To move past him I’ve got to give him up properly. When we broke up it wasn’t final, when I last saw him it wasn’t final, and right now it’s just an unwanted headache.

But he isn’t the only thing to go. My words, precious stanzas depicting heart break, love, joy, and misery all met the open jaws of my rubbish bin last night. I watched them go. Falling, disconsolately, into the open abyss that is the bin which never seems to overflow. And I could not help but shed a few tears.

Writing is the lover that never leaves me lonely and cold in the night. The pages upon pages of my words are the comfort blanket that no one can tell me I’m too old to have anymore. And, as I watch them fall away, finally leaving me, I catch snatches of conversations, memories, my own thoughts lifted from their place in my brain, and etched onto paper.

I come across a simple stanza:
“I’ll go wherever you want to take me,
I’ll do whatever you want to do,
I’ll smile and tell you I’m happy,
I’m happiest when I’m with you.”

And then the tears really fall. They somersault through the air, tumbling onto and smudging the words I have condemned to silence. These words are the key to my soul. They give expression to a girl whose heart is locked in stone. And they remind her of all she has lost.

They are not the prose I save onto my computer. These are not those that I wish to whore out to publishers in the hope of a more comfortable home, and a more pleasant bank statement. These are the words that I don’t dare let others read. The ones that whisper secrets, feelings, lost memories of childhood. These are the ones that cause the most pain.

I watch them go with regret. It is the same regret I feel whenever I watch someone walk out of my life knowing it will be too long before they return. But at their demise there is also a feeling of hope. Hope that new words will come to replace them. Hope that leaving them behind will allow me to painlessly get on with the future.

Labels: Flying, Poetic licence

“Harriet, don’t be a gold digger!”

“I’m not being a gold digger, really.” I promised, “It’s just, well, I’m broke, and sometimes, it’s just nice to have things bought for you. You know?”

“Okay, fine, so what? You want to marry someone rich and famous?” she asked.

I shook my head and sighed, then pressed the phone back to my ear. “No. Rich, yeah, but not famous.”

“What??” she squealed out of the receiver, “What’s wrong with famous?”

“Well if he’s famous, and I marry him, if I later become famous myself, no matter how many merits I have, and how hard I’ve worked, it’ll all just seem like reflected glory. Every woman who has married someone and then became famous just fizzles out. No one fully believes that they’ve actually done it on their own. I want to become who I will for me, and not because of my husband, my family, or anyone else.”

“I guess. I just want to be famous. I don’t care how I got there.”

“Ah. So what do you want to be famous for?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve always thought that I would write a book.”

Everyone thinks that. Eventually they’ll write a book. And I’m curious, why don’t you? What is it that’s stopping you from sitting down in front of the keyboard and starting to type the words that are floating around in your heads, just waiting for you to unleash them onto the paper? Everyone has a different reason, and I genuinely want to know. I think there might even be a book in it. The millions of potential writers, the stories, and the things that stop them from writing.

I’ll write a book. The truth is I’ll write many. But I can’t right now. She told me to write it. Told me to stop writing pages upon pages, only to get frustrated and just delete it all. Told me to get the extra money before uni- I’ll need it. But I won’t. She doesn’t write hers because writing is hard, and writing that much requires endurance. I don’t have that problem. I’m a more than prolific writer, and really am happy to sit there for hours on end and come up with a few hundred pages.

Or, at least, I used to be. When I was fifteen I was a better writer than I am now. I had a marginally smaller vocabulary, and far fewer real experiences to write down, but an immense imagination and a will. Recently life has got in the way. I’ve tried and tried, but every time I sit down I write variations of the same thing. The same tale, and it’s nearly enough for a three page short story.

My favourite author is Stephen King. Mostly, I can’t read his books. I enjoyed Carrie, and The Shawshank Redemption, but generally I’m not especially enamoured with the horror genre as a whole. So how come he’s my favourite author? His memoir, and guide to writing, On Writing. My problem with most Stephen King books is not the writing itself, it is the warped imagination behind it. But he does have the imagination. He has an enormous imagination, and that’s why his books sell. He can write about anything, and he’s prolific. I don’t have the imagination. I lost some of my imagination. We always do, if we could combine the extensive originality and imagination of youth, with a decent writing style and vocabulary that is acquired with training and time, then truly we’d make wonderful authors. But three year olds don’t write books, and I guess as an adult (sort of) I don’t either.

Labels: Introspection, Past tense, Poetic licence

We hid behind the sofa when they were screaming at each other. We had these plastic guns, and we’d aim them at them. Whenever they shouted too loud, made us scared, we’d pretend that we’d shot them and they weren’t there anymore. We’d pretend that they just disappeared. That we were the only ones there, and that we were going to look after ourselves.

They were always screaming, always at each other’s throats. I once measured the time that there was calm, between fights. We got to thirty four minutes. There was just always something. She accused him of taking something of hers, said that he had to have moved it because it wasn’t where she’d left it and she hadn’t touched it. He got pissed off when he came home at eight o clock and found that she hadn’t made dinner for anyone and there were three whiny, hungry children. It was marriage, but it lacked happiness or harmony.

They got married initially because she got pregnant with my brother. They stayed married because she had me and my sister. They got divorced when she realised that she wanted to be single again, had enough of marriage and children, and wanted to move back to the states. So Dad got custody, mom got her life back, and we got a reasonably happy life. Cue end credits here.

Except not quite. She visited the second year after she left. She brought back weird fish and encouraged us to eat the eyes; she gave us presents, and took us to China town to eat noodles and sorbet. We got jewellery and giggled when she showed us photos of her boyfriend, and then later shyly spoke to him on the phone. My brother taunted me for liking her boyfriend too much when I spoke to him, made me feel guilty, told me I should just go and live with them and make his life happier. I ran crying to my room and refused to talk to him when he next called her up.

It was eight years before her next visit. I was fifteen and embarrassed by this short, loud woman who tried to charm my friends. I sat awkwardly through “The Talk” that I’d already had about eight years earlier with my dad, and listened when she told me about the evangelical Christian semi-cult that she had got involved in. We heard tales of her various boyfriends and of her friend who’s children all go to Harvard, Yale, or are in the Olympics. We got an over-sized “I love NY” t-shirt, and more arguments between her and dad. She tried to poison us with stories of how much of a bastard our father is, and generally rubbed my grandfather up the wrong way.

And she phoned up. My sister picks up, “Can I speak to Harriet?” This is an anomaly; in the past ten years I have not known her to be interested in speaking to me over my sister even once. I understand completely that I’m totally hung up and believe that she loves my sister more than me. But really, it hasn’t ever happened before, except maybe on my birthday.

She’s coming over. She needed the dates of when exactly I’ll actually be at home this summer (a measly period of three weeks) so she can decide when to book her flight. I’ve known for a week now, and I haven’t discussed it with anyone. I didn’t even mention it on the phone to my brother. I don’t know what to say. I’m pleased that she’s coming, but there’s so much other shit that we have to deal with when she does. And I’m the only one who’s pleased. Everyone else just doesn’t want her here. Which makes things awkward. I can’t argue her case because what else can I say other than, “she’s my mother”? Apparently that just isn’t good enough a reason for her to visit.

I’m not even sure how much I want her to be here. I don’t want my dad to turn into that argumentative asshole he becomes. I don’t want to be faced with just how many flaws she really does have, but aren’t as noticeable down the phone. And I don’t want to confront my own insecurities, all the old hang ups that make me special in that horribly messed up way.

But a girl needs a mother. I don’t need her to do the mothering anymore. I don’t need her to stand in front of me and protect me from the world. I don’t need her to make my meals or comfort me when I’m scared. I’m past that. But I need to make peace. I need to know that for her flaws, and for mine, we love each other enough to be okay. Before I can fully accept myself, I need to accept the woman that made me this way, and I need to accept her without hating her for it.

Labels: Demons, dynasty, Past tense, Poetic licence

The music fills my ears, my brain, as a smile comes to my face, my eyes, as I spin. I spin with the breeze, my arms open wide, head thrown back, looking up to the heavens. The sun streams in through the window bathing my in a warm honey glow. I feel like an angel, a goddess, I feel like I could fly.

My bangles clatter round my wrists. Only my toes touch the floor as I pirouette, my long skirt spinning with me. My scarf whips in the breeze as my hair flies back from my face, curly tendrils falling everywhere.

When I was little we used to play a game. If the sky was pretty and the grass was dry, we’d go outside. We'd dance in the garden, climb the trees, and then when we were done we’d spin. We’d spin to celebrate the beauty of the day and the joy in our dancing. We’d spin until our heads spun with us, till our skirts tangled at out knees, and until we fell down and could spin no more.

It’s the same child-like joy that I derive from making snow angels. Throwing myself back into the snow with abandon. It’s the joy only a combination of a beautiful mood and gorgeous weather can bring. It’s a pure, unadulterated love of life. An acceptance that what is to come, will, and what is past can no longer hurt me.

And so I dance with the windows open wide and the smell of summer saturating my thoughts. The sun, the heat, and the breeze filling me with a feeling of content that neither love nor alcohol will ever bring.

Eventually I’ll fall. My head will pound, and I’ll spin no more. But that will not happen today. And when it finally does happen, I’ll be fine because I know that one day, somewhere, I’ll dance again.

Labels: Flying, Poetic licence

When I was really young my gran gave me a jewellery box. It was a sort of strange purple colour, but pretty. When I opened it there was a ballerina that popped up from a spring at the back, and she’d twirl to a twanging xylophone type music that sounded maudlin at best. You couldn’t see her features, the box wasn’t expensively made and I’m guessing they just couldn’t find a paint brush that was small enough to do justice to her features. I always imagined that she’d be crying though. I know that if I had my feet glued to a spring and had to dance every time such sad music came on, I’d cry.

I knew that she was beautiful too though. The music had a slightly ethereal quality to it, and for music like that you can only envisage the figure to be like Liv Tyler in Lord of the Rings; ghostly, but beautiful too. She’d have her hair whipping in the wind, face looking steadily into the distance, searching for something, maybe happiness. I had a dream of her too. I dreamt that one day she found her feet free, she could escape, lifting the lid of the box silently and running away into the dark to go and find what she’d spent so long looking for in the horizon. One day the box broke. The music just stopped playing, she stopped her faceless twirling, and while there was still the little plastic figure in a tutu there, I felt that its soul had fled. I kept the box for years and years longer than I really should have. It was broken, and started to get tatty. But I couldn’t throw it out, even with her soul gone; it felt like I was somehow not honouring her memory. A child can dream.

We’re all looking for something. We’re waiting for our princes to find us, for the time that it would be right to escape into the sunset; we’re hoping to find ourselves. And, over time, we find what we’re looking for. We get our chance to run, we escape, experience new places and people. We taste new cultures, and look in wonder at the beauty of everything we experience. We meet many princes in our travels, and realise that just because they’re princes, they aren’t always as wonderful as we first believe. And sometimes, they’re even better than we first suspected. We grow, gain knowledge, and one day realise that we are the person we were waiting, trying, to become. We learn wisdom, and we learn how little it is that we know.

Lots of people have helped me become who I am. And at least twice that will help me become better in future. My gran gave me everything that is good about me, and my mom taught me tolerance. My sister taught me that it’s easy to be duped and about ruthlessness. She also taught me the fragility behind even the hardest, strongest façade. My dad taught me the most probably. He taught me that creativity doesn’t equal riches, no matter how good you are. He taught me how to be an adult, and how to survive. He’s also taught me that those you believe to be infallible are rarely ever so.

My most recent lesson was Dave. He taught me that I have a heart. And, subsequently, taught me that it could be broken. He taught me that it’s possible to find joy in sitting inside a train station, he taught me to notice the stupid things that we normally overlook, and he taught me that even though sometimes we lose things and that it kills us when we do, it’s possible to be okay at the end of it. I was beginning to be scared that there wasn’t going to be a time when I would be able to look back without wincing, without reliving every single aspect in painful detail. But it is, I can, and next time I have my heart broken, it won’t be so horrifying because I’ll know that it’s possible to get through it all. I can survive, be happy, and I don’t need to be in a relationship for that to happen.

So, I stand before you now. The people who have taught me in the past can only watch from the sidelines now, they are no longer the major players. My childhood has come to a rather abrupt end, and I’ve got to go out into the world on my own and pretend to be an adult. I’ve got to wake myself up in the mornings, make my own breakfast, and walk out the door without anyone to wish me goodbye. I’ve got to take heed of the lessons taught me, and hope that they make me a decent enough human being to interact with others. And I’m scared that I’m not up to it. When I turned eighteen people made reference to me being an adult, then laughed. I know I’ll never grow up; I’ll always be a child in so many ways. But maybe I’m mature enough to be adult too when it’s important. Maybe it’s enough to be who I am and carry on anyway.

Labels: Growing Up, Past tense, Poetic licence

Foam runs down the outside of the windows as I write. There's a dull roar from the jet wash as it sprays water at the car. It reminds me of carwashes when I was a kid. My sister and I used to sit in the front seat and pretend we were driving through a storm. We had overactive imaginations, as kids always seem to have, and there wasn't any situation we couldn't turn into a make believe disaster of some sort.

At the bottom of our garden (we had a BIG garden) there were these two trees. One was a really big fir, and the other was an old oak. The branches would cross over and formed a huge canopy that blocked out the sun. We'd climb up into the branches with long sticks and pretend we were pirates fighting off the enemy. Generally the enemy was the red squirrels for whom the trees were home, but occasionally my dad or brother would take the role when telling us to come in for tea.

As I sit in the car I can nearly feel my sister sitting beside me, telling me to drive faster, that if we weren't careful the lightening would hit us, telling me that we need to get home. She'd squeal in mock fright as the huge fluffy rollers came down over the windscreen, and we'd both giggle when our dad told us to quit playing around. Giggling was a large part of being a kid, and I guess it's the one thing that I don't think I'll ever let go of. I still giggle like a school girl given the chance, and though it's time to move past that, grow up a little, I don't think giggling is something I'll let myself give up.

She asked me the other day: "We used to be such great friends, we were so close, what happened to that?" And for a day I thought about it, went over all the reasons why we weren't close anymore, and then as we were getting ready to leave the house today I found the answer. I was sitting on the window sill looking out the window, and she was standing facing the mirror in the centre of the room preening.

"How do I look, does this top work? Am I showing too much flesh?" It isn't cold outside, but it's cool. There is a wind, and I chose to wear a scarf along with my layers today. She was stood in a black halter neck that showed both her navel and ninety nine per cent of her cleavage. Along with hipster three quarter length jeans and flip flops. You wouldn't say that I'm one who is scared of showing flesh, far from, but I am susceptible to the cold, even though I was brought up in Northumberland and girls around here are practically immune.

I didn't point this out to her though. I learnt long ago that telling a fifteen year old to wear a jacket is about as worth while as telling a morris dancer that the bells aren't actually compulsory and really they're starting to give you a headache. And anyway, I was pretty much the same at her age. What I realised as I sat there watching her getting ready was that I don't have anything to talk about with her anymore. We used to have insanity and a crazy imagination in common, it was us against the rest of the world- the grown ups, and we were all each other had. Now we're doing so very different things. We're still both incredibly creative, but she channels it into her appearance, whereas I use my writing as an outlet.

Friendships always seem to fall apart because people just drift. We do different things, meet different people, I spend very little time at home, and because of it our friendship has suffered. When you add in sibling rivalry it all just seems to collapse. And I miss it all. I miss being a kid, I miss playing at pirates, or princesses or dancing around the garden in summer singing along to the Spice Girls. I miss it so much, but it's never going to come back.

One day I'll be able to watch my own kids acting like loonies, and I guess that will make it better. Being an adult makes up for it, not thinking of men as something you either run away from or attack is pretty good. And being able to order coffee without the parent/ guardian frowning at me is good too. Though really I could do with someone to hamper my caffeine intake. It's getting silly.

Growing up is something that I'm starting to come to terms with. Leaving home being the biggest problem for me, but as I only have a month left... It has its perks, and I wouldn't go back no matter how much I miss it. I can't just stop myself from reminiscing whenever something jolts my memory.

Labels: dynasty, Past tense, Poetic licence

When I’m cold and lonely, when only the local vicar visits me on a regular basis. When my face is not wrinkled, but so far past that the wrinkles have wrinkles of their own. When the world is a completely different place, where technology that seems miraculous to us now, is the norm. When my six cats are my constant companions and my grandchildren suffer my company with a frown.

When I live in a bungalow, and have my food made for me by a nurse. When I write my signature with a wobble of my wrist, and sorrow in my heart. When sitting down hurts, and standing up seems impossible. When I walk with a cane, and leave the house only when I really must. When every room smells of old people, and I grow to despise the young. When I feel awkward and useless, when I doze off in the sun.

When those I know now are all dying, when I throw out my clocks to forget the ticking. When children laugh as I walk by, when a slight fall could end my life. When arthritis is the devil’s work, and hospitals a regular drop in. When I turn to religion as a last resort, to hope that when it’s over, there is something.

When I genuinely forget important dates like my anniversary. When I keep a photo above the fireplace of the husband who is no longer with me. When a cake is no longer big enough to even hold half the candles that my years require. When a cool breeze sets a chill to my bones, and freezes my soul in summer. When forever becomes a myth and right now is not enough. When the immortality of youth seems a distant and pathetic illusion.

Remember me.

Labels: Poetic licence, Superstition

She sits on the edge of the seat. Her back is as far from the cold metal as she can while still technically sitting. Her fingers are clenched around the edge, balancing her as she perches. Her feet are held of the freezing concrete, bare and boasting manicured, though now slightly chipped, nails.

She’s going home. Her blistered feet look bruised, purple, strange in the morning light, and out of the heels that are now held in her hand. The skirt and top that made up her outfit last night now look crumpled, bare minus the accessories that are now stuffed in her bag. The unmade-up face is pale, miserable with her hangover.

I’ve done it so many times. Hair scragged back in the clip I remembered to cram into my bag two minutes before leaving the night before. Feet bleeding, the soles on fire. That’s why I hate winter so much- the number of times I’ve walked barefoot through snow rather than brave my shoes again. Rain is pretty awful, but snow is the worst.

So we sit, cold, miserable, and regretting the circumstances that put us here. We have flashbacks in our delirious, hung over state. Memories of misery, embarrassment, of the men who still lie in their beds content, but refuse to lie in ours.

I never seem to make the right choices. Love is like flight. It takes a while, and sometimes it can be hard work, but if it works then you’ll go places that you’ve never even dreamed of before. Albatrosses can fly for thousands of miles; they can go for however many kilometres without even flapping their wings. I’ll never be like the albatross, love is hard for me, awkward, in the flight scenario I’m probably going to end up more like a big clumsy duck than an albatross. But at least a duck can fly. I hurt too quickly, and every time I start to think that I might be taking off, something goes wrong.

I’ve chosen the wrong men, I’ve chosen to do things too early, too late, and with some I act too much like myself, with others not enough. It’s all too hard, too painful. I don’t want to try again, the first trial hurt too much. So I’ll sit here on my bench, in the cold, and waiting for my bus to arrive with the driver that barely speaks English and doesn’t know the difference between a single and a return. This is easier, this I’m used to, and though this is utterly killing me, its physical pain rather than mental, and that I can handle.

Labels: Falling, Flying, Introspection, Past tense, Poetic licence

They threw clods of earth at the walls, the windows, the door. Not one square inch was left clear of the mud they threw that day. Broken prams appeared overnight in the centre of the lawn, bricks broke the car windows. Graffiti on the front door. It was an endless onslaught.

My brother would go out for a few hours and come back bruised. A black eye. A broken nose. He learnt to be a survivor, grew up too quickly. Lost his childhood to common racism, xenophobia, and an inept mother. His story is sadder than mine. As a writer I'd give everything I own to tell it, as a sister I'd give my life to take away his pain.

I wasn't allowed outside after dark. Not even in the garden. He took my hand. Told me I was pretty, said he wanted to play. He led me down the garden path, stroked my arm, said that we should play "mummies and daddies". He was only a kid too. Fifteen, sixteen years old, a fucking child himself. They say that your sexuality is expressed from childhood so, then, is paedophilia? He got me as far as across the street before he was stopped. I'm still not sure whether it was my dad or my brother that stopped him. But for his sins, my brother nearly put him in hospital. And that kid was three years older than him. At that age three years makes a difference. I hope to god that kid is in prison now. And I hope he was just trying to get what he could, where he could, rather than it being an expression of paedophilia at a young age. Maturation would not make him better.

I haven't been back there in years. A few years ago I read about an Asian boy being knifed on the main street, and then after that there were the three Pakistani kids that were beaten to death outside the chip shop by a gang of kids. A gang of kids who probably lived on the same estate I did. A gang of kids I probably knew and was ridiculed by.

Now I'm just as likely to get asked for sex because of who I am. But even, "I've never had an Asian chick before" is better than leading a four year old, who doesn't know what's going on, away into the darkness. And mud isn't thrown at the house here, I can walk down the street without people looking at me or my family with disgust in their eyes. I still get the occasional person making a derogatory comment about the "fucking Chink," but it isn't that common.

I know racism. I know it inside out, upside down, and from the very worst perspective. And Jesus Christ do I know pain: both my own and other's. But pain is an ocean. And when you're left drifting in an ocean you have one of two choices: sink or swim. Maybe you won't find the shore in time to survive, and maybe you'll have to beat off sharks along the way. But surely it's better to fight, surely its better to at least try.

Labels: Demons, Past tense, Poetic licence, Stage Settings

She sits in the middle of the room, tears run in mascara-black rivulets across her skin. On the cold, white, tiled floor she looks small, maybe some kind of porcelain doll, maybe just a little girl. Her hair hangs in a cascade around her face, the pretty face that is screwed up in agony as she sobs. A bottle lies broken on the floor across from her, and her phone lies next to it ignored. She doesn't care what's around her, she only cares about her own grief which comes in heart-wrenching pain from inside her until she's crying like a child. That impossible type of pain- where you can't do anything to stop it and you just feel inconsequential, out of control, and small.

I don't know why she's crying yet. I just know that she will. Her head will be aching from over indulgence in alcohol, and her brain will be scattered like the contents of her handbag. Which, incidentally, is probably left on the floor, open and upside down somewhere where it's going to be stood on, or forgotten about entirely. Who knows what the hell has gone wrong this time? With her it could be anything from a one night stand gone bad, to realising that she's pregnant. Maybe her father has died, maybe she's just done something so stupid she feels like she's lost control of her life.

It's probably got something to do with alcoholism. And with her, I'd guess that a man had treated her badly in some way too. She's superficial, she's flighty, and she's too easily obsessed by things that cause her too much pain.

And she's damaged. She's been damaged for a long time. Once she was even told that she was damaged property. It was flung in her face by a boy, a boy who didn't like rejection. But the knowledge that it was only said for the revenge of his bruised ego didn't cause the insult to hurt her any less. It still stung right down to her very core. The worst insults are the ones we secretly whisper to ourselves in the darkness, the ones we never admit to and fling out at people around us in the hopes that calling it out in others will somehow make it alright to be that too. He was lucky, he chose the right insult, never realising how much he had it right, never realising that he'd engraved himself into her memory forever over such a small thing.

I think she's scared. How can you be so messed up if you aren't scared? It isn't possible. You drown yourself in alcohol and throw yourself at men because you're scared. You're scared that if you don't get the men you'll die alone. You think that being beautiful and always having someone somehow makes you better. It means that no matter how many men you go through, how many recognise you for who you are and drop you, you still have someone. There is still some idiot out there who will fall into the trap. And one day you'll meet someone who will understand you, who won't run away at the first sign of the underlying madness. But you're scared because you know that its entirely possible that that person doesn't exist. So you'll live a lonely life with only inconstant companions, men who will satisfy you for a day, but forget you in a week.

The alcohol doesn't stop you from being scared. But occasionally it numbs the pain a little. You learnt long ago that it won't make you forget, none of the important things anyway, but for a while it means that you don't care. You can get on with simply being without the hassle of remembering too.

But you can't run away forever. When you realise who you are, or you do something so outrageous that even you are disgusted with yourself. When you realise that you've turned into that most horrifying concept- your own mother. That's when you cry. You cry because you feel cheap, used, dumb, pointless. You cry because you haven't done anything worthwhile. You cry because you look in the mirror, and are forced to acknowledge yourself.

Labels: Demons, Falling, Poetic licence

We had sex eleven times. For a three and a half month- long relationship, I found that pretty pathetic. I mean, maybe if I'd wanted to make him wait or something, but I just don't have that kind of self restraint. To be honest, I don't really have any self restraint, or self control. I'm pretty much ruled by my whims.

And in the end I did fall in love with him. But we came from completely different backgrounds. I come from a tribe of polygamists whereas he was steeped in monogamy and "Thou shalt not commit adultery". Don't get me wrong, if you're looking for multiples or whatever, I'm not your girl. My ancestry is more than enough to put me off that stuff. I don't do open relationships (except when I really have to), and I don't cheat (unless I'm really pissed off). But I'm not subject to the green eyed monster and I've been known to get wandering eyes.

He got jealous. I never did anything wrong, well, nothing really wrong, but he still got pissed off. To me that's actually quite sweet. I mean, on occasions it did annoy the hell out of me. But he went for that macho I'm-not-gonna-show-any-of-my-feelings thing so it wasn't ever too outwardly obvious. It was just there when I talked to a guy and he'd interrupt his own conversation to come and protectively put his arms around me. It was only there in little things like that.

We were good together, our personalities were so similar, it was just where we were coming from that was so starkly different. And our sex drives. Mostly we didn't really see each other, but when we did I was just about ready to jump on him, whereas he could take it or leave it. That I couldn't understand. It wasn't that he didn't like it, its just sometimes he couldn't be that bothered. Being too lazy for sex is a startling concept for me.

On most levels he understood me, and he respected me. He seemed to like who I am. I cared about him so much and I loved him. But it was the wrong kind of love. He's the type of man I'll marry, but he isn't the type for right now. That kind of understanding, is the kind that you build houses on and raise children. It isn't the kind of tepestuous relationship a girl fits into the months before she goes to uni.

There was a lot left unsaid due to my inability to speak my heart, cos've my utter fear of anyone getting too close. And also due to his stupid male pride. But we got along. He didn't open me up and most of the stuff I got out of him was simply from being fluent in the art of manipulation. But we worked. It was rocky, and sometimes it wasn't as fulfilling as I'd have liked. But none of that lessened the number of tears that fell when it ended.

The girl he marries won't be me. She's called Claire and she's the closest I've ever come to jealousy. I only met her once, but heard about her much more than that. I was sitting in the pub when I met her. She was pretty, very pretty, but in an ordinary way. They had a banter. It didn't worry me, I was happy just to sit back and watch.

He wanted me. That I understood completely, finally. He liked the Chinese thing, and he liked having me around. But like he's my forever guy, but not for now, I was his for now, and she's his forever. She'll stick around, get a job locally, be the wife, get his slippers. I can't do that. He'll keep my memory as the independent opinionated girl that he cared for, but he won't keep more than that. We're too different in our goals.

I can't do the slippers, and I can't do the cooking around an aga or whatever else they decide in an eccentrically coupley moment, it would be nice to buy. I'll just have to live with missing him and remembering that it's happened once, and can happen again. I can be tied down, and I can forget for a while who I am. He taught me that I could love so for that I'll be eternally grateful. He may forget me, but I can't forget him. Not now, not ever.

Labels: Being the Duck, Past tense, Poetic licence

Girl, you act like a child and tell me that so much is wrong. You wear your heart on your sleeve and react without thought, because that’s what you’ve always done. To others you may be a woman, to most you’re strong and self-assured. But I’ve seen who you hide beneath your skin, and she’s a girl who just wants to cry. Dry your tears and forget the past; I understand your pain. I’ve been there too, I know how you hurt, but now you must accept your life.

You’re hiding from reality because you’re scared. You’re doing silly things and breaking your rules. I’ve tried to hide in a bottle, it doesn’t work so don’t do that too. I can’t know every thought you have in your head, nor predict what you’ll do to escape. I can just see you as all others see and know the waste and ruin you’re trying to bring.

We’ve both been through so much heartache. We’ve suffered blows from other people’s hands. We’ve been neglected and rejected by those that we love. We can’t trust the people who care. Confidence is not something you’re born with; it’s something you must learn to posses. People don’t see what you hide on your skin if you brandish it in the light. Once I was a scared little girl, I’ll always be her and know that she’ll always be me. But you can grow out of it, fight your battles where you’ll win, stop trying to relive everything bad, and stop messing with your future.

Don’t think I say this because I don’t love you. Don’t misinterpret nor think I’m not on your side. I wouldn’t say this if I wasn’t worried, but if you carry on it is you who will hurt. Forget about putting your trust in men again. They have a lot to answer women for and that I physically cannot forgive. But you don’t need to trust them, you just need to accept that you might be wrong. Not every man is a monster, they won’t hit you or mess you around. They’re stupid worthless idiots, but some are human as well. You shouldn’t blame all men for the one who has hurt you, be wary but not necessarily afraid.

You need to have more tolerance, not everyone is so much like you. You need some more self-confidence, you’re beautiful, I wish I was you. You need to honour your word when you give it, a contract is something you keep. And you need to accept criticism when we give it, not take offence from the insult it hides. Sometimes you are egocentric, and act like a petulant child. Just pay more attention to the stuff around you, and hold less grudges for nothing at all.

You’re intense and you are self-made. You’ve been through a lot so I’m impressed that you don’t run and hide. I’ll love you whatever and stick with you through everything. Just don’t expect me to listen when you whine.

Labels: Friendship, Poetic licence

Winter is endless. The frost on each blade of grass every morning when you wake up. The snowdrops along the borders of the garden. The churning grey clouds that cover the sky as far as the eye can see in. There isn't even a hint of the daffodil in the air. Spring is a time for new beginnings; birth and rebirth. Spring is an emerald green. But winter is a time for reflections; for coveting the old and harbouring your memories. Winter is a gun metal grey. We long for the spring to arrive, but without the winter we would never appreciate it's arrival. We would never look back and contemplate on everything that has been. We need it as a contrast to everything else, and we need it as a time to rest. It can be harsh, it can be cruel, but it's unchanging. It's as inexorable, as unstoppable, as an avalanche.

I wrote a letter to my mom. It wasn't any great literary achievement, it was just unusual. She hurt me a lot. But upon reflection, the time when she really hurt me wasn't when she left, it was when both her and my dad hurt me. It was when they excluded me from their lives, separated me. By the time she left everyone, I already felt exempt from her heart. But that rejection didn't come from just her, dad was equally responsible, yet somehow I forgave him. Hating her had turned to habit, something I had to do, just because. I've always blamed her. Blamed her for all my weaknesses; my overpowering fear of rejection, my inability to love just for the sake of it. I blamed her for every time I looked over my shoulder to check that no one had a knife to stab me with. And that isn't fair.

Had I been a stronger person from the start, maybe I wouldn't have been affected. Had she stayed, had their marriage worked and her lack of maternal feeling not been a problem, I would still be as insecure. As sure that something had to go wrong because it is completely impossible to be happy. I don't mean for me to be happy, I mean for anyone. I'm a cynic, but I'm cynical in the way that only someone truly messed up can be. There are layers. On one layer there is the constant amusement, the joy from anything new, or merely old but forgotten. And on another layer lurks the cynicism. The belief that I have to take joy from the simple things because they are the only constants. The only things I can keep close to me without fear of them suddenly disappearing, leaving me.

I've had a lot of time to reflect. It's too cold to do anything else. And she hurt me, she always will. For everything she did, for everything she said. But maybe I can forgive her for a while, move on at least. She hurt me, but I can't hate her forever, it just isn't in me anymore. Things change.

Labels: Demons, dynasty, Poetic licence, Superstition

Sometimes you can walk through a field of poppys and feel like they're on fire. They're so red it hurts your eyes. They're beautiful. Other times they look so pale. The light is all wrong and though you know that they're beautiful, that they are flawless, they just don't look so arresting as they did earlier. The beauty is wasted and over looked.

Sometimes there's beauty and you don't notice it at all. Sometimes you know that you're happy, and that everything is so good, but you take it for granted because it won't go away. It can't go away. But nothing lasts forever. You can have one perfect night. One moment that you know will stay with you forever. And though it was perfect, who knows what can happen the next day, week?

The poppy dies. The light fades. These things are inevitable. But the memory stays. It lasts for as long as you do, and you don't need it to last longer. For you, specifically, this is forever. And a memory that lasts forever is as perfect as the moment. You may know that you woke up the next day and walked away, that afterwards life continued to go on. But the memory got up and walked away with you. And if it was that perfect then it'll last for as long as you need it to.

I can still feel his hair, spiky beneath my finger tips. I can remember every taste, every smell. I can remember the sound of my laugh in the silence. And yes, in the morning I woke up and I walked away. Like this will all go away. There's a time limit to this, I can tell you the exact date. And that date was a bit of a shock to be honest, like a punch to the stomach when you aren't looking and don't expect it at all. And I'll be upset, but I'll cope because no matter how much I fall in love with him, I always do.

And if we finish it before then at least it'll be a lot easier in the end. Saying goodbye always hurts. Every time I stand at the airport and see another person leave it causes a little more pain. Because it isn't that you can't see them, it's just that you don't. It's that you know that more than anything else you want them to stay where they are. You want them to stay with you even though you know that it's a bad idea and selfish and everything else. I can say goodbye though. I've got good at it. I sometimes don't cry anymore. But at least the memory, if nothing else, will last.

Labels: A field of poppies, Flying, Poetic licence

The ceiling has stars on it. A cheap plastic version of the galaxy glowing there watching me. Watching me as I don’t sleep. Once I read that if you have insomnia it is best to go into a different room so you don’t start to associate your bedroom with sleeplessness. There isn’t anything to do and the rest of the world is asleep. I leave the room quietly, my feet padding through the thick carpet making me feel like a lioness, or maybe just a very smug cat. How can you sleep? There’s too much to think about.

The only light in the room is the clock on the Hi fi glowing green through the room. The curtains are open and the stars shine into the room. A real, larger version, of the plastic stars I have on the ceiling in my room. That’s what I’ll miss most when I move to a city- the stars. I love looking at the stars. Sometimes I’m happy just to sit outside staring at them, wondering about the trillions of different things that they hold, but we don’t know about yet. Sometimes I can even tolerate the horrifically cold Northumberland nights just to see the stars. They aren’t just pretty, what they represent is more than that. They represent possibilities. The idea that anything, whatever, is possible. And that in the grand scheme of things, nothing you can do matters. Whether you become great, a complete hero; you still don’t matter compared to everything else. There are just so many stars.

To me, that’s a comforting thought.

When I was little I used to walk home from my aunt’s at night. There wasn’t much point driving- it was too close; so we walked. The nearest street lamp must have been a few miles away, so you could see every star. Every single one of them, shining down on you. I used to walk along just looking at the sky, paying absolutely no attention to what direction I was going in. The number of times I walked into the same bloody falling down brick wall, you’d think I’d learn. But I didn’t. I was completely mesmerised.

I don’t really have time for the stars anymore. It’s like, suddenly, my life has got interesting and I don’t have time for the little things. For sitting at home and actually talking to my dad. For writing poems, composing songs, for creating a world in my mind seperate to the one around me.

I guess that’s a good thing. Some time you need to grow up, to realise that it’s time to move on from where you live in a dream world, to where you actually live the dream. It’s just scary. There are so many things that can go wrong to turn that dream into a nightmare. But I miss it now. Sitting in my room and just thinking about things. I guess I still do that to a certain extent, but for a while it would be nice to just sit here and look at the stars.

Labels: Growing Up, Poetic licence

I wish it was always summer. I wish I had an olive tree in my back garden and that I could walk around in cropped dungarees all day with my hair loosely tied back without my sister making a complaint that my hair looks better down and that dungarees aren't clothing; they're just ugly. I wish I could sing along to every song without looking over my shoulder to check that there wasn't someone there who would complain about the noise. I wish I could spend my day writing and my nights drinking wine. I wish that a good book would last forever and that the sea was always deep, clear and warm.

I wish that I didn't care what people thought. I wish that when people said that he was ugly I didn't wince. I wish that when I stay in on a Saturday night I wouldn't get drunken phone calls, texts saying the word "evil" repeatedly, and people taking umbridge about Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire for some completely inexplicable reason. I don't mind the drunken phone calls really, they can be annoying if I happen to be asleep at the time, but otherwise they're pretty amusing. I wish that people had no flaws.

I wish that I could understand everything and could speak every imaginable language. I wish that I had dreams about flying. I wish that chocolate really could solve everything. I wish that I didn't wince everytime I hear the word "girlfriend". I wish that I had never been ID'd and that I was two and a half months older. I wish I will marry a tall slender dark haired man who will understand me and and not turn out to have a severe homicidal psychosis. Whatever that even means. I wish that I had climbed a mountain and been at the bottom of the ocean. I wish I was an FBI agent and that I was actually any good at drawing.

I wish I had no regrets and that all wishes came true. I wish I knew how to weild a sword and could do archery. I wish swimming pools were larger and that life guards weren't so nasty to you when you were little. I wish people were less fixated on their weight- if everyone was stick thin with big tits it would be attractive to be different. I wish that PE teachers weren't so damn scary. I wish that men didn't sometimes have scary stalkerish tendencies. I wish that it was okay to do whatever the hell you wanted, as long as it didn't involve hurting someone.

I wish there was a TV channel devoted solely to ice cream.

Labels: Poetic licence