Red bricks and fire escapes
14 august
New York is calling. The red bricks and fire escapes shout at me in between doing chores and watching tv. It's a bad excuse to blame a lack of inspiration on not being in a certain place, but the Chelsea hotel has a reservation with my name for room 308, I hope. That's what i see when I close my eyes. I guess as well, inspiration can be forced into a specific location, booking a specific hotel to write the your great american novel, the log cabin in switzerland that has perfect acoustics and isolation for your seminal album. inspiration is a confusing liminal space between curation and spontaneity. and new york feels inspiring. cliche, but honest, its where i feel i could be at home. lately ive felt so uninspired. the usual things arent working. my morning coffee, the sun, the park down the road, the spark is running away and i must grab hold of it before its too far forgotten. maybe i will run away, book a one way flight and wont look back.
Murky and green-ish water
12 august
Another night of warmth beyond comfort. tossing and turning. fans. windows. i woke up to my alarm not going off, a problem my phones had recently, and i have to shovel down breakfast before leaving for the day. My brother drives us to our Dads house, who then drives us a long hour away. the journey was fun and conversational. we listened to music we all loved and laughed about things we remembered from being children. we arrived at some point along the Thames. we had something to eat, sitting on blankets on the grass, feeling 5 again, before going in the water. we went on some paddleboards and swam around. the water was murky and green-ish, but the sun was so hot so i jumped in without hesitation. we jumped between boards, racing, pushing, splashing. it felt like a hug from 15 years ago. and after a good few hours, we packed up our stuff and set out for home. traffic, tired, legs hurt. then more traffic, too hot, and bored of being in a car. On the way home i get an email saying that i didn’t get the job i went for an interview for. it felt like a rain cloud came over my head, like i tripped in mud, or threw up on myself. i reread the email a dozen times. my insides shatter and melt. my future crumbles beneath my feet. i don’t know if i could have done anything differently to cause a better outcome. i tried my best though, thats important, or something right?
Sunburst
11 august
I slept badly this morning, i dont know why. i went to bed late and woke early to the busy motorway on the next road. my stomach is churning but i have no desire to consume. the stress of getting a job and timing it all perfectly is making me lose myself a little. in the background, there has always been things, loads of different interests and hobbies and skills, ready to show off at any opportunity giving me time. but now i have time, its all gone. i feel like im drowning in a pool of my own creation. when i try to think of the next thing i could do, a new project or venture, there’s just nothing there. am i nothing? what happened to all of my hope and ability and desire? im a blank sheet of a4.
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I ate my breakfast and the sun is shining so brightly i can see every corner of my room for once. i should leave the house, get some fresh air. i want to bathe in a body of water by the mountains, walk through the forest and touch the plants as i brush past them. its too hot, far too hot, and my cosy cabin has become an incubator for insanity. my skin is blistering and the sweat falls down my body to form a pool at my feet. I’ve spent the morning reading the New York Times, scrolling through Pinterest, and making yet another minor change to my forever unfinished website. i feel cool in my new shorts, like they’ve somehow proven my inner identity and it can now be observed to the naked eye, but by admitting i feel cool it completely dissolves the potential for that reality. the fan is rattling and every few minutes it seems to fade out before crying out like an alarm in the next. my sheets are stained, no matter how many washes i put them through. the family is together and i stay in my room. tomorrow the other family is together and i will join. we’re going to a body of water and i will drown my thoughts for as long as i can.
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I sometimes think about if i could go back in time and do things differently, what point would i go to. And as i retrace my lifes movements, i find myself wanting to go further and further back. i always seem to wish i was how i was in the past, my previous selfs brain, but in the moment i never felt content with it, always yearning for it to be different. so where does that leave me now?
Last night when i was trying to sleep i kept thinking of her and wanting to jump on the next train even though i’ve only just returned home. the air was thick and my bed felt too small for my body, it always does. i climbed through the covers trying to find a piece of you, a hair, your leg, any trace but nothing. i think i met you in my dreams, that’s what i said when you went to bed, that’s what i want to happen. i want us to run away and move to middle america for a year or two. or somewhere along the riviera, or to berlin, oslo. anywhere but familiarity. i would pick up smoking again and you would cut your hair off. we would create new identities and immerse ourselves in these new lives until i forgot my family home address.
Luncheon politics
10 august
This morning i woke up to the early morning sun, and the birds calling out my name so loudly i couldn’t pretend they didnt exist anymore. i drank coffee and read my new book and after 20 pages i decided to start applying to jobs, like i said i would today. The task was tangented by redoing my cv, my coffee ran empty and i wanted another but couldn’t take myself out of my computer screen. i ate my breakfast, feasting from the family fridge, a luxury that my university years dreamt of, and took the dogs out to the park with my mum. the london air was hot, and my blue tshirt became darker on my back and under my arms. my grandparents were coming round for a belated birthday lunch. we talked holidays, and work, and what my plans were for when i move to the big city. meal eaten and belly full, we talk house prices and global politics. then a cake, which only me and my mum have a slice of. its strange how easily i find slipping back into my old life, when its so different to the life i put on pause. really, im slipping into a life that never existed, one that would exist if i hadn’t gone to study in a different city, one that would be so different from my life now i wouldn’t even recognise myself. sometimes i feel like im a spectator in my own life, like everything seems to just happen, and i can’t do anything to change it. its true, just because i feel uneasy, obviously the world keeps spinning, but it hurts my head and makes me feel dizzy when i notice how significant that can be. how easily i can slip into a routine that works for those around me, being a small part of their day, when im no longer a big part of my own. It’s something i need to maintain and make sure doesnt happen for my own sanity, to take hold of my world and keep it that way. if the sign saying my room falls down, i better nail it back up the second i hear the paper dance along the floor.
Coffee and fitzcarraldo edition for breakfast
10 august
Back home after a much too long train journey. sweating in the midland sun as it stabbed me through the carriage window. staring at fields and churches before they’re gone and i will never get to observe them again. Rewriting my cv and applying to as many jobs as i can. coffee and a fitzcarraldo edition for breakfast. basking in the sweet air in my temporary home. coming back to earth after my birthday and the days that followed. a mixed set of emotions as a result of poorly made friends. rethinking it all. I find myself yearning for october, the warmth of tea and freshly baked cakes, cosy films and nights spent laughing in bed. why do we always wish for the next thing? why cant we be present and happy with what is laid out on the table in front of us. when it is cold, we all moan and groan wishing for the sun to kiss our faces, but now that we’re here, all we want is the sun to leave us alone so we can wrap up warm and laze about.
End beginning
29 july
Leaving the house of terror, at last. Final goodbye’s left a bittersweet taste in my mouth before departing for the big city. traffic, conversation, and family. My whole world was in that small little town, I completely started again and created a whole network for my life. Bags of stuff and cleaning the oven at 1am, it’s now over. A temporary stay in my new family home. An isolated cuboid of freedom to cleanse my brain after a strange time. Life begins again soon, and i’ll turn 21. Until then, i’ll sit by the porch and write songs for the animals.
I remember it was cloudy, I think
21 july
There's a comfort to being lazy with someone else. Watching telly. Eating. Not really talking. Smiles and arm touches. Unprovoked kisses. Seconds later (or maybe it was hours) and you're fast asleep. You breathe softly, like you're satisfied enough with the day that rest is deserved.
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Am I satisfied with the day?
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When was the last time I was satisfied enough that I fell asleep with no proclamation?
Songs and instrumentals
18 may
My cheeks were stained red with blood, and half my head of hair lay scattered across the floor. It traced my paces across your room. My eardrums pounding and my lungs left on empty. I fell asleep in a puddle of my own words and no longer remember saying any of them. The sound of my voice is white noise, and the sun is creaking through the curtains.
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Every day sounds like songs and instrumentals. Tender and soft.
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I wanted to take a picture of your room afterwards but I couldn’t even lift my arms from the floor. My camera weighed a brick, and my heart dragged me further and further beneath the floorboards.
My limbs were in a pile in the corner, and my bones covered in dust. Every strum of my guitar left another mark on the wall, its vibrations rattled my miscellaneous parts and caused them to fall and crack. They were brittle and stained.
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I was so small. I could fit into the bowl you ate your breakfast from. I needed painting and restructuring. I was soft and gooey.
At 2am
5 may
I like when we fuck in the middle of the night. When we’re both asleep but our bodies can’t wait for us to wake up so they do it for us. I never know how it starts—who starts—but the mutual half asleep smiles and the softness of a dozy kiss stop me asking why. I feel like a child again. like we’re breaking the rules. like we have a little secret. like we need to keep our voices down in case anyone hears. but no ones home and we end up making noise anyway. It’s like we just wake up halfway through, and we greet each other with the familiar eyes, the familiar touch, the touch that says come here baby let me touch you till you smile and then we can float back to sleep and I’ll meet you there too. where there’s fresh coffee, baked bread and soft butter. a day without work. a day where the only job I need to get done is tell you I love you.
Dreams of tomorrow and further
15 april
Tonight is my final night on the blow up in the living room and I could not be more ready to go. I want a rainy slow morning, naked in the covers, half dressed to go and make coffee, to then return unclothed. record player mornings. whole foods and jazz. hugs and dancing. laughing. kissing till sore. talking, and more talking. fucking. laughing. sleeping. everything. all of it. Fuzzy morning light. soft skin. fresh sheets. old stains. bed hair and pink lips. reading and puzzles. tea refills. instrumental guitar. Everything reminds me of her, because everything is her. either by extension or association. she is the ground and air and salt and trees. she lives in my walls. the floorboards.