Category Archives: love

Walk with me…

Life and time are moving in circles, one endless motion, the same hand passing round the same clock witnessed by a million different eyes, each filling every second with their own treasure trove of occurrence and subsequent manifestation.

Walk with me, hand in hand through the neon and styrofoam. Walk the razor blades of broken hearts. Walk the fortune and the fortune hunted. Walk the chop suey bars and the tract of stars.

Walk with me. Down a dark road coated with a hazy fog that makes the streetlights shine brighter. I am not afraid of feeling but I am afraid of feeling unthinkingly. I don’t want to drown. My head is my heart’s life belt. I should like an emotional inflatable.

I know I am a fool, hoping that dirt and glory are a kind of luminous paint; the humiliations and exaltations that light us up. It is just as likely that as I invent what I want to say, you will invent what you want to hear, an exchange if you will, joint manifestivities. And they shall dance the tango as the record spins the manifesto.

A weak signal into the outer space of each other. The probability of separate worlds meeting is very small. The lure of it immense. We send star ships. We fall in love.

Walk with me. Down a dark road coated with a hazy fog that makes the streetlights shine brighter. I walk away with the taste of you between my legs. Part pleasure, part pain, the antennae of my nervous system still twitching with the hum of the air in the soupy space between.

(An inspired collaboration of quotes and improvised idealisms with lines and longitudes from Gut Symmetry by Jeanette Winterson)

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Multiple Choice Personalities – An Inter-Societal Travel Story Part 1.

A pink lady apple rolls restlessly back and forth across the dashboard… he taps his foot impatiently on the accelerator at a zebra crossing. A megabus passes on the other side of the road displaying the words “Happy Easter!” in neon yellow calculator font. It’s November 20th . We enter the dual carriageway and pick up speed, he bounces up and down on his driver’s seat complete with its own suspension in a series of hand gestures and irritable grunts. I am on my way to London to stay in a big fancy hotel with my friend Holly who one day woke up famous.

{Interlude}: Arrive at big fancy hotel, pass matt black Rolls Royce and fixed welcoming expression butler.

Several flights of stairs and a battle with a stubborn key card later I settle in a most composed manner, just slightly off centre on an elaborate sofa at the foot of a more elaborate bed in a room whose elaboration rivals only that of the things contained in it. To my left, carefully balanced on said elaborate sofa is a cup of elaborate coffee, coffee so fancy it demands its very own capsule. I chose a purple one. I then added a packet milk, half a sugar and a french butter biscuit to dip.

The sofa is an iridescent dusty emerald green (and so fancy it demands four verbs in the opening line of its description), made up of an intricately woven check pattern of reverse pile velour squares (there’s those verbs again. Sofa: 1 My own ability to articulate impressive upholstery: 0, please see below for picture and short video)

{interlude} Toilet and coffee break.

On visiting pristine white bathroom, I was relieved to discover that someone had gone to the trouble of folding the end of the roll neatly into a point.

I don’t belong here. Why?

Pigeon holing. How does it work? Do we all have our little box to tick on the social acceptance form? Can we tick multiple boxes if they apply? Is there a limit to how many? Are we, by ticking that box, committing to that category, or can we make amendments, and if so how do we do that? Do we have to fill in a new form every time? I wonder what it is about not being able to define and categorise something makes people so uncomfortable. Is it a need perhaps, to predict how someone will behave, how they might react in certain situations? Aren’t we then just setting ourselves up for disappointment?

Wouldn’t it be nice sometimes to just let ourselves be surprised? But then if there’s no preconceived way in which we expect someone to behave or react, can we actually be surprised?

Inevitably what we’re creating is a contrived cycle of social pressures; a combination of disappointment and false behaviour; disappointment when people don’t act the way you expect them to, and people acting the way you expect them to because they don’t want to disappoint, just a whole load of people running around with no idea how they feel about themselves or anyone else, their own perceptions of which have been taken over by a complicated network of their own thoughts and feelings combined with how they feel they’re supposed to feel and how they think other people think they should feel. For simplicity I have broken it down into points.

How do I feel?

How should I feel?

How do you think I should feel?

How I think you think I should feel.

How do you feel?

How do I think you should feel?

How do I think you think I think you should feel?

Whose feelings are they anyway?

Innovations of Love and the Common Cheese Grater

She lay in the centre of her slightly-too-small-for-the-bed-matress, enveloped in duvet and memories, suspended in an air of nostalgia and the faint aroma of pine and fire. A faint sense of longing tugged at the skirts of … what was it? Lust? Love? Jealousy maybe? What was it that woman had said once?

“The meaning of life is to love and be loved, that’s it.”

So simple. Is it? For the first time in her life she had begun carefully combing through the tangled garments of her badly packed emotional baggage, and was slowly realising there was something missing, or something left out, not a gap exactly, just a longing, like there was only one left of each pair of socks and while one can quite happily get by with a whole load of odd socks, it’s nice to have a matching pair. This realisation had brought with it a series of what seemed strange reactions; a watchful eye, a brief glimpse into a future with this person or that, a burning desire just to be passionate with another, to loose all barriers and boundaries of social and sexual etiquette and really let go. Fuck the games and the mystery and the “oh I wonder if I should show how I really feel and how do they want me to really feel and if I do show my truth will that alter how they really feel and who’s feelings are they anyway?”

Fuck it. When did it become so damn complicated? Where are the days of literary French romance where everything’s just there on the surface, the heart beating wildly and provocatively on the left sleeve of chemistry and courtship? Where is the heart now? Confined to a solid iron box. Suffocated in bland custom and cautious emotion, too scared to skip for fear it may trip up on the withered strings of another washed up clump of muscle and veins. That was what would become if she wasn’t careful, we are after all just elaborate plants, each part of us thriving on various different stimulus and nutrients, only fungus thrives in the cold and dark, probably not even cold at that, and everything needs space to breathe. Growing one’s heart a mythical mushroom tho that belongs to a different metaphor, one of succulent red flesh and brightly coloured sounds somewhere on the floor of the forest. Maybe the bit we learn is the optimum conditions, we don’t come with swing tags or instruction manuals, and if we try to follow such things we wind up empty and meaningless; standardised, streamlined and just about functional, like flat packed furniture from Ikea with the holes that never quite line up with the pegs.

Right now she was probably a moderately priced kitchen unit, complete with empty drawers and their smooth sliding mechanism, ready to be filled with matching cutlery and innovative cheese graters. What she really wanted to be was a beautiful old dressing table complete with elaborate mirror and smudges of lip-stick, drawers that required a certain knack to open and close smoothly and that rattled with loose beads and trinkets from the long lost pieces of jewellery that once filled them, stains on the wood from spilt perfume and glasses of wine and maybe the odd scratch here and there, from times of momentary madness or bursts of passion where everything on its surface had been swiped off in one fell swoop. Yes, that was what she wanted, that was what she envisioned for herself, not this strange rational existence.