A Series Of Ghost Letters, The First.

It was never sent.
Never written.
I simply sat, pen in hand. Blue plastic against the soft, alien and out of place.
(I am alien, out of place)
I sat, stiller than still.
Immobile, unchanging. (Do you see? This is what constancy looks like)
I have not moved. It is not hard, dear. Not hard at all.

A blank page. Not blank, lined. But unworded.

I had no words left.
I thought. I could roll it into a cone, perhaps. Hold it to the speaker, let the music speak for me.
The speaker.
Seal it, send it.
Let you know. That you were lost in your little life.
They have always known better than me. But I knew better than you.

Crumpled, blue lined paper. Momentarily stained with a blue plastic pen.

The bluest of Tuesdays.
I may have cried a little.

But only a little. I have cried more for others.

Letter the first,
in the right hand corner,
second window from the bed.

If you close your eyes, it looks like this

and it sounds like the sky, on a cloudy day.

Odds and Ends.

Here are the Odds.

I have to get sleeping pills from my doctor.

So says my mother. She says a lot of things. And I say everything and nothing in return.

I don't like the idea of not being able to wake up.

And I don't like small white things, that sit so menacing inside palms.

I have decided recently, that I believe in magnetic forces, sea tides, and the moon. I should really update my facebook "religious views" status.

Tangible is such wonderful word. And it always makes me think of citrus fruits. Even better.

Of fingernails pressing gently into pitted rind, bringing forth a soft spray. Leaving half moon trails.

I think that I would like to be somewhere else

...waiting for somewhere else to arrive.

It isn't working so far. I also think that I would like to try gardening, in the right moonlight.

My windows are very rattly,

Tomorrow I will stop up the gaps, with ghosts of love letters, the ones that were written but never sent.

Poor dears, they should be used for something.

This is the End. I know I said "Ends", but there is only one.

Two now. Good.

This is the real End.

Dreaming About Small Things. And Instruction Manuals.

I don't want to do anything today.

I want to sit in a corner, with my eyes closed and mouth shut.

I want to pull a blanket over my head. I want to fill my ears.

And dream.

Of other people, in other places, leading different lives. Carrying different hearts, in different cages.

Filled with older memories, newer hopes. Deeper breaths, clearer eyes.

Person. Sitting, standing, waiting.

In the small space, arms wrapped, back held straight, upright. Lips that move with breathing out words, mutters.

Less thought than felt. Like that letter we found "thinking without thought".

Hair pulled back, a naked face. Nothing to hide behind. The hardest thing.

Turn out the light.

(Open the door)

I like small words at the moment and always. They are real. Dense and solid, weighted.

They fit inside palms and hold down tablecloths.

Longer words float and sprawl. Flutter, catch the wind.

I like them too.

But the weather isn't right for kite flying.

Fairytales Don't Always Behave As They Should.

Mermaids sleep in seaweed tangles. With eyes wide open, staring up through green glass water.

I know because my brain told me.

I have been trying to write a mermaid story all week now, to make myself feel better. But I can't get past the murky darkness, and their fingernails.

Fish bone thin transparencies, sharp enough to draw blood.

I keep getting distracted, breaking concentration. Staring at the rust stained tips.

And forgetting.

Forgetting that mermaids need to breathe, forgetting the little gills, tucked behind ears, out of sight.

And then there is nothing to do but watch, and stay out of reach.

Watch as they thrash, and flail, and claw about. As fish-woman souls pour out from gasping lips.

My mermaids keep drowning.

I might have to stop the story for a while. I'm obviously not ready for it.

And I don't think I can handle the guilt.

I'm in such a morbid mood tonight. I think I spent too long staring into the meat chiller.

Supermarkets are not good for me.

I might sit out in the rain for a bit, and keep the clouds company.

I Don't Remember The Beginning.

I dreamed, about music and moving lights. And words, spoken-half-sung, written on the pavement with a fistful of chalk.

Falling away from the bottom. They asked me to remember, to hold out my mind.

Powdery hands, and soft gray movements. Just keep breathing.

Something secret.

And woke, wishing for yesterday.

I have been half real, all evening. I think I would like to sleep soon.

STOP. Think. And Um.. Hammer Time.

I'm upset and anxious at the moment.

I need to move, and go somewhere a bit more peaceful. Without rats, or stupid people, or Pink Floyd playing loudly while I'm trying to write multiple essays.

Or burglaries, or permanently stoned flatmates, or crazy neighbours.

Yesterday a virus tried to attack my computer, I'm afraid that I took it rather personally.

I need to finish writing said essays..and start studying for exams.

I need to start eating properly instead of living off of toast, chicken soup and pears. And coffee.

I need to talk at my doctor until she hands me pills and tells me to shut up. Or just ask nicely.

Think.

About happy things.

I have an email to read, from a lovely person,

and a blanket to be wrapped in, and a used-to-be-pajamas-cushion with penguins and gold sequins (made by baby sis) to hug.

I can never understand why people sit on cushions, when they could be hugging them.

I hug cushions. A lot. Its comforting.

Tegan and Sara,

On Twitter,

And Youtube,

And in my ears.

I have trouser, no, bootleggy somethings from some of their shows, and I've turned the volume up loud enough to drown out my flatmates.

I only like loud music in headphones, so it's inside, instead of surrounding me.

Otherwise I feel panicy and like I can't really see properly.

Their voices still work almost as well as the drugs. They bring me down. Gently.

Anhorse to bring me up, T&S to bring me down..and a serotonin imbalance.

Telling Fran that I was going to go through my blog and change her name to Squiggle Baby.

And then watching her pull faces, and go "Urrgg..do you haaaaaave to". While I giggled.

Nighttime walks round the harbour..ending [of course] with the two us of playing on swings , whilst critiquing society. Squiggle knows about sociologist theories and terminology. I am good at making up words. And passing judgement.

Happening upon a group of Fire Performers (I think they are deserving of capitals) in the park, and watching them for almost an hour. Sitting in the icy-bite air.

Listening to other people talk politics, and somehow being interested.

Deciding that I should maybe read the newspaper, watch the news and form opinions about government policies.

Changing my mind ten minutes later. Boring.

I think it may have been the talker that was interesting. And not the politic-y part.

I am being careful though; I might just place her on a tiny pedestal, a not-very-high one, so she won't get hurt, if she falls off.

I am going to make a sandwich, and drink some herbal tea.

And study. Says responsible Beth.

Or, I might just sit here a while, staring at the wall. And listening to the voices in my head.

It's okay. they aren't the bad kind. They are meant to be there. I invited them.

They run up through wires and spin away into the dark.

There is something in the Oh.oh.Oh. Perhaps in the centre of the middle o.

Something small, I will tell you if I find it.

And Ooh Look I'm Not Talking About Me..For A Change.

But still talking about me, kind of..I can't help myself.

Umm, all of my thoughts have been sucked out of my brain and replaced with other peoples.

It's okay, other people are more interesting than me.

Especially Adrienne Rich. She is amazing. I wish I was her, only I probably wouldn't be as good at being her as she is. And then she wouldn't be her, she'd be me, and I am not at all interesting, really. Or as amazing.

Maybe I just wish that I had access to her thoughts. All of them, even the "I need to brush my teeth, there's a funny taste in my mouth" ones.

"But it is more than these, although we may first begin to perceive it as a form of naysaying to patriarchy, an act of resistance. It has of course included isolation, self-hatred, breakdown, alcoholism, suicide and intrawoman violence; we romanticise at our peril what it means to love and act against the grain..what has been kept from our knowledge is joy, sensuality, courage.."

- Adrienne Rich

I think she probably knows all the things my mother never told me.

"Imagining the landscape of your sorrow

..Is it yellow..or is it blue?"

Yael Naim is amazing too. In another way.

This picture has nothing to do with the post...but I like it. It appeals to me. I'm not sure why.