letter to my ex: part four

I avoid going to places if I think you will be there.
Because I am so scared to be around you.

Because I am scared of you.

One time I saw someone from behind. She had exactly the same physique as you, she held herself in exactly the same way. the angle of her head, the position of her shoulders, her posture. For a few moments I thought it was you and I felt paralysed with panic. my heart slamming against my ribs.
It was not you.
But the fact that someone's posture can still have such an effect over me is frightening.

I hate that you still dictate where I am physically.

morning moments

stretch and wriggle. shake off sleep and let new creaky morning energy reach all your limbs.

open your mouth and yawn. make noise, you've been quiet for 8 hours. yell as you stretch. let loose whatever morning noises are in your throat. YAWP.

open the blinds and let the fucking light in. Grab the string, bend your knees and pull em up. WOOOSHHH.
 
pad around in bare feet and no pants. laugh at your bed hair and then remember its what it looks like all the time anyway.

Dad comes running down the stairs because he slept through his alarm and the news has started without him. Dad is the ultimate morning noise maker. he holds his hands together above his head, leans back and yells 'DOO BEE DOO BEE DOOOO'

John comes stumbling out of his room, unfolds his lanky body and hits the ceiling with his hands. He has the most priceless bewildered expression, sleep is creased into his face and he looks around blinking.

Mum floats around like a fluffy whirwind. fluffy dressing gown, fluffy slippers, fluffy hair. She tries to organise everyone's days and lives from her porridge bowl

morning time is family time. greet eachother in silly voices. sing and shout. dad finishes all the coffee. he blames it on the dog. he sings the 'naughty teddy' song.

sit with dad as he puts his shoes on in front of the news. the morning news reader is a milf, and is wearing polkadots and new sunglasses. yell at the tv 'VIRGINA YOU MILF'

wait for your black coffee to be perfect drinking temperature. Get too excited and slurp away anyway.

cook oats on the stove. grate apples. peel oranges, break pecans in half between your fingers, shake cinnamon.

go outside and feel the dirt between your toes as you pick parsley and lemons from the garden like a garden fairy.

a collection of special things #2

dad's special 'boat glasses'. the arms are stuck to the frames with glue.

sewing pockets on skirts

capricious beers, sitting on a crochet blanket, rain falling on tin roofs, indulging in eachother's details

Carob cake made from home processed carob that Nyria stole from a tree on her street.

a loft full of light, with big windows over looking the lemon tree

Blunstone boots

bright lights, loud music, leaning back in chairs, turning our heads towards one another and whispering

a monkey with a drum

spring #2

spring is for perspective
for spring cleaning stale feelings
taking them out,
dusting them off
and looking at them in new, fresh light

spring is for not being stuck.

inspiration vs. dedication (feat. some wise friends)

I am getting distressed by the realisation that I have no joy for uni at the moment.

But, yaknow, the world does not run on the same time line as me. We have different rhythms. And mine is so erratic. So desultory.

I’m ok with sporadic passion. Because when it's in me, when i create it or when it's evoked in me, it fills me. I would rather that than being.... platitudinous.

I struggle so intensely to do things I don’t find interesting, or am not inspired to do. I have such a capacity for what i am passionate about. I have so much to give to the things i want to do. I just don’t have time for what I don’t care about.

And... I have these naive and glorious ideas about what is good for my soul. How I respond to what I give myself to. What builds me and what erodes me.

I feel so uncomfortable with the idea of doing something that does not fill me with joy. Of committing my time and energy to something mediocre. I think mediocrity erodes me.

I think we give to the world, by being whole. By seeking wholeness for ourselves.

But Sophie says we should believe in determination and dedication over inspiration.

That feels really strong to me. I like that idea. It is positive.

Maybe commitment is a building force. Even if what i am dedicated to doesn’t fill me with as much joy as i would like. Yes, that thought encourages me a lot.

Marko said something so encouraging, about gritting your teeth, and then reassessing when you have finished what you committed to. And then making it what you want.

(I have such wise friends)

Now I don’t think it is as simple as only doing what i love to do. We should be ok with ‘building blocks’. With doing mediocre things as a means to some glorious end.

just grit your teeth.

Maybe inspiration comes from determination. 

restlessness

i was thinking about restlessness. it is one of my strongest feelings. one of my strongest forces and motivations.

So sometimes it is... not the best thing. It can make me do reckless things. It can make me so physically uncomfortable. it usurps me completely. and i can feel like my bones will jump from my skin and run away from my body.

But it is always celebrated. Like every other part of me. a walt whitman luscious.

There's a certain kind of restlessness that i get sometimes... a heavy kind of restlessness. The one i feel when i know what i want but cant give it to myself. It swells in my chest. Distending and tumescent. I can feel my bones growing. I feel heavy with its presence, heavy with its impact.

It physically moves me. It makes a puppet of me. I almost cant control what i physically do.

I feel like it... bubbles in me. Under my surface. Quite defiantly and determinedly. As a feeling it is determined. Implacable. There is no attenuating it. No reasoning with it.

I wonder if it was a substance what form it would take. I wonder if it is a solid substance. tumescent. it sits like stone in my belly. in my chest. Or if it is vapour. Gas. Does gas bubble?

whatever form it takes, it must exude from me. It must be a tangible force. It feels so strong. It fills me so intensely, i can feel it coursing through my body and leaking from me. I wonder if people around me can feel it.

It makes a plenum of me.

What i find interesting, what i have been wondering about, is how much restlessness fills me. Fills my capacity.

And i wondered... do i feel full OF restlessness? Is restlessness a substance? Is restlessness the matter in which i am filled with, or is restlessness the means in which i am filled with... everything else. Whatever i am restless about.

Maybe restlessness is a catalyst. Or like a reactive ingredient. Like yeast. And i rise and swell like dough.

It can manifest in so many ways. Its very dynamic. Sometimes it sillyness. Sometimes it is heaviness in my chest. Sometimes its reticence. Sometimes its an intense need to communicate in intricate detail. sometimes it is ebullient joy.

spring #1

spring is for

green apples
and gingham dresses

for arrows
and sparrows

and bitterness