Cloth

So I slept for 12 hours the other day. The kidney caused this sudden tiredness. Or maybe it was the new pill – I don’t know. Shall the doctor find out this afternoon…

I can’t help believing that there’s something uncontrollably wrong with my mind and body – like an inappropriate collision is about to happen. It took me a while to figure out that it’s this routine triggering this obsessive compulsive behaviour; the need to clean and food shop – it’s driving me crazy. But this is the only way to function independently. If I only could care a little more, fake it maybe or pretend.

Some are wondering why I still follow Vincent Gallo on Twitter and why he’s still in my heroes album since he’s proven to be racist prick. This is not something I care about. All my heroes carry one characteristic that I have, admire or envy. Gallo carries one that I have which is spite. What do I care about all my heroes as persons? I care about achievements and one outstanding characteristic – this is all. And I dream about marrying them.

I’m becoming more and more terrified about September. I admit sincerely that I don’t want to work, because it’s going to deteriorate my health. As all I’m qualified for is working in retail and I know already it will cause kidney failure, eczema ending up in a nervous breakdown. This is a world where you wished you were no artist, because the job earns you no money. So, why I am not merely a rational sucker that works as an accountant?
Things are like this because they are like this. Full stop. The reason why this and that are wrong, is because of this and that. Full stop.
Why do I want to break boundaries and look beneath the surface of everything? Why do I refuse to be like anyone else and accept the way things are? Why don’t I find a man and squeeze out a puppy? Why can’t I just simply fuck anybody? FUCK FUCK FUCK anybody! Why don’t I drink nonetheless – fuck the redness on my face and no matter if my fucking eyes narrow to ugly thin slits! They are thin slits anyhow! Slit, slit, slit!!! Ugly slits!

Where am I again...

Ah right, I went to see Pagliacci yesterday. It wasn’t as good as Madame Butterfly. I hate the fact that that opera was primarily based on Pagliacci’s wife, the whore and how we are to empathise with her. Pagliacci killed her and her lover. Does anyone empathise with Pagliacci? I didn’t have the feeling they did...As if adultery was something acceptable in a play like that.
And as previously mentioned in my unpublished blog entry: I’ve been going to the opera on my own. Sorry to those I’ve been lying to. I’ve not been going with a friend. Therefore, yes, I lied to you. I just don’t want your pity or you feeling upset that I didn’t ask you to join me. I wanted to be alone.
Alone. So let’s go to the cinema instead? But not on 13th of next month, as I’ll be watching the original Madame Butterfly. On my own.

It’s not even afternoon yet and I’ve already closed the curtains. This terrible draft is making my kidneys feel cold. I’ve been stuffing that fucking slit at the window with cloth. One day I’m gonna stuff this whole town with cloth.

The wake-initiated lucid dream

Last night at exactly 1:51am I was woken by the breathing noise of a man – exhaling. At first I thought it was imaginary, that I had dreamt something and I was only in a hypnagogic state again. Nevertheless I looked around in my room just to make sure. There was nobody. Then the breathing repeated. I wasn’t sure anymore whether the breathing occurred in my room. I immediately got out of bed and turned my desk lamp on, as I always find sudden wakefulness in light.
Nothing.
I heard it again. I opened my window and listened. There it was – like a giant exhaling from above my flat. I waited a little longer to hear him breathe once more, but nothing came. Maybe it was a sigh; the sigh of a dinosaur or of Falkor the luck dragon.
In the end I went for a piss and then back to bed.

In last night’s dream I was dating Michael J. Fox (young). We were hugging and it was all very nice and stuff, but then he changed into some ugly loser of a Goth guy that I’ve never seen before in my life and yet his behaviour and manner were more than familiar. He made me buy him beer and tons of sweets. I was threatening with: “If you make me carry all this shit for you, this will be our last date.”
HE had also made me do something similar before.
In that dream I also learnt that Michael didn’t want me anymore, which was why I hooked up with the Goth guy.
The moment I woke up I felt distressed.

In my latest story I have found redemption, but who knows about the current real life situation and how much I have been lying? Only those whose heads aren’t in the clouds, whose body aren’t buried in sand, whose mind and body are in synch. So attractive, so captivating and alluring. So yeah, how do I touch myself? I can’t quite tell to be honest, as I don’t even dare sticking a finger inside of me. It doesn’t feel right. Like nothing you ever do feels right. If you want happiness to be permanent, you need the ability to integrate yourself into this world of ‘bliss’, fuse with it and leave your shit behind. This is how you choose the easiest routes in life. Happiness is something you merely choose. The only danger is fear. The slightest trace of fear will rob you everything and the uncontrollable apprehension of the ephemeral nature of life will be to signify your inability to enjoy happiness to the fullest. The more you fear of losing it, the more you’ll be missing out.

Maybe...maybe I’ve been reading too much Houellebecq who is the reincarnation of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche in one person. There’s one chapter where he talks about ‘Depressive Lucidity’ which pretty much explains my indifference. That chapter was perverse, selfish and somewhat sad.
You see no trace of hope, not even between the lines or underneath the shoes of the protagonists. This silent angry cry – still in bloom. One day will look pretty. It will rule in the botanic garden of human reflections. The electric impulses will give the next species a chill of terror representing humanity’s unfulfilment and flaws that had triggered the world’s end.

Nonetheless, unlike Houellebecq, I still admire the beauty of a daisy. I smile genuinely at it, trying not to think of the day it will forsake me.

Hand covers bruise - A story about the obsession with writing

“I do not know how much of my writing is true, or which parts (if any) are true. This is a potentially lethal situation. We have fiction mimicking truth, and truth mimicking fiction. We have a dangerous overlap, a dangerous blur. And in all probability it is not deliberate. In fact, that is part of the problem. You cannot legislate an author into correctly labelling his product. You cannot compel him to declare what part is true and what isn't if he himself does not know.” – Philip K. Dick

"...whatever you write down it's not the truth, it's just a story. Stories are all we're ever left with in our head or on paper." – Eric Sanderson (‘The Raw Shark Texts’ by Steven Hall)


As I am writing this, my throat is dry, my fingers are trembling and I feel like I have rewound back to the day where I had spent six hours cleaning and lubricating my eyes.
I’ve been having lots of arguments with Father Time about the approaching season which is dying to visit me. Father Time, in other words, Cronos – the effigy of the grim reaper. The prick has been speeding time up without me even realising it. Every time I blink, he seizes his chance to hit the accelerator. Yes, this is the man who wears the hour glass around his neck, carries the sickle and rules over planet Saturn. I am a child of his because I was born on a Saturday. I am one of the titans. I even have the planet of death and destruction inked on my back.
Time – I’m not ready for spring, yet.
Our group therapist, Mr. Johnson, is calling me, I’m afraid I have to switch to the mental notebook, if you don’t mind.
“Miss P, I hope you are making useful notes of today’s session!”
“Yessir,” I say and this very moment Bennett Renstrom enters the class and apologises for being late. As usual the air goes out when he comes in. It’s not the first time that he chooses to sit behind me. Each time I just wait for those Arctic eyes to freeze me from behind, so I’m released from all this misery. Anger has become a clot in my mentality, except that I don’t initiate fights or torture animals – I write. Excessively.
But I hate writing. I hate it from the bottom of my heart. Writing – with the result of ending up in an empire of rubbish dump of a thousand wasted days. The moment I put the pen down another year has passed. I forget how to speak. I forget how sex works. And the worst of all, I grab the pen again, as I don’t know what else to do.
I have come to the conclusion that Bennett, the Swede, is Prince Charming. If he doesn’t save me, no one will. He doesn’t talk much in class and the only thing we know is that he writes poetry.
The back of my head is itchy and my heart is racing. Can he hear my heartbeat?
“It’s all about expressing ourselves, isn’t it?” Mr Johnson starts. “The rush of anger that comes along with the desire of self-expression is often pointless. So, who would like to share a positive experience today?”
Last week no one’s experience was anywhere near positive. This is the third week. I am the only female in this group of thirteen people and the only student. The ages vary from 16-66. The 16 year old kid is Stephan Jenkins, an easily provoked Sixth former learning from Sid Vicious’s notion ‘To provoke a reaction is better than to react to provocation.’ During school breaks he hides in the toilet and beats everyone up that enters.
Mr Voglein is the oldest and most easily aggravated one. If there is a trace of irritation, such as having forgotten his reading glasses, he will find reason to fuel this irritation by throwing papers into the air and pushing the table over. If I were him I’d have killed myself before ever getting Alzheimer.
“Anyone?” Mr Johnson looks slightly anxious. “Come on, people.”
He lowers his head in resignation and starts scratching his head loudly.
I hesitantly raise my hand and a sudden smile appears on his face.
“Ah, Miss P., thank you! Please proceed.”
All eyes are fixed on me and the ones behind me are poking me.
“Well, I’m not sure if you can call it progress, but I wrote a letter.”
“Wonderful! This also reminds me of last week’s homework!”
Last week I inspired him to have everyone keep a diary aiming to help them analyse their anger and to retrace its roots.
If they only knew that I keep a diary hourly, even if it’s just one sentence.
“I’ve been keeping a diary,” says Mr Kirkpatrick, someone who is close to becoming the victim of alcoholism and violence. I tell him to go first.
“What do ye wanna hear? The bright stuff?”
“Bright, please,” Mr Johnson begs.
Mr Kirkpatrick clears his throat. “Saturday, March 2, Alone again. The days have become repetitive. One beer in the morning, two in the afternoon and countless ones at Frankie’s Bar in the evening. I figured that all this serves as a warm up for my fight with Carl outside the bar – the only thing I look forward to nowadays. The days may continue to repeat, but please, God let me keep this daily fight. It’s the only thing that keeps me alive...”
That is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard today. There is silence and I notice certain faces looking puzzled, as if not sure what results to draw from that.
“That’s very poetic, Miles,” says Mr Johnson. “But I think you’re not quite there yet. Remember we were talking about reaching the core of the anger. ”
“Yes, I know and I think I’m getting there. Thanks to Miss P for the diary idea.”
I may have extended his miserable life. I feel embarrassed.
“What’s this?” Mr Voglein blurts out. “A bloody poetry class?”
“Well, let’s see what you’ve got then, Mr Voglein” says Mr Johnson.
“I ain’t got my reading glasses, dammit!”
He is the only person in the group that fills the room with more negative energy than already palpable. For the love of Cronos, I can sense almost all these suckers’ auras. The terrible electric cloud that Mr Voglein spreads can easily be detected from the other corner of the room. Call it energy or electric field, but your heart, muscles and brain beam electrical impulses. Everything in this room is messed up, except for Mr Johnson’s electric signals which are in synch. This is why I love him – my fairytale godfather. I could do with a hug from someone whose mind and heart are in harmony. But the only way for me to sustain harmony is to fictionalise everything that I can’t mentally and physically obtain.
“I’m sorry, I forgot.” Mr Johnson rubs his face, tired, but his eyes brighten up as he looks at me. “Miss P, how about reading your letter?”
“Read?” I suddenly feel very uneasy. I can’t help believing that I will disappoint him with the letter, as he has been wondering why I’ve joined this group in first place. He nods with an encouraging smile. I think I can feel Bennett’s breath stroking my neck. I hope he can’t hear my heartbeat.
I take a deep breath: “Dear Nothing, it’s once again time like every year where this particular low point has reached the surface again. I can’t bury something that’s undead. How can I eventually have it killed for good? How long can I keep my head above water? The monster of the past is still there and ever-lurking in my nightmares in which I’d rather chop my hand off than have it hold me. It’s in my dreams that I am scared and when I’m awake; I feel rage...” I can’t carry on.
“I’m sorry. I do not wish to continue.”
“Why not?” Mr Johnson asks.
“I think me fantasising about fist fights and manslaughter is not appropriate.”
People laugh, except Mr Johnson. This is where I start to feel bad. I have disappointed him.

At the end of the session, Mr Johnson gives me an empathetic smile suggesting something fatherly.
“I’m sorry, Mr Johnson.”
“What for, P?” he laughs. “Keep up the good work.”
I want to ask him what good work, but I can’t.
As I approach the exit, I see Bennett lighting a cigarette outside. He sees me and instantly smiles. I take a deep breath. The alternative world can only be found on a blank page on which I build a kingdom; a kingdom over which I rule.
He offers me a fag. Our faces are close as he lights it for me. Menthol – my favourite.
“There is no point in sharing your anger, you know,” he says.
“Why do you think I interrupted myself?”
We walk through the park. It’s almost dinner time. I must say my favourite time of the day is twilight or any day at five in the morning (especially during autumn). That’s the sort of darkness that smells best – cold particles mixed with wet leaves. The smell of spring symbolises Hemingway’s new beginning for which I am not ready.
“Can I ask you something?” Bennett says.
“Sure.”
“Are you here to help or to get help?”
There’s something very attractive about his Swedish accent which sounds slightly American at the same time. Many foreigners, me included, have an American accent, because the first thing foreign school kids learn about the English language is to emphasise the ‘R’ the way they do in pop songs or Hollywood movies.
“Well, if I can help others – that’s fine by me.”
“Bullshit. Come on, why are you really in the group?”
My pace has decelerated, so that I am a few steps behind now. He stops walking and looks at me.
“All right, why are you there?” I ask.
“Same reason as you, except that I’m not in self-denial.”
“Right. What makes you think you know me?”
He flicks his cigarette away and starts walking. “Fancy a drink?” he asks.

As we reach the end of the park, we enter a bar nearby. The good thing is it’s in the middle of the week, which means no juvenile delinquents with fake IDs.
“What would you like?”
“Tap water, please,” I say and he raises an eyebrow.
“I think you need something stronger...”
“Well, tough, I don’t do alcohol.”
He chuckles as he gets his wallet out. “I’m not surprised then...” he mumbles to himself.
I get my notebook out and start to scribble.
“Are you writing what a dick I am?”
I smile as I’m writing this. If only he knows how he is making me feel right now. Talking to him reminds me of the conversations I have with my I.R.
The barmaid comes to take his order.
“Can I have a Daiquiri please? And a Strawberry Surprise for the lady, alcohol free.”
I instantly put my pen down. Sometimes fiction takes over and you forget you have the upper hand.
“I have this feeling that you look cute when drinking that stuff,” he says.
I roll my eyes in shame. Suddenly he places his lips on my ear and whispers “I can feel your heat, P. It keeps me warm in class, but I think you’re doing yourself no good.”
He turns back to the barmaid who hands him his change. No matter how captivating Bennett’s aura is, I don’t seem to be able to break through his shell.
“I can’t help believing that your naked soul is just as hot,” I say with such confidence that even he is surprised.
The barmaid approaches us with our drinks; mine is bright pink decorated with fancy picks, a slice of pineapple and a cherry. His Daiquiri looks just as feminine as mine – a red drink with strawberries attached to the glass.
“I know it looks girly and I wouldn’t order it if you weren’t here. But it tastes so good!”
We both raise our glasses.
“Skål!”
“Prost!”
He watches me suck at the straw and I can’t help feeling like a kid drinking milkshake. The Strawberry Surprise is the most delicious drink I’ve ever had. It reminds me of Johannes Brahms’s last words before his death: “Ah that tastes nice. Thank you.”
The day I die is the day I am unable to finish a written sentence.
Bennett’s still looking at me, now grinning.
He says “I know what it looks like beneath your surface. And sorry, you don’t look cute.”
His compliments are very ambivalent, but it’s not the first time that I experience a man sending out mixed signals. It’s always best not to react to them. Whatever reaction I show, he’ll triumph on the inside.
“Would you show me some of your poetry?” I ask.
“Ha, no.”
My notebook’s still on the table and I carefully move it toward him. He looks at me like he can’t believe his eyes.
“In return I’ll let you find out whether you’re a dick.”
The astonishment in his eyes has turned into a pleasant smile indicating a slight trace of feeling honoured that I let him read.
Finally he grabs deeply into his pocket and presents his small Moleskine notebook – half the size of mine. Carefully he places it in front of me and says “Pick a random page. Just one page.”
I, too, am interested in what he has last written, so I pick the page where he has placed his string bookmark.

“And I wonder how she touches herself
When the heinous heat in her blood rises
The delicate way it effervesces
If I could taste the wound and wistful wealth
Of her anger she has kept for so late
An effusive eruption
Furthermore
And molten lava – the suspicious core

Watching her straight back and tilting of head
Staring peeping holes through her soft body
She reads a letter of regretful hate”

For the love of Cronos! From the side of my eyes I see him observing me while I’m reading it for the third time.
“Are you done?”
I hand him back his notebook whereas I’m not asking for mine. Instead I finish drinking the sweet Strawberry Surprise. Then I place the cherry into my mouth. It is now that I realise that our legs are touching and neither of us feel unfamiliar about it.
“Would you like another?” he asks.
I shake my head and slowly start rubbing my cocktail glass. Apparently when a guy sees that, he’ll go all funny inside.
“I think you do...” He calls the barmaid and orders another Strawberry Surprise. She takes my empty cocktail glass away. I wonder whether he is Taurean. There is something about Taurus’s stubbornness that draws me to them all the time.
I keep both of my hands busy with a piece of string and bits of paper from a beer mat.
“Do you ever feel alone?” I ask. “I mean really alone? It doesn’t matter how many people are around you or if you’ve just told your best friend how you feel. No one’s ever going to understand you the way you do, because they are not you. Even when lying in bed with someone...the moment you fall asleep you’re alone in your head. You’re alone in your dreams. What you see is what you wish was there.”
Whilst deep in thought, he puts his notebook away into his pocket.
“What has he done to make you feel this way?”
After a long pause I say, “He gave me a rough idea of what love might be.”
My pink drink arrives and this time I eat the cherry first before drinking. He slowly moves my notebook toward me and then finishes his drink.
“So you think we all pretend we’re not alone?” he asks.
“How else do we fall in love?”
“So love’s an illusion?”
I suck at the straw and Bennett is looking at me with nervous eyes. I wonder whether I look cute now or not. Evil would be another option.
“Please don’t take everything I say so seriously,” I say. “Don’t you ever look for alternative exits to reduce cognitive dissonance?”
Finally there is a smile. “You mean like the fox and the grapes?”
I answer with a smile less strong than his. Suddenly I don’t feel like drinking up that cocktail anymore. I don’t deserve its sweetness and I surely shouldn’t devour its innocent appearance.
“I joined that group because I needed to see how much I am still in control. And I needed a confirmation of what’s still real.”

Do you see the beauty of fictionalisation? We all know the significance of expressing one’s feelings and only on paper you’ll realise that the beauty and accuracy are in synch; the words succinct and straight to the point.

After our drinks, Bennett and I go back to the park where he offers me another menthol cigarette. We sit on the lawn. The darkness still smells alluring so does the scent of Bennett’s body. It’s the darkness that gives me the confidence to lay my head on his shoulder. Is this how Hades will make me feel when it’s time?
“Do you still feel alone?”
“It depends,” I say “it depends on whether you’re real or not.”
“You’re strange,” he says and I hear him blow out the smoke.
“I suffer from chronic delirium...”
I’m not even sure if I am really holding a cigarette. My head is as hollow as a vacuum; whereas my heart is gradually filling with...I don’t know what. I can’t hold the pen any longer.
I drop the cigarette. There’s someone else with a pen.
“Come back,” I hear him say as he snaps his fingers.
“I’m still here. Are you?”
He laughs and presses me harder against him. I feel my spine tingle. Liquid gather in the lacrimal lake, filling the sac and I squeeze the first drops out of my eyes. I’m finally alone with him on a creased page – a lonely island of nothing but puddles of salty water and ugly handwriting.
“Are you all right?”
“It depends,” I say “it depends...”
A kiss – warm and vivid like the retrievable images from last night’s Shakespeare play. The sense of unrequited love, however, is brewing in the core of my entire being, triggering dissociation.
“I have to tell you the truth, P” he says out of the blue. This doesn’t scare me the slightest, I shall welcome any truth that anyone can offer me. Truths that will drag me out of the vicious circle and help me fathom the purpose of the written word. No more secrets and all the thousand pieces of the mystery will finally come together.
“I’ll be gone once I’ve helped you to open your eyes,” he says.
I release myself from the embrace, becoming clear-headed again. The darkness smells of duck poo. I hear the speeding cars on the streets and the moment Bennett grabs for my hand, I feel a couple of calluses on the tip of his fore and middle finger; probably from playing the guitar or bass or double bass. How ridiculous he’d look playing the double bass!
“Help me, eh?” I pull my hand back and try to get back on my feet. My first attempt fails as I have pins and needles in my leg. I start hitting myself violently in the leg whilst forcing myself to stand properly.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“...showing you my competence!”
There are people in this world who are too bored to care or they are too ignorant to find out more, too oblivious to break the ice – scared! Never will I ever want to be one of them. And never will I ever be the one who needs help from anyone, especially if they are not here to stay.
I sense negative electrical impulses within myself, but I feel nothing coming from Bennett like there was a thick piece of glass between us. I fall back on my bum. I need to write in my notebook, but it’s too dark.
No, something else needs to be done first. Short-term happiness is happiness at stake.
See Ophelia, see Juliet. Fools.
It is now that I notice the waxing crescent moon causing this entire madness. I wear the waning crescent moon on my left shoulder blade, representing every stupid thing that I do.
“Get up,” he says.
I do and I walk away. The ugly neon street lights hurt my eyes, but it doesn’t stop me from grabbing my notebook to scribble shit. Bennett’s following me – his steps quiet and delicate like those of an angel or Eurydice. Orpheus did the mistake and looked back. Do I really want to end up singing songs to Hades?

As I enter the petrol station I see J staring at me from the counter – probably wondering why my phone has been off for months. There are no current customers evident, except for one guy filling up outside. J leaves the counter and I count his steps until he’s two metres away from me.
“One step closer,” I say without looking at the demon.
“Then what?” he says.
My breathing has become irregular since the moment I’ve stepped into the petrol station. I haven’t suffered from respiratory disorders since my last job.
“I miss you,” he mutters.
I close my eyes, as I clench both fists. I have trouble breathing, trouble holding back; trouble swallowing this lump in my throat. For the love of Cronos, I can taste the remaining flavour of the Strawberry Surprise intermingling with Bennett’s Daiquiri. This moment is for real.
I hear J take another step and the next thing I feel is my fist against his face. My eyes now wide open, I see him trip over a stack of Cola cans. He falls over and props his body with one hand. I kick him hard in the stomach whilst shouting “§$%*§$&%?*#$%##!”
Suddenly I feel two arms under my armpits curling to hold me back.
“That’s enough,” I hear Bennett say and his voice is reason enough for me to succumb to this cool breeze which I thought I have lost.

Bennett and I are on the night bus. I put my head on his shoulder again. I feel how our body heat is becoming one.
Where is my pen?
I want to write that wishful thinking has nothing to do with invention. It’s just playing hide and seek with illusion and reality. And if you can’t distinguish the two, you are fucked. Hint: The prettier one is illusion. Sometimes wishful thinking reflects your worst intentions, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just a waving figure in silhouette reminding you of who you are. Control is an illusion. You can’t escape the dark forebodings looming over you. This doesn’t concern anyone, except you.
The past is a distant memory and not yet over.
What a long day. I blame Father Time. But spring may come.
“Are you the grapes beyond reach?” I whisper deliriously.
“I’m closer than you think.”
-

“Miss P, I hope you are making useful notes of today’s session!” Mr Johnson says.
I twitch and lose my pen.
“Yessir,” I say and look at my notebook. Then I turn around and only see an empty chair. I start packing my stuff together.
“Miss P...you’re going?”
I smile at him and then at everybody else. Mr Voglein looks grumpy, whereas Stephan Jenkins looks like he will miss me and Mr Kirkpatrick will also.
“I have some work to do,” I say and pick up my pen.
Judging by Mr Johnson’s smile, he knows I won’t come back.
As I leave the room, I walk past Mr Johnson’s office. He has forgotten to close the door and there’s something on his desk that catches my attention. I slowly enter the office and kneel before his desk to marvel at his beautiful grape bonsai tree.
Decades ago Dick explained to us: “Reality is that which, when one stops believing in it, doesn’t go away.”
After all, the only thing we care about is our own





























perception.



FürHerrnW

Paula Cheung, February 2011

The low girl and lacrimation

A friend said my love life bore a great resemblance to everything Shakespeare – unrequited love due for a miracle. When I hear Shakespeare I don’t think about love. Instead I have images of death, despair, madness and vengeance swirling around in my head. This may be because I only have two favourites: Hamlet - my prince, my well-controlled man of madness and Macbeth – a play proving that women in power are evil.

I read my daily rat horoscope for fun. When reading something positive, I always hope for the best, whereas I describe all negative predictions as bullshit. Do I really? Deep inside I develop a fear and that fear constitutes self-fulfilling prophecy. ‘Beware pointless and devastating jealousy.’ I never used to be jealous in my life. But this is another of those unbearable things that he had left me with.

I was ready to go to the shop to get more fresh vegetables and on my way I intended to pop in at the accommodation office to report faulty in our kitchen and in my bathroom. My extractor fan doesn’t work. Ever since I moved in I’ve intended to go to the accommodation office to have it sorted. And never have I bothered. The shelves in the fridges all collapsed just like the bridge of balance inside my defective core. That was the plan for today - to finally get it fixed.
The minute I was ready to go out, an email with a link had eliminated all productivity that I had in store for today. I am not quite sure who I’m doing this for anymore.
My worst apprehension has come true. And now I have reached the peak of hopelessness. I can feel the lifelessness in my limbs.

There is only little that I want and too much that I do not want. You cannot call that picky or fussy, because I work hard for the little things. People say you should be happy with what you’ve got – who says I’m not happy? I am happy. The problem is that I am bored, which causes this current low functioning motivation. Not generally bored; but bored on a further level than anyone else, almost resembling an absurdist’s way of viewing boredom. If that’s not nihilistic then I don’t know what it is. Or this may be the prolonged punishment for my previous life as an arsehole of a man. But I’m sure all those women deserved it in one way or the other.
I see my problem and it won’t be solved until the novel’s completed. That’ll be day for me to move on and show that impatient fuck-finger...

The boulder is exceptionally heavy today, even though it’s the same one I’ve been rolling for so long.

All of a sudden the sounds of the Londoner sirens and the foxes’ cries seem very far away. That's because I've wrapped myself up in plastic. Filtered noise is less frightening. If only there was a healthy way of filtering emotions as well. If only I was runaway android Pris. But no, I am flesh and blood, heart and brain, wrapped in plastic. Still as human as before. Gradually I feel tired, dizzy and all I hear is the irregularity of my breathing. And before falling asleep, I empty my heart and mind.

There isn’t enough liquid gathering in the lacrimal lake; therefore not much has entered the sac and I only squeeze two drops of tears out of my eyes. No more will come. Only two. Two bitter ones. To clean and lubricate my eyes. Only to clean and lubricate my eyes.

The digit sum of midnight

I don’t resent the person for making me feel this way, although I’m finding it hard to breathe today. I thought my bra was pressing to hard, so I took it off – still couldn’t breathe in deeply. So I opened the window and meditated for ten minutes – better. I don’t like how the tweeting birds outside constantly remind me of spring time for which I am not yet ready. Then I put Finch on.
If I could fuck time in the arse with his sickle I would. I mean no offense, Cronos, I still love you and your planet. I wear you on my back still and always will. If this is what you have in store for all the Saturday children, then fair enough I will not interfere, but I hate you right this very moment. 1+4=5

The truth is my imagination is weak; not as good as other people’s and this is why I like reading stuff that goes over the top, just to see if I can finally imagine it. Example by Ryu Murakami’s “In the miso soup”:

“Frank pointed at #5’s throat and looked at me. You could see her vocal cords vibrating as she screamed. Signaling with his eyes as if to say “Ready? Watch this,” he sliced deeply into the vibrating flesh, and the scream dissolved in a loud shoosh, like escaping steam. “ 3+3+2=8

If you write about a person that has just got out of bed and is now going to take a shower, I am unable to imagine this. Neither am I able to imagine a young boy on a football field, running, kicking. Why? Because I cannot be bothered! However I admire people who can imagine simple images like these. How do they manage creating these characters without painting dark clouds over them? Why are they so free compared to my characters? My characters feel so numb, they can’t even cry and neither can I anymore. I haven’t felt like this since 1st January. You know when the energy escapes your body, leaving the blood cold, freezing on the inside? This is when you welcome apathy reluctantly. And behind apathy’s back you attempt to recycle old, thrown away pieces of emotions which you believe you still know so well. 1+0=1

All my life I’ve been trying to be an ordinary, feminine woman and ended up building E. a high fence between her and the rest of the women. And not one bloody sucker has noticed in the first chapters, well maybe a couple. I am surprised how a fellow student told me she found it hard to maintain an unreliable narrator. If you know the worst of you, you’ll be able to do anything you want, you can deceive anyone you want. You must not care. But if you are a caring person by nature and enjoy caring for others then I’m afraid you haven’t dug deep enough. On the other hand, I wouldn’t advise anyone to do that. At some point, you won’t be able to breathe, if you’re too far down the ground. You’ll get obsessed with it. A truth that mightn’t even exist. 1+4+6+2 = 4

Why would anyone say they envy me when the truth is: I envy them? Because only fools are really alive. I envy them so much. 5+7+4=7

I don’t want to go outside. I don’t want to go outside watch pigeons pick on a piece of left-over chicken wing. I don’t want to go outside and look at people’s puke from last night’s party. Why is England so uncontrollably drunk? Where in the world do I find people who do not drink to have fun? I’m tired of keeping my word all the time. I’m tired of this. 1+2+3 =6

My obsession with numerology isn’t as extreme as a mathematician’s. I just have the habit of adding up all the numbers until I have only one. So have a guess how crazy I go inside when I see digital clocks or when I’m on the treadmill. It has become an obsessive compulsion.
When my digital alarm strikes midnight I always wonder: What are you?
And then I realized it’s the one I am in love with – he has been hiding behind all the zeros. And I wished he wasn’t afraid. This number is so beautiful. With his back turned on me. 0+0+0+0=…

Today's meal

I’m eating a plate full of chips, pie and broccoli with so much ketchup on top of it all. Just because I can’t stop pressing that fucking tube.

The moment I place a piece of broccoli, covered in ketchup, into my mouth, I imagine it is a dead caterpillar; it’s overcooked and tastes soft. Then I have a chip resembling an empty dried insect – crunchy ends, and another hollow left over cocoon. Ketchup. Ketchup makes it all bearable. As I cut the pie open, a great number of lifeless maggots gush out, all covered in white mold or spores. Intermingling with the ketchup. I squeeze more ketchup on top and again I can’t stop pressing that fucking tube. Ketchup covers everything. Ketchup covers everything up. I take a mouthful. And another. And another.
There is blood running down the side of my mouth, I must’ve bitten my lip.
Ketchup

Burn her!

It only dawned on me today that I am probably too late. The reason why I admire E. is because she is beyond beautiful and has a fantastic job. And she gets the men she wants. Whereas I am continuously rejecting those that I don’t want – no matter how wonderful they are. I am not looking for anyone who is wonderful. I just want someone to ignite the fire so I can make myself suffer by telling myself I cannot have him. At least I am being reminded that I am alive. The last time felt like this was four years ago and it held on for over a year. Pain and bliss together. Every time I fall in love I seem to get closer and closer to the chance of being loved back. But how will I feel if it ever happens? I do not remember how it feels.

I had a creepy dream in which that bastard found me. He grabbed hold of my hand tightly and I couldn’t escape. I almost chopped my own hand off so that I could escape from him. I realized it’s not just him, but my friends also remind me of my stupidity. Their blindness reminds me of what a fool I myself used to be. This is why love is best when you can’t have it (, although I wouldn’t mind stroking its head). When you can’t have it, you go mad and you remain disciplined at the same time. You lose weight by not feeling hunger. Only falling asleep is a pain.

I have this feeling that some of the student writers that I’m working with are currently living a very mundane life because they are not digging deep enough in their hearts. I don’t know where they are going and I’m not sure if they know where they are heading to, either. If I see no trace of honesty and confession making, I just lose interest. I want to see at least an attempt of wanting to retrace the deeply entombed memory or whatever the fuck had a great impact on them. Maybe some writers have never gone crazy or they are cowards. But then they cannot call themselves writers. You write to make yourself feel better. There are no further reasons.

In the last couple of weeks I have learnt a lot about my writing persona thanks to certain wonderful people I have become more aware of what I put onto paper and most importantly: why. Why have I bought a ticket for this particular journey? I finally know, although it was obvious, but coming to realize it is another thing. E. is going through the same phase. I see the parallels clearly in my head, except that her end is clear and mine is still uncertain.
Here’s another thing: E. is more courageous than I. And yet, people will mistake E.’s courage for mine. At the end of the day she is someone I want to be, I don’t just admire her. This is the truth. And a terrible lie that I will never forgive myself for.

Once the journey is over, all feminists will hate me. I want them all to shout: “Burn her! Burn her! Traitor! Burn her!” And only genuine women AND men will be able to see beneath the surface.

The social recluse

I just spent three intense hours thinking. Just thinking. Not meditating. Not writing. I don’t quite remember what I have been thinking about, except that I have been asking myself questions; questions that I have heard today. Questions to which I was sure I knew the answers to, but for some reason I just couldn’t utter them, because they had disappeared within a wink. If this reflects my uncertainty then I am quite ashamed of myself. It’s good to know this after all. John Lydon comes to mind, as I remember what he once wrote in his autobiography, that one should never be understood completely. It’s the “kiss of death” and the ultimate “full stop”. By the looks of it, I have to invite myself for a coffee and get to know myself better before anyone else does.

Whenever writers are asked about vulnerability, they’d like to think they have nothing to hide.

I have to start drawing maps for myself, even though I’ve never been the best at reading maps, let alone my own handwriting.

I read an interview with Jack Nicholson, the former womaniser of Hollywood. He is described as a “sociable loner”, which I find extremely amusing, as I’ve been called a “social recluse” before. Oxymoron is fun, so is the Wilde-ean paradox. This is where uniqueness dwells. I think Jack is some who realises that socialising is crucial, although deep inside he couldn’t give a shit. How do you think I’ve been feeling?

I have been listening to Somewhat Damaged (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WY0NEQd3_co) repeatedly and realised that the title is not about my “a-e”, but about me – every single word and its hidden meaning beyond those letters. The song just draws a parallel line to the story.

It feels like a never-ending journey. To be honest, I prefer it this way.
There is way too much unfinished business around me, which I can tell by my haunting dreams; it might as well take my whole life, because I’m so slow at dealing with things, although I’ve always had the compulsion of wanting to finish things as soon as possible so that I can move on to the next.

In the end you are what you never thought you were.