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to be honest / feb 26

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TO BE HONEST with you, i’m thinking about getting my head kicked in by a man with white jordans and a septum piercing when my bike takes a moment to itself. It chooses to leave me clattering, a real weird woman and with her real weird hunk of metal meeting an invisible resistance, and letting contact between the pavement and the body come to. Here is the firmament, just be cool, and don’t over think it. Anyway, it’s strange, then it’s sore, then you’re off dusting your hand and, then, oh, yeah, no, all good, thank you for asking, sorry you had to see that, i’ll be okay though. Ha ha ha ha. Then it’s riding with a preciousness, as well as an immutable anxiety all the way home. Stopping underneath a bridge, I find somebody’s aunt with a Sainsbury’s shopping bag stood so still. She is not motionless - i must say it until i am breathless, there is life here - she is looking the way I came. I drink the questionable remains of the contents of my waterbottle. I take off my sweater, i try to ...
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Laws of Writing Character

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it's not supposed to look good, duh.  A brief 'lecture' (fuck off) on writing character for a course I'm on. Character exists at the heart of our association with each other. We know who is supposed to be a character, for what they have done, the abstraction and reduction into ‘h, he’s a character, in’t he?’ It is through others, we become ourselves, says Lev Vygotsky: and the social psychologist argues too, we become ourselves through play. Character and play are commonalities, rich in bed with each other, as we adopt roles and archetypes to, firstly have fun, and then, to become. Writing character, making character, becoming character can be the same. The precedent for creative writing guidance on YouTube is readily available,. The lesson I want to impart here is that character comes from energy, a fixed location, and must be progressing onwards and towards another horizon.  The traits and characteristics are already there for you watch and read about. This lecture is...
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to be honest / jan 26

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do you see it too? TO BE HONEST , nobody has time for a sick sucker with no self-confidence. I certainly don’t. I’m the last sad sack crying a river for the dork who, because of her labour, sees herself as out of place, unable to contribute to her community. Both living her best life and succumbing to completely monotony. To be frank, it wasn’t better when I was trying to split myself open, but, dear lover, the quantity of my haters has me making quick jokes to entertain the court. No, I’ve already done my time. I’ve read that headline, I’ve seen all that was said in that court case. I’ve heard that song twice too many times. I’m perfectly able to contribute to a creative practice, as the words fall into place. I’m gonna try my hardest to set this up, and keep it up. I’m going to tell a lot of lies in my life, no matter how long or short I live. I won’t lie to you here. That doesn’t mean a lot of things, one of which is that I’m not going to make it easy for you to decipher the truth. ...
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I DON'T NEED TO BE LUCKY, I JUST NEED TO BE HAPPY : music, books and other sentiments from twenty twenty five

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  Honningbarna released an album earlier in this year called Soft Spot that my friend heather described as norwegian black metal, and though i’m no expert in the scene, i wouldn’t call it black metal, i wouldn’t know where to begin with genre boundaries and placement. I don’t have the stomach to be that kinda mark. If i’ve learned anything over the year twenty twenty five, it’s that i’m not made like a know-it-all. I start most conversations with ‘I think it’s interesting that’, and now my mouth is all dry, and my mouth tastes clammier. When i drink water it just goes over my tongue. I haven’t really learned that i’m not made in any specific way. I just know that it’s music with spirit, man. The music has got the fucking spirit. It’s the party that never stops, that never dies, that keeps fucking going. It’s down woodland road at 15:15 without breaks on your back wheel or a helmet. My living has been in the hands of the surrounding world for a long time now, I’m only doing my job...
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Play the Hand, Find the Song: card games, coping and putting it to paper with unbearable shame

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  I pop ice from its plastic body and they slide across the countertop, taking refuge beneath the dishes again. I pour more coffee than I should be drinking into a glass one of us stole on a night out. I check the photo again, I try to read the words. The people make me smile. I wipe the sweat from my brow and lick it from the back of my palm. I like these people. I always assumed they’d never exist, or be some part of my imagination. They laugh, each in their own way, the same way I laugh, and I see myself in each of them. My phone lives at 10%. There’s rum down the side of the backseat. The music changes. There’s an ancient shipwreck buried beneath the soil. The sun comes by. We pass the same trees at the end of Devon. If we drive through the night we miss them, instead making the same jokes about double suicide or falling asleep behind the wheel. We argue for the fun of it. We raise our voices. I haven’t sung with anybody since I was in a school for boys. I still dream about the...
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