One more, then I shall stop this haunting

I really will. Over the next few days I have plans to write about music and fun things. To stop reflecting on past writings and maybe write anew. This is again from 2007

You can't miss what you never had. You don't know what you have until it's gone. Cliched I told you so's for the hopeless. Dust yourself down, don't hanker after pipe dreams. Get on with your life. Move on, move up, move through. Things I never really had, people I never really knew. I miss these things, these people more than I can explain. The face of a stranger I saw once on the bus, a look of joyous rapture on her face. Years ago, her face haunts my memory still, her rapture, my rapture. The image of her face forever imprinted in my mind. The sadness in the eyes of a man walking slowly down the street, tears silently merging with the rain on his face. The lines on the arms of a girl whilst she sang the pain of failed love affairs that mirrored my own. Old lines, and new, fresh wounds. The rawness of her pain in the rawness of her skin and the rawness of her voice. The quiver in her voice reflecting the quiver in my soul. Her raw wail giving voice to my own. Lines on the mirror reflecting lines on my skin. A brief meeting with a beautiful man whose soul shone through his eyes. Who saw right through me and smiled. One moment, a change in the wind, a tablet in a glass, fate not trusted to play her games. Fate is a tricksy foe. Fate demands control. Submission to your fate demands faith. To forget this and second guess, to expect the hurt that was to manifest once more, to refuse to submit to the potential of the future for fear of a repeat of the pain of the past... By trusting in fate the pain of the past could be rationalised, the life that was not meant to be. Things that end for a reason, directing life in new and different ways. I have no rationale. I cannot know if this was meant to be, I can only know the choice I made was made through fear of the past rather than fear of the unknown. And for this there is no lessening of the pain, of rationalising away the life that was not meant to be. This cannot be made to hurt less, and the rapture of her face cannot be my rapture, nor the pain of his tears supersede my own. Drawing lines will not make the boundaries any clearer. All I can do is submit to Fate and remember to follow fates simple mantra, if it feels right, it is. If any minute nag of doubt exists, it's not. Clear cut. Clean cut.

And a story that never got completed.

This is from maybe 2008-2009? I meant to finish it, and didn't. Maybe I will. It hadn't yet got a definite title.

That. That happened because it'd had already happened, and she needed to put it back on her terms. The first time was not exactly her choice. She wouldn't go so far as to call it rape, but certainly not what she wanted. She'd allowed him to share her bed in a mostly purely sleep capacity. Mostly. She liked having someone there. Not to do anything. Just to, well, just to be there. She doesn't like being on her own. And it was four o'clock, and she had to be awake again in two hours. And she was drunk. And she curled up in her pyjamas facing away from the boy and tried to go to sleep. The boy was drunk too. And young. So young. Too young to know that persistence does not always get you what you want. To young to realise what life does to you. She can't blame him for what happened, he is too young to know any better. He rolled her over onto her back; she grumbled drunkenly and rolled back onto her side, back into a small foetal ball. He rolled her over again and lay on top of her. She grumbled drunkenly but it was dark and he was kissing her and part of her wanted to be kissed. Not by him. But it was dark and drunk and memories of beautiful kisses mingled with the physical sensation of being kissed. Only for a moment. And then she tried to roll away again, grumbling about the early start and needing to sleep. But he was on top of her and pulling at her pyjama bottoms. He pulled them away, and she realised that he had also removed his pants. She told him she didn't want to have sex with him. He stroked her face and told her he just wanted to lie on top of her for a while and kissed her. Then he pulled out a condom. Confused, she asked why he needed that if he wasn't planning to try and have sex with her. He whispered that he simply preferred it that way. She clenched her thighs together, but she was drunk and his hands were pushing against her thighs and his penis pushing against her, pushing inside her. She was crying silently, and grumbling no, whilst pushing at his chest to try and push him off. He seemed to realise after a few minutes how upset she was and stopped. They went to sleep. In the morning he kissed her gently, not noticing her flinch, and asked if he could see her again.

From the archive

Once again I am rummaging in writings from my twenties, and here is some rather relentlessly self indulgent twaddle. I kinda like some of the wording though.

Pouring blood, deep from within. Onwards and onwards it pours, a never ending flow towards the sea. These wounds do not heal. They do not scab and slowly ooze to nothing. They pour and pour, draining away your soul. Throwaway relationships, thrown away. They must do what they must do, yet nothing can make it right for those who are left behind. Lies and half truths, small world blown apart and sellotaped back together. Over and over we are kicked down, over and over we bleed and lose more and more of ourselves. Nothing left to give. Two lost souls seek solace in the night in the warmth of each other, only to remind themselves what they lack. And the blood pours.

I loved him when I met him. Maybe before. Souls colliding over awkward conversations and stupid jokes, denial the solution in an impossible situation. Both denying for years what we felt, and when it came to be that denial was no longer necessary, maybe it was that the ship had already passed in the night, sailing on the bloody tide. We were happy for a time. 

and though I know that I'm not out of the woods yet I feel so good

 I'm listening to Colour Green today, as Sibylle Baier's flirtatious melancholy lightness suits my mood. Probably suits the amount of work I need to do less, but hopefully the two shall meld together in a fruitful union of words on a page. Unlikely, as I'm really tuned into her words today.

Forgett (Sibylle Baier)

Forgett came in my house yesterday
my house that's on decay where roof and tapestry is rotten
where the fire place isn't getting hot and everything is forgotten

Forgett came in my house yesterday
don't know if he wanna stay
he lays him down like a child
in garden that's run pretty wild
and we laugh at each other's smile

I understood in my life
that never anybody else could change one's drive
but you have to prove by your own heart and hand
and though I know that I'm not out of the woods yet
I feel so good

Forgett came in my house yesterday
my house that's not for sale since we had that
sweet tea together since he sits in that leather sofa
since we're together

Forgett came in my house yesterday
my house that's on decay where roof and tapestry is rotten
where the fire place is'nt getting hot and everything is forgotten

Forgett came in my house
Yesterday

Talking to strangers

I remembered today some lovely advice I received when I was sixteen. I was on the bus on the way home from my weekend job, and I was sat next to a man who was early to mid twenties. He was new to Chorlton (the childhood home), and as he was working as a trolley-dolly-air-steward, and as it was dark, he asked me to let him know which stop to get off at. We talked all the way, and had a cup of tea at his house before I went home. - I must point out here, that the Woodcat would NEVER advise anyone to go to a strange man's house for a cup of tea. Behaviour like that is STUPID AND DANGEROUS. But the Woodcat's instincts for people and danger have always been inordinately good, bordering on superpower skills. Anyhow, I digress from the point, which is the lovely advice. We were talking about a film he'd recently seen, and I'd wanted to, but for a lack of a cinema buddy, and this was when he told me he'd gone alone, because

If you wait for other people to want do the things you want to do, you'll never get to do any of them.

If you want to see a film, see it. If you want to go to a gig, go. If there is an exhibition, do it. Live your life. No one else will.

Thank you Mr Trolley Dolly. Your real name escapes me, but your effect was profound. And you were very pretty. Thank you for the tea.

I dream strange dreams

I found a notebook with various odds of writings and notes from around 2007-2008. Several of these were peculiar dreams I had around that time, and some of them are really strange. Some too strange to share, others just damned strange, like this one.

*****

My brother is getting married. Outside in the dusk of the dusty American style ranch landscape (provided by my sleeping subconscious) the scene is prepared for a wedding, preacher and all. Psycho girlfriend all dressed in white, standing, smiling on the porch.

I go to find my brother for the ceremony. When I find him, he is lying in a hole. Men with guns are riding away. He is not dead, but his body is shot full of large, circular cut out holes, and the middles of the holes have not been removed. Like someone shot him with a biscuit cutter. I take a needle and thread and sew up the holes in my brother's body, the pieces firmly in place. He is marked, scarred, but whole enough. Somehow I carry him back to this ranch style house. My parents are relieved, and, oddly, my mother praises me for the neatness of my sewing.

There is no wedding.

I picked a scab...

Okay, so in my defense, I'm slightly wired up on excessive amounts of nicotine (it's keeping me awake, although no more focused than usual), and I picked the scab. I asked what I'd done that was so offensive. I'm no closer to the truth, but now my friend is well and truly narked off with me. And surprisingly, that's quite liberating. It's way easier to have someone openly pissed at you, than merely silent. So, I guess, YAY!

Probably not the right response. But as I said, I'm slightly wired up on things and stuff. And I can't be doing with cryptic confusing behaviour. Life is complicated enough right now. People are falable. They fuck up. If people don't recognise that, and forgive behaviour that's merely down to screwing up, as opposed to malice or evil intent, they're wasting a lot of their time. And mine. So, whatever I did, I DON'T CARE. IT DOESN'T MATTER.

To inside from the outside Come together, not a chance

I'm plotting sending Jandek lots of money. My life sorely lacks a massive stack of Jandek CDs.

Hurts hurt.

I think I messed up. I've offended a friend, a confidant, and I'm not sure how, and I'm not sure how to fix it. I hope I can. But maybe I just need to wait see. I value them highly, and I aside from really needing a friend right now, I'm worried that they do too. But hurts hurt, and sometimes picking a scab is the worse thing you can do.

Shit

Jason Molina is dead. Pitchfork's obituary is here,

I'll be playing his music and drowning myself in gin.

and they'll be placing fingers through the notches of your spine

Possibly my favourite line in any song ever. Simultaneously tender and sinisterly clinical.

I'm making stew. Pretty simple, beef, onions (chopped), shallots (whole), potatoes, carrots, thyme, stock, soy sauce, low heat. Not sure if it needs much else, I'll season shortly and see, but it smells pretty good. I'm making stew because I've not been looking after myself much recently, and combined with the various stresses of life, this is resulting in headaches. So food and a resumption of yoga practice shall ensue. Eventually I reckon I'm going back to a largely vegetarian diet, you know, yoga and clean living, but I'm using up the contents of the freezer first.

I'm listening to Kala, which you'd think would be the antithesis of sense with a headache, but bizarrely they're complementing each other well; the music is almost drowning out the pain, and the lightshow with my migraine seems to be perfectly in line with the sounds I hear. Which right now is this

Beyond that he was numb: heart-numb, mind-numb, soul-numb. And the numbness, he realised, went a long way down, and a long way back.

I really do love Neil Gaiman right now.

You've got a good heart. Sometimes that's enough to see you safe wherever you go. But mostly, it's not.

I'm on a bit of a Neil Gaiman bent right now, the last three books I've read Coraline, Stardust and American Gods. American Gods is fabulous. I won't spoil it for you, save to say that I think it possibly contains the best death-by-vagina scene I've ever read/seen/heard of/notheard of but doubtless exists somewhere. So, imagine my excitement to find out that Neverwhere is on Radio 4! With a cast including James McAvoy, Anthony Head, Johnny Vegas and NEIL GAIMAN HIMSELF (voicing three parts! Not that that excites me or anything...) it promises to be an awesome radio serial. I also only realised today that Neverwhere was also a TV show in the 90s! So over the next few weeks, I'll be having so much Neil Gaiman based fun, especially with the hopeful scenario that the next Neil Gaiman penned episode of Doctor Who will happen in the forthcoming series. QUITE EXCITED.

Drinking tea under your covers while kissing thee

I've been in a funk the past few days. I don't know why really, but a funk there has been. Thank fuck the funk has gone. This morning I'm listening to the French Quarter. A boy bought me this beauty on lovely lovely vinyl in 2008, with the explanation that In June reminded him of me. I'm not sure why, but I really like the record. And I really do like In June. So thank you.

Here's a live version right here.

I have a headache

Thoughts in my head
Unsaid
Poison. Twist.
Deal made
Silence twists
Sickness knots.
Silence sickens.
Sickness quickens.
Knowledge rejected
Of speech reflected
Sickness lingers.

I NEED A FUCKING DRINK

I rarely drink any more, so the only alcohol in the house is Armagnac or Sherry, as Christmas cooking is wont to require.

I like Armagnac.

Snow swirls outside my window pane

It is a beautiful day, with snow swirling in the cherry blossom outside the window, I am working on coursework that needs to be in on Thursday, and Procrastination rears its head. My friend Danny announced on Facecrack that he was listening to Uzeda's 'Stella' album, and, having never heard this, Procrastination whispered lightly in my ear "Play the album". And I did. And I'm glad I did.

Procrastination, you regularly lead me astray. But I'm glad you are my friend.

It is eerie

In the library at 4:31am.

There are a couple of guys over the other side of the computer room, but otherwise all is bare. Staying awake is one thing, concentrating is another.

There is beauty in the small things

I also stumbled on an online space today where I occasionally write down notes to myself, or random thoughts. I found this from 2007. Lordy, but I was a pretentious wazzocky bastard! In my defence, I was only 26, and no doubt in the depths of despair over something foolish like a boy.

There is beauty in the small things. There is beauty in things that make you happy, and in the things that make you sad. Even in atrocity there is beauty. Beauty in the reaction it provokes, the strength of spirit that prevails and pulls through. There is beauty in sadness, for loss stings all the more when something of beauty slips through your fingers. The poignancy of what was. Of what might have been. And there is happiness to be had through loss. Happiness that you had something so beautiful for a time. That you were able to experience something that was worth the current pain you feel. That experience, and that pain, make you who you are.

Idiot.

I broke my foot!

I told you to get off. But no, two years have passed, and you didn't get off my foot.

Actually, I really have broken my foot. But I did it glamourously, by *drumroll please* walking. In flat, sensible shoes. Yes, it seems so. I met my friend Rae for lunch, and when I left, my foot was broken. I'm pretty sure he didn't do it. Nor do I think you can break your foot by sitting on a chair in the Eighth Day cafe on Oxford Road. So it must have been the walking. I probably didn't help it by going dancing at Underachievers the night after. In red patent high heels. I swear it was only to alleviate the pressure on the broken bit... On the other hand, co ordinating my underwear with my shoes was straight up just for kicks.

And more importantly, it was one of the last few Underachievers nights that are ever going to be. It's very sad, but looks like they'll be going out in fine style, tonight was Songs for Walter and Post War Glamour Girls, and the next few events are going to see sets from Kid Canaveral, Letters To Fiesta, Patterns, and, for the last ever Underachievers, Ghost Outfit. It's all pretty special.

So. The inevitable catch up. You're not interested, but I'll pretend you are. I'm nearly at the end of my first year in a Psychology and Speech Pathology degree, I've got three more years to go, and it's proving to be one hell of an adjustment to go back to education with a small child in tow. The small child is two and a half, and brighter than a box with wired up light bulbs inside. Really, I'd say I'm biased, but the nursery staff are constantly staggered. What can I say? I made a kid, I did it well.

I've only been to a few gigs over the last year or so, I saw Nina Nastasia and Sam Amidon in Leeds earlier in the 2012 (Nina Nastasia talks a lot about TV. Seriously a lot. I think I heard more about what she'd seen on TV than I did songs), Joe Pug at the Castle in August, Jens Lekman at the Ruby Lounge in September, and I saw Boris and Joe Volk on their split LP tour in December. Boris were AMAZING. And let's face it, they had a gong. I've still going to less stuff as I'm a responsible adult now apparently, but we've moved back to Manchester, so everything's definitely more available. (And the Boris/Joe Volk LP is in the boot of my car! I'm going to play it when I get home)

Anyway, enough procrastinating... I'm currently in the Library instead of out dancing, as I have a lot of coursework to hand in, and the Kittencat's father is off to Japan on Monday for a wedding. So I'm making the most of him this weekend, by abandoning him and the child to get some work done... Obviously I'm succeeding! Back to the grind, and I shall no doubt complete my work and stumble home shortly.