Perfect though

A few days ago, I woke up
with a different head. It was not
the one I’d gone to bed
in.

My old head wanted
you (nonspecific
you, you in general, you singular or plural,
you-who-is-not-me)
to notice me and approve.
Old head did so many things to gain your attention,
each one pulled as tight and perfect
as the rigging on a tall ship in some draconian navy,
always tacking hard into the shoulder of a strong wind
seeking conquest,
pennants and gold leaf,
pennants and gold leaf.
Oh look, look, look, I have brought you
a dead mouse
a pie
a painting look
I made you this
look
I wrote a book
here is my heart.

My new head waved its hands at that and laughed. It spoke,
for the first time in my voice,
which
to my surprise,
was birds it was blossom and the kindness of my mother. It was the cat and kettle, it was the imperfect mitten, knitted and given.

It said
you are as lovely as a flower
do you see? And
I said
yes.

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Time to live.

“I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe. Attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion.”

Mmhmm.

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“I watched C-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhäuser Gate.”

Rutger, calm your tits mate. I’ve just been for a walk in Catford in November.

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I’ve resisted temptations you can only imagine.

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Stared at London Plane bark until it became nebulae.

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I don’t think you understand, Rutty old feller.

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I don’t think you grasp how amazing a little life is.

Time to live.

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Glass.

He says: “Write! You must write and you aren’t writing. It’s because you’re worried it won’t be good enough…”
And “No,” I interrupt. “It isn’t that. It isn’t that.” I know I’m good.

There is no ear to whisper into.

This is the problem. I have always written. Since early childhood, every day, every hour, words, and the need to be heard, the powerful need to record, to make sense of this overwhelming planet. And it’s still there, that need at least to send out a little blip into the universe: “I am here! Where are you?” or I wouldn’t tweet, although I tweet personal stuff less and less, my tweets have less emotional content. I think of stopping daily, but I am aware that that, (seemingly a healthy move, or so all the sensible people with actual lives would tell you), would not free me up to knock out another book or a bunch of short stories or some poems. It would just represent total silence from me. On all fronts.

Since last June I’ve been very ill. I’ve hardly seen anyone (and I’m hermitty at the best of times); but that in itself isn’t a big issue.  Some people do well alone, I am one (as long as I know someone exists that I wouldn’t mind not being alone with). I’ve been too unwell to keep up with my allotment, which I must now give up. And that was my last thread to having regular (ish) contact with other humans. *snip* and it is over. And then what?

Writing has always been weirdly linked to love, for me. A petrol engine needs gas to run. I run on love, on being in love. Yet not only do I have a health condition that prevents me from meeting anyone, the last time I met a partner who actually treated me like a human being was in 2007. And that was the first since 2003. All the intervening ones were exactly as awful and damaging as these things ever CAN be. And now I feel so alienated from … (I’m going to say “humans” because I no longer feel I am one) humans, that I cannot fall in love with one. They want things I don’t want. They need things I can’t give. They don’t care about the things I care about. They take things I can’t live without. They don’t see the things I see. I become exhausted explaining myself to them or pretending to be something they can understand. They frighten and repel me and I can’t get past it. I am the stars and the space between the stars. I am a spring flower. I am too simple for this.

I have no memory of most of my life. I only remember and repeat the stories I have told people. I know where I said I was and what I said I did. I no longer remember being there. And that is part of why I wrote, part of why I took photographs, part of why I kept every message. To remember. So when I found you I could say: I don’t remember how I got here, but here, here is the story, here is the map. Here are the things I saw and felt. Add them up, and you can understand me.

But there is nothing TO remember, now. Even the seasons are barely ajar to me. I walk to Tesco and smell the coal smoke on the air at the corner, the house with the parrot. And so I know it is no longer summer, that the fire is on, that the air is still and falling.  I walk back. And there is no ear to whisper these things into. 

I let go of the stories, too tired to hold them any more, and now most of them are gone. I don’t have a map of myself any more, there is just this moment. I exist, persistently. I enjoy the small experiences I have, but I have nothing to say about them. They are the same as the ones I had last year and the year before, but smaller and smaller. The ones I wrote down at the time make better reading than anything I could write now, because when I wrote them I believed you would read them one day.

I thought that there would be someone here like me. But there is not, just an endless sea of modern humans thinking of baked beans, and remembering – with perfect facility – what happened five years ago, and recognising faces, and talking of who is having sex with whom, telephone bills, and never noticing that the air is still and falling, full of the invisible burnt black heart of the earth, nor what that means.

And I no longer believe you exist, or that I can find you if you do. I searched the world when I could, but I failed, and so what is there. Some days hurt, some don’t. I don’t remember the days so it doesn’t matter. My life, minute to minute, is content, is contentless.  I enjoy the moment. Fur, clean sheets, cold water, the tick and hum of the dryer, the rain, the unmown lawn battered down silver green, the glass that separates me from it, the days when I can walk, the days when I can’t. But there is no gap in the puzzle-earth for this jigsaw piece, there is nothing to say, no ear to whisper nothing into.

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Drawing Henrijk

How does it work, this ART thing? How does it pop into being?

For me, it starts with a little detail. I was staring at Henrijk the cat from above, and the X in the middle of the bridge of his nose struck me, as if often does. It’s formed purely by the fur changing direction.  So I drew the X. And the soft losenge shape that fills the bottom part of his nose. And then I drew his nose. And then I put his eyes in, just to see if I could figure out where they need to be on the X. And then I drew his muzzle, just to see if I could. You know: could I make it look like a cat, and more importantly, could I make it look like Henrijk the cat?

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Yeah. Turns out I can. So then I was a bit pleased with this, so I drew in his markings.

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And then I was even more pleased with it so I did some flood fill. And that looked ok so I sort of accidentally started working on his fur.

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And I thought, well, I can’t leave him with eyes like that. So…

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And then I filled the background in, worked rest of his fur in… and made his eyes look real.

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And then I realised I’d given him a weirdly massive chin. And a strange left nostril. And the image needed a crop. So I fixed that.

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And then I signed it.

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Struttin

I’ll tell you one thing if you like
(What’s that?)
I’ll always be hott
If I’m thin, if I’m fat,
If I’m he or I’m she
Or I’m nonbinary,
If I’m young or I’m old
Or sick or healthy,
If I’m a toff or a nobody,
If I’m sane or I’m mad,
If I’m chained or free,
If I’m angry or loving,
If I’m sad or hap
pppp
py
I’ll always be hott
Coz I’ll always be me.

I’ll tell you another if you like
That’s true:
You’ll always be hott
If you keep being you.

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Heels

An audio version of this post is available here.

Somehow the shoes – not the clothes – were what did for me. Two crammed bin liners in, and I abruptly threw the second one down and walked out of the room. (It needs doing. It needs doing.) All the dresses I’d had made for me by my tailor in the 90s and noughties, those went some time ago. I didn’t feel much more than a fleeting sadness for them. I’m older now. I wear different clothes. I couldn’t get into them anyway. That is the order of things as one gets older.

But the shoes, those are different. I could get into all of them. But I couldn’t walk in any of them, not five steps. And what would I wear them to? I don’t leave the house.

Dozens of spike heels. These ones I bought for a bash at the Savoy. These, I got in Church’s at Chancery Lane, their neat black ankle strap always looked so elegant. These ones went perfectly with those brown trousers I had. These were my fuck me heels. They worked. Running shoes. That I ran in, in the cool black evenings, gloves on, headphones on. Here are summer wedges, gingham, high, I made him take them off me with his teeth. These came to New York. These to Frankfurt, there’s still blood in them. These boots went to Rome and Istanbul. These Mary Janes went to Venice. Paris, Paris, and Paris: these ones. Brussels: the first Eurostar out, always, in the blue grey London dawn, in a rattling black cab over the pink waking Thames, and nobody has breathed the air yet. It is all mine. Those went to Dallas. These went to Chicago. I bought these in Vermont while skiing (skiing!), these in New York, these in … where the hell did I buy these? Spain? Portugal?

Grey patent. Red patent. Red glitter. Red velvet. Red suede. Raspberry patent. Dark blue velvet, kitten heels, I climbed a mountain in Thailand in you. Incongruously. Emerald printed cotton. Yellow silk. Purple silk. Silver.

Here are the black strappy wedge boots I was wearing that night, about a week before I got signed off work. It was autumn. I’d been falling over a lot for a year, but this one was memorable. I went over for no reason whatsoever in that little lane that leads down to Catford Bridge, and I came down on that massive wooden sleeper thing. Hand, knee. And there was a woman there and I couldn’t get up and it was the first time I’d experienced that, the complete marionetting of my body, the cutting of all strings. The lack of connection between intent and action. I couldn’t move while she asked, down a tunnel, through a blanket, in a foreign language I slowly realised was English “Are you alright?” It was only seconds and when my body switched back on again I exploded upright – “Fuck!”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes,” as I stamped off. But I wasn’t. And suddenly there wasn’t any wiggle room to pretend I was, any more, in these boots, these pretty boots.

And here’s what happened next, going into the bin liners: the Uggs that I lived in solidly from January ’09 for a year or two. The only things I could stand up in. The only things that didn’t make me bleed when I walked. After I bought them I never wore any of my lovely shoes again. Not once.

It’s like going through the possessions of someone who has died. There is no bright side to it. Just loss. I am troubled by her ghost.

I am troubled by my ghost.

I remember being alive, and it is difficult to reconcile then and now, difficult to reconcile me and this. I struggle with it. I work hard not to.

So I take a break and write this.  It needs doing. The clearing, I mean. You can’t live with the dead tucked under your bed and in the bottom of your wardrobe. You can’t live with it and expect to be ok. It needs doing.

And writing about it needs doing too. I can jam all that stuff into black bags and junk it, but I also need to sit down with that grief and look it in the eye. Not indulge it or invite it to come and live with me. But admit that it’s there. I feel sad for the things that happened to her, that girl. She was odd, but good. Odd, but loyal. Odd, and all fire. Unstoppable, until she stopped, unbreakable until she broke.  Now she is gone, and nothing rushes in to fill the space she left. Nothing. Rushes. In.

I don’t know what the future holds. But there is a future. So it must hold something. It won’t be spike heels, running shoes, ski boots.

Something else.

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North Star

You can hear me reading this here.

Keep your star in the north,
remember love.
You can only be you but remember others.
Open your arms and let them be
filled and emptied and filled again by the tide,
shhh let it move you. Lose your footing, lose your footing.
Find it again, look up.
Stand still buffeted, do not resist
dismay. Do not resist joy.
You can only be you.
Remember, love.

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