That judgement I just made, that impulse of derision, disdain; is it mine? Or someone else’s? Who’s? My mother and father’s, surely they’d not claim it either, and besides it happened in my mind.
The laughter in my belly ricocheted around, lips up curling, squint; are you mine? Or someone else’s? The friend opposite, it was their causing, but no, I laugh, because I have laughter.
The feeling of alone-ness that gnaws me, that yearning for voices, family; is it mine? Or someone else’s? Who else’s? Myself as a child, but he wasn’t alone, no he had had voices and family. You yearn now. You cannot be a family unto yourself.
That mastering, working, whirring refrain. That calculation. That strain. Is that not your own? Who else’s? My teachers’, the world’s about me. It’s mine, just imprinted and prearranged.
The avoidance of responsibility, the cowering, fearful lack of curiosity; is that mine too? Who else’s? My brothers all worrying, feasting and starving, it is mine, and theirs too. I’ll reckon with it.
Those wrenches of joy and heady pain, the sanguine sky yawing, the soft bed heaving, are those my flutters? My insides? Are they me? Yes, yours, and you can’t relinquish them .
That dark light flashing violent for a moment? That too? It’s Torture and Shame. Are they yours? You theirs? Who else’s? No-one’s, those are for you alone, rock, sea and weed.
You project an image of yourself back at yourself, distinct. Of: A body, I see in a mirror, with an outline, a mouth, ears and hands. In those things – the voice I hear, the manner, the eyes looking back – those are my measure of you. My edge, which I cannot cross.
I write a thing about pain and hunger. One masquerading as the other. I write about not knowing. Not knowing whether eating will soothe or amplify the pain. I write that this dilemma is analogous to my relationship with creativity.
Sometimes I hunger to write, other times there is just pain. Sometimes the making/writing sates, other times it is a folly. Writing/making is ultimately an attempt to be seen by myself; understood. It is an attempt to give shape to feelings, and externalise my inward sense.
WRITING
I stopped smoking – three weeks ago now. I had smoked for over 12 years. The doctor said I’d end up with a colostomy bag.
I make brownies compulsively.
I have new flat mates. One old flat mate is now at a new flat, the other is traveling. I suppose they’re just friends now.
I’ve been on some dates. I so fear rejection, it’s terrifying, and yet I mustn’t fear. And I must be myself. It’s imperative.
Blossom.
I garden for a bit of money, and I draw. I’ve been making pots too, pots are solid things.
Like my friends. A friend held me as I cried. I cry more often now, I like that.
Blue in the Face 