29 February 2012


Sick of being big. Wanting precision, regardless of shape or sound. No longer hungry for tumult though always a little. No more wishes.

A slant; tiny, ineffectual, aware.

An oi from the back of the crowd.

A deceptively small door leading to cavernous insides.

Alice. Wide as a yawn. Even my big gaping mouth, open as possible but still a tiny little nothing. Bunch of cells and wet stuff. Mostly invisible. Free as mud. No matter. Woven in. Sensitive skin, osmosis. Smallest form of life. Still breathing, turning pages, blowing out flames, inhaling, ageing, shedding skin.


Headlines confuse me. Half the words are missing. Series of nouns. Been inside too long. Oily one hit wonder ex pop star ex husband ex father ex heart throb ex star fucker turned children’s author advocates literacy. In the photo his hands are open and spread because he is communicating.

25 February 2012


Cheokov’s most positive statement about himself was made in 1889 when he was twenty-nine and had already achieved a considerable degree of self-mastery. In a characteristically impersonal way he suggested bitterly to his friend Souvorin that Souvorin should write a story about him, “a story about a young man, the son of a serf, schoolboy and university student, brought up to fawn on rank, kiss the hands of priests, accept without questioning other people’s ideas, express his gratitude for every morsel of bread he eats, a young man who has been frequently whipped, who goes to give lessons without goloshes, engages in street fights, tortures animals, loves to go to his rich relations for dinner, behaves hypocritically towards God and man without the slightest excuse but only because he is conscious of his own worthlessness – could you write a story of how this young man squeezes the slave out of himself drop by drop, and how, on waking up one morning, he feels that the blood coursing through his veins is real blood and not the blood of a slave?”

quoted in Frank O’Connor’s The Lonely Voice: A Study of the Short Story

23 February 2012

Peep show

Reading porn in stony silence of waiting room of suburban train station. Everyone in black and grey. Feel like a giant throbbing stupid clit in my red jacket. In the story a girl details just how much she enjoys her job. Peep show. People lean against the ledge outside the waiting room windows. Their backs and coats and straps and necks and hairs are pressed against the glass. The only other spot of colour in the room is the fuschia of the pursed lips of an old lady. The colour looks obscene on her mean face. I imagine her big white pants drying on the line. I imagine her folding them and placing them in a lavender scented, pouched and lined drawer. I want her to surprise me. I don’t want to think old people never screw. The fading on the floor shows the perfectly predictable motion of other people.

16 February 2012


To take a step towards, or away from? To go forward into a new world where I do not speak the language; or to retreat into something which, while it looks still and stale, is actually tiny, potent, quiet and precise. Begin again, build better or both? Manifold personalities, multiplying communities, hungers, interests, desires, questions; or obsessions, Brontes, solitude, no scenes, no scripts, just digging for gold in one spot.