it was about 2 and a half months ago, i was on the train going back to the big city, feeling familiar pricks in my eyes and on my arms as i watched the countryside i pretended was my home but which really was the next county up, drive past my window, and i was feeling low to leave it. i also felt a sweet sweet pain (the pain...), realising, undeniably, that i still loved the boy who had told me it was over. and the fields were sweet green, ripping themselves from my eyes and leaving me, and the pain in my flesh was sweet green, the pain of people ripping themselves from your soul and leaving you.
trouble is, its been over 2 months, tomorrow i have another train to catch, to the big city, i will again have to watch the sweet fields hurtled backwards away from me, and i just know that i will be sitting there, knowing that i still love this boy. the boy for whom it has all been over for so long now. my first love, my best friend, the person who has been most intimate with me in the world. and i will have to sit on that train, knowing that for the last 2 or 3 years i have been cruel to the person i love most in the world, and that it has finally caught up with me, and that all the memories i hold dearest in the world, and all the moments which have been the holiest, the most divine, the moments where for once in my life i have felt beautiful and safe and deeply calm, are now all worthless trash.
and my words here sound like trash, trash anyone would write on any blog... which is sad... because to me this is real enough and sharp enough that it blinds me to the vast expanse of shining sea, to secret coves and shady lanes, to the cottage gardens and unexpected streams, to the calls of the great tit, the blackbird and the chaffinch, too blinded by tears in my eyes and my mind to notice any of the things i hold dearest today. experiences i should have been storing and remembering for all the times i won't see them... but it wasn't even possible. too much heavy pain.

the swifts have left behind my back, like they always do. the way it makes me smile on an early summer morning when i'm sitting inside and i strain to listen - was that high pitched faint streak across the sky one of my soaring icons? was it a car? no.. it was a bird... a blue or white sky streaked by the tinest black pixel - is perfectly echoed by the inaudible sigh i tend to release someday in august when it occurs to me i haven't noticed or heard them for days, and i hadn't noticed and they've gone. and it doesn't matter how many more summer days we have, no matter how many more beach days, somehow its not possibly summer at all any more now they've stopped whirling circling arching minutely outside the window of my eeyrie, cutting up my rectangles of blue sky with compass-perfect curves. i think the last time i saw them was before i left for the usa. it never occured to me to take a last look. and theres just no way any more to pretend that winter isn't coming, because the swifts have left.

the sky is turning slowly pinkish outside my window, a little nice touch to make up for the dreadfully heavy headachey clouds that have scummed up the day.
one month till london.
morning glories have been the heroes of summer days flowering every morning for months now with luminious glowing trumpets of deepest ultra violet and sky blue even when the sky is white. putting forth hundreds of new buds even now. grapes are hanging heavy now, bump gently into my head every time i walk over the veranda to water, making our house look strangely exotic. and its time to pick blackberries again. we've only just used up those from last year.

cheap (well, thats an insult) old fashioned sci fi novels, i laugh at during the day, and at midnight, scramble to the end of the bed to quickly shut my window because the strange sound outside is making me feel six again and frightened and if i'm not quick then it might catch hold of me, and whats that shadow by my head? oh, its my hair, wait, whats that shadow out of the corner of my eye? oh its just my hair... in the morning i can't understand myself... wait... whats that...?
today i was saved by a big shivering saw, quivering and shaking and biting in my hand, light and long and sharp, as i crawled into green dens and (a little less conversation a little more action, please) big plasticky leaves stroked my face before i heartlessly cut the easily fleshy limbs, and threw them into a mass grave on the grass. small reprove from the pink rose desperately budding, a few well placed stratches (deep marbled pink now budding on my arm - xenogenesis).
should really give this strange mass of blood and flesh, heat and softness, hair and water, pink orange brown black green, more thanks for its ability to ache and move and sweat and contort and walk and run and pound and... prune.
i wonder, if i don't take so kindly to simone de beauvoir's arguements because its just easier to be the underdog? but i feel some sort of truth in it, of feeling rather... kidnapped by your own body. held hostage by the womb? of being female and feeling like you are looking at the world through a glass window, and not that your body is actually yourself at all. its hard to think of the body as possibly "yourself" when it works so much against your will. hard to feel at home when your home is constantly under threat of invasion (men and babies, however pleasurable they might be, still invade). it is a block to true transcendance to feel like a conciousness locked inside flesh. hard to "like" this body when it insists on bringing regular pain and constantly lets you down. hard to feel it is yours to do with as you like, when it has a "purpose" (reproduction) which is not one of your own choosing, and which seems "above" your own personal wishes. hard to use it as a means to fully jump and laugh and smell and see and run and listen and touch and experience the world, when it is full of curves and glands and fat and not so slick and fast and hard as the other sex...... hard not to feel desperately let down.
the palest blue just breaking through outside my window, and i'm feeling pleasingly grown up these last few days. funny how quickly a year goes. i think i'm different from last summer. better. which is good, because this headache is reminding me of the mayfly falling down as the water beneath it was sucked into the open infinite trouts mouth.

robin chicks in the garden centre, amongst the plastic plants, and the warm stifling plastic smelling air that seems to have seeped from the inside, and even engulfs the plant area outside... protected only from any careless heartless or stupid person by a bit of flismy mesh fence (of the sort that caged our playgrouds and tennis courts in school). surely they'd be happier in some wild breezy place with crystalised sunshine. but, i loved crouching down to the pot's edge and looking at them, opening their mouths to me in hungry trust. yellow gapes disappearing, mottled feathers appearing, rich brown and soft, stretching out wings and stickly legs in an action startlingly similar to a lazy cat. wide circular shiny glossy black eyes. very deep for such a small fluffy thing. huddled like 5 parts of one.

http://www.collectbritain.co.uk/collections/wildlife/

"this world is full of crashing bores,
and i must be one because no one ever turns to me to say
'take me in your arms, and love me'"

... it is almost the end of may, already. i wouldn't like to say where the months have gone since january, that is, its far too crippling sad to say what the truth is, that they are nothing any more, and won't ever return.
alright yes, i do sound terribly sad about everything. perhaps it is just my nature. more likely though i just don't write here unless i have thought about something, and thinking about anything, i think, leads to sadness in the end. its what comes from living in a world where everything comes to an end, eventually, and of liking that world, despite it.
sitting amongst graves at 5am and entirely alone. the graveyard slopes though, when you are at the entrance, you can't see down to the bottom, and when you are in the middle, you can see neither the bottom or the top, the various paths slope and slide away leaving you with ominous crests and dips out of which anyone could emerge, quite suddenly. in the daytime the crests are areas of opportunity and friendliness, where an old friend or a friendly stranger will probably stroll, come over, and make you smile. at 5am, they attract your eyes constantly, with if not fear, at least watchful mild anxiety. i ask all the birds just for a few seconds to please stop singing so loud so i can listen - was that a human shout, laugh, call? is there someone else over the other side, hidden by the stones and trees? - they ignore me, of course. watchfulness slips into blurryness, and i want to sleep, hearing the church tell me every 15 minutes how long i've been... rely instead on blackbirds, rabbits and pigeons to be my alarms. they are constantly false.
finding, that the remembrance of food creates a backwards feeling on the roof of my mouth and tongue, something being rubbed over it from back to front, a sort of disgust. finding myself wondering detatchedly whether this, in fact, is the route of eating disorders, an unmeditated repulsion to things that have been eaten and enjoyed, and nothing to do with body shape at all, an addictive side effect. so i push thoughts of past meals out of my head.
can the mind be trained to just not think about things? if i tell it "no" often enough when it does, will it obey? i feel i could manage a partial exclusion, a diminishing, though never complete, as a thought could be triggered at any time by anything... but i don't know if this could be by force of will, more likely it just comes from passing time, and what i would like to term authority, is just forgetting.

the light, the light and the cold (what a tease), the birds puffed up, watching the throat of the blackbird shining white in the light, through the leaves, rippling with its warning song...
i can't grasp time, i can't rein it in. the days are meagre, a few poems, a few roots, a few chapters, a few escapes. not even memory will back me up here, is it alright just to float in the present? i need some return, some physical thing to hold in my hands and say that is what i have achieved. the thing is i don't think i would worry if it weren't for other people, strange how they impinge on you without even speaking or doing. i wish my life were my own...
taking advantage of the empty house, i should be downstairs, lying cat like in the sunshine doing something impressive, now where exactly is that novel hmm? that poetry collection? where are those paintings and drawings? where is the money? where is the intelligence? where are the stunning thoughts, the radical ideas, the insights, the discoveries? where is the talent, where is the speciality? the burden is too much to bear, the internet yeilds pitifully little.
instead i am singing out of tune to the charmless man and regretting leaving my jumper downstairs...
ah... life... what a joy it all is...
(sarcasm? i can't tell.)