18 May, 2008
At last reunited with my faithful Kodak cable, I’ve been able to finally transfer the many photos that have been sitting idle on my camera for the past few months since moving.
2 April, 2008
How to stay sane in West London
I’d like you to meet my new cellmate, Mr Chauncey Rapscallion. I found him lying facedown, half drunk behind the radiator. He says he likes it there, that the fluff is comfy and the heat stops him thinking about crows. He’s going to keep me company during the rest of my sentence. Tomorrow night we’re having a Canasta and sock-folding party. Come.
1 March, 2008
22 January, 2008
Maybe if I stare at this for long enough, I’ll see a Guardian article on dispossessed rising novelists or an ‘About the Author’ blurb on the inside sleeve of a Random House bestseller, instead of an unemployed layabout with half-snacked on delusions of grandeur.
24 November, 2007
The box. The box is a metaphor in itself. It doesn’t exist in any tangible sense, but oh, what a metaphor. What a cliché. Open the cliché and BANG.
There it is.
The past preserved - buried, successfully forgotten about. Hermetically sealed scents and sounds of years ago, an album of feelings locked away because they were so damn heavy. They were so raw, so sore.
We look so young. You look so beautiful, so little different I realise now, after all this time spent forgetting. You cover your mouth in nearly every photo, but your eyes are always staring at me. Into me. They stare and do not blink. I look thinner, more stupid maybe. There’s a simpleness to the way I glance at the world that I can’t place, as if I’ve seen none of it before. We really do look so young. I can see something burning behind my eyes. There’s an urgency, like a heartbeat, heavy and furious beneath bones afraid to contain it. Something that isn’t there anymore. It’s in every picture, making me look different - expressions on my face I’m somehow not used to seeing in the mirror. And then I see it - the simpleness that burns, and why. Why I no longer see it reflected at bath time, in puddles when it rains or on tube journeys by myself.
Love. I am completely burning inside with love for you. I am on fire in every image I see. In every single photograph I see it and I remember.
This is the box I shut away and buried - forgot it even existed - so I could never remember again.
10 November, 2007
Hallo. I’m Maureen, the mildly despondent pumpkin. I have seasonal affective disorder. Have pity on me.
6 November, 2007
21 September, 2007
