thoughts on 2010

i'm starting again. again
another new year
another whole decade
to turn full circle
again

Company

I lift the knocker and drop it on next door. Mine is left open. It's about a minute before Verna answers. "Hi. I just brought my washing round."
She pushes up her mouth like she's giving a reluctant kiss and says nothing when I'd seen her most of this week and that's all that she's said; You going to bring it? Day 1.
Don't go to the laundry girl. I'm just next door, Day 2.
Bring it nuh!! Day 3.
And here she is on Day 4 pushing up her mouth like she doesn't want me to bring it.

My friend

My good friend would bound into a room, fragrance first. Eyes would immediately be drawn to the low cut and expansive rise of high bust. A skirt would touch just above her knees, bare legs always, smooth skin with either long boots or boys-come-get-me heels. Her hair was dyed brown a while ago now. Sometimes she needed to pick out white fluff before she left the house from locks that had been the same length for about a year.

Gone till November

I have had a great year! I ditched work after nine years and attempted to go back to Uni. I lasted a week! I won't mention the name of the ghetto university in which I enrolled, but I knew it just wasn't me. If I am going to pay ten thousand pounds for a degree that essentially I don't need- it has to be at a place more organised, cosmopolitan and prestious. I may as well learn from the best right? My friend said I'm a snob. I am not a snob. I am a poor working class gal who has become clear about what she wants out of life. But before I tell you what I want I have to think about my use of the word 'poor' and what I put out there into the Universe. Poor?...mmmmm. Scratch that. I am abundant in all ways, regardless of what I have thought in the past!
Ok. Now I can tell you what I want...

Can I see you naked?

I bump into a local guy from time to time and we end up in conversation. He is about to go to Uni to do a Masters as he wants to teach. I am on the verge of leaving teaching after a vast number of years to go back to Uni as I want to write. Our conversations go something like this;
enthusiastic (him)
burnt out (me)
enthusiastic (him)
burnt out (me)
Theory theory jargon theory (him)
Oh God please (me).
And so it continues for several minutes whilst my eyes wonder above and beside him for something slightly more interesting.

Writing Flow

I got to thinking about flow and this writing malarkey. If I want to have flow in my writing there needs to be flow in my life. There has to be clarity. If it's a struggle something is missing. Life wasn't meant to be a struggle.
I can't say that I am struuugling per say. I have the usual ups and downs, nothing too dramatic. It's the energy I'm talking about. The flow.
How come writing is the only thing I have not stopped doing since I was a child? And I used to be so crap at sticking to stuff. I just realised. I have yearned to do this t'ing my whole darn life.
So why isn't it happening? In terms of my writing or my life? Why am I not a big roaring success when all I do is read, wanna write, write, read?

Inner child

I was organising my paperwork and found a set of old photos. In it was a picture taken of me as a little girl. There I was frozen in black and white in the middle of Trafalgar Square somewhere in the 1970s. I was holding hands with my mum on one side and my aunt on the other. My mum looked all glam in what I know was a Burgundy suede coat and a short brown wig. She wore lipstick back then. She was smiling wide, her right arm outstretched with a flurry of pigeons feeding from her palm.

I was offered seeds from the man taking the photo and recall wondering maybe for a
spilt second, if I really should let those birds stand on me. Throwing my seed offering to the ground I chose the familiarity of my mother's palm, and my aunt chose mine. Whatever happened now, I knew I was safe.

"Fourteen years", he said.

I hated seeing him so broken. That was not how it was meant to be. He still stood firm tho. Arms wrapped across brown leather jacket, legs wide in faded Amarni jeans. Long white converse underneath. His hair was thinner now. Worry around his eyes that hadn't been visible before.

It's not that I want there to be a me and him. Of course I've thought about it, especially since his break up, but I can hold it down, trus' me. I had gotten used to loving him regardless of who either of us were with. One of those unconditional ones. Plus I'd want a soft, voluptuous, fine body to give to him. Not the one I've got. So hey.

It's all write again

It's so dreary having a dream and not daring to follow. Life becomes so dull. It's like having your essence removed. How can a star not shine I ask you? It just gets looong.

This blog is me reconstituting myself as a writer so I HEREBY PLEDGE....to take myself on. This is me embracing my writer child, my inner writer- call it what you will.
I read somewhere that "The strongest winds blow around the tallest trees". That's me right there. A tall tree.
Another thing is that I have recently become a Buddhist. A Nichiren Daishonin Buddhist to be exact. So that should help those strong winds to come with sunshine, with dew, with a full chior of birds singing in their wake!
I didn't see a burning bush or anything quite so prolific. What happened is I had booked