letter to my agent

It’s hard to disagree with you when you’ve so much conviction, and I’m growing sleepy and warm lying the wrong way on my bed listening to your voice late at night. The truth is, I think most of the things people do are full of shit; especially what I do and what I want to do.  It doesn’t mean anything, we are all just filling in time until the end comes and only survive in conversation as long as there are people still living who remember us. For most people it stops at their children.

I want to believe you, but I’m siding with Bukowski.  I wish I could be a pretty, well-kept and manicured girl but I’m just not. I’m a slob if you’re lucky and just plain cranky if you’re not.  I’m always frowning and thinking about stuff that makes me unnecessarily anxious and I just discovered mascara six months ago. I would drink way more and write that way all the time if I could get away with being drunk so often, but I left that behind in London too.  I love O’Hara and Buk equally, though I think Buk would have offended Frank’s tastes greatly, or they would eventually grow to be good but temperamental friends with me half-heartedly playing peace maker.

Frank would want to make us a nice mixer while Buk would want to swig straight out of the bottle, cue some choice words and animated eyebrows.  I would drink both, to be honest.

I know you think I am great, and good, and can do something meaningful, but I’m telling you…I just don’t think I have it in me; and if do, I talked myself out of it a long fucking time ago.

the cellar

I saw you the other night at Pinter's birthday party. 
You were mostly obscured by a strategically placed box of cereal and an out of tune piano; but when you threw your head back gently to laugh fondly at Meg & Petey, the lamp above the piano illuminated your face. Damn, you really are beautiful when you're in the moment.
Like that time you were down on your knees asking for someone to be your Lady Windermere, or was that your Mrs. Erlynne? And when Stan was once again being all tragic around the piano, you seemed to be looking straight at me. Then you stared as I walked past you smoking your cigarette. 
It should be a felony for people to smoke so heavily yet still own such flawlesstranslucentskin.


I saw you yesterday as the six-fingered man; and, darling Timothy, when you saw me laughing with glee during your sword fight, I swear by all the heavens you replied with a little smile back.

finis

The sun shines on him I think. And a little on you too perhaps when you're around him.
He was the first person I'd met that actually sent messages in a bottle...to be found  by a child in Norway looking for treasure with his father along the beach.
Now it is one of my favourite stories, along with 'the selfish giant'. I remember asking him excitedly one morning to guess what song I'd heard at 4am, only to have him reply 'piano man' without missing a wretched beat. It would be much later when he took me to his room and showed me Goya sleeping on the wall above his bed, the kind of sleep that produces monsters I'm told.

a day in the life

Wednesday, June 25th 2008


Reading Schopenhauer on the tube...everyone thinks he is a mysoginist and a pessimist, I actually am quite partial to old Arthur. I feel for him. I know why he has these opinons of women and understand that he doesn't really hate them but he never managed to get the love and attention that he craved. 
When the first female role model in your life (dear mother) doesn't make you feel your own worth and bags you out to Goethe where do you go from there? Endless rejection, endless longing. My favourite grumpy German.

Cradling Marlboro lights on my fingertips. Old friend. Always there when I need to regroup and focus, cigarettes will kill you though. Gah. Red red wine in the evening leaves me looking like I've been punched in the mouth...a suitable illustration for how I feel. I have been converted to the Church of Blossom Hill...who knew the Californians can make a mean Merlot? Certainly not me. 

Decide I want a poodle as an homage to Mr. Schopenhauer. Ok maybe not right now though. 
I read an article that said listening to sad music when you are down actually makes you feel better, as opposed to worse; cue Ryan Adams, a man who has given me more comfort than he will ever know. Oneday I will buy him a drink or three. Absolutely.

Being a hopeless romantic is hard work; it's hopeless because inevitably no one will love you the same way you want or need to be loved. There are people out there, I'm sure. I've only met one so far and I'm too terrified to explore this further with him and so keep him in the shadows, much to both our dismay...the dissapointment and longing is a badge we hopeless romantics must wear time and again. 

Try in vain to keep away from one very very lovely English boy who turns me into a gibbering idiot with every interaction, and he reads Schopenhauer too, oh the pain. Searching for converstation but only find stammers and stops and banal comments on both our parts; "it's really bright in here isn't it?" Holy crap. If only you could just say "look, I really want to kiss you" maybe just to see their reaction. Ok, I like stirring things up...but I will keep that comment to myself. I hate when people ask for permission to kiss someone for the first time. The tentative politeness ruins it. Passion is not synonymous with politeness.

Schopenhauer is an old friend to me now. I rue the fact we will never have a proper dialogue..our conversations are so one-sided; I read him and relate and say to him "oh you don't really mean that, you're just hurting and scared like me" and he just keeps on going. Sometimes he relents and I break out into a grin, gleeful that I cracked his gruff exterior if only for a second, buried in a sentence somewhere.

Thinking about Virginia Woolf and she's right, I do need a room of my own. What am I going to do with all that spare time that was once gobbled up and filled to the brim with a lover? Be completely selfish, that's what. It's about time. Boys get more attention than they deserve and don't give much back for it either. Write, look out the window, do my own stuff without feeling self concious...it's been far too long.

summer

It creeps up on me in my room, causing a soft whir in the background until I look up and see the view outside is all milky, hazy, fast falling droplets. The gutters on the road soon fill and swirl and the cars seem like they are surfing, throwing up perfect arcs of water as they race past.

The pedestrians are another thing entirely. Faces turn even more anonymous under shining black umbrellas, there are too many of them in this city. There are more people without them, not prepared for the impromptu downpour.

One woman is ill-dressed for the occasion, skimpy summer dress, long hair and flip flops. She protects her face with her hand, grimacing as her tresses now cling coldly and damp to her back. Walking slowly on tip-toes to not lose her footing she is at odds with the perky black pug attached to the leash she holds in her other hand. He trots proudly and excitedly at this fun new obstacle on his walk. He almost looks like he is smiling. I think he probably is.

A family turns the corner; the father walking slowly, deliberately with a bag of groceries and a mother following soon behind, keeping step with their small son who is desperately trying to hold his hood up over his head. It doesn’t even seem to touch the stoic father, his face bears no hint of discomfort from the deluge, his clothes are not several shades darker and jean hems are not soggy. A miracle.