Reminder to self (uji->gion-shijo, keihan line)

 

When the sun splits the sky open

And blue spills out 

Splashes onto rooftops

When the train windows are big enough that you can watch the fields running into each other

And you are running too

The clouds whisper 

You sing, badly, and it doesn't matter 

How could I possibly not be in love 

With this world, with you

how did you know

 

Can you ever really know?

But

There was that one moment

Bundled under heavy duvets

Snow floating outside, honestly like a fairytale

Somewhere far from home

It was meant to be romantic, I think

He tried really hard 

He really tried

Tongue wet and insistent

On capturing my attention

Clumsy and awkward and somehow knowing - 

A trespass

I noticed myself, hollow

I said, that was really good

He was kind enough (or, not kind enough)

To brush past the lie

Open curtains

Brewed kettle

Straightened sheets

treasure

 

The small board hanging overhead tells you the next train to High Barnet is in 3 minutes

You’re standing on the platform, hands lingering, ghosting the edge of an elbow, hip

Moments caught snuck in between respectable and not -

It hangs in the air between you

Taut

A press

Closer

A charge, negative-positive

Your cells sing

You stand on this platform every day

It is so familiar

The mould on the staircase, the winding steps

The screech of the tube as it pulls into the tracks -

And it collapses, 

Breath on cheekbone, the soft part of the neck that meets the ear, an animal whine, 

Involuntary

The alarm of the tube doors as they clamp shut, sealing you away

You are seeking seeking seeking

You are sure

Of something

In your chest

And then

You are in his bed

And there is the crossing of a line 

Touch that cannot be misconstrued as accidental

The yellow of a sunflower petal, sharp and velvet, same as the sun coloured in the corner of a crayon picture

The flutter of wings, wind caught in the tips 

A kind of freedom

To no longer be constrained by the cookie cutter form that you entered the door in

And in the absence of that tight edge you are allowed

To melt into another

Shape form way to exist

It is a thrum, vibrations through your teeth 

Tentative, shaking like the knees of a newborn calf

You want to pat its flank, stroke its cheek, marvel at the instinct

Your fingers trace freckles, count stars, 

Touch lips chin collarbone sternum

Whisper 

Found

happy halloween?

You keep walking into trees. Distracted by what, who can know, your own thoughts are wisps known to evaporate if you try to hold them too tight. It leaves a hollowness that you want (need) to fill, somehow, somehow.

And then you find your hair being stroked 

by the hard fingers of branch pulled back by your force

And you duck suddenly and pull a face and look across the road to check for witnesses

But this is London and the man across the street in a thick coat and hat pulled low turns the corner and doesn't even look up

And you realise you've been tilting towards the edge of the pavement almost tripping against the low wall of the front yard

There is something here about contact, about the boundary between self and other

As if your body is testing a hypothesis, given the evidence, of - 

The feeling of drowning in syrup in your bedroom, living room, kitchen at home, all of these vacuous spaces that you cannot find a foothold in, mother nagging, sister needing, brother occupying

Everywhere you turn a hall of mirrors haunted house, your own ugly reflection distorted staring back at you, there isn't a place for you here, or, worse, you are invisible, too small to matter, walking through walls, screaming but not heard -

In contrast to

the physical hurt that comes from a kick to the ribs (oh, I'm real. I'm alive)

The branch hitting you in the face, the leaf catching you in your eye

The reminder that you aren't actually a ghost

work

I don't imagine the sun ever gets tired, 

Rising every morning

Stretching across the sky

Tucking itself away after a long day's work

Infinite source of energy, light, delight

 

And i compare myself to the sun because i am one of those awful people that believes i should be able to do the impossible, 

and of course hate myself for the inevitable failure 

a skill, learnt

 

i am sitting on a stony beach

pebbles sharp against my bare legs

joints stiff from the cold edging in

and it is dark

the sky is that deep purple blue

a swathe of seagulls are snoozing in a huddle just where the water licks up to the coast

they squawk and lift up to fall down again 

napping

jumping

napping

jumping

a car zips by on the road behind

trace gone as quick as it appeared

 

The sun set at 15:30 this afternoon

and actually, i wish i could also clock off then, mid-afternoon

a stretch of time before exhaustion to exist 

in this moment hung between the glass doors separating presence into a small room i am usually locked out of 

new year new me baby

The crack of a firework, in the yard separated from the pavement you're walking down by a splintered fence, around the corner from the bus stop

You feel the vibrations in your ears, ringing, still, on the bus ride home, the 67 from Stoke Newington to Wood Green, the 221 towards Edgeware. 

 

The crack of bone breaking, an explosion centred between your eyes (you hear him 'oh shit' behind you but you're already walking away). The blooming as a flower unfurls, dripping, warm, thin. You can't breathe properly, but this is a familiar feeling. You can't breathe properly, but it usually gets stuck further down than this, heart, chest, throat. 

 

The crack as your nose is pushed back into alignment by dr qiao, after an hour of drinking bitter herbal tea made sweet with honey, shivering, even though you're still wearing your winter coat. Grateful that you cannot understand the conversation around you because it means you do not have to contribute. Soo translates, wearing a furry hat that makes her look like an anime character, and having her there makes the whole breathing thing easier. You catch a few words, bizi (nose), nai nai (grandmother), shen me (what), and then you lie on the chair and think about getting your wisdom tooth cracked in half and pulled from your jaw earlier this year. This body has been through a lot. This body is tired.

The next morning you wake up and see an imposter in the mirror, the swelling between your eyebrows making you into a cheap imitation of the real thing. The following morning you wake up with an angry purple mark beneath your left eye, to match your bruised ego and bruised heart. 

 

Its midnight but the sky is bright enough it feels more like sunrise, which is apt, you think, 

what is new year's day but the sun rising over a new year, a crown, a beginning, a first page

You are trying really hard to feel good, excited, happy - the sky is big and wide above you. 

And, as the night turns and the trees along the boundary of the marshes light up, gently, 

you're surrounded, suddenly, by a string of flashing light and colour, and you think about the people around you, stuffing grapes into their mouths as you count to 12 and you think, maybe, you might be close. 

 

i want to be a waterfall

I am trying to be a waterfall

Endless, abundant, overflowing

Connected (there is only one body)

Only that water falls onto rocks, sprays the bank, grows moss and fungi and tiny little flowers that spring up bobbing heads threatening to fly away at too sharp a breeze

 Crashes into the pool below, the deepest well, deep enough to catch all of this water falling from the sky over the cliffs edge from the clouds that glow gold in the evening light

All of the water in the world coming through this channel

Held like a cradle

So the body is not just one body but all bodies

 

Where do I put it, all of this water

Looking for rocks and moss and slimy leaves that fall from the trees wet with spray and splash

I pick out the shiniest shells hidden between pebbles at the beach, polished sharp and smooth by the heartbeat pull of waves

Put them in my pocket, portals to this body

 

When (if) the ground wants to drink it will open itself up

soft and ready

 

When the earth is too hard it cannot receive the rain

A pursuit of protection blocks all, even that which would soften it

The waterfall would flood the field it is too much

Overwhelming

It doesn't need the waterfall

I wonder if it is even thirsty

It should be easy, to give and receive.