Dark Moves Of Love.

listening to: science fiction, double feature - rocky horror picture show OST.
reading: john - cynthia lennon.
watching: nothing.
eating: air.
drinking: peach juice.

so i sit here in the middle of my room, eyes closed, my whole world spinning, waiting for you to come and lie next to me. but that isn't going to happen. not for a long while.
i can feel fireworks exploding behind my retinas, my toes fuzzing and disintergrating, their granules falling to the floor, i can feel my lips slowly moving further and further apart until they're completely detached from my face.

i miss your gentle laugh, your warm lap, your eyes when they race around the room with obvious uncertainty. i miss getting up at ten o'clock, finding out you've already been awake for three hours, and have been eating and watching me in my slumber for most of that time. i miss the way your hair meshes with your eyelashes, i miss your smile, i miss the way you warm my soul.

i could never thank her enough. sometimes i hate her so much because she talks about how much better than me she is, and i know it's true. but sometimes, just sometimes, i want to be that beautiful skinny girl who has everything going for her. the girl that's good at everything, the girl who doesn't always speak her mind, the girl who knows when to say when. but that isn't me. and i can only dream of such a girl.

i fall back into my reality, which isn't realistic at all. my door inhales and exhales like a living creature, and the floor compresses and releases in different sections to create something similar to an optical illusion. i breathe in and the drum solo that leads into the chorus fills my sensories, until i'm a mere blur.
i can hear the screeches of the guitar in the back ground, and the demonic voice that yells "one of these days i'm going to chop you up into little pieces" and i reply with, "you already have".

and suddenly everything makes sense. it all clicks together. and i realise something that was fairly obvious before. i am home. when i hear my music, everything is laced together in a necklace of raw experience, and i feel myself give way to the pure genius.

this is reality. like grandad always said: "....i'm there."

Dear Gramps.

listening to: the messiah will come again - roy buchanan.
reading: a text from vaile.
watching: pablo the little red fox; season 1; episode 8 - bathtime.
eating: chocolate.
drinking: water.


hey there granddad,
this is my letter of confession, recognition and not-very-insightful commentary to you.

when you passed, all my dad was able to give me was your shaving brush.
he said it wouldn't come of much use to me.
that was around the time when i desperately wanted to grow a moustache.
but don't worry, i used it on my legs once for kicks.

late at night i recall you sneaking downstairs to drink the pickle juice out of the olive jar.
but finding my spindly, awkward four year old body already kneeling on the counter sipping it up with mum's "dawn of the eagle" teaspoon.
you would sit in your red leather chair, and talk to me about the isle of the dogs, where you grew up as a boy, telling me the tales of you;
the extortionist, the gambler, the drinker, the lover, the leaver, the miner, the sailor, the waiter.
and even though all of these things added up to a completely imperfect specimen...
i thought you were god.

your speckled black and white hair, your dusty old off-red boxing gloves, your sideways smile and the way you seemed to know everything i was thinking, even when i gave no hint at all.
the way everybody treated you, in retrospect, seems largely unfair. and i'm sorry to say at that particular moment in time i was too naive to do anything about it.

the day when i came home, after a brief (disheartening) encounter with the irish kind in dymocks, i saw your picture on my mantelpiece, and sat there holding you, humming your favourite wishbone ash song, and watching my toes curl up on the carpet.

you're a smoker, you're a joker and you're a midnight toker.
even when you were completely offchops, you made me smile harder than anybody else could.
i'm sorry that you aren't here anymore, and it hurts me that i didn't get to send you off with all these thoughts and that painting i did that you really liked.

you've left the biggest imprint on the smallest girl.
you may have left me, but those tiny shards of those tiny memories that we had together assemble themselves to create an unfinished masterpiece.

and that's the way i would have wanted-needed-loved-done it.

Apples Rule.

listening to: why did i ever fall in love with you? - dbsk.
reading: hyperbole and a half's blog.
watching: pablo the little red fox; season 1; episode 3 - garbage.
eating: pink lady apple.
drinking: water.




(dedicated to my lovely anon, who wanted me to write more bloggies)

so it's confirmed. i'm a huge nerd. i still watch kids shows, i do my homework in the corner where i can listen to the rain, i still believe in "an apple a day", when attractive english men talk to me i am silent and awkward, i love tinkering away on my piano more than anything, and i still laugh about body functions with my gay best friend.

i don't think we ever really appreciate the little things that make life so much better than it actually is. i can't remember the last time i s-k-i-p-p-e-d some stones by myself, or put glue on my fingers just to peel it off, or bought some cherries and made earrings with them, or sat down and drew with music, or sat out in the rain in silence just to get wet and cold and embrace the fact that there was no other noise but the sky falling. on. my. head.

people always fill the silence with noise; radios, television, friends, talking to themselves, music...

but we never really understand the peacefulness until we break through that awkward 4 second barrier.

i've learnt to appreciate what isn't there.

however there are still things that i wish were more perfect. i don't like the fact that my hair never sits the way i want it, the fact that my clothes don't sit nearly as well on me as they do on the better version of me, the fact that everytime i'm doing exercise, it always hails or rains right as i'm at the furthest point from home, i dislike the fact that there are so many objects in my room that i should just throw out, but can't bear to part with.

i dislike the fact that i feel i've lost a lot of my innocence, and no matter how many awesome tv shows (holla fosters and pablo) i watch, and how many juiceboxes i drink, i can't regain any of it.

but people i know go through that exact same dilemma. people fear change. and i don't blame them. it's a scary thing. but i think sometimes it's for the best. today, i was contemplating something that i often think about in my mind, but have refrained from saying out loud. but he knew what i was thinking. and he said something that i don't think i ever would've expected. "it will always be his loss."

and i think to myself...what a wonderful world.