debriefing the journal from the past eternal weeks (or the act of vomiting one's emotions as words)

last time i was here i was at the bottom of a dry well with murakami and his words of magic and comfort and the strangeness of everyday existence, the distance you can build between yourself and anything normal

now i am climbing up with bleeding fingernails and no rope to support me with valente and her words of magic and comfort like a decadent russian meal and sex that tastes like blood and tears and fills all the cracks that grow in a human when you look closely and even when you don't

we will come back to this.



What have I been doing? Things I have been doing include

i
another night underground in glasgow with cracks in the walls and partially exposed brickwork. tonight is hairspray, smoke engines, and cheap lipstick with beats that shake your soul and sweaty friends dancing until sunrise. the taste of needlessly sweet berry cider and the smell of someone's fruity perfume. plastic cups and a smiling bartender. sticky floors. humans. shiny happy people jumping around.

ii
judgementally browsing the world. tiny annoyances blocking my freedom like a drain
another eternal thursday, this time more so than i'm used to
what shall i list this time?
reactions people have to others being decapitated in front of them?
how do those reactions change when splatters of blood land on their face?
on their lips? do they lick it off?
how do we feel about the smell of blood?
it makes women tired and men uneasy.

and

iii
crazy creepy people writing crazy creepy music.
crazy creepy people taking pictures of bad graffiti
crazy creepy people breathing in stale, standstill air
crazy creepy people recording the clanking of metal and the movement of water
crazy creepy people singing in a tunnel
eating two breakfasts and following pigeons
crazy creepy people existing in a crazy creepy world.


We have come back to this. What I am doing now, or why I am not doing other things.

Like that feeling when [she writes poems about me. she doesn't. i miss her. she laughed a lot. i wonder what killed that boy. she does NOT write poems about me. she doesn't even think about me. who would think about me]. Like that feeling when you don't really write anymore.

In the end, there is nothing like a train at night.
A book that makes you feel warm.
A darkness floating past on the other side of the window.
A comforting pocket of darkness and air standing still.
A comforting pocket of the wind tearing your skirt off, messing your hair like an affectionate older sister.
A comforting pocket of as long as I am reading this book I cannot be anything but happy. 
A little happy. A little content. 
A bright light. A can of beans.


(And here is what I read, what I listen to these days)

That feeling when IMMERSE YOUR SOULS IN LOVE
but also, I can feel death, can see its beady eyes.

One day, the bread was cottonseed cake and paper and dust, and the butter was wallpaper paste, and the next day there was meat on the market. Deathless makes me want to kiss words but also curl up inside myself and cry because the world is full of magic and full of pain and the two will always hold hands and I don't think I hate it.