Tag Archives: writing

Page Five

Winter sunlight casts your skin in blue
Your straight brown eyelashes lining
your closed lids
Spectacles thickening the view
Like a camera’s lens
That traps and widens the light
in the thick glass

While my china hands travel
To touch your face, as I sit
On your knee
I ram my head onto your chest

I am weighed by my adoration
And my head sinks down to your skin
Like a stone through hasty waters made still
Here against you I press and curl
And I tell you of my immense love for you.

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“Write with neither hope nor hopelessness, only with great dedication”

-Aura Estrada

“Write with neither hope…

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Interpreting Short Stories: Miss Brill (Katherine Mansfield)

There is a certain art to solitude. One wouldn’t think it, but there is. In my years with no one else around, I can say I’m quite learnt in it. The art, yes. The art of being lonely.

The trouble with it, you see, is not the isolation itself, no. The problem is when you wake up in the morning, put your near blue feet to the carpeted floor, and walk to through the shoebox living room to the kitchen. Confronted by the dull light, and the selfsame scene, the problem is not being alone. The problem is the space that it gives for all the thoughts in your head.

You see, school children can block those thoughts out. With television, and homework and boyfriends and records and telephone calls. When there’s nothing of the like, then all those things you can easily keep pressed down in the dark edges of your mind, they come up, with snapping jaws and pinching fingers. In this way the silence can fill a space as easily and wails and shrieks.

So the days out in the sun are the days that that silence dissolves. You can make friends with the things around you in the meantime. My little fox in the box, is that to me. it’s like a seasonal baby, or a little present from the years ago. Sometimes I pretend it’s from a lover. Some man who I would have loved dearly, but who had died sailing on a great ship, or in a tram accident, or of some incurable cancer.

But my sister gave it to me, and she lives two towns away.

But there you are, the art to being lonely. The art to being lonely is filling the spaces.

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Chemo Limo (Spektor)

Okay, I’m just testing the waters of the web with this one, I’ll delete it again in a while. I wrote it on my phone (god’s sakes) about two weeks ago, inspired by title. 

~

Strange.

Crispy crispy Benjamin Franklin, yes. Makes me think of or, rather, feel the years ago. Feel that walks the way into my head through my ears. Bladed grass plants its smell in my nose. The sun sailing in like my eyes are two giant windows.

Right far into my old thoughts. I had forgotten what I wanted earlier. Two years ago? And this moment, I suppose, this moment I have what I wanted then. The big wide want that had no filling. The want was just a desire for a certain feel. And here it is, under my wall-pressed shoulder, under my eyelids. Open or closed.

Once the song is done I will regurgitate. The ending the therapy. Expelling the idea, the cancer. The moment.  And I can start it again if I like.

Glory, ha! No thank you, no thank you, no thank you.

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Fresh beginnings etc.

Hello I’m Claire.

I’m seventeen. A high school student in South Africa.

Natural at English, floundering in art and music.

I don’t have anyone to get high with.

So, internet I guess.

Please love me.

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