more reasons. or excuses?

night five: I invent an argument, shrug his advances off, roll over and go to sleep
night six: we're both drunk and worn out, and so we pass out
night seven: I submit. He wants a lot. I give it to him. It hurts.

I can't fake this

I snuggle up to you, purring like a cat, and ask you to hold tight to my hair.
you stroke your hand over my head ,over and over, stroking and smoothing.... wind your fingers into my tresses and pull tight.... You make me whimper and promise, I have to twist and turn and writhe to keep close to your hand- it's hurts- you lead me by my scalp...

Down on the floor on my hands and knees, you kneel beside me and press the flat of your hand into the small of my back, 'Arch your back', I do as you ask, lifting my ass up, opening myself and revealing her to you fully. At the beginning the force of the smack against my cheeks is a surprise. Again and again you bring your hand against me, hard, the sound reverberates through me before the pain registers. I can't ignore it, it hurts to much to get used to. Eventually the tears come but I don't ask you to stop. My glasses fill with salt water, I can hardly see out. When your fingers slap against her I begin to shake and cry.

Standing over me you feed your stiffening cock between my lips, over my tongue and force it down into my throat. You gaze down at my upturned face as I choke on you, thrusting into me, holding my head you smile down at me and force it further in.

Am I tear stained? mascara streaked? Does it turn you on to hurt me?

It should shame me to kneel like this. But it is pure joy to submit to you.

reasons or excuses?

night one: too late, I'm already in bed 'sleeping'
night two: I'm drunk, and worn out from the big day
night three:It's late, the bed is really uncomfortable, I'm allergic to my room and keep coughing...
night four: The heating is broken, we're both wearing pajamas, sweaters, hats....

I'm thinking maybe
night five: my mother's sleeping right above us

senses

I have a theory about my senses. Stretching them. Flexing them. Using them to discern tiny sensations.
Like an exercises at bedtime I practise.
I hold this cup in my palm, it's warm curve nestles against me, even slight movements against it sound the high rustling tinkle of skin against glaze. I run my toes over the blanket, exploring the curves and folds, enjoying the slight prickle of wool, the friction arresting the slide of the soft pads of my feet, impeding their journey across the mattress. The cover of my book is cool and hard under my fingertips. Running my fingers over the surface I realise that that whilst it is so smooth it is also matte, and like microscopic velvet it gives me shivers.

I concentrate on gathering sensations and think of you. I know that when I have my moment with you, that is to say, when we next steal a moment together, though our time will be short (it could never be long enough) I will be practised in appreciating sensations. Each tiny brush of skin on skin, each breath that stirs the tiny hairs on my body, every inhalation will fill my consciousness, every touch will resonate my soul...

poorly

Been hiding out here at my mum's place feeling poorly.
Initially it was just sniffing, then throbbing brain, fever,
coughing, aching. The ludicrous amount of snot involved
is scary... There are massive piles of tissues.

(pause here to read my man's attempt to inflame my passions
with the judicious use of text....oh poor thing...
inviting love cavity? darling please, no...)

I've been eating in almost equal measures, ginger, lemon, vitamin c,
paracetamol, chili, codeine, garlic and porridge. I'm not entirely
certain that it's a plan I should patent, but I've stopped getting worse
and may been be getting better.

It's beginning to be quite isolating out here, makes me a bit sad how
few people contact me in the course of the week.

In the struggle to be a better mammal

...and to put my finger finger in a firmly up your A$$ position toward corporate conglomerate melonomas like Nestle and Masterfoods

I declare this an ad-free blog

visit www.adfreeblog.org to learn more

yes

I'm hanging on the sofa,
with the cats,
watching Dogma on TV,
eating ginger and dark chocolate ice cream.

things may yet be ok......

morning

Last night I didn't sleep til three something.
I woke at seven something.
My asthma's been really bad.
I'm just so tired I can't think. Can hardly function.
Now I've got builders in the basement and kitchen installing a staircase.
It's not quiet. or tidy come to that.

I'm trying to remember when I said that I had never been faithful.
All the time I suppose. Probably in a nonchalant way too.

I don't think it's true to say that I am actually incapable of monogamy.
I just have slip-ups with the same regularity as most people trip on a loose paving stone and make a fool of themselves pretending that they didn't.
Currently it seems to be limited to quarterly occurrences, inversely linked to my happiness.
I've known better than to let them inside me for some time, so it's normally a very unsatisfying fumble. A hungover morning (regardless in fact of the involvement, if any, of alcohol) and a couple weeks of self hatred, usually cut with self harm and/or starvation.

But there again, I've never tried to have a relationship with anyone who knew this stuff about me. I've never been able to talk to any of them about what goes on or ask them for help when I need it.
Would that make a difference?
Who knows.
It looks like we'll never find out.

i have no self confidence.
none.
i can loose 10 kilos
and still think i'm fat.
(i'm pretty much permanently
deluded on that point)
i can have a degree and still feel stupid.
I get stuck.
depressed.
immobile.

i have fantasy 'relationships' with people
i want them to be something that they can't be.
to give me something that they don't have.
i can be just a cloud of negativity.
i can nod and listen and offer tea,
but i need that kind of support myself
and end up resenting those i offer it to.

i regret the past.
i fear the future.
i imagine the worst
and am not surprised when it happens
everyday i cope
every day i wish i could do better
then flop it

i want to take a large step
and be in the light
i want the golden glow to embrace me
i want to be safe
and warm
i want to see the good in everything
and help those who can't find it

when i was so small,
before life (&my father) had crushed me
i knew i was good
i knew i could do good
i would dance with everyone at the grown up party
and sleep beside the drum kit

i loved sun dresses
mud
bugs
flowers
a bowl of water
and singing hummily


bring me back to the light

please

ouch

Ok so we can't be together.
Why?
five children and a pleasant woman.
200 miles.
few years.
a whole world.
ok. so we can't be together.

"sooner or later I'll have to do something 'bout the starvation"

Ok. I get it. I don't like it though
How could I be expected to like the thought of you giving it to someone else?
Do you enjoy thinking of me underneath another man?
Well then.

"I can't do it with you so......"

This may be a fact, but it does not make the first statement any easier to bear.

"If we were together , I would have expected you to be monogamous... probably unlikely eh?"

WTF? Are we try to damage the girl this morning?
Would it just be simpler to say; "You are a slut, I don't trust you"?
It would've been quicker to write for sure.
If that's what it's about and you're trying to hurt me and drive me away your choice of words could have been limited.
We could have condensed the whole painful incident into one easy text.
"I'm horny and you can't fix it. On to the next one then...."

dreaming

I've always wanted to be part of a large family,
cousins and aunts and nephews,
kids everywhere and people to spend Christmas with.
People to remember your birthday, share common
heritage and support you.For many years it's just been
'us three', it has made me long to give something
different to my own children one day.

Yet here I am, years on, and I find myself
involved (seriously?) with a man who has only one
brother to whom he speaks even less than I speak to my
estranged half brothers.
I can't help thinking This is Not a Good Sign

25 Apr 2007 21:59

so i'm sitting here writing the boring report of dullness
not far to go i keep telling myself
not too much further

and i look up to see that it's half nine.
in the holidays the studios close at 8:30
they lock the studios at 9

and here i am in the library .
my coat
my bag
my door keys
all in the studio

so i run out of the library and into the corridor
all the lights are off
but i don't stop to find the switches
i know this corridor
dark or light
i use it ten times day

and then i come up against a locked door
so i run back the way I've come
suddenly the dark is oppressive
i cant tell how far Ive come
I'm panicking
I'm still running
my chest tightens
i notice the wheeze on my breath
by the time i get up to the security desk I'm rasping
i can hardly speak to explain myself
keys, i manage, in the studio
and my inhaler, i add
as my throat contracts
i know i have to calm down

the guard calls the one locking up my corridor on the radio
he asks him where he is
then takes me down to meet him

i recognise him
from last time i did this
i worry that he recognises me
i cant catch my breath
but I'm apologising over and over

we have to go round the long way
my chest is heaving
my breath is burning
by the time we get through all the locked doors
I'm desperate
I'm on my knees in front of my locker
ripping at my bag
junk rolling out onto the floor
lip balm, lighter, polos,

the world's is narrowing around the edges
darkening

finally my inhaler
i usually hate this thing
but the panic is rising and I'm so glad to clutch it in my hand

first attempt fails
something's stuck in the nozzle
clearing it seems to take years
and then i get a clear blast
and it begins to recede
the world opens out again

my hands are shaking from the salbutamol
my knees are weak from the adrenalin
my vision hazy from the lack of oxygen

I've made it all the way back to the library
but strangely i don't feel like doing any more work on my report.....

mouse tale

Cat spent ages attacking the mouse whilst I was trying to work.
Lurking and pouncing. Trying to make sure it didn't escape.
Now he's worn himself out, he's decided the best way to make sure
that neither I nor the mouse get away is to go to sleep on my hand.
And Snore.

a little story

18th August 2005

let me tell you a story from a couple summers ago , it goes like this;

Almost had an asthma attack last night, inhaler wasn't doing anything.
thought to go wash my face, calm down. Came across huge house spider in
hallway. Fled back to room wheezing even worse.
Wedged towel in gap under bedroom door.
Called a friend, calmed down a bit, managed to navigate corridor with
a torch and boots on. Had a drink of water, washed face, navigated
corridor back to bedroom (at high speed) took more Ventolin.
Eventually fell asleep.

Woke in the morning to J playing the Fugees (of all things) Far. Too.
Loud. Banged on door looking bedraggled, made him shut it up (some).
Told him had bad night, explained. He told me he'd come across huge
spider in shower with him this morning (hah, I thought- spider had also been
making way to have a splosh in the bathroom!)
asked 'where spider was now?'
'gone' he says.
'didn't kill it did you?' I ask
'no' he says.
'but it is gone?'
'yes'
' Gone gone?' I check.
'Gone Gone' he assures me.

I flop about for a bit, have a cup of tea then head for shower. Double
check no arachnids lurking (poke shower curtain, check plug hole)
Think 'better have a wee before shower', lift toilet lid, scream, drop
toilet lid.
Unhappy looking spider floating in loo. Panic, flush loo.
Check for spider. Poor spider still there looking up at me
reproachfully. Feel guilty. How could think of flushing poor arachnid?
Try and think. Curse J loudly. Leave bathroom.

Open back door as wide as will go, ensure no obstacles in corridor,
turn on all lights to ensure non trippage.
Return to bathroom wearing rubber gloves, big boots and armed with a garden cane,
(a long one!) a tupperware box and a homebase catalogue.
Placed tupperware into basin. Fish spider out of loo with cane and
deposit him into tupperware. Making sure he's recovering in the bottom
of the box not flailing legs in way, slam catalogue on top.
Try to resume breathing.
Put down cane.
Pick up box ( still wearing gloves) and firmly holding on the
catalogue make my way towards back door . Chanting mantra of 'Am
independant woman, Can handle damp spider, spider is More afraid of me
than I am of him' etc etc.

Proceed to very end of garden, put down box. Do deep breathing
exercises, try not to have next asthma attack. Remove catalogue. Try not to
squeal like inane handbag bint.
Becomes obvious that damp miserable , spider can't climb out of
box. Return to bathroom for garden cane and shove box over to edge of
plant pot, tip box over so spider falls out, but box catches and leans
on plant pot so does not fall and squash him.
Spider sits there panting and giving me the evil eye, try to explain
that it's all J's fault, spider clearly doesn't care for my
explanation and blames me for whole ignoble adventure.
I remove tupperware box and flee, locking backdoor behind me (spider
looks pretty miffed)

Take off protective clothing and find large piece of paper.
leave following message on J's bedroom door;

______________________

J,

could you please NOT
LEAVE DISTRAUGHT HALF
DROWNED SPIDERS
IN THE LOO

thanks
______________________

existence

I exist.
Quietly, over here, in my corner.
I might be invisible sometimes,
but I am certainly real.

to j.a.r

I can still see where you bit me. Just.

You wouldn't know that's what it was unless you'd been told.

A small oblique, a little diamond.

I told people that it was an insect bite. (weak)

Or where I'd been play fighting with the boys. (believable under the circumstances)

I called it a UDI and blamed it on a good night.

It hurts me to look at it.

But like a wobbly tooth, I keep checking for it, toying with it, immersing myself in the pain.

There were scratches too.
On my belly, my side, my thighs.

With your nails you mapped my topography and left me red raw.

I didn't think it was going to be nothing.

I didn't think it was going to be random.

I don't let randoms do things that 'touch' me.
I don't let randoms mark me.

If it had just been random sex, well it wouldn't have happened- what do I want with random sex? But if it had been, I don't think I would feel this bad.

I didn't want to begin 'something serious', I'm in no position for that.
And I realise that it's not advisable to sleep with people who you want to be friends with, but I did think we would be friends.
It's a bad habit of mine, the misdirection of emotions into physical love.

I thought you understood. We had talked.

You know things about me that I keep close,

you told me secrets that scared me.

I felt something,

I thought you did to.

And that's why even though there was no penetration,

well not that kind of penetration,

I feel more used than if you had forced me.

I find manipulation so much more painful than violence.

New Improved Cat-In-A-Box!
coming soon to a cardboard box near you

journey

As the train moves south the light seems to brighten in contrast to the darkening of the sky. Clouds like huge islands, grey purple and surly.
Trees livid green in the golden light, jewels against the bruised skin of the sky.
The feeling of foreboding grows in the pit of my stomach, London is like a drug;
as soon as I inhale it I will forget everything else.
I will surely forget this beauty exists.

delay

The London train is delayed by half an hour.
I'm sitting on the platform; down on the tarmac, shoes off, cardigan slipped down round my shoulders. The sun is at my back, shadows at my feet of my toes and the pages of my novel blowing in the wind. The wind smells like a south easterly, not quite as familiar as the sou' westerly, up over the moors bringing the taste of the sea, but still pleasant. Blustering my hair about my face, bringing me the sound of collar doves and children playing.
Perhaps I don't mind the delay after all.

fragments and smithereens

I don’t know what I’m writing. I don’t know what I want to say. Just that I want to write.
So I’ve made myself, really forced myself to sit down here and get something 'on paper'.

I have a million passing thoughts in a day that I feel I must write down, but I let them do just that, pass.

It’s such a hassle to get to the sitting down in front of the pc stage in the wreck of a room at the moment that I manage to avoid myself.

I thought of something earlier, but couldn’t bear to start clearing things away.
Moving the dustbin, taking all my clothes of the chair... I decided to look for what is currently passing (neglectedly) for my diary, an A5 black moleskine, but after
I rummaged for a while in the likely places (near the tops of piles mostly) I gave up.

My desk’s not especially bad, only two inches or so deep in papers and beads and 'things', but around the edges is getting terrible.

Piles of books, the borrowed granny shopping trolley that I have been using to ferry materials up to the playcentre (the idea is that it saves my back, but in actuality I think all I’m doing is making my wrist worst and twisting my back and/or hips oddly as I trundle it along, up and down kerbs and broken paving)

Things I brought away from Uni at the end of term, files, papers, more books,
Things I brought away from Uni after the fire, damp smoky stained, bewildered, displaced

Clothes on the way in; cast offs and acquisitions.
Clothes on the way out; if I could only come to terms with the fact that I really am never ever fitting into those jeans again. It’s the first time in my life that I’ve been what is according to my thick doctor ‘ a healthy weight’ and it’s going to take some serious getting used to. My tiny mini skirts? Never again my Atomic k888s? No more, alas, and the factory is gone forever so I can’t even get a size up. My cute little dungaree dress? Obscene.
In fact my wardrobe needs a serious overhaul; I’m altogether different person, mentally and physically since I could get away with baggy blacks and a push-up bra (nothing like a bit of light engineering to set off an ensemble, eh?) Having said that I don’t want to be Miss B either, long wools skirts and shapeless grey items are, well, um… to the look I aspire to?

It’s hard to do this clearing because I’m not sure what my criteria are. Who am I? What outfits do I need? What books do I need to hand? What tools shall I keep at the top of the box? How to order my cd’s when I don’t know what I like?

I’m listening to the same seven Audioslave tracks on repeat… I can’t quite explain what they do for me, I can’t even understand two thirds of the lyrics… well maybe if I really listen I under stand a lot more than that, but I’m not sure how much ‘it’ has to do with the lyrics, his voice reaches me here in this strange grey inbetweeny place I’ve taken up residence, and moves me. To what? Oh I don’t know… but away from the edge of despair...

I just stare at my walls three pages deep, or more in places, mementos of what feels like a past life. A life I’ve been meaning to glue down for a long time, into a book, full of tickets post it notes, pieces of serviette, business cards, warning stickers, labels, gift tags, teabag tabs, beads, cd covers, lyrics, shopping lists, receipts, phone numbers, cartoons, newspaper cutting, photos, match books, drawings, pieces of ribbon and string, badges, invitations, bills, invoices, reflectors, decals, iron on patches, buttons, a jelly baby, a rubber chicken, stamps, a dried orchid, a sweetie, a moomin, a token, an address….

Smithereens I call the stuff sometimes, I have a jar of it at Uni, and I think it’s after a poem… I can’t remember whose it is, but someone collects fragments of life, of smithereens… and I know how that is…. Every little scrap of paper, every lost object sparks my memory, brings rushing to me the smells and emotions of times past and moments half forgotten….

I wonder if I do it to tie me down?

12 Step Butterfly

How difficult is it to find a pattern for an origami butterfly?
Very difficult. I might, in fact, go so far as to say Very Very difficult.

I do need to be able to use this with the kids tomorrow so I have to stipulate that
a). it must not be too complex. Having 37 folds and turning out with little legs is all very well, but not if your age range is 4 - 12 years old.
However it must b).still look quite a lot like a butterfly, otherwise I know that the kids will not be satisfied.

Frustratingly I used to know two different ways to fold a butterfly, one from a rectangular piece of paper which would have been ideal, but I seem to have forgotten them both...

I'm surrounded with misshapen insects and envelopes torn into squares (paper that comes for free and has white on one side and pattern on the other? Have you never looked at the envelope your bank statement comes in?)

I must not panic, everything will come right in the end...

Realisations

1. When I'm upset and freaking out, maybe in a confrontation or negotiation, I push the other person until they freak out. Then, weirdly, I can relax. I'm not the one out of control anymore.

2. When I reach the quiet place, quiet on the inside , I cut off my emotions. I can watch the other person impassive. No matter how much I usually care for that person I can quite happily watch them becoming distressed , slightly amused even, at the way they lose control.

3. After both of these stages, later, eventually; and let me point out here that this can take some time, in the Captain Oates "I may be some time" way, I eventually realise that I'm numb and that I want to reawaken my emotions. Not in any complex intellectual way, I just want to feel something, feel anything. So I go out and find someone to make me feel, some sordid encounter, that even if enjoyable at the time inevitably leaves me feeling cheap and worthless.


I do this over and over again, only sometimes do I 'wake up' partway through the cycle and realise what's happening. Depending on when I become conscious of what's happening it may not be too late to stop and leave, or calm down and back away... Sometimes I've woken up and found myself in an awkward position that I'm not brave enough to admit I didn't want, many times I've gone through the motions thinking it would be easier than trying to get away. Which just adds to the feelings of worthlessness and pain that is the result.

I've spent so much time in my life trying to wash the feeling off.
If only I could stay out of the cycle I wouldn't end up scrubbing off my skin in an attempt to wash myself clean.

the sound ...

...of safety
of home
of magic and the wide horizon
the sound of my childhood

Viking North Utsire
South Utsire
Forties Cromarty Forth
Tyne Dogger
Fisher
German Bight
Humber Thames
Dover
Wight Portland
Plymouth Biscay
Fitzroy Sole
Lundy Fastnet
Irish Sea
Shannon
Rockall
Malin
Hebrides
Bailey
Fair Isle
Faeroes
Southeast Iceland

Weather has problems too

The general synopsis at 1300:
Low Forties 1009 expected Cromarty 1004 by 1300 tomorrow. Atlantic low moving east expected west Shannon 996 by same time.
Low west Fitzroy 1018 losing its identity.
High Faeroes 1020 losing its identity.

who knew? i never realised that weather had such fragile existence...

"Borderline Personality Disorder. An instability of self-image, relationships and mood... uncertain about goals, impulsive in activities that are self-damaging, such as casual sex."

"Social contrariness and a generally pessimistic attitude are often observed."

Pushing Away

It's what I do. The closer and more intense a situation becomes the harder I push.
The more someone demands that I don't, the more I do.
It's like a physical reaction.
They tell me off and I close down, emotions cut off, face goes blank, muscles stiffen...
I find that I don't care, like an isolator switch has been tripped.
And It's the hardest thing in the world to go back on.