Archives for category: Performance

It would be a lie to say that I was a non-smoker since I smoke nearly every week. I began eating meat again. I went out and got laid. He’s an alright bloke, but he’s not for me: maybe he just doesn’t want to be for me. Anyway, we are friends, so at least we’ve lost nothing. We met when I started drinking again. I read an article that said that will power was finite. Being jobless and in the pit of grief trying to hold onto my sanity, something had to give. So, I let it all go (again, with the letting go!).

I called a friend, snot nosed and said this was the worst impersonation of ‘Love, eat, pray’ or what ever the hell that was, that I’d ever witnessed and I’ve seen a lot of messed up puppies in my time. She laughed and said, “You’re not messed up. You’re living. Get used to it”. I decided there was little else I could do actually, so I settled in for the ride. I believe the Buddhists call it developing renunciation.

Then I finally found a freakin job. Hallelujah!

Kind of got sacked because 1) My line manager and I knew each other from a previous job and we both knew it wouldn’t last long, 2) It ended a lot quicker than we both thought it would because I almost burnt the hostel down. Strictly speaking it wasn’t my fault, but still, it was a very close call. We both learned something that day: She’s a person living in fear and my hostel days are over because I just don’t have the love for it like I used to.

I let that go too. Just slunk off and never looked back. Even when I was pleading for my job, we both looked at each other through the facades we’d built knowing that neither of us wanted me to get my job back. But I worked long enough to pile a little bit of cash up. Knowing this might be the last pile o’ cash I see for a while I thought, “fuck it”. I’m going to get drunk. My birthday month was wild. I don’t even remember living like that in my teens, I just went nuts.

As the second half of August pulled into sight I said to myself that I was going to straighten out again and start the soul destroying process of finding work. Then I got drunk and slept with my friend again. We had a big talk a few weeks later about how we were just going to be friends, then we had sex on the sofa. It’s pretty funny you know. At some points I just laughed and laughed and laughed… Grief works in mysterious ways. My friends are phenomenal that’s all I can say. They really have carried me this year, and I will say it till I’m blue in the face, I have had no choice but to let them. At first, I waved to my pride as I passed by, but then it caught me up again all refreshed and wearing new clothes.

What now then?

1) I’m still allergic to the cat.
2) I have a zero hour contract working a bar.
3) I’m still looking for better hours.
4) I stopped writing the book. I don’t have time to research it properly.
5) I created my own event. (It went down really well).
6) I won some funding to be able to put my event on again in a different venue.
7) I’m applying for further funding to take it further afield.
8) I said I’d help a friend with his events. We are gaining a lot of interest and some very serious people are asking questions.
9) I’m going to have to set up new blogs about both of these events, because other wise, I’ll lose the anonymity of this blog. Some of you have come so far with me on my inner journey, that I wouldn’t want to lose you because I couldn’t continue writing with the same level of freedom I enjoy now.

I hope you are well. I’ll post the writing I did for my event when I’ve typed it up. Till then, have a listen to this my loves…

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A friend of mine posted a link to a site called Beard Pornography. A range of emotions raced through me as I scrolled through pictures of men with well coiffured beards. Some had hairy chests, some had tattoos, some were scene-sters or hipsters, bikers, models, greasers, normal blokes with a beard… Some were holding animals.

My adrenalin did race. I am more inclined to respond to a hairy male than one with out fuzz. And today’s fashions are not beard friendly on mass, or if men do wear beards they are far too young for me, older men now going beardless or just not taking care of basic ablutions. I have been single for quite some time.

After scrolling for about five minutes, my breath was taken away by one man. I literally sucked air into my lungs like I’d just been revived. The image was so well composed, the light amazing, the posturing erm… manly. Crikey. He was lovely. Is lovely, well looked lovely. How do you know from a photograph?

Then like an idiot I realised that I was more drawn to the pictures that displayed a hairy chest, so I typed hairy chest porn into Google, really not thinking about the word ‘porn’ in it’s ‘un-ironic’ sense. I got what I asked for and had to close the search results PDQ I can tell you.

Jokingly, I said to my friends that I wouldn’t do it again, or at least next time I would exclude the word ‘porn’ from the search. Which I did. That really just brought up sites full of soft porn. This, amongst feeding back to friends on a social networking site, took 1/2 hour.

And there ends my tale… or does it. I got ‘bored’ quite quickly, I realised this was unfulfilling and the no speaking and no touching thing just made me feel a little lonely. What do men (and women) who use porn do? Is it a conscious decision to push aside those feelings? I’m not judging, Germaine Greer used to be a pornographer and my own relationship with it is more complex than I care to go detail here…

So what was it that got under my skin so much that I rejected it, so quickly? Was it because some of them look like the kind of man I could really go for, and that sailed too close to the wind? Do we need our porn stars to look like porn stars, so that in our minds we can detach them from real life, we can then view them like grown up cartoons, they are not real? Because deep down inside we KNOW we are objectifying these people. Do porn stars understand this and have a similar relationship with their own looks?

Do some people use porn to disgust themselves a little bit? I have so many questions like this… Would you ever be able to get a true response from people as to why they use porn, even if they were self aware… I’ve been reading “We Need To Talk About Kevin” (which I highly recommend), the author suggests that parents who try to protect their children from harmful images are fighting a tsunami, and that they need to teach their children how to interpret what they are seeing. I agree with some reserve.

Yeah Yeah – Bodyrox ft Luciana.

Pulling up my boots. Got my big girl pants on. Looking at myself in mirror and I wonder how did I get here? This is not my beautiful face. Today I washed my hair and forgot to put conditioner on it, I look like Dianna Ross. Or at least my hair does. I look angry. I have a cleft that makes me look like Andy McDowell. I earned it from not wearing my glasses and ranting.

I could easily go to tomorrows Cultural Strategy meeting, hair wild, jump on the table, tear my top and stab a pen in my fleshy left tit. All whilst screaming, “I am Joan of Art!”

In my mind, I did not move in with Psycho 2, on the day he was emotionally holding me to ransom, I did not resolve the situation, I told him to “Fuck off”, climbed out of the kitchen window and ran like billie-o for the sake of my sanity.

I got rid of him and I made myself ugly. I tried really hard to rub myself out. I got fat and earned a cleft that makes me look perma-angry. My clothes are a mess and my make up is none existent (not that I ever wore much anyway).

Some say I’ve been pupae-ting. If that’s the case, I want to be the Claudia Schiffer some one in Norway once said I looked like, because of my curves apparently. Believe me, if I look like anyone famous it’s Cathy Burke. I’m ok with that, she has mad skillz.

I’m not doing this any more. I have skills. I know what I am doing. I know where I am going and I do not need anyone to get there. I am taking off my stabilisers. I never needed them anyway. He made me think I was useless and I believed him. I am not that person.

I once asked a friend to describe me; he couldn’t decide between Budgie the Little Helicopter or a Dragon with an Opal in it’s claw. I’ve been described as an “accident in a spring factory”, a “great dane puppy” and a “pin ball wizard”. I’m “gorgeous”, with a “big gob and a big heart”. “Scarey” and “intimidating”. I wanted to be told I looked like Minnie Driver in my twenties, but was told I looked like Janice Joplin or Bette Midler. Recently, I was likened to Susan Boyle.

What I have not been recently is the Dragon with an Opal in it’s claw. I have been waiting for a resurgence, a renaissance. It is not forth coming and I am not getting any younger. So after fishing around for opinions to take to the Cultural Strategy, I thought Fuck It. I’m going on behalf of me. Nan bought me an Opal pendant for Christmas, 1st Dad gave it to me the day we fixed the wall. I am going to wear that Opal and I am going to be “Joan of Art”.

The protagonist of my book is called Joan. She’s more me than I thought. I’m going Renegade. Catch you in the slip stream!

Tuesday, I spent the day with my Dad. He’s got high blood pressure and has to stop eating salt. I taught him to make a stew and said now he knew how to make nearly everything. He doesn’t believe me. He ate the full pan in one day (three meals), he walks 10 miles a day, so he can get away with it. In summer he walks more. Or did, now the dog is gone, I worry for him.

Wednesday, I went to the opera to see Otello. I cried. The ticket was a gift. Not for me for my friend, The Ukraine. Her husband decided that he did not want to go and I was the lucky beneficiary.

Thursday, I went to the cinema to see Les Miserables. I cried. I forgot my discount card but the woman still gave me a discounted ticket for a pound, which my friend The Boffin paid for.

Friday, I saw my Dad again as it was his Birthday. He brought me some pre-cut stir fry veg. I told him on Tuesday that one tub was enough for two meals and he laughed and said one. What he had brought me was the second of the tubs saying that he couldn’t eat it all. Go figure!

Saturday, I offered one of my pieces of art to be used as a prize in a tombola to raise money for Medicin Sans Frontiere, they accepted. I’m so pleased. In the evening, a pal came to pick me up (The Facilitator) for a party and it was BYOB, so I bought 8 cans, this was not a night to be one beer short. I declined to perform. And I danced and danced and danced. So many people were out. I was drunk and I was dancing. We walked home and I swore all the way dragging my suitcase behind me. It was excellent.

Today, I was allowed to open my presents from Miss India. For Christmas I got Pirates in an Adventure With Scientists with matching sticker book and a novel called The Dark Side of Love.

Here is the amazing list of India gifts:

A scarf.
A bag.
Some henna.
A packet of Bindi (decorative dots put in between the eyebrows).
15 post cards, one of which is hand painted and dated 1967.
Earl Grey Tea.
An Om pendant.
And a small Bronze statue of Hanuman.

She was going to save some for my birthday in August but couldn’t wait to give me them.

The best part? Ever since I was a little girl I heard stories about Hanuman. I have been in love with him all my life. By accident I have had several boyfriends with nicknames like monkey and chimp! I never thought that I would ever be fortunate to have my very own Hanuman statue. And here he is in my house.

I’ve been listening to all sorts too much to mention but check out Asa – The Way I Feel. Last night they play M.I.A’s Bad Girl.

When you have time and would like to watch a movie, you MUST watch Sita Sings the Blues. It is free to view on Youtube.

The last few months have been so hard going that it has been difficult to see the beauty around me. I won’t try and rewrite history and pretend everything has been fine. This is not the way the world works. How can we ever appreciate the beauty and the love in the world, if we never experience hard times.

What she actually said was, “Let them eat Brioche”. Which is what the French used to eat for breakfast anyhow. Allegedly. I decided that one of the best ways to stay warm was to have a full belly. So I made a vegetable ragu with pasta, sprinkled with some of that nutritional yeast. It was munch and it bumped up the heat too.

I decided to make a cake. Why not!? That will warm the house up too. Chocolate Cherry Cake with fake eggs. But I will tell you this, the non-dairy cheese sauce is absolutely rank. I reckon I might be able to get away with a mild bechemal type sauce if I want to do Cauliflower Cheese again.

Writing yesterdays post reminded me of how it felt when Marty first showed up. That was at a Chuck Perkins performance that was spectacular. I forget the name of the U.K. poet he was visiting. That day, Rico of Jools Hollands Jazz Band fame showed up too. Both very pleasant men to talk with.

To be a writer of the calibre of Chuck Perkins, now that would be something. I think it was that day that I first saw Marty. He’d come to do some filming. I saw his shoes and the rest is history… I have to type all my stuff for the rescheduled reading party any how so I’ll share a couple of pieces from that time. Not the best stuff though, I’m feeling a bit precious about it. Clingy.

“I can feel you watching me. I like it, because I have been watching you too. In my mind we talk like lovers. So far the best thing that you have said to me is, “I want to touch you”. “Where?”, I ask. You reply without thought, “All over, in time, but for now I want to touch you here”.

Then without asking, you pick up my hand and walk your fingers over the inside of my wrist. You do not peer intently into to my eyes; you study my wrist as if it is the finest thing you have ever seen. I hope you are watching me, because you like me too and not because of my builders bum as I mop the floor.”

Someone found a gurney in the prop room and we set it up by the bar. A communal bar stool if you will. We had so many fun times on that thing. We once dressed it up as a bull (complete with horns) and pretended to ‘do rodeo’ on it. Eventually, we had to take it away, we had been a little energetic and it was no longer safe. The you in this case is all of them.

“The here and nowness of it all.

The sitting and watching the youness of it all.

The newness of it all.

The feeling that it has always been this way,
yet not demanding it stay this way.

The comfortable sitting on trolleyness of it all.

Feeling five and joyful, sat in dim lightness of it all.

The todayness of it all.”

Paint usually made an appearance at some point. At the Artistic Director’s leaving do and I painted a poem I had written for her on the wall. The Dancers took the excess paint and threw it on the floor. Everyone was sliding around in it and walking over paper. It wasn’t long before someone fell, of course. I didn’t realise till I got home that they were all wet when they where hugging me and I too was covered in Red Paint.

Someone commented on that picture the other day. I haven’t seen it since then. This Friday, we are all meeting up again. The Artistic Director is in town to organise a cultural exchange with London. Who knows what we will create together this time round.

Chuck Perkins – Frenchmen Desire Good Children.

Someone told me it was Martin Luther King day, but I thought that was 15th January.

I made my Dad a stress ball, because he’s got massive paws he couldn’t find one. I got the idea when I was making his singing bowl cushion. Every time I wonder what I did with my life up till now I remind myself by saying things like that. I’m a million miles away from where I was, but not so far either.

My subconscious is prodding me… It started a week ago with an article from Cracked.com and ends with a post from TearMatt, collecting various points in between.

1) Red feet
2) ‘My’ theatre
3) Nice
4) Bikes
5) Fruit
6) London
7) Grim and fairy tales.

A famous writer called it “brewing” (maybe Sylthia Plathe). I don’t have any pretensions but I can identify with the thought process. Take a cup, choose a tea, put the kettle on… No wonder so many cultures have tea ceremonies. Here I go already, digressing before I’ve begun.

Unsurprisingly, ‘My’ theatre is not MY theatre. I showed up one day wanting to get involved but not having any particular skills, I started mopping floors. No easy feat with substandard equipment and the worst floor you’ve ever seen. I’d have been better off trying to clean Centenary Square.

As time passed, I could not contain myself and released my passion, energy and joy. I especially liked it when, during a meeting someone exclaimed, “But I thought you were a cleaner!”. At the time, I was also volunteering for a Drug Treatment Agency, working in a Hostel for Women fleeing violence, pottering about on an As level Art course (because I could not for the life of me find any other art groups to join) and going to Buddhist meetings from a new tradition. Good times.

By the time the Theatre shut, I was a Trustee on the board, collecting experience in performance, poetry, volunteer coordinating, junk artistry and professional hugging along the way. It was amazing for me to find a space that I could grow into. It felt so natural and inevitable. Until, the threads of prior Trustees financial mismanagement, lack of funding and the recession closed in on us.

Personally, I was hobbled by other things. I’d asked someone to collaborate on my first installation. It was snowing, I’d told him I wasn’t going to the theatre. But, I felt trapped in the house, I thought fuck it. I would have walked the three miles. Fortunately, there was still a bus. I rang him and he said he’d be there too. Seconds later he posted “88 Miles an Hour” as his status. (Let’s call him Marty.) I laughed, giddy with the excitement and joy of the magic that seemed to be in abundance. He pulled up outside the theatre on his pushbike and I set off laughing once again.

Years ago I met a man who helped me understand some things about myself. He was a Nice Man. I’m thinking of the time that we went to pick up a trolley. He was sat at the wheel of his car mimicking, “Nice! Nice! Is that what people think of me? Nice!?”

I was splitting at the seams because I’d had that rant just the day before. “I don’t want to be nice! Nice is boring!”. Well, this man most certainly is not boring, he’s a motorbiking, weightlifting, sculpting, teaching, DIYing man. Who liked to push his comfort zones, at that time, by learning to paint. I did indeed think that he was (and is) a “Nice man”. I understood the lesson offered.

I thought “Marty” was a “Nice man”. I thought that I took my time getting to know him, watched how he was with others, listened properly when he spoke. In reality, I did not. I had a veil of glamour over my eyes. He is definitely, NOT a nice man, in any sense of either word.

When it all began to unravel and he showed his true colours I was writing things like this:

“And so the tree began to bear strange fruit. Not quite so black, more a deep muddy brow. Not quite so dread, more unsettling. This fruit had bite. Not the sharp juicy tang of a not ripe plum, but a bite of a different kind. For it was the not quite tree.

It made good men doubt, but not yet enough to make them speak out. It made bad men arrogant, yet not so much they would seize power. The Not Quite Tree was not quite there. It was the spring of it’s second year, still a sapling. It was nourished by generalisations and obfuscations and most definitely, it fed greedily on mistrust.

It had a malignant aura and sought to suck the joy from those who passed by. They were unsettled but they never suspected the Not Quite Tree. They had seen the strange fruit, but they thinking the tree sick, did not believe that it would last the winter through. The Not Quite Tree, did not quite die!

It fed on the rancour of complainers. Strengthened its limbs on the canker of the greedy. Those who passed by the Not Quite Tree, did not notice the trunk was sore with boils that belched and oozed rancid gunk. Something was amiss. Something was not quite right, but good and bad alike could not quite put their finger on it.

The good felt low and the bad felt smug and the tree grew ever closer to bearing a strange fruit. No one could quite describe the crop beginning to sprout from it’s boughs. The Not Quite Tree was not quite ready to disguise the gangrenous fruit it was not quite ready to bear. One day the will look like ripe apples.”

This is what Fairy Tales used to look like. They used to teach you something of value. This grim fairy tale I am in is making no sense and I don’t know what my role is. For sure I am neither Hero or Princess (who would want the responsibility of always being perfect), more likely the Witch. But which Witch will I be? What fruit will my tree bear? Misunderstood witch with heart of gold, or the kind that gives poisoned fruit to princesses? I wonder where the woodsman is?

Woodcutters Son – Paul Weller
All Your Gold – Bat for Lashes
Cover Girl – Mr Hudson and the Library

Read David Wong’s “6 Harsh truths that will make you a better person”, for his take on the fruit we bear.

The links with red feet and London will have to wait for another day. Be mindful of the fruit you are likely to produce.

It was about 2.30am before my friends left. I haven’t seen them in two years! We performed in a Steam-punk pantomime at ‘my’ theatre. We communicate regularly via FB, but haven’t met in the flesh for two years. Needless to say, we’re good. We missed another friend who had left her fone at home, but she found herself in the conversation none the less.

Schadenfreude! And Jenny Saville… (Google time, people).

It occurred to me, that my current friends are interesting people. I am entertained as much as I am supported, and yes, it must be said occasionally tolerated. But I am also educated by them. This having women friends, I am finding much more superior to the men friends. Or at least I have realised why I wasn’t overly keen on females in my youth. Intelligence makes a difference.

I’m sat in a sleeping bag, freezing. I have electric over night heaters and for years I have been living with broken ones. The thermostat had gone and I knew they were sucking up juice like nobodies, but I was warm. This year due to cuts in my income and price rises from the electric company, I thought I had better have new heaters installed. It is fair to say that I am now regretting that decision. It is allegedly only zero, but my nose is cold.

I watched Soldier of God tonight cos I was bored and it was cheap. All I could think of was that hairy chest. I could do with a big bear to keep me warm. I thank god nightly for my electric blanket, I kid you not. And my friend who is in India, I am not having generous thoughts about her. Although, if I told her, she would say the same about me.

I’m reading “The Book of Dave” and finding it excellent and find that I like Will Self as an author more and more. I think that my foreign chums would struggle with this one though, I can just follow it. London is a peculiar place, Cockney a dense language. I will recommend “How The Dead Live” and “Dorian”. I think Wilde would approve of the retelling.

So, I’m a ridiculous penguin, thinking about The End of the Road Festival 2008. I had this new sleeping bag, I hadn’t tried it out, not even took it out of the bag. I was so very cold sleeping on a bed of cardboard, with all my clothes on and my coat on top. I’m lucky I’m still here. Of course, all the boys shrugged off my complaints, snug as they were in their mummy’s.

It’s not too bad, until you have to pee. Then the fun begins. This is not that sleeping bag, but it’s not much better. It’s 12C in the bedroom and about 17C in the front room. All the heating is on top wack, but I’m not fool enough to think that they aren’t making some difference. I’m not yet tempted to go running about outside to warm up. Yet. I’m glad I have my new boots and the wintertracks. I reckon I’m going to get some gators the next time I’m in town.

I am not having wet feet as well as cold.

I’m worried about my Orchid. It’s in the kitchen where there is no heating. I had a Bonsai that I worried about, when I moved it, it died. I have to move. This house is not fit for purpose and I have new questions to pose. In my case it is the not moving that will be the death of me.

I’m listening to Amerie and playing on-line scrabble.

As I prepare to write this post, first I read the blogs I follow, one in particular catches my thoughts (Bottledworder). Not exactly, but syncronistically. Do you like that word I just made up? Don’t correct me, let me believe it’s mine. Tonight let my Dyslexia have free reign, more so than usual.

Yesterday I intended to post today (especially after that blog!), I knew what I was going to post. I knew that I was going to carry through my resolution not to edit the two pieces I am about to present to you. They are only unusual in terms of the fact that they are unfinished.

I have this massive spot on my lip, I just thought you should know this, it is very painful and even after three days is showing no sign of going away! In fact, it’s growing. I might spontaneously combust after all, but what a way to go, taken out by a boil!!! Why doesn’t spell checker like combust?

SOooooooo… the second of the pieces, it ends in a way that I do not feel. I am not waiting. I told a lot of people to leave me and my life alone recently, those are not the actions of someone waiting. This is doing. I am doing. Presently, I am messing up a piece of artwork for a friend that should have been finished for her birthday in October. Shhhhhhh. It’s ok I only know 3 of my followers.

High every one! Thanks for liking and following my blog. I am thinking that I wish I had bought a beer or two now and that I find the cat clacking very distracting, I wish she would bugger off. OK. Are you ready…

“You will do anything to make me smile. But you won’t make a job of it. You will not try find elaborate solutions to simple problems. If a shelf is falling down, you will carry the weight until I can take all the fragile things off (as opposed to running around to find something to prop the shelf up with). Eventually the shelf will have to be fixed and you’d rather do it now, because you know it won’t be done otherwise and eventually the brolly will become a brolly again and the person who wants to stay dry will not know that it is no longer an umbrella. The shelf will finally drop it’s burden and then…”

Even I want to know what then! I was invigilating an open art exhibition and a customer wanted to talk. We talked about printing and etching.

The second piece was meant to be about a performance that I did, but it had it’s own ideas. I have also kept the limitations of the piece of scrap paper that I wrote it on. In this instance I think a re-write would completely change the ambiance. PS I am led to believe that suki suki is japanese for *really like* I hope I am not wrong about this.

“Last night I fell in and out of love.
I was down and out, a whore, a drunk.
I had a baby and I left it with it’s curious father.
The audience named it Star. A wicker baby
ready to be thrown on the fire. Disposable.
Trying to cheat the cold I stay at a friends.
Her alarm goes off six times or more, I need to pee.
She eats, showers, feeds the cat, dries her hair,
and in my borrowed bed I think, “Just go to work!”.

Ungrateful I am and more ungrateful yet to come.
The cat cries for attention as I bring the box up
from the cellar, kicking the spare boxes out of the way.
Foul tempered, my alarm went off six times or more.
I stole into her ship sized bed, and slept well.
Too well. Grumbling on the way back from the shop
I hear a train. I know I will be late now. I did
not anticipate it would take 1 1/2 hours to make a
half hour journey. He lets me in through the door,

I’m too stiff to fall in. I must be blue, he asks
if I have seized up. I’m surprised he noticed. I am
sore and want to cry. I’m fed up. I could do with
going home. I’m hungry I haven’t had a cup of tea.
I’m an hour late! He is kind and I begin to calm
Laughter is a balm. Now I am making pom poms.
Or rather one. I am bored already. I make a tea or rather

a coffee, steal some biscuits.
There is no one around to ask,
my upbringing pricks my
consience. I am here to look
after art, we cannot fathom
the word; currate, invigilate
attend. It shouldn’t matter
but it does and has done
for the last three days.

I drift back to last night
and wonder why I can’t just
say what it is that I do,
when I do it so well.
No wonder people think I
am mentally ill. I’m not
I’m Dyslexic, apparently
my reading and writing are
unaffected and it could just
be that I have undiagnosed
Autistic tendencies but then
again… And why all of a
sudden this level of honesty
and rambling style? I have
been reading Suki. “Do you know
Suki they ask. “Yes”. or

rather “no”. We have
met, but I know her
more for her poems
than modeling and
I read her cards or
rather Pixie Mummy
did and she surprised
me with her ambition.

Suki is on my mind;
or rather suki suki.
Yes, I am alone too
waiting…

(Song of the week… “Bad Girls” by M.I.A)

I have no idea who Delius is really. Yeah, he was born in my home town and as a friend of mine said, “Banged a Black woman and left her pregnant. Turned out to be a bit of a c@nt didn’t he?”. And a pub I used to like bore his name… More recently though, my local haunt has appropriated his monicker.

This has become my creative home. The home where I do the work I ought to be doing, the stuff I don’t get paid for. As always I take the shit jobs no one else sees the value of. Like cleaning. Everybody benefits but no one wants to be known as “The Cleaner”. Middle class arseholes like to say things like, “The first name you should learn is the cleaner’s.”. They like to be ‘seen’ as ‘inclusive’ but are rarely spotted thanking the cleaner at the end of the night.

I digress, as ever, caught in a rant.

So, I’m serving beer, whilst doing my real work. The undefinable, but none the less real. It’s a feeling I have, perhaps it’s mental illness? One I am never the less proud of. I like to give, what ever is needed. A beer, a laugh, an ear, a hug. What do you want? If it is mine to give, take it…

I watched the performance, it was amazing. A Double Bassist plays, whilst a dancer performs. Piano, leaves, star light… On a loop, for two hours. Nutters. We are in a church, the spiritual home of Delius. I am surrounded by the people who helped to build my theatre and I can feel a sense of home. I am not giving tonight. I am receiving.

I have had some disappointments over the week. A friend I was glad to invite back in, has turned out to be a bit of a c@nt. But I am strong. Somewhere in all this mess. The heaviness of being out of work and out of luck… It has lifted and revealed “Me”. I haven’t felt this good in years. And now it seems as if the community I once belonged to is coming together again and being re-birthed.

This post will seem incongruent and disjointed I am sure. I haven’t given my all and told the full tale. It is protection. I am convinced that honesty will only get you so far. I will not lie, but I will omit the FULL truth, as pertaining to myself… Don’t we all?

Fuck it. Let me reveal myself in this poem inspired by this evening…

“I Am Your Eternal Friend.

As the hoover carries away three hours, people shout their joy.
Bass reverberations hang in the air and the smell of oranges play around the room.
There are small injuries, the kind that remind you of the times you have shared.
And as you check in the mirror, you will catch your breath and remember.
I drank to catch up. I paused, stopped and listened.
The fog of the moment embraces me and the common purpose highlights each individual need.
Once again, we are here together.
Reaffirming what we already know to be true.

Does anyone want anymore beer?”

I am drunk and I bid you goodnight!

I have a cup of tea.

I went to the shop and bought 4 cans of lager and I have a cup of tea in front of me. One of the cans is to the right of me, looking at me. It’s a bit like the staring contests that I get into with my cat. I’m scoping it out of the corner of my eye, watching it glare at me.

I’m in a weird mood. I didn’t get to sleep till about 6am and woke at 10.30. I got up, answered a text, had a glass of water and plodded back to the bedroom. 11.01. I awoke at 3.56, feeling like crap. I knew I should have got up. As a consequence of making myself go back to sleep, I have lost the day and I feel weird.

I have started a new book and I like my character. I have a fresh moleskin just for this book. This is the one. Here is the first line “Rudely awoken by “That Bastard Spring” she rolled onto her stomach and pressed her face into the cold flat pillow.” I have already introduced another character and I can see the end in my minds eye. I have not been able to visualise the end of a book before.

Why am I not writing the book? Truth be known, I don’t know if I can in this mood. What will happen to it? How do you know if it starts to go wrong? What if you invest so much time into it and then you can’t hack the dross to save the good stuff? This is the story of my life. I am not very good at knowing when to start, when to stop and when to cut cords.

This is why I am single. And today, I am feeling the loneliness of it. Songs: The Flamingos, I Only Have Eyes For You. Jeff Buckley, Everybody Here Wants You. Otis Reading, These Lonesome Arms. Sam Cooke, Wonderful World.

OK, lets not dwell on that, we are a long time dead aren’t we? So, I have an interview for a fundraising job and the money is good. Fingers crossed. I have been invited to Compare a Burlesque show. I’m not sure how I feel about this, but I reckon to make a proper judgment about something you have to walk a mile in the shoes. I just hope I don’t go the distance ;o)

I went to my theatre yesterday. It has a new Director and he seems OK. It was nice to be back in the space again. Refreshingly, it didn’t ‘have’ me like it used to. The ambivalent feelings that I used to have were gone, I don’t know if this is because I knew my ex would not there, or because emotionally I have moved on. I’d love to take the show back. I want it to be like it used to, but they say you can never go back. Is this true?

I don’t think I know who I am anymore. The basics are all the same, after all leopards don’t change their spots. Is it more that I don’t know what I want anymore?

Having just typed that I know what I do want! I have an another ex that shows up from time to time, I may have mentioned him before, or might have in the mighty long blog that I was going to turn into a tryptic but didn’t. Well, looks like although I have deleted him, he’s still subscribed to my posts. RATS! I wanted him to love me so desperately when I was 15. Thank god somethings change.

This is the source of the weird mood isn’t? I’m on the precipice of my future, treading water in the present, cutting the weight of the past free.

Thanks for listening!