& also just being 23


Thinking Of Cut-Down Trees

I can’t seem to get over this idea that to be a writer I have to be beautiful. 

I think it was Vonnegut that said all writer’s wives are beautiful without exception. It might be pretty gross of me to be quoting Vonnegut but two years ago it would have seemed pretty gross to me to still be alive at 23. 23 was an age I never did think of in terms of the future, 23 years is more than enough for a city to rebuild from an earthquake. Do you get what I mean? Stability. Stability and good economy and a feeling of safety. 
Thank God I don’t have to be a writer’s wife, at least. As it happens I may be an artist’s wife in the future. Marriage wasn’t something that I ever really dwelled on, either, it was just an occurrence that may or may not happen in my lifetime. Like an earthquake. Like a World War. My thoughts about my future were largely unsupervised, that is: I was opposed to anyone having an opinion on what I should be and who I should be and how I was to go about doing what I was going to do. 

So at fifteen I had been writing for eleven years or whatever and I got a sense of belonging from it, three years later I chose Toughnight as a stage name underneath whom I might give an unending monologue. I think of Hamlet whenever I think of monologues. I am no Hamlet. I don’t do enough to be considered as a main role in my own life. Either way I figured I would be a writer because I was already writing. And after Toughnight came other pseudonyms you can find in literary journals and mixed-media glossy magazines etc etc.

But writing words doesn’t make you a writer. I am not a writer, I just write sometimes. I am also not beautiful. The latter of these things irks me more when it comes down to the idea of writing a novel. I fear my face on the inside of a slip cover. Artists are mysterious. My face gives away no mystery. 
That hurts.

I may or may not be an artist’s wife, if marriage is something I want to do. If marriage is something that we want to do. My boyfriend used the word ‘partner’ in a sentence referring to me not three days ago. Imagining his grinning face as I walk down an aisle is more than I can bear, sometimes, when I’m trying to be bitter in order to write lists of guys I’ve fucked. If you’ve been around for a while you’ll know what I mean: I was sad for ages and I was self-destructive and that was easy and appealing to write about because of Bukowski, really. Bukowski and the thrum of hormones left over from my teenage years. My teenage years when I thought I would die before I started anything. I did think I might be beautiful later on and then I could be a valid artist, musician, writer.

There’s an intrigue, I can’t be wrong about this. There’s an intrigue, a shallow appeal, that is needed when admiring a creative person’s work. Especially if it is dark in nature. And that appeal is sexual, at least to me. Because attraction is valued above all else. 
You fall in love with writers and musicians and artists. And when you find out they are normal, they are goofy and sarcastic and have said uncool things when under the influence, you feel like a jilted lover. Like some internet-dater who has been catfished. 

But then my partner hasn’t read anything of mine. And my partner calls me his partner and he kisses the corner of my mouth when he sees me. 

I think my slip cover will be a picture of a blank desk, which everyone can find beautiful, because it’s a beginning of something. Like a teenager, like the rebuild after an earthquake. Like a person who thought they would be dead by now but isn’t.

Fuck you Vonnegut, I may never be as great as you but at least my husband will be attractive, like all those writer’s wives. 

You Have To Leave

Every sad lover’s song still makes me wish you were in-between sleep and life with me. 
It seemed so easy for you, tie your shoes on the sidewalk and run. 
I am not a dog so I didn’t see fit to piss on you to mark my territory. But I thought you set red flags up for me so that other girls might see them and know your limbs were conquered and they were mine. 

It is hard to be in love but still have that affection so inflexible, for somebody else. 
As a teenager I was eager to be the one that got away and never to have old flames that kept catching the curtains.

I wish we had died together, sometimes when I’m alone. The end of the world was supposed to happen and we were supposed to meet lips in every doorway as it all fell down around us. 

Nothing is ever beautiful anymore because I am not in pain and the love I am in is sweet and unusual, but not interesting to anybody else. Not relate-able. 

I am so sorry, I should never have opened my mouth in the first place. 

The Phone Won’t Stop Ringing

Guess who isn’t dead.

Every week we make grand plans for health and sometimes I mark the letter ‘H’ on the inside of my wrist so that I might see it and remember. It looks like the bed I would rather be in. 
And I can’t help but think of chemicals with my veins so close. 

Thanks for the emails etc asking what’s up, I just don’t have all that much to say that hasn’t been said before. As per usual if there’s anything you’d like me to write about/ questions you want me to answer, feel free to flick them my way.

I’m going back to bed.

TN x

It hasn’t snowed again and I feel my heart drop to my guts looking towards September and spring and all the little girls in little dresses and my boyfriend surfing on a crowded beach somewhere.

Early Morning (Marked)

It’s 2:17am and I can’t sleep. My therapist used to advise her patients that any time after four am, you get up. In all fairness she also said she loved all of her patients which I find hard to believe. I’m all for loving broken people but there’s only so much you can take without the assurance they love you back.

I think I’m awake because my flatmate has a French boy over. He might be Italian. I’m not all that good with dialects of any kind, with my own voice, even. People often think I’m Australian or was maybe born in the U.S.A but moved first thing thanks to flighty or well-meaning parents. That kind of thing always lends an air of intrigue, starting with roots elsewhere. In practice, it probably feels as lost as speaking with a voice not even your own.
They’ve been playing ukulele and through the thin walls I feel patchy with my lack of cutesy boy-meets-girl endeavours.
He might be Russian.

It’s my Step-Mother’s birthday tomorrow and there’s a pair of scales somewhere in the back of my mind weighing up wishing her the best Vs my Boyfriend calling me stubborn through the phone. She is a crucifixion. No, she is the stake you are tied to, she is the means and the backbone of every terrible thing. 
I keep on having dreams about shit, just shit everywhere and not being able to get it off and not knowing where the shit came from. Talk about a snake in the grass, she’s an alligator in a parking lot. 

I couldn’t tell you why I stopped going to therapy. I loved the early-morning bus-rides, I couldn’t keep my eyes away from the street. All the people are examples of something, even if I couldn’t possibly know what. I felt squat in comparison, wearing my nothing and finding that nothing so hard to wear. 

I hope he leaves, this boy. His voice is deep and thickened by an accent that only seems to make him speak louder in an effort to be understood. 

A girl at a restaurant yesterday broke a glass and everybody stared and stared and stared and I was so appalled by all the staring that my appetite clear went. 

Life Update Pt 30475

I’m taking part in a study on bisexuality and I couldn’t be happier about this. I started dating a man three months ago and for whatever reason, whichever gender you date, you can’t be bisexual. You are not allowed. 
When I date a girl, I’m gay. People say I’ve made the journey, I’ve ripped the closet door off the hinges. Scissor-shadow-puppets.
I am in love with a man, looks like it was ‘just a phase’ and young people always experiment, it’s healthy.

I will fuck your husbands and fingerbang your wives. There’s going to be a point where I’m hanging out the skylight of my boyfriend’s car, raising two middle fingers in place of guns. 
And it can’t be soon enough.