CHCH TWO

I had dreams of turning down men, in this foreign bed, I am not little or lost between the sheets. Single, as this bed is, as I am, as I will always be regardless of any partner. 

In the shower I practice my cat-calling, I am all too aware of my thighs touching and every imaginary pass I make crumbles bitterly and fails. This scenario I am the disciplined, my lusts turn back to make guilty, angry faces, they don’t want to be cruel, not to anyone, especially not in front of everyone.

I grew my hair long to hide behind only to have it turn white at the roots and fall out with an ease that makes me sneer. My reflection in my sister’s bathroom mirror is yellowed and smudged with days of fingerprints, the mirror itself I feel more sorry for. To have everyone look into you with varying levels of disgust must be taxing. This girl at least is taciturn, fluent in nothing but habits that are at least reserved, if not pallid and sickly. 

I keep these cold things to myself, my bluish nails, my lips as they split in the morning after calling somebody’s name again and again as I sleep. My anxiety, my little-girl mind, my foot-after-foot-after-foot on the pavement and how something so simple grips any clarity I might have so I feel suffocated inside of myself.

I had someone ask why I was so self-absorbed but I think that’s a misconception, coming from someone who has never been quiet, who has never listened. 

I didn’t leave the house today so I can’t comment on the city or if everyone is kind here or if the architecture that survived is stunning. This ‘Garden City’, all the leaves are amber coloured and flailing as they fall. Yes, I Know. 

Yes, I Know.

Curious Sleep

If dreams are something you are interested in:

I have started recording mine again and they are almost freakish and I can’t make any sense of them. If you are good at these things or have taken a particular interest in the subject, I would appreciate you explaining them to me.

That said, they’re dreams. They probably don’t mean anything anyway.

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Tales From The Crypt

Still incredibly ill. Pretty sure the Coldrex pills, bought for a staggering $16, gave my dreams a delirious, heady subject matter. Him outside, talking of ghosts and melanoma. Entering an exact replica of my room, except curled around the hall, a girl inside from my highschool on an old Mac PC. I’d been across the road, in a one-story, low-ceiling-ed warehouse where my current flatmate lived with the girl that stayed at ours a while ago (who tried to kill herself three times in that period). The one with the staples in her arms. And the Him was a casual friend, tall and thin, with a round yet angular face and accent. He said he’d seen me inside my flat, whilst I was across the road. I said I’d never seen myself. 

Feelin fancy free, though. Brewed up some black coffee with fresh cinnamon and a vanilla pod. Five sachets of lemsip down to two. Gym’s going to be fun this morning, sneezing away on the elliptical like a crack fiend still running high. I’ve heard the sauna is good for sickness though, at least to chip at this stubborn bitch Fever who has twisted herself snug around my upper arms and forehead, curled upper lip and snarling. 

My bed at present looks like some forlorn middle-aged woman has been sleeping head-to-tail with me. Tissues (a whole box worth) pursed and damp, muffling every surface and pressed between sheets and the lounges stock-pile of extra blankets. Cheap merlot and a pretty plate dusty with half-smoked butts the centerpiece of my bedside table. She could be fun, this wretched mature woman, I’m sure, if she existed. Rather than this dulled, puffy-looking twenty year old in the faux-plaid pajama bottoms, socks and body-swamping sweatshirt. The one who says ‘Oh’ in all the designated places, but can never put a name to face. Too afraid she is to catch the eye in case the catchee thinks she is looking at them. That’s what you do. You look at people. I don’t. And so I come across as this happy-with-her-lot, new-friend-unneeded female. In actuality I’d like to get to know you better, pay for your drink, talk futures or ideas you had prior to sleep.

Why is that? Why the sudden surge of lines or lyrics or things-to-do-for-under-five-dollars when you are on your back, lacquered to duvets, no tool at hand to document these OH MY GOSH FANTASTIC ideas?

I’d leave now, but there is somebody outside my place, in the carpark, probably only just ending their night. Who would scowl at me, still infused with alcohol, might wolf-whistle in a cruel piss-take way, as I squeak along the gravel in my stupid pink and gray rimmed sneakers. They were $200 worth of tack. And the only ones they had in my size that gave my arches and ankles the support I needed after rolling my ankle that time at fifteen during soccer practice. That was something I was good at, not fucking myself up (though I guess some people would quip- ‘Oh, but you’re so good at that too!), but soccer. I played defense and as a teen I had this strange long-stride whilst running. It appeared with the number of steps I was taking that I wasn’t getting far, but I’d clear the ground gazelle-like. I did less damage to the fields than anyone else, I’m sure. People made it clear they found it strangely captivating, how this awkward fumbling girl would bound up and down the green. I was littler then, of course. Still finding so much to hate at 57kg, aching to get to 52, as I remember. Which is common-place. If I could slip back now, what would I say? You’re ok. Your face will start to look normal soon. Your friends are beautiful and will continue to blossom into literally the most stunning females you will ever be closely acquainted with, but they’re not there to attract attention and it isn’t their fault.

Meeting with one of these friends this week coming, she is phenomenal looking. But more-so than that, she has a dirty laugh and a huge heart. I do think this means more, now. I’d even say that her appearance only reflects the mind she holds. We are so changed. But I find it so unworldly touching that she wishes to keep me on close call. Not only because someone so beautiful could do much better in the way of company kept, more because she brings out the best and the realistic in me. Like all the clever quips we had at twelve-thirteen-fourteen-fifteen-sixteen-seventeen have clasped together into a great mass that we roll back and forth in conversation. 

I should really go now. I’m not even too sure what I’ve been typing. I do enjoy the sound of the keyboard though.

TN

Rain In The Footsteps I Wish You’d Make - Steel Stairs Outside, I Hear Every Coming & Going

Let’s play a strip-search tape, for everyone around
No such thing as shame when it’s common ground

Nothing to go by now, she didn’t leave home alone [there was always someone]. How does it feel to fall into a lifestyle so altered to the one you’ve known always? How does it pulse at the flimsy points in your resolve?

Sometimes I lose my breath in sleep. Then I have dreams of heart attacks, where half of my chest is purple and the cardiac ward is down a four-rowed escalator [like valves, like the chambers inside]. Each time I call an ambulance, I live on a street they can’t quite get to. And I have to wander down to the flashing lights in an embarrassing state of undress. There’s no one around, though.

On that note. I know what you’ve been doing. It makes me feel useless. It makes me feel awful. It makes me feel dusty and the drunk bitch at the end of the night screams incoherently at me ‘second best’. But I won’t say a thing. Because I must pretend to feel nothing at all, of course. If not for societies sake, but for the bruised and battered little girl Pride, who only just got back on her feet, still clinging to me. 

Can And Will [But What Will Is There]

Imagine if we put no restraints on ourselves. I, for one, am always telling myself I ‘should’ do things. I should quit smoking. I should go out more. I should stock up on green vegetables and clean my cupboards. I should go to the gym more. I should eat less. I should sleep regularly and less often. What would I do, if I was going to do anything?

I would work four days a week. Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. Nine to five. At a rad little cafe down a side street close to my place. I would work every second Saturday night there, five till late. I would cover any shifts that needed covering. I would love my job because I was good at it. I’d live in a flat on my street, or the street that it turns into, or the street that turns into it. I would have a large room with one big window and several smaller ones, wooden floor boards. The walls would be thick enough for me to play music in the morning, I would dance whilst getting ready. The fridge would be big enough for me and my two flatmates. My shelf would always have apples, baby spinach and yoghurt. My flatemates would recommend the best vege market to go to on Sunday mornings. They’d be friendly and leave their doors open. We’d eat dinner together whenever the mood struck. I’d go to the Salvation Army at least once a week and buy oversized shirts and big bulky coats. I’d go to the gym at least five times a week, 5:30am or 6:30pm. I’d go grocery shopping every Tuesday night.

I’d only spend money regularly on coffee or vodka sodas, if I went out. I’d go to more films. I’d publish small zines, maybe once every two or three months. My Dad would give me the motorbike he promised me, I’d have gotten my license a week after moving in. I’d ride it to Lyall Bay or to the airport when I felt I needed to get out of the house. I’d have bought a bike helmet and I’d ride my normal bike around on Wednesday and weekends, I’d see my Mother or meet my Father and little brothers at Island Bay Park. We’d get ice creams even in winter, my hair in a bun but still getting slicked in cream and sugar. I’d get home and hang the bike up on two nails on my bedroom wall. I’d get my laptop fixed. Get some new lenses for my camera. I’d take more photos, hang them up on strings and pegs. 

I’d have plans for next year. I’d get accepted into university. I’d wear my black jeans again and go to parties. I’d volunteer at the RSPCA. I’d start getting tattoos. One a year, perhaps. I’d start small, on my hip, on my wrist. I’d drink red wine at the dining room table, document my days. I’d meet girls. I’d meet boys. I wouldn’t be attracted to any of them. I’d buy second-hand scarves and start a collection. 

Things is. I could do all of this..

I could do all of this.

I wanted to feel your hands on the back of my neck, I wanted to sway and lean into your embrace

Eating brown rice with my knees up to my ribs. Sleeping in different directions, yearning for altered fantasies when my eyelids meet. Tiring of dreams that collide like porcelain and shatter as such, shards I have to cross in order to wake up. 

Coffee-shop worker catches me gazing out towards the road. Teases me - ‘dreamer’. I was watching the lean legs. I love a lazy stride. Humans are graceful, a lot of the time. We just don’t notice [perhaps].

Got anxious again, went to cook something. Found an egg with a feather still attached. Felt a swipe of guilt cut at my forearms and waist. Is vegan still an option for me?

I always called all vegans I knew fags. Not in a malicious way, just in a ‘you-think-you’re-better-because-I’m-only-vegetarian’ way. When, really, they share the same reasons as I for eating in a particular way. I’m a fucking idiot. I have been mean, a lot. Don’t think I don’t feel bad about it. I genuinely don’t think I’m a bad person anymore. I’m trying to not perceive myself as needy. When you’re in trouble, and you need help, asking for it isn’t necessarily an irritant. Still, I feel I have pushed some people away, and I can’t help but feel guilty, did I ask for too much? Is that what I did? Or do you think i’m OK now so you don’t feel the need to be around all the time?

Other people have lives too. It’s time to move the fuck on with mine.

Room is almost perfection, will post photos when it’s done. I can’t wait to wake up to empty spaces I am free to dance in.

I dance by myself. A lot. That’s why I have a duvet over my window. I dance like an idiot. 

Dancing is actually just a really strange occurrence anyway.. I shouldn’t care so much. 

I would like some mail. I will send you mail in return for mail on my end. 

Please?
TN 

Powdered Passionflower

Smiling with teeth,
Opposite ends of our street.
You finding me scissors,
I’m wearing your rings.

Boys, in hordes, trying to convince me another hole in my face is: just a good idea[!].
I arch my brows in the mirror. See a landscape, mountain-tops. But no room for more embellishments. We all leave disappointed. I miss the exhilaration of a new addition.

The dreams I had whilst on Kava pills: Satanic, lesbian cult, me being photographed in the act. These photographs somehow ending up on my camera, my stepmother loading them onto her computer and laughing them off. Then attempting to sleep in my mothers back yard with old highschool friends, covering muddy puddles with duvets. I have no idea where the fuck that came from. The depths of my mind are obviously a really creepy place. Think the depths of the ocean, with those fanged-fish with light-attachments. 

Anon Asked [sometime ago]: What do you do when you’re not writing?

I still don’t know what to say to this.. I’m really sorry.

Slipping through and in-between

Me on taking pills for womens libido: “I hope I don’t go all animalistic on this shit”
And you: “You can hump my leg anytime you want”.

Last year feels like a lump in my throat. Like someone should have died. This year already feels like the first hint of a sneeze.

Sex is not an object, nor is lust or passion or the act of two bodies touching. I wish it were something I could inspect. Investigate the flaws I cannot seem to feel. How we can dwell, coupled, in the silence of sleep. The realisation and appreciation of seperate dreams to come. So, people do not actually sleep together, as such. We slumber completely alone.

Dreams may be the only thing completely your own. Something you could justifiably hold. Might as well be objects. Mine are all fucked. You have never been present in one. 

Wolf-whistles

Washing my sheets and reading Lolita, my feet too cold to function, wondering if I should colour my hair back to its natural dark brown, or stick to the dark red I am beginning to be known for.

The roof of my mouth reacts like a wounded animal. Been sucking on Vicks Vapour Drops all day long, those butter menthol ones. They only make me feel worse. Seeing as my appetite has packed it’s normally cake-shaped suitcase and fucked off, the only thing I can manage is Happy Tea and cough drops. Any other time I’d be unusually happy about this. Right now I just kind of hate my body, not for how it looks, but how susceptible it is to illness and ailments. Also how one of my knees is slightly different to the other one. Which means I have a favourite leg. Which really shouldn’t even come into the equation of how I feel about myself.

Lookin’ good, Lefty.

Re-issued penguin books for $13. I feel a new addiction coming on. I got Lolita for $4.07. Sales and gift cards. P.S I don’t care what people say about you, Borders. I love you.

I imagine us with skinned knees in my parents old house, staring at my cats grave with half smiles. Just because we grew up once, completely apart from each other. But for some reason, we met halfway. And maybe all this shit we did during those, what, 13 odd years, made it so we would be standing across the street from each other, waiting for all the cars to stop or slow, so one of us can cross.

Sleeping sick makes dreams with blurred edges, like a dozen half erased frames, linked together loosely with breaking chains. So all I remember when I wake is a feeling of unease and general nausea. That, and your face, pausing above an open book, with a look of painful disinterest in my naked knees and flawed complexion.

Crass

Writing a song called Ashburn at 2 in the morning, shaven legs shiny in my lamplight and wondering what it would be like if I was an only child. No more worries about a certain sibling sharing living quarters with a woman who killed her 16 year old daughter.

Ashburn. To name a fucking institution in relation to burning things, like ruins. What the fuck does that imply? These embers of people lying in broken buildings, not glowing as brightly as the rest.

Sucking my teeth like just about every single old guy does when I walk past, not bragging, it’s only ever the old ones. I think it’s something in my curves and the fact that most women they know are also a bit on the large side. But I’m ‘innocent’. Anyway, I’m thinking I might be a little bit of a lost cause to some people, and I don’t want to be described like that. I’d rather be cute. And I hate that word.

It makes sense to call my stance on situations a lifestyle. It’s not one I like, though. And it’s not so easy to change.

Stalkers my whole style and if I get caught I’ll deny, deny, deny.

People with dreams make me realise I have none. Wealthy parents have stripped me of any desire to make any money. Yet I WANT it, I just don’t want to have to try so hard to MAKE it. That’s why finding and utilising your talents is important. I wish I was game enough to put real writing on here. I wish I was game. Period.

Ahahahaha FUCK FUCK FUCK WORK TIME I WANT TO DIE MAKING COFFEE FOR THE REST/NONE OF MY LIFE.