still ...

lots of this ...











hardly any of this ...













and absolutely none of this ...













just in case you were wondering ...

wholemeal pigeons

I threw bread out for the birds late last night - natural recycling, right? Share and share alike?

Admittedly it had made me feel a bit “off”. I don’t normally eat white bread but I’m too lazy to be considered a healthy eater. More a picky manic grazer. And some white breads are nice.
This body survives to spite me. I wouldn’t throw curry out for the birds, though. I’d have eaten that.

This morning white bread still adorns my yard. Huge clumps of it. Cotton wool gone bad. Fluff turned to crunch. In a grumbly sort of way I applaud the pigeons. They have wise beaks. No icky stuff for them. Maybe they’re unable to throw up. Or prefer a curry. Or maybe they’re just smart.
They’re lined up now on next door’s roof. Watching me. Malevolently.

Oh happy day. Clearing up shards of white bread. Apologising profusely.

I'm so living on the wild side today!

*ahem*

In case anyone was worried ... i am still here *grin ... just worn out at the moment ... but yayyy!! i may be fitter these days, despite my inability to even undress by the weekend. Muse is quiet too but who can blame her? She's become addicted to the scent of chemicals used in the course of my hard labour. This week will be another hard one but then i think it gets a bit steadier and i'll catch up on each treasured world you show me ... love to all of you who pop in here ... xxx

nothings #14

image: Michele Constantini

nothings #13 ~ whaaat?

Occasional Lover: Why don’t you answer my texts? Are you horny yet?

Me: I’m exhausted. Just started work after 6 yrs of being a wreck and I don’t get horny just like that. We were never going to be in-love but hell, we’re still strangers.

OL: I take it you don’t want me any more?

Me: Sorry. I think we should call it a day. We only ever chat in text just be4sex. I think I need a bit more than that.

OL: I’m willing to try. I really fancy you.

Text silence to ponder possibility of touch. Human contact. Company. To forgive that he never asked what my biopsy was about. Or read a word of my poetry. Or knows what my star sign is. That he does not know where to find my mind. Because I never showed him. How to touch.

Maybe I should. Could. Maybe.

Me: OK, maybe we should meet over the w/end ... see if we like each other with our clothes on?

Text silence. For an hour.

OL: Are you horny yet?

Me: Noooo! It just doesn’t work like that.

OL: Sorry to have bothered you. You make me feel horny as hell thinking of you. Can’t see the problem. I’ll not bother you any more. Take care. X X X

step away from the desk, slowly now ...

Muse has been upsetting me with her silence - again *sigh*.

This may be just as well since my finances are not just broken but irretrievably shattered, ground to quantum redness. And I'm sick of it. I'm not the wreck I used to be and now there are people I'd like to meet. Typically they're all on the other side of the planet. But even to have enough cash to take myself to the ocean for a day would be superb. This isn't whining, by the way, it's just how it is. Or has been. Til I got sick of it. Really, really sick of it.

I don't think I'll ever cope with a 9 to 5 type set-up, heck, coming straight out of Uni into teaching I know laughably little about Other Jobs. And I still can't handle stress - answering phones or trying to book people into a Motel all strike me as being ultimate Life Mysteries and I'd be in a Tizz. If I waited tables I'd forget who wanted what and be more of a liability with the crockery than any place could handle.

Which is how I ended up in a sort-of interview with a very sweet man talking about poetry, education, the state of the cosmos and then being assigned a cleaning job. He said he would only be giving me "nice" jobs. He didn't see me as a vomit-maid, so nightclubs and pubs were off the list. True to his word I've been cleaning an already spotless solicitor's office for the last couple of weeks. I've moved on now to a potteries design company.

New skills acquired:

• dodge flying water because, oh, these taps work like that ... oops
• look like I know why the Dyson's in a million pieces at my feet
• stride boldly into the Gents' - smother everything with air freshener before even opening eyes
• order directors to "step away from the desk, Sir" and watch them flinch at sight of duster, polish and my eagle eyed glare that sees right through Important Papers to the ill-concealed coffee rings beneath
  
• graciously accept everyone's humble apologies for being in my way
  

I'll have to be careful, I'm in serious danger of quite enjoying it all *grin

empath eyes

Elemental passion’s lost to all but scars
bearing trade-mark, branded with
the ragged nature of thin pretty things,
dressed to please and entertain
illusion’s rebound in a threefold choir.

Mild stars hearing secret thoughts suggest
that pain’s not wise-guide after all,
but servant loyal to last cause.
How could it know what’s to be done?

Cradle new-born lies instead - fool self.
And love, ah love - any kind might do,
esteem it missionary, just another
cosmic service wasting time of breath.

Weigh tears in prayer, goad errant gods,
you’ll miss the point, they’ll fail to save.


*image: Evelyn De Morgan