Archive | August, 2009

just for kicks kids

15 Aug

self mutilation, mutual masturbation, fathers and sons, seeds get sown up like lips too quick for this shit and they all say the same thing but we don’t like the flow so we get back to know now up jump sideways we go round and round and fatalistic flip shit boom ballastic

and he says

he’s a slime ball and he’s a sleaze

but fucker please, I know who’ll stay around and burn up this town and it ain’t the ones who say pretty things and wet their lips with double dipped sprinkled dicks, but the ones who laugh with a cough, fag in hand and they say nothing much, but there they’ll stand while I whip whirl words round their heads up dead and strangers on a train, well I got their game and that’s cool and that’s fine and that’s what I like all the time and i’ve got my own bags to pack and it’s too much jack, john, john john jack re-pack, smack, crack down on names and kittens fighting in the sack, like we do, tangled up sheets and you hate me just now, oh you hate me just now but lay me down and you’ll hate me a little bit less, and oops yeah,

you know how this little masochist rolls, you know that she doesn’t know what’s good for her, only two seconds in and she loves custard cremes and she’s got the whole damn pack, buttons down her back and you’re flying out tonight to say what, to say good night sweet elizabeth, all lies and robes and five seconds reworks and you think cos I’m good that means I care, but maybe it’s just pride, or an urgency to die, in john donne sense, so it gets over again, starts over again, remolded and flourished and they say:

if you don’t find it now, you’ll never get it back. but i think that’s just people compromising on what they lack and making up lines to make sense of it all to talk themselves out of the break neck fall into oblivion, into real stuff: the jumping is easy, the falling is fun, right up to the moment where the pavement gets run
into your face, your bones pirouette and

‘just gonna get my feet wet until I drown’.

Wherever I see grey, I paint it pink…

15 Aug

I moved to Edinburgh three years ago, in my head, just for a year, just to do some grad school and then carry on my life as normal in the states. I thought I needed a break, to go and live among the castles, the fairies, the cool green lushness of Skye.  In the end, I found the haar to be such an enchanting black hole of words, rain, and utter magic that I stuck around.  Although I often thought of moving away, growing up (jobs in Japan, Vermont, and Bulgaria were all considered), it wasn’t until just last week that I could actually bring myself to think about leaving this little real life Disneyland.  I’m off to London and then I’m not sure where to next, but I’m thrilled for this next step.

Moving to Scotland was hard beyond belief (I didn’t know anyone here, was moving in with complete strangers, was starting a post grad degree at Edinburgh University, and had just had the break up from hell), but it was also incredibly easy: Edinburgh is not a town you mind exploring on your own and, if you smile enough, people will want to talk to you. Edinburgh is a transitory town, at least in the city center, and pretty much everyone is new and looking for friends.  And sure, everyone wants to slag off the American in the room, but by the time you get to your third week here, you’ve heard “Wow, you are the first not fat/intelligent/liberal/well mannered/nice dressing American I’ve ever met” (really? Do you meet Americans?) so many times that all you can do is smile and laugh to yourself. I just let the backhanded compliments fuel my ego and get on with my day.

I think, in the last four years I have moved eight times. EIGHT times. I have packed up all of my things in boxes and bags and garbage bags (it rains a lot here and they are a pretty good, waterproof way to cart your stuff around). And in two weeks I will make my ninth move to London. From a small town in upstate NY to the picturesque capital city of Scotland to the biggest city in the UK. I hope my lungs can handle the smog and my heart can handle missing the view of Arthur’s Seat.

I have no one but myself to blame for this sudden move: I went there for a holiday to visit my friend Ben (also a writer, also from my original Edinburgh course, also North American–albeit Canadian), met a whole bunch of new (read: amazing) people (writers, artists, musicians) and, having lost my job in July (thank you recession!), decided to do something bold. I’ve been living out of boxes in my ex’s flat (no job means no money for rent!)  and so, obviously, a change was needed. And London welcomed me with open arms, with two prospective employers fighting over me, and so here I go.

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