Thursday, 21 November 2013

free write 3

I'm not ready to forget I'm not- i don't know what i'm doing
Heart vomit. I love you cause you’re real stay mine tell me lies. I think I’m going insane in circles turning a blind eye to my freezer burn scar tissue saying your name under my breath with a suitcase packed in my mind prepared for a quick departure. I’ve heard the birds near my window whispering my secrets don’t call me back if all you’re going to do is whistle a song I’ve heard before I’ve heard the birds near my window calling your name they said you’d call me back they said you’d call my name where are you? I saw the trees near your window the willow trees bending I saw them bend to the will of the wind the last will and testimony there it all is, it’s all there. I’ve heard a secret passed between lips and swallowed down like a bitter pill and forgotten I forgot what I heard it’s gone it’s done. Things are twisting into place. I’ve been dreaming of a girl I once knew. She keeps appearing, alba skin like a nightlight in the nightlife emerging through the crowd like a clean glass bottle bobbing on the surface of a brown and muddy lake then sinking, sinking. I delve in arms first grabbing at limbs elbowing passersby she’s there; there she goes she’s gone.

Tuesday, 12 November 2013

I have so many questions and there are so few answers.

I finished uni last week, what a sigh of relief. I've been tossing up whether or not to defer next semester, but I think I'm going to stick around for a little while longer before jetting off with Jack. One of the deciding factors is that I don't want to miss out of the semester one subject Decadent Literature because that sounds so up my alley. 

I saw my old friend today, we spoke about last year and how messed up we were, how we would constantly call each other up complaining that we were having an existential crisis. We kept fucking up and getting ourselves into strange romantic entanglements and having anxiety attacks every other day. We laugh about it now though, and I meant it when I told him that I'm glad it all happened. I really wouldn't change a thing, because without all those events I wouldn't be here now. The only downside is that in contrast to all the turmoil, life now seems kind of boring. I think that's why I want to go away all the time. But we're probably all safer this way. He's leaving for six or seven months. Things are always changing drastically. 

Sunday, 3 November 2013

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

I really love studying modernism, except I take so long to write the essays because I get so side tracked with my readings because I love it all too much - I'm supposed to be writing about Ezra Pound but as usual I got side tracked listening to these amazing old recordings of him reading Sestina: Altaforte (his voice is so great) and then I found this hilarious letter written to T.S. Eliot, who, like Pound, explored the objective correlative and yet did so without the influence of Pound's work - to which Pound said 'You've done it on your own, you bitch!' and I found that so funny. How great is Prufrock? I'm going stir crazy because I've been house-bound essay writing, blood boiling. Today Seb turns 21. We're going to Sydney in December. I love T.S. Eliot but I wish I could have written Prufrock first.

I grow old … I grow old …        120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.
Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.
I do not think that they will sing to me.        125
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown        130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.