What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.

I feel the sun brighten in the tiniest way from the smoggy-smudge of the office window. It’s so slight I could of missed it. But for some reason I didn’t. Music ears in, distracted from my work: because somewhere on my planet there is a war going on. Because my brain is nightmare-plagued with surreal images of men in white dressing gowns and combat trousers. Taking over the high streets, they are everywhere I look, covert but a threat none the less. And these men aren’t just black and they aren’t just white. What defines them isn’t their race or their religion, it’s the hatred in their hearts. They come from all over: not just the children of war but the children of industry and commerce, the children of poverty and riches, of unaffectionate parents and too much private schooling. They are dead behind the eyes. They scare the shit out of me, in all their varieties and forms.

I know today is a big war day for our political mandems. Will we, wont we? I don’t fucking know anymore. But in my heart I hope we don’t. Because I can’t find peace in a violent world. I am that fool that just wants everything to be ok. Everywhere. So I make my little efforts and wish on all the dandelion clocks and loose eyelashes. Hoping that if I fix the conflicts in my own soul, that it will transcend to the external world will catch on. Not because I’m that egocentric but because somewhere along the way I decided that the inner world dictates the outer and that if you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. Surfing a hippy vibe that curves a smile across even the strictest of faces. And what I don’t get is how I still have this weird belief in magik, that things can be conjured and manipulated with a wish and good intention. It makes me feel thick and in it I lose my edge, but it’s true none the less.

I’m afraid of religion and the nutcases that subscribe to it. And war is the reason why.

I’m afraid of politics and the nutcases that subscribe to it. And war is the reason why.

I’m afraid of violence and the nutcases that subscribe to it. And war is the reason why.

I’m afraid of greed and commerce and fear itself because in this art of war, there are people losing their heads.

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Between Essex & The North Circ

I got sunshine, on a cloudy day

When it’s cold outside, I got the month of may

And you’ll say what can make me feel this gay? My Kel

worzel and aunt s

She’s the adoring scarecrow to my dolly bitch. I want her head so that one day I’ll have a chance of being a real girl too. And I wanted to write about her today, because it’s no longer yesterday and today is finally mine.

We are somewhere imbedded in today, eternally. We occupy the space between the conscious and the unconscious, between here and there. The place that runs parallel to logic. The place where life and the afterlife are no longer split. Don’t be too concerned that sometimes the path to the shore is craggy, for in its wonky wobble you will find everything you need. And the view from the shore is spectacular. Geographically between Essex and the North Circ, even though the roundabout signs indicate else- where, trust your instincts and take the exit that you know leads there.

Around the time I began re-learning old facts: remembering that rhythm is a dancer, that it’s the soul’s companion and you can feel it everywhere. Around this time, she told me she’d make herself a badge that read ‘I’m in love with a bastard’ and my witch cackle tore through me. She’ll let me believe I’m evil, even though she calls me her angel. That’s what she does for me: lets me have it the way I want it, without trying to change me.

And what I’d aspire to do for her is far more necessary. I aspire to show her she is wanted. She is adored for who she is and not who she feels she should be. I want to show her, in time, that she can sow a seed and together we’ll watch it grow. She can sow as many fucking seeds as she wants, make our future garden as wild and colourful as she likes: I’ll keep them all growing with my green fingers and my Cypriot village hair. And the garden will be just as we dreamed.

So if I walk stiffly and drastically over-rouge, I hope you’ll understand that I like this warpaint. I like the bonnet and the fixed smile. I like to admit my guilt, where possibly. Not because I feel wrong but because I won’t waste time arguing if I know you’re right. And besides, I like the aftertaste it leaves me with.

So if her stuffing falls out and she pretends not to understand what you’re saying, I hope you’ll understand that she likes that Worzel-paint. She likes the straw and the simpler things in life. She likes to love you regardless what you’ll do for her. Besides, she likes the aftertaste it leaves.

We laugh till we can’t breathe. With her creaky knees and my Mutley wheeze, neither of us can make it quickly up the stairs. In jest I try to protest, but can’t be heard over the barrage of words. Because when she has something to say, you have no choice but to listen. And this is how she makes me feel most like myself. Like nothing else really matters but the moment when we’re laughing and even the spiders in the block don’t frighten us.

I want to hold onto her, tightly, like you wouldn’t believe. Not because I can’t be alone. But because she deserves to be held and kept and cherished. And the things I can give are bottomless and endless and I’ll keep giving it, for as long as she wants it.

The 7 year bitch.

7 years ago today, it was the day of atonement. A crowd of us were busier than I’d ever been, atoning the shit out of ourselves. Some of my favourite people got more wankered than I thought they could. I put on the kind of dress you can’t wear twice and I took my arse to church, slightly pissed. I married a man wearing a Dr Who (David Tenant ) style suit and white converse. When others cry for joy, I grinned and giggled my fat arse through it.

17 years ago today, I left London in avoidance of work. Taking up residence with my new found freedom up north. Uni taught me that almost everyone is richer, smarter and prettier than me. I learned not to care because none of them were anywhere near as cool as me. I learned you don’t have to do that much work to get a degree and that I feel freer in the countryside than I ever could the city. The most important thing I learned was that meeting someone randomly one day, can really change your life. And even though they might not be so, the best things in life will feel predestined.

This time last year he moved out and by this time next year i’m sure we will be divorced.

I always loved autumn the best. The start of a time of year i prefer to summer. I don’t know when this began but i know it was long before i’d known him. I loved that the gently falling brown leaves held a weighty romantic significance: i reveled in it. I know now that life dried the bloom out of those leaves and the process, though painful, holds a kind of majesty that its hard to ignore.

There comes a time when you stop being all the things you once were. I am no longer a student. I am no longer a girl. I am no longer married and no longer will i cling to the romance of nostalgia and pain as though it’s the only thing that gives me worth. I’ll throw it out with the other things I no longer need. And hope to fuck i have nothing else bad to come. I hope to buggery that I have atoned for all my sins with my fair share of rotten shitting luck.

I’m looking forward to a winter of smiles. No more slowly pacing down the isle with a pause between each step, the snow-white deceit of the dress holding me upright and giving me confidence.Instead i’ll adopt the nature of that great white bear, moving slowly with grace and threat, no longer afraid, protected from the cold. And perhaps i’ll develop instead a genuine love of Christmas. Who knows, stranger things have happened.