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
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.