A Lynchian Obsession

Without a doubt, David Lynch is my absolute favourite director. I was first introduced to him when I was about 15 and my dad showed me an ominous collection of his short films, I don't remember much about them other than feeling shocked and excited as I'd never really seen anything like them. I didn't really appreciate his brilliance at the time, it wasn't until a year later when I discovered Twin Peaks that I realised what an incredible man he is. I've since watch the entire series of Twin Peaks, Twin Peaks: Fire Walk With Me, The Elephant Man and just yesterday I watched Blue Velvet. It's rare that I find a director and can say that I truly love everything I've seen by them. I guess I won't fully know that until I watch Dune (which is currently 3rd on my 'want to watch' list) which I've heard is his worst film. I'm desperate to watch everything he has ever made because I am so unbelievably in love with him.

This isn't the best interview as the woman interviewing Lynch doesn't appreciate his style at all, but it talks a lot about Blue Velvet and I found it interesting anyway.

Why I Want a Tattoo

It seems that every time I bring up my desire to get a tattoo it instigates the same response - 'Are you sure you've thought this through? I mean, won't you regret it when you're older?' What insanity! There is no way that when I am 64 with a broken hip and painful joints that I am going to look at my tattoo and think 'damn, I wish I didn't have something that reminds me of how great things used to be'.  I don't think an ugly tattoo is going to be high in my list of worries, especially as I won't be at the peak of my attractive era anyway.
For a long time I've cherished the idea of getting a tattoo. Impermanence upsets me; things change far too quickly so to think that I could have something that lasts forever is mesmerising. I want to get a tattoo when I feel like I'm at a truly happy point in my life so I have a constant reminder of that.

There's a deep, hollow feeling within my chest.
Do I have a heart at all?
Perhaps I used to but
I feel it has since been stolen from me
and locked away in a distant cave,
it shall never see daylight again.
I will exist in this empty shell
without leaving any trace behind me.
Do not try to help me, change me or love me.
I am beyond recovery now.
Leave me be
and I shall be content
to fade away.

By Dallas Clayton

My Writing

I think I treat my writing like artists treat their doodles. My poetry is never planned, none of my writing is for that matter, I just allow myself to spill whatever happens to be in my head at the time.

Child

I peered down at his gentle body
lying still on his wooden bed.
Oh, how peaceful he looked, with his mouth slightly open,
his tender eyelids closed over those big blue eyes
that I could get lost in for hours.
And that wonderful smile of his - the kind that only a child can have.
He would run and dance for hours
spinning around me in perfect twirls.
I longed to hear his fearless laugh and hold his hand
Once more
But as they close the lid of his coffin
I know I must let go and let his fingers slip away.

Anything For You

I'd smear my heart across this sheet of paper, bleed my love on every line.
I'd spill all these feelings inside me, all the truths I long to tell.
It wouldn't be enough for you
so I'll write them somewhere else instead.

Unveiling

I want to undress before you,
remove the mask from my pale face.
I'll lay the pieces around you,
with dignity and grace.

I can't bear to witness reaction
when you glance upon my skin
without any form of covering:
vulnerable, weak and thin.

I need to shed my layers,
lay naked by your side.
I need to reveal everything,
I have nothing left to hide.

Dissection

I give to you myself;
my flesh, my blood, my soul.
I place them down before you;
each pulse, each breath, each scar.
I hold back no emotion,
just ask and it is yours.
I give to you my life,
make of it what you will.

Predator

He sees her:
The prey, the target.
Their eyes lock;
blue hollowed caves in the distance.
She turns her back and fumbles around for her money.
Her paper hands flutter in apprehension.
His own hands of steel come up at her side.
'Let's go honey. The kids are waiting.'
As always, she complies.

Desire

Betrayal seeps towards the surface of my skin
An intolerance to the scorching silence that envelops us.
I'm aching to burst through these flames
And hold you,
To feel your broken frame against my arms
But the flames between us are flaring
stronger than ever
And I know I will not break through.
Instead I stand back,
Helpless
And watch the last drop of us
Burst into ashes.

Peck out my eyeballs and melt my ears
for I have seen and heard too much.
Take me back to my innocence
for it has been many years since we parted.
Remove my merciless hands
for I wish to make no more marks,
Cut out my tongue and sew my lips
for I have no one left to speak to.
Above all, wipe away my knowledge
for it has not done me any good.

John Singer Sargent

I'm not an incredibly arty person. I like art and I enjoy going to exhibitions but it's not very often that I fall completely in love with an artist's work. John Singer Sargent is one of the few exceptions. He was born in 1856 and in his lifetime created around 900 oil paintings and over 2000 water colours (according to wikipedia). I can't describe exactly what it is that I find so wonderful about his paintings, like I said I'm not a very arty person. All I know is that they are all stunning - the colours, the softness, their ability to tell a story. I feel like I can easily transport myself into the painting and hear the sounds and the atmosphere of that day.

Happy Birthday

Today is Morrissey's birthday so I thought I'd take the opportunity to talk about another hero in my life. I first got into Morrissey and The Smiths when I was around 15. I can't really remember exactly why or how I started listening to The Smiths but I remember the effect that their music had on me. It sounds like one of those stupid cliched lines "they're music changed my life" but when it comes to The Smiths, in many ways it really did. When I first really got into them was at the time when my depression was at its worst. I attached my own meaning to Morrissey's beautiful lyrics and found that almost every song was heart-wrenching and eye-opening. For some reason, the thought that someone else had felt a similar pain to what I was feeling was comforting for me. Now, whenever I listen to Morrissey singing, every song has some form of emotional attachment for me. I can ignore all his flaws just for that incredible nostalgic euphoria that I feel at the sound of his voice.

Mexican Soldier by Frederic Remington, 1888

The Clearing

We went there together,
you took my hand and brushed it through the pine leaves,
which formed perfect mounds like fallen snow at our sides.
You laughed at me flitting back and forth among the branches, a hummingbird in search of pollen.
You rose and performed your own enchantment, twisting through the trees.
I should've joined your sombre dance, we would have been unstoppable.

I went back there alone today,
sat among the piles of broken branches
I tried to feel that same coating
but found their thorn edges
digging into me instead.
A single drop of blood fell from my finger to the clearing;
Stains among the weeds.
You laughter is still ringing here
among this haunted silence.

Moon River - Morrissey

"He felt as though he were wandering in the forests of the sea bottom, lost in a monstrous world where he himself was the monster. He was alone. The past was dead, the future was unimaginable." 
George Orwell, 1984

My Inspiration

Sylvia Plath, I don't think I could start to describe how much of a hero she is to me.

I'm currently reading 'The Journals of Sylvia Plath' and I keep finding myself crying over it just because her thoughts are so beautiful and full of meaning. I find that she can write a sentence which describes perfectly something that I have felt or thought previously but would never have been able to put into words. Even better than that, she has this ability to describe something that I have never felt or thought about in a manner that makes me feel as if I have and as if the thought were mine. She can write about the simplest of things and still make it seem incredibly significant and meaningful.

“If the moon smiled, she would resemble you. You leave the same impression  of something beautiful, but annihilating.”   - Sylvia Plath

She sat weeping under the arms of the pine,

Crying over those who had sat there before her.

The infinity of existence tore at her heart;

How she longed for a conclusion – an end to all that was.

She watched two children huddled in front of her.

One boy. One girl.

Their lives entwined so forcefully around each other,

Nothing lay on their tender minds beyond that point, that moment of indulgence.

She watched them laughing, tracing a path laden with the footsteps of all those who had previously passed through.

Her own broken mind longed to be with theirs,

To feel free among the chains.

Later she would realize that freedom was myth and infinity was impossibility

But for now she grieved over all that was lost and could no longer be retrieved.

Shoes

My mother always said that you can tell a lot about a person from their shoes.

One of my favourite ways to occupy my time spent on public transport is to play The Shoe Game. There are two variations to this wondrous game; firstly you can look at somebody - their outfit, mannerisms, age etc - and try and guess what shoes they will be wearing. Or, you can just look at somebody's shoes and try to figure out what they will look like. I find that the latter is a lot more entertaining as I tend to come up with extravagant guesses at people's personalities and style choices only to be sorely disappointed by what I see when I look up.

Yesterday, while sitting on the tube staring at the feet pacing past me, I found that my eye caught on my own dingy shoes and it struck me; what do my shoes say about me? I own three pairs of shoes (that I actually wear); a plain pair of sneakers that are extremely broken and have gaping holes in the soles, a pair of brogues that are incredibly worn down and make a very irritating sound with every step and my wellies that come out a few times a year on that special rainy day. So what does that say about me?

If you saw me walking down the street could you guess my footwear? If you looked at my shoes would you guess correctly what the teenager above them looked like? There is no way of knowing, but for now it has just made me very conscious of my choice of shoes.

100 Word Review: Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

You've probably heard of the film version that recently came out; a boy loses his father in the September 11th bombings, finds a key in his room then spends his time searching for the lock it fits. It sounds dull and cliché but the book truly wasn't. I found myself laughing and crying; the characters were relatable and I found Oscar, the protagonist, such a fascinating character (he reminded me somewhat of Charlie in Perks of Being a Wallflower).  He has an incredibly animated and contagious excitement towards the world. While the film isn’t great, the book’s definitely worth reading.

Voyages

I wanted to enter a poetry competition with the theme of 'Voyages' but it turned out I missed the deadline so I thought I'd post it here instead. I wrote this just now on the train in 10 minutes, so it's not very good.

The air strikes my tender skin
As she dances hauntingly with the water
Surrounding me.
Looking far over their violent encounter
I pretend that I can still see you
Smiling at the docks.

You stood so bold and tall,
Refused to let any moisture escape your eyes.
You drowned me in your kisses
And engulfed me in your embrace.

Now I have only the sea's embrace to comfort me
And its moisture is all I can see.
I feel my image of you weakening,
Washed away by these nightmare shores.

You are replaced by the waters
That sweep me away from you so
Unwillingly.
I will return to you someday.

The Secret Agent - Joseph Conrad

I recently finished reading The Secret Agent, I have to admit that for the first two thirds of the book I really wasn't enjoying it. I found Conrad's style too monotonous and I felt no emotional connection with any of the characters. I was really struggling to keep reading it but I'm definitely glad that I did.
I don't know if it was because I began reading with a different frame of mind or because the narrative got more exciting but the last few chapters were brilliant. I suddenly found that I was empathising with all the characters and I couldn't put it down.
The ending was great, dramatic and final. I finished the book feeling like I loved it, then remembered how much I disliked it to begin with.
I won't give anything away about the plot because it's definitely a book that you should read but after I finished it I read the notes that came with my edition and the whole story is based around a real event. Joseph Conrad heard about a man who it was believed had attempted to blow up Greenwich Observatory and decided to make up the story behind it. Finding this out made me like it even more.
It's a brilliant political tale that leaves you questioning yourself and the world around you, the incredible ending was definitely worth the somewhat dull start to the novel, go and get a copy now.

Inhibition

I walked past you today;
the birds within my ribcage
came to life,
fluttering their wings rapidly
in time with my heart.
They tried to fly towards you
but my wiry bones restrained them,
keeping them in their place
as I watched you walk away.