Downtown

My summer wardrobe - pretty much all to be found in the fabulous American Apparel

Negative

I wrote these few lines today and I don't fully understand what they mean or if it's lyrics or a poem but it just came to me, sporadically, like so much of the shit that goes round and round my head.

Sometimes even the desert goes cold,

And then what will you do?

Your quiet suffering is devoid of meaning

Now that I've gone.

I burnt all your clothes

Watching the funeral pyre take away

Your smell up to the sky.

I thought after that you would stop haunting me.

But I still feel your cruel words.

Still breathing

There was a daddy long-legs in my shower. Alone. Both of us were vulnerable. But it was trapped alone forever. What a lonely existence it must lead. I wondered how long it had been in my bathroom for....without anyone.

I bought The Big Issue the other day. They're always selling one outside the supermarket. I've recently been listening to Madeleine Peyroux. Inside The Big Issue was an article about her life. She was busking and living on the streets of Paris, aged seventeen. The same age as me. I can't imagine that loneliness. Music saved her. I think music saves me every day. It stops you from feeling alone.

Dreams we had as children fade away...

Nine Lives

So I'm meant to be cat-sitting at the moment.

I don't really like cats. I've tried. But I'm a dog girl at heart.

So I've gotta give this cat called Vienna its food and let it out and stuff. I was meant to go this morning to check up on it. But I didn't bother and lay in my pjs until 12, eating buttered crumpets. And the owner rang me like 20 times yesterday to check it's still OK.

What I don't get about people who love their cats..I mean what do the cats give back? You can't take them for a walk or roll in the mud with them. They don't wag their tails appreciatively. Instead, you're left with scratches up your arms like some potent self-harm and long hairs on your clothing.

Give me Bo, the Obamas new dog for walkies any day.

The Allure of the Japanese

The other day, I was on the bus in Elephant & Castle, listening to a raucous bunch of drunken passengers singing of the joys of Moroccan couscous. Then at the next stop, on jumped a group of Japanese people, one guy with an uncanny resemblance to Steve Aoki with an awesome girlfriend and a cool gay couple. The girl had the those American Apparel Afrika print leggings on with fringy boots and the rest of the guys wore black leather jackets and scuffed boots and hats and generally looked far too amazing for the grubby double decker, stinking of BO and curry. And it got me thinking about how much I love the Japanese. The film Lost in Translation got me especially transfixed. That hotel Scarlet Johansson stays in, lying in the bath with her mega headphones in, watching the bustling city of Tokyo below seemed as perfect as solitude can get. Their lifestyle seems something that us westerners can learn from. They have as a whole, a very healthy lifestyle with barely any dairy consumed. There’s also some sort of allure about the Japanese, something about their diverse culture so different from what I’ve ever experienced. Off to Tokyo, then.

Always embrace things

Season 2 of the brilliant Mad Men set in the Swinging Sixties began last week. It was only when watching it, that I realised how much I had missed it. No other TV show I have seen, seems to encapsulate such daring wit and brooding, mysterious characters. Some dissapprove of its seeming promotion of compulsive chain-smokers immortally glamourised, paired with frequent swigs of whiskey. However, such cynics are missing the point. The haze of cigarette smoke across our screens perfectly resembles the 'fragrant' air of the Nixon era.
What made the premiere episode of the second season so evocative for me, however, was the recital of the great writer Frank O'Hara's poem Mayakovksy, from the collection entitled 'Meditations in an Emergency.' I will let the poem, below, do the talking.

Mayakovsky

Now I am quietly waiting for
the catastrophe of my personality
to seem beautiful again,
and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and
brown and white in trees,
snows and skies of laughter
always diminishing, less funny
not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of
the year, what does he think of
that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,
perhaps I am myself again.