Yearly Archives: 2013

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I had gone to no such place but to the smoke of cafés and nights when the room whirled and you needed to look at the wall to make it stop, nights in bed, drunk, when you knew that that was all there was, and the strange excitement of waking and not knowing who it was with you, and the world all unreal in the dark and so exciting that you must resume again unknowing and not caring in the night, sure that this was all and all and all and not caring. Suddenly to care very much and to sleep to wake with it sometimes morning and all that had been there gone and everything sharp and hard and clear and sometimes a dispute about the cost. Sometimes still pleasant and fond and warm and breakfast and lunch. Sometimes all niceness gone and glad to get out on the street but always another day starting and then another night. I tried to tell about the night and the difference between the night and the day and how the night was better unless the day was very clean and cold and I could not tell it; as I cannot tell it now. But if you have had it you know.

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life

but the key was mine (i keep a spare one every time)

Pipelines, super-sized Sunday roasts (thank/you/Jesus), rush hour headphones, friends like you wouldn’t believe, breakfast beers, trainers, rum carafes, Neal Street, fresh garms, still snowing, back to Big Hands (William, it was really nothing), porn star martinis, champagne sorbet, giggly mornings, train journeys, hope, side streets, cava in bed, dearest Manchester, new girl syndrome, this is for lovers (running away just for today), lock, stock, and two smoking barrels. That’s about all life’s saying these days.

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life

Last night is a smoky blur – another session at the pub with Klaus
and his friends. But this is not one of those hangovers where you write the
day off to darkness. It is the more interesting kind, where destroyed
synapses are reconstructing themselves, sometimes missing their old paths
and making odd, new connections. I remember things I haven’t remembered
before – things that do not come out of the ordered store of
memories I call my past.

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photography

no pop, no style; all strictly roots.

Still can’t believe I have the weekends to myself for the first time in years. Finally allowing myself to remember what all the fuss is about [after so long chiding those who live-for-them]. So, allow me to sound smug for a moment as I say they’re especially good when: they last four days/you wake up on various sofas and find yourself watching Soccer AM with the giggles/you’re with your favourite old friends and new friends and family/your nails are neon and your dancing wheels are go/you play the taking-turns music game until daylight/you’ve tried to facetime everyone you know/you wake up to find the DJ’s business card in your purse. This is what they look like.

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