the traffic never slows.

Despite the day-old headache, I roused myself out of this apathy and went for a walk around my suburb at eight and went for a walk around the suburbs this early evening with a Canon 350D. Twilight sinking gently into the backstreets of Preston. Barbed-wire fences, ageing industrial wastelands, metal degrading and decaying everywhere. I grew up here and despite the ugliness of it, it's my home and I adore it.

--

Few days ago I discovered a note a good friend had left me in my phone, back in September. I never wanted to be your rolling train; I never wanted to be your dancing shoes. I love surprises and I love that boy.

--

Plastic cups. Burn holes in the carpet. Full ashtray.
Your breathing. Your breathing. You're still. You're still.
Still here. Still here.

Film photographs. Negative images. A ghost of you,
resting against my back. Late spring rain.

Quiet flat. Open windows, impossible night.
Spinning fan. I could recognise that laugh anywhere.

Swallow hard. Against me. Against me.
It's no good.

--

Dashed off, quickly, in a fit of sleeplessness. Right now I'm just writing and writing and writing, knowing that most of it is bollocks, but hoping that with a lot of time and a lot of practice, something of not-entirely-dubious quality will reappear again. I'm looking forward to properly getting my jam on with Luke. Downloaded a copy of FruityLoops a few days ago and gave it a whirl tonight - it's a complete mystery to me, at the moment, but with the guidance of a good friend and some sweet beats, I think we could be on our way to making magic. The dream: I am living it!

the ocean calls us.

© _barb_

maggie and milly and molly and may
e.e. cummings

maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach (to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn't remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves we find in the sea

--

Off to Eildon for the weekend. Happy birthday, Calum. See you on the flipside.

all your sundays come back to haunt you.

you're a razor-wired beauty.

(For those unfamiliar with the program, for which you should be ashamed: Spooks. Ros Myers. The fiercest woman on television right now.)

haze.

© skydiveparcel.

Here comes another change in pace. I've been reading Karl Hyde of Underworld's daily blog, thoroughly enjoying the idea of day-to-day posting with images, too. It's a lovely, personal look at the innerspace of one of my favourite artists. I love his openness, the way he's so willing to share with his fans - it's not something you often see. (And obviously, I'm not stalking his online presence at all. What sort of a creep would do that?)

The last few days have been headaches and nausea. I'm doing something wrong, though I can't pin down what it is, exactly. Too many cigarettes, coffees, too much stress and apathy, not enough food? (I need to learn how to cook, and properly, too.) Who knows. My creative output has hit a standstill: full ashtrays, blank pages. Haven't touched my Canonet QL17 in days, or figured out how to get my photos off Dad's Canon 350D, and left my friends at the Corner Hotel when the the headache (hi, mum, are you having fun, and now are you on your way to a new tension headache?) became too much.

I waited forty-five minutes for an Epping train at Flinders Street Station before disembarking at Bell and walking home in the cool and darkness of a late spring evening. Strange how those small things can be the sweetest moments of life - the backstreets of Preston, singing 'Born Slippy.NUXX' loudly, raucously to the dark and empty streets - well, empty, until I realised I was walking towards a twenty-something male who looked rather disconcerted and bemused at the sight of me. I crossed the road, unlocked the door and entered my house, still riding the high of Karl Hyde and Rick Smith's delightful grooves. I'm going to make it to Romford one day. One day.