Visitors

They cling to lampshades and live in windows,
And other insects consider them bimbos.
But domestic or wild, bird or bug?
I question these ladies who reply with a shrug,
They pose static upon bottles of wine,
Preferring this perch to Edenic vines.
Even through our drunken fug,
We can spy these shrunken bugs,
Finding them in the flour and mince
And on the butter - little-leg prints.
I learnt that birds are code for the Sapphic
(Lesbian play made less graphic)
Are you this way inclined or not,
Covered in pin-prick anti-acne spots?
'What does it matter?', I hear them cry,
'The most awesome thing's that we can FLY!'
It's true, that's cool, so don't be cruel
To these intruding studding jewels.

I am fond of our lady-like insects, much maligned by others. The prettiest of vermin. I'd paper my walls with your shells - black and bugged and red all over.

Vim and Spunk

I think I went through a Coraline phase. And I don't mean a phase of liking, loving, and being obsessed by Coraline, as that is pretty much a way of life, a mindset, a philosophy that is constant in my very being. I mean a phase of looking like Coraline. Though I was not eleven. More like nineteen or so... Eleven at heart however. As I shall forever be.

Cartoonish features, spaghetti limbs, bobbed hair (though not blue, for shame), an evil glare when enraged...

I may no longer resemble her physically, but I like to flatter myself by thinking that I am still part Coraline. Neil Gaiman writes that she's "full of 'vim' and 'spunk' and all those wonderful old-fashioned words." And she's curious, and scrappy, and sees the world through holes in stones. She likes candyfloss and the mouse circus, and talks to cats and is attracted by green gloves. She wears ace jumpers and shiny blue boots. She travels through acid-trip tunnels and hunts for the trapped souls of ghost-children.

Well, I'd say that's me in a nutshell. It has, after all, been said that I am all wool and fairies. This seems to fit with the Coraline world, which is all threads and fantasy.

And I do love buttons. Though more so on CARDIGANS, rather than sewn into eye sockets.

I Beam

Anybody who knows me knows that I am all about the EYEBEAMS.

The single best thing I have KNOWLEDGE of. They are an ocular obsession of mine. The conception of visual reciprocation achieved by the exchange of eyebeams. This is actual SCIENCE. Renaissance biology in corporeal motion. Fiery darts that pass through the eyes and hit the object of one's desire. Eyebeam emissions that are shot from the soul and pierce the reflecting target. Venus, Adonis, and wide-eyed sparks.

Then someone told me about the science of blinking.

If a person is attracted to another, they blink more often. Hence the fluttering of eyelashes. Looking into someone's eyes, with real connection, with a steady gaze, exposes one's ocular orbs (and, arguably, one's heart...) to the elements. Therefore increased blinking is necessary: to keep eyejuice flowing and to give an alluring glaze. When this someone told me this, I blinked too much, became too aware of eyejuice, and almost succumbed to his over-active flickering eyelids. I held myself back and struggled to resist the science. Damn his eyes!

[Parenthetically, this makes me think of the girl in Indiana Jones, who sits in class and stares at the dreamy Indy-in-Teacher-Guise, slowly blinking, with the words 'LOVE' and 'YOU' written on her eye-lids. A perfect moment in film - disturbing, frivolous, beautiful, true]

But surely blinking science contradicts eyebeam science...

If eyebeams are shot from love-struck eyes, then blinking would hinder and disrupt this process. The science of amorous eyes is a complex one. However, perhaps eyebeams are stronger than the thin tissue of eyelids. They come from within, from the thick-tissued aorta, and are powerful enough to penetrate the eyes and heart of another being. Mere blinks cannot halt or offset their path. They will always hit the target they are aimed toward, as this is determined by the heart and is not subject to direction-distorting blinks. Blinking serves to fan the flames of the fiery darts, making them blaze all the brighter and strike all the hotter.

These two concepts are perfectly combined in a myth of an icon. An icon of the Chelsea Hotel, who inspired a party, lived fast, died young, loved too much. It was her big eyes that were to blame... a speeding Edie Sedgwick was said to have set her room on fire while gluing on her thick false eyelashes by candlelight.

She flamed, framed in mascara.

My Day in Real Time

Nosleep, busrun, workworkwork, errand-bank-errand-stationers-errand-printers-errand-COFFEE, mad-dog-mad, workworkwork, facebook, foldfold–nofoldingmachine-foldfold, make-tea-wash-up, fascinatingviewing: fortyfiveminute list of lords and ladies, guests for the bookshop party, RUTHLESS, struckoff, allergies (to people), oh no, I don’t think so, do you, Tarquin etc, I know a sordid secret…chatstruggle with boss’husband, trip-to-Bangladesh, DRINKSONTHEM, drinkdrinkdrink, tales of heart attacks in Fortnum&Mason, drunken-drugged-up falling sisters, skull removed for months, bloodymindedness/braindamage, literatichitchat, busbusbus, flatmate-attack, old-man-Malcolm, quicknap/threehoursleeeep, bed-pile-in, phone-call-record-the-wine-fed, busbus, happybirthday-insertname, disturbinggoogling, joint, HUNGER, dodgysamosa, packet-of-ice-cream-crackers, funnynoises-helloooomynaameiseeeddd-low-deep-sci-fi-villain, smiles, sleeeeep, countering-nosleep.