29 November 2010
UCL Occupation, Day 5
Between the meetings, discussions, updates and proposals, we dance a ceilidh. The caller is a music teacher from SOAS, heavily moustached, the other side of middle age, and wearing a bright knitted jumper. He sings in Italian. He sings a song about wallpaper that hails from Bethnal Green. We dance to his fiddle. We all get hot, not bothered, for an hour or so.
But there is something to get bothered about.
But you have to dance too.
23 November 2010
Mixing florals, mixing patterns,
I want to wrap myself in prints
and create paisley damask distractions.
Textiles tailored for straightjackets.
The busy shapes fail to tessellate;
they cannot fool my senses.
I wrap myself in prints
as fingers wrap themselves around
the cross-stitch strings inside organs,
plucking fingerprint beats
and pulling pulling gentle persistence,
undoing what was sewn.
Beneath cotton hibiscus bruisesI see the imprint of you.
17 November 2010
At work I've been building forts out of boxes and books and brown parcel paper. (Plus dogs.)
Outside of work I have been trying to build forts out of gingerbread lattes and mince pies (Sainsbury's, sub par and too soon really). I've only managed a fairly flimsy cave of imagined tarpaulin.
Oh. I must read Tom Paulin on Elizabeth Bishop for class.
15 November 2010
This little Sunday life was rounded with strawberry cider.
10 November 2010
Anna who was mad,
I have a knife in my armpit.
When I stand on tiptoe I tap out messages.
Am I some sort of infection?
Did I make you go insane?
Did I make the sounds go sour?
Did I tell you to climb out the window?
Say not I did.
Speak Mary-words into our pillow.
Take me the gangling twelve-year-old
into your sunken lap.
Whisper like a buttercup.
Eat me. Eat me up like cream pudding.
Take me in.
I love Anne Sexton. And then I find that she had an aunt named Anna
who went mad. She thought of Anna as a mother. She watched her
slowly go mad. A knife in the armpit.