Hastings

Hastings

You have drug problems, and some pretty good pubs

Hastings

You have beautiful woodland and back-alleys of grime

Hastings

You have Saturday night chaos and Sunday morning bemused tranquillity

Hastings

You have discarded heroin needles next to graffiti about love

Hastings

I grew up in you

Hastings

I have walked your surface as many different people

Hastings

I am a drop in your oceans

Hastings

I can feel the rhythm of your tides

Hastings

My tears have often got you wet

Hastings

In ecstasy, I have performed clumsy handstands on your withered grass

Hastings

Clarity and confusion run into each-other nightly, and dance dialectical in the space between your citizens

Hastings

I have skipped through you at 4am drunkenly shouting half remembered lines from Ginsberg

Hastings

I have thrown countless pebbles into your sea and felt calm

Hastings

I have kicked a pint glass at your coppers

Hastings

I am one of your very few Leninists

Hastings

You have provided everything that is important and beautiful to me

Hastings

I have felt your rain pour over my face, and perhaps

Something of me ran into the water

And soaked into your pavements, as past generations have

And will continue into the air of the future

As new feet walk over them

Living strange lives

Like you and me.

A little confession

I reall am a raging homosexual

.

It had been a dark and confused winter, and the authentic mind was hiding. It was as if the cold had seeped into our homes, and closed up our mutual spaces. All of our contact took on an alien, defensive quality. But in all the uncertainty, she was there. One night in November we stayed up, drinking on the sofa. I looked into her eyes, her face warm in the lamp-light. Rested my forehead against hers. With hot mulled wine on our lips we kissed and kissed and kissed, messy and wonderful, giggling, sighing, hands exploring, fucking and cuddling to sleep, as if with one great burst of affection we could shatter alienation forever and be free, and for a while we were.

Began

Michael was lying in bed, bored, when it began.
Lucy was downing her 6th shot when it began.
Greg was climbing a tree when it began.
Lucinda had just been mugged, and then it began.
The guardian had just gone to press, and a storm was brewing, and the unions had gone on strike, the day that it began.
It took most people a little while to realise what had happened after it began.
They were wrapped up in world-blanking kisses, screaming black howls of despair, hot with lust in high-wire fucks, kicking themselves in realisation and quietly contemplative as it began.
At first only a cracked and whiskered old tramp, drinking white cider with grit in it, noticed, and that was an hour after it began.
He muttered to the shoes walking past him that the shadows were missing but it was too late, because an hour earlier it began.
Above all of the ordinariness, at the top of a bell-tower, silhouetted shapes danced noiselessly and blended into a hellish myriad - and smiled as it began.

Koestler

There was the sea again with its sounds. A wave slowly lifted him up. It came from afar and travelled sedately on, a shrug of eternity.

whirling dazed stupid delirious belligerent vitality spunked

old ride.

I remember

The giant merry-go-round

we found in the park at dark, the lights shone bright

and we marvelled at how no-one had found it before, as it beamed and shone in the night.

so we got on and rode, and oh!

the majestic lows and soaring highs

our liberated whoops and sighs

while we were spinning

it felt like,

winning

but in truth, the lights were dimming.

and dimming.

from the moment we arrived.

Do not be afraid

The ice was getting thin, too thin to skate or walk on but you shouted so many times that you loved it and wanted to be close to it. The winter was very cold I remember it. I remember it. I think of it often. The winter was so cold and we thought it would never stop. You danced about on the ice you were shouting something and singing. But you were not drunk. You made the ice shake; you dared it to crack beneath you, defiant you were so bloody defiant all the time, like you wanted to take on everything. I loved the way your face lit up in the moonlight. We walked back but I was sullen because I had not been brave enough to go on the ice and you had. You were always the brave one.

http://notafraid.blog.co.uk/2010/08/22/point-9223799/

cool

Sometimes when I'm thinking or writing

I write or think like Charlie from The Perks Of Being A Wallflower. I don't know if this just comes from reading the book or whether something of his way of thinking is in me anyway. I think the awkwardness and the always just wanting clarity is similar.

A few bits of ideas for writing are circulating in my head, I hope I do some more soon.

Quite miss being an outsider in a mainstream group like at westhill. I know you wouldn't immediately call westhill crowd mainstream but if you think about it they are/were. It was fun because I decided to just talk to them about things I was interested in despite the fact that really they'd rather just talk about cider, weed and their emotional problems. Usually they would humour me and it'd be quite fun. I'd get them talking about the stars and causality and in return they'd have me trashed on cider talking about my emotional problems.

Music

I like music because it makes me feel more like a human and less like a boring passive little robot. And it makes the world less mathematical and that's a good thing.

capitalism

You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder,

Well I ain’t never seen such a big hard bastard cry like I did that day,
He said “I lost everything that ever meant anything and I can’t go on living this way”,
He slammed his pint down on the table and said “I ain’t never drinking again”,
I put my hand on his shoulder, looked him square in the eye and I said “listen my friend,

You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder”

You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder

I said “If you need a place to stay you can always come over,
I’ll clean out the front room and you can sleep on my sofa”,
He said “I can only apologise if I seem out of touch,
The only reason I scream and shout is cos I care so much”,

So you can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder.
You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder

Rats!
They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,
And bit the babies in the cradles,
And ate the cheeses out of the vats,
And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles,
Split open the kegs of salted sprats,
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,
And even spoiled the women's chats,
By drowning their speaking
With shrieking and squeaking
In fifty different sharps and flats.

You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder

You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder

You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder

You can lean on me,
Cry on my shoulder,
If I’m Obelix,
You are my boulder

mervyn peake

A freckled and frivolous cake there was
That sailed upon a pointless sea,
Or any lugubrious lake there was
In a manner emphatic and free.
How jointlessly, and how jointlessly
The frivolous cake sailed by
On the waves of the ocean that pointlessly
Threw fish to the lilac sky.

Oh, plenty and plenty of hake there was
Of a glory beyond compare,
And every conceivable make there was
Was tossed through the lilac air.

Up the smooth billows and over the crests
Of the cumbersome combers flew
The frivolous cake with a knife in the wake
Of herself and her curranty crew.
Like a swordfish grim it would bounce and skim
(This dinner knife fierce and blue])),
And the frivolous cake was filled to the brim
With the fun of her curranty crew.

Oh, plenty and plenty of hake there was
Of a glory beyond compare -
And every conceivable make there was
Was tossed through the lilac air.

Around the shores of the Elegant Isles
Where the cat-fish bask and purr
And lick their paws with adhesive smiles
And wriggle their fins of fur,
They fly and fly 'neath the lilac sky -
The frivolous cake, and the knife
Who winketh his glamorous indigo eye
In the wake of his future wife.

The crumbs blow free down the pointless sea
To the beat of a cakey heard
And the sensitive steel of the knife can feel
That love is a race apart
In the speed of the lingering light are blown
The crumbs to the hake above,
And the tropical air vibrates to the drone
Of a cake in the throes of love.

Arundhati Roy

To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power. Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away.

lovely lovely lovely :)

You'll be free, child, once you have died. From the shackles of language, and measurable time.

HOLD OUT THE ARM AND QUIET THE VOICE

Stokely Carmichael

We should begin with the basic fact that black Americans have two problems: they are poor and they are black. All other problems arise from this two-sided reality: lack of education, the so-called apathy of black men. Any program to end racism must address itself to that double reality.

This is the twenty-seventh time I have been arrested - and I ain't going to jail no more!"

"The only way we gonna stop them white men from whuppin' us is to take over. We been saying freedom for six years and we ain't got nothin'. What we gonna start saying now is Black Power!"

I lit a fire up on the dust-dry mountain top with some sticks that I found as dusk fell. Birds sailed through the evening cool with their usual thoughtless serenity and the crickets started up the usual tuneless song. Gentle breeze set the smoke twirling away into the endless sky.

I wondered why you'd gone, where you'd gone, what that meant. I got about as far as everyone else ever does with those questions.

I never talked much in philosophy class. One day the teacher asked me what I thought the meaning of life was as we packed away, out of the blue. You know it's honest when it's out of the blue. I said to her, "I get the feeling that we are probably all just dicking around". She laughed a lot and said it was a very interesting answer, and that she had been a nihilist at my age. I don't know what a nihilist is, but I don't think she really appreciated the seriousness of the thought.

Night began to fall and the fire burned itself out. Perhaps something of you floated back towards me on the wind, and told me something. Perhaps I listened. I don't know.

Gentle breeze set the smoke twirling away into the endless sky. Illiterate. Timeless.