Q
Anonymous asked:
Do you write every day?
A
No I write in spurts. I write when I have to, because the pressure builds up and I feel enough confidence that something inside has matured and I can find the words to express it. During these moments I’m very overwhelmed, by an awareness, and more often than not. adversely unaware. Once I begin I don’t want to do anything else. I don’t go out, might I forget to eat, I sleep very little. It’s very different to the way I work in my ordinary life, consistent and orderly. My creative endevours are approached in a very undisciplined way, and I don’t care much. I’m too interested in many other things.
Q
A
Could have? Yes, I could have, but maybe I wasn’t supposed to.
Q
Anonymous asked:
I really liked you but I guess I can be prideful, hope you're great though & even though it didn't work out I still respect your intellect and appreciate all the help you offered, I wonder if you think about me.
A
Maybe.
Q
Anonymous asked:
Hey, I admire your work so much and I'm an artist though I've recently been getting into my writing more and more. I was wondering if you could give me some advice on getting my work out there, whether there are particular projects or companies for young writers xx
A
Thank you, I’m not currently trying to get any of my work published for now, so the help I can offer is very limited. It depends what kind of writing you’re getting into, if it’s fiction I’d suggest poetry competitions, which are always looking for young talented writers to publish in zines, poetry magazines and newspapers. You can usually find information about them in your local library/newspaper, which is where they leave most of their flyers etc. Or if you’re confident enough, spoken word is another option. As for non-fiction, a blog is a pretty good way to start up, possibly moving onto paid/unpaid work for other blogs/magazine. Good luck.
Q
Anonymous asked:
How tall are you?
A
How short am I? 5’3, 5’4.. I think. Not entirely sure. Somewhere around there.
Inspired by Japanese love poems
Who said that time heals all wounds? It would be better to say that time heals everything, except wounds. With time, the hurt of separation loses its real limits. With time, the desired body will soon disappear, and if the desiring body has already ceased to exist for the other, then what remains is a wound, disembodied.
He liked the fragility of those moments suspended in time. Those memories whose only function had been to leave behind nothing but memories.
I will have spent my life trying to understand the function of remembering, which is not the opposite of forgetting, but rather its lining. We do not remember. We rewrite memory much as history is rewritten. How can one remember time?
I see him, he saw me, he knows that I see him, he drops me his glance, but just at an angle where it is still possible to act as though it was not addressed to me, and at the end the real glance, straightforward, that lasted a twenty-fourth of a second, the length of a film frame.
I begin to wonder if those dreams are really mine, or if they are part of a totality, of a gigantic collective dream of which the entire city may be the projection. It might suffice to pick up any one of the telephones that are lying around to hear a familiar voice, or the beating of a heart…
I wonder how people remember things who don’t film, don’t photograph, don’t tape. How has mankind managed to remember? I know: it wrote the Bible. The new Bible will be an eternal magnetic tape of a time that will have to reread itself constantly just to know it existed.
Peggy Lee - Black Coffee (1953)
Don’t expect me to be sane anymore
All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don’t begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams.
We’re in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We’re journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.
I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realise. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon’s soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel.
The insatiable delight of experience.
If you really loved me you would be able to admit that you’re ashamed of me.
Think of the first love you ever destroyed because you’d never known anything like it before, like seeing your own heartbeat outside of yourself, a flickering, luminescent miracle -you wanted to crush it to your skin.
Scottish Summer
The first time you took me there, the world was still except the rain.
The underground wind hits the windows and everything around me vibrates in a heavy drone as full as the Baltic.
But tonight, I’m on your back porch, watching you smoke cigarettes. Inside, music plays. We take turns choosing the song. I wear your coat, your boots—you stand barefoot in the rain and I feel joy. How could I stop laughing? At some point, the spell will break.
Weeks ago, you warned me I would forget to say no. And each time I look in the mirror, I find a new bruise the shape of your mouth.
It comes down to this: april snow, spring flood and thunder, tangled hair, my watch on your bedroom floor, the scales knocked over.
When I speak, your name clings to my tongue like a prayer I’ve forgotten the words to. I know this is madness.
On the train, the windows fog up. All I can see is the colour of brick.
I missed laying on his back and telling him my stories, sometimes I’d read my poems from memory, I knew he didn’t understand them in the way wanted, or maybe even needed him to. But there was something in the loyalty of his unwavering listening, the slow uncurling of his tired fingers through mine, the faithfulness of his silence.
I think he took my words as a sum rather than an apportion, maybe he saw magic in one, rather than many. ironic as his strength was in numbers.
Q
Anonymous asked:
I will never understand you. No matter how much I try.
A
What are you trying to understand?
