tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-150166382024-03-14T13:59:12.959+00:00Gemma Speaksall of itGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-15983884008320007682018-01-16T14:59:00.000+00:002018-01-16T14:59:06.260+00:00#TimeToMove<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-53695233469781272092017-03-24T13:57:00.002+00:002017-03-24T13:57:18.172+00:00The best thing to do with hunger...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
Anything can be borne if it can be accepted. The biggest gift of growing older so far has been learning to be kind to all parts of me, not just the shiny bits... developing the confidence to know that I can embrace feelings of fear, pain and confusion/whatever in the knowledge that I am strong enough to feel it all and still belong to myself. This is life. All of it. All of it is miraculous. Even when we are in a state of longing or dissatisfaction, that's because we know all the beauties that are possible for us. .'The best thing to do with hunger, is make it the food/make of it an all-absorbing music...' <br />
<br />
Love you,<br />
<br />
Gemx</div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-74858424083754827752017-02-16T11:12:00.000+00:002017-02-16T11:15:08.455+00:00politics<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-26457022944957687092016-05-20T12:03:00.001+01:002016-06-27T11:03:49.488+01:00The Morning Papers - A Series of Pieces About Prince<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Trying to describe how it feels to have lost Prince (who is more than a person, but an era/childhood/personal myth) especially under such messed up circumstances, and with all my conspiratorial suspicions aroused, and him dying the way he did, that small miracle man, alone in a lift, with no-one to hold his gaze while he went over, or reassure him, or hold his hand... ay ay ay... I was sad and angry. I was put in mind of the opening passage from 'Sonny's Blues' by James Baldw</span></b><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; display: inline; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b>in:</b></span></div>
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">'I read about it in the paper, in the subway, on my way to work. I read it, and I couldn't believe</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">it, and I read it again. Then perhaps I just stared at it, at the newsprint spelling out his name,</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">spelling out the story. I stared at it in the swinging lights of the subway car, and in the faces</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">and bodies of the people, and in my own face, trapped in the darkness which roared</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">outside.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">It was not to be believed and I kept telling myself that, as I walked from the subway station</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">to the high school [...] A great block of ice got settled in my belly and kept melting</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">there slowly all day long [...] It was a special kind of ice. It</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">kept melting, sending trickles of ice water all up and down my veins, but it never got less.</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sometimes it hardened and seemed to expand until I felt my guts were going to come</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">spilling out or that I was going to choke or scream. This would always be at a moment when I</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">was remembering some specific thing [...] once said or done.'</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Or in this case, sang.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">I didn't really know what to do with the feeling until</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=537687128" href="https://www.facebook.com/sdchauhan" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sharmila Chauhan</span></b></a><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"> reached out and asked me to contribute to a writing series featuring:</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=522398979" href="https://www.facebook.com/rajeev.balasubramanyam" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Rajeev Balasubramanyam</span></b></a><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">,</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=100001467668020" href="https://www.facebook.com/leone.ross.author" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Leone Ross</span></b></a><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">,</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color: ; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=505322592" href="https://www.facebook.com/nikesh.shukla.9" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Nikesh Shukla</span></b></a><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">,</span></b><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=697790156" href="https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=697790156" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sunil Chauhan</span></b></a><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">, Tanuja Desai Hidier,</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=627782451" href="https://www.facebook.com/salena.godden" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Salena Godden</span></b></a><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">,</span></b><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><a class="profileLink" data-hovercard="/ajax/hovercard/user.php?id=755099615" href="https://www.facebook.com/rosamond.king" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Rosamond King</span></b></a><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">and myself entitled 'The Morning Papers' which you can find here:</span></b><a href="https://www.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fmediadiversified.org%2Fcategory%2Fthe-morning-papers%2F&h=bAQHE2xmPAQHgc5jK7qClixe0NR8rcc_UB66HzL4P2eiJaw&enc=AZNYkqSbstbr6efdfqbdNXnuws5GRIpESBOvY4BXxcfuFjFEEEPzEjJRCtDUdL6A3IHxnjIHrmnH0YMmFH08cs2JTQF1dN6E6hE52ULw3kOMu7q9GYjuQJJ1CWBVTTODurIN6DfvHGPfoWi92Gpd0mO7aWJbMSUmryaANqo3f14Mmp2-_IoORtU2DTtQw5fb3Vc&s=1" rel="nofollow" style="color: #365899; cursor: pointer; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">https://mediadiversified.org/category/the-morning-papers/</span></b></a><span class="Apple-converted-space" style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><b> </b></span><br />
<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">New creative pieces in various genres from creative non-fiction and memoir to poetry are being posted every day until Sunday.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Let's pour out some words for him. </span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Sleep tight, sweet Prince.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="background-color:; color: #f4cccc; font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Xx</span></b></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"></span><span style="color: #f4cccc;"></span><br /></div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-88424012161656671972016-05-19T10:31:00.001+01:002016-05-19T10:38:03.905+01:00Social media envy/panic/HORROR/please stop.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>Right, so let's talk about this.*</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>My name is Gemma Weekes and I am envious of everyone. I mean, on irrational levels. I want everyone to do well, especially my contemporaries, but every account of their career victories makes me examine my own professional trajectory with the kind of sneer fit for a Dickensian villain. </b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>"Ooooh.... do you see that? What have you done lately, Gemma?"</b><br />
<b>"Was it any good, Gemma?"</b><br />
<b>"You get celebrity endorsement?"</b><br />
<b>"You get lotsa money?"</b><br />
<b>"You get the prestigious this or that?"</b><br />
<b>"You working fast enough?"</b><br />
<b>"Shouldn't you be further along by now?"</b><br />
<b>"Do you see how many </b><i><b>likes </b></i><b>they have on that post? People </b><i><b>care</b></i><b>!"</b><br />
<b>"He/She must be (delete as appropriate) nicer/more genuine/more savvy/smarter/cooler/more authentic/a human being More Loved by God Almighty with more of a right to be here than YOU are"</b><br />
<b>"And did you see how pretty? You're getting fat and old"</b><br />
<b>"You're missing your chance. You're past it."</b><br />
<b>"You're running out of time running out of time running out of time running out of time runningoutoftime RUNNING OUT OF TIME!"</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>It doesn't matter what I am actually doing at the time, and I am no slouch.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>And then if I see a parent posting about the vegan cake they made their kids or how their kids can play Chopin at 2 years old or read at the age of 9 months, I think: "OH MY GOD! I shouldn't be writing, I should spend my time being a better MOTHER!"</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>And then I read about someone's squat challenge or liquid diet or how they can bend themselves into a pretzel shape and think, OH MY GOD! I need to get in SHAPE!"</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>And then I see someone's honest posting about how crap things are and I think OH MY GOD, that person is so much more NATURAL and HONEST than I!</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>The panic. The anxiety. The comparison. The worry. It is the filthy, stinking elephant in the room whenever I do my occasional FB scroll; the zombie parrot perched on my shoulder while I peruse the twitter feed, alternately screaming obscenities in my ear and pecking mighty big-chunks of my self-esteem right out of my skull. We'll pretend for the sake of that metaphor that my skull is, in fact, where my self-esteem is housed (who knows (it's early-ish, forgive)).</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>This is my confession.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>This cruel self-judgement turns every one of my precious, hard-won triumphs to ash in my mouth. It dehumanizes people who, like me, have struggled, sweat and bled to manifest their dreams. </b><br />
<b>Last night, I went to a little soiree at Birkbeck University where the winner of the inaugural Kit De Wal scholarship was announced. While speaking to the first runner up of the prize (the lovely, talented Charlotte Forfieh (I am also a runner up, but slightly farther out from the glow of victory - congrats Steve Morrison-Burke!)) she asked me how long I've been writing. I replied that I've been writing 'forever' (not claiming to be immortal or anything, you know what I'm saying) and that sometimes people give a s**t, and sometimes they don't. </b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>As I said that, I felt a massive exhale whoosh through me, a hallelujah of relief and simple truth-telling. </b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>It felt real.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>It felt as if, by speaking on that reality, I was liberating myself from giving a s**t if people give a s***t, which is </b><i><b>long </b></i><b>overdue. </b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>I've written and sang and created my way through so many traumas and losses. I have created while grieving; while pregnant and breast-feeding; while depressed, broke, homeless; after break-ups and fights and professional disappointments as well as triumphs; late at night and first thing in the morning; when people have understood it and when they haven't; when there's been applause and when there hasn't been. That's my journey.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>I've cried listening to the harsh, critical voice in my head, knowing I deserve better. Self-love should never be an earned thing. I'm on earth. That's good enough. If I can love others, make a contribution to culture and to the raising of global consciousness, make my kid laugh with one of my dodgy accents, or even make a cake that's not 'light as a cannonball' - then, great!</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>I joked the other day that my son should post his ideas about meditation (he is a very interesting 9 year old dude) and he replied that it wouldn't get any 'likes'. I told him 'who cares', but how can I say that and then live the opposite?</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>I sometimes despair of younger people coming up in this social media culture powered by an unrelenting hunger for external validation.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>But it's occurred to me that perhaps this is an opportunity to seek greater grounding in the self, more than we've ever needed before, moving toward our desires with patience and grace.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>Maybe it's an opportunity to pause and address the wounds that lead us to such horrific self-judgement and blocks us from truly loving others.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>Maybe it's an invitation to share more of our real stories so we know we're not alone.</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>(You're not alone. You are beautiful. Your pace is beautiful. Your indecision and procrastination are beautiful. Breathe. You're working things out. Your mistakes are perfect, including your 'bad side' in photos. Just saying.)</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>Did you like this? Please like/share/tweet. :-D KIDDING!</b><br />
<b>(but like, please do it)</b><br />
<b>(but like, really, I'm kidding! lol!)</b><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_S5bHuPBR7BP5cJ9kZqs6z3s3N8FSMJABCCg0ePfH8Q15qVdLUE2qn9MizEThLl2lG-MIkE658xayZNQ_pITlCQBVJWH6hHfqkv74MZ31NN2XYbCEDScdUDPf8uCkP6TNBHRaNQ/s1600/Stop-Comparing-Yourself-Others.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_S5bHuPBR7BP5cJ9kZqs6z3s3N8FSMJABCCg0ePfH8Q15qVdLUE2qn9MizEThLl2lG-MIkE658xayZNQ_pITlCQBVJWH6hHfqkv74MZ31NN2XYbCEDScdUDPf8uCkP6TNBHRaNQ/s200/Stop-Comparing-Yourself-Others.png" width="183" /></a></div>
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<b>Love to you and your behind the scenes as well as your showreel. *smile*</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>Gem xxx</b><br />
<b></b><br />
<b>P.S.: I'm gonna leave you with some sage words from Mooji that help put that filthy elephant/zombie parrot in a sleeper hold:</b><br />
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______________________________________________________________<br />
* <span style="font-size: x-small;">I almost went on to say: "who else feels like..." which is part of the problem! Maybe </span><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">no-one </span></i><span style="font-size: x-small;">else feels like this, and maybe no-one gets what I'm going to write about or will ever read about it. That's ok.</span> </div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-91213031180028750632016-05-19T00:00:00.003+01:002016-05-19T00:00:22.740+01:00'The Water' rehearsal (7 day soundcloud challenge, day 2)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<iframe frameborder="no" height="450" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=https%3A//api.soundcloud.com/tracks/264808315&auto_play=false&hide_related=false&show_comments=true&show_user=true&show_reposts=false&visual=true" width="100%"></iframe><br /></div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-85203069968395455892016-05-17T13:47:00.002+01:002016-05-17T13:48:13.121+01:00black eyes/sudden lips<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-87363579055850000072016-01-29T15:28:00.000+00:002016-01-29T16:05:54.923+00:00Is everything changing, or just me? :-)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>2016, how you doing?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I feel like you gave 2015 a hug on the way out, didn't you?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Gave her a wink and a grin, said: "Sssshh. I got this."</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I think you might be a little bit of a jauntier year than previous.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>You ain't got much money so far, but you're still fly.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I have about one quarter of an hour before I need to go pick up the emperor from school, and really, I thought I was gonna scribble something a little more earnest</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b> cos I'm hungry and I've really not done as much writing today as I thought I would.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>But you tickle me.</b><br />
<b><br /></b><b>I opened this box and started to smile. Because 2016 has this pretty twinkle to it.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>And even when I'm being a little artistic and blue and sitting around contemplating my mortality and stuff I dig it, that twinkle. Like a diamond in a pile a dirt that might be a shard of glass, but who cares? Whatever it is, it has the sun its eye! Oh yes. </b><br />
<br />
<b>Exactly like that.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2016... you came around all muscly with love! Looked around and had these faces all edible with it, had hands all wrapped around my hands. And my heart full. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2016 you make me wanna cook and clean the house. You make me wanna build things right up past the sky. You came all jingling with opportunity, and excitement, and purpose, and self-understanding, and progress, and acceptance, and a real down-to-the-bone type of <i>even-</i>ness that maybe I've never felt before. Head in iridescent clouds and feet firm in the soil.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>2016, I think you came with presents for everybody.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I think you have a plan. I think you're laughing at the gaps in all of us.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I think you're singing even when we cry. I think, in your shape, I perceive the shape of an architecture beyond the flesh of things, perfect architecture beneath the chaos.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Time flicks its pages faster and faster and here we are.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Is time really real?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Is everything changing, or just me?</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>:-)</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<br />
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Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-14374301072375747632015-10-28T23:10:00.001+00:002015-10-28T23:10:24.517+00:00End of the Day (Narrow Skies)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-64316623954097705202015-01-07T17:47:00.000+00:002015-01-07T18:07:36.170+00:00Panic - #FreeWriteWednesday 07/01/2015<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>I move through the flat<br />leaving all the lights on<br />And every surface adorned with a dirty cup<br />Doors ajar<br />Cupboards gaping<br />Tights hung drying over doors and radiators<br />And I do not wash<br />And drink wine from the bottle<br />And I wait<br /><br />And 17 people were shot in Paris while I got through the length<br />Of one paragraph – stopping<br />Going<i> hmmm.</i><br /><br />I have a son,</b><br />
<div>
<b>And he has grown all the way to aged 7 in<br />The length of this<br />one thought.<br /><br />But I will stay alive<br />until every word is spilled.<br />Even if it takes<br />A thousand years.<br /><br />Facebook lies!<br />The incessant bleat<br />that I’m running out of time.</b></div>
<div>
<b>Silently, I tell it to go f**k itself. <br /><br />Then, aloud, <br />I tell Isaiah to go next door and play<br />So I can be alone<br />to panic</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b><br /></b>
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Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-10539675263602233502014-12-17T13:15:00.003+00:002014-12-17T13:15:25.851+00:00Running Up That Hill... an art experiment in great deference to one of my hero-ist heroes Kate Bush<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/9teNJBTArdw" width="560"></iframe></div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-24180737372454904832014-12-05T14:52:00.000+00:002014-12-05T14:54:07.670+00:00Are We All Alone with the Rain and the Flowers...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<b>This is the opening song from my scratch performance of stage show SewKee MmeGa: Alien. From. Inner. Space that I put on last year...<br /><br /> I need to get working to put back on again next year.,. So much I want to say! <br /><br /> Given the madness of the world lately and all the 'legal' murder, it feels like the themes of alienation, 'otherness' and fear of extinction are more pertinent than ever. <br /><br /> There is a massive and deep pain I am working out in all of this... an underlying mission to add to a discourse that humanizes all of us to each other..! <br /><br /> Love is our only hope - in every way. Love ourselves, of our planet, our children, our neighbours, our fellow world citizens. We are angry because we are empty, those who are empty become grasping, those who are grasping are blind, blindness causes all kinds of problems... <br /><br /> We need grace, all of us. Luckily, we aren't alone (although sometimes it might feel that way (that's what this song is about)).<br /><br /> Anyway... I've not slept much and am a bit delirious. I'll stop now. <br /><br /> Love x</b><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/rRJtHE8JDHc" width="420"></iframe></span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Rich Mix, London. An original song written, composed and performed by Gemma Weekes. MD/Bass JJ Stillwell. April 27th, 2013</span></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Jasmine
Flowers grow so sweetly<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">in the pot
you water weekly<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">do you ever
wonder why they grow<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">do you even
really want to know?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">They're just
flowers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">And are we
alone?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Are we all
alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">with the rain
and the flowers?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Watch the
rain <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">drowning the
pavement<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">on your way
to some enslavement<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">do you ever
wonder why it falls<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">does it
really matter after all?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">it's just
rain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Watch it
beating down your window<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">like it
understands something<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">you don't
know<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">do you ever
wonder what that is<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Is that really
any of your business<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">it's just
rain<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Because we're
alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">I feel all
alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">with the rain
and the flowers<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Are we all
alone<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">with the rain
and the flowers?</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">.</span></div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-57815043669618985582014-12-03T23:55:00.003+00:002021-07-01T18:11:46.418+01:00Babushka Doll #FreeWriteWednesday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Babuska Doll</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">I have always felt like -</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">a whole set of babushka dolls -</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">one self - with it's own</span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">individual heart - hidden<br />inside the next -<br />(and the next -<br />and the next -)<br />ad infinitum.<br /><br />But this morning<br />I woke up and finally understood<br />I am<br />the reverse -<br />stepping out of myself -<br />bigger </span></b></div>
<div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">every time.</span></b></div>
</div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-66240199362136768172013-02-28T06:04:00.001+00:002021-07-01T18:09:34.491+01:00Washing dishes with the gloves off - Free-write 25 (26 'cause I fell asleep on my face mid flow) Feb, 2013<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span>1.</span><br />
<span>Now she's washing dishes with the gloves off,</span><br />
<span><span>Just to <em>feel </em></span><span>something</span></span><br />
<span>a song grinding in her ear</span><br />
<span>if only - </span><br />
<span>really the deciding factor is,</span><br />
<span><span>who can you see yourself kissing on the <em>mouth</em></span></span><br />
<span>it's not a regular inclination</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>she almost breaks a glass.</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>2.</span><br />
<span>The night will come down with all its predictable</span><br />
<span>dead weight</span><br />
<span>And she will slid under it with a cold sigh</span><br />
<span>and no accomplice</span><br />
<span>she keeps replaying -</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>3.</span><br />
<span>She had not been watching his lips when he spoke</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>4.</span><br />
<span>How his flat swam around her warm and </span><br />
<span>easy like water -</span><br />
<span>and it had been so cold outside - </span><br />
<span>every part of this tale tells the same story</span><br />
<span>from how a coffee cup sits on the table to how</span><br />
<span>his laughter is a familiar shape -</span><br />
<span>reminded her of memories she hadn't made yet</span><br />
<span>and she sat in that water</span><br />
<span>in her own dirt</span><br />
<span>getting clean</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>5.</span><br />
<span>and he made her giggle - chuckle - choke</span><br />
<span>til her stomach was in her neck</span><br />
<span>any second her mind was gonna snap open</span><br />
<span>and spill her heart all over the floor</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>6.</span><br />
<span><span>these the kind of days that <em>eat </em></span><span>time faster </span></span><br />
<span><span>than fucking <em>death </em></span><span>or </span><em><span>light</span></em></span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>7.</span><br />
<span>And she thought if only - </span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>8.</span><br />
<span>She was saying to herself</span><br />
<span><span>you have to shut <em>up </em></span><span>please</span></span><br />
<span>shut up please</span><br />
<span>shut up</span><br />
<span>and outward a torrent of nonsense</span><br />
<span>and ha ha ha ha ha ha haaaaa</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>9.</span><br />
<span>against his neck,</span><br />
<span>she would be quiet -</span><br />
<span>against his neck - </span><br />
<span>she kept trying to swallow the</span><br />
<span>thought down but when that</span><br />
<span>thought hit her stomach acid it</span><br />
<span>turned into a bunch of anecdotes she </span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>relayed with the speed and coherence</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>of a benzedrine addict</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>10.</span><br />
<span>she hadn't been watching his mouth when -</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>11.</span><br />
<span>and why are certain ways of being </span><br />
<span>just native when you see it? </span><br />
<span><span>Cos you are so <em>awkward </em></span><span>even to yourself </span></span><br />
<span>so made-up-on-the-spot but this one - </span><br />
<span><span>ahhh! he is inevitable - he is - oh <em>man</em></span></span><br />
<span>he is home remembered in a sepia photograph</span><br />
<span>he is clean as your parents before </span><br />
<span>they outed themselves as human</span><br />
<span><span>(except he <em>is</em></span><span> so self-admittedly human!)</span></span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span></span><span>12.</span><br />
<span>And when he asks how she is,</span><br />
<span><span>He <em>means </em></span><span>it, and is neither </span></span><br />
<span>moved nor repulsed by tears</span><br />
<span>which allows her a rare dignity</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span></span><span>13.</span><br />
<span><span>She doesn't say: dude - can I sit in your <em>lap</em></span><span>?</span></span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>14.</span><br />
<span>And she didn't watch his mouth when he spoke</span><br />
<span>she was sure to look at his nose or thereabouts</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>15.</span><br />
<span>He says 'and den' instead of 'and then'</span><br />
<span>even that shit is cute</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>16.</span><br />
<span>Now she's washing dishes with the gloves off</span><br />
<span><span>just to <em>feel </em></span><span>something</span></span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>she almost breaks a glass</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>17.</span><br />
<span>Coma -</span></div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-86112945193932313462012-08-23T09:39:00.000+01:002012-08-23T09:39:08.702+01:00you are me i am you<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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you are me i am you</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Free-Write</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Thursday, August 23, 2012 at 12:20am ·</span></div>
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<div class="mbl notesBlogText clearfix">
<span><div>
Be with me-<br />
Be with me now please-<br />
come on-<br />
close the door-<br />
shut the curtains-<br />
be with me-<br />
in my darkness-<br />
no-<br />
in my small hours-<br />
in my nightmares in my in my-<br />
embarrasments-<br />
be with me in my-<br />
sweaty clothes in my-<br />
unworthy thoughts-<br />
don't avert your eyes don't leave-<br />
don't turn on the television-<br />
don't check your phone-<br />
just sit-<br />
sit with me in-<br />
in my box-<br />
in my cage my dirty tissues<br />
my running-<br />
my standing still-<br />
be with me in this room-<br />
too small room-<br />
my low ceilings -<br />
my crumblings my peeling-<br />
my fading- no no!-<br />
be with me in my tunnelling-<br />
must get out!<br />
in my stagnation in my nowhere<br />
in my going nowhere-<br />
in my sickness-<br />
no! no! don't be the cure<br />
no no - hold the vigil<br />
light the candle, sing the song<br />
no no no no no<br />
be with me in my chest-of-knives<br />
be with me in my cowering<br />
my fear, my jealousy my<br />
NO<br />
backwards-looking<br />
be with me in my scars<br />
no sorry sorry no<br />
be with me now where I am<br />
no escapes and no beginnings<br />
don't even crack the window<br />
be my proof<br />
no no no<br />
be my witness<br />
see me see me<br />
the kind of world the world<br />
doesn't want to see<br />
bury yourself<br />
no no no<br />
bury yourself with me<br />
velvet, soft like a coffin<br />
stay with me<br />
no no no no<br />
must get out<br />
stay with me<br />
stay-<br />
until you are me<br />
and I am you<br />
and you are locked<br />
and I am free</div>
</span></div>
</div>
Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-76957924290044299622012-08-09T00:40:00.002+01:002012-08-09T00:40:31.418+01:00End Station<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span><em>First free-write in ages... Need to get back into the habit of doing it weekly as I first intended (part of my 'F</em><a href="http://www.facebook.com/notes/gemma-weekes/end-station-free-write-080812/10150981511003263#!/groups/21727182150/" target="_blank"><em>ree-Write Wednesdays</em></a><em> group on facebook'). It's a good way to keep my courage up and stay in the habit of sharing. An antidote to all the creative hoarding that's become my specialty (piles of metaphorical decade-old mind junk piled up to the ceiling.) I would appreciate any feedback I might have.</em></span><br />
<span><em>I was listening to </em><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_s54UdZpeqk" target="_blank"><em>this </em></a><em>when I wrote it. Check it out.</em></span><br />
<br />
<span><em>Enjoy. </em></span><br />
<span><em>Soon,</em></span><br />
<span><em>Gxxx</em></span><br />
<br />
<span>People get off</span><br />
<span> </span><span>people get on </span><br />
<span> </span><span>train speeds blind towards end station</span><br />
<span> </span><span>we sit in dumb acceptance</span><br />
<span> </span><span>of the technology </span><br />
<span> </span><span>hurtling us forward</span><br />
<span> </span><span>we read quietly</span><br />
<span> </span><span>we chew over more immediate concerns</span><br />
<span> </span><span> </span><br />
<span>but moments</span><br />
<span> </span><span>when reality separates </span><br />
<span> </span><span>when you, through tired human eyes</span><br />
<span> </span><span>steal a glimpse of sweetness</span><br />
<span> </span><span>near terrible</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>hugs exchanged between children</span><br />
<span> </span><span>man opposite reading a newspaper</span><br />
<span> </span><span>he is somebodys boy</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>a heaviness in the chest more </span><br />
<span> </span><span>honest than sentiment</span><br />
<span> </span><span>an awareness - in your crossed legs</span><br />
<span> </span><span>in the roots of your hair</span><br />
<span> </span><span>in the noise of the underground</span><br />
<span> </span><span>blood knowledge that</span><br />
<span> </span><span>everyone is born</span><br />
<span> </span><span>and everyone will die</span><br />
<span> </span><span>between those </span><br />
<span> </span><span>a heady constellation of </span><br />
<span> </span><span>thoughts and practices</span><br />
<span> </span><span><span> </span></span><br />
<span><span>all these bodies<span> </span></span><span>- fragrant - churning</span></span><br />
<span> </span><span>growing , degenerating</span><br />
<span> </span><span>renewing themselves in</span><br />
<span> </span><span>the bridge of smiles</span><br />
<span> </span><span>the bridge of tears - the bridge of gazes</span><br />
<span> </span><span>and knees touching</span><br />
<span> </span><span>empathetic shrug and grin</span><br />
<span> </span><br />
<span>sometimes - sometimes</span><br />
<span> </span><span>we are doors left open to each other</span><br />
<span> </span><span>we glimpse the uncleared kitchen table - coffee stains</span><br />
<span> </span><span>and bills</span><br />
<span> </span><span>and all the paraphernalia</span><br />
<span> </span><span>of a repetitive yet </span><br />
<span>uncertain life</span><br />
<span> </span><span>the train speeds blind toward it's destination</span><br />
<span> </span><span>we sit in dumb acceptance of the miracle of technology</span><br />
<span> </span><span>reading quietly</span><br />
<span> </span><span>chewing over more immediate concerns</span></div>Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-67733490545857682952012-07-07T22:44:00.001+01:002012-07-07T22:46:49.229+01:00Love takes off the masks...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc2EY7p7_-5PRsuSpBPbq-R9dx_tEvNahUI0-FAbBjVpw_YEtF2rcVv5s5NBGQT4NHzB860WM3F7vAWcURCprRnocT6E7wgBbG8m96DvPgT-T8iG55nWTeVnMkP8vtNDpEP4X6A/s1600/james+baldwin+love+quote+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="396" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSc2EY7p7_-5PRsuSpBPbq-R9dx_tEvNahUI0-FAbBjVpw_YEtF2rcVv5s5NBGQT4NHzB860WM3F7vAWcURCprRnocT6E7wgBbG8m96DvPgT-T8iG55nWTeVnMkP8vtNDpEP4X6A/s400/james+baldwin+love+quote+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a>James Baldwin is a huge inspiration to me always - because of his great compassion - because of his ability to maintain a ruthlessly steady gaze - piercing right through the beauty and ugliness - into the heart of what it means to be human.</div>
<br />There are no shortcuts. It's a way of living, to cut yourself no breaks, to live with an expanded heart, to pursue - personally and creatively - what's true instead of what's easy. To see beyond the daily transactions of our own needs into who we are and who others really are. To not edit the complexity and the mess, but to embrace it instead. Whenever I start feeling a bit too excited about myself, I read some Baldwin and get a dose of humility. :-D ("You thought you were getting good, is it? Ha!") ("How did he learn so much in his normal-sized life? Mystery!")<br />
<br />
Love you, James.<br />
<br />
Gemx</div>Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-6129601889923874412012-05-09T02:11:00.000+01:002012-05-09T02:11:09.561+01:00The burden of making sense.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
It's after 2am. The T.V. is on and I'm not even watching it. When did silences start making me so nervous? Silences and the dark. I'm going to eco hell. I'm not sure what I'm afraid of.<br />
<br />
I tire of the burden of making sense. I keep waiting for things to be neat in my head. They will not be. I'm swindling myself.<br />
<br />
Life is not particularly reasonable. I'm scared of what will happen if I stop being scared of not making sense for at least as long as it takes me to put hand to laptop. If I just let go. If I just leap full-weight into the gumbo of memory and trauma. If I just tell my stories. If my thoughts quit stalling and finally get naked. What forces in me will be unleashed?<br />
<br />
I'm a little bit embarassed about my recent posts, not because of my opinions, which I'm pretty sure are the same, but because they're about my opinions. Opinions are important but they seem so small once they're out of your head. And then you're just waiting to see who'll agree. Which is also important, but small. Everybody thinks this and that about everything. I'm so tired. I want to write about more than that. <br />
<br />
People aren't their opinions, are they? The opinions are just clothes, and underneath a mysterious, miraculous body firing with thousands of simultaneous processes, histories, tics, insecurities, projections, terror. I'm more interested in that. I look at my son's face sometimes and I can't fathom it, how much design there is in that face, and how that compares to the anaemia of my thoughts. <br />
<br />
If we could just look at each other like that, see that design, see that beauty and terrible vulnerability, what kind of world would it be, if we didn't see what people thought but what they were? </div>Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-79666777104093199252012-04-19T14:25:00.012+01:002012-04-19T16:54:40.549+01:00Zen Exhaustion or Help! Idealism Is Making Me Hate People<div><div><div> <strong> One is in a very off-key mood today. </strong></div><div><strong></strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizNMlvUfEciFbuCv2c84A_R4Z-fEuImSNXzvRBX8xjHfq2tjDEMAHEwESOB5dcUaC2xZO9COCrpohxnmJRw7BY5ArYw7lsEZKP7LxQfcYdw572Pyu4HC5040cKOCVmMIi9XThHIA/s1600/BassLiquoriceAllsorts600g.jpg"><strong><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 10px; height: 16px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733114082556314210" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizNMlvUfEciFbuCv2c84A_R4Z-fEuImSNXzvRBX8xjHfq2tjDEMAHEwESOB5dcUaC2xZO9COCrpohxnmJRw7BY5ArYw7lsEZKP7LxQfcYdw572Pyu4HC5040cKOCVmMIi9XThHIA/s400/BassLiquoriceAllsorts600g.jpg" /></strong></a> </div><div><strong> </strong><strong>The official (not-really) scientific term for this particular brand of angst is Zen-exhaustion. One finds through serious study that liquorice allsorts do not help, and neither do macaroons. (what is my obsession with coconut, anyway?) One has the urge to send angry text messages, or make tearful, impassioned phone-call speeches that begin "Why are you being this way! All I ever try to do is be decent - *sniffle* - and fair and kind and decent and it's not fair because....!" </strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgfDfdNbNJdlle95nMggApULMry_gCIYB0MTrJQfiBZku4Wz1ZHgez5BSC8i4i03GpVskBgHFQydVzovl8E7VzAh4gTjDqri0mhit15JNT-OwaA51s7OtVwT-BHjJwSPatKLprQ/s1600/BassLiquoriceAllsorts600g.jpg"><strong><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 143px; height: 174px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733114890215241890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcgfDfdNbNJdlle95nMggApULMry_gCIYB0MTrJQfiBZku4Wz1ZHgez5BSC8i4i03GpVskBgHFQydVzovl8E7VzAh4gTjDqri0mhit15JNT-OwaA51s7OtVwT-BHjJwSPatKLprQ/s400/BassLiquoriceAllsorts600g.jpg" /></strong></a><strong></strong></div>Ah, fairness! Why are we born with this expectation? Sigh. One can only ever reach real maturity when one realises that the world is Frequently Unfair but it is an uneasy admission. Where does one draw the line between calm and activism, between acceptance and the drive for transformation? Between holding ones peace and speaking up? Between biting your tongue and punching someone else in the gob? </strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>And how far do we take the idea that we are creating everything in our lives? </strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>Is it possible... gasp... just sometimes, that other people are being BastardAssholes?</strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>I am of that unfortunate group who makes themselves accountable for every thought in their heads and tries to keep it spotless in that old noggin, sunny and sweet and clean and clear of all debris. By debris I mean: irritation, annoyance, loneliness, anger, boredom, frustration, envy... all the uglies. When I say 'unfortunate', I don't mean to say that such mental/emotional hygiene is a bad idea. When I say 'unfortunate', what I mean to say is that for such a person, Zen-Exhaustion comes along and makes one very, very uncomfortable. And when I say Zen-Exhaustion, I mean the point at which a relaxed, rumi-guzzling, hippie-type female Finally Gets Pissed Off.</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpzcq2avGIBdtX2Wlxi3SuswNZWLnHAw2dY6RYWchBEzKmU1RYjjNTuQNMhkik-rnY8w3_M4JGgrmD2IroSRckVkgSDsY74W9FwCbAitgLFDSNMiEFKU2o4kOLZmdtwQ6eqjEHg/s1600/angryblackwoman-709317.jpg"><strong><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 250px; height: 212px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733113697486738002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpzcq2avGIBdtX2Wlxi3SuswNZWLnHAw2dY6RYWchBEzKmU1RYjjNTuQNMhkik-rnY8w3_M4JGgrmD2IroSRckVkgSDsY74W9FwCbAitgLFDSNMiEFKU2o4kOLZmdtwQ6eqjEHg/s400/angryblackwoman-709317.jpg" /></strong></a></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>It descends like a flood. The crap the landlord hasn't fixed yet. That Knob who won't return your calls. The book that won't get finished. The crappy weather. The chores that must be done. The chicken that must be seasoned. The forms that must be filled. The selfish family members. The crappy weather. Did I say 'the crappy weather' already? Let me say it again: The Crappy Weather. And Other People! Why are other people such bastards all the time?! Ok, some of the time? (another sypmptom of Zen-Exhaustion is chronic hyperbole) And beyond all of this the great ontological questions which are usually abstract and candy-floss-like that suddenly densify into something far more tooth-shattering - questions like: What the actual f**k is this all for? Why is everybody so weird (including me)? Why don't people all just say what they're thinking? Why are all the really evil people doing so well? Why are all the sweet-hearted and vulnerable people suffering so much? Why are so many horrid things allowed? And what Can I Do About It, anyway? Everyone has a theory on everything but - for goodness sake - which are the right ones and what is fixable and what should be fixed and what should be left alone? </strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>And one is so used to being the person everyone can rely on for a smile that the least bit of angst makes one feel... well... so <em>dirty</em> inside. And then one feels guilty and annoyed that one must always be smiling, even though no one has explicitly asked for such a service. And the great irony of it all is that the times one most needs to talk to people are the times that one is least inclined to do so. Because one is Pissed Off, and has not much sweetness to share. Especially when God Knows if anyone is Really Interested in Listening. Yeah, I'm capitalizing a lot of words right now. So sue me! (no, actually, don't do that. I really don't have the extra).</strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>Anyway, the big problem with trying to Be the Change You Want To See in the World and all that positive crap is that, invariably, one raises ones standards of behaviour and then - inevitably - begins to expect more of other people. And then it all become somewhat counterproductive when you start to think...</strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>Help! Idealism is Making Me Hate People.</strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>If any of you can figure out what I'm trying to say, please give me a shout!</strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>Love you all! Please be nicer to people, you bastards.</strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong>Gemx</strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div><strong> </strong></div><div> </div></div></div>Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-31948148453538258182012-02-12T02:52:00.012+00:002012-02-12T03:25:09.223+00:00Goodbye Whitney :-(<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Rx-6qi-XaOxXRKEt0aT3jYrdhpeMo4ze7lhKOSMX4UQ2iircxVOdFF3szc7GbvI_fOfwJzCJJjuwxIm9q8xVYq9O3nzp9LU4LVebGyDnC6P6VL0aDM4KnN9fxBLwD2-uRhXQtw/s1600/whitney-houston-video-9-3-09.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 285px; height: 359px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708080496369765986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Rx-6qi-XaOxXRKEt0aT3jYrdhpeMo4ze7lhKOSMX4UQ2iircxVOdFF3szc7GbvI_fOfwJzCJJjuwxIm9q8xVYq9O3nzp9LU4LVebGyDnC6P6VL0aDM4KnN9fxBLwD2-uRhXQtw/s400/whitney-houston-video-9-3-09.jpg" /></a><div><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;" >The night gets a little broken and<br />a little of the stuffing comes out<br /><br />the first thing you feel is <em>old</em>. The second thing you feel is <em>robbed</em><br />some people are more than people -<br /><br />an era -<br />a cocktail of longago moments<br />a snapshot of you in pastel-coloured legwarmers<br />earlyyouth and innocence<br />her death is not<br />one nervous system stopping<br />its more like giving up<br />your childhood walking into your present and<br />saying "i give up"!<br /><br />(But wait! Before you go - tell me<br />where do broken hearts go?)<br /><br />Whitney was the one<br />who taught you about love!<br /><br />from whom you memorized every vibrato<br />every voicecrack of heartbreak<br />before you'd so much as held a boys hand<br /><br />taught you what it meant to lose<br />what it meant to long<br />in a way that seemed beautiful - in a way that felt<br />safe, as if being a woman would be no different than being a girl<br />but more fun!<br /><br />mountains of curls<br />a face impenetrably happy,<br />a face too pretty and not beautiful enough to be tragic<br />the face of a girl who's voice knows everything<br /><br />Every line from the top of<br />how do I know! to the bottom of I wanna dance<br />made you want<br />to feel that quality of pain - because love<br />would be worth it!<br />that was the promise in that voice<br />that voice that always seemed to have a whole lifetime buried in it!<br /><br />not the type of voice that dies at 48 -<br />before you know what happens to broken hearts!<br /><br />Its a voice that's been holding your hand<br />since before you knew what music was<br /><br />it mattered not if she was a genius<br />not judged and critiqued like MJ<br />just complete and whole and far away<br />like childhood<br /><br />you shut your mind to what she had become<br />as far away from herself<br />as innocence to cynicism -<br /><br />the stuffing gets knocked out of the night a little bit<br />you are thinking of how sad it is<br />you are thinking of her daughter<br /><br />but you are also thinking of yourself<br />thinking<br /><br />in her songs </span></strong></div><div><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;" >both of you<br />are the same forever</span></strong></div>Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-81512349277999091062012-02-09T23:03:00.004+00:002012-02-09T23:09:09.583+00:00Euphoria Skank!!!<strong>1.<br /><br />When I get a good idea <br /><br />going like this.. MAN! Ah - just like this<br /><br /> all juicy in my head like some kind of bomb - some kind of bomb made out of good shit like penny sweets<br /><br /> when I'm like this i gotta tell you - I have to do a funny dance!<br /><br /> I'm gonna tell you about this cos it's time I start sharing this stuff cos real talk <br /><br />I am peculiar! And if I don't tell you about peculiar stuff pretty soon I won't be saying anything at all!<br /><br /> So let me tell you about this dance man -<br /><br />i get a GOOD IDEA and I start walking like a<br /><br />chicken all the way down the hall to my kitchen and I jerk my shoulders up and down <br /><br />shuffle side to side and cackle to myself <br /><br />and I might clap my hands in time to some rhythm of my thoughts coming down like the kind of rain<br /><br /> you make with a xylophone - I might actually spin round like some kind of Michael Jackson<br /><br /> one-woman tribute (bandless) band<br /><br /> I might do something really mad and<br /><br /> make a cuppa tea with two bags - one ginger and one black<br /><br /> and NOT EVEN MEASURE THE SUGAR - just drop it in! Just WHATEVER<br /><br /> cos something is HAPPENING TO ME!<br /><br /> And its the feeling I'm always waiting to feel - when I am <br /><br />finally delivered of that promise - always idling away inside me - ticking -dividing cell after cell - the promise that I might make <br /><br />something beautiful - real - that I might grab reality by its head - and hear the scream<br /><br /> and cut the chord! - that I may fling myself across my floor and <br /><br />with pen and notebook and throw my chest wide<br /><br /> wide open like a skylight and the heavens might come crashing<br /><br /> through me - this poor wretched funny-dancing little single mothering bag of peculiarities - that all this stuff - this stuff that's TRUE - and real and human might come through - might coming crashing through me like a mob<br /><br /> a tumult - a chaos - a hurricane - a riot - an apocalypse of diamonds!<br /><br /> <br /><br />2. <br /><br />Oh yes. And I'm bout to go hit that page again like some fool that owes me money.</strong>Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-63137874616343559082012-02-08T15:15:00.005+00:002012-02-08T16:57:18.280+00:00I'm painting again!Talking heads says it best in that track 'Artists Only':<br /><br /><em>I'M PAINTING! I'M PAINTING AGAIN!!</em><br /><br />(http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yfYZFS7JvT0)<br /><br />That cry of euphoric weirdness and doom... Just substitute 'painting' for 'writing'.<br /><br /><em>I'm painting, I'm painting again.<br />I'm cleaning, I'm cleaning again.<br />I'm cleaning, I'm cleaning my brain.<br /> <br />Pretty soon now, I will be bitter.<br />Pretty soon now, will be a quitter.<br />Pretty soon now, I will be bitter.<br />You can't see it 'til it's finished<br /> <br />I don't have to prove...that I am creative!<br />I dont' have to prove...that I am creative!<br />All my pictures are confused<br />And now I'm going to take me to you.</em><br /><br />Sitting in bed in two pairs of trousers and two tops layered up and been sitting here for the straight 5 hours that constitute my workday (there is also the 3 or four hour worknight later once maternal duties have been taken care of). I am quite wolfishly happy with myself. My hair is a mess. <br /><br />I have much project at the moment, probably more than even discipline can get me through, but we'll soon see. I am simultaneously in a sturdy frame of mind and also away with the mystics. I am all emotional about everything. The snow. D'angelo being back. My boy having lost a tooth already. All kinds of crazy-eyed joyful and also Caribbean-ly practical. I am still fully of happiness that 2011, that dirty old smelly vagrant of a year, is over. Oh yes. 2012, bring it on. Whats the worst that could happen? The apocalypse! Pfffft!<br /><br />ANd I am writing a book (2nd draft) and a play (first draft) and an album (just to keep shit impossible, the way I like it). <br /><br />I can't share actual text from any of my official projects (that would be crack-ish), though I shall no doubt be back to whinge about them. Instead, I shall share this little free-write (that of course has nothing whatever to do with my life or anybody I know or have ever met) I posted on facebook today during my break:<br /><br />You and I are eternal<br />eternally <br />eternally leaving <br />stuff behind hoping<br />we'll have a chance to come back<br />trying to outwit the days that faster and faster<br />push us along <br />wrenching us<br />from one adventure<br />to the next so fast the road tangles <br />up in itself<br />and trips us<br />into each other<br /><br />and we are wily as hansel and gretel<br />traces must be left<br />so tomorrow remembers yesterday<br />a pair of glasses - a scarf - a book<br />a bracelet left idling behind the broken television<br />we are forever<br />forever leaving ourselves places<br />so we can come back<br />to the times we were loved<br />that we smiled all over<br />and felt home<br />home.<br /><br />we leave ourselves behind and go<br />with a smile<br />and a kiss that has medicine in it<br />a prescription for loneliness<br /><br />a silent request that you<br />keep me close against your dreams<br />wrapped tight in all your corniest<br />white picket fantasies, so you don't pick up one<br />without the other<br />I am forever<br />forever leaving <br />myself with you<br />in the hopes <br />I will one day<br />be free<br />to stay -<br /><br />In other news: Some people have angelic timing, don't they?<br /><br />Back soon with a blog that's actually, like, coherent. Promise.<br /><br />Huge gigantic whale shark-sized love,<br /><br />GemxxxGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-22827367748328925762011-08-10T07:00:00.009+01:002011-08-10T11:01:01.059+01:00ARMIESBeen a while now, hasn't it?
<br />
<br />I started the whole Free-Write Wednesdays idea so that I could outrun my inner critic at least once a week and make something - anything. The past few months, the inner critic has [quite evidently] won. But miracles and disasters have a way of shutting her up...
<br />
<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqEvsNM37DlgAu4T20tg5ZS0RgnoXql8_0RiCZNcqJEr7ZgTjC0Mn9cdRfb1sIhJ2oOZcNkHUfV9LFiafOd0STRMoyahdvTxs2_twwSCtcHBEClF0lCDTfcRXK29PdWop_Dar5w/s1600/riot-london.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOqEvsNM37DlgAu4T20tg5ZS0RgnoXql8_0RiCZNcqJEr7ZgTjC0Mn9cdRfb1sIhJ2oOZcNkHUfV9LFiafOd0STRMoyahdvTxs2_twwSCtcHBEClF0lCDTfcRXK29PdWop_Dar5w/s320/riot-london.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5639105459195975682" /></a>
<br />
<br />Public disaster and private miracle have conspired to wake me up before sunrise and have compelled me to pound away at my laptop...
<br />
<br />Here's the 'disaster' bit first.
<br />
<br />Won't bore with glib musings on state of affairs, will simply present today's offering:
<br />
<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">ARMIES
<br />
<br />You already know it,
<br />when you call them 'greedy'
<br />that this 'greed' is your greed
<br />(the army of your nightmares!)
<br />that spares nothing, cares for nothing, consumes
<br />everything
<br />you have given them billboards for hearts
<br />you have sold their futures for figures
<br />you priced them out of everything
<br />even their own education
<br />but they are wily though
<br />(the army of your immorality!)
<br />you call them wily
<br />but as you say it
<br />you know it is the exact flavour of your own trickiness
<br />robbing with one hand while you distract
<br />with the other
<br />from every pocket, from every continent
<br />
<br />spreading the pain, preserving your wealth
<br />they are 'without conscience', 'careless vandals'
<br />'careless arsonists', lit petrol bombs, big-chested in the firelight
<br />(the army of your callousness!)
<br />'mindless' like mindless made-up money
<br />bombs like your bombs, 'empty' like you are empty
<br />
<br />of everything but lies and justifications
<br />their 'empty' is the exact hollow
<br />shade of your selfishness
<br />they burn at the exact heat of your
<br />coldness
<br />burning, burning the houses they will
<br />never afford to buy
<br />burning, burning the shops they can't afford
<br />to shop at
<br />taking the products that mean nothing
<br />
<br />they have been told mean everything
<br />they run in 'gangs' like your interconnected
<br />gangs of moneyspinners and rhetoricspitters
<br />(your army of thieves!)
<br />they steal like you steal from us
<br />they are the bad children
<br />you are the parent who neglects
<br />who abuses, who sells your children for
<br />cash and for control
<br />(the innocent army of babies
<br />on the front-line of capitalism
<br />the innocent army of babies on the front-line of racism
<br />the innocent army of babies on the front-line of class-ism!)
<br />you stand there
<br />stand there and tell us
<br />GO ON! tell us
<br />like some retarded big-jawed effing super-hero
<br />that you're going to send the army in
<br />but you know and you know and you know
<br />that
<br />you ARE
<br />what you condemn!</span>
<br />
<br />Can't say any more than that right now... But maybe next time I should. Or maybe next time I should talk about miracles...
<br />
<br />Soon,
<br />
<br />GemxxGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-46261886348218251672010-12-14T23:34:00.013+00:002010-12-15T00:21:59.497+00:00Cardigan<strong>Tonight, I couldn't speak to you. So I fixed your cardigan. Is that why you left it behind? I wondered if you were cold, right then, at that moment, wishing you'd taken it with you. I took it off and put it in my lap. I got out my sewing kit and spent a long time closing up all the holes around the neck. Lots of tiny stitches, more subtle than words are. While I was sewing I thought round and round soothingly, "<em>that's better... That's better... that's better</em>." It will be hard to see it was ever torn at all. I was sad when it was finished. There should be a way to stitch the night closed. Nights without you are a slow unravelling.</strong><br /><br /><em><strong>Inshallah... inshallah... inshallah...</em></strong>Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15016638.post-87906196815569338212010-10-20T15:46:00.006+01:002021-07-01T18:28:35.954+01:00My Heart<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2_VfQJv8kbGb3m0NOqMj2jDx5rz5ywnavHqA0Bz6ow4oDP9KSHV09PAFza4zEOTlj4FgzjqWw9sVHwAjtgOAZzA3dwlX4A4HZiu720rAq5bVYkIPc2xKg9yHwZ5f7rdTZkDO8Q/s1600/scarletdance.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ2_VfQJv8kbGb3m0NOqMj2jDx5rz5ywnavHqA0Bz6ow4oDP9KSHV09PAFza4zEOTlj4FgzjqWw9sVHwAjtgOAZzA3dwlX4A4HZiu720rAq5bVYkIPc2xKg9yHwZ5f7rdTZkDO8Q/s320/scarletdance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530170860495708370" /></a>
<strong>My Heart - Free-Write 20/10/10</strong>
I am not afraid
I am not afraid to stand all alone
I am not afraid to stand all alone with everybody
I am everybody
I am everybody's love
I am everybody's love tearing open
I am standing
I am standing with my feet in the soil
I am standing with with my feet in the soil of the earth
I am standing with my feet in the soil of the earth that is my earth (mine!)
I am standing with my feet in the soil of the earth that is everybody's
earth all alone with everybody's love tearing open
with my feet in the soil with my head in the clouds
puffed up and floating all a-mingle with everybody's
vapourish dreams of thunder
crying rain down into the soil of everybody's earth
soil of everybody's love
dancing to my heart
everybody's heart
My heart is sweet, scarlet music.
I am not afraid!
________
Every so often I get a leap in understanding, a leap closer to myself, and everything in my life becomes clearer.
An actor/writer friend wanted me to take a look at a play he'd written, so in return, I asked for a little help with my performance technique. This was the day before yesterday, and it was all very informal. We just went through a couple of poems and he told me what he saw in them, and how to access the emotions of my work. As often happens in life, this exercise was illuminating in ways that extended beyond my performance technique. I realised that I try to shrink all the time, apologize for myself. I pull back when I long to go all out, I flake when I need to commit. I realised that I spend a lot of my time half-trying to express myself and half-trying to disappear. I had that little tutorial and it all clicked somehow. My entire being said: "ENOUGH!"
So the next day(yesterday), I did a poetry performance that was filmed for an internet TV show, Manorlogz. It was a poem I'd done before, but something had changed in me. I wore red heels. I stood up straight. I didn't bother with my habitual 'look at me, I'm a poet but I'm like, suuuuch a mess' schtick but just paid attention to the piece and allowing myself to be alive on stage. It was liberating. It seemed like a microcosm of my life! All my shrinking had to stop!
Fast-forward to today and I did my Free-write Wednesday offering, and the feeling crystallised into words. Every so often, I read something back and I get that feeling, 'yes! that's exactly what I meant!' And it's almost like being understood by somebody else. My eyes welled up. It seemed to mean something. No dexterous wordplay, I haven't excited myself with form, but I've shocked myself with the epiphany that I am full of joy - from nowhere, from everywhere, just to BE here. I got that feeling again where it seemed there was a clue to the order of things inside me, and that everything was connected.. I think maybe all artists - maybe all people in general - are stretching their fingers toward the light, trying to feel the pattern, order and beauty of the universe under the suffering.
I am here. I'm here and I want to be here, deserve to be here, and need to be here exactly as I am, doing exactly what I do, feeling exactly what I feel. And you too!!!
Jeez, I'm such a hippie... lol!
Peas and gloves!
xxxGhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17852358319687652847noreply@blogger.com0