Catholicism

Musik: Not Like You - Hannah Fury
Kleiden: Black skinny jeans and red and white checked blouse
Filme: RENT (Columbus)
Buchen: The Great Gatbsy by F.Scott Fitzgerald (yes, again)

Although at the age of five I apparently thought about it and informed my Mother that 'there is no God', I've always been fascinated by religion. I suppose it's to do with my interest in history, but also ritual and the fact that religion seems in some sense 'magical'. In particular the intricacy of Catholicism, with its many rites and traditions, makes rich pickings in literature.

I hope you'll understand, then, that I'm not using these latin phrases to be a pretentious twat, but to evoke the theme of Catholicism. This poem is called 'Ille dolet vere, que sine teste dolet' meaning 'That one suffers truly, who mourns without witness'. The phrase at the end of the poem can be translated as 'hell calls to hell'.

Ille dolet vere, que sine teste dolet

In reverence I stand;
Cross myself with Holy water,
Bow my head to Him;
My Father and my only light.
I drink his son’s blood with relish;
It is my poison of choice.
Watch as I drain it from his body…
Let it merge with my own.
Oh, I see that it is good!
I am addicted.
I simply cannot bring myself to cease
This heavenly feast.
My heart is pounding,
Head swirling and full of possibilities…
Yes, I can save you Children!
Please, allow me to save you all-
That’s all I want,
It’s what He wants.
I know; I can hear Him in my prayers,
Every single night as I kneel
And beg for forgiveness.
I sigh at each satisfying laceration,
As I strike the leather
Hard
Across my back,
Sighing as I feel a hot stream
Pouring its way down, down, down.
Now He knows that I am sorry,
So terribly sorry,
For all that I have done, all that I have sinned.
Bless me Father,
For I have truly sinned.
I am in love with another;
A sweet and beautiful other.
That I should be denied the joys of the flesh,
Yet long for them still,
Is enough sin for a life-time.
I can only long, long, long for forgiveness…
Heavenly Father!
As I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep-
If He should still want
A soul as black as my own.
Perhaps the pious agony
I have endured will serve.
Perhaps my repentance shall be enough.
My soul, my soul, my soul
Must be saved;
For I fear nothing
If I do not fear a hell
Far greater than the hell
That I am already living!
Abyssus abyssum invocat.

Amsterdam

Musik: Better - Regina Spektor
Kleiden: Pink camisole, blue jeans
Filme: My Sister's Keeper (Cassavetes)
Buchen: In the Beauty of Lilies by John Updike

A couple of weeks ago I went on holiday to Amsterdam. I've now decided that I simply must move there and live there forever. It's an amazing city; I actually love it.

I was reluctant to put this poem on my blog as it's a tad - shall we say controversial? Then I figured: fuck it. I like it. It's about the Red Light District or, more specifically, a prostitute there. It doesn't have a name...the Dutch for prostitute is rubbish. Sounds too cute!

Blood, oh blood
Falling from nowhere
Falling from pubic hair
Look, now it’s everywhere
Dripping down my wrists
Bleeding in, bleeding out
Naked, I am so very naked
I am not there
So I do not care
If you wish to stare
Soft, soft
My breasts are rounded, small
And I am not so very tall
Slender, pale
A feminine form
Stained by scarlet
Tainted, used
My scars are…
Shining and irreversible
I am marked
I am special
I am mad
Mad
MAD
At you, of course
But really?
At myself
I stab, stab, stab
And hammer it in
A thick rusty nail
I shall do it with a grin
As the hot springs rush up
From my palms
And I do mean some harm
Truly, I do

Jesus never endured so much pain
He never suffered as I did
Because he died, he died, he died
And I did not
Mein Gott!

Mary was an old maid
She never did get laid
Then what was the point
In going through that pain?
When she never even got the good part

Touch me
And I will feel loved
If I am intoxicated enough
Sweet saint! Sweet saintly love
It is my cross to bear
And I swear
I cannot bear it
And I’m so full of shit
I’m about to graphically explode

Bleed me dry
Since God can’t fuck me
I’m safe
From bearing his Virgin child
So baby, let’s go wild!

Anticipation

Musik: Long Way to Happy - P!nk
Kleiden: Tie-dye dress with grey lacy leggings.
Filme: Nine (Marshall)
Buchen: Let The Right One In (having another go).

One last post before I go to Amsterdam for a week.

Upon reading this poem you’ll probably think: what is this smut? Then you’ll probably read it again and realise that it’s not about sex at all, quite the contrary. Then you’ll read it a third time and come to the conclusion that it was about sex, after all. That’s because these two themes (yes, I’m leaving you to guess the second one) are inexorably linked; we’re obsessed by this juxtaposition because ultimately it is what everything, the whole of human society, is based upon. I called the poem ‘Anticipation’, since this is what our whole lives are spent anticipating. Take that how you will.

Anticipation

Oh, but I love you!
You are merciful
You do not ask me to endure
What I cannot endure
Softly you call
I feel your breath
On the nape of my neck
Sends a shiver down my spine
God
And I close my eyes
Imagine you encompassing me
Swallowing me whole
Into your black velvet mass
Your nothingness caressing me
Sweet, sweet silence
Not having to wonder anymore
I surrender myself to you entirely
Take me, take me
I have no need of anything else
I am yours
My every pore, every follicle
I press my lips against yours
Tasting the anticipation you garner
You fit me like a glove
We were made for one another
Don’t you see?
I wish to meet you on my own terms
Do not worry, I come to you gladly
To touch you, to touch you
I feel you close, so very close
Soon you shall be
Within me
Wholly a part of me
Not even a part
For I shall become you
Soft, soft
I fall upon you
We become entwined
Oh, be mine, be mine
No longer am I a coward
I stare into your lovely face
See your perfect arched wings
You are liberty, liberty
And you shall set me free
No more pain, no more suffering
Just you and me
Forever and ever
For all eternity
Oh, but I love you!

Writers Block

Musik: Dream On - Matthew Morrison and Neil Patrick Harris
Kleiden: Purple top I stole from my sister, black skinny jeans and super-pretty necklace Laura got me ages ago.
Filme: Nowhere Boy (Taylor-Wood)
Buchen: Fail.

I haven't posted in a while because...well, basically I haven't written anything good. I've written, of course but it seems like everything I was writing was the self-indulgent bullshit I'm prone to at times. I get into this spiral of self-pity and my writing suffers because of it. It becomes very self-involved and not interesting in the slightest.

However, I did manage to create a poem stemming from this feeling...

Not a Bird

So you think, so you think
Well, that’s a new one!
I rather thought
That thoughts appeared
Independently of the thinker
Floating about
Bobbing on strings
That extend from the ceilings, floors and other such things
Peeking out from behind each door
Nevermore, forevermore
Do birds speak?
I certainly don’t like to
I don’t see why they would
But they capture thoughts
In their wings
As they blow about in the wind
Occasionally I reach out a hand
Grasp one as it struggles
To be forgotten entirely
But most of the time I can’t fly
That’s the only problem
With not being a bird
I should like to be clothed
In midnight black feathers
Sludge brown, bright turquoise
Dark tipped, fluffy white
Speckled, plain, striped
Strange to have a beak, I imagine
Peck, peck, peck
Yes, I cannot quite get the hang of it
But wings! Ah wings!
They’re there to let me fly
How high, how high I am
Incredibly, impossibly so
Here are all the thoughts I’ll ever need
Right up here in the sky
Such a shame
I’m not a bird…a crying shame

Refrain

Musik: Asleep - The Smiths
Kleiden: Blue camisole and blue jeans. Feelin' blue, I guess.
Filme: As before.
Buchen: As before.

In my English Literature class last year we studied a poem called Mariana by Tennyson. I didn't think much to it at first; too reptitive and whiny. However, upon further reading I began to appreciate the way in which a refrain can imitate the way the brain repeats certain phrases over and over. I decided to experiment with this. Here's the result.

Touch Me

I would ask that you don’t touch me
The paint isn’t dry yet
And a single smudge would be
A terrible shame

I would ask that you don’t touch me
See, I’ve been standing still
So long that I have worn
A little hole into the ground

I would ask that you don’t touch me
I can see perfectly well
Right where I am
There is no need for any change

I would ask that you don’t touch me
I am an antique
And you would not want
To have to pay for me, would you?

I would ask that you don’t touch me
For I am very fragile
The slightest bump
Might break me into a million pieces

I would ask that you don’t touch me
For a long time ago
I locked myself up
And I threw away the key

I would ask that you don’t touch me
You shall only be
Sadly disappointed
That there’s not much more to me

So don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me
Please
I would ask that you don’t touch me

Isolde

Musik: Isabelle - Gregory and the Hawk
Kleiden: PJs again. Yeah, I need to get out more.
Filme: Paths of Glory (Kubrick)
Buchen: Juggling the three mentioned previously.

It's the idea of isolation, non-events that mean so much more than actual events, pathetic fallacy, expressionism. Things that seem straight foward that are layered with meaning, but at the same time...simplicity.

I think this story is set around 1070, after the Normans invaded England. I'm not really going for historical accuracy, however. I just wanted to invoke a sense of age, myth and lore. That's why I called this: Isolde.


Isolde

All was cold. Flecks of white danced across the dead, leaden sky to replace the stars that were covered by the thick grey clouds. The ground was illuminated by the whiteness. It shone an eerie light over the barren landscape. The air was sharp, cutting and stinging my skin until it was raw and tender. I could not cease my shaking, as I pulled my woollen cloak closer around my light frame. The wind was screaming at me, merciless and incensed. I could see barely a foot in front of me, and didn’t doubt that my horse could see even less. She was a coal black, sturdy mare but she was suffering. I could feel her legs beginning to give way underneath me. She could scarcely lift her hooves over the enormous drifts that were now coming into being all around us.

Her breath was like steam; heavy and thick. She began to stumble. And this was the beginning of the end. I knew at that moment that she wasn’t going to make it. I wasn’t going to make it. She fell, legs giving way suddenly yet surely. I dismounted a split second before she hit the ground, so that I was not crushed under her weight. There she lay; shivering like one possessed, her mane matted from the wind and her body thin and heaving. She was dying. I could feel death surrounding her, making the air thick and congealed like an aging wound. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

I took out my knife, its blade thin and sharp with a faint glint to its edge. I wasn’t going to prolong the inevitable. I knelt, putting a hand on the mare’s long, proud nose. In one swift movement I slit her throat, the blood pouring in torrents over my shaking hands; warming them a little. It stained the ice crimson as it leaked out for what seemed like almost a half league.

I had a good mind to do the same for myself. Rescue was unlikely. I could not walk for long for I did not know the way. The action would be fruitless as I had been relying somewhat on the horse to speed me along to the next village. I hadn’t the faintest idea where that might be. It could be many leagues. All that I could see around me was the darkness and the blizzard.

Yet, somewhere in the distance, something caught my eye. A light. A beacon of hope; my salvation. Somewhat delirious I began to run towards it with an uncontrollable fervour. Though I was beyond exhaustion I must have run for several miles, for in time I reached the source of the light. It was emanating from a window. The window of a small tower; a little bump in the landscape that I had previously missed.

The tower was old. It commanded respect, reverence. The great grey stones whispered stories of ancient times past. The mighty wooden double doors echoed like a thousand voices when I slammed my fists against them, hoping to gain entry. They held fast against my efforts, however. In my waning strength I tried desperately to push or pull them aside, but they seemed to be as solid as the rest of the tower; four square impenetrable walls.

“Help me!” I shrieked in my hysteria, “God help me!”

I lay then against the steps, sobbing until my lungs were in agony. I whispered prayers, chants, poetry, songs…anything that came into my head, until I calmed myself and settled down to only vague whimpers.

Then I heard the singing. Thinking that it was only my hysteria I tried to block out the sound, but it was oddly persistent. It appeared to be coming from the window, the light source which was high, high above me. I caught only snatches of the words…rosemary and thyme…true love of mine.

“HELP ME!” I cried out towards the voice I half suspected I was imagining.

Nothing. Just the song being started again in the same hauntingly melodic tone. Either I had gone quite mad, or the person in the tower had no concept of the term ‘mercy’. Though I suspected the latter, I thought perhaps I should persist in all attempts to save my own life.

“Please! I am dying! Meurt!” I exclaimed, wondering if perhaps it was a French nobleman or his rich daughter who owned the tower.

The voice sounded female, and she was singing in English however. Maybe she couldn’t hear me. But how could I make my voice any louder? I sighed. It was hopeless. I wrapped my cloak closely around me and lay down upon the blanket of snow. Here was to be my grave. My final resting place.

Presently I turned my head and, to my utter astonishment, found that the doors had been opened. With my last remaining burst of energy I all but threw myself inside, kicking at the door to close it behind me. I saw vague flashes of red, orange, black; a fire. I crawled along the floor towards it; my vision blurry and faltering. Eventually I settled down onto what seemed to be a rug before the fire. Feeling the warmth was such a pure, unadulterated pain that before I knew it I had blacked out and knew nothing more for quite some time.

As I gradually came to I perceived that the storm was still raging outside. In fact, it seemed to have gained ferocity if that was even possible. Yet I was safe and warm; I could feel the hot lick of the flames along the left side of my body. I appeared to be lying on a hearth rug, which covered the flagged stone floor of the tower. My eyesight began to sharpen and I looked carefully around the room. Furniture was scare; a couple of worn armchairs just behind the rug I lay on, a small wooden cabinet against the far wall and a squat mahogany table opposite it. The fireplace was the focal point of the room; it was at least six feet high, with a considerable stock-pile of coal and wood beside it.

Of my rescuer there was no sign. In the corner of the little room was the beginning of a winding staircase to the upper floors. The tower was considerably taller than it was wide, from what I had seen in my scant observation. I wondered at how many floors it contained.

Testing my weary limbs I attempted to stand. My legs shook but held firm and I proceeded to walk across the room towards the staircase. As I approached it I heard the same singing as I had the previous night and decided to follow the sound. I climbed cautiously up the spiralling staircase and the sound gradually grew louder, till I reached another chamber.

Here was a single four-poster bed, another fire in the corner and a little wardrobe. Opposite me there was a window, in which a girl who I assumed to be my rescuer stood. She did not appear to have heard me enter and continued her song blissfully. From behind I could see only a thick cloud of matted fair hair to her waist, and that she wore a long white gown about her unnaturally thin, frail frame. She sounded young, and her hands were as lily white as her gown for I could see them resting upon the window frame. I wondered if I ought to speak.

“Hello?” I said quietly, not wishing to alarm her.

She turned, startled nonetheless. Her dark brown eyes were wide as a rabbit, like great orbs within her tiny elfin face. Her chin was pointed, making the shape of her face into that of a heart. Again I observed how pale she was; as though she had never seen the light of day even. She did not speak, only stared as though I were an intruder.

“Sorry to disturb you,” I began.

My speaking seemed to cause her some sort of physical pain, for she flinched at the sound as though it were somewhat alien to her. But she had been singing in English; surely she must have understood me.

“Parlez vous Francais?” I asked, though my own French was limited at best.

The same reaction. I shook my head and moved towards her, wondering if she were a mute. She took several steps back at my approach, however, and so I paused once again baffled.

“I wondered if I might stay here whilst the storm continues,” I said.

There was a long pause as we stood there, staring at one another. She then bowed her head in ascent, very slowly and deliberately. Still, she said nothing.

Thinking perhaps she wished to be left alone, I too nodded and began to walk back down the stairs to the room I had originally been in. As I left she took up her place at the window once again, beginning to sing a different song.

I took to curling up in one of the armchairs by the fire; staring into the flames in deep thought. I did not know what to do. For now, I could only wait.

After what seemed like hours I heard someone enter the room. It was the girl; bearing a tray of steaming hot food and drink. She approached me cautiously, keeping her eyes on mine constantly lest I make any sudden bids to attack her. She knelt, placing the tray upon the hearth rug and then backed slowly out of the room again without a word. Throughout this whole encounter I did not move, for fear of alarming her.

The food she had brought me was a thick meat stew and some strange herbal concoction to drink. I ate my meal gratefully, for I had not eaten for what seemed like several days.

It was in this manner that the next, perhaps three, days were passed. The storm raged on relentlessly; the landscape transformed into but a thick white mass. I kept the fire going, the girl entered only occasionally to pass me meals and so I was left alone for hours at a time. And yet, each time the girl entered it seemed to be with a growing amount of confidence. She would not keep her eyes on me as carefully as she had and might even pass the tray directly to me.

One morning I awoke to a deafening silence. All was quiet; not a lick of wind passed through the drafty tower. The storm had stopped. In my excitement I ran up the staircase to inform the girl of this occurrence. She had been sleeping, so just about fainted at the sight of me.

“It’s stopped!” I yelled, and she cowered in the corner of her bed at the strength of the noise.

When I paused I could see that she was shaking. I had frightened her. The poor girl looked just about at her wits end. I sighed.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, “You’ll have me out of your hair soon enough.”

I turned to leave the room but to my surprise I heard a soft mutter, much too quiet for me to understand. Yet heard it I did. I turned back to look at the girl, who had begun to move towards me.

“What did you say?” I asked quietly, staying very still.
“Don’t go,” she said, her voice a saintly whisper of an angel.

Hardly able to believe that she had spoken I continued to stand, staring at her in astonishment. I did not know how to respond. She was still moving towards me, as though each step cost her unimaginable bravery. She was afraid, but she was fighting it. Soon we were so close that I could smell her soft perfume, see the thickness of her eyelashes casting shadows across her cheeks. She did not touch me yet I felt as if this were something equally as intimate, if not more so.

“What’s your name?” I whispered.
“Isolde,” she breathed, and I could feel her breath across my face.

I closed my eyes, mouthing the word; tasting it on my lips. Her own lips were tantalizingly close to mine, yet the distance seemed enormous. The tips of our noses hovered so close that even the slightest movement could bring them together.

I took a step back.

“I have to go,” I said, myself now afraid of what was happening.

She did not try to stop me as I all but ran down the stairs, making my way towards the great double doors. I opened them after some effort, and stepped outside into the soft blanketed world. All was cold.