Bookmovie is the movie in words, the visual American form
Oh bang, yo! Letter from Gramma in the States and stinky dead presidents– and he struts into town to change dollars into sterling– weaving in and out of Saturday commerce– £16.60 from $30 — like a boss he’s already spent it on 2nd hand XBox games and sweets– minted and freespirited– boy!
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“No time for poetry but exactly what is”
What is exactly this? This is life. This life is Responsibility. Responsibility is about duty. Duty is fear. Fear is regret. Regret is about being wrong this time. Time is gone. Gone are the days I thought I knew what I was doing. I was doing so many things. Things are a reminder of need. Need is too much for me to Dream. Dream is too big a word. Word is being a Catholic. Catholic is something I did wrong. Wrong was trying to be happy when I clearly was unhappy. Unhappy is what I am not now. Now is something that goes far too quickly. Quickly are my days of trying to be good at my job. A job is something you do to get money. Money is never enough. Enough is about silence. Silence is all I seem to hear when I speak to you. You do not see me. “Me” is a concept I am trying to make real. Reality is something that science can prove. Proof is something that has not been de-bunked. De-bunked is a funny word. Here we are with Word again…
I need to have Faith.
“Write what you want bottemless from bottom of the mind”
Looking on him sleeping sweetly–angelic quiet in the soundless time after outrageous triumph–more like a Lost Boy than The Pan–dream breathing and serene. He is lush to look at. Power in repose–and yet he will never know what hell I wage against myself. One day he will go. But for now he is mine–and so with that I gently kiss his nose.
“Blow as deep as you want to blow”
Smoker, sinner, gambler, ho. It is none of these that are in the know, yo. But to blow. Deep. Sink into the unconventional vat of real self and swim for your life or die trying. There is nothing worse than regret. Inhale deep–keep–feel–then out slow and pass the pipe, figuratively speaking.
Saturday morning. Wake up still in my black dress from last night. Still in bed as I write and wish I could magic up a cup of tea. Laughing out loud because I know I drunk texted, drunk called, drunk sang and I do not need to hurl…this girl was in control through all the i love yous last night. This girl was deep and true. This girl was her own and her own was me.
“Submissive to everything, open, listening”
Just as I left the Tube station at Camden, my ears danced on the various snippets of conversation of the people who moved about their daily routine. They all seemed to know who they were, what they were saying, what life was about. Determined, strong-said and bountiful with existence but dead inside all at the same time. Little snippets. I need to include little snippets of conversations that the people had as they went this way and that in the bowl of human soup that was the entrance to the Underground.
“Scribbled secret notebooks, and wild typewritten pages, for yr own joy-“
I have nine journals and two diaries. None of them completed–Some of them with fragmented ideas, ramblings and ideas that tease me. Some have nothing in them at all. All of them like some secret vice—like a stripper doing her dance but not allowing me to touch, leaving me aroused yet unsatisfied. But I love them. I am drawn to them. I get angry and walk away. I leave them. But I come back…often when I should be doing something else…when I should be attending my responsibilities. And the feeling is utter bliss of the luscious dancing images the words give me…