Remember (Walking In The Sand)

August is the strangest month of the year. It's limbo. My life is in limbo, and I blame August.

Ash died on the 20-somethingth of August. One of these days. You'd think that would be a date that I'd remember, but I don't.

It occured to me today, sitting in Oxfam, staring out the window mindlessly listening to Sade's By Your Side and feeling a little romantically nostalgic, that Ash exists nowhere but inside my head, inside my dusty memories. It's a weird thought. I mean of course his parents remember him, and the odd friend of his either in Ireland or Soho, but their memories aren't of him - only I really, truly knew who he was as a person. So he only truly lives on in my memories. It's a strange, lonely thought that brings me no comfort.

I can't bear the burden sometimes. Of having to do justice to him by remembering him not just how I want to remember him, but to remember him for who he was, accurately and honestly. Not to paint him in too shiny a gloss, neither to dull down his colours. I think it's only right that somebody in the world owes him that. Admittedly I'm bad at the middle ground and find myself either keeping him in my head as this figure of incomparable love and warmth, the elusive 'first love', or a figure of darkness and abandonment forever holding me back, the monkey on my back.

That's only when I think really deeply about it though - I've actually made my peace with what happened and funnily enough, out of all of life's experiences, this one isn't one that haunts me. It happened, and I got over it. And now I have some beautiful, terrible memories, of a boy who loved a girl and never got to know her as a woman. If only everything were that simple to figure out.

But,

I don't remember the colour of his eyes.

Right now I find that sad and confusing, but natural. But it's okay because I remember other, more important things. Like how he looked to me when I first saw him, sitting on a bench in the midst of a crowded, busy Oxford Street, wearing his black 'Ash on tour' t-shirt and eating cherries from a blue plastic bag looking, to me, so very still. An oasis of calm amidst a sea of rushing, blurring faces. When his eyes met mine, I felt stilled. I remember it like it was a photograph, or a scene from a favourite film. I even remember the soundtrack - I had 'Some Day' playing on my cd player.

And I remember exactly how he kissed me. In the beginning, before everything got so.. messy. He would pull me close, always, so our faces were right in front of each other, and his eyes would linger on mine, just for a split second too long, so that when our lips met it was never just a kiss, rather a meeting of the souls. Every time he kissed me, I fell a little bit more in love with him.

And I remember the sound of his voice, his lilting accent, the way his dark hair fell across his brow, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly when he was concentrating on something, the way our eyes met like confidantes when he would light my cigarette and then his own. I remember his scrawling handwriting when he scribbled down lyrics as I lazily played piano, and how he couldn't make a decent cup of tea no matter how hard he tried, and how he would watch me when I spoke about things and I knew he was actually listening, not just waiting for his turn to talk.

And I remember how sad and how quiet he could get sometimes. And how useless I would feel just sitting there, watching him look out the window, smoking, with this distant, faraway look in his eyes. Sometimes I catch myself looking out of windows with that same look in my eyes, and to this day I wonder what it was that made him look like that.

I remember the change in him when he drank too much, how he became aggressive and self-centered and would treat everything, including me, with a bitter disdain. And how I hated him. And how my life fell apart, and re-made itself around him. And how naive we were, and felt, even in the grown-up situations we found ourselves in. And I remember how separate he was from everything, from everyone else - and how much I loved being without him sometimes, knowing that what we had was mine. My own, private secret treasure.

I remember what he was wearing the last time I saw him alive. He had a suit jacket on, and a little silver earring, he hadn't shaved and he had tears in his eyes. He was a young man of 19, but to me he was a little, lost boy. I remember him walking past me, guitar and backpack in hand, and I felt the tiniest gust of cold air as he brushed past. Even then, he was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen.

I remember running down hospital corridors, pushing open doors, the smell of sanitised death and illness, the little dank room with its hard metal tables, the sudden greyness of everything, the greyness of his skin, the stillness of the air, the sick irony of my heart pounding so loudly in my ears and the heat from my breath going in and out of my mouth so quickly, when he was so cold and still.

It's funny, all these memories sit comfortably in my heart, in my past, in a movie of somebody else's life. They don't bother me, and I don't bother them. And when I do think of him, it's with fondness but surprisingly little raw emotion. I've sort of got other things to worry about these days like, well, my life. And the real, living people that are in it. Which, five years down the line, is healthy to say the least!

But every now and then, I'll wake up in the middle of the night in a panic. And I'll wrack my brain for memories, and destroy my room looking for pictures of him, or diary entries, and desperately work myself into a frenzy. Because I can't remember what colour his eyes are..

And if I don't remember what colour his eyes were, that's lost forever.

Maybe I am a little haunted.

But that's alright, because I remember the important things. And if living my life and making new memories means that old ones get pushed aside, or rewritten, or start to fade.. then that's just the way it's got to be. I may now have forgotten the colour of his eyes, and maybe some day I'll forget his smile, or the way he laughed, or that thing he said to me once upon a time, but he will always be a part of my story. Even if just as a fleeting image of a boy, sitting on a bench, eating cherries from a blue plastic bag.

So here's to you, babe. You were, and continue to be, the only boy this lonely girl ever really loved. Even if you only now exist in dusty, sad memories of better times.


Some day, we'll leave this town.
It wears us down.
We'll leave somehow..
All it's harms, and all it's charms.

Oh some day, we'll leave behind
All this time that has turned sour,
Far behind and out of mind

Some day,
We'll leave this life far behind,
And fade in time.
We'll look down on this sad town, some day.

Safe from harm.. Was it a dream I had?
Was it a dream I had?
When did it turn bad?
Oh safe from harm.. Was it a dream?

Some day we'll leave behind this sad life
And all it's lies
All it's harm, and all it's charms

Some day, we shall see with clarity
And we won't look back.

Just Plain Useless.

4am.

Why has he still not texted me??

Tosser.

Misinterpreted, Misguided, Or Just Plain Useless..?

3am.

No word from Rocket Boy.

I've just had a long online conversation with Charolastra No.1 (who is also having some useless-man trouble at the moment) and we've come to the conclusion we are actually going to have to write a book about how fucking useless men are. Which is the subject of the moment, to be fair, in our lives.

It's going to be called The Guide To The Misguided : Misinterpreted, Misguided, Or Just Plain Useless..?

Have also made her promise to make sure that next time Rocket Boy texts me early in the morning (and he will..), that I will ignore him. Because seriously, I'm not going to put up with being played around, by essentially a stranger. I've had enough of that from Darcy this year. So fuck him. Fuck the lot of em.

This time baby, I'll be Bulletproof.

"Hello Poppet.."

Okay so I've spent the last 6 days pretending not to be waiting for Rocket Boy to text me. It's pathetic, I know, but i can only admit that now because he just has. 20 minutes ago. At 1:30 in the morning, just under a week since I last spoke to him, he texted me.

'Hello poppet. How are you? Hows your week been? x'

I must admit, my heart fluttered immediately at seeing his name on my phone. So, unsure how to play it (Standoffish? Blase? Playful, as if last week didn't happen? Flirty and sexual? Friendly? Annoyed?), I went for the safe;

'Well hello you. Weeks been good, couple of job offers. How did the big gig go? x'

I think it's good. Not as friendly as my usual texts, bit standoffish but interested still. I figured next text I might have a sly dig at his wasted opportunity last week, thus win back the balance of who's chasing who..

Half an hour later. It's now 2am in the morning, and im waiting for him to text me back. Why do I do this? Glutton for punishment much..?

So now I'm thinking dammit! I should have stood my ground. I was far too nice in my text. I should have made him wait, so he couldn't be the one to make me wait! But I do a double take and think what? See suddenly it's all about game playing! How is it that this time last week, we were strangers, and lovers and friends, and absolutely nothing, and it was all simple and new, and suddenly we're playing mind games?

I am really quite annoyed at myself now.

"Her Heart Is Pure And Yours Is Mucky"

I had a dream last night.

I was following this light. Not sure where I was. I had no shoes on and there was water up to my ankles, but it felt like smoke. I was tired, and alone, but felt calm and light. I knew there was something behind me, watching me, but I didn't mind for now. I also had something in my hand, but I don't know what it was. I was following this white blur of light for what seemed an eternity, knowing that when I reached it I would know why I had followed it. I knew I would find peace and serenity, and not be scared any more. As I approached the light, a man appeared in front of me, looking at me reproachfully.

"Stay away from her. Her heart is pure and yours is mucky." he said. I turned away and everything went dark.

I'm not one for the paranormal and omens and ghosties and that, but this dream really unhinged me. I suppose its about feeling vulnerable and turned down and wanting and following something but that I think when I get to it, it wont be there, or it wont want me.. but whatever Freudian interpretation of death and sex, theres a definite sense of searching, in both my conscious and subconscious. Searching.

But what for..?

That Time When Everything Went Fucking Mental.

At some point in my life, I'm going to look back on these past 2 weeks and think "dyou remember that time where everything went fucking mental?"

Because, and bear in mind that my life has been far from conventional and I seem to encounter crazyness and hassle at every turn, these have been the most insane two weeks of my life. Well, that I can remember. And to be fair, my memory is shite. But I'm pretty sure that even if I remembered every single detail of my life, I would still think of these past two weeks as the most ridiculous.

In a paragraph..

I've fainted twice in the street, been subsequently poked and prodded by doctors who then diagnosed me with diabetes, had a lumbar puncture and countless blood tests at St Mary's (the hospital where it would appear every wing and corridor holds some disturbing memory of mine), been thrust into debt by emergency dentist and root canal, subsequently having to miss going with The Cats to the Big Chill festival (the only break I was to have this year, and also the second holiday this Summer that I've paid for and not gone to), spent about a week living at Charolastra No.1's house as I had a bit of a physical and mental shutdown, had the briefest of confusing sexual trysts with Rocket Boy which managed to shake me up within the space of a week, held a hugely unsuccessful but entirely enjoyable gig night at which I was rejected by Rocket Boy but also inspired by his singer friend through having a conversation swapping tales of music and heartbreak, was then followed around the back alleys of Camden on my way home by 8 or 9 guys, one of whom had me by the neck and I got away by stubbing my cigarette on his hand, that night my dj's saved my life - Robocop and The BFG came for me in a taxi at which point I blacked out and went into shock, waking up in the BFG's arms and immediately feeling safe and cared for (a novel new feeling), Darcy called and wanted to meet up and gave away no clue as to what the hell he wanted from me and I nearly fell for him all over again but at the last minute he mentioned Greenland and I remembered what a liar and coward he is, I lost my ipod (doesn't sound like a big deal, but I don't function without my ipod. Couldn't leave my house until Pickled Lily lent me hers), I got offered an incredible job offer in Bristol that would involve entirely relocating, got offered several promotion-related jobs that are pretty cool, none of which I applied for or even knew existed, subsequently decided to entirely drop everything I'm doing (working at the hospital, working at the autistic charity, doing my degree/masters) and persue music. Again. Like it didn't break me completely enough last time. And I'm just under £1,500 in debt due to all of the above things (not including the 10 grand of student loans I have to pay back). All of this resulting in me being thrust completely into limbo, and quite probably the next time my feet touch the ground and everything settles down, it will be into a life that is completely different.

Yeah I know, right? Fucking mental.

Men Of The World, Listen Up.

I've run out of patience with men.

So me, Charolastra No.1, Pickled Lily and the Stig were in the pub yesterday discussing men and women. And why it's still so bloody complicated. It all stemmed from talking about my half-baked tryst with Rocket Boy which appears to have been fraught with confusion from any given angle. He is still reeling a bit from whatever happened with his newly exed girlfriend, and backed away suddenly and strangely from our flirty play, presumably not wanting to jump into another relationship. Which, by the way, I never wanted from him. So now, I have to miss out on a cute boy, who I could have had a bit of fun and a bit of making out with, because apparently women are all gagging for a relationship.

I just want some fun, dammit. And fun doesn't have to be meaningless, it just has to be.. simpler. Gentler. Without agenda. Why is that so hard to find?

Why is it that fun gets such a bad rap - having fun makes you feel good about the world, and can be lovely. Having fun with someone is brilliant, but for some reason when you say 'I want to have some fun with you' it makes it sound unimportant, or hedonistic. And why is it that the default assumption is that men only want a fuck, and women only want a relationship? Because it's bollocks! Well, the 2nd part is, anyway.

Cute boys of the world, listen up. If I am by chance flirting with you, this does not mean that I want to marry you, or meet your parents, or bloody fall in love with you, I would just like to have a conversation and a bit of a laugh. And possibly some sex. I would like a sprinkling of conversation with my sex please. And maybe a dash of friendship. No? Just the sex then. For the record, I'm pretty cool. I'm interesting, and funny, and I'd love to see if you are too. Why would you not want to get to know me a bit, hmm? And why are you not flattered that another person wants to know what you're about, if only for a moment? Because apparently that is terrifying to you. And as such, just so you know, men of the world, you are missing out.

Desire.

Love belongs to desire, and desire is always cruel.

It is unlikely that any portrait will ever do Desire justice, since to see her (or him) is to love him (or her), passionately, painfully, and to the exclusion of all else.

Desire smiles in brief flashes, like sunlight glinting from a knife-edge. And there is much else that is knife-like about Desire.

Never a possession, always the possessor, with skin as pale as smoke, and eyes tawny and sharp as yellow wine: Desire is everything you have ever wanted. Whoever you are. Whatever you are.

Everything.

Despair.

Despair says little, and is patient.

Despair, Desire's sister and twin, is queen of her own bleak bourne. It is said that scattered through Despair's domain are a multitude of tiny windows, hanging in the void. Each window looks out on a different scene, being, in our world, a mirror. Sometimes you will look into a mirror and feel the eyes of Despair upon you, feel her hook catch and snag upon your heart.

Her skin is cold, and clammy; her eyes are the colour of sky, on the grey, wet days that leech the world of colour and meaning; her voice is little more than a whisper, and while she has no odour, her shadow smells musky and pungent, like the skin of a snake.

Despair says little, and is patient.

A Rush Of Fear To The Head.

I'm terrified and mistrusting and closed down and losing myself and vulnerable and I want to fight it, I'm too tired to fight it, I need a break from my head, I can't detach from the past and all of the pain, I need to laugh, start from scratch, begin again, I want to run and unburden, I want to be happy, I am withholding and I can't bear it, and I'm afraid of everything I want, afraid of being who I want to be, I've lost all clarity, finding it hard to stop judging myself, and desperately needing validation, and I can't seem to change, and I'm becoming everything I hate, and I can't handle the pressure, and I feel like a failure because I can't handle the pressure, and I feel small and I feel sad, and my own silence screams at me in the night, and I'm craving intimacy and connection and attention and affection, while as ever feeling cellularly solo, and I'm deteriorating, and I'm ill all the time, and I'm scared that I'm just a coward, and I'm scared of my own strength, that it's made me too capable at defence, that my crumbling armour is never going to break, that you will forever haunt me, that I will never be anything but my past, that I will never drop my guard, that behind my guard is nothingness, that I would be beautiful if I could only believe it, that I am my own demon, I'm ashamed of my sensitivity to the judgements of others, and I can't sleep, and I can't handle silence, and I'm so tired. I'm so fucking tired of it.