Joy; division
Joy; divisionLaura Beck. Laura Beck. She is fifteen or sixteen years old, and her name is Laura Beck.I’m smiling wryly, a guilty snob, the gym delineated in front of me. Higher, and its bespectacled geeks, to the left; Foundation, bottle-tanned blondes, to the right. I see George’s name, but it isn’t him. (Rob, a Moroccan café bar, George.) In the squarish jaw, the stubborn set of her mouth, the cooldetermined eyes, she is the spitting image of Naomi. I don’t know why but it’s imperative that Mal knows this. She is fifteen or sixteen years old, and her name is Laura Beck.So many of these kids look like acquaintances, friends; perhaps Thea, as Sleazy Neil continually calls me, is my double. Less bounce in her walk, less self-conscious about sex. I thought I was unique; both Richard and Ant tell me to read This Side of Paradise, heavily implying that I’m not.I wish I was more lucid, more knowledgeable, more articulate in speech. I wish I knew more about South American politics, Chilean football, the ramifications of Europe. I wish I was interested in important things I’m not. I wish I had a sense of humour more than three people got. I wish I was more; enough. This being not-perfect I cannot bear.
Depeche Mode encircle me, pulled close to his too-fast heart. One heavy arm briefly flung around, and, unwittingly, you impersonate Ollie at the end. I’m stiff, unmoving. Not wanting to face this, not wanting to hear the words. I can’t remember what they were.
Summer couples, the buses we caught, boys of summer attired in beige and blue. Children, everywhere. A crash test dummy and Maggie’s blue placebo men.***Raymond Chandler was wounded near Chateau Thierry with the Canadian Army in 1918, leaving him the only survivor. Coincidence? Letter received with pleasure, but in retrospect, the note in your voice astounded, high-pitched panic. A lack of comprehension I understand. You write over things, realise they weren’t what they seemed.
Stigmata palms from climbing trees. Tiny moments of light on dying leaves.The Other enters my dreams; eight or nine a night, and I remember them all. Heatstroke, bad pianists, Chris. I listen to Vengerov’s Bruch 37 times. He is the second best photographer I know, and he has a six by four mind.My endless battle with drink. Fighting memory, fighting loss.Remembering it I want to scream asking repeatedly if she doesn’t think it’s the most beautiful music in the world and she doesn’t answer just smiles glassy glazed trying to humour me trying to ignore me and this is not a hypothetical fucking question
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose leaves
The way I feel today - 10 July 2004
Just seventeen - 17 March 2004
Roads to freedom - 25 February 2004
Confessions of a failed self-harmer - 25 February 2004
Manchester, united - 25 February 2004