You could say it's been a rough few weeks ( Read more... )

Hello LJ. I haven't written here for a while, and I imagine this could well be the last time I do ( Read more... )

The poem that comes precisely at the right moment:

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a fieldmouse
Not shaking the grass

and the poem that comes too, too late:

I want you to feel
the unbearable lack of me.
I want your skin
to yearn for the soft lure of mine;
I want those hints of red
on ( Read more... )

So: I am probably one of the happiest I've ever been. The happiest if we don't count special situations, such as being on holiday. I'm shepherding freshers around and being maternal for the rest of the week. Most of those I love are in town, and I see them as much as I could want and no more. Nine days ago my housemates and the squatters had a ( Read more... )

I've just realised that I've been here for a month.
I'm living in a house in Cowley, an area so cheerfully multicultural that it looks like it was made as a posterchild for some new government policy. I'm living with 2 girls who I'll live with for the rest of the year (the three boys arrive in the next few weeks), and 2 friends who are squatting ( Read more... )

I'm supposed to be packing near everything I own (inc an armchair) into a car so I can move to Oxford tomorrow. But it's pouring down.
I'm spending the next week in an isolated northern scottish cottage with my boyfriend. And it's pouring down.
Interesting.

Ah.. that's what boyfriends are for: smutty text messages.

I worry about how attached I am to the past, but then I see certain other people and thank god for my detachment. The past is not now my religion and never has been as completely as it still is for these others. The past is no Eden, no sacred land; it's just a bunch of things that happened ( Read more... )

Serenity is a long way off. And I have as little clue as I ever have about how to bring myself closer.  At the moment this is manifest in blind directionless rage. Think I'll go into the garden and throw rocks.

There's something strange and unwholesome about this house. This is not a good thing to say about the place I've spent 18 years of my life, off and on, and is probably more accurately rewritten as: there's something strange and unwholesome about me in this house.
I come home here and I don't want to leave. I don't want to go across the county to a ( Read more... )