Thursday, 29 July 2010
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
To do list.
1. Finish this fucking Rita and Bernard story.
2. Write everyday.
3. Start filling my sketchbook with things other than tits
5. Stop being such a miserable bitch.
6. Buy film
7. Stop getting drunk and smoking pot on my own every night.
8. Be nicer to people.
9. Get out of bed before noon
10. Eat fruit
Sunday, 20 June 2010
I haven't been very productive or prolific lately.
It's been a whole month since I have felt good about anything I have produced.
Good enough to share, at least.
I get frustrated, angry even, which doesn't help.
Here are a couple I'm almost happy with.
Thursday, 20 May 2010
Everyday was like the one before. A sour routine of public transport, repetitive tasks and frequent rain. Waiting for the bus is a tedious affair yet it was the best part of everything to him. She'd be there in her work clothes. She wasn't conventionally beautiful but had something the other girls didn't. She had a kind face a gentle mannerisms. Her hair was long and thick and the wind would wrap it around her, getting caught in her eyelashes and mouth. Her delicate long fingers were constantly correcting this. She wore a suit but her fingernails gave her true character away. They were painted dark blue and were all chipped and bitten. He specifically loved that about her. The more people were there, waiting for the bus, the more she bit and picked at her hands. He stared at her fingers as they reached for her chapped lips. The mouth can do all sorts to a man. He lusted to be those fingers and to feel her warm saliva on his skin. This was becoming an infatuation. She'd glance in his direction but never made eye contact for more than a second. She felt his stares but didn't flaunt herself. She didn't even know she was beautiful which only intensified his obsession.
Day to day, nothing changed but her expressions. If the rain was heavy she didn't panic like most women would. She'd stand outside the shelter and let the cleansing, cool droplets land on her cheeks and slowly dampen her heavy hair. He'd fantasize about offering her his coat to break the ice but knew she wouldn't oblige. That was his start to the day, every morning, for the best part of a year. Just watching her. Yet they hadn't uttered more than two words to each other,
"After you" he'd say.
"Thank you" she'd reply.
It was enough to make him stroll into work with a smile on his face.
As summer drew closer, she'd wear pencil skirts. Her legs! A gift for him, maybe. He'd stand behind her so he could concentrate on her dainty ankles and slender calves. She hadn't had her long hair cut in ages and the ends were tapered and split. She wore just enough make up and always had her shirt buttoned right to the top. She took her time smoking her cigarette and blew every single bit of smoke out in one smooth steady breath. Her scarlet lipstick would stain the filter tip and end up on her hands. So distressed and complicated, her hand told stories she didn't. She was very slim but she held it well. Her wrists were narrow and would occasionally click when she reached for her purse. On the bus he'd aim for the seat behind her, hoping to hear what she was listening to. It was humid on-board so she slid the window open and leaned towards the breeze. As the driver picked up speed her hair fluttered over her shoulder and almost caressed his face. Her smell, usually vanilla, filled his nostrils. He inhaled the scent and held it in. What was her name? Elizabeth? Isabel? Even if it was something common like Sarah it wouldn't spoil her.
One morning she wasn't there, biting her nails and tapping her feet. Was she late? The next day he approached the stop with anticipation of her figure. She was there, but she wasn't alone. A man accompanied her. A tall, typically well dressed man with dark hair and smart shoes. His hand was placed at the small of her back and he was speaking softly in her ear. His lips almost grazing her neck. The boyfriend? Surely not. This girl was shy, where would she have met this berk? She turned to look behind her and locked eyes with her admirer. A look of shame washed over her face. She looked guilty and so she should. How could she do this? After all the Thank you's and brief glances. What now? Who would he wish for? The morning wait was no longer something he looked forward to but he still watched her and there was nothing she could do about it. "She isn't happy" he'd tell himself but the truth was is she smiled almost every time she was with that bloke. She had stopped biting her nails and painted them perfectly. She had her hair cut and was starting to blend in. He hated her for that but the fantasies didn't leave and neither did the bloke. She laughed frequently. Although it was a gracious sound, it was the last thing he wanted to hear.
Affection soon turned to resentment but he wouldn't let himself forget her. It was better to see her and feel bitterness and jealousy then to never see her again.
Work has had a grip on me lately, my writing has suffered immensely. I get terribly frustrated. Call me sad but all I need is a pen, some paper and a few glasses of whatever wine is present in the fridge. When I do go out it's usually out of courtesy. I used to be wild, I wouldn't be trapped for even one day. I needed out otherwise I'd suffocate. It seems I have gotten old overnight. I want to be alone with my paint and singer sewing machine. If I don't get my fix I'll get withdrawal symptoms. It is an addiction. It's difficult to be constantly inspired but it's impossible to live without.
I thought about the drunk boy on the train. He was attractive in the most boring way and couldn't handle his beer. He was asking far too many questions and was trying to impress me by informing me his little travel buddy was about to move into a new pad that was previously occupied by a famous footballer. Like I gave two shits about their money. He could have guessed that but he told me anyway, just to make a point. His ginger friend was even more of a lightweight. He was perched on the arm of the seat and a little on the lap of his footballer obsessed, cliché friend. He asked me if I had a boyfriend and I looked dead at him as if to say "Mind your business little man." I was in no mood for inexperienced come on's. He told me he didn't have a girlfriend for reasons I didn't want to hear. Then two more showed up and they surrounded me. Trapped in the corner, I worried I would soon have to respond. They had interrupted my writing. I could see I wasn't going to enjoy this, in fact it was agony.
Boy number one repeated himself over and over.
"Do you like drum and bass?"
"Oh...............So do you like drum and bass?"
The ginger boy was getting louder and cocky and was making a tit of himself. He cracked open another can and almost spilt the whole thing all over the table, my bag and journal. The women sitting opposite snatched the can and led him away with it like a donkey with a carrot. She said loud for everyone's ears,
"I don't want beer all over me, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN KIDS DRINK"
He answered back without actually saying anything understandable. Next thing you know, her husband got up from the seat behind her and asked the lad if he wanted a smack. The scrawny little thing said Yes.
'Oh god' I thought. This train was in peek hours and was full to capacity. There were children a few rows away. I think all the commotion had woken a baby because from there on out I heard crying. This is why I usually get the last train available.
The ginger boy eventually backed down and shuffled back the next carriage. I looked out of the window for a few minutes hoping they would ignore me. Then I looked back and noticed boy number one was miming something with his hands. He was pretending to hold a small book and was writing with an imaginary pen.
"I looked outside and it was good" he giggled.
The prick was mocking me! What is the world coming to when a girl writing on a train is an odd and uncool thing to witness? I wouldn't expect them to understand. They were ten a penny, but it stuck with me all day.