New Cafetiere (Real Coffee for 'rie)

Teenage Years

I wish that I could admit
That I would have liked to omit
My teenage years and plunge
Deep into adulthood

Then my voice was never heard
The words emerged
But they float from my mouth
And evaporate

I cried out
I screamed out
But still I was unheard
As others closed their eyes against me

It was simpler, safer
To talk to me about
Boys, first kisses
And all the opportunities
That lay ahead
A fairy tale future
Anything darker
Remained unsaid.

Bella Cat

 Bella the Cat has taken to defecating in my bathroom. It’s not much fun to have to avoid stepping into a pile of kitty poo in the morning (apologies to people with weak stomachs).  So it looks like the Brat Cat is off to the vet’s next week.  I know it’s necessary but the ‘Ow, ow,ow’ that emanates from her basket while we are in the taxi makes me feel like the meanest cat-mummy on the planet.

A couple of nights ago I succumbed to the urge to binge. There was a kind of bitterness lodged in my heart.  As I left the flat I saw Our Friendly Neighbourhood Drug Dealer (the New Zealander) skulking outside the flat of Our Friendly Neighbourhood Psychopath.  No doubt he was waiting to ‘do a bit of business’.  All the bitterness inside came spewing out. ‘You saw what happened,’I screamed.  ‘Why didn’t you intervene?  Are you that much of a coward?  Do you know how I feel now?  No, I don’t think you do and I hope to God you never have to.’

I did not stop to see his reaction.  I ran over to Hanover Court.  Doug’s door tempted me but I turned away from it and, amazed by my own swiftness, I ran up the eight flights of steps to the top of the building.  And then suddenly I was outside, standing on the ledge.  The city was spread out before me. I spat on it from above.  I stood there for what seemed like forever.  Wouldn’t it be easy to just let go? I have no children to leave behind.  Only my piles of drawing and scribbling.  But then it occurred to me that this is exactly what the Pseudo-Messiah wants – someone to die in his name.  I backed away from the edge, confident that I will thwart his plans.  I am ashamed to say that I turned to the only friend I have around here: Doug.  Fortunately, he was still awake. I sat down on his big easy chair and Freddi the Dog flung herself into my arms.  ‘I’m not going to die for him, I’m not going to die for him,’ I repeated.

‘That thing,’ Doug scoffed. ‘He’s not worth pissing on!’

‘I won’t give him what he wants.’

(To be continued…) 

Self Defence

Beginnings/Ends

In the beginning. Yes, really, the very beginning
We were created (or so they say) out of clay
Before us there was darkness and deep waters
Desolate lands. Until God did his stuff. I’d imagine
That he must have been the star pupil in art class.

That was the prologue and we, I assume,
Are the epilogue. I acknowledge that our history
Is embedded in me. But I do not wish to be
Enslaved – every gene awash with ancestry
I want to be me, me, me and me alone.

It is Christmas here and as we decorate the tree
I watch my triplets and wish that there were only me.

Belated Back Home Post

The train journey (much to my relief) home was uneventful.

The last time I got the train a couple of years ago, in the dead of winter, I travelled back from Birmingham to Cambridge in an ice box.  It was a Sunday and the heating in the carriage I was sitting in had broken down.  The Guard asked me if I would like to change carriages.

I shook my head, ‘No, thank you.  Besides it’s good for the old diet.’ When he looked at me quizzically, I explained, ‘When you’re cold your system has to work harder to keep you warm. That way you burn more calories.  If you want to lose weight, sit in an ice box for a few hours every day.  I’ll move to another carriage when my fingers turn purple I’ll move to another carriage.  Besides, I value a seat to myself far more than I value warmth.’

The Guard edged away from me as though he thought I was stark-raving bonkers.

Oh well, gotta give the guy credit for being an outstanding judge of character.

‘If the limit does not approach anything, the limit does not exist.’

Kami's

Kamis
Originally uploaded by Bratcat1000.

At last - a photograph of my favourite restaurant.

Your/You’re

Your
World of dinner parties
Fleshed out with flowing honey
Fleshed out with red wine
And solid, heavy pink bosoms
Resting on an oak dining table
And you feel the eyes of that young man
That red-cheeked wide eyed acne ridden boy
Boy, yes boy, straining upwards – manhood bound

You’re
A luminous, statuesque creature
A radiant bright shape – almost a flame
You peer across the table dissecting each
Beguiling boy. You prepare to devour them
Ambivalence reigns. Get back, get back,
They silently scream but as you bewitch them
With your tall tales and this time joy replaces dread
And your rainfall of affection is embraced

Your
Embrace of decadent borderlands
You adore them. You stand poised
On the edge of some ledge. Your smile
Its widens. White teeth dazzle. You bow
You pacify the popcorn chewing crowd
Their faces upturned, they stare
And those boys remember in sleep the way
In which you consumed them one by one.

I don't usually do these things but...

You are a Brainy Girl! Whether you're an official student or a casual learner, you enjoy hitting the books. You know a little bit about everything, and you're always dying to know more. For a guy to win your heart, he's got to share some of your intellectual interests. A awesome book collection of his own doesn't hurt either! What Kind of Girl Are You? Take This Quiz :-) Find the Love of Your Life (and More Love Quizzes) at Your New Romance.

My Room

myroom
Originally uploaded by louisemills.

In which I spent the last years of my childhood.

Turning, Burning

One moment a piglet
Sucks from his mother’s pink teat
The next roasting
Turning, burning
Licked by orange flame
Over a cauldron that hisses,
That spits
At the country fair
Its juices run down

And the crowd watches,
Salivates, anticipates
The sharpened knife that carves
The slivers of meat
Pealed from the bone
Soon they will be fighting
Over the final piece of crackling
While the farmer stands straight
Stands proud, looks on

Dispatches From ‘Home’

Mother insisted on picking me up from Harborne in her car.  She commented on the hospital wristband I am still wearing.  ‘It’s to remind me of who I am and when I was born, you know, in case I forget.’

‘Is that from when he hit you?’

I winced.  Mother’s voice is an assault on the ears.

‘I believe the legal terminology is ‘common assault, Mother.  At least, that’s what they’re charging him with.’

We didn’t discuss it any further.  She would only trivialise and belittle what happened to me.  This is the same person who held a seven year old child responsible for the actions of a thirty something sociopath (Yes, we are talking about my father here.).

And, to this day, I still can’t understand that.

That masochistic gene that seems to run in my mother’s family (at least amongst the women) seems to be absent in me. (Thank goodness). Mother began talking about her sister, M.  (I am hesitant to call her my aunt – not after what she has done.)  She is taking her daughter, J. to court in an attempt to gain access to her grandchildren.  J. was abused by her stepfather when she was very young.  She revealed this in 1999 and her stepfather admitted it.  The most sickening part of this whole sordid story is that her mother chose to forgive her husband. She was waiting for him when he came out of prison.  I find this unforgivable but my mother, as always, joins the exodus from judgement.  M. has labelled J. an evil liar.  She does not deny that her husband molested her daughter but suggests that she is exaggerating the extent of it in order to gain revenge and to increase the amount of criminal injuries compensation she received.  Several thousand pounds, I believe.  In my oh so humble opinion several million pounds wouldn’t be sufficient to compensate J. for the double injustice of being abused as a child and then being abandoned by her mother in adulthood. What I don’t understand is if M feels that her daughter is so evil then why is she so desperate for access to the children that emerged from her womb.

I saw the Living Ghost of Bella in the sitting-room of my parents’ home – sitting on the sofa.  Was she communicating with me psychically? ;-)

Little had changed.  Mother still waits on my father and my mother hand, foot and fingernail, as well as paying all of the bills. My brother still treats her as though she is something he has just scraped off the sole of his shoe. But there is nothing I can do about that.  (And, believe me, I have tried).  I cannot intervene and I refuse to even try.

Mr Happy

Mr Happy
Originally uploaded by rielouise.

New poster above main (steam driven) 'puter desk. Hopefully it will have some kind of effect upon my mood. And encourage me to abandon the excessive use of my laptops and get out of bed!

Slow Poison

I keep my destiny hidden, my gaze restrains,
Suspends the doped up boys in the auditorium
Oblivious to the way I am degenerating
I clutch at omnipotence for they adore me
Me – the girl who stands resplendent on the stage

I leap into their lives, I occupy their senses
For the duration of the show and in return
They grant me dedication fervent enough
To affirm my status as queen of this scene
They revel in my ostensible magnificence

In my repartee. They strive to snatch
Chunks of me away and my own slow poison
Corrodes my contents and I do not find
The sisterhood I seek in song and the affection
Of the crowd smothers me to death.

Shatterday

I met my tutor and fellow members of my tutor group. My tutor was a beautiful Indian woman attired in an elegant silk scarf that floated around her when she walked. This sounds mean but I find OU students insufferably earnest, particularly the supercilious South African young woman who glared at me throughout the entire session.

During the break I spoke to a thin faced, middle-aged man about my plans for the future. I told him I’d be content to be a student forever. My plan is to do an MA (yes, another one) in Creative Writing at the UEA (I’ll be sponsored. I’m confident that my ‘mentor’ will see to that and, with the results, fund my PhD).

‘Germaine Greer says Creative writing courses homogenise contemporary writing.’

‘Oh, really? And did she give any examples?’

‘Oh no, I didn’t read the article myself. I just heard it.’

I asked him if he’d read her latest offering: The Whole Woman. One critic called it a ‘polemical bomb’. I thought it was an unstructured rant. Oh, yeah, Germaine Greer can be liberating when you’re 15 and your father is a tyrant and you paraded through the house, clutching a copy of The Female Eunuch (‘Hail the Mini Dictator, the Conquerer of Rooms). Life was so polarised back then – rather like Germaine Greer’s world-view.

Needless to say, my interlocuter hadn’t read that either. Then perhaps you ought to explore her works more thoroughly before you presume to regurgitate her views with such pseudo authority. These words remained firmly lodged in my mind.

During the informal discussion afterwards I commented on how much Birmingham had changed. ‘Yes,’ someone piped up. ‘And it was such a dump in the early nineties.’

That was the last time I lived there on a permanent basis. I guess the city became less of a ‘dump’ after it had divested itself of my presence.

All Curled Up

All Curled Up
Originally uploaded by Bella the Cat.

She looks so adorable, so angelic. One would never imagine that she uses the bathroom floor as a second litter tray or that she has scratched my beautiful red sofa in the sitting room to pieces or that she is a big bully brat cat. But I love her really!

Solitude

Slime in tangled hair
Smelling like decomposition
Dragging my memories after me
Like a child with a battered teddy bear

I am silent, full of thoughts
But empty of courage. I am hiding
I am good at that. And I plunge ahead
Though terrified. I am a firewalker

Ploughing on. I confess that I am secretive
Scarlet-faced, hands fluttering
Insecure in my own skin. I hurt myself
On the edges of razor sharp days
That cut, that cut

I revel in solitude – those endless silences
I love them, I nurture them
I do not betray their confidences
A spell has been cast
A storm descends
A storm without a cause
A storm without a pause.

Now, Let Me See...

Where were we? Ah, yes, Birmingham. Well, not quite.

(In case you were wondering the damage to Lori Gottlieb’s Stick Figure, portrayed in the previous post, was caused by water-damage from the fire. I’d only just purchased it from Amazon too.)

I awoke on Saturday full of anxiety at the thought of having to make the first train journey I’ve made for a couple of years. Mother had convinced me to stay overnight at ‘home’. I was born on the Isle of Wight but brought up in Birmingham. (Not Alabama, unfortunately. No, the one whose car industry has just collapsed.) And, before anyone asks, no, I don’t have that accent.

I said ‘Goodbye’ to Bella as she rubbed up against me. I had arranged for Doug to feed and take care of her. I will miss the warmth of her small furry body against my own while I sleep. I packed an overnight bag in a hurry and left for the station. The train journey seemed to take us all around the world. Three hours to be precise. ‘Are you sure we’re not dropping in on Siberia,’ I muttered as the guard announced the stations at which we would be stopping. I spent most of the journey sleeping, my forehead resting against the window. I had the seat to myself until we reached Leicester when a guy embarked and plonked himself next to me. He played a rather noisy game on his mobile ‘phone for the rest of the journey. The sun shining through the window made me sleepy and my head lolled. I almost found myself resting on my neighbour’s shoulder once or twice. I didn’t do that horrid dribbling thing though. (At least, I don’t think I did. I wish I could take a sign on board trains and buses with me saying ‘I have a Contagious disease. Sit Down Next to Me and Your Life Will Be At Risk.)

I was still half asleep when I left the station at stepped out into the cold (well, to me anyway) air of Birmingham City Centre. I hardly recognised it. I felt like that character Will must have felt in Philip Pullman’s The Subtle Knife; as though I had cut a hole in the air and had gained access to a parallel universe.

(To Be Continued)

Scary Close-Up of Bella

Hallowed Interval

A hallowed interval
Between cows munching on grass, on thistle
And the newly opened, freshly exposed
Second front. Embattled, mercury-backed

Bored and blood-soaked
Re-enacting tragedies, heraldries of another age
In the language of another dimension
That seems like the breath of death.

Vapours from another country’s breakfast table
Salt, pepper or some other marinade. Beware! They ensnare.
A smiling soldier stalks forth. His bright blue eye
An explosion exposing the meaning of purity

Overnight In Birmingham

You may have noticed that I haven’t been my usual ‘busy-bee’ self. On the other hand there may be no one out there to notice but who cares if I’m shouting into an abyss.

I went to an OU conference in Birmingham. I have a rather convoluted academic history. I have an MPhil in American Literature but I plan to base my PhD on the Nazi Occupation of the Channel Islands during the Second World War so I am making the ‘disciplinary’ transition by completing a post-graduate module in history at the Open University. It’s also a way of avoiding throwing myself into the shark-pool.

More Later….

Probably not the best choice of reading material..

The Hour Before Dawn

In the hour before dawn, waking
Encountering the solidity,
The self sufficiency
Of the bureau, the chest,
The dining room table
I pause. I hear nothing
Not a eye blink; not a limb twitching

A nocturnal bird beyond the window
Eyes me. Silent shadows stalk me
A dream with an angel at its core
A ghost glides down the staircase
A spectre floats in the hall
Sucking blood, they feast
And then they multiply

I flick the switch
And snap the silver threads
Of the greying outlines
Of all my fading yesterdays
And then there is clarity
As the lamplight glows
Lighting my way to morning.

Hypersanity

Am I hypersane? Is everyone else mad?

I don't understand the attitude of the US to the Kyoto Protocol. I don't understand anyone who does not care about environmental degradation. Don't they care about the long-term survival of their own species. Don't they realize that we are sleepwalking into extinction and that the planet will proceed with or without us. I find it particularly hard to understand people with children who don't care about the future of the planet. This means they don't care about future generations, which brings to mind the question: why did they have children in the first place.

I feel detached, as though I have no personal investment in the matter. After all, I have no brats. But shame on those who do.

New Shoes...Whatever

I would imagine my Resident Shoe Fetishist would simply adore these
shoes. The reason? Not because they are particularly
aesthetically pleasing but because of the price tag. How tragic!

Captivated

A casual stargazer,
Captivated
By the night sky
Probing into
The galaxy
Into inscrutable mysteries
Captured within
The unaided human eye
Less a pursuit
More a love affair
And we realize
That the more we know
The more we know
We don’t know.

The Good Ship Venus

Two workmen came to fit Chubb locks and other security devices to my door this morning. I gave them each a huge mug of steaming milky coffee. As they worked they sang The Good Ship Venus. Why? Were they trying to shock me? They needn't have bothered as Doug has taught me all the words. And besides, I am just about old enough to be familiar with The Sex Pistols Friggin' On the Rigging. I was relieved when they left. I locked myself in securely. Andy won't be obliged to run into my swordstick or mallet.

'Oh, Officer, I was practicing sword-fighting when my neighbour walked around the corner, straight into the tip of the sword and was tragically and instantly disembowelled.' Not terribly convincing, I admit. Thoughts of revenge are still haunting me, much as I try to suppress them. I could photocopy pages of my diary and distribute them amongst his disciples. I know things about Andy's 'friends' that I never could have known unless their Messiah himself had told me.

A little lesson for you, Andy, never trust a diarist. She'll always betray you.

Big Brave Freddi Protecting Us All

To a Friend whose Death I long for and yet will Mourn.

My friend, I wear
A mourning band
For you, for you, for you
A premature mourning band
For you are not dead yet
But you soon will be
If I have my way

Because, my friend,
You’re no friend of mine
Cloaked in your guise
Of beautiful benevolence
But I sense the hostility
You’ve kept hidden for so long
So, my dear, please don’t insult me

By singing that song
By faking that smile
As I step into the student bar
And see you with those girls
With their gleaming golden curls
And I am speechless, immobile
Crouched in some dark corner

I don’t belong here
And you know it
Here amongst beauty
Amongst these serene and sophisticated beings
And so, my friend, tell me, where do I belong?
In some institution perhaps,
Locked up, doped up

Doesn’t matter where
I just don’t belong here
As long as you are beyond my reach
As long as I am out of your sight

And now I lacerate myself on your brittle bones
Where once there was warm flesh, soft and yielding
I had believed you’d cushion me with compassion
And instead you weave death thoughts around me
I have returned home to find my idol gone
Replaced by a daemon
What witchcraft is this?

I backtrack, making patterns on my skin
The dogs are at my throat
You’re gone, my friend, you’re gone.

Kami's

If any one reading this is living in Cambridge then I would highly recommend a restaurant on Hills Road called Kami’s (named after the proprietor).  It serves delectable Italian and Greek food.  We celebrated Doug’s forthcoming 87th birthday there last night.  Doug dressed in his Special Services jacket and looked rather dapper.  He was, as usual, insecure in unfamiliar surroundings.  I had my usual Moussaka and Doug had spaghetti in tomato and herb sauce.  (Do I sound like Michael Winner in his column in The Sunday Times.)  I took my dictaphone in case Doug had any good stories to tell.

Doug said the meal reminded him of his time in Sicily.  He had somehow become separated from his Commando Unit.  His shirt was encrusted with grime and sweat.  He came across a well and stripped to the waist, preparing to wash the garment.  He found it impossible to draw water from the well.  He had always had the luxury of running water. A voice called out to him in Italian: ‘Can I help?’ He turned and was confronted by a dark-haired girl in her late teens who was vaguely pretty, round-faced and of peasant stock.  She and Doug conversed in a mixture of English and Italian.  Her name was Gina and she was the only one of her siblings who could read and write.  She took him back to an old stone farmhouse with walls that were several feet thick.  The Patriarch of the family was sitting in a rocking chair.  The girl introduced Doug to her father in a rapid stream of Italian that even he, who was fairly fluent in the language, found hard to follow. To his surprise the old farmer spoke to him in English in a broad American accent.

‘Hi there, soldier.’

‘You’re American?’

‘No, but I spent twenty years in New York.’

Doug stayed with this family for several weeks. Each night he joined them for dinner.  The large family gathered around the huge wooden table in the kitchen and ate communally.  Plates of pasta in tomato sauce were placed in the centre of the table and the dinner guests helped themselves while a tureen of wine was passed around.

Doug decided to return to his unit when the ‘patriarch’ started to make hints about a marriage between him and his daughter Gina.  So he said farewell and made his way down the dirt road, away from the old farmhouse with Gina screaming and crying after him.

‘Oh, she did put on a show,’ said Doug.

I suppose she had a dream of escaping rural life and being whisked away to England by a handsome British soldier.  But she was to be disappointed because of the vow that Doug made when he joined his Commando Unit that he would never become involved romantically with a woman.  And he kept that promise until he returned to England in 1944 and met his wife.

Throughout the evening Doug addressed the staff in Italian although most of them hadn’t a clue what he was saying.  The proprietor came out to greet us warmly as I am a regular customer there.

I got my usual glass of white wine ‘on the house’.

And some more material for my novel from Doug.

Moi - looking vaguely happy for once

Burning Books

Alien to me, this landscape
I weep and bonfires of books
Burn in the middle of the street
And the sky is stubborn, mute
It will not respond to me.

All seeing- their gaze grips me
Embedded in my ear, in my eye
I have no nails to claw with
No mirror to indulge my vanity
I am their raw material

And the are moulding me
My stiffened neck, my obscured face
Are accusations. Along with the messages
On cardboard that float from the sky
‘We will never surrender!’ we cry.

Playing at Being a Secret Agent

I received a new P.I.N. for my credit card which was lost and replaced last week. I am hopeless with those things - on those grounds alone I oppose the introduction of Identity Cards. (A measure being proposed by the current government and opposed by the opposition which is rather odd considering they proposed the same measure when they were in government in 1989. Gotta love cyclical amnesia. But the assumption that we all suffer from it is quite insulting.) The accompanying letter ordered me to dispose of those top secret numbers immediately. So I ate it. I slipped the tiny piece of paper into my mouth. After all, isn't that the way spies dispose of their evidence. Unfortunately, it stuck in the throat and I stood there, discreetly choking to death in the middle of the street. It brought to mind the 'L' Pill they gave Special Operations Executive Agents in World War Two. It would have been kind of inconvenient if one of those had stuck in someone's throat.

Relinquishing the need to belong brings true freedom.

Conversing

Conversing
Originally uploaded by Marie1973.

Moi: embroiled in intense conversation. (Probably talking about the weather or something.)

Mute Witness

In the window, beyond the glass, I see
A dark silhouette moving swiftly
Amongst twisted branches as the wind
Blasts through and I sit detached

From all that turmoil. I am simply
Too delicate you see. I am not permitted
To see the grand finale, the climax
Of decades of discontent. I've chosen silence

And denial and apathy. An external storm rages
But inwardly, a moderate climate reigns
Inside my mind, it is cold you see but clear
and calm and bathed in a wintry sunlight

I am in exile, a mute witness,
A silent watcher, moving through
Fields and forests as I savour
The rancid flavour of isolation.

Poor Damaged Boys

Saw Nobby. Apparently two of those nasty little brats from the 'correction' school opposite Hanover Court decided to mug a diminutive school girl. How brave of them. Nobby rushed over to help and they ran away. What proud specimens of manhood they must be! They were later caught. I wonder what terrifying fate awaits them - poor damaged boys - diddums....my heart bleeds for them. Of course, I immediately started fearing for the fate of Bella. What if one of those little psychopaths (do you sense a somewhat illiberal tone here?) has a history of animal cruelty? Well, he won't have much of a future if he lays a finger on Bella. Can we say 'Claw hammer coming into contact with little psychopathic brat's face'. Where are crusading, socially responsible serial killers like Hannibal Lechter when you need them? (If you remember, he only killed the offensive, obnoxious and the criminal! _That_ was revealed in Hannibal!)

Insomnia strikes.
Anticipate more entries...

Startled Bella

Startled Bella
Originally uploaded by Bratcat1000.

Bella amidst the chaos of my bedroom.

As Evening Falls

Wandering through the streets
As evening falls. Museums,
Haunted houses,
Restaurants and rainy streets
Blinded by city lights

Blue to black,
Night falls swiftly in these parts
Drops like a curtain after a show
We walk into the sea
When the sun-worshippers have gone
Serenity. Like walking into pictures
Into other worlds.

Clambering over the rocks
Leaping over crevices
Waves rebounding
The moon is our witness
Transfixed, captured
Caught by the current
Night sky starless

As we await
The emergence of morning.

Birthday 'Party'

Lisa rang early yesterday to make sure I would definitely be at her birthday celebrations.  I get that a lot: phone calls from people who say, ‘You will be there, won’t you?’  And my answer phone is always jammed with messages saying ‘’Rie, if you’re there, pick up the ‘phone.’  People around me are well aware of how antisocial I am so they assume I am trying to avoid them (and usually I am).  I did go to Lisa’s birthday celebrations.  We met at The Eagle and then went back to her house for a small party.  I even managed to make myself useful by clearing a bunch of Trojans from her hard-drive.  Norton didn’t even pick them up so I downloaded AVG.  (Typical). So, Lisa’s computer is no longer (in her words) ‘poorly’.

I received a ‘phone call from my mother earlier this morning.  We discussed the differences between ‘madness’ and ‘badness’.  Mother has this rather simplistic notion that the two cannot exist within the same person.  ‘Were you ‘mad’ or ‘bad’ when you tried to kill me, Mother?  Did you know what you were doing when you wrapped your hands around my neck and squeezed so hard that I blacked out?’  I asked this question in my head, not out loud.  I was nine when this happened.

The Pseudo-Messiah has stolen something from me – a certain innocence; a conviction that now I am an adult, I can defend myself in a way that I was unable to when I was a child.

I’ll never be the same.

I’ll never be as trusting as I was before.

More Winnie the Pooh

poohballoon
Originally uploaded by louisemills.

A Central Vision

It is my fantasy and mine alone
Some dweller of my doom-ridden dreams
Conjured up in my head. Torn and wary
Of bone-breaking Vikings and seafarers
Displaced by time. Once warriors
Now redundant. Coated in layer
Upon layer of dust - time's debris
We push this ancient vessel
Into the sea.

We periodically refocus
Wrap me in ragged wreathes
A benevolent baby
Who for now
Lets its mother sleep
But sooner or later
I will awake
And realize that my kingdom
Was merely a apparition.

Melanie Phillips (Continued)

Speaking of Melanie Phillips, there is a rather fascinating character on an Internet forum I frequent. She is one of the ‘oldest members’. Awhile ago there were doubts about her gender and she was persecuted mercilessly as a result. I suspect that certain men on the forum had projected their fantasies onto her and became angry with her when it appeared that she wasn’t quite who she claimed to be. That says more about them than about her. Poor them, their dreams will never come true. I guess they’ll have to plunge into that shark pool called real life and find themselves a flesh-and-blood woman. A line from a Sinead O’Connor track pops into my head at this very moment: ‘So, you’re a fool to attack me for an image that you built yourself.’

She has a bizarre obsession with the US. Every attack on that particular nation draws a spirited defence from her. The odd thing is she lives in Paris. I wonder if she has a room in her chic Italian apartment devoted to the good old U.S. of A. Does she kneel at the foot of the Stars and Stripes every night before she goes to sleep? Does she make out with a George W. Bush blow up doll? Is it possible to fetishise an entire nation?

I must admit that I was once guilty of this myself. I fell in love with American culture and was desperate to leave home so that I could go and live in New York City. I constantly bemoaned the fact that my ‘Oirish’ grandparents didn’t have the get-up-and-go that there siblings had which drove them to move on from the armpit of the universe that is Liverpool for the New World – America, Canada, Australia. I got over this ridiculous little fetish though.

I was twelve.

This lady is twenty-four.

The Eagle

pub
Originally uploaded by Bella the Cat.

Location for Lisa's birthday gathering.

Free At Last

Enchanté, my dear, he says as he bows
Mostly for the benefit of the crowds
I grip his hand but his mind is somewhere else
I fail to reach his granite heart
He fails to see my secret places
So off he goes, elsewhere for his pleasure

Melancholy advances. I push it back.
I am at peace. I feel no anger.
I have felt no hunger for decades
I hear loud, raucous laughter
At the door. His comrades have arrived
They barely acknowledge me

The door slams shut behind them
And I free again, me again
I am left, solitary but purified
Untainted, I find myself regressing
To childhood ballet classes and I become
A prima ballerina, performing pirouettes
As I slide across the oak floor of the hall.

Melanie Phillips

As you can see from the 'links' section of this site I am a regular reader of the online diary of Melanie Phillips. She is a right-wing journalist who has changed much since her formative years when she openly classed herself as a feminist, was leftwing and believed in personal freedom at all costs. She appears to have undergone the personality transplant that frequently accompanies the ageing process. (So when precisely did she get mugged, I wonder) and has shifted to the right. She calls herself a neo-con (or a neo-conservative - there are a lot of them about these days. They are breeding like rabbits). Her political outlook is hideously simplistic, relying upon what I regard as the outdated paradigm of left versus right. Naturally, she daemonises the left, holding those who adhere to that political perspective responsible for every ill that plagues the universe. Her views are polarised - there are no shades of grey in her world and 'ambivalence' is a dirty word. She holds the left primarily responsible for anti-semitism. (Where in God's name do people get that idea? I guess she's never heard of Nazi-Germany.)

I remember when she appeared on Question Time. Another member of the panel challenged her views on Israel. Will Self asked her if she felt that her loyalties were divided between Israel and the UK. (People have asked that question to many Muslims and everyone remembers Tebbit's infamous 'Cricket Test') She replied in a voice loaded with contempt, 'You wouldn't ask such an offensive question if you were Jewish.'

Will Self responded in a voice devoid of emotion, 'Oh, but I am Jewish.'

Flustered, Phillips spluttered, 'Oh, well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself then.'

Lesson to you, Ms. Phillips, you really ought to conduct some research into the background of your fellow panalists before you appear on Question Time. Everyone and their dog, pussy cat, hamster and pet spider knows that Will Self is Jewish.

New Hat & Bag (Shopaholic)

The Gift

When she popped out
Shot out, like a champagne cork
Pale and bloody,
Uttering a harsh, inarticulate cry
Revealing a cavernous mouth
A soft,pink tongue
Looking as though
She could swallow you whole.

And her father boomed,
'That's my girl'
(Everything was so easy back then)
And the nurses squealed,
'What a beautiful baby!'
And the mother leaned
Back into the pillows,
Exhausted but gratified.

And the baby's face erupted
Into a huge red yawn
And she swallowed them all whole.

An Encounter With The Pseudo Messiah

I saw the pseudo-Messiah (i.e: Andy Lee) on the way back from this morning’s visit to my GP. When he saw me he scurried back into his flat. ‘That’s right, run away,’ I muttered with grim satisfaction.

During my consultation Dr. S. said that the way in which I am coping with the aftermath of the assault and the fire was ‘admirable’. ‘You are clearly a strong person.’ I wondered if I should destroy his delusion by declaring that I don’t particularly care what happens to me. (But hen again maybe that’s the ultimate form of sanity – recognising your own utter insignificance against the backdrop of the universe. After all, what is one life?) Or should I tell him that I have frequent fantasies of skewering the Pseudo-Messiah with the sword-stick that Doug gave me, roasting him over an open fire and serving him up to his disciples at a celebratory dinner party. Not especially admirable really.

In the end I let Dr. S. live with his delusions.

I watched Girl Interrupted for the tenth time and wondered if I could be a sociopath like the character Lisa (admirably played by Angelina Jolie).

Pret A Manger

Pret A Manger
Originally uploaded by Marie1973.

My Favourite deli!

Delectable Devil

Sipping on cherry soda
And toast
The whispers in the air
A monument for you
Statuesque, blending into a white wall
With your minions at your feet

All fall down and scream and writhe
This is when I run, I hide
But there is nothing that keeps you from me
And there is nothing to stop you
From reaching out and wrenching out
The delectable devil inside.

Tedious Documentary

Just finished viewing a tedious documentary about Houston, Texas on the subject of obesity (‘Houston, we have a problem’’Yes, it’s chronic obesity’). I’d videoed it ages ago but, due to my phenomenally fun-filled life (ha!) did not get to watch it until now. Apparently, Houston is the ‘Obesity Capital’ of America, which makes it the ‘Obesity Capital’ of the world. It consisted of a bunch of overweight people standing around whining about their predicament and wondering how they got into that position. A small clue was provided by the guy who said that he resented walking to the mail box in the morning. ‘Texas is a state that is friendly only to the car,’ said one of the interviewees.

Huh? Have they never heard of recreational walking? Call me unsympathetic but have none of those people ever heard of exercise? Or as a last resort: simply stop eating. I recommend the ‘Puke ‘n’ Lax Diet’®.

It worked for me. Too well, unfortunately

Ice Skating

Ice Skating
Originally uploaded by Bratcat1000.

More nostalgia - ice skating in NYC.

No Laughing Mask

Are your smiles merely
Distorted grimaces
I ask the laughing
Women in the street
They cling to children
With grubby cheeks
Chins scarred by scabs
With grim, crying faces
I await my little girl,
Sitting on the wall
Outside the primary
And I am thinking
That I have no right
To stand amongst
These vivacious women
For I have
No laughing mask.

The Jammy

The Jammy

(See entry entitled: Why we should boycott diamonds)

THIS really pissed me off. So now women are to blame for *this* as well. Women may receive diamonds but men buy them after all the former control less than 20% of the world's wealth.

Grrrrrr...

Oh no, posted from wrong blog...
off to slit wrists.

New Background

painting2
Originally uploaded by louisemills.

New background for new Globalnet website (which will be up and running once I get over my procrastination.)

Where Are You Now?

Where are you now?
You, who showed me your pretty, witty poems?
Where are you now?
Why did I betray you,
You who were reluctant to believe
That any passions lurked
In that dull, little, dark-haired girl
In the corner?

Where are you now?
You, who judged my poetry
Like you judged the dinner I made?
'Pas mal,' you said.

You, who judged me
As I lay like a corpse
On your bed.
You, who judged me,
Called me a housewife.
'I don't fuck the house, do I?'
I said.

Poetry Reading

Poetry reading - successful but rather unenthusiastic audience. Followed by a two hour binge but managed to dispose of the food efficiently (so much for recovery). The monster inside - bulimia - has re-emerged since the attack. I feel like disposing the contents of my stomach through the pseudo-messiah's door. (A kind of 'look what you've done' statement but God knows what he'd put through my letter box in return.

Books

Books
Originally uploaded by rielouise.

Why don't you...
Switch off the TV and go and do something less boring instead.
(Does anyone remember 'Why Don't You' which was, ironically enough, a TV programme.

Stitch By Stitch

I unpick myself - stitch by stitch
And I devolve into an uncomplicated
Ball of wool for kittens to play with
Like the leaves that fall and hover for a moment
Just above the ground before being crushed
Beneath the feet of clumsy and ungainly beings

Immortality is snatched from me,
Daily disintegration, metamorphosing
Into a shadowy spirit. I am knotted
Tangled, caught between four walls
As I rise, as I float, in the stillness
Of my parents' smoke-filled home

Still crying - these tears are welded to me
I am a swan, caught by an angler's hook
Trapped within a family. Like fish
We swim collectively. The lake is devious
Not shallow at all but deep,
Deep enough to drown in.

The Weirdest Dream

I awoke to Bella ‘grooming’ me. She was running her claws through my hair and miaowing in my ear. The little brat cat wanted her breakfast – a nice big bowl of M&S Luxury Tuna. She interrupted a bizarre dream I was having in which I was a guest a George Bush and his family in The White House. My Perfect Cousin (better not mention who I mean. But everyone has one) was living there alone, without her husband and children and was being referred to as ‘The President’s Favourite Girl’. (Well, she was everyone’s favourite girl). Bush was taking pot-shots at Michael Moore and various other ‘left-wing’ journalists from a watch tower. Many of them collapsed in pools of their own blood.

Later, I was sitting with Laura Bush discussing the ‘No Child Left Behind Programme’ and her interest in the process of teaching children to read. We were drinking Earl Grey and eating scones with jam and cream. When I mentioned that I happened to object to presidents shooting journalists, I was escorted from the White House by My Perfect Cousin at gun point. I wasn’t surprised – she always was a treacherous bitch.

Weird dream, huh? Any dream analysts out there?

Or am I simply completely nutso?

efexor

efexor
Originally uploaded by Bella the Cat.

Not the 'miracle drug' it initially appeared to be!

Unravelling

Starving myself into nothingness
I deny the nature of my plight
For I have learnt to manage my desires
Excuses float from my lips
And I focus firmly on the external


I watch the patterns in the sky
Formed by a flock of intrepid birds
Flying to warmer climes for the winter
And as rain clouds gather I believe
I have encountered enlightenment


I am unravelling
As a star falls to earth
Hunger creates a crack in my heart
The afternoon bleeds into eternity
A juxtaposition of today and yesterday


I feel my skin thinning.
Once think, now papery, fragile
I feel as though I could walk on water
But the sea is too far away
And as evenings falls black bats descend


And I guard my heart
And the universe divides
And the engine within
That keeps me going
Shudders and dies.

Panorama

Yet again Panorama had the power to distress and depress, a feature, I suppose, of good journalism. This week's episode dealt with school bullying and came to the conclusion that, ultimately, the bullies win. It assessed the so-called 'no-blame' approach that many schools are adopting and interviewed many 'experts' who agreed that this has generally been a complete failure. This approach basically involves getting the bully and the bullied together to 'talk out' their differences. Sorry, but what a laugh. As if the victim going to have the courage to talk frankly about what is distressing them when the bully is right there in the room with them. And the worst aspect of this approach is that the bully is not punished.

I was bullied (intimidated etc) at school* because I was quiet and shy and in the eyes of the other students that made me a snob. The teachers were afraid of the bullies and so failed to anything. Partially as a result of this and my home life I now suffer from a serious mental health problem. I want to track down those useless, intellectually myopic teachers who ignored what was going on, who even supported the bullies by simply telling me to ignore them and I want to ask them why. Panorama highlighted the fact that many teachers are intimidated by school bullies and my experience is certainly not unique. I was told that I should go and see an educational psychologist. I was regarded as the problem and the system favoured the perpetrators.

Although I feel immense sympathy for the children interviewed in that episode of Panorama, at least, their parents, unlike mine gave a damn. My mother blamed me. I wasn't the type to be bullied because I behaved so aggressively at home. And besides, why didn't I say anything? Because I was ashamed, mother, don't you get that? As a result of being bullied about my weight I developed anorexia and bulimia. Against all odds I did well academically and now have an MPhil and I am planning to do a PhD next year (or that famous MA in Creative writing at UEA).

I may do some research into the aftermath of school bullying. In some wonderful utopian parallel universe the bullies fail and their victims become hugely successful in adult life. I strongly suspect that in this universe it doesn't quite work out like that.

In the end, it would seem, the bullies do indeed win.

*In my secondary school. I must stress that my primary school years were nothing short of idyllic.

More 'Hideous' Shoes

Well, that's what you get when you go shopping as high as a kite!

Girl In Coffee Shop

He watches her
Sitting in the booth
Half concealed from him
Her face hidden beneath
A curtain of copper hair
A portable Purdah
Her expression obscured,
Staring into her cappuccino
She is part of a benevolent
Coffee shop universe
Untouched by catastrophe
Untainted by atrocity

But then she rises
And heads towards the door
She pauses and then runs
Out into the knife-like rain
Her copper hair grows damp
And darker. Its glow is gone
Its strands plastered down
Her skirt trails behind her
Through the mud
And he bemoans
The ephemerality
Of living things

A Name to Inspire Confidence

I was given the wrong medication by a young female locum called Dr. Watson (a name that should inspire confidence, if ever there was one). I took it anyway and spent half the morning on the 'phone, negotiating a prescrition for my usual: Zolpidem.

Needless to say, I got it.

New Shoes

Attired In Innocence

Diminutive and doleful
In my attire of innocence
You foist your vision
Of what I must be
Upon me

A lamp leads you to me
And, instantly, you become
An essential part of the recipe
That resides within me
We collide, we coincide

I am sculpted marble
With a soul without blemish
Spread out for your satisfaction
So calm, so unnaturally calm
I sail on your unseen seas

I invited you in
But I did not see the barnacles
That cling to the sides of your ship
Spear in hand, you pounce and now
Everything is on the periphery
Of your assumptions

some fucking spastic

This guy: some fucking spastic does not like 'lemons'

I'm confused. Men usually like 'lemons'. They buy videos of them in action and everything. I guess they want to join in and convert them to...um, I don't know...oranges.

Just for the record, I am not a 'lemon'. I am a strawberry.

I wonder why I felt compelled to add that :rollseyes: Link

Bella Posing

Bela Posing
Originally uploaded by Marie1973.

A sleepy and bewildered Bella

Outsiders

The scream in the night awakens me
And the talk in college halls
Of the people, dancing within,
Speaking in foreign tongues

And drunken worlds
And lovers' curls
And the parties
To which I never seem
To be invited

And the world
Of black gowns
And mortar boards
To which I
Can never belong

We, the outsiders,
Are misguided together
As we plunge through the roof,
Wasted flesh, lacerated.

My body shudders
The earth shudders
'We should be dead,'
I cry.

Fight Club

I watched Fight Club for the first time today. Brad Pitt and Helena Bonham Carter were excellent but were outclassed by the guy who played the protagonist. Alas, I am indulging in the shameful habit of downloading films. I am trying to give up, I really am. I wonder if I could start my own 'fight club'. After all, when Andy attacked me I didn't feel the pain. I'd just have to learn how to dish it out. I'd have to learn to suppress my capacity for empathy. And maybe physical pain is preferable to emotional pain.

OTOH women have their boobies and their pwetty ickle face to worry about. And I have a War Club, consisting of two members: Doug and I.

Red Wheel Kaleidoscope

Red Wheel Kaleidoscope
Originally uploaded by Bratcat1000.

Dull Dawn

In the half light
Of morning
The living room
Is a bleak landscape,
Littered with life's leftovers
A toddler's warzone
With bombarded toytowns

Shrill children awake,
Waddling on awkward
Duck feet. Tainted
By images from some
Cruel comic strip
A duel at dawn
In an imagined world

Reminder

My last entry reminded me to ask Dr. S., my GP why my own history of sexual and physical abuse is rarely mentioned in my notes. Could that possibly be because...they'd have to spend (gasp) money to undo the damage.

I say I don't need them, I say they can take their 'treatment' and shove it up any orifice of their choice but it still hurts that they feel I am somehow unworthy of it. (Whereas our Friendly Neighbourhood Psychopath - Andy Lee - has been permitted to manipulate the system for years and is allocated unlimited resources.)

Ben - the Best Teddy Bear in the whole world

Ben - the Best Teddy Bear in the whole world
Originally uploaded by louisemills.

Lyrics

Why do members of internet fora suffer from cyclical amnesia?

Del Amitri Nothing Ever Happens lyrics

Post office clerks put up signs saying position closed
And secretaries turn off typewriters and put on their coats
Janitors padlock the gates
For security guards to patrol
And bachelors phone up their friends for a drink
While the married ones turn on a chat show

And they'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Gentlemen time please, you know we can't serve anymore
Now the traffic lights change to stop, when there's nothing to go
And by five o'clock everything's dead
And every third car is a cab
And ignorant people sleep in their beds
Like the doped white mice in the college lab

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before

And we'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Telephone exchanges click while there's nobody there
The Martians could land in the carpark and no one would care
Close-circuit cameras in department stores shoot the same video every day
And the stars of these films neither die nor get killed
Just survive constant action replay

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before

And we'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Bill hoardings advertise products that nobody needs
While angry from Manchester writes to complain about
All the repeats on T.V.
And computer terminals report some gains
On the values of copper and tin
While American businessmen snap up Van Goghs
For the price of a hospital wing

Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before
Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
They'll burn down the synagogues at six o'clock
And we'll all go along like before

And we'll all be lonely tonight and lonely tomorrow

Distressing Episode of Panorama

I videoed an episode of Panorama recently and have just finished watching it. It chronicled the activities of a so-called philanthropist in the '80s. This was a man from a relatively humble background who became a millionaire and helped to transform Plymouth's run-down city-centre market into a thriving shopping centre. He was lauded in the local press and adored by the town's residents. But all was not as it seemed for this man was a paedophile. He gave young boys part-time jobs in the shopping centre. He appeared to be acting as their mentor but was, in fact, using them for his 'sexual pleasure'. He was heavily involved in a paedophile ring.

Many of the boys he abused grew up to become violent criminals. It was a judge (individuals who are often dismissed for their harsh and contemptuous attitude towards the 'dregs of society') who made the connection. He noticed that the victims of this Plymouth Philanthropist were appearing before him repeatedly. Victims turned perpetrators.

The question is this: Is their childhood sexual abuse an excuse for their present actions? But then I must ask myself if my past excuses my current behaviour. No, I don't hurt others. I hurt myself. I starve myself, I binge, I purge, I overdose. I don't cut - my scars are within. Is there a fundamental difference in the way in which men and women respond to the aftermath of childhood sexual abuse? The former turning his pain outwards and the latter turning her pain inwards. (Something many people find hard to understand, as though harming others is somehow more acceptable than harming oneself- a view I find quite bizarre). But does being victimised give one the right to victimise others in one's turn?

Undoubtedly though a hideous injustice has been perpetrated upon these men and then perpetuated by the judicial system. The police were aware of what the 'Philanthropist of Plymouth' was doing but didn't have the resources to investigate the case thoroughly when it was initially brought to their attention, thus giving the Plymouth Philanthropist and his paedophile ring the chance to abuse more boys. As a result these boys grew up to become criminals (society didn't give a damn about them, so why should they give a damn about it?). And the final injustice is that they cannot claim criminal injuries compensation because of their criminal records. The system helped create them and then it tossed them away. Even the judge interviewed in the documentary acknowledges this.

And, as always, no one is held accountable.

Trees

trees2
Originally uploaded by rielouise.

Scrawling to pass the time.

Transparency

I am transparent
Like the paper people
Made out of tracing paper
Cut out by the careless
Hands of small children
There is no blood, no bone,
In me and others are able to see
My ephemerality
I am pale and wan
Like a bare tree
In the last days of winter
Set against the luminescence
Of the other guests at the
Christmas ball

Phone Call

After a tres stressful week involving members of a certain forum which shall (for the time being) remain nameless I received a 'phone call from Aaron (soon to be added to that promised Cast section. I met Aaron at a Christian student group way back in the late '90s. He's been a faithful friend ever since. I was the first person he came out to, even though my 'gaydar' had detected that long ago. He too had read about the fire in the local paper and wondered 'if it had anything to do with me'. Oddly enough I found that question rather amusing. He was also worried about my reaction to the pope's death.

There is one bone of contention between us though - his weight. He suffers from the little recognised eating disorder - Binge Eating Disorder. Once, in the throes of purging anorexia, I wrote in my diary: 'Anorectics are pitied, binge eaters are scorned and bulimics are simply ignored.' I have suffered from all three of those disorders. I do not scorn Aaron. I am genuinely concerned about him. It's as though he is insisting upon committing slow suicide - by eating himself to death and resisting any help offered to him. He has compromised his system to such an extent that he is susceptible to every infection going around. And I am supposed to stand back and watch. Maybe it's time for what psychologists call 'tough love' . Having an addiction does not absolve a person of taking responsibility for their own health.

Or maybe I'm the pot and he's the kettle.

Dying Daffodil

Dying Daffodil
Originally uploaded by Bella the Cat.

Because why should those in full bloom get all the attention and admiration.

I Came

I came

But was driven away

By their hostility

 

For the elite is enmeshed

By a glittering cage that is

Impossible to penetrate

 

A white column,

A woman, I think

She watches me

With a kind of

Vague envy

 

‘Your words are ridiculous

And meaningless,’

She spits.

‘We don’t want to eat your poison’.

 

The rain

Runs down my body

And cools my skin

Someday, I’m sure,

Someone will take me in.

'Husband don't know what he's done

Kids don't know what's wrong with Mum

They can't say and she can't say

Putting it down to another bad day.'

Inspiral Carpets.

I knew it was too good to be true. Efexor – the magic drug, the miracle drug, the drug that enabled me to live on an existential island. (Sorry, Donne, a (wo)man can be an island and I was one until my miracle drug started losing its potency.)

I found a support group on the net for 'abuse victims' or 'survivors', as they prefer to call themselves. Fake it till you make it, as they say. Unfortunately, I encountered a certain person I'd known from another support group. Apparently, he was the epitome of evil although, frankly, I have seen and read and heard worse. So, no refuge there then.

Or maybe I should avoid making premature judgements.

My Ethereal World

R.E.M.

This articulates how I am feeling at the moment, after having heard that Andy may have goen to court this week. No one bothered to tell me what the verdict was and I don't have the nerve to find out…

"Final Straw"

As I raise my head to broadcast my objection
As your latest triumph draws the final straw
Who died and lifted you up to perfection?
And what silenced me is written into law.

I can't believe where circumstance has thrown me
And I turn my head away
If I look I'm not sure that I could face you.
Not again. not today. not today.

If hatred makes a play on me tomorrow
And forgiveness takes a back seat to revenge
There's a hurt down deep that has not been corrected.
There's a voice in me that says you will not win.

And if I ignore the voice inside,
Raise a half glass to my home.
But it's there that I am most afraid,
And forgetting doesn't hold. it doesn't hold.

Now I don't believe and I never did
That two wrongs make a right.
If the world were filled with the likes of you
Then I'm putting up a fight. I'm putting up a fight.
Putting up a fight. make it right. make it right.

Now love cannot be called into question.
Forgiveness is the only hope I hold.
And love- love will be my strongest weapon.
I do believe that I am not alone.

For this fear will not destroy me.
And the tears that have been shed
It's knowing now where I am weakest
And the voice in my head. in my head.

Then I raise my voice up higher
And I look you in the eye
And I offer love with one condition.
With conviction, tell me why.
Tell me why.
Tell me why.
Look me in the eye.
Tell me why.

So, I Never Made It to Rome

So, I never got to see the pope’s funeral after all, only filtered through the television screen. No substitute for Rome though, The pope’s death brought back a lot of memories. Of my childhood in my primary school which was nothing short of idyllic. Getting a 150 RQ when I was ten.

‘They say she was something

In those formative years….’

Tori Amos

A nun driving us to France in a bright red mini-bus, walking up the hill from the school tothe church, And then that secondary school which was nothing short of hell. And the first person I confided in about my eating issues – a priest, who was, believe it or not helpful.

And then there was the sexual abuse. Not from anyone to do with the church but from a young man on my street. I remember reading an account of the canonisation of a young seven year old girl who fought off her attacker so valiantly he killed her. I didn’t do that. I did the usual. I co-operated. This made me sob uncontollably at my GP’s desk. Why didn’t I fight harder?

And the pope is STILL dead.

And I wonder if he noticed my absense in the crowd.

Disney Store

Disney Store
Originally uploaded by Bratcat1000.

A visit to one of my favourite shops.
('I don't 'do' multinationals': an ex boyfriend. Oh, yeah, well where do you think the components in your 'future-proof' computer came from? Gotta love hypocrisy.)

Spiritual Purity

Every cell,
Every part of me
Strains toward a kind
Of spiritual purity
Particles packed together
Protected by a membrane
A microscope descends
Light passes through me
And all my secrets are revealed

You magnify me
Saying that my structure
Embodies fragility
But that you are the architect
Of this situation
There is no escape
I am thinly diced
And distributed
To the party guests

Just Embarked on the Road to Hell

I tried to pay my respects to the Pontiff, I really did. I even tried to book a flight out there, but, no,....NO FLIGHTS. I suppose It's all worked out in the end. GOD decided that I was never going to Rome. So when do I get payback for that time when my parents took me as a very small child to 'see the pope'. Now a child often interprets that term as 'see the pope, talk to him, be the envy of my friends'. But,no,for me, as a seven year old, I took these statements literally. And I was very disappointed that all I got to see was a white speck in the distance. (Another intervention from the deity. Oh, Well, Thanks a Bloody Lot Oh Deity!

Going...to...Hell...

Me in Happier Times

meinyeah2
Originally uploaded by louisemills.

Me in New York City in 2002 - a bit of nostalgia for you there.

Testing BlogJet

I have installed an interesting application - BlogJet. It's a cool Windows client for my blog tool (as well as for other tools). Get your copy here: http://blogjet.com

"Computers are useless. They can only give you answers." -- Pablo Picasso

After Death

(Originally published on Usenet and dedicated to Sarah C R.I.P.)

Numbed.
Initially
But anger soon arrives
Always unwelcome
A corrosive sensation
And our entire bodies
Scream in unison, 'Why'
A howl  is ripped from us
And rushes through the night
And flies through the universe
And reaches you
And you are finally aware
Of what you meant to us

Playing Catch-Up IV

Friday passed relatively peacefully apart from the visit from the insurance assessor. Doug turned up unexpectedly to act as a witness for me. But to be honest, he made the whole thing look rather dodgy. 'My goodness, Doug, what are you doing here?' At one point the assessor asked me how the fire started. How in Hades should I know? I felt like telling him I'd nipped up there and started the fire myself just to get new stuff. Instead I said (demurely), 'I have my suspicions but to voice them would leave me open to accusations of slander* so I'd best keep them to myself.'

*as opposed to libel on here!

Burnt Out Flat

Burnt Out Flat
Originally uploaded by Bella the Cat.

As of yesterday

Disrobe

Darkness descends and we disrobe
Our roles are our attire
And now we have no need for them
What we say is not what we are
The image we present is just a facade
Why don't we permit ourselves to be real?
Why don't we permit oursleves to live?

I am healing now
The day is done
I stand beneath the clouds
Letting them rain on me and
My Grandmother's ghost grasps my hand
We share our spirits and our souls
We will flee this chaotic land
And we will reign together

Playing Catch Up III

Having said all that I shall resume the summary of my week:
(if only to break the monotony of insomnia)

On Thursday I abused my prescription pills again - not all of them - just the hypnotic: Zolpidem. Not advisable, people. (Hence the insomnia and the rather incoherent entry on that day). And, as always, I lived to regret it. I had conducted substantial research into my father's current ailments and has discovered that, in very rare cases, an aortic aneurism can be post-traumatic. My father was mugged and quite badly assaulted recently and it occurred to me that this could be the cause. I rang my mother up and she dismissed my suggestion out of hand. She is a nurse after all and is therefore omniscient. I was, admittedly, in a rather excitable state. I told her that she should at least consider the possibility because, if the assailant is apprehended, he could be charged with a more serious crime. She continued to dismiss what I thought was quite a constructive suggestion. She resorted to ridicule and the whole conversation degenerated into an argument which concluded with my slamming the 'phone down. (Metaphorically speaking, as I have a cordless 'phone so rather than slamming it down I pressed the 'disconnect' key which doesn't sound quite as dramatically satisfying.)

She left a message on my telephone later, asking me to 'ring her back'. I didn't.

So all in all, not a terribly productive day. Let that me a lesson to you..I mean, to me..to whoever.

More later.

(Is that a 'Please God, no,' I hear?)

Burnt Pages

Burnt Pages
Originally uploaded by Bella the Cat.

Poignant remnants of the fire, scattered across the grass.

God's Eyes

I feel God's eyes upon me
I walk through the light
Into the night
I am sucked into a dark
And silent sea
I confront the dawn with empty eyes
And a dead heart
I hear Him whisper,
'This is how it must be'.

The Pope's Passing

In case you've been residing on another planet the pope has passed on. I regret his passing. (Mourn is the wrong word - how can you mourn someone you don't personally know). I am a lapsed Catholic. I was so devout at one point that I seriously contemplated becoming a nun. Many people on a certain forum I frequent are wondering why the news is being given such extensive coverage when millions of people on the planet are suffering as a result of various catastrophic events. Well, guess what, guys, I feel the same when a politician dies or a member of the Royal Family. And I certainly felt that way when 'Saint' Diana died.

I have read extensively about Karol Wojtyla's life and his remarkable activities in WWII made him an 'asset to the human race' in themselves.

Peter (ex chav)

peter (ex chav)
Originally uploaded by louisemills.

My brother many years ago. He now has a Comp Sci degree and is a web developer. Such a no hoper :rollseyes:

Decorative Doll

Dressed in heavy sweaters
Dressed for the cold
I stand still - a decorative doll
You drape yourself around my shoulders
The answers lie in your hands

You will not relinquish me
You pledge your sincerity
You vow to cherish and defend me
From ghosts and from trolls
How can I leave? How can I escape?

I invoke an hypnotic incantation
A magical potion, a magical notion
I petition the Gods as your arms
Become ever more tightly wrapped around me
Then they fall away suddenly

As I kick back, I hit back
And now my protector
Turned predator becomes
A part of the swirling dust
At ground level and I smile
And say 'Good riddance.'

Playing Catch Up II

Back to the events of last week. In bite-sized pieces because my screwed-up concentration span can't cope with much more. I was supposed to go to Lisa's on Tuesday to look at her computer because, according to her, it is 'poorly'. Don't anthropomorphise computers - they hate it! How many times have you heard that before? But she read about the fire in the local paper and came over to visit me instead. She took me out to dinner at The Globe. We had a little argument - about theology, as usual. But we made it up. As she left my flat we saw Andy approaching. She ushered me back inside. 'Why did you do that?' I asked. 'I'm not going to let that man dictate when I can walk down my own steps.'

'I don't particularly want to see him,' she said.

On Wednesday my mother rang. Apparently my father is dying. Well, he is and he isn't. He has an aneurism in his aorta and a shadow on his lung. It sounds almost poetic. 'I'm worried about him.'

Huh? Is this the same woman who spent my entire childhood bemoaning his very existence, condemning him for being an alcoholic bastard and wishing death upon him so she could collect the insurance money.

I pointed this out to her and she called me heartless.

'Pot, kettle, black,' was my 'heartless' response.

More later...

I'm Doomed

trrrrttt2
Originally uploaded by rielouise.

Yet more evidence of my 'inner chav' - a Pooh Pencil case...a tool of Satan, designed to hold...well...pencils.

New Born (Concluded)

New Born II

Newborn

In the midst of May you came
We were as one, seeking the sun
Awaiting the cock's crow, the streams flow
Over bristling, frosty land. Milky clouds
Over still and silent cattle, glory-bound
Before the daylight becomes faded, jaded
Across a calm sea, a quiescent ocean

Your tears- each droplet - glistening gold
You emit guttural but glorious sounds
I elevate you to my lips to drink
That surge of emotion. I am at one
Within and without, the heart and the flesh
This deep river was born
To be in motion

I whisper worthy words
Into your ear. I command
You yield. I caress
You seek sensation
More than meaning, retreating
Rhetoric. You are mortal, alive
Not battery-operated. No need to wind

Your clear eye, a cloudless sky
A wholly exquisite fact
But it still does not satify
I need to fill it, to replenish it
With brilliance. I contemplate
The spring snowfall, the prospect
Of a monarch's crown, of future renown

A land in which idols
Are exalted and illustrious
This should be my inner landscape
Not these distraught,
Dark and troubled thoughts
My desecrated domain invades
Devoid of dreams

Playing Catch Up

It seems I am playing Catch Up once again. Yes, Sunday was a fine evening to round off a apocalyptic weekend but unfortunately, Monday came around again. The fire made the local paper. I rang mother up to tell her about it. She expressed sympathy for my (hopefully former) neighbour. Oh, mother, if only you had been that sympathetic towards me when I was ill. Kind of topsy-turvey. You can muster up sympathy for a complete stranger but none for your own daughter. There were calls to make - to the insurance company etc. One of my computers and my mini-disc player is completely screwed. And the books I had just purchased from Amazon have lost their new and shiny look although I doubt I shall be reimbursed for them as there is a £50 excess charge.

There are some things that simply cannot be insured.