Note Archive: Writing

Skull Session

“[Fashion] shapes our bodies and the way we look at other people’s bodies. It can enable creative freedom to express alternative identities, or dictate what is deemed beautiful and acceptable.” 1


Ahead I look, and my gaze is met by two glassy eyes that pierce back more ferociously than I expect. The focus narrows, and pupils dart along the curves of my body: its rounder bits, its nooks and crannies, and its surface marked with blemishes galore. These eyes dissect my outfit, hairstyle and preening choices. I go to button my shirt to the top, as I am surveyed in one gulping stare.

I want to be treated as more than a conquest, as more than a body to ogle and possess, and so I let the fabric drop a little looser until it barely skims the skin beneath. I begin the elaborate game I’ve perfected over many years. I cover up to deflect unwanted attention and choose flat shoes to reassure myself that I can dance away with added haste if it doesn’t work. I belt in and layer garments where needed. I ritually remove anything that is deemed to undermine my worth – anything that, this week, I’m told is conspiring to make us wholly unloveable. I crop my hair and paint black lines along my eyes. For too long, my body has been something that has been mocked, manipulated, despised and bridled. So I ready myself to battle through the fleshy experiences that today’s world serves up.

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Beaumont

I stand out upon the balcony, blistering darkness still permeating my vision. The morning air holds still, cold but gentle, as it whistles silently alongside my ear. My head pounds, weary from the night long gone. Flickering flashbacks roll along the skyline, like a broken television set in someone else’s dream. Somewhere behind, careful breaths pace the quiet brown study my mind has fallen pray to. In and out, in and out; a reminding shiver along an otherwise lonely spine.

Suddenly, through the distant valley, a sun ray cracks the dark void, scattering my loose illusions into dust. I stand still, filling my lungs with fresh morning dew. My eyes wander, watching the light rise and caress the desolate mountaintop before me.


Every so often, I become bored of texting the simple “hi, how are you?” to my friends. This is what Kaylea received some time ago. She told me I should be writing novels shortly after. I think she liked it.

Awaken

Awaken! Gentle soul,
Too long you have slept,
Beneath bright stars and moonlight,
Time trickles to the next,
Ah! Fair wanderer,
Breathe deeply you are told,
For lost is but a place,
Where dustry dreams can unfold.

Lost, Reward If Found

I was digging through some old photos today and found this little one of a jacket I used to own. Beautiful was it, with its black & taupe panelling, elbow patches (yes!), large pockets and tartan lining. One of those rare finds, which you can’t seem to pass up despite the money and it not being your usual thing.

You take it home, dig out one of those antiquated padded hangers reserved for delicate garments and special items from lost relatives. You stare longingly at it, hesitantly shrug it onto your shoulders and strut around your room like you’re Freddie Mercury, wary of taking it into the big bad world. You begin forming a strange attachment, guarding it from possible pain and trauma, using it on only rare occasions… and one day, a friend asks to borrow it. Carefully, she knows how you feel.

Then it happens. A dark night, a chill in the air, a little too much tipple and vamoose! Into the dust of the darkness it disappears, swept into an underworld of lies and deceit.

You hear the news and like a scorned lover, you sigh heavy defeat; imagining scenes of it parading on less idyllic shoulders, hugging the curvature of another body and oblivious to your mourning. Your poor dear friend, mortified at the occurrence, finds a replacement, buys you flowers and very sweetly makes amends. You’re thankful that she cares – and the new jacket is warmer, simpler and still tartan inside. Time passes and your loss stings less, yet some days, you can’t help but think of that special, irreplaceable charm that the original held.

That, with a few artistic embellishments, is the tale of this little jacket. Thankfully, blogging in the past means that photographs of our time together exist, not relegating it to fading memories. One day I will create a replicate, with bells and whistles to make it more mine and infinitely better. For now, I shall have to look upon these pictures with idle hope, exhale a wistful sigh and slowly move on.

Our Empty Vessels

An oldie, but ambiguous enough to still work. Written as the prelude to the Hypochondria of the Heart project.

Beginnings


As the last wilts of the old year fade, we begin.

We begin,
From the deepest crevices of our cores,
From the ashes of our thoughts,
From our emotions and our lives.

We begin,
Because we cry and scream,
And laugh and smile,
And every aspect of our human being craves relief.

We begin, because we cannot hold on any longer.
We begin, because we must.