Drunk

My stars come down to my cheeks.
I paint my face,
darkness in my eyes and hope in my ears.
Blood dripping slowly from the world.

I know you. 
I know you through these restless vapours
I know you through the paint
the smell of people, the stink of them.

Did you think they smelled like magnolias?
No, darling, they smell like vomit
They didn't tell you that did they, at school
Or even at your deathbed.

I hear those beads.
I hear turqouise beads clashing like snow
setting off sparks of blue
I never forgot them, I didn't.

I am sorry I did, your beautiful pale face
trying to be polite, trying so hard
but I hate it when you are polite.

Be terrible. Be like a fifty foot
tall wave that destroys. I don't 
love you. No one does. 
Love doesn't exist. But nature does.

 

drinkingbardrunkillustrationpubillustratortomerhanuka-bc0247b9654217c73bd3d700c417d33f_h

I have written this while drunk. I went out to a party. And I felt what I always feel after getting drunk – rage. I was ‘snarked’ to by a person. While trying to help another person who was ill. In that moment I wished all the dogs of hell after her, I wished for storm and rage and the black, black seas to drown her. We become so narcissistic when drunk. The only smell I really associate with being drunk is a sour smell of dried vomit. And sweat.

And now I’m writing this the morning after. To be fair, I don’t think I was being very helpful to the ill person, I was busy being engaging, funny, and interesting in my ‘quirk 5000’ disguise. I don’t like myself when I am drunk, I become the  worst caricature of every girl who has ever been drunk in a mainstream film. I’m having fun in the moment, but it acts as a false bridge to other people. And once it fizzles out, all the goodwill and the good-natured part of me that bursts to life on drops of gin, I feel very angry.

Which is when I wrote the things above. They’re not very good. They’re shit. I think because I was consciously trying to be poetic. Also because it wasn’t a very good night. It didn’t provide much for dramatic or poetic potential. It was just dull. A little depressing. But then all things of the night seem depressing in daylight.

I’ve written loads of stuff while drunk, though nothing good enough to turn me into an alcoholic. I find that drunk writing is propped rather heavily by one feeling, usually sentimentality. I find that strain running through all of my drunk writing. Even through the one, and only, drunk text I have ever sent. Thankfully it wasn’t too embarrassing objectively, but to me it was intensely so. Sentimentality is uncomfortable. Revealing things is distasteful. And I think that’s the point, drunkenness takes the fine point away from intentions and emotions and leaves them lying in broad, mingling, primitive pools of slime.

Here’s something I wrote in a club last year in October. I was astonishingly out of it, standing in the midst of people, typing away at my phone.

 

I was with some people in a club standing next to them texting and when I looked up I was with a completely different set of people. People replace people so fast. Everyone I’ve ever know is mediocre, with normal houses and families and normal aspirations. I become a more gregarious person when I drink. What I really am I is melancholy. You feel as if you can do anything. You feel sad, desperate. All these people around you to forget. We shouldn’t have to forget. Heady heady feeling rushing to our heads we should rush each other. Rush to do the extraordinary. Rush to become what we are not. Every sinew will scream against it but do it, darling. Do the chit chat and do the impossible. Because you can. Because it doesn’t  matter. Because the auto correct on your phone works. Because despite being barely able to stand you are typing this down. Because I love you, this other part of me that transcends things. That cries for me. Never let me go because you keep me and you make me sane. Oh darling I feel you beside me in the cold. Please stay with me forever.
Red light on their faces and everyone is so happy. I wish they would remain like this forever. I apologise. These faces frozen in that red light. Would that be how they want to be immortalised? Distant voices saying drunken things. That’s all that’s left. I can’t do this anymore, it makes my head hurt. I cannot pretend. Singing high and pure, alone, that is how I want to be remembered. A strain of voice unafraid and pure, transcending us all. Something bigger than us keeping us stable. My voice in time. Frozen in the red like theirs.

 

Now this is – I don’t know what this is. It has some soaring rhetoric edged with a kind of ecstatic, almost religious, pleading. It’s terrible because it’s so clumsy in what it does, it knows that it’s clumsy and it’s pretending to be good writing when it’s not. It’s actually trying to be the kind of writing it thinks people might read and might be moved by. It’s an imposter. It clings and draws away, runs through sentences headlong and arrives in a clumsily executed skid. The tense is also strange, it starts off as if I’m relating an experience, and then it becomes into the experience, so the writing an active part of the situation and the writer turned into something very similar to a documentary filmmaker.

But you don’t really hate what you end up writing. Even though it makes one cringe, even though it’s terrible – and believe me, I am not one to quibble over writing styles and format, to each their own – there is something in there. There is something I am ashamed and proud of, there is the unabashed inebriation. I have written a thousand words trying to explain my drunk feelings, but that paragraph is it.

Illustration by Tomar Hanuka, find him at thanuka.com

 

Inside

I’ve been feeling strange recently. It’s summer so I’m home for a bit. My dog has started acting hostile towards me. My head hurts all the time and I feel crushed with some massive invisible weight. I think it’s the weight of all the future. It’s just so daunting, that way, that trek to reach the threshold you’ve set for yourself and I just can’t stop thinking about how much time it’ll take me, how hard it will be, all the horrid, grimy little details.

My mind wanders off in strange unsettling directions. Violence. Xenophobia. I suddenly no longer recognise the world I live in. It changes like the weather, and why do we develop feelings of trust if human beings, collectively, change like the weather? 

Sideways and onward, hitting walls and splitting bones

we move like a juggernaut crushing

ether, nails, and fists that make cornerstones

everything the air the sides of the invisible

crusting over

with hands grasping climbing choking blocking

thousands and each other and grasping their own throats

circle

circle

everywhere and nowhere

we sink and we rise

though fit to be despised

 

Everything I write seems to be of a sour colour and I’m finding it harder and harder to keep my head above everything. 

Who I want to be

Underlined and no longer inside

Room

 

014-daisuke-yokota-theredlist

 

When she woke up there were strands of hair everywhere. There was a moment of wild panic as she straightened things out in her mind, and then collapsed back into bed. Her eyes stared up listlessly, coated with a dull film.

There were times when I read books about adventure, when I explored forests on my bike.

Her room was a jumble of things that frightened her. She would count the number of boxes it would take to sort everything out, to pack everything in and it would number in thousands. Small boxes for the rocks and shells and a giant one for her bed. Sometimes before she fell into a restless sleep she would see the lid come down neatly over her in her bed. A rubber hot water bottle lay next to her bed within arm’s reach. It was a wobbly and fleshy pink, like the inside of some innocent young animal. There were no pictures of people in her room, only lonely and bleak landscapes. Hope to her was forever a forbidden drug, and hope to her was a deep and encompassing sorrow. It wasn’t truly sorrow, it was sorrow and anger and a cruel pleasure all mixed up together.

I shaved my head when I was seventeen and my mother said what if it never grows back?

A stuffed pig lay next to her. She called it Maurice. She had stopped answering texts, emails, calls, letters. Everything had been stopped months ago. The front door was battered but silent as she lay in a nest of glossy hair. The wardrobe was shut but there were sounds coming from inside it – like slow, deep breathing.

Father is in the wardrobe, curled and powerless. He speaks in Morse and he cannot understand anything. He gets violent and bangs on the walls around him sometimes, but they are too strong. He screams, less and less frequently. He mostly runs on the spot inside the wardrobe now. There is a yellow lamp in the corner which he gazes at and croons to.

She watched him with regret sometimes, connected to him by some primal thread. They looked into each other’s eyes and saw other lives reflected back.

A girl I knew told me once that if you tore a little bit off a butterfly’s wings it would fly faster.

She had never known pain, she just thought she had. The things she created shone dully, peering through black cobwebs.

 

25 Candles (of Mind Numbing Disappointment) Playlist

  1. High and Dry – Radiohead

 

This is how I start my day. Well this is how I start the enjoyable part of my day. My day actually started at 6AM when I was woken up by people who sounded mad with enthusiasm and happiness and wished me a happy birthday. Listening to them talk made me want to slowly disappear into my duvet and preferably die by becoming one with it. So I am now lying in bed in the pose made famous by murdered people with chalk outlines in a defiant protest against life and birthdays.

2. Fake Plastic Trees…and also Fade Out – Radiohead

High and Dry has done the trick. I feel a little pumped. The Bends is a great album and I go on to Fake Plastic Trees, which is soaring and enveloping despite its disconsolate content. But luckily I love extremely sad music. Sometimes I listen to the sound of tears streaming down people’s cheeks. Fade Out and we are moving into bleak – but beautiful – territory. Great birthday material – except, obviously, for all the beauty of the song. That’s the very opposite of what birthdays are made of and represent.

3. Crown of Love – Arcade Fire

Sad. Sad. Sad. But really grand sadness. I would like my sadness to be announced by orchestras and guitars. I imagine a camera overhead gently turning and slowly zooming down to my body. Corpse attitude indie shot. They will probably put that on a motivational poster for hipsters now.

4. Disco 2000 – Pulp

Because I recently saw a list it was on along with the Arcade Fire song above. I wonder what life means and why he couldn’t be with Deborah.

5. Blue Monday – New Order

80s electronic music is the best. I felt this was the logical move after Pulp.

6. Love Will Tear Us Apart – Joy Division

Joy Division. I love them. If you think that this song is heartbreakingly sad then you should not listen to any more Joy Division. This is actually medically verified. This song is a unicorn jumping through a rainbow while a child caresses a buttercup on the other side compared to the rest of their songs. I have reached an impasse now which will result in one of two ways – either I will survive the end of this playlist or I will end up killing myself. Do I listen to more Joy Division today? Do I risk the Russian roulette of the effects it will have, coupled with birthday blues? Or do I back down and listen to some Smiths and gently move on to Suede or something?

I put on some Lemonhead.

Oh, did you think this was going to be a playlist containing 25 songs? No. I wanted to selfishly pass on my disappointment to my readers. Now we are miserable together (say that in a drawn out-children speaking in unison voice)