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.


Jon, Michael, Maria




Blood in the sand behind you there is blood in the sand

Are you dragging it or is it dragging you?

Over rocks and jagged stones

Under water and through hot, molten stones

A severed head you carry, a severed head

To rival your own, so pale, so proud

(so ugly, so wracked with lies and deceit)

Eyes rolled up within yellow sclera

Set in waxy skin

A sick tongue protrudes from its shrunken mouth

Whose words does it say, tell me whose words does it say

Does it say what you mean it to say

Or do you say what it means you to say

Oh dearie dear my dear you have fallen into such a trap

One such as will never release you (no, never)

Snapped up, you have been snapped up

By ghosts and devils

By lunches and revels

By hearts

By people

By perfect stones and betting kneelers


I have decided to include drawings in my blog posts. This will be a difficult and at times vexing endeavour as the only camera I possess is the one attached to my phone and it leaves much to be desired.

I was on my way somewhere some nights ago when I saw a girl with strange hair. All of her hair was black except a substantial bit on the front. That was white. It looked very cool and I’ve tried to recreate her below. This is a drawing instead of a photograph because I didn’t want to sit there and take a photograph of her. The prospect made me recoil. She reminded me of a conversation I once had with a person in which he told me about a girl he saw on a train who had dyed her hair in a flame gradient. He seemed to be very enamoured of her and wouldn’t stop speaking about her. He brought her up two more times on separate occasions with an average gap of ten days (but I can’t be sure) between the three events. I had already heard him speak about her so I told him to stop but he just looked at me with some facial expression that I was too exhausted to decipher.


I am not in the same, slightly ethereal mood I was in when I wrote the last posts. I feel precise and meticulous while writing this. Thus this end will be abrupt but neatly cut.

Orange Lights in Blue

When I was a kid my dad made me run. I remember grey roads with trees on either side and I remember the smell of grass, a sharp tang when it’s freshly cut. I didn’t take to it. He was a sprinter at university and I remember all his medals dangling and chiming together. I could taste the metal whenever I looked at them. ‘Gold’ but it wasn’t gold. They were all bronze, just painted a different colour. I was never an athletic child. I was ambivalent towards it and I never cared for it as passionately as some people I know do. As I grew up I noticed that I had started expressing a liking for several ‘sporty’ activities and I realised that it was because of my dad. He never spoke very much, not even to my mother and the physical activities felt like one of the only things that tethered us. I’ve known for a long time that I don’t know who he is. If he ever reads this I think that will make him sad. But it’s true.

I have started running. I do it for the pain. I do it until each step is painful but I keep going. Look at the sky. Look at the ground, at my moving feet. It feels like the only thing that exists when I’m doing it. I do it until I want to scream, until drawing breath is painful, until I can’t think of anything but the pain. That’s when I grit my teeth and will it back. I push it back, straining against it and fighting it. And then I stand and let the light relief of resting limbs flood back like a river coursing through my entire body.

A blue haze engulfs me in the middle of the street.

WP_20150608_003I took this picture while on my run today. That is how I felt while running. Those are the colours that I felt.

There are no people when you are running. No faces to puzzle over, no feelings to decipher. No monitoring your face, what you say.

Just pure physical pain that you need to conquer.

Just one step after another. On and on. Fighting.

The Teardrop

I watched Closer for the first time when I was eleven years old. I realise now that it wasn’t an entirely appropriate film for an eleven year old to watch, but I watched it when it was playing on TV and that was a time when I thought that observing characters in books, films and other media would help me understand them better. I still do that but I understand that that isn’t really reliable. I remember being fascinated and frightened by all the complex, often dark drama that was happening in Closer and how nobody seemed to be ‘good’ in the traditional sense. Except Natalie Portman’s character. But I didn’t really interpret her as ‘good’, I saw her as someone caught up in these things, someone innocent. I ignored the ambiguity of her later scenes in the film and the uneasiness they caused at the time. This photograph of her taken by another character was one of my favourite scenes in the film. I remember being struck by how beautiful the potential of that photograph was. A single, pure teardrop running down her cheek.

But I’m looking at it now and I don’t see the teardrop. That disappointed me. To me the poignancy of that scene and of her character depended on the presence of an imaginary tear that I created. That’s so strange. I wonder what that says about me.

Ghost Wisps of Nylon

I recently went to see an exhibition of the work of an artist called Do Ho Suh (I am unsure whether I should put a hyphen between ‘Do’ and ‘Ho’ or not, but it seems that his name can be spelt both ways)

It was an installation of his version of a part of his home in New York done in fabric (Nylon, if I remember correctly). It is satisfyingly detailed in its sparseness and striking once you’ve examined it. Because it does need examination for a full appreciation of its effectiveness. For example, I looked at it through the doors and had an immediate impression of disappointment. But there’s something magical and otherworldly about it once you’ve walked around it. It is essentially a corridor of fabric hanging in a white room. It is out of place and disconnected and mysterious. When someone opens the doors and the fabric moves, you get a sense of transience. As if the whole thing is not real and is fading into nothingness. I feel a slight hesitance in referring to this part of his work as ‘sculptures’ because I feel it is too solid a word for these desolate sheets of translucent colours. I found a picture of it where you can see the door knob which was something that I particularly liked for some reason.

I have since then looked into his work and found out that he creates many different types of artworks, but these are the ones that I find most appealing and moving.

This staircase, for instance, is so surprising. It is so beautiful in its simplicity. The red is just right and is not jarring to the eye. It is both alien and familiar. Like finding yourself in a vast, strange city at nighttime.

Saut Dans le Vide

           File:Le Saut Dans le Vide.jpg

I found this photograph yesterday. It is a photograph of a French artist called Yves Klein who was born in 1928 and died in 1962. It made such an impression on me because it reminded me of a recurring dream I used to have. Actually, it was more lucid. I imagined myself hurtling through a large window, the glass shattering with a clear sound with the impact of my body. Powdery glittering fragments suspended in the air and everything; everything, bright colours, books, wood, reflected exquisitely clearly in the broken shards of glass hanging frozen around me. I am grey and muted, but the reflections are clear and brilliant. As I am typing this, I realise that this may appear to be related to death and suicide. It is not. I think it is only a highly visualised desire for freedom that I was feeling at the time. And not exactly freedom. Flight. Freedom from the constant pull of the Earth, a little respite from the all the people and their thoughts and the burden of their wants and dreams.

The person riding a bicycle away from us, oblivious to this act. Did he just happen to go by or was he meant to be a part of the photograph?

I love the curve of his body, the way his legs arch. One gets the feeling that he will never fall down. He must stay like that, in the midst of his leap, for us. For us to feel free. And I remember that he is in Paris, he is hanging there in a different light. Softer, golden and light brown. Green trees. Bright French green. The smells of smoke and flowers and food rising around him. All within that photograph, even if we can’t sense it. Captured and trapped in it.

I am awed by it.