laced with weirdness

Sitting on busses thinking about them falling over. I'm leaving Dorset soon so I've found myself doing things like buying cups of 'dorset tea' and entire 'dorset apple cake's to eat on busses which travel across the county. I want to go to the seaside.

So I've been endlessly reading feminist internet thought streams, which have made me happy. I think some of them, for example an article on Queer Theory, may have been written by my brother, but this could be entirely wrong. It's an assumption based on his favorites and the name John. Have a look here: http://www.gender-agenda.org.uk/discuss/169/dualism-dilemmas/

I'M GOING TO CONUSE YOU.

I brought Stornoway's album, Beachcomber's Windowsill today. Good name. Brilliant music.

Here is a poem I found in a book by Sharon Creech who I happen to think is an awesome writer. The book is called 'Love That Dog'.

APRIL 26

Sometimes
when you are trying
not to think about something
it keeps popping back
into your head
you can't help it
you think about it
and
think about it
and
think about it
until your brain
feels like
a squashed pea.

....

I LOVE IT!


'REALITY IS DIVINE'

In other news, I have discovered for myself Pier Paolo Pasolini. If someone wanted to lure me into dark and mysterious places they'd just have to tell me something about him was there. I'm crazy about him, at this moment in time. Obviously I don't know if I still will be in a second, let alone tomorrow. But right now, this gorgeous being is totally rocking out.

Here's a scene from a movie called Teorema which he wrote and directed: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRfOa8MiUS8

His homosexuality makes me happy.

He wrote:

'I lived... that page of a novel... the only one in my life:
otherwise, [what can I say]
I have lived inside a lyric poem, like every obsessive'

Inside... Not lived A lyric poem, but lived INSIDE one. Like inside a box. A box of poetry. Words entangled like vines all over, beautiful lyrics framing your life.

He didn't always want to be read as a poet is read. I want to read Pasolini; Forms of Subjectivity. I wanted to put images in here so I, in my bourgeois environment google imaged him - his dead body is the third image in. I couldn't deal with putting his (rather lovely) face on here all whole and stuff whilst that image of his mauled remains was floating around. And the other images were all naked guys. So we have no images. Go find one yourself.

Nineteen Forty-four


The rats no longer crawl, the swallows are screeching
Pigeons won't fly, chickens are scratching the ground.
No warning bells for tempests, only for Avemaria.
The garden gate swings open and a pale child
Comes out running , he sits on a pile of stones
And plays all alone with a shiny tin can.
His mom is in the kitchen, with shaky hands
she chops kindling sticks, her knee on the worn floor.
Then lighting a match she hangs the milk pot
Over the fire while blowing to kindle the flame.
Outside again bells ring everywhere Avemaria,
in every poor town filled with melancholy.
At fifteen, at nineteen years! Buttoning their pants
the young men come around, they pull her pony tail:
Mom, we're really hungry, get our breakfast ready!
Half-naked they run outside underneath the down spout
and from the rain barrel, laughing, one washes up
while the other combs his hair, like two poplar trees.
O dear God, don't forget what has happened to us
protect our passions, look upon us and have pity.
Our lands are in the hands of total strangers,
they made us prisoners in their own homeland.
The children and the old they hung in the square,
our unmarried women they raped and abused.
Our happiness and joy has dried up in our hearts,
our smiling and our laughter have flown so far away.
Along the railroad tracks, along those endless roads
we jeopardize our lives to find a piece of bread.
Call us to you, O Lord and we will call on you,
bring back our days of old as they were once before.

The woman's knee on the worn floor is an image which has been haunting me for a while now.