And when you're holding me
we make a pair of parentheses.
There's plenty space to encase
whatever weird way my mind goes,
I know I’ll be safe in these arms.

If something in the deli aisle makes you cry
you know I’ll put my arm around you
and I’ll walk you outside,
through the sliding doors,
why would I mind?

You're not a baby if you feel the world.
All of the babies can feel the world. That's why they cry.

Ahem. Anyway.

More book-related images/visual porn:

 Ha, I've just realised: 'visual porn'? As opposed to the other kinds?  

 

'Aural porn': listening to your housemate through the wall.

 

'Tactile porn': real sex. 

Visual crack for the ocular fiend: Yimmy's Yayo, where I find a huge bunch of the images I post on this blog. If you're into photography, or art, or even are just quite fond of looking at things, then look at this. http://blog.yimmyayo.com/

You know how I said I'd get my life back? I almost have. The next show is close at hand, and rehearsals for that are starting to become more time-consuming. But I am considerably less busy. I'm even reading for pleasure at the moment, desultorily slipping into various books of poetry (at the expense of poor Sir Gawain), such as the complete works of e.e. cummings, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin's Selected Poems, Jo Shapcott's On Mutability. 

Valentine's Day came and went. I lay in bed with a friend, nursing a hangover, watching soppy films, and eating chocolate. I'm thankful not to have the pressure to do something for someone - not that when I'm with a person, I feel pressurised to do something special. I flat-out disagree with Valentine's Day, and they'll just have to like it or lump it. [It's not particularly interesting, my reasons for disagreeing with the whole concept of V-day, so I'll paraphrase: it's a Clinton's Cards holiday and has no basis in anything real or actually pertaining to truthful emotions of love; it's a money-maker for card companies; the pressure surrounding it is absurd and totally unnecessary; you ought to show your love throughout the year rather than build it up to an acme of love on one particular day].

Have a poem.

mr youse needn't be so spry
concernin questions arty

each has his tastes but as for i
i likes a certain party

gimme the he-man's solid bliss
for youse ideas i'll match youse

a pretty girl who naked is
is worth a million statues 

Opening night went wonderfully. A light broke in the final scene, which was annoying as it meant the final moment of the play wasn't properly lit. The recordings I had to play - I'm operating sound for some awful reason - were okay. The cast all performed absolutely brilliantly. Reviews will be coming out soon. Only time will tell. I don't really care anyway, though: the cast's acting was incredible and I am absolutely euphoric and so, so proud of them.

Treated myself to a Tanqueray and tonic in the bar afterwards. Ooh, plush for a student life.





I may be getting my life back soon. That's pretty exciting, isn't it?


(Apart from applications to direct something next term, plus the other show I'm in this term, plus that ball and chain called a degree. Which I have been somewhat neglecting lately).
                                   

Currently dancing around in my room in vertiginous heels, listening to - alternately - the Spring Awakening soundtrack and Nouvelle Vague. Life is good.


(This is the sort of moment I need to remember. Production week for the play I'm directing is about to start; my life is going to reduce to one tiny black box stage; I will have no time to eat, sleep or breathe, but I know that it will be the most banterous, hysterically fun week). So times are good.

Why Men Are Like Artichokes

Artichokes make me think of summer. Steamed whole, then the leaves ripped out of the globe, dipped into a little bowl of melted butter. While you're sitting outside, a late evening, shadows lengthening, bottle of wine, friends. Can't get better than that, can it?

But the reason artichokes are so perfect isn't only because they are, in and of themselves, delicious. It's because I've only ever eaten them in situations like that. And it's the same with men. The men may be lovely, but it's more to do with the situation in which you have them, that particular time in your life that they're entering. They come around at just the right time, when it's perfect for you to meet them, when you're doing new things together, when you're surrounded by the right people and are in the right sort of place to be with them. And when that period of your life ends, the men go too. But it doesn't matter, 'cos there's always next summer. There will always be artichokes.

Another thing about artichokes. They're only seasonal in summer (or at least, they're only good in summer - you can probably get them imported). Men are seasonal too (unfortunately I think it's illegal to import hot Italians to Britain). Guys come into your life in waves, in peaks and troughs. Oddly enough, for me at least, guys take on the same seasonal properties as artichokes in that they often coincide with summer. Which suits me just fine. Nothing spells the freedom of summer like lots of sex.

And, when all is said and done, the only thing better than having a man around in the hot, sunny, leisure-filled days of summer is having an artichoke for dinner.

I am reading 'Tom and Viv' by Michael Hastings again. It is such a beautiful play. Turns out that Michael Hastings is the grandfather of one of my best friends. She's now the producer/co-director for the play I'm currently directing. ... A schmoozing opportunity? Hobnobbing with one of my favourite playwrights? I think so. 

The Molecular Body

 Ophelia's Lament, or; Tom and Viv

The body is the place of love -
it happens right there, on
the skin or on the tongue, little pin-pricks
of knowing, bursting

into a carefully articulated
question, or a phrase that lightens
near the end. Why do you let me
continue in this way?

It always goes like this, she said,
soft in the middle and then blood
near the end, everywhere. Lymphs
pooling in the centre of the bed.

She used to steal the sheets. Stole
them for want of you, for love of
your body, you labourer. I am also
converted to thoughts of you, obsessed.

This city has a thousand tongues,
and they all speak apart. I see
you through the window, the sliver
of the outside world. Why challenge

me, why think me into life? The iron
in my blood, haemoglobin, platelets,
hormones and oxytocin and oestradiol,
spittle and oil, the salt that goes

into making me exist; all exist
separate. I am the miniature city,
my tongue the giant muscle that rolls
like the river through it.

You are remains, the compound that bleaches
bones in the sunlight. Why do you
let me speak without making a sound?
Why speaking? You. Speak.

Gregory and the Hawk; A Wish