Figured it out. Or more guided in to reality.
Life revolves around key moments. These determine us. Mold us. Shape us in to the beings we are today. I believe that many stories are written in our lifetimes, and as life progresses each story layers, picks up speed carrying the story before it. They evolve in to masses. Heavy force fields. Miniature suns. Our life choices become planets. Orbiting. Paths dictated by the strength of sun.
Personal example:
Book 1: Childhood,
Sun: Divorce
(Fear. Abandonment. Loss. Jealousy. Shy. Reliant imagination)
Book 2: Teenager
Sun: Family fear. Body discomfort.
(Crying. Shouting. Mirrors. Dialing tone in hand. Swimming costume. Shame. Don't touch her)
Book 3: Youth
Sun: Love found & lost
(Entwined lives. Happy. Joy. Roundhay Park hill. Suffocating. Dependent. Families)
So absorbed in this last story, a bid to understand it involved tracing each line back to the first chapter, the initial paragraph - the very scene it opened on. Until I lived in it. Literally in it. And yet blissfully unaware until today; triggered by one full orbit.
Chapter 1: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Drink. Blue skies. Brown corduroy. Grass. Orange youth hostel walls. Apple. Smiles. Black rabbits. Regents Park. Coach station. Hold. Home.
Did I think that by living near Kings Cross, by working in Kings Cross that I could somehow erase it...build new memories to papier mache over it smothering it in to distant recollection? Or was the attempt to re-live it. Re-live it over and over again. Punishing myself. Do I blame myself? Is it some sick means to remind myself of love lost, errors made, regret untrue?
Last Chapter: She stepped off a train in Kings Cross. Office. Blueberries. Old flames. Camden. Home. New flames. Friends. Explore. Regents Park. Dog. Him. Birthday book:'The Time Traveller's Wife'. Realisation. Home.
New book.
Chapter 1:
Tuesday, 17 April 2012
Sunday, 15 April 2012
[27]
Feel like I live on one side of a glass wall. Glass so thick, sound cannot even permeate the surface. To smash the wall would be destructive. Nothing good comes from destruction; wise to that. I live here. Content. However in minds silent eye I only see half a world. As reminder, a vivid reflection baring all features, hiding no unwanted blemishes, a perfect symmetry of all that is and all that will be.
Does it have to be this one sided?
Does it have to be this one sided?
Sunday, 29 January 2012
[26]
Delved in to my drafts. The posts which didn't quite make the cut. Located a little sparrow of a reflection haphazardly formed years ago as I perched in an unfamiliar coffee shop in a now familiar row of St Pancras shops.
"A pot of tea, gorgeous ceramic cup (that narrowly escaped abduction in to my bag) and a table within a café providing a view across the lower St Pancreas International floor. As the world walked by I pretty much sat gazing. It’s incredibly therapeutic.
Stood in the door read the sign ‘....'"
Can't for the life of me recall the sign. I photographed it. Lost it. It was poignant and yet obviously not so memorable enough for it to stick. I was lazy. So lazy. Photographing. Nowadays photographing happens behind eyes, so recollection is not determined by something somebody said, or in this case something written, it exists in a snapshot of scenery touched with fading colouring. In turn tapping in to the internal recording software [o] triggering the whole scene to play [>] - so touchable. A shift to the past called upon by the present. [stop]
Does THAT make sense?
I found a page. Or more the page found me. No. Page found itself. It's the same page, yet it exists in two totally differing worlds. Guess I'm sharing a page, or attempting to share a page. Having absence from page sharing I'm unsure of the rules - who writes first, who turns the page, who determines when to break, when to full stop and capital letter?
Suppose investing in two pens may be a starting pt.
"A pot of tea, gorgeous ceramic cup (that narrowly escaped abduction in to my bag) and a table within a café providing a view across the lower St Pancreas International floor. As the world walked by I pretty much sat gazing. It’s incredibly therapeutic.
Stood in the door read the sign ‘....'"
Can't for the life of me recall the sign. I photographed it. Lost it. It was poignant and yet obviously not so memorable enough for it to stick. I was lazy. So lazy. Photographing. Nowadays photographing happens behind eyes, so recollection is not determined by something somebody said, or in this case something written, it exists in a snapshot of scenery touched with fading colouring. In turn tapping in to the internal recording software [o] triggering the whole scene to play [>] - so touchable. A shift to the past called upon by the present. [stop]
Does THAT make sense?
I found a page. Or more the page found me. No. Page found itself. It's the same page, yet it exists in two totally differing worlds. Guess I'm sharing a page, or attempting to share a page. Having absence from page sharing I'm unsure of the rules - who writes first, who turns the page, who determines when to break, when to full stop and capital letter?
Suppose investing in two pens may be a starting pt.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
[25]
This time of year. The knot returns and tightens. A blanket of sadness falls and holds...not in comfort.
Monday, 24 October 2011
[24]
Today I was heard. A snippet of an identity:
http://bit.ly/n02UUw
Solidarity on the steps of St Paul's
Monday 24 October 2011
Support and solidarity are clearly apparent on the steps of St Paul's. It gives me hope that with like-minded individuals peacefully protesting for their rights and beliefs, and the future of our country doesn't reside in a generation of lazy and opportunistic thugs, as they have been labelled, but in youth with a strong voice to be heard. I can't help but borrow lyrics from our much-loved childrens' classic Mary Poppins as I stand on the steps of St Paul's, "Though [their] words are simple and few, feed the birds, tuppence a bag..." Wealthy pockets should distribute what is owed.
Rosie Bloom
London NW1
Solidarity on the steps of St Paul's
Monday 24 October 2011
Support and solidarity are clearly apparent on the steps of St Paul's. It gives me hope that with like-minded individuals peacefully protesting for their rights and beliefs, and the future of our country doesn't reside in a generation of lazy and opportunistic thugs, as they have been labelled, but in youth with a strong voice to be heard. I can't help but borrow lyrics from our much-loved childrens' classic Mary Poppins as I stand on the steps of St Paul's, "Though [their] words are simple and few, feed the birds, tuppence a bag..." Wealthy pockets should distribute what is owed.
Rosie Bloom
London NW1
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
[23] You're Where Dreams Go to Die
Pocket all reference. All memory. All recollection.
Once again dipping in and out of consciousness. Falling in and out of misplaced/mistimed seasons.
She's still chasing him. Lifting those rocks. Double taking at strangers. For a ghost. She - that small flutter hidden within, the strangest of strangers. When will she stop. Just stop. Look up. Stop glancing back. Look forward [To what?]. Catch up with me [She won't]. Cut it off. Keep shutting it off. Face his demise.
Leave it in the dark. The pitch black. Let it drown in emptiness.
Once again dipping in and out of consciousness. Falling in and out of misplaced/mistimed seasons.
She's still chasing him. Lifting those rocks. Double taking at strangers. For a ghost. She - that small flutter hidden within, the strangest of strangers. When will she stop. Just stop. Look up. Stop glancing back. Look forward [To what?]. Catch up with me [She won't]. Cut it off. Keep shutting it off. Face his demise.
Leave it in the dark. The pitch black. Let it drown in emptiness.
Sunday, 4 September 2011
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