Sunday, July 29, 2012


It is hard to watch you there without interacting.


I would say hi or you would. A conversation, mostly ending in distress. Now I wear my cloak of invisibility like I did as a child playing role play games, like I did as a teenager hiding behind my hair. As I haven't for all the years we have been. I want to bound up to you and start a conversation but it all goes bad all the time and so I am learning to hide again. Under the bed. In the cupboard. Behind my work.

Veneer. I am putting on a thin crust but with time it will be less thin. It will look like skin, only thicker than my own. It will be falsely skin coloured and cold to the touch. You are there and it hurts my heart to see you. Sooner or later I will be in the habit of not looking at all.


I don't know if I have talked about honesty. I have a terrible habit of opening my mouth and letting the truth spill out unchecked. It is how I wrote Affection, carelessly and with an open heart and open mouth. It is how I live my life in general. If you are secretive then you become vulnerable so I just try to be honest most of the time.

Lately I have been censoring myself. It is facebook that is the problem. I'll say my day is less than great and suddenly I will be buried under well wishes. I will admit that something I am working on is terrible and people will leap in to assure my it isn't so.  Well, actually, sometimes what I create is terrible. Most of what I write is unmemorable, some days are awful, almost all of the time I don't look beautiful and I am not just saying this to get a wash of positive affirmations back. I am being honest. These are the truths. I don't need people to reassure me otherwise.

If I am less than beautiful then that is ok. That is a good place to start creating art from. Who needs the beautiful amongst us to write all the stories. If some of my days are bleak then that is fine too. One day it will turn around and I will be content for a brief period.  Sometimes (often) my writing is less than poetic. That is as it should be. I should be strong enough to admit when something I have created has little worth. This is part of the practice.

I don't know what to do about this. I could leave facebook. It is a place that supports all my bad work and my ugliness and urges me to be a happy shiny person.

Sunday, July 22, 2012


Maybe one day I will be ready to write a book about sadness. There will be some sex in it because even in the fog of it there is still a reaching out. Sarah Manguso in The Guardians writes "I've been insulated from my own death since I began taking this new medicine. I am no longer moved to write poetry, but I traded poetry for a longer life. I knew I was doing it."

This is the conundrum. If I go back on medication I will not be able to write the book on sadness. When I am sad I feel like my own sadness is big enough to be responsible for all the ills in the world. I am afloat right now but I am always aware of the drowning. Which time? Next time? The time after? Some time  I will sink down too far and the tiny fluttering bird of my breath will take in water before I have time to reach the line where the ocean meets the sky.

Thursday, July 5, 2012

writing sex

She asked me if I minded that everyone just saw me as a sex writer. I shrugged. It is impossible to control how others see me. I write other things, not just sex but sex is at the heart of every interaction and it is the glue that binds us as people.

I have been struggling with the big questions, the meaning of life, the pointlessness of existence. Pointless questions really because the answers are so obvious. There is no meaning of life. Things just are and we happen to exist along with the rest of it. I am beset by the same worries that the philosophers have grappled with since words could be scribbled on stone. Surely by now we would have learned that there is no point to the endless questioning and yet we humans can't seem to stop feeling like there should be something more.

Sex is the reason we commune. It is all back to procreation I suppose but now in a new time, we practice sex as a ritual. Sex as a means of communication. Sex to prove to us that we are loved. There is sex in my work and certainly Triptych was written as a pure exploration of sexual boundaries, but I will always be looking for more than just the surface of us as sexual beings.

My family have removed themselves from a position where they need to commune with others. They have created a sexless existence, a pond of existence so isolated that there will never be a single ripple in the surface of their lives. From this position they wind down, unchallenged.

So I suppose it is fine that everyone sees me as a sex writer. At least I am making ripples if not waves. The water is constantly churned. Within this turbulence I can still seek to find something beautiful to capture and bring to the world.

There have been stories I have written that are not really about sex. There are whole books too although sex is simmering somewhere beneath the surface calm. But I suppose if people only see me as a sex writer that is okay too. At least they see me. Most days I just feel invisible after all.