Tarantism

When I’m working it’s them I feel sorry for.

I’m shocked.

The burnt out mothers and the uncaring or nonunderstanding dads.

They lay their books on the top, as if they are a peace offering to the child.

They let them chew and stamp and scream over things they then don’t buy.

They leave tissues and rubbish and bad moods behind.

But I begrudge nothing, I feel for them, I want to hug the mothers

And tell them, whatever job they are doing they are always doing the best they can

And that’s all they can offer.

…and dreaming. Everytime I close my eyes it eeks its way into my thought process.

My dreams are not dreams but hallucinations mirroring my fears. Accelerating fears.

My days are a circular motion, I create a consciousness in which to dream or to live and I forget either/or because then they are both as real as the other.

Because I create them they are as real as each other?

Or am I just breaking up? My reception is faulty.

So he asked for my number at work today:

I said no.

I’ll facebook you?

And I smiled as I gave him my name…

For once I was thankful.

As if he’ll be able to find a Smith.

At 8 I interpreted ‘only a moment away’ as ‘only emotional ways’

And only realised yesterday that I was still singing those words…

I wonder how many songs I’ve interpreted wrong,

And how long I’ve been singing them for…

I should like to dance with you until the sun comes up

In your room, in the streets, the parks

I should like us to dance until we’ve forgotten what it is to not

Until winter is spring is summer is autumn

As it is now.

And there may be music and there may be not

But I should like us to dance for the sake of the song of silence

As well as the squall of guitars.

And no-one has to see, but the whole world can watch if they like

As I should just like us to dance, please.

Having just written the tuesday poem and wondering whether to shift the entry for September the 8th to under the Autumn 2009 heading I was just informed by the weatherman that today is the first day of autumn. Good.

I’ve become obsessed with the foxes on my street. They are the gang of the night. The walk the pavements and they are protecting me. From the night.

Someone had left a box in the courtyard, on the grass. One of them stepped inside. It was claimed. And they ran to each other to check out who each other was. Alert, the picked at ticks on themselves.

The box was claimed. It was vantage point for an enterprising rodent. Sat. And groomed.

The others left. Lookout, deputy.

I want to write a poem about the fox-gang in my neighbourhood. But they have to tell me their secrets first.

My Year 4 teacher taught me a lesson in discrimination.

I thought I was a Christian ‘cos I went to church. I was 8. I thought everyone went to church. That was my normality.

And a boy in the playground laughed at me for being a Christian. And with my friend who came to church with me (who a month later would be laughing at me and prove how little I knew about fashion and boys) we both went to our teacher and complained:

‘Miss, he was laughing at us ‘cos we’re Christian’

and she said:

‘Girls. I can’t ask him to change his opinion. That is for you to prove.’

But ultimately I never could. And it wasn’t his opinion to eventually change, but my own.

I sometimes think about my 8-year-old consciousness and how naively I believed in love and truth and wish to be back there with unquestioning belief and not lonely questioning.

The smell of peach furniture polish and freshly cut flowers. The organ music and warbling voices. Weak orange squash, crumbling biscuits, the smell of coffee and an urn of tea.

Faith.

I sit here inside on a sunny day.

I should be out there, my leg is shaking from sitting and sitting.

And the song: ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay’ about watching a waiting and wasting time.

But at least he’s on the bay, singing along to the waves in a gravelly voice.

I’m sitting inside, watching ‘the Wire’ ‘cos I want to, and ‘cos I want to go out and play with someone.

I want to frolic in the sun, but I just don’t know how.

Belt Up Theatre

A central column. A pit of light and umbrellas. Who is judge? Who is jury? Androgyny and drum and bass. Guided only by miming actors and instinct and fear, audience is cast and cast are audience. Am I dreaming? Waltz to murmuring beats and circus song. But really, am I dreaming, in an empty room of LED lights and smoke and mirrors? Run against time into nothing, into no-where. Be afraid, intrigued. Laugh. Scream. Shake. Do not ask me where this started or how it got to its end or how it feels that Kafka is in the corner of the room, watching. Nodding. Don’t ask why or how. Just go. Go.

C soco, 5 – 31 Aug, 11.20pm, prices vary, fpp 234

tw rating: 5/5

Originally published with ThreeWeeks for this and more…here: http://www.threeweeks.co.uk/edinburgh/