Well I’ll try to bottle you up and breathe you back like Valium. -Lisa Mitchell- Valium

Your Lyrics.

In train stations,
Running up escalators,
Fuelled by the butterflies,
In my stomach, and lower.

Barely there kisses,
Like an injection of cocaine,
Straight to the heart.
I’m not sure I can take much more.

And later, alone.
The phantom kisses,
Imprinted on my skin,
By the searching intensity of your lips.

I can still trace the shiny trail,
With my (quickening) pulse.
Tiny, invisible memories,
Like pinpricks. Unrefined poetry.

You write your lyrics on my skin.
I give them back to you in words.

I'm ripe with things to say The words rot and fall away. If a stupid poem could fix this home I'd read it every day. - Blink 182, Stay together for the kids.

Oven chips tonight.
Again.
How many bags of chips is that now?
Just the idea of a home cooked meal gives you
Heart burn.

Monday morning hangover.
Tuesday morning hangover.
On Wednesday you wake up with the wine box,
on the pillow next to you,
empty.
Your new best friend.

Here in this bedsit, you and
your red wine blues live,
Anonymously
Lonely.

A slice of Saturday morning heaven.
Weatherspoon’s breakfast with the kids.
You’ve looked forwards to this all week,
Purposefully didn’t drink.

The silences.
The awkward newness of it all.
You tell yourself it’s not their fault.
You didn’t want to leave.
The bitter vines around your heart
Sqeezing tighter, all the time.
Pushing bursts of desperate vehemence,
through your,
clenched,
teeth.

The memory of it drives you back to drink.

You tell yourself it’ll get easier.
(and it does)
But it’s hard to believe
When your alone in the evenings
Scraping with your demons.

That’s what no one tells you about divorce
The evenings you’ll spend alone,
The terrible contrast to those evenings
You spent at home.

X

Death Rattle.

A hairbrush dislocates and slips from the praecipe of the heap. The Heap. My original thought was pile or stack, but both in some degree suggest rationality or care. There is no emotion here among this heap of tiny tombs.
     The slap of brush on brush in the death row silence is alien and intrusive. The hollow bang of distant shots ringing into the present. The echo of bone on bone in the pit. Then quiet. A stopped breath. I cannot take my eyes off of its descent. Stolen autonomy.
    So many hair brushes. Each one someone’s last possession. Each one someone’s last link to humanity. Normality. An ordinary object but each has it’s own unique DNA, and here they lie all lumped together. Each one a representation of a human life.
    As I stand and stare a creeping wind blows between the spines of the brushes, catching at stray hairs and raising them skywards before abruptly abandoning them to fall back, alone.
        Goosebumps on the back of my neck.
        A silent scream.

Another short writing assignment from class. I can't really remember what the actual assignment was but I know we had to choose a picture to write from, and I chose the hairbrushes. This piece is a bit shaky and I can't seem to get it right for some reason but I'll keep on trying.

"Nobody saw them falling." - Beloved (p. 182).

It was not the sight of the dead dog that brought it back. I have seen worse things in my life than nature taking its course. It was his smell. That rotten, dead smell. Or perhaps the fact that he was not dead at all but dying. Slowly dying in a stinking puddle of himself. How long had he been here? Did it feel longer?
    It’s long when you’re dying. Nights are the worst and it was always night. We had no windows. Those long long hours at sea.
    All the while I was standing there the dog was dying, each breath coming harder than the last. Dry mouthed. Some days we got no water at all. Are parts of him already dead? Is it just the mechanisms in his body keeping him going now? Slowly winding down till he reaches land somewhere. Parts of me too are already dead.
    Was disease killing him? Like it killed some of us? Creeping slowly from one iron muzzle to another, lingering in open flog wounds and ingested from shit dirty fingers. I was one of the lucky ones. They took the sick ones, chained them up, and threw them into the sea. Damage limitation. You see dead slaves were still worth something as long as you didn’t tell that you murdered them at sea.
    They buried us all at sea really, one giant coffin for us all. Dead soul chained to dead soul chained to dead soul. I learnt later that it took a court of white men two trials to come to the decision that we were people.
    Poor dog. The lucky ones always died at sea.



Short writing project about Slavery and ideas of memories and remembering. Quite a difficult subject to write about but I am quite proud of this piece.


  

Twinkle twinkle little dream, my little dream [...], Give me a shooting star, and I’ll make a wish, I’ll make a wish for you. - Paloma Faith, Stargazer.

I am not a sentimental person. Anyone who knows me will confirm this, however, I am about to publish the first poem I have written in a long time, which, just so happens to be born out of pure sentimentality. It's about the tinniest little human in my life who, to begin with I wasn't too thrilled about if I'm honest. But I can't imagine life with out my little sister now, I love her to bits, she is a constant source of cuteness, fascination, simple uncomplicated love and humour.

Anyways gooeyness over as I said before I think this is the first poem I've attempted to write in about three years, so I'm more than a little bit rusty. (Which considering I was rusty to begin with, is a lot rusty). The poem is not in it's final stage yet and some bits are still a bit clumsy but here goes.

Eva- Rose <3

Today you discovered your hands.

Six months old. You sat with both hands raised as
If in meditation. And stared at them with wonder.
Awe. Confusion. (What?).
Your small exhale, your mouth the perfect round
Button hole, as you looked up at me.
The dot underneath the exclamation mark.

Your mind is as impenetrable to me
as a cat’s blank stare. Your un-self conscious
babble. You laugh at the strangest things.
A banging hammer. The awkward, long
Haired boy on the bus.

You’ll be crawling soon. I watch you
As you struggle on the floor. First raising up
Onto your knees. Then resting on your elbows,
Belly on the floor, feet kicking.
Not yet putting two and two together.

I entreat you to grow up. Talk to me,
reveal to me your innermost thoughts
and secrets. Reveal to me the person
you will become. I urge you stay small.
The charming little mystery that you are.

Six months. Such a small amount of life. But,
To me you seem eternal.
Was there really a time before you

Little immortal?
You do not yet know your own powers to heal.
A mind blurred by sadness. You
gave focus. A relationship, like a guttering
Candle, diminishing. You
reignited life and love.
But these are discoveries for later.

For today is the day you discovered your hands.

x

‘“No and thank you, please madam. I ain’t lost just wandering”’ - Adele ‘Hometown’

I’m feeling a bit widowed.
I think that’s the best way to sum it up.
The novelty of living at home again is, as much as I love it, beginning to wear off. I’m probably going to be stuck here for at least another two years and whilst I know I can stick it out, I miss living with my friends. One in particular.
I miss meeting up in the kitchen and the 10 minute coffee break turning into 2 hours. I miss laughing at nothing - at our own ridiculous conversations. Which as the work load got more serious became more ridiculous - keeping each other sane. I miss being in the same boat as them. But now all my friends have popped off back home to their respective parts of England. Perhaps it’s best to mention here that my best friend from ‘back home’ has took it upon herself to move to Norfolk. Which is a massive shame as we haven’t spent a lot of time together recently.

But I also miss knowing what I’m going to do next - all my life I’ve known where I was going. Finished school onto sixth form. Finished sixth form onto uni. Finish uni onto what?? So many choices I didn’t even know where to start.

Up until a month ago I didn’t even know what I wanted to do for a living, (writing doesn’t seem to pay unless your in the journalist business or strike lucky a la J. K. Rowling). So I finally settled on being a primary school teacher and my motives for this, I will admit, are mostly selfish. Good pay and good holidays means I can have the money and time to fund my travelling plans. And I chose primary school because I don’t scare big kids enough to get them to listen to me. Sorry kids.

Unfortunately for me, because I decided so late what I wanted to be, becoming a teacher will take another two years of my life. Joy!

As a good friend pointed out - ‘It’ll do you good to have something to aim for.’

And I do have something to aim for and, even if I am taking the slow route; ‘I ain’t lost just wandering’.


X

Today is your day! Your mountain is waiting. So... get on your way. -Dr Seuss

Hi.
I’m Becks, Becky, Bec, (occasionally Beccy never Bekki), Rebecca, Tecks, Tecky or just Towey. No two people ever seem to call me the same thing, so I’ll let you decide which name (or who) you like best. I’m 21. I like shortbread and shoes. I read a lot of books and have just recently completed my degree in English and Creative writing and from November 3rd can officially be classed as a graduate.

The word graduate is quite scary. 

It suggests I should be doing something successful.

Before I started university the word graduate used to make me think that by the time uni was over I would automatically be transformed into an amazingly well paid and glamorous business woman, that glob trots the world 1st class in my Louboutins. Or closer to my own dreams -that I would be able to spend my days writing best sellers from my hammock on an exotic beach somewhere (still wearing the Louboutins), while my yacht bobs patiently on the little waves waiting to adventure to our next novel writing spot. I quickly came to realise that this is not the case and that finishing university is more like turning the corner onto a new road and realising that you’ve got another hill to climb yet.

But what is life without it’s little challenges?

I graduated from uni with a 2:1 degree, chuffed doesn’t really cover it, considering I’m possibly the only English student in the world with the punctuation and syntax skills of a primary school kid. The relief when I saw them two little numbers  - I actually nearly cried. Nearly. But I do feel like I earned it. Whole days were dedicated to writing essays, redrafting essays, rewriting essays, redrafting essays again, restructuring essays and redrafting again. There were some days when I didn’t leave the house at all! And even though most weeks I got drunk and went out at least once - it was considerably less than the other years.

There is one other reason that I am so proud of myself and my housemates for our fabulous degree marks. As if writing essays isn’t brain numbing enough we lived in the only house on earth where it was possible to get brain freeze without eating ice cream. Yes the house was quaint in its own shabby little way and the kitchen was pretty and we had two whole showers. This was all overshadowed by the fact that it could be 100 degrees outside (I know we live in England but for exaggerations sake) and the house would still be Fucking Freezing.

No insulation, no double glazing, draughty and with central heating that barely worked, even when left on constantly; meant that we wrote essays dressed like the Mitchelin man, with fingers that where stiff and blue and always needed to pee from all the hot drinks we drank to keep warm, but holding it in because it was far too cold to take any layers off to make it possible to pee. And we never did use the second shower it was in a little outhouse room that was colder than anywhere else. But despite all this, despite coldness that might have broken others (although I did pretty much break down in tears every time I got in the shower because of the chill blains on my feet), we four girlies made it through with cracking degrees and still managed to have a laugh.

As an attempt at revenge on our landlord and lady - who where evil by the way!! We took it upon ourselves to scare of prospective new tenants by telling them the truth about the house. However a group of boys who will be moving into the house this October and apparently don’t feel the cold, didn’t listen. Seems they were just as bowled over by the kitchen and cute little fireplace (which doesn’t work either) as us girls were.
    So this is for you, you macho little idiots :)

Clothing Survival tips for 79 Whipcord Lane.

One normal everyday outfit that you would wear to class, the shops etc.
Two hoodies - (to wear over the everyday outfit).
One scarf
Two pairs of woolly socks
Slippers
One dressing gown.
One hot water bottle - (secured inside the dressing gown by the pull cord).

Extras-
One pair of gloves - (agreed these do make pressing the right keys whilst typing difficult but when your fingers are so stiff from cold that you cant bend them, life can’t really get much more difficult).
Woolly hat - (ear flaps optional but recommended).
Thermals are also recommended.

And if all else fails do the penguin and huddle!

Back to the real reason for this first post, why I decided to write a blog. You’ll probably find, if you want to read more of my blog that is, that I’ll probably wander off topic quite a lot as my brain works. Anyway there’s a few reasons why I decided to start this blog;

Firstly, there have been a lot of changes in my life over the past five or six years, but for some reason the end of uni feels more final. The end of an era as they say. More like the end of my (rather extended) teenage years - I think everyone who goes to uni feels as if their teenage years have been extended and living in the real world suspended for just a few years longer. I feel like these changes are a big part of who I am today and should be documented and discussed. No doubt there will be more changes to come - nothing in my life seems to stay the same for that long, except my cat, that would make my life far too easy.

Secondly, it is a way for me to keep on writing because as with all things it gets better with practise.

And lastly one of my dreams in life is to write a book. I’ve pondered for a long time, since I was about 6 and first decided that I wanted to write a book, what my book should be about. I’ve covered a lot of subjects since then, from childish ideas about dragons and how much I like chocolate cake (I actually wrote this book and gave it to my mum- no doubt I thought  I was being clever) to how much I hate my little brother (I don’t, but you know what your like when your young…). In my teenage years I toyed with some form of love story (admittedly based on what I thought my love life should be like and starring whatever boy I found pretty at the time). More recently I toyed with historical fiction and writing someone else’s life before settling on life itself. Life in all its different forms, nuances and quirks. So the purpose of this blog is to gather inspiration from my life and the people’s lives close to me, a sort of study on life, and see if this book could possibly work.

Peace x