London, you left me undone,
pulled me apart,
concrete teeth on tarmac tongue;
you chewed me up and left me dripping,
gripping my keys in my pocketed fist,
tripping over my own feet into a stranger’s meal deal.
This is the real deal.
Oh yes, I’ve made it.
I’ve made payments for these pavements,
you’ve got my desperation on direct debit.
Please mind the gap between your pain and the landlord.
There was no spark in my eyes before you struck me against a matchbox.
All fizz and smoke,
sparkle and dark,
you lit me up.
You took your thoughts of me between your thumb and forefinger like a needle
and carefully,
warily,
daringly,
wove me together,
thread by thread by thread
You sewed me in.
Sowed me in soil with such impatience as you waited for the rains:
“This child will move mountains with my blood inside her veins”
This summer took a lot out of me. Acne-ridden and anaemic, I fell in love with both strangers and myself, watched my sister get married, discovered the ingenuity of nipple covers and spent more time dancing than I did asleep (you’d be surprised how many of those events happened simultaneously).
I’d like to compare this summer to a hurricane to demonstrate the sheer movement of it all, the devastation, the magnitude. And, although an amply chaotic simile, I realised whilst sleeplessly watching the sunrise from my doorstep: it’s me who is the force of nature.
I am invincible. I am loving every second of this. Who said millennials don’t have their lives together? I look great in this halter-neck. I really gave that guy a piece of my mind. I won’t take anyone’s shit. Why did I ever feel scared? I feel great. This feels great.
And it did feel great… until I got glandular fever and then everything felt much more swollen (aka significantly less great than before). Literally who knew a person had so many glands? As the reality of my status as an evidently non-goddess-like being came crashing down on me, it’s safe to say I was inconsolable. The world doesn’t look so pretty after being knocked from a high horse made predominantly of tequila-induced arrogance – and I learned that the hard way.
What gives? I thought I was invincible? I thought I was being rewarded for my pains by becoming halter-neck-rocking-heartbreaker for evermore? No one mentioned any obligatory inflammation as part of the deal. I want a do-over!
Yet, the engorged tonsils festering in the pharynx of this indignant white girl wronged by the world and the Epstein-Barr virus ensured that none did ever hear these shrill lamentations. Alas indeed.
From the get-go, I can tell you that I wasn’t taking kindly to being accurately described by the term ‘glandular’. Not only because this is possibly one of the most horrendous words to globule its way into the English language, but also because a number of things change when good glands GO BAD…
take me dancing before I trip over my own feet
I’m not sure if you’re ready for me, if I’m ready for you;
if I’m ready for two,
ready to rattle your cage like I know what I’m doing,
just play the music and you’ll see how I’m moving.
but let’s go dancing.
let’s suck salt and lime between our gums
let’s take it with us
all sweat and drums.
we don’t have to touch, but for our eyelashes,
our hands don’t have to brush,
just give me side glances; sly passes.
breath on my neck as I’m spinning,
deep in my chest – it’s beginning.
Say it loud
like a shout
like a scream,
or a doubt.
Take a breath.
Fill their dreams,
Make them burst at the seams.
Catch their eye, sip your gin
Make them stare,
Drink it in.
Wear red lipstick and fishnet tights.
Dance like nobody’s watching.
Cut your hair with the kitchen scissors.
In the same vein as my latest post which talks about how to be kind to yourself even when you’re not making any work, this post is all about ‘the hard sell’ and how to talk to other people about your work without being nauseating.
I’m all for kindness to self right now; my focus is sharpening back onto myself and my work after my six-month hiatus from anything strictly ‘writer-y’ (which you can read about here if you haven’t already). As I enter back into the plunge pool of creativity (ew), I’m being reminded of what a wuss I am. This wuss-ness becomes most apparent when someone asks me how my writing is going and I am physically reduced to a blithering puddle of Martha.
I have written plays. That is plays as in the plural form of play; as in more than one play. And I don’t mean to sound cocky, but I think they’re really rather good (some of them anyway). I know this in my gut, but for some reason as soon as I have to talk to another human about my work, I am transformed to a gigantic, blushing, ridiculous slice of humble pie. I hesitate more than I say real words. I have a blog which is about pretending to be a writer instead of actually being one. I make stupid jokes until someone changes the subject.
Just as an initial disclaimer, this post is a classic example of “do as I say, not as I do”(like basically my entire blog) as I perhaps need this advice more than most of you reading this. So, how do you talk about your work without sounding like a douchebag or a wimp? I literally have no idea, but I imagine the following pointers are helpful:
Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in; a hopelessly absent blogger looking for more attention from strangers on the Internet after a 6 month hiatus.
(BTW that’s me and I would really appreciate your rekindled adoration if you can possibly find it in your hearts to ignore the inexcusable amount of time I have not been around/cracking jokes/filling the blogosphere with joyous and relatable content. Also if you could turn on the adoration ASAP without asking too many questions that would be really great for me.)
It turns out this university lark is a lot more time-consuming than expected and my entire existence is made up of reading books, thinking/talking/writing about books, despairing about how good said books are and having existentialist crises about how I’ll never write anything as good (repeat to fade). I’m learning a lot, but simultaneously writing very little. In fact, this is the first thing I have penned this year which (hopefully) doesn’t take the form of a 4,000 word essay.
I thought to kickstart my glorious return as a classic comeback kid, I would write something about not writing and all the various feelings which come from being a non-writer.
Hi, my name’s Martha and I’m an Oxford University Reject.
I hope you read the first sentence of this post in a proud, ‘owning it’ voice and not a breathy, defeated one, because that is certainly the spirit in which it was intended. Maybe I should release an audio book to prevent any further confusion…
It’s taken me three years to move from whiney, deflated Oxford reject to strong independent reject who don’t need no Oxford! That’s your cue to burst into spontaneous applause – gosh I’m really having to spell things out for you today.
Like an archipelago, I’m in pieces.
Strung out in the ocean,
I gasp for breath.
Open-mouthed
I gulp above the waves, my lips
Suckling at air bubbles.
I’ve never felt quite so
Alone.
Your words sweat hatred from every pore and the stench fills the air. Wild and wide-eyed, I dart for a way out, but it seems we’ve already left.
Did nobody tell you the world isn’t just yours? There’s more to a door than an exit and I feel like we’ve been here before.
Have I heard these words in an echo? Held them warm and moist in my own mouth, or was that someone else? I forget. But now I am spitting them at your feet, letter by letter. Vowels and consonants wet with my saliva and tears. You can take your sweaty hate and the fingers in your ears; take them far, far away from here because I can’t bear the smell and the silence.
If you didn’t read the title of this post in an appropriately atrocious Dick van Dyke cockney accent, go back, start again and do it properly.
As you may or may not know, in September, I left home to move to London. To read my initial and hilarious thoughts about this change, check out my post ‘Why things are different now I live in London’ by clicking here.
Now my first year at university is over, I feel, in the spirit of poignancy, I can look back in a wise and philosophical manner as I stroke my imaginary beard, pondering over this year’s ups and downs, its twists and turns and all the nice snacks I’ve had the pleasure of chomping upon. Those Doritos I had back in March really were delicious…
London is a city like no other. On one hand, it’s formidable in ways I can hardly comprehend and yet on a small-scale everyone just seems as incapable as I am. I can see people sat on the underground become visibly anxious as their stop approaches and they must find safe passage through the web of limbs and briefcases between them and the carriage doors. Accompanied by multiple bumpings into other commuters and muttered apologies, they are finally through the doors, on the platform and free to be awkward in some other place.
I’m just fascinated how London as a city is this terrifying, sprawling monster, when for the most part it’s made up of socially anxious, un-coordinated serial apologisers.
I have a love-hate relationship with London which mainly consists of me chasing London around screaming “COME BACK HERE SO I CAN LOVE YOU!” at the top of my lungs, while London smokes a cigarette, takes a sip of soy latte and nonchalantly cycles away from me on its über-cool fixed-gear bicycle.
I go through phases of feeling like a true Londoner. These moments include:
Writing, rewriting, writing etc. 