Ran into St Pancras, hit the barriers out of breath. Asked the staff if I was too late, ‘just missed it’, they’d said. 30 seconds. Bastards.
Came to Leeds, day out. It’s my old stomping ground, where I came to waste away my uni days.
I was off my fucking rocker in Leeds.
I mean, not constantly. There were weeks I’m sure when I was fine.
But I got ill here, and I didn’t appreciate how ill; a lot of my time in Leeds was barb wire and static and me trying to convince myself it was silk and cool water. Still; time dulls edges and smooths wrinkles, soothes stinging memories. Now Leeds is a city of fond nostalgia, the ghosts of friends I wish I’d kept up with, and lifetime and a half away there’s a thin memory of me; less heavy with regret, although maybe just as wound up with uncertainty. And wilder, so much wilder than the man I am now.
At times, I was off my fucking rocker in Leeds. Continue reading
We hug. I feel his top under my arms and I squeeze, slim shoulders, back, solid and real. A kiss on the cheek, a kiss on the forehead.
We lie down, folding lightly into one another; we talk, he strokes his fingers against my nape, I trail mine up and down his thigh, up, and down.
I know. I do know. But I don’t care.
I find a gameboy and on it we watch Mark’s new TV drama; next to us the music school is evacuating, a fire. Kids calmly walk out, rescuing tubas, saving music.
I start to pull away, I get worried sometimes that I’m being too clingy, I try to pull away but he gently pulls me back and I feel again him against me, my hand on his thigh, his arm around my back, warm and real.
I know, I do know. It’s OK.
We stay, a while. Lying on the grass, on the sand, the rocks, the pavement. We lie, by Charing Cross, by the sea, by Television Centre and by and by…
I have to go, we hug, we part but I can’t part, not yet. Our fingers still entwine, and I kiss them, soft and warm and real against my lips, I have to go, I know, warm duvet and pillow and birdsong.
I know. I do know.
I’m currently trying (and mostly failing) to make actual money from the whole writing gig. To this end I’ve spent a lot of time in my room, at my computer, occasionally cursing the fact that I can’t afford bus fare, let alone a laptop.
On a whim I decided to set up a GoFundMe for a nice portable laptop I could… I dunno, sit in the kitchen with (because seriously, if you can’t afford bus fare you sure as hell can’t afford a latte). Having nothing but a load of old words to give, I offered a load of old words in exchange for money, which I would then use to buy
goods and services a laptop.
I really didn’t expect it to go anywhere, but it kinda has…
So I figure it’d be cool to collate all the stories / bit and pieces of stuff I’m gonna write for people in exchange for this, and put them on this here blog (donor willing, of course). Also, I’m aware that there are apparently a few readers of this blog that aren’t long-suffering friends on Facebook, and this might be the first you know of the fundraiser – in which case go! Read! It’s funny! I amuse myself in the writing and the updates! Some money would be nice (obviously) but what would be more nice is people looking at me being amusing and being amused. Go! Give me purpose.
I bought a book on writing poetry.
I’ve not written any poetry yet, obviously.
I get it. I do.
I really do.
Grief heals, poorly. So the pain comes and goes, and comes, and goes. And sometimes you catch it, the pain blossoms out, and you gasp.