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(not for) Prophets

I was watching a talk yesterday, thinking about how Scout (who was chairing) looks a bit like
David Graeber
(who was one of the speakers) if someone had grown David Graeber in a test tube. First I was thinking their faces look like the inside out versions of each other- like the concave and the convex of a rubber halloween mask.

But I was also listening.

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They Did Not Fix The Boiler On Monday

Toast. So, I'm sure I have at least a few slices of bread left. Actually it was just the two end pieces. Who ate the ones in between is known only to gods of houseshare- although I can probably guess.

But I don't mind, because a laissez-faire approach to perishables suits me very well.

Arriving home in the late afternoon, it was cold. So I climbed under the duvet and read as it got colder.

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What Goes Around

I wanted a treasure box to keep my souvenirs in. Because I was a sentimental child.

So I was given an ambassador's chest one Christmas- it is a beautiful object, I think. An unweildly, awkward, black leather box with brass handles.

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A Flight of Stairs

It's cold. I have turned off the light. I have slipped into bed (it was slipping because it's too cold to move slowly, I watched my reflection's bare legs in my dressing table mirror skip across the cold room). The shirt I am wearing (one of my dad's old work shirts) is damp from the bathroom floor.

It's midnight. I've been ignoring my phone.

They're mending the boiler- again- on Monday. They're always mending the fucking boiler.

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I don't want to move house and leave my high-ceiled, white-walled room but as we're being evicted Mal (CA) and I are moving to Bethnal Green in a couple of months which will be an improvement.
Bethnal Green/ Bow/ The East End is where my dad spent the first half of his childhood. But of course it's different now. Which is why we want to live there.

After it imploded with Trots we're still not speaking (not for two months now and counting and neither of us know why, except habit), but I keep dreaming about her although I don't see her.

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Free Speech

So we're running down the middle of the ("whose streets? our streets!") road, and hand in hand with my friend who is wearing hijab and has a keffiyeh tied around her face as well- incase someone takes a photo, and I'm looking a bit dykey with doc martins, no make-up on and my contacts rather than my glasses and my short hair gone a bit too long so it looks a bit '90s boyband. We're running hand and hand.

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Old Friends

Old friends right, so the only lgbt book in the house when I was a teenager was 'Oranges Aren't the Only Fruit'. Standard text. My mother had borrowed it from a friend. I read it more than once. Once I read it sitting in the wardrobe in one of the guest rooms in my granny's house (she used to run a bed and breakfast), on a rainy steamed-up-window Christmas in darkest Wales.

But now I'm sitting up in my freezing bed, waiting for my dinner to cook and I'm eeking out the last few pages because I'll miss them when I'm done.

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Ration Booklet

We've run out of milk, so I'm having my coffee with brandy. Horrible stuff, you wouldn't clean your teeth with it.

AC's grandmother- former colonial holed up in Hounslow- doesn't use toothpaste. Every night she swills her mouth out with brandy; has done for years, has very few teeth.

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I don't care what happens.

(ask me that again when it gets difficult).

When I think about her I am pulversised- and all my words and thoughts are broken down like a pulped novel and god I think about her and it can stop me still.

I can never tell her- not while she's in the room, not facing her- what she is and what she does.

Yesterday at work I would think about her. The customers would have blushed if they'd known why I looked so distant.

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So, this morning under the new blue and white duvet she brushed away an eyelash from my cheek and I thought, I wish you'd kiss me.

But the suprising thing is she did.

She misquoted Trotky and kissed me again.

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Material Cultures

The magazine rack was buckling under the weight of four months of papers:

They were:

London Student
Socialist Worker
The Independent
The Sunday Times (for the magazines)
The Guardian
The Sun
The Jerusalem Post (plus plane tickets, maps and instructions from their trip to Palestine)
Socialist Reveiw
Water bills
Internet bills
Letters from home
Policy documents from NUS
Pamphlets about revolutionary socialism
Newsletter from the International Brigade Memorial Trust
Woodcraft Folk training stuff

On the coffee table is:

A jar of marmelade

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I went bare legged to the cemetery, to pick elderflower. It was hot again yesterday, overcast today. I sweated in my blue dress. Inside the cemetery gates, under the overshadowed pathways it was cool and dark and green, with white flowers above, below, climbing, elderflower, cow parsley, dog rose. On the shadowy paths the elderflower heads were underblossoming, growing facing upwards towards the sunlight. The young heads of elderflower with small, hard bunched flowers are no good; the fully opened fragrant, heavily pollen-bearing, almost running over elderflower heads are necessary.

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Hope You Are Well

Patted the face of the sadfaced stone lion outside the side entrance to the musuem, said to them- sadfaced stone lions; the girl I could love loves a man, loves a man I can't be.

I went through the quiet galleries, with my heels clipping the marble floors; saw totemic objects and maps made of deerskin, and maps made of stone. Amulets, beads, saucepan handles, broken clay, incantations and the collapsed head of a woman garlended in gold leaves.

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And More

Today is a traditionally rainy bank holiday Monday. It is half past seven in the evening, light outside, grey and warm and I am the only person in or awake.

Yesterday the barbeque was a success. We fed 24 people (including us), as well as five children and a small rabbit (but the rabbit only ate dandelions).

Since the BBQ Cagney and I seem to have reached a break in hostilities; with a bit of mutual mendacity smooting over the warzone which has developed since Bunny, Scout and CA have moved in (Bunny and Scout together).

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Bert and Ernest

So, realistically I probably still fancy Trots a bit. But can't compete with- oh god what's a decent psuedonym for this guy?- can't compete with... Vlad. Who holds her affections. We are circling the Heartbreak here. Sex and student politics. Vlad is important nationally. I thought I was feeling ok, and I am compared to a couple of weeks ago when I couldn't even sleep. She saw me standing at the window when I thought she was asleep already, because how could I lie next to her? Realistically, how could I? I thought, this is just a taste of heartbreak, really you've lost nothing at all.

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