It is snowing. Thick, heavy flakes of snow are falling on the street lit street.
I slip out the side gate, shoeless. The snow shifts satisfactorily under my feet, through my tights the shape of my toes leave tracks.
The road is not a road, the pavements are not pavements. The windows of cars are snowed up, the cars are solid white objects without interiors. I could lie down in the middle of the road if I wanted. I leave a handprint in the snow.
Stand in the empty street until I start to shiver
(not for long)
I hate Bank station.
Miles of claustrophobic tunnels, with weak lighting and dingy white walls. It's like walking through a run down space station, or like trudging to heaven when God's understaffed and had his funding cut.
That's probably what heaven is like now. After the Reformation. With the coffers empty. It was probably ok at first: wilfully austere, but clean and disinfected because that's how the Puritans would run things isn't it?
Sometimes I get clever and I start to hypothesis that actually straight and gay are fairly overlapping conditions. Like there's a big Venn diagram of your interactions and what one person defines as sexual gets shaded as non-sexual by someone else, even if they overlap completely. If you self-identify as one or the other you interpret your responses and relationships around that label.
So the dog and I went to the heath and walked away from the houses. We walked over the ridges and saw a sky full of green wings. In the distance a tree came suddenly into bud.
Each bird was a leaf on the bare branches. Shaped like the leaves on the tree in the painting by Cranach of Cupid stung by bees complaining to Venus who is glamourous and sly and in the National Gallery.
In the wilderness, which is darkening, the little white dog is at my heels and out of the branches a flock of birds suddenly take flight and their wings sound like fireworks.
There are aeroplanes which look like stars but the only star out is the pole star.
So it's now almost a fortnight into the new year, so the new year might as well be the old one. But I've changed my hair.
Exhausted pre-Christmas due to too much overtime and an utter lack of sleep.
It's been a while (a week, no a fortnight).
Where were we? Yes, the dinner party.
Why is five am bed time?
Sunday of course was the night of the spray paint politics. Back of a van until the early hours.
I might be starting to write this at 5.09am.
What were a van load of feminists doing in the middle of the night with spray paint and looking for the posters of an annoying ad campaign?
I have a room!
I have somewhere to live and it's nice and only slightly more than I can afford.
Well it's exactly the same as I'd pay to live in halls and since I'm going to be living with strangers I might as well live somewhere nice. The same as I'm paying here, but not here and not a 12 month lease.
I'm so tired and I still have this essay to finish. My back aches.
Dear Oasis, I have a problem. I need to stay awake for the next 14 hours.
I could go to sleep now but I would miss the vintage sale. Dior, you guys, they have vintage Dior. If I think about it I go all funny inside and can't breath; I have a Diorgasm.
Then I'm at work for 8 hours. 8 hours.
Well it doesn't take much to make me happy.
But I went into hermitage for about three days. I missed my lectures and my friends thought I was dead. Literally. They were going to look for me.
I've been looking for a new houseshare.
Er you know how Oasis is 13 and how the old, old journals are all stubby and not on the site anymore?
Do they exist anywhere?
Riku's last journal- the one about how many journals he's writen since being 13- made me remember mine. From when I was 13 or there abouts. Before I was Lol-taire. There would only have been about four or five (maybe less).
On the tube to the Reclaim the Night rally on Saturday (I had to work so I missed the march), some girls sat down next to me. I moved over a seat so that one of them could sit down next to her friends. Then I listened to their conversation.
Not deliberately, but it was silent in the train carriage and they were talking loudly. I had my notebook in my lap but I wasn't focussing.
The girl last night smelt- not exacly like cinnamon- but like some spice I should recognise.