*Some of the following text is missing*
Art is confessional, and being such a psuedo art school dropout, its confessional time I fear I am trembling.
Hand over mouth.
I got a tattoo in January, a lotus flower, its oh so pretty.
The heart is the always the last and the hardest to heal.
A summer romance would be groovy, maybe next year, when the MA is done and busted. Flirting is all Im good for. And all I should stick to, make a pact with, shake on, sign. I should quit tempting foolishness. Im torn between rationale and dreaming, but then I guess, who wouldn’t want to be.
I bought a new pair of shoes today because I still have such a long way to go.
My head, like yours must be, is falling off of my shoulders in blase boredom.
Here is my lonely hearts ad (!):
There is a world, behind these eyelid shaped theatre curtains, drawn and closed: Backstage is beautiful. For me and I, we are an A-Team. We play, imagination is playground. Words are paint. This lines, bound paper, a canvas.
We tour. We rock. In our world, there is rocking. We like to sing in the shower. Sometimes we have our moods. And we have sometimes, disturbing dreams about our moods.
We like to read books called “Memoirs of my lover” and books about beatniks, bums, down and outs and drop outs. And also books beginning with the letter ‘c’; ‘choke’, ‘crash’, ‘catch-22’, ‘catcher in the rye’, ‘c**t’. We raise our eyebrows when our till balance, as it invariably goes in marks and spencers’, comes to ‘£6.66 please.’ We sweat a little. And we worry that one of us will become schizophrenic from touching the receipt. We never make that much of it until it happens again.
We both feel millenial angst in our hearts. The zero years. The return to zero. The negation of nothing.
We sing like Morrisey in the shower as we shampoo our hair mango:
‘Sweetness… sweetness I was only joking…’ la.la.la.
We like the comfort and security of bloodstained sheets and jeans. Sometimes we wear our hair like Elvis, pinned up like the King, jet black. We have blue eyes, rare. We would like to look like Birgette Bardot, all smouldering sexy and chic. But we know in our heart of hearts, that we will always look like Pugsley Addams.
We sometimes listen to Sean Paul if he’s on the radio whilst the car is moving, we like the song he did with the stripper/porn star Blu Cantrell.
Sometimes we sleep naked because we always wake up warmer. We wear the same things everyday however much we buy from H&M or Primark because they’re cheap.
We like our jeans with our boxer shorts. We like our feet in Campers. We are both very much looking forward to wearing flip flops this summer.
We want to fly to Brighton in a hot blue T-Bird after summer oh six is over.
We have tattoos. We forget we have them somedays.
Right now we’d like to just sit behind a window and just stare out forever. For the next six months at least. The last six months have left us feeling as disillusioned as ever.
We feel like we’re trapped in a waiting room and all of the other people have the best magazines.
I don’t think it will work. But if it does, that would just be so sublime.
Keep me company this summer, there’s a beach waiting at the end of it.
Part of hopes you never actually read these emails, part of me does.
All of the best honey in the world