The Past is Just a Story We Tell Ourselves At Night

You are asleep. I am in my night-bound day dream. I wander from empty space to empty space. There I collect strewn, abandoned memories like constellations, joining sparks of moments passed beneath my eyelids. In the curling corners of the universe in my mind, I keep them, in dark corners swept under exuberant galaxies of my happiest thoughts. There they stay: hot spheres of grief and passion, tangled in endless webs of pinprick lights and buried in the depths of gloomy, fading nebulae. Smeared in the dust of dead stars. The most painful ones trickle from my eyes in pearly streaks onto the pillow, salty and warm. Some are lodged - like comets, fallen - in the bottom of my chest, and I feel them against scrape my ribcage when I inhale. 

When you wake, you run your tongue along the bite marks in my bottom lip and you come away with the taste of celestial splinters, like ashes of broken hearts. The past doesn’t mean anything, you whisper, and my suddenly meagre world collapses on itself in slow, surreal explosions. The memories I am so tangled in, the lattice of starlit stories, begins to tumble from between my decaying lips in a sigh of defeat - unravelling, lost forever in daylight’s logical stare. Trembling, I watch as the sun burns through my beloved memories and turns them to meaningless stories. But I retell them to myself - in new constellations - when the night arrives again (because constellations, and memories, and the past, are just stories).

Can you write me a haiku?

@Anonymous

This is a haiku
I was asked to write by an
Anonymous face

London; Part II.

Hustle | Tunng (Cover)

To me, this is kind of about accepting a destructive relationship over a boring one. I’m definitely not saying that’s how I feel, but I recently have been thinking that I want to always accept flaws and let them be part of myself and others, rather than rejecting them in favour of something easy and simple (which I don’t think even exists).

- Also, that first lyric, out of context: “when I come home, you won’t be there anymore”. When I got back from London yesterday, it was weird to see the “outline” of where we fell asleep days and days ago. I can’t really describe that. We left together but I came back alone.

Photograph of me taken with Ilford HP5 film by Sam Crowther

Photograph of me taken with Ilford HP5 film by Sam Crowther

You Are The Weekends

You are the weekends
Days reduced to cinders at your burning touch,
Like your fingers were lit matches, struck
          against my blushing cheek
I am the weakened
My lips are bruised from saying your name in my sleep
And I wake every morning with my hands gripping the sheets
          (white knuckles wrapped in white linen)
I repeat myself in contradictions
In the time it takes to make a cup of tea, I can swing 
Between adoring then abhorring myself for everything
          I’ve ever done and ever will do
So I don’t deserve it
But no matter how much the week erodes my bones,
The weekend inevitably falls on me, re-wraps my broken parts again
          always, though it never stays

You are so quiet and brave I forget you are suffering.

Ernest Hemmingway
Very quick artwork for a very quick piano piece called ‘Monday Evening’. 

Very quick artwork for a very quick piano piece called ‘Monday Evening’. 

Conversations Over Coffee

It begins with the question: “how do you take your coffee?”

Not “how do you like it?”
(although that’s perfectly acceptable also)
but “take”, like a medicine. Like a cure

for rainy days

and heartache

and sleepless nights.

"No milk, no sugar," I say,
as if I know another way.
Black coffee mixes well with my acquired taste
for apathy
and endless self-criticism
and I grip the edges of the cup like a life preserver,
drowning in an ocean of social niceties.

I wish conversations were more like coffee
I try to finish both before they become cold

What writing looks like (on a Sunday morning).

What writing looks like (on a Sunday morning).

Your analytic writing is very clunky. Maybe work on getting the right labels for your word classes before you attempt to analyse texts that are out of your grasp. No one likes a show off; especially when there isn't much to show off about.

@Anonymous

Thank you, I always really appreciate it when someone takes the time to read my stuff. My whole life revolves around creating and this collection of art / music / writing is just my little corner of the internet where I feel I can share my love of what I do. But of course, I’m always trying to improve.

"Last Time"

I’ve been putting together a portfolio and I’ve added several poems. This is the last one, and I wrote it in January of 2014. 

Read More

A sonata I attempted to write for my Music A-Level course. My teacher fondly refers to it as ‘Pixar music’ and I, coincidentally, I wrote a short story to accompany it, sort of, whilst I was composing it in January.

-

I implore you to, if you will, imagine the story of a wistful dancer in (1930’s) Paris who gets by as a measly waiter, living and working long hours at Le Hôtel Meurice: famous for its penchant for all things extravagant, including welcoming the high society of the time to the luxurious central location on Rue de Rivoli. Though the waiter appreciated the hotel’s ornate beauty and the grace of his fellow waiters, he could not help but climb out of the window of his tiny room every night to look out at the Palais Garnier. This was the truest beauty he would ever know, sitting atop the hotel and gazing upon the Opera House, cigarette in hand. Behind those round attic windows, he imagined that he could almost hear the sound of delicate piano guiding the steps of the elegant terpsichorean women and men. With the melodies in his mind, he would dance on the rooftop of the hotel in unison with his imaginary counterparts. 

One day, after a particularly busy evening meal, the waiter took off his waistcoat to find a note tucked in the inner pocket that read, “the answer is in the secret of the attic”. Intrigued and unable to reconcile the compelling urge to dance any longer, the waiter put on the finest clothes in the hotel’s bureau des objets trouvés that fit his tall, slender frame. He ran through the lamp-lit streets of the city until he came to the doors of the Palais Garnier, bursting through them to find that the House was mid-show, completely empty but for the auditorium. Dumbfounded at his luck, he climbed the grand staircase to the attic, where he knew the dancers practised and the note had promised would be the answer to his struggle. 

The attic was as beautiful as he had thought it would be, and he couldn’t resist leaning against the central pillar— which revealed a secret door, a hollow in the centre of the Opera House! Seeing his only chance to see the true beauty of the ballet, the waiter seized the moment and pulled the door as closed as he possibly could. He stared with disbelief as the dancers arrived, inches from his own two eyes, and began to limber up. It was more enchanting than he could have imagined, and he all but forgot to take in breath once they started twirling at the barre.

But something strange overcame him as the piece clawed towards its ever-nearing climax. His legs began to flex and his hands shook with an unstoppable lust for the dance. He burst forth from the hollow, his body less the body of a waiter and more the flesh and bones of the music, flowing from one movement to the next in an otherworldly sensation.

When silence fell, it was for mere moments, before applause like the waiter had never heard.

-

And so on. The story doesn’t really have a real end, because the piece (despite a perfect cadence) doesn’t really either. The waiter dances on endlessly. 

My story and its music are inspired by the real life locations referred to in ‘The Waiter’, such as Le Hôtel Meurice and the Palais Garnier. The artwork is a photo taken by 
Alfred Eisenstaedt for LIFE magazine, of the ballerinas in the attic of the Palais Garnier. I was also inspired by my love of 1930’s Paris and Martin Scorcese’s presentation of the city in his film ‘Hugo’. I also think ‘The Triplets of Belleville’ (another film) is somewhat responsible for the themes explored / stylistic thoughts. Most recently I saw Wes Anderson’s ‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’ and that too embodies how I feel about this piece. 

Flaming Side of the Rainbow [x]

Flaming Side of the Rainbow [x]