Thursday, August 23, 2012

Mailbox invasion goodness. The second coming.



My second mailbox invasion package from Amanda Palmer arrived in the mail today! It's a beautiful black moleskin and came with the next 7" (not yet played) and a beautiful letter that made me cry a little. I'm glad her journal writing is similar to mine. No one's going to fucking read it so you should just  do what you want with is. Amuse yourself. Help yourself.

My last journal took a couple of months to fill. I hope that somehow this one refills pages magically so I can always have it with me and write whenever I need to. Somehow, I don't think Amanda is THAT magical. Maybe.

anyway.

This is a scrawl on my arm within a journal post within the internet. It's like the inception of blog posts but with more words and less smug actors. Yay!



So, this is the first thing I wrote in my journal. I'm not feeling all that well so forgive me for the morose...ness.

Yeah.

***

As luck would have it, my old journal has only one blank page left. Today I unintentionally left it at home and was struck by a sudden urge to write while I was in the engineering buildings bathroom. It's probably the first glimmer of anything that the place has inspired.

I always seem to have sudden urges to do things like this when I am least prepared for them. I only feel like doing maths when I don't have a calculator. I never want to go swimming when I have bathers but if I'm near a pool in summer without bathers then I can scarcely think of anything else. When I don't have paper, I need to write.

So anyway. This is wrote on my arm today. Possibly changed slightly as a lot of it had rubbed off by the time I was home.

Her head felt big. Not in an inspired, enlightened way. Like someone had attached something heavy to its base overnight. Not something pleasant either. It's the bible or a member of the liberal party or her own mothers scathing disapproval. 

She sits on the dirty toilet lid and her head starts to crumple through her shoulders and lies somewhere in her ribcage like one of Picasso's paintings but too far gone to be accepted at one. An aesthetic oddity not fit for human consumption. 

She sat in the cubical and was convinced she'd never leave.

Feet appeared at the door and her resolve disintegrated. She stood up, unlocked the door and ventured back to reality as best she could.

...I just realised that toilet cubicles do in fact have a lot of paper. I am silly.