Wednesday 14 September 2011

Part One of More Than One

How do you feel about the place where you live? Your town? Your room? Are you at home there? What's "home" to you?


Good, I feel good about where I live. Part of me is here so that I can never feel whole anywhere else. It's the smell of damp leaves and mud and it's the wind and it's knowing all the hiding places in the forest. Home is a feeling of belonging. You don't have to belong to a physical place. You can make your home inside a person or inside music or inside yourself as long as it feels like home. My room does not matter to me beyond the things that are inside it. I like to be surrounded by boxes and draws and cupboards filled with crap: a leg that I took from a three legged stool in someone else's house, train tickets, a door stop I stole and don't use, six hundred books that I have either read or never will.


What do you do when you're not tweeting or updating your blog or filming something or watching They Might Be Giants videos on vimeo? What is your offline life like?

I love Mark. I try to make his life less painful but I consistently fail. I live inside my head. I hate everything. I swing between mistrust and trust. I sing as much as I can. I dance until it hurts. Dancing feels like talking should but never does. I like cleaning and cooking for other people because it makes them happy. Sometimes I take four showers in a single day to keep from feeling cold. I watch make-up tutorials on Youtube because I want to be a better girl and I want to feel pretty. I visit my father and his wife and my baby sister. My father and his wife look like people who are pretending to be happy because it's too late in their lives to do anything else. I dress up as Coraline. 





Today's question is about the oldest person you've ever been *real* friends with. i guess, i'd just like to hear a little story.


I'm sorry I don't understand this question, could you rephrase it? Old as in age of the other person?


Are you waiting for something that you know will happen in the future? Is there a countdown to something wonderful ticking at the back of your head these days?


I think I am but I shouldn't be. Hope is a bitch.


Has your hair always been long? Have you ever shaved your head? Were you allowed to choose your hair style/length/colour when you were little?
The idea of not being able to choose every aspect of your being, even as a young child, is completely fucking bizarre to me. Here are some photographs of me and my brother. 








What's wrong with herbal tea?


It smells good but tastes shitty.


If you had a time machine, where would you go?


I would let someone else decide.


When you find yourself in the company of someone smarter (sexier, more charismatic etc) than yourself, what's your coping strategy? (and does it work?)


Open jealousy and bitterness, often progressing to hatred. This is always. This does not work.


Whose telephone number have you dialled the most in your life?


My mother's mobile number. She's like me, minus the neuroticism, plus a whole bunch of prettiness. 


Does drawing affect the way you see things?


Not at all.


What was your first cigarette like?


It tasted gross and made me feel sick.

3 comments:

  1. this is beautiful. i never expected anything like this when i asked.

    how come your hair, which was clearly wavy/curly back then, is straight now?

    yep, old as in someone much older than yourself and not a family member (no allusions to Harold and Maude here).

    i also take 4+showers in a day to stop feeling cold.

    i don't have a picture for that, so i'll ask you here: what do you love the most about yourself? (or about being you)

    minus the neuroticism made me smile. do you look more like your mom or your dad?

    a risky question: are you sure you're using the RIGHT kind of herbal tea? (i know there's no such thing but still)

    "...completely fucking bizarre to me". that really sums up what i see in you, and why i'm so flabbergasted.

    more soon.

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  2. dear internet,

    where is molly?

    RSVP,
    j

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  3. She's gone, my boy. And we are all grieving ever still.

    ReplyDelete