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Thursday 29 July 2010

Wednesday 7 July 2010

Sour grapes

To do list.

1. Finish this fucking Rita and Bernard story.
2. Write everyday.
3. Start filling my sketchbook with things other than tits
4. Pack.
5. Stop being such a miserable bitch.
6. Buy film
7. Stop getting drunk and smoking pot on my own every night.
8. Be nicer to people.
9. Get out of bed before noon
10. Eat fruit

Sunday 20 June 2010

Four Weeks of Doubt

I haven't been very productive or prolific lately.
It's been a whole month since I have felt good about anything I have produced.
Good enough to share, at least.
I get frustrated, angry even, which doesn't help.
Here are a couple I'm almost happy with.






Thursday 20 May 2010

Rescued; Comfortable couple part 2





This painting is based on this gorgeous photo from Benna's Photostream. It went a little wrong half way through.
It was too far gone to discard so I carried on and it turned out better than expected.

After you



Everyday was like the one before. A sour routine of public transport, repetitive tasks and frequent rain. Waiting for the bus is a tedious affair yet it was the best part of everything to him. She'd be there in her work clothes. She wasn't conventionally beautiful but had something the other girls didn't. She had a kind face a gentle mannerisms. Her hair was long and thick and the wind would wrap it around her, getting caught in her eyelashes and mouth. Her delicate long fingers were constantly correcting this. She wore a suit but her fingernails gave her true character away. They were painted dark blue and were all chipped and bitten. He specifically loved that about her. The more people were there, waiting for the bus, the more she bit and picked at her hands. He stared at her fingers as they reached for her chapped lips. The mouth can do all sorts to a man. He lusted to be those fingers and to feel her warm saliva on his skin. This was becoming an infatuation. She'd glance in his direction but never made eye contact for more than a second. She felt his stares but didn't flaunt herself. She didn't even know she was beautiful which only intensified his obsession.
Day to day, nothing changed but her expressions. If the rain was heavy she didn't panic like most women would. She'd stand outside the shelter and let the cleansing, cool droplets land on her cheeks and slowly dampen her heavy hair. He'd fantasize about offering her his coat to break the ice but knew she wouldn't oblige. That was his start to the day, every morning, for the best part of a year. Just watching her. Yet they hadn't uttered more than two words to each other,
"After you" he'd say.
"Thank you" she'd reply.
It was enough to make him stroll into work with a smile on his face.
As summer drew closer, she'd wear pencil skirts. Her legs! A gift for him, maybe. He'd stand behind her so he could concentrate on her dainty ankles and slender calves. She hadn't had her long hair cut in ages and the ends were tapered and split. She wore just enough make up and always had her shirt buttoned right to the top. She took her time smoking her cigarette and blew every single bit of smoke out in one smooth steady breath. Her scarlet lipstick would stain the filter tip and end up on her hands. So distressed and complicated, her hand told stories she didn't. She was very slim but she held it well. Her wrists were narrow and would occasionally click when she reached for her purse. On the bus he'd aim for the seat behind her, hoping to hear what she was listening to. It was humid on-board so she slid the window open and leaned towards the breeze. As the driver picked up speed her hair fluttered over her shoulder and almost caressed his face. Her smell, usually vanilla, filled his nostrils. He inhaled the scent and held it in. What was her name? Elizabeth? Isabel? Even if it was something common like Sarah it wouldn't spoil her.
One morning she wasn't there, biting her nails and tapping her feet. Was she late? The next day he approached the stop with anticipation of her figure. She was there, but she wasn't alone. A man accompanied her. A tall, typically well dressed man with dark hair and smart shoes. His hand was placed at the small of her back and he was speaking softly in her ear. His lips almost grazing her neck. The boyfriend? Surely not. This girl was shy, where would she have met this berk? She turned to look behind her and locked eyes with her admirer. A look of shame washed over her face. She looked guilty and so she should. How could she do this? After all the Thank you's and brief glances. What now? Who would he wish for? The morning wait was no longer something he looked forward to but he still watched her and there was nothing she could do about it. "She isn't happy" he'd tell himself but the truth was is she smiled almost every time she was with that bloke. She had stopped biting her nails and painted them perfectly. She had her hair cut and was starting to blend in. He hated her for that but the fantasies didn't leave and neither did the bloke. She laughed frequently. Although it was a gracious sound, it was the last thing he wanted to hear.
Affection soon turned to resentment but he wouldn't let himself forget her. It was better to see her and feel bitterness and jealousy then to never see her again.

Lightweights



Work has had a grip on me lately, my writing has suffered immensely. I get terribly frustrated. Call me sad but all I need is a pen, some paper and a few glasses of whatever wine is present in the fridge. When I do go out it's usually out of courtesy. I used to be wild, I wouldn't be trapped for even one day. I needed out otherwise I'd suffocate. It seems I have gotten old overnight. I want to be alone with my paint and singer sewing machine. If I don't get my fix I'll get withdrawal symptoms. It is an addiction. It's difficult to be constantly inspired but it's impossible to live without.
I thought about the drunk boy on the train. He was attractive in the most boring way and couldn't handle his beer. He was asking far too many questions and was trying to impress me by informing me his little travel buddy was about to move into a new pad that was previously occupied by a famous footballer. Like I gave two shits about their money. He could have guessed that but he told me anyway, just to make a point. His ginger friend was even more of a lightweight. He was perched on the arm of the seat and a little on the lap of his footballer obsessed, cliché friend. He asked me if I had a boyfriend and I looked dead at him as if to say "Mind your business little man." I was in no mood for inexperienced come on's. He told me he didn't have a girlfriend for reasons I didn't want to hear. Then two more showed up and they surrounded me. Trapped in the corner, I worried I would soon have to respond. They had interrupted my writing. I could see I wasn't going to enjoy this, in fact it was agony.
Boy number one repeated himself over and over.
"Do you like drum and bass?"
"Not particularly"
"Oh...............So do you like drum and bass?"
"NO"
The ginger boy was getting louder and cocky and was making a tit of himself. He cracked open another can and almost spilt the whole thing all over the table, my bag and journal. The women sitting opposite snatched the can and led him away with it like a donkey with a carrot. She said loud for everyone's ears,
"I don't want beer all over me, THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN KIDS DRINK"
He answered back without actually saying anything understandable. Next thing you know, her husband got up from the seat behind her and asked the lad if he wanted a smack. The scrawny little thing said Yes.
'Oh god' I thought. This train was in peek hours and was full to capacity. There were children a few rows away. I think all the commotion had woken a baby because from there on out I heard crying. This is why I usually get the last train available.
The ginger boy eventually backed down and shuffled back the next carriage. I looked out of the window for a few minutes hoping they would ignore me. Then I looked back and noticed boy number one was miming something with his hands. He was pretending to hold a small book and was writing with an imaginary pen.
"I looked outside and it was good" he giggled.
The prick was mocking me! What is the world coming to when a girl writing on a train is an odd and uncool thing to witness? I wouldn't expect them to understand. They were ten a penny, but it stuck with me all day.

Friday 14 May 2010

The Comfortable Couple




To be continued....
I shall paint this sketch tomorrow.

Moles and Freckles





This drawing is based on a self portrait by my closest friend, Leanne Surfleet. She is a very talented photographer from my home town.

Please show some love and have a nosey at her blog

In Stitches.








I Stitched this girl on my sewing machine. Not the best photograph, I admit.
I shall have her scanned soon so you can make out the lines.




Thursday 6 May 2010

The Sketchbook of Yesteryear.


















I found these scribbles in an old sketchbook.
The first two are from my first year at college.
Please bare in mind that they are a few years old.

Right Now!



Having little else to do in this hell hole, we drive around searching for something exciting or at least refreshing to look at. Aimlessly meandering through the neighbourhoods. Occasionally, a fight or fire would surface.
At the car wash we sat waiting for the cogs to turn and the parts to twist. I felt a wash of hyperactivity. My heart was beating double. I couldn't put my finger on why. I was starting to squirm and sweat. Then it dawned on me. As a child, I had an irrational fear of car washes. Ridiculous, I know. This familiar feeling was an involuntary response. The memory was long gone, having been pushed aside to clear space for new ones, but the phobia had sat there dormant. It astounds me how much human conciousness can store. Boundless, unfathomable depths of knowledge and memories.
I would imagine the huge, spinning cylinders would roll us out flat like pastry. I would close my eyes and try to forget the monstrous din that would make me rattle and shudder.
My response to diggers was the same. In my naive little world, the digger would surely scoop me up and bury me alive or take a swing at me, like it was self aware.
There was one occasion when my father walked me home from school. I hadn't noticed the digger at the top of the road until I reached the lolly pop lady. I begged him to walk with me the long way around, as we had done so many times before. He was not going to budge and neither was I. He slung me over his shoulder like a firemen and made a dash for it. I thumped his back and kicked my legs, screaming bloody murder. I honestly believed I would die right there and then. The general public, including my father, found this to be hilarious. I couldn't understand why they were laughing. I had just had a near death experience.
Everything meant everything at that age. Only that precise moment of existence mattered. It was all there was. I wonder why we grow out of that. I'd give my big toe to be that passionate about anything again.

Monday 3 May 2010

Polo





I love old cars. This one was a gnarled beast with a deep grunt. Being able to hear and feel the click and clack of the mechanics beneath me was exhilarating. My body absorbed the mounds and caves of the road knocking me from my puffy eyed day dream. We pulled in for a quick smoke at a place near nowhere. In front were fields of new crops pretending to be the ocean. The fierce wind lashed at the blades and formed rolling waves and silver licks. I pointed it out and was surprised at a response. Maybe I'm not the only one to notice all things great and insignificant. "Right. Let's go." Back on the road, Ross stormed across the tarmac changing the never ending rape seed to a yellow stream in the corners of my eyes. The seatbelt bruised my hip and squeezed the all the air out of me. She was an old maid but had aged well. She had been prodded and poked to fulfil the desires of a young man. This was a secret while stationary. She didn't look like much. Her shell unfettered and intact. A shell no stronger than a sardine tin. The speakers were no match for her husky tone.
The boys were looking for a place to carry out their experiment. They had some outdoor seeds and for lack of other things to do on a windy bank holiday, made an afternoon of looking for a spot to plant them. Just inside the edge of a reasonably sized collective of trees I stumbled upon an odd scene. A striking one at the least. A strewn mess of belongings. Amongst other things was a pair of platform stiletto sandals, a black G-string, a black polyester dress, unfinished crosswords, used condoms and their wrappers, a car tyre and a book called Rise of the foot soldier. What a sight. In the midst of farmers fields and walking trails was this seedy little hide out. I had only two thoughts. What did this girl wear home? And why didn't I have a camera with me?

Transpennine Express

30th April 2010

On route to Sheffield I've realised the weather isn't chasing me at all. I have boarded a train headed for the mouth of the storm. I don't have my party persona with me but it's too late to turn back. I already have my ticket and have promised to be there for Tom's birthday. Sticking out like a sore thumb in trendy wine bars with unflattering lights and being winked at by burly, vain muscle men is inevitable. We've hit an industrial patch. Huge chimneys spew and spit domes of poison. Forgotten trucks sit lonely in vacant lots. Oddly beautiful till we reach Scunthorpe, the only place I dread more than Grimsby. My Dad would be there right now enjoying his expensive wine, bickering with Susan and forgetting all about me. I envy how content he has become. I wouldn't describe our relationship as a bond. A pinch of effort or a courtesy call wouldn't go a miss. I could call him but I am just about finished with the rejection. I may be a hard faced bitch sometimes but my pride is easily bruised. If I'm to crack a smile tonight I will have to stop dwelling, for now. Lincolnshire is flat like my accent. The sky is dark and doesn't really fit the the colours between the almost identical new villages.
I will welcome Sheffield with open eyes and ears. It has been too long. I'm not sure if I could live there again. Hoards of strangers and I don't mix well. Don't get me wrong, I'm a sociable bird but feel safe in my simple nest. I don't like my own company but can stand it. It forces me to deal with myself.
The backdrop of Doncaster is extra grey. The only thing standing proud is the scaffolding around the cathedral. Northern cities have an air about them. A sprinkle of reform but mostly down trodden and half dead. It's an air I am fond of and have come to rely on. Without it I might stop producing. To quote Marsha from Spaced, contentment is the enemy of all invention. I will stop now as I am surrounded by over inquisitive dickheads and can feel a young man watching me.

Sunday 2 May 2010

Nettleham Hall






I will always have a soft spot for Nettleham Hall and the shotgun wielding farmer.
Photos by Heather Steele

Thursday 29 April 2010

Laceby



Leanne and I took these in the fields behind the village where I live, it was a bright day but the wind was still sharp with winter teeth. The sun hanging low like a drunk in the sky, cast shadows for miles. The mud slid and sank beneath us, sucking our feet under like quick sand. It wasn't a long walk but we took our time, climbing through barbed fences and getting lost in the footpaths and trails. We used her polaroid camera which was a new thing for me. It's quite hard to get the composition and to see anything much but it was a surprise. Here are the two I managed to shoot.

Wednesday 28 April 2010

Rabbit Emergency

Like most days, I have had my mother on my mind since I opened my eyes this morning. People say it's unhealthy for the soul to dwell on the past. If I didn't I could forget her completely. Frames and flashbacks of her crop up on occasion which brings loving relief followed by a void of depression and habits. I panic that I somehow create or enhance these memories to satisfy my wants. I struggle to remember her face. I remember her voice and her mannerisms most. We went on a family holiday to Lanzarote, which was the last over seas holiday I have been on. She was adorned with jewelry and beads and I recall the melody it composed as we skipped along to meet my father by the pool. I can't be sure if I had turned four yet. It was then or shortly after.I had with me a toy. A baby rabbit from the Sylvanian families collection which I adored. I fiddled contently next to her while she sunbathed and multiplied her freckles by a hundred. I had them on my face but she was wrapped in them. Head to toe. She applied cold sun block to my shoulders and nose. I can still smell it. It was child friendly, bright purple and smelt fruity, which only encouraged the wasps. The red brick floor was damn hot. Too hot for my tender little feet to step on so I stuck to my lounger, dressing my rabbit in her miniature dungarees. I have no idea what I did to provoke him but my brother, Guy, who was about seven at the time, sprinted over and snatched the rabbit. Knowing I couldn't follow him over the hot scarlet ground I pleaded for him to return it. He turned to the adults pool and hurled it into the centre. He laughed and ran off to tell his new friends. I was inconsolable and wouldn't make do with any other toy. My father, at the request of my mother, dove in to rescue the rabbit. When he emerged with something in his balled up hand I shut my mouth and gulped down the huge lump in my throat. She had gone bald in the chlorine ridden water. I was still miserable. He scooped me up, placed my astride his shoulders and galloped toward to reception making the sound an ambulance makes, occasionally shouting "EMERGENCY." When we got there he enquired as to whether the lady had a first aid kit and she quickly obliged while looking somewhat baffled.He took out a bandage, cut it up small and wrapped it around the bunnies head. I put some little plaster on her and was happy with my little patient. He took my hand and led me to the bar where he bought me a banana milkshake, my favourite. That is one of the clearest memories I have to date and possible the sweetest thing my Dad has ever done. My mum grinned as I returned a smiley chubby little lady. I sat there with her for the rest of the afternoon. She died shortly after we arrived home and left an unfathomable, eternal gap. Despite not being lucky enough to have known her I miss her famously.

A Visitor

26th April 2010. 13:30

Sam arrived yesterday so I speedily finished writing and left you to rest in my bag. I don't quite know if it was due to embarrassment or not wanting to appear rude. Probably a mixture of the two. It was breezy and getting cool so we walked to town with the intention of going to the usual watering hole. I had forgotten it was a Sunday and it was closed. So we floated back to the park were we had met in the first place, Sam rode his sister's bike slowly, struggling to stay on board. The sun was back and it washed over the park bringing with it an army of people, dogs and babies trying to enjoy the day while they still had chance. We found a hole in the hedge surrounding the unoccupied care takers house, which was boarded up but not covered in graffiti, a reasonably strange thing to notice. In a small garden was a petite private patch of overgrown ivy and weeds, the trees gathered a roof above our heads with gaps and holes where the light beamed down in stripes of heat. We sat down on the ivy carpet and each made a joint. We were at the edge and the only thing separating us from the street was plant life. It felt sneaky. We soon moved on to a spot of dirt and roots at the waters edge. We sat facing the sun, the scene and the ducks. There was plenty of small, downy ducklings learning the ways of the world. Sam lit his and we passed it back and forth while discussing various scenarios, trying to understand what each duck was going through. They weren't so removed from us and our actions. We watched the humorous displays of masculine authority, a miniature mother and father fended off a big feathery yob and protected their babies well. I soon lit mine. Then, out of nowhere we witnessed a conception. There was a cloud of noise. I looked up to see a raft or drakes with only one female. Two or three pecked and nipped at the back of her neck as she struggled to stand, while one male mounted her back, flapping and screeching with excitement. He finished and another one clambered for his turn. She seemed to hate all this and was resisting and yelling for help. They were all having a go. It was uncomfortable to see and the whole ordeal was terribly violent. Eventually she managed to squirm free. She clumbsily flew off and the lads gave chase. We sat there silent and horrified yet I felt blessed by this insight into the cruel life of a duck.
We smiled and smoked and let the sun flood our eyes. The bright light illuminated my pale skin and for the first time in ages, I felt glad to be out where there were people. We spied enormous clouds shimmying toward us. The silver highlights sprawling across the dense blanket of floss. I sensed a single, cool droplet on my skin and knew we were in for a substantial downpour. We wandered over to the new band stand which sat proudly on a mound of green. It looked out over the entire pond. We waited for the rain to arrive and cut through the muggy atmosphere. I felt safe and watched the wet clear the field and benches of folk. The ducks didn't care. They had bigger things on their plate.
An older man, a broken, slightly dirty man approached us from the hill behind us. We said Hello and he put down his bag of cider and sheltered with us. We slowly fell into a conversation with him, despite my first gut reaction of ever so well hidden fear. He mentioned he had epilepsy and I immediately thought of my mother. I shot that thought point blank and out of my path and focused on what the old man had to say. He complained of brain damage and had on a pair of sunglasses with only one arm. He claimed to have a PHD and confessed to having taught university students and had been all over the world. He wasn't ashamed of being an alcoholic and didn't make any excuses to justify his decline into alcoholism and homelessness. He did, however, want to make it abundantly clear he "didn't do crime." He told of how he was born here in Lincolnshire and lived in various villages till he was eighteen. He left out huge gaps which made me wonder if it was all a fib but I didn't question him and let him have his fifteen minutes of fame. He seemed a kind person but was very keen to correct anything I said. I didn't take offence. I just didn't say much else. He said he was thinking of settling here and explained he was staying in a drop in house and was just out to get away from the unsavory characters that occupied the other rooms. I asked "Why here?" He informed me that I was probably blind to see how pleasant and kind the people of Grimsby and Cleethorpes are because I have lived here since forever. I instantly thought of all the negative in GRIMsby and events that have confirmed my hatred. A visitor doesn't see the entirety of a town. They see the pretty fluorescent bulbs of the amusement arcades and eat the renowned fish and chips. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was. Either way there is room for both qualities in most towns. It's the ratio that has the effect. Grimsby has it's share of shit bags and is most definitely a dump but this one man's opinion made me realise how much Grimsby has changed in an anti social behaviour kind of way. A small improvement. This park was no exception. It used to be full of Perverts and bored teenage aggressors. He piped on for quite a while so I chain smoked role ups till he had run dry of cigarettes and asked directions for the nearest shop. The rain had let up but we didn't leave, we returned to our spot at the roots of the tree and smoked another till it was time, for us both and the sun, to leave.


Parklife

25th April 2010. 14:30

Soaking up the mild, warm spring rays, I watch a blue shirted man try to reunite an infant bird with it's mother. It's hard to be sure but I think his attempt at kindness failed. The smell of his manufactured skin on the bird may have rendered it an outcast. Banished from a once loving family. Hell, I can relate to that. I envisage what might become of this tiny miracle. Will it die alone or triumph over the crippling isolation? I watch the different families of duck as they slurp and suck at the invisible treats of mother earth. I shiver despite the gift of sunshine and try to ignore the paranoia that will surely ruin my mood and lead me to be a terrible social companion for the remainder of the day. The bees and wasps stalk fresh summer frocks and unsettle the family time of strangers. This park used to be a mess. A mess I felt safe in. I think back to my adolescent years when we used to come here and would all go to the log (a fallen tree trunk) and sit in a long row of arrogance, drinking and smoking pot, despite not being able to handle the two combined. But we didn't give a shit. We were young and strong and powerful. I never touched the harder stuff though. I didn't have the balls.

Birthday Blues

24th April 2010. 15:35

At the age of twenty two I am ashamed to admit that you are my very first journal. I am not entirely sure why. Perhaps a matter of privacy. The fear that anyone at all could reveal the contents of my irrational and somewhat overbearing brain. To call you a diary would only magnify the fear. I imagine a diary brimming with untold secrets, a catalogue of shame. Shame is something I would gladly remove from my being if I possessed such power.
An unwanted feeling has hung over me for weeks. A mixture of worry and resentment. For who, I don't know. A niggling sensation that time is concentrating on the end and that I will miss an unexplained opportunity. Whether I manifest this deliberately is another story.
I am approaching my twenty third birthday and don't really know what to make of it. Birthdays don't overwhelm me any more. Compared to the child hood enthusiasm, the anticipation of gifts, the birth of the six week summer holidays, the thrill of an 'every kid for themselves' water fight and the envy of my older brother, it's a day like any other, only a day I cannot ignore. I am always asked the same irritating question on my birthday, "Do you feel different?" The answer is always no. Should I? What does a person feel at turning a certain age? I don't feel old or young. I don't feel better or worse or any wiser. It makes me ponder why humans celebrate birthdays at all. To be joyous at the birth of a child is understandable. To relay the event to every year after? It sounds desperate. Like an excuse to be happy for at least one day out of the year. Maybe this year I will encounter something more than the traditional bitter birthday pill.