I am rested and it is only 3 hours until dr who
Day twenty-three
[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30]
Homering Pigeon
Let your sirens break out in song as often
as you please; I am done with my odyssey and
strive only for a painless release from years
of heart's slavery. Set your klaxons a-jangling
at my prompt escape, there are no guards left
to strike at my nape and roll me back into my
open-doored cell. Though search-lights and cylopsian
shepherds strafe the hills and waters for my
footprints or my body, I am where you always knew
I was, and where you will not find me. The pages
of a book are bent to the most solid of castles,
their labyrinth unveils only what you have not asked
to read, and inside the spiralled phrases you will
find nothing but a memory of words you spoke in anger,
crystalised in ink; I am the last lonely sailor in the
vast reaches of inner space, and if you think I'm
coming out for you - please, shut up. You have won
the race, and lost the war.
I feel I should apologise to Nny for, after being mostly silent on the incredibly long bus rides back from Brixton, ranting her ear off rather incoherently as we walked the final stretch. I think my ranting gland is attached to my feet.
Spent most of the night sitting on the balcony at Brixton Acdemy, bopping to DnB with my eyes shut, which was a fine experience, although for some reason Nny & I functioned as magnets for random pillhead women who wanted to tell us how cool we were. My inner fifteen-year-old is highly suspicious of this.
Daytime spent wandering along South Bank and enjoying the food festivals that the universe always seems to vomit up when Nny visits. This time it was Indian Summer, which resulted in cupcakes and hand henna and befriending cupcake/henna lady from Brick Lane (I shall go back when the current one has faded. Also her cupcakes are A+++++++ superfuckingtasty) and being praised for the weirdest thing ("I've never seen someone keep their arm that still for so long without someone holding it up"*). And then there was an experiment in mixology, which went something like this:
Del: Strawberry daiquiri!
Barman: Coming up!
Barman: ... we have no strawberries.
Del: Oh, I'll just have Pimm's, then.
Barman: I found some cherries, what do you think?
Del: Cherry daiquiri sounds good.
Barman: I've never made one before. Let's see how this goes.
... it went very well. Very, tastily well. Well done, tattooed-sweden-visiting barman that Amanda traumatised with tales of murder!
* This joins other weird praise from strangers like "you have a terrifyingly high pain threshold" and "everyone else squirms when I clamp their tongue and you're just sitting there with a needle through it". Spot th linking factor.
[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30]
Homering Pigeon
Let your sirens break out in song as often
as you please; I am done with my odyssey and
strive only for a painless release from years
of heart's slavery. Set your klaxons a-jangling
at my prompt escape, there are no guards left
to strike at my nape and roll me back into my
open-doored cell. Though search-lights and cylopsian
shepherds strafe the hills and waters for my
footprints or my body, I am where you always knew
I was, and where you will not find me. The pages
of a book are bent to the most solid of castles,
their labyrinth unveils only what you have not asked
to read, and inside the spiralled phrases you will
find nothing but a memory of words you spoke in anger,
crystalised in ink; I am the last lonely sailor in the
vast reaches of inner space, and if you think I'm
coming out for you - please, shut up. You have won
the race, and lost the war.
I feel I should apologise to Nny for, after being mostly silent on the incredibly long bus rides back from Brixton, ranting her ear off rather incoherently as we walked the final stretch. I think my ranting gland is attached to my feet.
Spent most of the night sitting on the balcony at Brixton Acdemy, bopping to DnB with my eyes shut, which was a fine experience, although for some reason Nny & I functioned as magnets for random pillhead women who wanted to tell us how cool we were. My inner fifteen-year-old is highly suspicious of this.
Daytime spent wandering along South Bank and enjoying the food festivals that the universe always seems to vomit up when Nny visits. This time it was Indian Summer, which resulted in cupcakes and hand henna and befriending cupcake/henna lady from Brick Lane (I shall go back when the current one has faded. Also her cupcakes are A+++++++ superfuckingtasty) and being praised for the weirdest thing ("I've never seen someone keep their arm that still for so long without someone holding it up"*). And then there was an experiment in mixology, which went something like this:
Del: Strawberry daiquiri!
Barman: Coming up!
Barman: ... we have no strawberries.
Del: Oh, I'll just have Pimm's, then.
Barman: I found some cherries, what do you think?
Del: Cherry daiquiri sounds good.
Barman: I've never made one before. Let's see how this goes.
... it went very well. Very, tastily well. Well done, tattooed-sweden-visiting barman that Amanda traumatised with tales of murder!
* This joins other weird praise from strangers like "you have a terrifyingly high pain threshold" and "everyone else squirms when I clamp their tongue and you're just sitting there with a needle through it". Spot th linking factor.