A sort of quiet, questioning song by Kid Harpoon.

This blackboard
Weighs heavy
Board rubbers
Leave scars
Exam board
Inspections
To the drawing board
My son
You need curriculum
Strong discipline
So pull up your socks
Stand tall and breathe in

Why am I not rich?
Why is my back sore?
What made us linear?
What did Grandad die for?
Why are there armies?
And whos on our side?
Where does the sun rise?
And where does it hide?

Back to bed
You're dreaming again
Safety in numbers my friend

Picked from a shelf
Sent on parade
Forty hours weekly
Slave for a way
To pick from a shelf
Send on parade
Children of fortune
Make children of fame

Why is this yours?
Why wasn't it mine?
Why do the clocks keep on ticking off time?
Why are there nightmares?
And who made my shoes?
Why are there children shedding blood on the news?

Back to bed
You're dreaming again
Safety in numbers my friend...

Not mine to dedicate, but I will anyways. To Baby P. Who’s 17 fleeting months of life were composed of bruises and cuts and screaming. An ear semi-detached from the head, a bite wound on the head, the tip of a finger stripped from nail and skin, and a spine broken in three places. And that’s physical pain. The fear, and confusion and horror he must have gone through. Not even a proper name for his existence. Just Baby P.
If there is a God...he must be weeping.

Back to bed...you’re dreaming again

Birds

My Blog comes back to life!
This is my first post in Cardiff. Its dynamic, nocturnal ways have greedily stolen all my time from me, but my fingertips have missed the letters dedicated to this page!
I am so happily tired. Weeks seem to supersound fly by. Clubbing party, film social, then a missed gig because of a lab report that dragged until 1 30 in the morning, and then relaxing in a pub at an open mike night are the kinds of stuff that have decorated the last four days.
But tarara, when have I talked about normal stuff on here? I had some awesome moments in the past week. I didn’t sleep at all on Saturday, and I was in my room at dawn, looking at the fold of clouds and sky let the dawn seep in and I crawled across my desk, sat on my windowsill and watched the birds. My fingers were numb with the sharp, fresh cold of the morning as I blinked at the sky, and just...just sat there and breathed and looked. And the noises of dew and seagulls filled the air as I watched the birds twirl and swoop and dance and just...fly. I was so lulled by the whole moment...as if time had stopped. The worry, the work, the excitement...it didn’t exist. I was just tired and cold and happy.
On Monday, also, I was walking back from the club around midnight (after the music turned crap and Beth and I couldn’t stand it anymore) when it started

Pouring.

Streaming, streaming it down and I just stopped in the middle of the bridge that walks me to my residence and looked down at the rippling road below. The orange, tepid streetlights that illuminated the tarmac made the surface seem to come alive with the water and I just stood there, getting soaking wet and shivering and tipsy in a mini skirt. I can’t remember what I was thinking. Nothing. Or just that the water looked like a million creatures and that it felt good. I probably looked like I was about to jump, however, because out of nowhere a voice said
“Are you ok?” I jerked back, startled out of space, and looked at a short oriental-looking man blinking at me below a plastic hood and I shook my head, saying er, yeah, yep, yeah I’m ok, hehehe. He looked at me for a second and then nodded, leaving. I watched him run through the rain and wondered what song I would be listening to if my MP3 weren’t fucked.
So, you know what, life is really good at the moment. Yeah I miss people, yeah I wish some things were different, yeah I’m worried about some people but...I feel so free. Like this is it, now, like I’m my own person. My own shopping, my room, my life. I handle the stuff I need and decide what I want. And ok that means I’m broke and not doing nearly as much work as I should but, whatever. I’ve met some great people, who I can dance madly with in public places, people who like clubbing, and others who like gigs, and more that like the cinema, and other that like just chilling.
But what’s really good as well is that this place inspires me. I’ve been thinking about the book I want to write and the movies in my head constantly lately. Ok I haven’t actually written anything, I’m busy and tired and...yeah basically I’m just plain lazy but at least it’s in my head again. And I love the voice of my muse. The little creature who randomly narrates stuff that is happening. Mostly the sky, because it’s such a difficult thing to put into words. But I’ve taken to carrying a little book and pencil with me everywhere and when I think of a line or idea I jot it down. Which was funny when I was being attended by a chubby man in Orange and I was in awe about the fact that he had about seven pens attached to his front pocket. As he was attending me I was like “Yeah, ahum, yeah it doesn’t sends texts, yeah,” whilst sketching him with words in my note pad, smiling secretly to myself. I also did that in my head yesterday at the open mike night actually. Wouldn’t it be funny to have a blog about all the little things I notice about people and places I meet, or ever the people in my head? About Alice and her wonderland nightmares. About Jack, the vegetarian with the serial killer’s name. About Copper, who smells salty like the sea. About Charlie who doesn’t know, but understands. About Albert, who’s fingers weave secrets that kill. About the little girl who knows that sometimes, silence hurts more.
I am so ready to just rip a book out of me. And I have all these scenes for a movie. I want it to end with a moment that happened to me in summer. I was floating alone on my back in the pool, looking at the sky spin slowly, framed by trees. I want the main character to die, but the very last scene to be her, young again, a memory, floating on water, and as the camera tilts from her to the tilting sky her voice would softly say,

We all turn into ghosts, eventually.