Words that might someday mean something:
A running transcript of half cooked thoughts, still pink and fleshy under fork bite. Metallic taste, and that’s why I don't eat meat - no stomach for blood, metaphorically or literally. Yeah, I know sorry this is how my brain works, and I still don't understand the correct use of proper punctuation. Teeth locked bars, lips parted in hyperbolic twist, awkward face smile, and a semi-ironic double thumbs up baby.
October 2022 - a revision of handwritten notes,
neon pink notebook - overdraft in paperchase because the aesthetics were just too darn cute, and i was feeling lost and low
I’d like to think that I'm not materialistic, or captivated in a capitalist’s wet dream. I’d like to think I don’t care about money - as in I have some but not that much, and will probably never have enough to own a home or rent a one bed flat in london. I save a little, but also, what’s the point if home ownership is unattainable and I might die anyway so might as well have a few nice little things to get through the day. Anyway, tangent.
I’d like to think I don’t care about money. I’m human. I worry about it, everyday, a lot. Anything and everything I see, I see a number flash. Message on a video game, low battery on the screen
Annoying - not catastrophically urgent
Mosquito ripping through the air to zip across your pixelated screen - mosquito nipping through the air to zip across your skin - low level fear - anxious - bloodsucker buzzes off, buggers off, to furthest corner of the room, where it hums
Humming in harmony with the fridge
And the neighbours’ TV
White noise melodies.
Tangent - “bugger off” do you think that was derived from bug get off? Like warding off a mosquito, hmmm?
£15! £5! £80! £2! £10!!!!!!!!!
1.5 HOURS! HALF AN HOUR! FULL 8 HOUR DAY!
Meaningless economic numbers - derivatives? - but they flash redundant currencies, cost of my labour, spent. I look at a thing and I see its price, I see that and think of its cost, the time I could spend, would spend - have, for that thing.
It’s just a thing, same way money is just a digit.
A friend said “Santander’s gone to Malaga, Barclays to Corfu!” First bank holiday of the year. Back to work tomorrow, feels like a slushie thought, fuzzy thought, distant tendrils of cloud hanging low in sympathetic parallels to the horizon line. The horizon’s always blue, did you know that? A creamy blue, full fat, extra thick, poured straight from the tub, circumvented the jug entirely. Extra step, arbitrary but pretty, upholding middle class values, the importance, no, necessity of respectable stone and earthenware. I wonder about the discerning qualities of stone and earth. About the symbolism of status and worth.
Fuzzy thoughts laying low under clouds but above the wavering baseline.
“It’s just capitalism, baby!” One friend says to the other, as they compare deodorant cans. Sharing is caring, but hygiene is important.
sure men
right guard
extra strong
extra bold
“For sure, man, it’s got that extra strong hold!”
Deodorant hangs in the air, parallel lines with the clouds and ceiling and tabletop. Sunglasses on, polarised lenses, inside
tabletop pools of buttery yellow.
Work feels far away, another faint blue line over the horizon.
Jam jar flooded by paint water, egg whites with curling tendrils. It’s all fuzzy baby. SSRIs mixed white into the deep night sky. Sertraline with a pallet knife and bristles.
And it’s all blue baby.
Weak winter sky blue, still SAD but it’s subdued, paler hue, it’s all baby blue.
Still - it’s fuzzy.