The mind doodles of Golgotha_tramp

Sunday, May 21, 2006

Ghosts

Ghosts are a funny thing.

I've never been afraid of ghosts before, I've never had time. I've always been to busy with my life, with what I'm doing to think about others that have gone before me. But just recently I've heard the chains shaking in the night, the moaning in a silent room.

I've always believed that thinking about ghosts is a reflection on you, nothing wrong nothing to fear, right? So why do these haunt me? Why do some people refuse to stay dead? I've not gone looking for them; I've not felt them important to my life. These aren't my ghosts, I have dealt with mine. I got out the holy water and shook it about, got the young priest, the old priest, the ambient music and shown them the door. Sure some came back (a ghost loves a delayed sequel, you know the "five years later when she thought it was safe.....") but I chucked them right out on their ears again, I'd moved on and they should have too and if they hadn't it's too bad. No, these aren't my ghosts, if they were it'd be easy "lather rinse repeat" change the locks, click my heels and tell them to run and jump. These are someone else’s but like all naughty poltergeists they like to latch on to their quarries affection. So here I am a boogey woman under the bed, pulling faces in my mirror, scraping branches against my window.

How do you tell someone you love to get rid of their ghosts? Especially when they deny they have them. Why is it that someone who's gone's feelings are more important then mine?

Thursday, May 11, 2006

to my silent reader...

I've been thinking of you,
you can see that.
somehow penetrating my thoughts
since that serendipitous reunion.

Making the world fade away
just like you always could.
A world that's me and you
of stolen moments and unspoken wishes

Only now the door is open
and nothing holds us back

I love you.

Monday, April 03, 2006

Men's clothing - The allure of pheromones.

So, I'm a big clothes stealer. I always have been it's something that I do. Like dogs sniff each others behinds, I swap clothes. I have this feeling about clothes sharing, it's a very personal thing and it means a great deal to me when someone gives me a jumper / t shirt to wear. This ritual happens with many of my friends but the prize of prize, for me, is a man's jumper.

Firstly there big! I'm quite tall for a girl and have been told that I have swimmers shoulders, so it's not that often that I feel small. But in a man's jumper you always feel tiny, the sleeves come down to your fingers and the waist is down by your bum. It's a great feeling, swamped in a big warm jumper! Secondly, they smell of man. Men smell great, I don't care what people day about being sweaty or smelly or anything else, Men smell fantastic! obviously I'm not talking about all men but if you are sharing a jumper with a man chances are he's not a stranger. I'm perfectly aware that my response to a man's smell is my body telling me to mate with him, I know this. Our bodies are designed to send out signals to attract the right sort of genes to make beautiful babies, all I can say is hurrah for science! There's nothing as great as the smell of a man. I'm not talking about aftershave or body spray, those things smell nice for sure. I love the actual smell of a man, the smell you get when you get up close to them!

Men's jumpers are a hug that lasts all day, a feeling of warmth, longing and love and I love it to bits!

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Tortured Artist?

So,

I'm feeling a little stumped on my old blog at present, I suppose you can tell due to the severe lack of updating. Believe me it's not that I don't want to, it's a can't.

I have an issue that when I'm really, really happy I lose what little skill I have. It's happened for years and has lead me to believe that I really should be A "tortured artist." I'm not saying if you stuck thumb screws on me I'd give you tales that took you to the Highs and Lows of emotion, or that if I was dunked into scolding hot water I would produce images of heaven so real you could cry. What I am saying is If I was a little more unhappy I could at least draw and think of something to write.

I know, I know, I'm really ungrateful, yes. I accept that being happy is consolation ten fold for a creative block, but I ask myself....is it really? I mean when I'm old and grey I want to look back and say "this is my work", "this was my passion" and though the pages may turn yellow and the colours fade they will be as vivid in my mind as the day I gave birth to them, these children of my mind, piece after piece of my life, my love, my hate, my sanity, my insanity, all folded away in a portfolio somewhere waiting to be re-hydrated with memory.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

The simple pleasures

I have found in the last week due to my hectic double life that some of the simplest things I do have become more poignant and cherished to me. I wondered if any one else enjoys simple pleasure, if so what are they.

a few of mine are

Reading a book in a coffee shop (spent an hour last night in Cafe Nero with "written on the body", a cafe latte and a pack of Malboros.)

Listening to my favourite CDs while on the bus ( the stipulations being it must be a window seat and a long journey.)

Listening to Radio 2 underwater in the bath.

Waking up before the alarm and watching the day creep into your room.

Staying up all night talking about everything and nothing.

Sitting in your room at 4am when the whole worlds asleep thinking.

Just listening to an album and doing nothing (how many times do you put on music and cook, or clean, or draw? I love just listening to my music alone, on my bed, in my brick womb)

Just a though...