Playing House

Reduce yourself to nothing. Boil yourself down until you are nothing but eyes and ears. And a heart. And then re-assess the importance of things.

Meaning and value are what's important here. They say lessons repeat until they're learned. Well this is my daily lesson:

Here is as good as there.

I've played at being a housewife. A domestic goddess, a grown-up who sweeps the kitchen floor. Living alone allows for this kind of reinvention. I've played at being a well-heeled drunk. Luckily I was only playing. I enjoyed the pose of the lush: sleeping late, staggering up and down the stairs to stock up on Tesco discounted wine. Knocking back 2am mint tea, lukewarm and pointless, missing the yoga sessions which I always miss anyway, sobriety aside.

I flirted with drug abuse. But too many waking hours made me depressed. Being awake when all others are sleeping and I can obsess alone over the missing screw on my mailbox does little for my sense of worth. Couldn't a human hand fit in there? Couldn't they then easily turn the latch? Doesn't the postman know very well that it's loose and know very well that a single white female lives here alone, slightly saner and less tough than Jodie Foster. What's that? Oh, a pigeon fluttering busily on my roof. But what's that? It's the ventilation being rattled by the wind... isn't it? Given enough time in the dark and I will beat myself up so no one else has to.

Give myself a kicking for not renewing my driving licence photograph since it expired in 2009. Trip myself up with my lack of an NHS number. Oh God. Must register with a doctor. Must get a GP to discuss a few things. And what about this definitely-chipped bone in my elbow which should surely be more painful? Look at this stack of unread newspapers, building up along with the tidemark of my own guilt. I really should read up on what's happening in Libya. And what about Japan? Everyone's forgotten about them. And my Amnesty membership has lapsed. Must phone them and donate. And get internet. And fix the fucking washing machine so I can stop hand-washing or just buying new clothes whenever I run out – which I never will because I cant stop buying new clothes on a daily basis. At least the profits are going to charity. So prattles my inner monologue. While the other half goes 'Hmmm another cuppa tea/piece of chocolate/chicken/beer/line/cigarette/shag? Of course'.

Which is why it's better when I'm on a bicycle. Or a dancefloor. Or in a book. I can hypnotise myself with another activity, distract the child in my head for 5 minutes of peace.

Like most 21st century females, I have settled into an uncomfortable obsession with looking 'hot' or 'stylish' or 'cool' or 'clever'. When really, none of those things are related to how I look. I should be spending time nurturing feeling all of those things for good reason – like just having completed a really amazing short story.

So here it is...

The Journey From The Door to the Edge of Sanity.

'A trip of three steps down the palette to tap, at three on the teeth.'

I am continually searching for meaning. Of course I am. Aren't you? And I cannot find it on a screen. Who cares if 'Kylie Goes 3d!' who cares about 'hot girls in tights?'

Too much information. Absolute Information Fucking Overload. My mind freezes like a PC when I just click click click refresh. Anything but refreshed. Click through rates, traffic, but the traffic is actually a sedentary person looking for meaning, sitting frozen in a chair looking for meaning. They will not find it here. Leave! You will not find it here.

Check out my own lack of meaning. Check out my unbridled confusion. I want to return to the 70s when everything was on vinyl and you had to go to a library to look up a fact. Really. I am not joking.

And the fact that this is the first uninterrupted 26 minutes I have spent all day is proof of the scourge of the internet. The erosion of my concentration is proportionate to the amount of windows I have open, multiplied by my number of facebook friends and cubed according to how near a Friday (or Monday) my current situ actually is.

Fucking heck – life with your face in a book and a honeyed tea on your table is so much sweeter. So much slower.

A return. A hark back. I'm off. Off to the country hopefully to slow things down a little.

I wonder what I would have been like if I'd never encountered the internet. Or hair dye. Or rizlas.

If I'd been a 70s child would I have grown my pit hair because it was a political statement?

If I had a clue.

Life Is Like A Song

Dazed by the bomb blast, ears ringing, head a shuffled deck of snapshots atop a suddenly 30 year old body. Oh my aching bones.

Desperate to be involved but shut out of proceedings by the very fact of it being my birthday, I listen for snippets. My own excitement has been mounting month by month until it's all I can think about. I glimpse updates over hunched shoulders. I cock my ear for spilled surprises. But really I know nothing. The sheer scale of it is all a complete shock.

And as I touch down on the Welsh hill which is a good 10 degrees colder than London, (sorry - I forgot about this) I see the site. Oh the dance tent, the Low-Lav, the tippee, the frame over the trampoline. Freak on a leash. I twinkle around the site, unsure of where to put myself. Talking too fast, running to show people round, to repeat the tour, to make the endless, rolling introductions.

A superfast summation from where I was standing:

Silver body paint, spandex, smiles till we ache, a scrum of people round my family table tucking into my dads pasta sauce, selected party heads coming to see my mum in the kitchen for tea and sympathy at various points throughout the weekend ('the things I know...'), the Low-Lav, the dancefloor knows no rest, a certain person leaning into the heart with a fork, digging for gold, the trampoline, the frame, the fat-suits, the headbuts, the unwise lack of sleep on Friday, a lowdown dirty lack of shame on Saturday, a Bloody-Mary Sunday, pass the parcel, the Madonna power-up, the punch, the campsite, the quad, the lamb stuffed with chickens, my mum and dad having it to Your Niece, hay-bales on fire, the many toasts, the biggest, shiniest, heaviest birthday card in the world (***HICKS***), the party reigniting for a 25 minute electro smash at 23:35 on Sunday, the endless tippee session, the daisy-chained block rockers, the U-turns, the purple book, the elation....

Guys I didn't know what to say when I was handed a BIKE. Words failed me. I'm sure it was obvious. THANK YOU SO MUCH. I was overwhelmed. And then, seeing that I was lost for words, I was surrounded by my favourite people, utterly crammed against the people I love most, all touching each other and consequently touching me as we slow danced to my favourite song in the world and sang at the tops of our voices while a I sobbed like a babe.

At Last. My love has come along. My lonely days are over. And life is like a song.

Yes it fucking is.

Thanks to all the people who came all the way to Wales.

Thanks to the Low-Fest Crew. You're the best in the west.

Thanks to all the DJs who rocked it.

Thanks for the bike. (The very bike I have been salivating over all year.)

Thanks for all the amazing presents.

Thanks Rina and Tim for being the best.

Thanks Rhys and Siw for being the best.

Thanks Carmen for making me the very best outfit.

Thanks to you all for making it the best birthday ever.

Andy Ellis. You rule.

So. Very. Lucky.

The Great Big South American Ticklist

Be warned. The smugness of this post may make you sick.

The things we ticked off our lists, our great, ever-expanding, life-long lists, were plentiful. Whilst on the road, Andy Ellis and I:

* Ate the Steak of Our Lives in Argentina.

* Rode pillion on a motorbike in the biggest favela in Rio.

* Looked a Southern Right Whale squarely in the face and heard her mammoth inhalation as she filled her lungs.

* Went to a Brazilian rave in the country wilds of Sao Paulo.

* Sunk numerous caipirinhas on Copacobana Beach in Rio.

* Swam in the thermal waters of a hot volcanic spring.

* Breathed the sulphuric stench from a geyser in Bolivia.

* Got chased by llamas.

* Rode a horse into the red desert where Butch Cassidy and The Sundance Kid battled it out.

* Chewed coca leaves in Bolivia.

* Rode tipsily round the bodegas in Mendoza, sampling the wines.

* Felt the spray of the Iguassu Falls on our faces.

* Saw a Tango Show in Buenos Aires.

* Were robbed blind.

* Watched the sun rise over the Bolivian Salt Flats.

* Accidentally ate cow lung soup. (Big white hexagonal tissue which flails like coral in the hot liquid. Rising bile.)

* Dived into a glacial river.

* Saw smoke rising from two active volcanos.

* Slept in a hotel made entirely from salt.

* Cycled down the World´s Most Dangerous Road.

* Visited the world´s first cocaine bar.

* Crawled down a stifling silver mine in Potosi.

* Hiked through the Amazon rainforest by night.

* Watched the sunrise over Lake Titicaca.

* Survived a light aircraft flight over the Andes.

* Hiked through the jungle to Machu Pichu.

* Sandboarded screaming down the world´s biggest sand dunes.

* Ate a Mexican Christmas dinner in a palm fringed courtyard.

* Were battered by the waves in the Pacific as we played frisbee on Christmas day 2010.

* Had severe food poisoning thanks to a cup of unboiled tap water.

* Toasted marshmallows in an active volcano.

* Burnt effigies at a political rally in Honduras.

* Waded through a flooded Columbian barefoot.

* Got rained on everytime we visited the Caribbean.

* Veered too close to the crocodiles in a boat screaming with tourists.

* Traveled with a group of 11 of our best friends and siblings for Christmas and New Year.

* Missed home.

* Came home.

Seven Days Seven Nights

Riding the Buenos Aires rollarcoaster: hold on, or get the hell off.

Miguel reclines idly on the Sunday morning sofa, smoke falling from his lips. Sunday is San Telmo´s day. The day when the whole of Avenida Dispensa brims with market traders, musicians, tango dancers, BA´s feather and leather crew. The sun shines on the busy cobbled streets which cobweb away from Plaza Dorrego. The vibe is ostensibly chilled. Over in Palermo it´s much the same thing. Market buzz, yuppies drinking Quilmes and cafe con leche, shopping, flirting. It´s very ´Brick Lane on a Sunday´ over there.

Miguel has been our nominal party catalyst during our week long stay at Hostel Tango. The first thing we did when we arrived in Buenos Aires was get robbed. The fury is dispersing, evaporating, leaving nothing but a bitter smile and a pile of fresh lessons to sift through. Everything of value was taken. Including our passports. It has taught us many things. The umimportance of possessions, the vitality of love. Resiliance and positivity are more valuable than MP3 players and laptops, travel light - or it will be forced upon you. (The first lesson was that if you get covered in white paint in South America, DO NOT STOP.) So, with only our clothes and our marbles, we have taken the Buenos Aires bull by the horns and given it a shake down.

The way of things here is to eat at midnight. Don´t even think of going to a club until 2am. Club 69 may well be perfect(except, of course, the name). Not too hot, not too cold, the beats massage your ribcage at just the right volume. It is, to me, what a movie club scene would look like when the hero wants to let loose. These heroes need to let their hair down. The boys spinning and flipping on stage are hot, the girls shaking their asses at them are hot. Everyone is hot and happy and drinking well-made 25 pesos cocktails. Miguel - a random Spaniard who has made it his mission to provide us night-life assistance - pushes us towards the VIP area, bottle of champagne in hand. The broad-shouldered bouncer nods sternly. ´Buenos chica´. The guys here look at me like they´ve never seen freckles before. One of the first phrases i have learnt is ´el esta mi novio´. That is my boyfriend. This doesn´t actually deter any of them.

Tango, the most smouldering, romantic dance I have ever seen, is everywhere. We see a 16 strong troup in a posh part of town. They finish the show by singing ´Don´t cry for me Argentina´. Cheesy and perfect. We went to the Recoleta Cemetary. We saw the crowds by Evita´s grave and sang her songs all the way round the labyrinth of spires and mausoleums.

We have learnt to love Buenos Aires again, despite her flaws. Maybe the flaws were ours, and we were being rough-hewed, moulded so that we fit rather than sticking out like the sore thumbs we really are. Today we cut loose the bowlines and head to Patagonia. Breeding whales and welsh speakers await us. Da Iawn.

Onwards and upwards.

On Not Leaving

To whom it may concern,

We are residents at *****************, ******************* and ***************

We came to know these buildings in the capacity of London Caretakers. The original premise, our function, was to protect them from any intruders and potential squatters - a role which we have endeavoured to uphold. Since moving in 2 and a half years ago, our community and professions have developed in ways we never imagined possible. Living in such a space has facilitated a progression for us all. The plentitude of space combined with an incredibly close-knit community of artists and creatives has led to great things.

It is amazing just how many projects and initiatives have been launched from this community. We have set builders from many of the most prominent UK festivals in our fold, a Friends of The Earth events officer lives here, as do the events team from the Youth Sports Trust, a member of the Bow Arts Trust. Others are writers, editors, musicians, producers, artists, designers, jewellers, film-makers and performance artists. This area is a hub, our HQ. Without it, yes our art would have continued, but with it - it has exploded. We have made a success of the way we live and what we do.

The news that we have to move out imminently has come as a massive blow. Not only is this our home but many of us use it as our place of work. We have made the best practical use of the buildings possible; picking up where the previous owners left off. We have developed the workshop, beefed up the recording studio, built a jewellery workshop and craft corner. We have housed exhibitions, poetry nights, lectures, tournaments. We would like to invite you to come and see for yourselves. We are not merely security guards, employees of London caretakers, we are upstanding members of the Bow community and the East London artists corner.

We are fully aware that our primary role is one of security. We understand that we live here fore-mostly as caretakers. And this position has been - and is - important to us all. We take this role seriously and it is one which we can be trusted to maintain. We all want to stress that the moment the owners want to develop the building we will leave. But we appeal to you now to let us remain in our creative hub, our home, until that time comes.

Come and visit and see what we are all about.

Yours, with thanks,

The Sugar House Gang.

Burning Bright: Episode Two

If you haven't read Burning Bright: Episode One - better do it now.

"This above all: to thine ownself be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man."

It was a day like any other. I left you at the foot of the slide. This blog is difficult. The revelations of what has occurred are difficult, and that is the reason for the unpredictable nature of publishing and the haphazard order of events. My notebook was lost, and I must simply record what chooses to re-emerge - a flawed method for a writer but one which will define - has defined - the product. The other fact is that I'm lazy and busy and love getting wasted, so often this part of my life is squeezed out. But really this is the most important, so if you're here, once again, I'm glad.

Tripping, semi-hard, we move from the foot of the slide of agony to The Temple via the first aid tent. The Temple Of Dreams - it's the place where you go to remember the dead. A three story temple carved from wood, shaped like a massive clove of garlic and resplendent in the vast loneliness of the playa.

The sun is blazing now. The time for acid has long since passed and yet i'm fucked. It seems inappropriate, vulgar. I've peaked too soon. Made some wrong decisions somewhere and sailed way off course. The wind of hedonism inflating my sails like an over-excited cock. Fuck. I'm sweating.

All that I promised myself falls by the wayside. Dissolves into blankness and wasted words. What I posted earlier - had been anticipating for months - turns out to be hot air: 'I want to record what I find here. I am a mirror.' What I suddenly see is that I need to selfishly absorb my experience rather than reflect.

Something said to me recently interests me on this subject: "I wonder why we can't really articulate some things. Is it because they're subjective truths? Built upon constructs that exist outside language/commonsense and instead in our own heads? Does that mean that those thoughts wouldn't have meaning for someone else? Or if they did have meaning, would they have value?"

I couldn't articulate my feelings of fear. And yet they felt like the absolute truth.

I was floored, blazed. At a fucking loss.

This feeling, the desperation for escape, was not a new one. I was thrown askant by my own ever-present desire to stretch myself beyond what was rational, sensible, when already I was situationally askant. I had not even fully acknowledged or allowed myself time to understand all that my surroundings meant. Maybe it's a security thing. Get fucked, dictate your environment with your own headspace. Transpose what you feel onto your surroundings. That's the universal language of the party. And one which is especially easy to converse in, to be fluent in, at Burning Man.

So, looking for a little bit of space - a smidgen of normality, something to grab onto, to get a purchase on - I went back to the Unnatural History Museum; ridiculous in hindsight as it is the place where i know or vaguely recognise everyone, and expectation when your tripping is not what you want. I sidestep in like a hesitant crab. Wearing a white catsuit with black polka dots, I'm wholly conspicuous. I should be strutting. The RV ends up being the curse of the day. Considering it an air-conditioned refuge, I flop down onto the cool bench, hoping to get some ´space´.

In this state I have already begun to recede from my friends. So many loves of my life all around me, and i can't bounce off anyone. A game of musical statues is being played out in the bar. All I can do is sit and watch. Totally fazed and flaking, I can barely lift my head to meet the gaze of my brother beside me.

Before this, in fact on the way to this place, way way way before, I had made a birthday card which referenced the rad tattoos and certain brilliance of a person I know and love, a person called DJA who needs to know about this and his own brilliance. Those are the ones, the ones who don't know, who need it pointing out. So, I call to him out to give him his birthday card, which is made up of ads from an old Time Magazine I found in San Fran airport whilst waiting for our shit-heap RV to collect us. 'It's not a matter of luck' is part of what is says. This boy, we have kind of found each other, and we realised we loved each other before we even knew what the other stood for. Squeezing the love into my friend till I can no longer breathe has been a trademark of our friendship. So, I made the card, gluing the love I have under Time Magazine cut outs. Smiling as I approached The Party and his birthday.

I'm carrying the card in my bag. Have been carrying it all night, waiting for the right moment to give it to him. I don't know if this is the moment or not. I may have missed it - but if so then I was not there to miss it. 'Dan. Can I have a word outside' I say solemnly. 'Oh I see' he says, expecting me to run and crush his ribs with a hug from a rugby distance. Not even pretending to be unsmiling, (which is hard because i smile all the time and must mean that something somewhere has gone seriously astray) I take the card from my bag. Crumpled and unstuck, I smooth it out and place it in his hands. He doesn't know what I'm giving to him, thinks it's some kind of postcard, and mortifyingly needs instruction. I open it up and show him the words. Watch him read the words, wait for the impact.

I didn't expect him to burst into tears. And this moment is what started my flow, the realisation that what I saw in that moment, I'm not sure anyone sees in me.

Walking back to the tent together, and I'm happy but I'm still acting. And I have to get away away away. So bizarrely instead of doing so I sit down alone. And resume the flaking.

"Isn't that the most stylish woman you've ever seen?" I hear the American twang before I clock the owner of the voice - a large hippy with big teeth and a tie-dye dress. "Can I come over?" He says.

I nod. I forget that I actually probably do look awesome. White catsuit, captains hat, mirrored aviators.

He sits down. Then suddenly looks at me hard. "Sweetheart when did you last drink any water?" "Um...I don't know." I say, suddenly panicky, looking down to the perpetual Bloody Mary in my hand. "Energy levels dipping - you need water." He quickly uncaps his rustic water carrier and hands it to me. I drink. And realise that the fact of me tiredly sitting alone may be attributed in part to dehydration.

"You OK doll?" I smile and nod.
"Brian" he says, showing me his teeth and taking me in his big arms. "Or Lawn Boy"

The love this man shows me is what begins to pull me out of the horror of this hesitancy. He takes me to his stall, Cereal Thrillers and introduces me to his accomplice: Lord Thunderpants. They have been talking about Bunny Love as if it's a contraband. "We have a tiny bit left, i only save it for special people - and i have some cinnamon crunch which i'm going to mix in." By this stage i'm feeling more myself, laughing, not so deranged. Lawn Boy presents me with a bowl of the finest cereal I have eaten - so decadent it is almost a desert. My lady Laurey is beside me and a queue has formed at the cereal bar. Holding our bowls, we proudly begin to munch, and laugh. Laughing so hard that Bunny Love is spraying out of our mouths. Lawn Boy keeps trying to take our picture, and the more he tries the more we laugh.

Emboldened by Bunny Love, we leave the confines of the Unnatural History Museum, and strike out into the desert, in the clothes from the night before, with the acid trails still very much around and hearts torn by the pangs of inner discord. We search with a thirst for freshness.

For some reason I'm crying again and the voice in my head keeps saying the line which i write often, a line from the mouth of Polonius: 'Above all, to thine own self be true'. I feel deeply that i'm not being true to myself. And i can't pinpoint in which capacity - but from the current perspective it feels that it may be in many capacities. (The background to this is that I am in America for a mere 16 days and have flung myself from my desk to the desert, from the city mindset into one where the only rule - or doctrine - is to open your mind, your heart and live as freely as your were born to. It has inevitably been a journey of contradictions - and will continue to be thus when i am flung back, raw and rife with dreams, to my desk in 8 days time). So, self-truth, living honestly, following your heart as it were, is something important and difficult. And something i felt i was not doing.

Walking down 3:30 and D, arm in arm, is a princess in a green dress and a cat in a captains hat. Trying to articulate the state of my heart and we are perfectly interrupted by a man carrying an ice cold water cannon. "Do you want some of this?" Delighted, we spin on our toes, arms aloft as the man sprays us deliciously. We thank him for the lightening touch - for now we are once again laughing - and continue on our way. Pausing, (for it is midday and only maddogs and Englishmen people the desert), we peer in all directions for shade. A voice:

"What do you need?" This message characterises the vibe. What do you need and can I help you find it?

"Shade! Water!" we cry.

"Well come on in."

Tip-toeing into the camp we are greeted by a group of 5 or 6, gathered under a parachute. They give us water. And seats. And ask what our story is. My story is beginning to feel less important.

I'm a cat but i have no ears. The man goes into his tent for a second - a lovely tent with a clothes rail and from my seat i can glimpse masses of silken clothes and finery. He emerges with a pair of leopard print ears. I am so touched by this gift. Thanks spills from my mouth. He shrugs like it's nothing. But it's not. We refuel, and decide a toilet stop is necessary. One of the gents offers to accompany us, so we go, arm in arm, to the Porta-potties. Forgetting to get our bearings, (for we really are appallingly bad at navigation) we trot down roads, turning this way and that, to the bathroom. We all go into separate cubicles, and after a time emerge. But the man is not there. We don't remember his name so we cannot simply shout 'where are you kind sir?' And we realise suddenly that we don't know the way back. Looking at each other with round eyes, we shrug and continue. Arm in arm, light on our feet. A wind begins to blow. The dust devils begin to swirl. One path ends, another begins.

This is to be continued.