There's something about a bitter, black brew with a dribble of milk and some chewy, dense heavily-crusted bread that screams autumn at me. I think it stems from late nights in strange country houses and early bitter mornings huddled over tea, the teabag sitting innocently at the bottom of the cup, opressing the sugar cubes whilst getting stronger and sweeter the further you drink down. The toasted bread would be home baked, yeasty and bland so as not to interfere with the teacup's plans. On a good day perhaps a little jam, on a lunch outing - sandwich spread. Or fish paste, tinned anchovies, lettuce so fresh it was still gritty and wriggling.
Never did like the countryside.
Saturday 29 August 2009
Wednesday 26 August 2009
Quick Nom
Fry onions and garlic while you cook two large cubed potatoes. Mash the potatoes into -plenty- butter, milk and cream before adding soya sauce, black pepper and a pinch of herbs. Poach an egg. While it cooks, scoop out a few ladles of potato, make a dipping space in the middle of it and put some wild greens, rocket or spinach in there. Always use a fresh green here. Then, take the egg and place onto paper towel as you pat the top gently with another paper. Transfer onto the island of greens, top with salt and pepper, and enjoy something comforting. It tastes like the home I never ate ^_^
Tuesday 25 August 2009
Since I cannot sleep..
I shall list all the things I am going to put in my fridge when I get a fridge. Until I get sleepy. Or run out of room..
Olives
Tofu
Sosmix
Pastry
Seed butter
Home-made Pesto(s)
Soy milks, and soy desserts
Soy yoghurt
Avocado, Celery, Lemon, Celeriac, Tomato, Cucumber, Arugula, Garlic, Red Onion, Kiwi, Melon, Pear, Apple, Nectarines, Berries, Carrots, Lettuce, Beetroot, Banana...ect.
Mayola
Tofu Dogs
Hoummus
Wine
Cold rice
Vegan cream
Leftover curry
Home-made/store bought falafel
Sundried tomato paste
Lentil salads
Cooked-in-advance bean burgers
Pumpkin pie, soup, cookie, pasty and mash. I love you pumpkin.
Olive oils (well, ontop of the fridge) and Salt, Pepper, Dry Chili, Couscous, Mustard, Ketchup, Balsamic Vinegar, Agave nectar, Peanut Butter, Pure spread, Home-baked bread, Soy sauce, a jar of seeds :D, vegan parmesan...
Olives
Tofu
Sosmix
Pastry
Seed butter
Home-made Pesto(s)
Soy milks, and soy desserts
Soy yoghurt
Avocado, Celery, Lemon, Celeriac, Tomato, Cucumber, Arugula, Garlic, Red Onion, Kiwi, Melon, Pear, Apple, Nectarines, Berries, Carrots, Lettuce, Beetroot, Banana...ect.
Mayola
Tofu Dogs
Hoummus
Wine
Cold rice
Vegan cream
Leftover curry
Home-made/store bought falafel
Sundried tomato paste
Lentil salads
Cooked-in-advance bean burgers
Pumpkin pie, soup, cookie, pasty and mash. I love you pumpkin.
Olive oils (well, ontop of the fridge) and Salt, Pepper, Dry Chili, Couscous, Mustard, Ketchup, Balsamic Vinegar, Agave nectar, Peanut Butter, Pure spread, Home-baked bread, Soy sauce, a jar of seeds :D, vegan parmesan...
Solutions to Problems
I am back on the vegan wagon. Ok, so I ate pork last night. But this food poisoning has made me all the more decisive.
I'm going to make myself some promises.
I will eat a salad with every lunch.
I will eat a piece of fruit every day.
I will go for a walk every day.
I will snack regularly.
I will try to avoid frying food.
I will sit down to a meal with somebody at least once a day.
Today, after more porkly goodness I resolved to keep these promises. Lunch was a casual quiet affair - a mixed greek style salad bound with yoghurt and a drizzle of honey, some crackers, a slice of toast with mushroom antipasti and a arugula salad with a little olive oil. A glass of white wine. It would have been rude not to. Delicious.
I think I shall make some pizza dough.
I'm going to make myself some promises.
I will eat a salad with every lunch.
I will eat a piece of fruit every day.
I will go for a walk every day.
I will snack regularly.
I will try to avoid frying food.
I will sit down to a meal with somebody at least once a day.
Today, after more porkly goodness I resolved to keep these promises. Lunch was a casual quiet affair - a mixed greek style salad bound with yoghurt and a drizzle of honey, some crackers, a slice of toast with mushroom antipasti and a arugula salad with a little olive oil. A glass of white wine. It would have been rude not to. Delicious.
I think I shall make some pizza dough.
Friday 21 August 2009
Bliss Between the Bedsheets
It is not uncommon to find me lost in moments of pleasure in my kitchen, movements mechanical and eyelids kissing. Today I felt sick pretty much from the get go and put it down to a little too much to drink- nothing a lot of water and bread couldn't fix, however pain and sickness followed and I decided perhaps I should just stay put. I hoovered up yesterday leftovers which turned into noodles with vegeburger and leftover bread. Ach. Bad choice. Although it was rather nausiating, it did line my stomach so I was spared puking. I love you, starchy carb compounds.
After a bath I did felt somewhat better and strayed back to the kitchen in search of something a little less gross. Real butter winked at me from it's leafy sheen of foil. Mmm, butter. And then- baguette. Ah. Cup of tea in hand I was slowly tearing off chunks of bread, slathering liberally in butter before savouring in one mouthful each slightly-too-big-to-be-called-bitesize piece. The rest of this half of the baguette was toasted, buttered heavily (as I made more tea) before strawberry jam was upended over the top. Oh yes. Oh yes. Here I sit in my dark duvet coddled state feeling every bit like the cat that got the cream. And the butter.
I read a forum post today about the ethics of food sharing and I found it extraordinary how many people hate sharing meals. As long as I can remember I've hated sharing anything spit covered with other people, especially drinks. I still feel a bit uncomfortable about it but generally speaking I think it's just a childhood thing, like not eating greens (which I have always loved, go figure). My ideal meal would be one in which everyone was able to share and taste a little of everything, and I also (as any who come over for dinner will know) love to share from the same plate or bowl. I think it adds a sense of connection with the other person(s) that you cannot experience from anything else. The only thing I do not like is uninvited people reaching and taking. I always offer everything I have, but refuse point blank to be "sea-gulled" by forks and fingers before my ass has hit the seat. I'll even share dessert... most of the time ^_~.
This leads me to a rant, quite on topic and relative to everyone except my mother. Don't get me wrong here because I love cooking for people and I cook with love. But sometimes I do feel... irked. A slight irritation, like a rash in my mind. It comes when I have been asked to prepare a lunch on the lawn, only to find everyone has eaten beforehand. It's one thing to bring a few sandwiches but I put alot of effort, time and money into such things. I warn people to come with their appetites.
It also comes when, after complaining of the above, people assure me that they will help on the financial front. It's a polite gesture, but is rarely held up. It is also not the major issue, so long as the lunches are eaten. It only becomes bothersome when I am left with sometimes up to £15 of food which I cannot get through in time.
I would have to say the most poignant thing in my mind at the moment is a comment from the Mr of the house a few weeks ago, which pretty much sums up how I feel people can come to view me. I, of course was cooking not one but two dinners to cater to the picky tastebuds of tired masses, and cooking them at different times whilst trying to use food economically. After listing a few things from the freezer, a meal was decided and I went to cook it. Mother was in the kitchen, and suggested I cook some meat from the fridge which would be spoiled soon and I obliged. I even went so far as to relay the change of meal plan to my Mr. His response is was appaled me - "But I want X, why are you cooking Y?". In the end I cooked X and Y sat in the fridge haf cooked until the next day when they were pronounced - the worst he'd ever eaten.
And that is why I would like to be shown respect from time to time. For some of you, it is just a thankyou or a compliment, a loaf brought along or a bottle of wine with dinner. For others, it is acknowledgement that I wash their clothes, cook their food, clean their dishes and do their food shopping as well as keeping their living space cleaned. And I am no one's mother. I do not have to treat anyone specially.
I do so because I love.
After a bath I did felt somewhat better and strayed back to the kitchen in search of something a little less gross. Real butter winked at me from it's leafy sheen of foil. Mmm, butter. And then- baguette. Ah. Cup of tea in hand I was slowly tearing off chunks of bread, slathering liberally in butter before savouring in one mouthful each slightly-too-big-to-be-called-bitesize piece. The rest of this half of the baguette was toasted, buttered heavily (as I made more tea) before strawberry jam was upended over the top. Oh yes. Oh yes. Here I sit in my dark duvet coddled state feeling every bit like the cat that got the cream. And the butter.
I read a forum post today about the ethics of food sharing and I found it extraordinary how many people hate sharing meals. As long as I can remember I've hated sharing anything spit covered with other people, especially drinks. I still feel a bit uncomfortable about it but generally speaking I think it's just a childhood thing, like not eating greens (which I have always loved, go figure). My ideal meal would be one in which everyone was able to share and taste a little of everything, and I also (as any who come over for dinner will know) love to share from the same plate or bowl. I think it adds a sense of connection with the other person(s) that you cannot experience from anything else. The only thing I do not like is uninvited people reaching and taking. I always offer everything I have, but refuse point blank to be "sea-gulled" by forks and fingers before my ass has hit the seat. I'll even share dessert... most of the time ^_~.
This leads me to a rant, quite on topic and relative to everyone except my mother. Don't get me wrong here because I love cooking for people and I cook with love. But sometimes I do feel... irked. A slight irritation, like a rash in my mind. It comes when I have been asked to prepare a lunch on the lawn, only to find everyone has eaten beforehand. It's one thing to bring a few sandwiches but I put alot of effort, time and money into such things. I warn people to come with their appetites.
It also comes when, after complaining of the above, people assure me that they will help on the financial front. It's a polite gesture, but is rarely held up. It is also not the major issue, so long as the lunches are eaten. It only becomes bothersome when I am left with sometimes up to £15 of food which I cannot get through in time.
I would have to say the most poignant thing in my mind at the moment is a comment from the Mr of the house a few weeks ago, which pretty much sums up how I feel people can come to view me. I, of course was cooking not one but two dinners to cater to the picky tastebuds of tired masses, and cooking them at different times whilst trying to use food economically. After listing a few things from the freezer, a meal was decided and I went to cook it. Mother was in the kitchen, and suggested I cook some meat from the fridge which would be spoiled soon and I obliged. I even went so far as to relay the change of meal plan to my Mr. His response is was appaled me - "But I want X, why are you cooking Y?". In the end I cooked X and Y sat in the fridge haf cooked until the next day when they were pronounced - the worst he'd ever eaten.
And that is why I would like to be shown respect from time to time. For some of you, it is just a thankyou or a compliment, a loaf brought along or a bottle of wine with dinner. For others, it is acknowledgement that I wash their clothes, cook their food, clean their dishes and do their food shopping as well as keeping their living space cleaned. And I am no one's mother. I do not have to treat anyone specially.
I do so because I love.
Wednesday 19 August 2009
Holding Cell 108
When Nikko was just three, doctors discovered a most unusual blood clot behind her eyes. It appeared to be infected with pneumonic plague and yet on recieving the results of further analysis, they saw that this particular strain had mutated. She was the only known carrier of this awful bacterium, and a few further samples were taken to give to mice. As a result, each test subject died within days if not hours of coming into contact with it. Both her parents were savagely executed in the lab without notification, their data erased from the public system. This, of course, was a safety precaution. As a further safety precaution, Nikko was quarantined in the lab's most sterile unit - holding cell number one zero eight.
Now, Nikko was not without company. Dr Monocle raised her with kindess even if lacking any love for her, too deep was his fear of what lay within this child. She also met many unnamed laboratory technicians and chemists who all blurred into thick suits and air tanks and masks. She never much cared for them. The tests were more intrusive than I care to mention. The biggest torture to Nikko was not the lovelessness, nor the absence of human contact. She knew what skin felt like- she had her own. I digress. The most arduous and torturous thing was the window. Large enough to stare out across the whole cityscape, vacuum sealed clarity. The sun, the stars and butterflies were of most importance due to the dazzling array of colours and sparkles. She could never quite figure out why the moon looked on her so coldly.
When Nikko turned thirteen, so did Gekko. It happened slowly... and then suddenly, you see. One day whilst staring out the window, particular anguish in her eyes as she was being needled and electro-treated (quite routinely), Nikko's mind stirred. She dizzied. What the labcoats saw next was the last thing they ever did and it was remarkable to behold, for never will you be so shocked as to see the pale girl with white hair and blue milky eyes like she was. Her eyes had turned a curdling crimson. Blood spawned at her lips, blossoming on the faces of the technicians as they fell in one gross pile, retching and gurning the last of theirs away. I tell it so quick because it was. Forget hours, this was over in a minute. After that, Nikko woke up in an incubation tank with myriad wires sucking and feeding, sharp as hell. Doc Monacle's voice was outside, talking a jumble of sounds to a woman. Her sound jumble was more like sterile honey. This was Nurse Eorith.
But now, there's some back story. Nurse Eorith was new then, only a few months in and no one knew quite where she came from. She was exceptionally good at everything that was asked of her, and Monacle could hardly turn down such a valuable asset. Especially with deaths around the building, most suspicious unless you can get a smart woman involved in the sciencifying. The public understand more when they don't know what you're saying. Very smart woman.
Nikko was more than smart. Nikko was intelligent, genius perhaps. Soon enough she learned she could control the flow of blood, redden her eyes as she pleased. And Monacle discovered that this in turn was killing her quicker than you can say 'ham'. But when Nikko spurred on the bacteria, forced the blood further, that's when the magic happened. That's when she became Gekko. And that is where the real story starts- in the Dreamscapes.
Now, Nikko was not without company. Dr Monocle raised her with kindess even if lacking any love for her, too deep was his fear of what lay within this child. She also met many unnamed laboratory technicians and chemists who all blurred into thick suits and air tanks and masks. She never much cared for them. The tests were more intrusive than I care to mention. The biggest torture to Nikko was not the lovelessness, nor the absence of human contact. She knew what skin felt like- she had her own. I digress. The most arduous and torturous thing was the window. Large enough to stare out across the whole cityscape, vacuum sealed clarity. The sun, the stars and butterflies were of most importance due to the dazzling array of colours and sparkles. She could never quite figure out why the moon looked on her so coldly.
When Nikko turned thirteen, so did Gekko. It happened slowly... and then suddenly, you see. One day whilst staring out the window, particular anguish in her eyes as she was being needled and electro-treated (quite routinely), Nikko's mind stirred. She dizzied. What the labcoats saw next was the last thing they ever did and it was remarkable to behold, for never will you be so shocked as to see the pale girl with white hair and blue milky eyes like she was. Her eyes had turned a curdling crimson. Blood spawned at her lips, blossoming on the faces of the technicians as they fell in one gross pile, retching and gurning the last of theirs away. I tell it so quick because it was. Forget hours, this was over in a minute. After that, Nikko woke up in an incubation tank with myriad wires sucking and feeding, sharp as hell. Doc Monacle's voice was outside, talking a jumble of sounds to a woman. Her sound jumble was more like sterile honey. This was Nurse Eorith.
But now, there's some back story. Nurse Eorith was new then, only a few months in and no one knew quite where she came from. She was exceptionally good at everything that was asked of her, and Monacle could hardly turn down such a valuable asset. Especially with deaths around the building, most suspicious unless you can get a smart woman involved in the sciencifying. The public understand more when they don't know what you're saying. Very smart woman.
Nikko was more than smart. Nikko was intelligent, genius perhaps. Soon enough she learned she could control the flow of blood, redden her eyes as she pleased. And Monacle discovered that this in turn was killing her quicker than you can say 'ham'. But when Nikko spurred on the bacteria, forced the blood further, that's when the magic happened. That's when she became Gekko. And that is where the real story starts- in the Dreamscapes.
Saturday 15 August 2009
Hmm
Sing a song
It doesn't have to be very long,
You can break up symphony
Into simple melody,
You can't go wrong.
It could be be from the swingin' sixties
I don't mind, you choose.
I've hummed to a little Steinway
Clicking out the twelve bar blues.
And if by midnight no one's got the courage
To have sung,
I'll go back where I came from,
To the silence I call home.
Sometimes, my own innocence makes me giggle. Because my mind isn't dirty when I'm alone. Not all the time ;).
I found a face mask today described as a chocolate pack. The first thing I did was smell it and realise that it indeed smelled like chocolate- orange smarties I think. Still seeing nothing to laugh at I applied it in the mirror and as I was doing so I was reminded of that bbc sketch where someone is shown 'blacking up'. And then I almost peed myself laughing as realisation dawned. I was painting my face with brown mulch, I smelled of smarties and was smeared in something called chocolate pack.
Well, I got my kicks :)
Apparently that sketch has caused some controversy, as I can't find any clips on youtube.
http://www.ligali.org/article.php?id=641
My face now smells of chocolate sick. Ugh. At least my skin is soft.
It doesn't have to be very long,
You can break up symphony
Into simple melody,
You can't go wrong.
It could be be from the swingin' sixties
I don't mind, you choose.
I've hummed to a little Steinway
Clicking out the twelve bar blues.
And if by midnight no one's got the courage
To have sung,
I'll go back where I came from,
To the silence I call home.
Sometimes, my own innocence makes me giggle. Because my mind isn't dirty when I'm alone. Not all the time ;).
I found a face mask today described as a chocolate pack. The first thing I did was smell it and realise that it indeed smelled like chocolate- orange smarties I think. Still seeing nothing to laugh at I applied it in the mirror and as I was doing so I was reminded of that bbc sketch where someone is shown 'blacking up'. And then I almost peed myself laughing as realisation dawned. I was painting my face with brown mulch, I smelled of smarties and was smeared in something called chocolate pack.
Well, I got my kicks :)
Apparently that sketch has caused some controversy, as I can't find any clips on youtube.
http://www.ligali.org/article.php?id=641
My face now smells of chocolate sick. Ugh. At least my skin is soft.
Friday 14 August 2009
King. Check Mate. Crown Me Queen.
It is only fitting that I met my O.H in camden, home to a wealth of beautiful women, colours and fashions.
Bitch, where'd you think you're going?!?
I think I have fallen in love, she says as the last can rolls underneath the TV. No one really understands, as her eyes blur tears and her heart sinks solid, that she cannot possibly explain this bizarre drugless emotion that still feels like the best fix she's never paid for. She slumps over the stove with pots a'boiling, tins empty and torn skin from amalgamated vegetables scattering the work surface. Alone, she can recall a time when she heard the counter being called a work surface and understood, beneath those big brown eyes, that the kitchen was a place of work. This was a room of dedication from birth until death. She decided then that this room was her haven with her mother, tiny fat toes on a kitchen chair balanced, knife in hand, all her own. She learned of the differing ways of slicing vegetables. That hot was steam and fire and pans left on a high heat, cold was wet fingers and tongues stuck to ice cubes and frozen fish.
Bitch, where'd you think you're going?!?
I think I have fallen in love, she says as the last can rolls underneath the TV. No one really understands, as her eyes blur tears and her heart sinks solid, that she cannot possibly explain this bizarre drugless emotion that still feels like the best fix she's never paid for. She slumps over the stove with pots a'boiling, tins empty and torn skin from amalgamated vegetables scattering the work surface. Alone, she can recall a time when she heard the counter being called a work surface and understood, beneath those big brown eyes, that the kitchen was a place of work. This was a room of dedication from birth until death. She decided then that this room was her haven with her mother, tiny fat toes on a kitchen chair balanced, knife in hand, all her own. She learned of the differing ways of slicing vegetables. That hot was steam and fire and pans left on a high heat, cold was wet fingers and tongues stuck to ice cubes and frozen fish.
Her life flashes before her eyes. She remembers her roots, then remembers her shame.
She recalls the time she was four and could not make it from the garden to the bathroom in time. She recalls the most inappropriate thing she said aged six, straight to her mother in front of her schizophrenic uncle. She recalls falling dressed as a candy bar and how safe it was to hide within that stupid paper bag and cry in front of forty or so people, no one could see. She recalls every lie, every embarrassing and perverted thing she has done and hides her face.
Suddenly she is older, no longer climbing up hills but in her room listening to her first metal album and swigging beer, cigarette in hand. She is her first lighter burn and her first shard of glass. She is well beyond her first period. Everything is encrusted is anguish and she cannot comprehend why or what.
Everything become overdoses, bottles of spirit and bleeding limbs. It is alot of lost friends. She can't decide between being and bleeding.
She is seventeen. She grows suddenly into a real person, an adult of strange proportions and strange propositions.
She decides everything will be ok.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Predator
I am predator woman, pinning you between the sheets.
With my hands on your wrists, I am your violent queen throwing you down and tearing my way towards bliss.
Yes, predator woman who has her hips in the small of your back and a thigh on your thigh -
I dare you to escape.
Teeth at your neck.
Hands at your waist.
I am poised for the kill.
With my hands on your wrists, I am your violent queen throwing you down and tearing my way towards bliss.
Yes, predator woman who has her hips in the small of your back and a thigh on your thigh -
I dare you to escape.
Teeth at your neck.
Hands at your waist.
I am poised for the kill.
Friday 7 August 2009
So, It's Like This.
My words fail me.
I'm hurt. No more, no less.
I will not respect you for taking drugs, but I am trying to respect your decision to take them.
I'm cooking you chicken Nasi Lemak. I'm not sure, but I think it means tasty/curry rice. It's Malasian cooking and soul food, one of my favourite things to eat, and I got in SO much trouble for taking the legs from the chicken for it. Jan was NOT pleased :P.
The curry took me hours on a slow simmer. The rice contains coconut, and there is some cucumber and fresh lime as well as peanuts and fresh herbs. I have no sambal. And I know you won't eat fish. Or egg. It's as close as I can offer you to my hidden side of the family. But I tried for you.
Jan just almost choked to death, quite literally. She tasted the curry. Oh dear. Apparently the amount of chilli made her whole throat swell.
Enjoy honey pie.
I'm hurt. No more, no less.
I will not respect you for taking drugs, but I am trying to respect your decision to take them.
I'm cooking you chicken Nasi Lemak. I'm not sure, but I think it means tasty/curry rice. It's Malasian cooking and soul food, one of my favourite things to eat, and I got in SO much trouble for taking the legs from the chicken for it. Jan was NOT pleased :P.
The curry took me hours on a slow simmer. The rice contains coconut, and there is some cucumber and fresh lime as well as peanuts and fresh herbs. I have no sambal. And I know you won't eat fish. Or egg. It's as close as I can offer you to my hidden side of the family. But I tried for you.
Jan just almost choked to death, quite literally. She tasted the curry. Oh dear. Apparently the amount of chilli made her whole throat swell.
Enjoy honey pie.
Thursday 6 August 2009
I Reply. I Expose.
Charming, but on the contrary I feel I am not being a retard. I am exposing the most fragile parts of my soul to everyone I love and I only ask not to be hurt by those I have entrusted with this almost-impossibly fragile information.
I know how you feel, but not exactly because I am not you and your emotions are your own. I can only respect that. I believe every word you say, and that is the truth. And you are my truth, I will always believe you.
I know I am destroying myself, but I have never been better and with you I have re-discovered the nature of life and all its joys. I am truly happy.
Please, I ask only that in return for this most fragile information -Be delicate with my soul
Be ruthless with your love
Be honest in your words
Be kind with your anger
Tuesday 4 August 2009
Paranoid
I am paranoid.
It stops me from sleeping.
I am paranoid that I am fat. Every woman will say this, but not every woman will sneak away to eat food. I am paranoid that when I walk everyone turns to stare at my thighs. And that when I am seen from the side or lying down, my chins threefold. I am paranoid when I move my arms because I feel arm fat shake and I am paranoid that this is ugly.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am ugly. I am paranoid that because I am fat I am ugly, and that I have been getting fatter and hence uglier. I am paranoid that because I am ugly my friends will all leave me, and that some of them are choosing to already. I am paranoid every time I am not touched or held because of this ugliness. I am paranoid when I expose myself for attention and I am not recieved with adoration. I am paranoid that I will never look like the women that people want, in the movies, the pornos and the magazines. I am paranoid when you turn to sleep, and I am paranoid that this is because I am too ugly to be touched or kissed. I am paranoid that people cringe after they make physical contact with me, and some of them go and wash afterwards. And that I am undesired.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am useless. Everytime I cook, clean and fold that it is not enough to be noticed. I am paranoid that I will become invisible and my triumphs will dissipate. I am paranoid that my food will not forfill any expectations and will fall short of being passable, to be thrown in my face. I am paranoid that I cannot be perfect. That no one sees if and when I try.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am weak. And because I can admit my weaknesses I get only weaker. I am paranoid that crying is the ultimate defeat, and that I am not strong enough for human relations. I am paranoid that I will cry infront of people and when I do, I am paranoid that they will ask questions which have stupid answers. I am paranoid that people will find out I am paranoid and weak and I will be shamed only further.
And this makes me cry.
And now I am crying.
And I am still paranoid.
It stops me from sleeping.
I am paranoid that I am fat. Every woman will say this, but not every woman will sneak away to eat food. I am paranoid that when I walk everyone turns to stare at my thighs. And that when I am seen from the side or lying down, my chins threefold. I am paranoid when I move my arms because I feel arm fat shake and I am paranoid that this is ugly.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am ugly. I am paranoid that because I am fat I am ugly, and that I have been getting fatter and hence uglier. I am paranoid that because I am ugly my friends will all leave me, and that some of them are choosing to already. I am paranoid every time I am not touched or held because of this ugliness. I am paranoid when I expose myself for attention and I am not recieved with adoration. I am paranoid that I will never look like the women that people want, in the movies, the pornos and the magazines. I am paranoid when you turn to sleep, and I am paranoid that this is because I am too ugly to be touched or kissed. I am paranoid that people cringe after they make physical contact with me, and some of them go and wash afterwards. And that I am undesired.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am useless. Everytime I cook, clean and fold that it is not enough to be noticed. I am paranoid that I will become invisible and my triumphs will dissipate. I am paranoid that my food will not forfill any expectations and will fall short of being passable, to be thrown in my face. I am paranoid that I cannot be perfect. That no one sees if and when I try.
This makes me cry.
I am paranoid that I am weak. And because I can admit my weaknesses I get only weaker. I am paranoid that crying is the ultimate defeat, and that I am not strong enough for human relations. I am paranoid that I will cry infront of people and when I do, I am paranoid that they will ask questions which have stupid answers. I am paranoid that people will find out I am paranoid and weak and I will be shamed only further.
And this makes me cry.
And now I am crying.
And I am still paranoid.
Tastes like Witches.
Purple soup is amazing. I just thought I'd share that with you. No one else really likes it, or else feels indifferent to its alluring sweet mild spice and creamy texture, coupled with a beautiful purple colour. It's a soup that would have appealed to me all the more aged four, uncomplicated in flavour and easy to eat. It is also quickly brought to foreground as an adult dish when coupled with sour cream and a few stilton rye wafers. Delicious, a perfect flavour balance and completely from my own juicy synapses. No recipe for you.
Saturday 1 August 2009
Come, And Be My Baby...
Once, there was a poet
Whose words had gone astray,
They did not linger in the air
Nor at the dim doorway.
This poet called out softly
But alas, there was no sound
For all the words had dissipated-
None could be found.
Entangled in the branches of
The slowly swaying trees,
Caught in lovers' lullabyes,
Choking on the breeze.
Not one poetic utterance
Not one apt word of truth,
Forever gone, the poet's words,
Forever gone their youth.
And now the poet all alone
Can seldom move the lips
That once sung out of beauty,
Of blushing ivy crypts
In which there may lie damsels,
Weeping in distrust.
No, these words lie dormant
In the ever-moving dusts.
Take heed, most weary traveller,
Allow yourself to see
That all words hold potential,
Any word can be.
Whose words had gone astray,
They did not linger in the air
Nor at the dim doorway.
This poet called out softly
But alas, there was no sound
For all the words had dissipated-
None could be found.
Entangled in the branches of
The slowly swaying trees,
Caught in lovers' lullabyes,
Choking on the breeze.
Not one poetic utterance
Not one apt word of truth,
Forever gone, the poet's words,
Forever gone their youth.
And now the poet all alone
Can seldom move the lips
That once sung out of beauty,
Of blushing ivy crypts
In which there may lie damsels,
Weeping in distrust.
No, these words lie dormant
In the ever-moving dusts.
Take heed, most weary traveller,
Allow yourself to see
That all words hold potential,
Any word can be.
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