Warehouse - Tile Print Jacket

Warehouse - Tile Print Jacket

This jacket would be great to go to work in this autumn.
The first leaves have fallen and we are waiting for a little bit of sunshine to take us into the winter. That indian summer the weather men are promising must surely be on it's way.

Off to pick blackberries in the fields before the kids go back to school. Won't be long before we are round the bonfire again.

Hey British Film Institute, One Day You Will what exactly?

The kids and their dad and I went on a day out here last winter and it was great fun. Catch all the latest realease art and so on type movies. The bar in the basement with a garden is very lovely. I was impressed by the overall bohemian type atmosphere. How about an old Hollywood late night club for people who just can't go to sleep until they have seen Fred propose to Audrey one last time, or caught a glimpse of Marilyn's backside shimmying down the station platform.

My blog skillz are seriously naff compared to long term bloggers. I am trying to convey the fun and arty, maybe slightly poetic, but also slightly panicky and flashy feeling I get from living by the sea. I love taking photos at the moment. I wanted to do self-portraiture for a bit. The opportunities are not as easy to find as you may imagine.

I am a bit keen on poetry. The stuff above is based on mostly made up scenarios. I want to create a fictitious personality. It is an idea I have had in my mind for a while. I think it is because I want to use my creativity to understand other people's problems as well as my own.

I have a slight addiction to various substances. Coffee and chocolate. Soap and wool. I used to spend hours washing all my jumpers by hand in freezing cold water because I was so desperately worried that my jumpers would shrink. My hands became the victim of that particular obsession.

`Janine captured a cold alienated stare from the woman who carefully and methodically re-arranged her kitchen shelves.

-How are you mother?

-I'm fine, your farther is seeing me again, not her.

-Oh, do I need to do anything?

-No.

-Fine then I'll sort out my clothes for uni, if you don't mind.

-I wouldn't take too much with you.

-No why?

-Things go missing.

-I think you should have a higher opinion of my friends.

It is 2015. The great mobile phone crisis of the early part of the millenia was drawing to a close. The tiny friend ringing device had been out-lawed. People were finding so many reasons to ring one another that they hardly paused to drink and eat. Some had become athletic champions just to be first to do a particular pose with their phone in front of an audience or some-one they want to impress. The heads of thought as we know it were comparing it to early cigarette use. One human sociologist, science worker had come out publicly and stated that although the craze would take many souls, just like smoking, many would survive and become whole again without the device. 

As we all know, said the boffin, society is about adaption, and adaptation. There are always people who want to gain power over others via control of the emotions and addiction is linked to that. 

-We take away their fix, said one scientist. The situation around them calms down and they seem like so called "normals" again.

To my dearest Grandfather,

My eyes can not express the pain of thought that brings us to this unhappy conclusion. So many battles fought over this fair isle and I was but a child, a pawn in his command. I await news on home shore. my equipment  doesn't hold up as well as I expected. In Churchill's finest hour the men were spared as well as children and girls. Hitler's robots were all defeated. Now they align and spread around the base and we have very little to say to them except why can't you understand?

-They made me a tiny girl child, and I stepped from the rubble, lachrymose dust covers my face and shoulders upheld shrugs of blue fuddled literature. Strains her neck to control the stem of uni person, un-person and androgyny foul of thought and unstable of criticism. She wanders in a maelstrom and unseen hostesses cloth of mesh and mendable all so mendable as we lost did we? He is dead they say. Death with its unnerving hint of poor and unaccountable chain of strange and distraught mayhem.

Bastion of mud based and wine flavored sweat soup. Boiled pure and cut up on East to Nord grave turntable.

The girl in solice spats. Is that all you have? She questions. Guide stretches his flexors as he mis-rolls across moon down. Wobble, but have you nothing there for legs? Bender dyke, left on girder, loft of cart track, tryke, washed in with hopeful small of morning. She with diverse, what now? What now?

Cloth of doom and wedge alright but seeming wet and soaked dry at once.

He is yours now she rumbled. Mind caught in station trap, car to station, to work to house endlessly on and on. I have no meed for his exquisite excuses still there on her throne beckoning on to withered mother. He is yours now she posts variation of his and she remembers girl in black in psychiatric kitchen.

In her mind is the sight of a woman rushing towards a road. In a race to beat time itself. To warn her to cure her or save her from faux-pas, always the terrible fear of embarrassment yet no one ever knows anything to what on earth is the point they ask one another everyday?

It get so tedious she tells Charles, we can't pass here, or there would be a serious accident available to anyone who wants it. You must fight! for the things that make you happy. Become a star or a humble servant of the Lord. You are chosen.

Why is this man over wanting the woman? They all ask. It will give her delusions they say.

"We shall fight them on the beaches" became the slogan for many years. His memory deeply carved into my soul, his kindness and moving understanding. He was like other men though and decent to everyone. Mind on naval push to the right. Gamey and sinuous like mother. 

Swan, she said as she rambled through lines of stretched dna and tried endlessly to make the tiny girls' shoes fit her face.

cancer? we can bear it we have lived there for so long. Eyes mottled, vanquishing turgid grey follows her endlessly. This time she engages ear of malcontent woman and tries to have the babies with her a forseer. herpes burned her and acne scared face of fresh pain and trouting black motttled mouth, teeth semi-septic and stained, eyes always lowered away, nothing against her, oh no. 

"No-one about now, I'll have one and wait till the afternoon while zombie shutters down and brash and tickling throat pills pike from her uneven breast bone. 

Mawkish motion of slim and seditionary vessel, guides it way along, energy full floated forth with and oozing down on lady's wooden chair. She jumps up and cries and then louder meaning of woolen shawl fresh with nitrous oxide and cleaning fluid. Furry wrap round back wafting of her drawn and anguished body.

My Mum in her black hat and red coat in Paris, last winter and some pretty beach huts.

The mid-day dinner gong has been sounded. A tiny child in a white and pink gown has been pushed onto the rush matting by an over friendly and slightly angry retriever. She is burbling hot tears onto her own rosy cheeks and trying to get up. There is no strength in her arms and legs. Two years ago a car hit her mother's at high speed and both occupants were almost killed. It was 1963. I was a baby.
They notice she has fallen from her chair and quickly hurry to pick her up, the big useless lump, the useless invalid. She is growing quite quickly now. She even has hair. You can't see the scars, pipes up one of my Aunts. She is hurt and hungry. There are spikey pins in her face and eyes. They tell her to ask Jesus to help her. The priest will say her will for her this time oh priest do, please I so want to live.

You have to clobber Lorraine when you are a big girl said B to me in a dream. I ended up tough and street tough at that. No one would mess with me shouts angio girl.

She was speaking Jane, says B. It is still a bit spiky. There was nobody there. There was no-one there.
Then I see her. Stripes in the eyes. I see her and the other child and they rush passed and ignore me. I am so alone. No one wants me. I don't have a mother or a father. I died in a car-crash and then they saved me. I don't understand how I got to be twenty three.

Peace came and Hope
for the folks of the enduring creek. Less time to wait, they figured if they took the mooring after all. Doing everything they could to avert the  problem, rush it all out and be back in town making trays of biscuits for the hungry masses. Until someone worked that out for me. Her, she doesn't want to be around you anymore, but is tempted to all the same to watch when things go wrong. She thinks it will anoy you. Bloody sex! With my boyfriend. I've known him longer and then two kiddies too. Who is going to pay for all that? She with her mind for numbers and financial gain, going around telling all and sundry that her ladyship is in fact a corporate giant no less. As if everything gets manufactured out of her arse. Come on Toby me laddy, hey man, you work in the media, tell the nosy parkers to run off and give the girl a bit of time with her old mum so she can wear the clothes the right way for once. That means nothing to her does it? No. You are going round in circles again. Toby is my little boy cousin. He is not supposed to grow up and my grandparents certainly were not supposed to die ten years after retiring to one of the most beautiful and quiet places in the country. Oh dear. Yes oh dear!

Long mornings at Hill House perusing the press. Everyone there for me. I put on Sunday clothes everyday now. No one talks about the cost, all except the old crowd and then it is only to prove their stupid point. How can he have been so beastly to me over that girl. i am not that sort of person who can just sit and take it and even Aunt Lucy has been called on for advice. I don't need poison or shots I need a good professor to take me in hand. Ooh so nice!

A Blue sports car passed that way that day and then she fell, she altered into a little dullish broken person who gets in the way of your massive skip full of tears and greed. The water still softly lapping around and the wading birds are off. More music further South. Princesses in their holiday cotton and sewn by the dusty dark queen of pub Saturday memories. The "Brown" stoked into their chests over and over and never a real hangover. Never a real fly in the ointment.