Playlist: March 2020

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I dream I am driving, and the accident with tomatoes mattered less because I was going to slam myself, my assemblage of metal and flesh, quite deliriously into the tree. He once teased he was good at slamming. Before there was yesterday, I had watched you with the beef variety in the centre of the plate; how you held the knife quite close so the skin would almost burst, I held my breath. Red would split upon red, the tremble. Is it even red, this colour they ascribe to the fruit we always said was vegetal? Breakfast, another cut between my legs. Breakfast, the people who queue outside for their messages. Two metres apart, we exist at the opposite stems of each other.

To think of it now, my mind flowering as though on modafinil, recovering a single pollen of thought. It is this: I would crumble to every yellow you asked of us, sweeping me from your sunsets as nobody would dare come online. 

As the plot develops, you are pushing the knife, really pushing it into the fruit. You are going quite steady, through the seed. I feel a warmth from the skin of the keys. You can’t go through with it; you drop the handle and check my pulse. We loll around, considering things. We are two lopped halves of the edible. I felt like Whitman, licking tomato juice from the knife of the man who doesn’t exist. Who made you a man? You could just as easily have been a sunflower, boy. We loll around, considering things; we sway in the wind that doesn’t exist. I want to be as sure as the land. The land outside is an area, and the area is X, it doesn’t exist. 

who / that / it
pleases
to live

There are millions of infected tomatoes living right now on this planet. I find it triggering when someone pretends to count them. I set my alarm clock to March, knowing we’d even get back if we tried, if we were silent as we are. I cycled hard up the hill to meet this, dreaming the fruit upon my return. 

The clocks go forward, stupid clocks!

*

Fiction makes us go places. All the signs said, for circumstances beyond our control— 

Move you between ex and why. 

I dream of a quarantine beside the sea. My brother is ordering luxury coffee, the air is good, I feel it stir in my chest. The air is time, but we can’t buy it. I leave fat tips with coins I can’t use. Why is it for ‘me’ or ‘us’ that the world exists? You took the single when you wanted the double. No, it is not that at all. We thank the people who serve us duly. You have served me the last bad song of myself. 

‘Of crushed red tomatoes, you turn it down to just an orange glow’ (Bernadette Mayer, ‘Very Strong February’). 

In lieu of my thesis, I kept making playlists. Which argument is it that would strangle the days, leave them to simmer

Then strangle the days to a blazing teal. 

*

‘Something is going to happen’, writes Sartre in Nausea, ‘I see myself advancing with a sense of fatality’. It is our curse to be so viscously stuck to ourselves. I don’t know what that’s about, what any of this means. Imagine a laptop on top of a laptop. I am helpless in the form of a sentence. Why are my keys so warm, from what tip did we insufflate?

‘The Nausea isn’t inside me: I can feel it over there on the wall, on the braces, everywhere around me. It is one with the café, it is I who am inside it’ (Sartre, Nausea). There is no island from the virus, no Nature to look back, sashaying her endless oceans of hair, like the restaurant manager portrayed in a surly review on TripAdvisor. I am nauseous with a virus inside me I can’t even see. Maybe we are close to a birth with it. A long, interminable pregnancy. 

The twang in my chest was a causal relation between ventricle rivers.

I feel trapped in the body inside my body. It’s always looking back. 

A friend messages with the apology, ‘Still need to reply to you but my days have been frustratingly full of speaking at videos of other people speaking at a video of me and so on forever and ever’. 

Can you adjust to the nausea? I drove a car very hard, knowing I could not drive the car, knowing it would end so badly and the creosote bushes would sing to me. I drive us back to the virtual diner, where you leave all the olives and sip a red scare.

The nausea comes in the form of abyss. It is good to hear you speaking, the lemon trees growing, your hair losing tone because of the days. 

*

If people were chalking ‘We will be okay :-)’ on the riverside walkway, I would do a Ben Lerner, via Whitman, and pour sympathy out in paint: ‘I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is’. Do we know how anything is? I have been texting my nurse friends with everything and nothing to say. I cross bridges for no reason than burning it backwards. Could you say this to a river? Can fire kill a virus?

I project us backwards into the current, knowing the absence of voice would sweep me, swallow a flower. If we forget how to speak, if we get through this. 

Tambourine canter.

Swallow a fruit. 

On the other side, politics chokes.

*

One day, we will live post-email and lilac you sit on the sill of my window. 

If I had a thing to say, it was not worth saying.
If I had a thing to say, it was not worth saying. 

Something is going to happen. You spear the tomato, eventually, and it is so trivial. 

I want to live in the blood that makes us so trivial, harvest my red, be less of love and more inside it. 

*

Somebody I don’t know on Zoom is called upon to define their practice.

*

If you were never already in reach. ‘Distance is here the expression of a certain loss […] which is “losable” only insofar as it is within my horizon’ (Ahmed, Queer Phenomenology). I watch other rituals on the feed, tomatoes conveying their life like sunsets, oozing Billie Holiday songs on a glitching sea. 

*

Your former melancholy. 

Darkside.

I want you to draw them. 

I want you to draw them, very slowly

until every one is a baby. 

And you make a baby of my tomato. 

And you make it very strange. 

And you give it as seed. 

Sequined with topics.

These bundles of fatalist apples of love. 

I sketch out the yellowest nets.

*

I should have sent no poems over the sea, I should have envisioned the breakfast of distance, I should have swam while I could. 

I would like to arrive dishevelled / at the edge of things.

*

Smell of wild garlic in Pollok Park / you polish your shoes / I miss you.

*

So this is it that survives ‘you’: 

‘The joyless, atrocious, sad “pleasure” is in the details of the suffering, in the suffering itself, in the taste you taste to the bottom where nothing forbids you to suffer, and each cruel dish, so relished, offers the heartbreaking pleasure of being able to feel.’
   — Cixous, Dream I Tell You

When someone on twitter has already written, had lunch twice just to feel something

‘In order to avoid saying “I,” the author eats incessantly’ (Ben Lerner, Angle of Yaw).

My heart freaks out at your avatar. It happened again and I’m sorry.

stop_refreshing_the_news.pdf 

*

Adding these smiles of coriander, you discover dawn’s vanity in the mouth of a crow. It is adding its cries to the plate of tomatoes. Such seasoning loses the seasons. I would drown you in oil / before you could make / the cut of my life. 

*

Remember gigs
Remember green infinite days
Remember growing backwards
Remember gross affairs with inelegant consequence
Remember green & finite money
Remember glistening sheets
Remember guessing who would be there
Remember gestalt was a thing

*

And you make it very strange, this thing that will happen. Immensely belonging to no one. Her body a pyramid. Enter it. 

Motionless, causing a solemn offence.

Outlook fails to open a page.

Something is waiting. Remember it green & infinite. 

*

Easy for you to say of a fall. Feels spooky to have speed dial. No news is rhizome. 

Catch you on zoom.

Hate us for saying it.

I adore us. 

So trivial.

Sacred tomato, last supper,

cut me on cam. What do they look like?

You are yellow and red you are yellow and / red you are yellow and yellow and yellow. 

~

Stereolab – Infinity Girl

TOPS – Colder & Closer

Deeper – The Knife

Ellis May – War on Territory

Porches – I Wanna Ride

Squid – Sludge

Thee Oh Sees – C

Porridge Radio – Pop Song

Catholic Action – Witness

Savage Mansion – Weird Country

Disq – Konichiwa Internet

Life Model – Saskia

DOPE LEMON – Streets of Your Town

Sufjan Stevens, Lowell Brams – What It Takes

Sharon Van Etten – Staring at a Mountain

Lucinda Williams – Sharp Cutting Wings

Broadcast – Lights Out

Half Waif – In August

Sun Glitters – UUnnrreeaall

Kelora – X24

Grimes – Delete Forever

Moses Sumney – Virile

The Weeknd – Hardest to Love

Minor Science – Spoken and Unspoken

DjRUM – Blue Violet

Princess Nokia – Gemini A COLORS SHOW

Laurel Halo – Zeljava

Brooke Bentham – Control

Good Good Blood – Sanctuary Mornings

Real Estate – Falling Down

stmartiins – Holly’s House

Ratboys – A Vision

Waxahatchee – Lilacs

The National – Never Tear Us Apart

Beth Orton – Blood Red River

Phoebe Bridgers – The Garden

Bright Eyes – Persona Non Grata

Playlist: October 2018

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This month of intense transition, brisk walks after dark in a state of delirium. This PhD is all over me. My screen is so white and it glares all day. The moon is so white it’s almost offensive and so is the carton of milk which sits by the homeless man at Charing Cross. He rolls cigarettes and watches the traffic. I rarely see him smoke, but he is often rolling, and watching. Rolling and watching, as if the two were entwined and utterly necessary. I am watching too as I walk, but I walk fast and make of all features a blur. I run out of routes. I take the park at night to see the stars spread out on a sky of blue velvet. Nothing is nameable this way. It grows colder.

My feet look for a path but often find the grass instead.

Days pass, immersing myself in the journals of Gilbert White for a sense of the seasons, and how they manifest in the Earth. All the dead leaves of centuries swept. Then also Derek Jarman’s garden, so lovingly noted in Modern Nature.

To have such connection to the land, documenting its events. White:

Baker’s hill is harrowed-down after these great rains: it was no easy matter to subdue the clods at all. Some of the olde elders round the garden are almost leafless. Wallnuts are this Year innumerable. The white-apples are fit to make pies. Grapes, peaches, nectares very backward.

This is in August. Arboreal fruits and other riches. I ate a lot of apples in August, because there are always apples at conferences, nestled on paper-linings. In air-conditioned rooms, you crisply attend to knowledge. Something tart and sweet that activates the acid of many collective stomachs.

Mostly White’s journal compends the minutiae of fruits and vegetables grafted and grown and harvested in the garden. Little discoveries named in both English and Latin. The beauty of regularity and daily rhythm. But there are glitches: talk of ‘vast rain’ in the night, eerie events that just happen and remain unexplained —

A great light seen, & a vast explosion from y S: about a quarter past nine in the evening: the Cause unknown. It shook peoples houses very much. It seems to be meterous.

(White)

I write this on a Sunday morning, just as the bin men are creating a cataclysm of the garden. On Wednesday morning, the cleaners come early and the sound of the mop hitting the wall wakes me up from insomnia’s half-formed slumber. I dwell in these rhythms of other people’s labour, and consider my own, fingers on keys.

I have been thinking about data and how we access climate change as both event and ontological condition. What kinds of data do I attend to on a daily basis? I do not check the fluctuating air quality of my city, although Google allows you to do this. I rarely check the weather, at least beyond a cursory search as to whether to prepare with waterproofs or not. Checking the weather reminds me of the days of the week and all I have to do, and how the days are just units and thus the struggle of cramming things into them. I stay up very late because I am anxious about the days ahead, the things I am supposed to do in them. I remember a period of my life where I’d stay up all night all the time with friends, and when they’d lament the loss of their imminent day I’d say, no but this is great, it’s like cheating time! I did not realise they would sleep through the day, while I would ride wild on a sleep-deprived high, seeing the world as through frosted glass. The wee hours came, then the sun, and they would roll cigarette after cigarette in televisual flickers.

Summertime draws to a close, and dusk acquires a drama of light that demands photography. I skirt around Park Circus, following the curve of the streets, the incline. Ruffles of deeper darkness. How many memories are concentrated at the top of Kelvingrove Park, with the lights spread in ribbons of gold and red and glimmering distance. Collect my intensities, try not to think too hard. The air in my lungs reacts and is hot and sweet. The clocks go back and what a pleasure it is to flip straight to 1:01 again. Where does the hour go that is lost? It shaves a little light off my evening, for which I lament. Last year I was working until 3am when the clocks went back, and I was scared I’d have to work the extra hour unpaid. This is something we never talk about, the impact on those who pull night shifts. Luckily, there was a system. But customers did not understand. It got to 2am and we were kicking them out and they demanded we stay open till 3. The way it was on their phones, which automatically reset in electric synchrony. We were open till 3am that night; just on retro time, the time of before.

So tired I fall asleep with the light on, my face in some book. The luxury of curling into yourself and disappearing until all the dreams come.

The moon this week was consistently incredible. As in, cloaked in a halo of rainbow; magnetic, amphetamine rush of staring at it. Walk walk walk with the moon above, so below. The white pools of light that fall on the street. It gave me this charge or energy. I couldn’t sleep because I was full of the moon. Some lunar reaction inside me. I wanted to be more alone.

A friend describes my poem, ‘A Beautiful Video’, as ‘an autumn harvest of internet trash’, which I like a lot.

Adulthood means getting your bike fixed, over and over. Testing the brakes. It means learning to say no to things. It means being responsible for this and that. The ontological condition of email, with its beautiful intermittence — the sway of send and arrival. Kindest of wishes. I have been trying to start a letter all week but there are so many things I want to say to you. It’s been so long and I have no idea how you’re living. 

It hurts to write ‘now’, like the lostness is already always.

On Hallowe’en, I’ll see Grouper play in Mackintosh Church.

The month began with me listening to Leonard Cohen, and ended in electronic abyss.

Spooky as the air is, filling the wood.

In my diary I seem to write a lot, ‘I feel sick at the thought’.

This is the month I leave my job of five and a half years. I have a lot of separation anxiety and maybe one day I’ll be back. Strange to have such emotional dependence on a place and its people. To measure yourself against the pace of its shifts, the demands of others. To love and love and love unconditionally. I miss everyone already; I did the very moment I set foot in the door for my last shift. We played a game of flexibility and were lovely to everyone, got good tips. A table of Texan tourists, the last people I served, told me: ‘you’re so pretty…you’re like as pretty as this glass of rosé wine’. The wine in question was our house, Angel’s Tears, so I said, ‘and I’m as sad as the tears of the angel’, to which they laughed uneasily. They meant it earnestly and I checked on the menu and a large glass was £7, so I am happy that my apparent attraction matches my second-favourite number. It was a cheap thing to say but I kinda liked it. 

There have been these twangs in my chest, like someone pulling the strings of a harp too hard. I have not been sleeping too well.

Maybe I don’t miss the lush excesses of summer’s end, but I miss the extra light.

The way it feels to cycle downhill in freefall, giving yourself to the traffic, choking on the fumes of the cars around you. Red light upon red. Watching a film about homicidal ants. Messy situations and Skype conversations. Virtual reality and the value of objects. The enchanted beings appear on Byres Road, glitter-eyed at the crossing. Have written a sonnet a day for a week.

When I write in my diary it always begins so tired, so tired, or a variation of. I feel like I’ve done everything and nothing, and there’s so much still to do, to write into.

I watched The Garden until five in the morning and my eyes burned red all through the day. Something extravagantly eccentric about the manner of epic. Rub salt.

Erase yourself for rain and call it extinction. People have a lot of things to say on the matter.

So I sit here polishing pairs of shoes. At least I have something to walk with.

Begin again ordering rounds of Guinness. Almost asleep in the taxi, river-cross, the motorway morning orbits a thought. The mattering treacle of darkness. The air so cold it is almost sticky. When you see the abyss but take it anyway. This is such a soft short story to write in the library.

I lost my keys in the litter and leaves. I lost something in the hills, along time ago. Finding the words to say it.


~

Pinegrove – Rings

Angel Olsen – California

Red House Painters – Grace Cathedral Park

Sharon Van Etten – I Wish I Knew

Half Waif – Every Animal

Big Thief – Capacity

Karen Dalton – It Hurts Me Too

Haley Heynderickx, Max Garcia Conover – Slow Talkin’

Fleet Foxes – Icicle Tusk

Kiran Leonard – Working People

Leonard Cohen – The Partisan

The Innocence Mission – Lakes of Canada

Cocteau Twins – Summer-Blink

Arthur Russell – Losing My Taste For The Night Life

Sun Kil Moon, Jesu – You Are Me and I Am You

Oneohtrix Point Never – Love In The Time Of Lexapro

Lo Kindre – Torment Of One

Hiro Kone – Outside the Axiom

Low – Words

Mazzy Star – Mary Of Silence

Sibylle Baier – I Lost Something in the Hills

Nico – Afraid

~

Warm-Up

The exercise involves lying full-bodied on the floor for another to draw around your form. The purpose of said exercise is to articulate a sense for the flow of immobility, immobility as flow and thus possibility. Many groups attempted similar activities to great aplomb and connection. Artists collapsed upon their models. Models rose to heights of personal ascendence. Poetry collections were published. Limbs grew lithe in artificial moonlight. The studio upgraded its entire rigging. We brought new humans to practice passivity. Every pairing was a pool of pleasure. Who knew the flesh untouched could be so malleable. To cultivate the necessary unrest, ambient ocean sounds may be played directly into the model’s ear. Arousal. Here we are, rhythm of intermittent tide, a pencilled warble. This man has muscles that articulate a paradoxical vulnerability. It’s in his tattoos, which only the artist sees. A he or a she or neither, in which case a very special effect is reached. Systems fall into perfect error. Undulations of hair leave their impress upon carpets, but admittedly parquet floors were instructed. Recommendations swept away in paper flakes. Controversies stirred at the death of a single participant. They had scratched, I am just looking for a way out. It never occurred to the artist that the model was in fact referring to their very own body. Doors were locked and provisions made. They ate tinned peaches and dripped the slippery juice across each other’s faces. Some of them miss the practice as it was before. No good to dwell in the past. No good at all. The snapshots were flushed when authorities arrived. Time will tell, how else? Little white lines. Social media profiles in the boom era broke down when the 404 parade came round, desperate and percussive. I make of you a blade of rain, they said. This isn’t the eighties, the skin replied. There were twenty-two poems explaining aesthetic paralysis. A great deal of laughter and stuck-together A2 paper, resonant scent of impermanent ink. When your felt-tip skims my shoulders I melt like infinite butter. His tattoos twist, I drink them.

 

(Response to the #FlashFictionFebruary challenge…

(04/02/18: ‘create’)

Frieze Patterns for Vice City

NXNY8218

+0
a literal event in vast depths the mirror
of something monstrous, an atrocious
place now lengthily reproduced
they increase copulation, troubled
the origin abominable became dinner
in polemic, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pages
conjectured before observation
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiction all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
region of the index, volumes
on volumes a set examination
aback in the house on last pages
they recalled contradictions or mirrors
and spellings, agreed to event
the banal conjunction of men and reality.
+1
a literal eventuality in vast deputies the misadventure
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placebo now lengthily reproduced
they increment copulation, troubled
the original abominable became dinosaur
in police, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pageants
conjectured before observatory
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fictionalization all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
register of the indian, voluntaries
on voluntaries a set examiner
aback in the houseboat on last pageants
they recalled contraltos or misadventures
and spenders, agreed to eventuality
the banal conjurer of manacles and realm.
+2
a literal evergreen in vast derbies the misanthrope
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placement now lengthily reproduced
they incubator copulation, troubled
the originator abominable became diocese
in policeman, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pageboys
conjectured before observer
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiddle all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registrar of the indication, volunteers
on volunteers a set example
aback in the houseboy on last pageboys
they recalled contraptions or misanthropes
and spendings, agreed to evergreen
the banal conk of managements and realtor.
+3
a literal eviction in vast derelicts the misapplication
of something monstrous, an atrocious
placenta now lengthily reproduced
they incumbent copulation, troubled
the ornament abominable became dioxide
in policewoman, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pagodas
conjectured before obsession
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiddler all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registration of the indicator, vomits
on vomits a set excavator
aback in the housebreaker on last pagodas
they recalled contraries or misapplications
and spendthrifts, agreed to eviction
the banal conker of managers and ream.
+4
a literal evidence in vast derivations the misapprehension
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plagiarism now lengthily reproduced
they incursion copulation, troubled
the orphan abominable became dip
in policy, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pails
conjectured before obstacle
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fidget all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
registry of the indictment, vortexes
on vortexes a set exception
aback in the housecoat on last pails
they recalled contrasts or misapprehensions
and sperms, agreed to evidence
the banal connection of manageresses and reaper.
+5
a literal evil in vast derivatives the miscarriage
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plagiarist now lengthily reproduced
they indemnity copulation, troubled
the orphanage abominable became diphthong
in polish, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pains
conjectured before obstetrician
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fief all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regress of the indignity, votes
on votes a set excerpt
aback in the housefather on last pains
they recalled contributions or miscarriages
and spermatozoons, agreed to evil
the banal connoisseur of mandarins and reappearance.
+6
a literal evildoer in vast derricks the miscellany
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plague now lengthily reproduced
they indent copulation, troubled
the orthodoxy abominable became diploma
in polisher, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable painkillers
conjectured before obstruct
it told me to confess with some undocumented
field all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regret of the indiscretion, voters
on voters a set excess
aback in the houseful on last painkillers
they recalled contributors or miscellanies
and spews, agreed to evildoer
the banal connotation of mandates and reappraisal.
+7
a literal evocation in vast dervishes the mischance
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaid now lengthily reproduced
they indentation copulation, troubled
the oscillation abominable became diplomat
in politician, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paints
conjectured before obstruction
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fielder all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regular of the indisposition, votings
on votings a set exchange
aback in the household on last paints
they recalled contrivances or mischances
and spheres, agreed to evocation
the banal conqueror of mandibles and rear.
+8
a literal evolution in vast descants the mischief-maker
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plain now lengthily reproduced
they independence copulation, troubled
the osier abominable became dipper
in politico, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintboxes
conjectured before occasion
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fieldmouse all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regularity of the individualist, vouchers
on vouchers a set excise
aback in the householder on last paintboxes
they recalled controls or mischief-makers
and sphinxes, agreed to evolution
the banal conquest of mandolins and rearrangement.
+9
a literal ewe in vast descendants the misconception
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaint now lengthily reproduced
they independent copulation, troubled
the osteopath abominable became dipstick
in politics, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintbrushes
conjectured before occupant
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiend all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regulation of the inducement, vows
on vows a set excitement
aback in the housekeeper on last paintbrushes
they recalled controllers or misconceptions
and spices, agreed to ewe
the banal conscience of mandrakes and reason.
+10
a literal ewer in vast descents the misconstruction
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plaintiff now lengthily reproduced
they index copulation, troubled
the ostrich abominable became direction
in polity, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable painters
conjectured before occupation
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fiesta all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
regulator of the induction, vowels
on vowels a set exclamation
aback in the housemaid on last painters
they recalled controversies or misconstructions
and spiders, agreed to ewer
the banal consciousness of mandrills and reasoning.
+11
a literal exam in vast descriptions the misdeal
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plait now lengthily reproduced
they indian copulation, troubled
the otter abominable became directive
in polka, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable paintings
conjectured before occupier
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fife all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rehash of the indulgence, voyages
on voyages a set exclusion
aback in the houseman on last paintings
they recalled contusions or misdeals
and spikes, agreed to exam
the banal conscript of manes and reassessment.
+12
a literal examination in vast deserts the misdeed
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plan now lengthily reproduced
they indication copulation, troubled
the ounce abominable became director
in poll, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pairs
conjectured before occurrence
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fig all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rehearsal of the industrialist, voyagers
on voyagers a set exclusive
aback in the housemaster on last pairs
they recalled conundrums or misdeeds
and spillages, agreed to examination
the banal consensus of man-eaters and reassurance.
+13
a literal examiner in vast deserters the misdemeanour
of something monstrous, an atrocious
plane now lengthily reproduced
they indicator copulation, troubled
the outbreak abominable became directorate
in pollutant, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable pals
conjectured before ocean
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fight all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
reign of the industry, voyeurs
on voyeurs a set excommunicate
aback in the housemother on last pals
they recalled conurbations or misdemeanours
and spins, agreed to examiner
the banal consent of mangers and rebate.
+14
a literal example in vast designs the miser
of something monstrous, an atrocious
planet now lengthily reproduced
they indictment copulation, troubled
the outbuilding abominable became directorship
in pollution, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable palaces
conjectured before octagon
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fighter all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
rein of the inebriate, vultures
on vultures a set excommunication
aback in the houseplant on last palaces
they recalled convalescents or misers
and spindles, agreed to example
the banal consequence of mangles and rebel.
+15
a literal excavator in vast designations the misery
of something monstrous, an atrocious
planetarium now lengthily reproduced
they indignity copulation, troubled
the outburst abominable became directory
in poltergeist, so memorable and aback
in vain the imaginable palates
conjectured before octave
it told me to confess with some undocumented
fighting all the atlases fruitless
or fortified modesty, such anonymous
reincarnation of the inequality, vulvas
on vulvas a set excrescence
aback in the housetop on last palates
they recalled convectors or miseries
and spines, agreed to excavator
the banal conservation of mangos and rebellion.

Perfume Junkie

(So I thought this article was kind of Christmas appropriate, given that in the familiar nativity story, the Three Wise Men bring Jesus the precious scents of myrrh and frankincense.)

***

‘Perfume is like a parenthesis, a moment of freedom, peace, love and sensuality in between the disturbances of modern living.’

(Sonia Rykiel)

‘To create a perfume you have to be the servant of the unconscious. Each idea evolves and transforms, but there should be a surprise with each note.’

(Serge Lutens)

Perfume is a strange part of our everyday lives that acts as a channel of sorts. The word perfume comes from the Latin per (through) and fumum (smoke). This conjures the image of an ethereal essence which, like smoke, carries through some kind of message. We might think of it as an unspoken means of communication, a way of emitting some essence of ourselves to those who happen to pass close enough to catch a glimpse of our secret aroma. One that releases itself only from certain spots on the body, places we have chosen to let the scent develop. I love the way that glossy magazines and figures of high fashion talk so indulgently about perfume. It’s like poetry: a complete decadence of revelry in words. It’s like reading a wine list and falling for a string of adjectives rather than the taste of the drink itself. Rich, smoky, full-bodied, bursting with dark fruits. The poetry of advertisement aims to seduce. So too does perfume: it is a seduction not only in a sexual sense but also a seduction of self. A seduction of memory.

I was probably about nine or ten years old when I made my first forays into the world of fragrance. Certainly, I was still at primary school. I used to sneak into my Mum’s bedroom while she was eating her breakfast downstairs and try on what she had. Her dressing table was never cluttered with pretty glass bottles (more like heaps of unusual jewellery and hair mousse), but she did have a couple of classic Body Shop numbers. There was of course the famous White Musk, which I started wearing often. I liked the soft but heady smell it had, not too overpowering as a floral but sweet enough to stir your senses with its blend of ylang ylang, jasmine, rose, musk and lily. Then a while later, she gave me a bottle of spray she didn’t want, this time the Body Shop’s Oceanus. Or was it Ocean Rain? – no, I am getting confused with an Echo & the Bunnymen song! It was actually quite a strong one, though it wore off fairly quickly. I suppose it was meant to smell sharp and fresh like the ocean, and actually it was quite a nice one to wear at school where P.E. and stuffy classrooms were never conducive to pleasant aromas.

We were of course, forbidden deodorant in P.E. This was at secondary school, where everyone was aware that they had, y’know, adult bodies now, bodies which tended to sweat after exercise (even the half-hearted exercise we attempted in class). The teacher would storm into the dressing rooms at even a hint of spray being used, demanding that the most suspicious looking pupils empty their bag in front of her to reveal the contraband goods. She must have hoarded a whole treasure trove of Charlie and So…? and all those other brands we clung to as adolescents. On such days I would hide my little bottle of Oceanus in a glasses case at the bottom of my bag and spray it liberally once the coast was clear. A sea tide of refreshment filled the room. The contents of that bottle seemed to last forever; in fact, I think I still have some left in my bedroom.

The first perfume that was gifted to me was a miniature bottle of Burberry Touch. It’s a pretty intimate scent, threading together notes which include jasmine, raspberry, pink peppercorn, vanilla and oak moss. It sounds sweeter than it actually is: this is a strong scent but also has an air of sophistication. It feels grown-up and even a bit masculine (perhaps that’s the base notes of Cedarwood and oak moss?). I was fourteen when I got it so it ran out fairly quickly, but I now have a big bottle of it on my dressing table.

I also, at quite a young age, acquired my mother’s bottle of Yves Saint Laurent’s ‘Paris’. Launched in 1983, this distinctive scent was meant to capture the spirit of Paris with its heady blend of Damascan rose and violet, which after hours of being on your skin transforms into English rose and whispers of mimosa, sandalwood and musk. There are other beautiful notes in there: orange blossom,  amber, jasmine, hawthorne, heliotrope. It’s so complex that I’m still working out whether I actually like it or not. I wore it all the time until I was about sixteen. It’s far too grown up a scent for someone to be wearing at that age, but somehow it matched my wearied spirit. It felt almost exotic, a smell from far away. Something about it matched the impressionistic notion of Paris I had; a Paris which shimmered with the seductions of beautiful art and mysterious, moody people. It was certainly a smell which took you out of the dreary realities of Maybole, if only for that first spritz in the morning. The pale gold bottle with its crystalline, faceted surface and satisfyingly chunky feel still has pride of place on my shelf back home. I’ll spray it every now and again – what’s left of it – when I feel the need for a bit of escapism or nostalgia.

Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/jsgutierrez/8778507488
Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/jsgutierrez/8778507488

I like to think that when I’m using perfume I had years ago, I’m speaking to some secret old self, one that got lost in the ethereal tangles of time and change and forgetting. For Christmas two years ago, I asked for a bottle of Chloé perfume. Chloé was the first ‘proper’ fashion fragrance I bought for myself, when I was fifteen, in the Christmas sales of that freezing winter of 2009. To this day it’s definitely still one of my favourite scents. Along with Miss Dior Chérie (the orange one), which I also had as a teenager, it’s a romantic scent, sparkling with pretty florals and a dab of French sophistication. Both bottles are adorned with a ribbon to signify the femininity and lighthearted spirit they intend to convey. Chloé is quite a strange and unusual floral, with rose at its heart, honey at its base and the tartness of lychee as its top note. The blend is very smooth and does not induce headaches like some other more couture brands; it is at once instantly recognisable and also quietly luxurious on the wearer’s skin. When wearing it, you want to be riding a vintage bike through some sunshine street in Paris, where all the lamps light up for you, and your destination is a quiet picnic in the park, or a date with a good paperback under the canopies of a Montparnasse café. The bottle is quite short, almost stumpy in comparison to the tall thickness of Burberry Touch, but this makes it easy to cup in your hand to apply. It sits prettily on my dressing table, even with only a few dregs of scent left in the bottom, amid bottles of glitter nail polish and fragments of hair ribbon. If I had to pick a ‘signature’ perfume, it would be Chloé; a friend once texted me saying she was spraying it in a shop and instantly thought of me, which was sweet.

Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/idhren/7171470710/in/photolist-aktUVr-8QgRJY-63ty7o-dp8nWE-8N2gQN-bVHEEq-bWrF59-bVHF4w-bVHEoJ-6u9PLc-ea9vW5
Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/idhren/7171470710/in/photolist-aktUVr-8QgRJY-63ty7o-dp8nWE-8N2gQN-bVHEEq-bWrF59-bVHF4w-bVHEoJ-6u9PLc-ea9vW5

When I got my second bottle of Chloé, the scent instantly evoked that feeling of being fifteen again. It wasn’t an entirely bad experience, it was a taste of having that smallness, that protected enclave of a childhood world again. Or at least, the experience of being on the brink between the world of childhood and the uncertain future of adulthood. Perfume, I suppose, makes an industry of Proust’s ‘involuntary memory’: the idea that under certain conditions, one is transported back to a clear, distinct memory. Not wilfully, but through some item containing the ‘essence of the past’, whose sensory associations stir up the scene of some personal history. For Proust, eating a tea-soaked ‘madeleine’ cake recalled a childhood scene where he ate such a snack with his aunt. For me, spraying Chloé makes me think of warm radiators and school mornings in the cold pits of winter, or getting ready to perform in jazz band concerts, sweating under the hot lights. Leaning against the window of the 361 bus, reading Margaret Atwood. Floating through Ayr on the way to college, stopping always at Debenhams to spritz on their testers. I’d spray the little pieces of cardboard they provide you with and slip them in my bag, so that all my notebooks smelled of my favourite perfume. Sometimes my friends and I would spend an hour or so trying on all the perfumes, until we left smelling like we’d fallen through some vat in a Dior factory, causing everyone in our near vicinity to sneeze violently. I still enjoy doing that, although these days I set my sights on the counters at House of Fraser.

Strangely enough though, the older I get, the more I’ve switched to simpler scents. Part of this is a side effect of student stinginess, but I also like the freedom of buying several scents and being able to choose between them, to suit the weather or the seasons. I guess perfume is just something I tend to waste my wages on, the way that others waste them on Asos, cigarettes or vodka oranges. I have too many Body Shop Eau de Toilettes to count. There’s Chocomania, a very rich and some might say saccharine rendering of lush dark chocolate – perfect for those gloomy winter mornings when already you’re craving your bed and some hot cocoa. The distinctively tropical Coconut, which is, admittedly, more Bounty Bar than fresh jar of cold-pressed coconut oil. Then there’s the clean bright tartness of Satsuma or Strawberry, refreshing for summer. The milk chocolate and almondy sweetness of Brazil Nut. Honeymania, which does what it says on the tin and makes for a perfect late summer scent. I suppose, at less than £10 each, these perfumes make great little gifts or stocking fillers, which last a surprisingly long time. You could mix and match your scents (I like the sound of chocolate orange, brazil & coconut or honey & strawberry), and the small light bottles make them portable for your handbag. And with Body Shop (I swear I’m not a brand ambassador!) there’s always the positive that everything is ethically produced, usually from Fairtrade ingredients.

In a pricier range of perfume, I recently revisited one of my favourite childhood smells, Penhaligon’s ‘Bluebell’, which I got as a present for my 21st. When I was a very little kid, my dad brought back from a trip to London a velvety purple bag full of Penhaligon’s samples. They had enchanting names, like Elixir, Gardenia, Elisabethan Rose, Levantium (oh to have a perfume with the top notes of saffron and absinthe!). The one that stuck with me was ‘Bluebell’, which felt the most quaint and old fashioned of all the scents. The bottle, for one, is gorgeous, a little bit Art Nouveau, a little bit of simple prettiness. I could easily imagine myself, smelling it now, as a little girl running about in a field of bluebells. It’s not over-sweet or stuffy; it reminds me of the kinds of luxurious scents that would be spritzed around in early twentieth century department stores. I think of Cassandra and Rose in one of my favourite books, Dodie Smith’s beautiful coming-of-age novel, I Capture the Castle (1948), as they wander through the fairyland of such a store in London and marvel over the bluebell perfume. You see, there’s more than just chemicals and packaging to perfume; it always has some kind of rich cultural and personal history living in its notes.

bluebells in Culzean woods
bluebells in Culzean woods

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Do you remember your first science classes? Most of those memories are probably enriched by the strange smells concocted from an uncertain mixture of suspicious substances. The rotten eggs of sulphur, the acridity of various nitrates. What stands out most for me was a lesson where for some reason we were experimenting with burning different types of foodstuff over our Bunsen burners, to measure reactions to starch or something. Somebody’s Pickled Onion Monster Munch made the entire classroom smell like a Chinese restaurant. The process of perfumery, while aiming for more delicate blends of scent, follows, of course, a similar (but infinitely more sophisticated) chemical process. A perfume will blend natural sources – flowers, fruits, wood, roots, gums and resins – with synthetic productions of those ingredients which don’t produce their own oils naturally, for example lily of the valley. An intriguing guide to the complex scientific process through which these raw ingredients turn into perfume can be found here. I especially like the sound of the enfleurage step, where ‘flowers are spread on glass sheets coated with grease’. Over time, the grease absorbs the scent of the flowers, like a leaf absorbing rain water, just as expression collects the precious oils of various fruits. Alcohol and water are used to distill and preserve the fragrance. That’s why you should be careful not to spray perfume on your eye, or an open wound – or an open fire, for that matter.

Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/karen_roe/
Source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/karen_roe/

Interestingly, like champagne or wine, a ‘fine’ perfume is left to ‘age’ to let the blends develop. Maybe this is why Chanel No. 5, for instance, is such an iconic symbol of ultimate luxury. Its yellow-gold colour always dazzles in department store Christmas displays, but it also reminds one of a pale whisky or dark champagne. Like alcohol, it is intense, maybe even difficult to stomach. Infinitely seductive… complex to create…

Perhaps, like aromatherapy, there is a system to the choice of various scents and flavours. A science to how different people are attracted to different things. While some like a fresh burst of citrus, others revel in the dark sweetness of the likes of Thierry Mugler’s Alien perfume (not a fan). We can all guess that lavender makes you sleepy, lemon is awakening…but maybe there’s more to it all than that. A curious interaction of emotion, memory, desire, sensation… Maybe, after all, it’s the cold December air that led me towards my latest perfume purchase, returning full circle to my first White Musk perfume, only this time with the Body Shop’s newest fragrance, ‘Red Musk’. With its fiery bottle which blends amber, red and black, this Eau de Parfum combines the smouldering notes of tobacco, pepper and cinnamon with a layer of spiced musk. With cinnamon, it’s a dark, shadowy twist on a festive fragrance. Moreover, it’s about time perfume embraced androgyny, as this scent does with its hints of tobacco. Gone are the feminine florals of summer. So while I might be accused of being a hoarder, stashing my perfumes like a witch hoards her bottles of potion, maybe I can justify buying this particular perfume because anything that makes you feel warm (in a flat with single glazing) has got to be good, right?

Oranges for Bonfire Night

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(from a Creative Writing Society freewrite with the prompts ‘fireworks’ and ‘oranges’)

She remembers the days when she and her brother popped over to the neighbour’s house for Bonfire Night. She’d climb over the garden wall, wearing her wellies and her dad’s itchy jumper that came down to her knees and a hat her mother had pulled over her fringe. They’d play with the children next-door because they were good friends and the same age, more or less. Even though it was pitch dark in the November night, they’d dance around the garden, shrieking and playing tig or hide and seek while they waited for the fireworks to be set up. They were cheap fireworks, bought from the local store, which ordered them from some chemistry enthusiast in the city. This was, of course, before The Internet.

She can’t remember his name, the man next-door; the dad who told the kids off for laughing too loud and who’d sneak off for fags in the greenhouse while his wife did the washing up. She remembers the blur of his bearded face. His yell as he stepped back from the firework he’d just set up. She remembers the mum better; the mum used to bring out steaming mugs of soup and carrier bags loaded with oranges. She remembers standing in the cold bright air, peeling with the stubs of her fingernails the rind that came away like thick flakes of skin. Biting into the soft flesh as a flame-coloured Comet rippled above her. The sour sting of the juice squirting in her eye; the sweetness seeping over her tongue. Stickiness on her fingers. She’d toss most of it away, into the rhubarb patch. She wanted to save her appetite for the chocolate log and lollypops that awaited them inside.

There’d be the rockets, soaring and screeching in her ears like banshees, sizzling in her belly. The wheeeEEeeeee like electricity. She hated them, but they were a thrill. She’d look up to catch them but they’d be gone already. Then there were the pretty ones. She read their names off the cardboard box, discarded on the porch: Crosettes, Dragons’ Eggs, Ice Fountains and Blossoms. She watched them go off with the other children, trying to identify each one as if they were flowers in a biology textbook. Only, they were always too quick; their beauty dazzled her vision and then evaporated. There were the ones that overflowed like ocean spray, showering and spitting flickers of white and silver, like a jeweller soldering a giant diamond. Rainbows would spread out across the smooth sky, raining colours across the tall trees at the back of the garden. Her favourite was the Catherine Wheel. It took ages to set up, but it was magical. It spiralled like a wild thing from the pole of the washing-line, sparks flying around it with the craziness of broken machinery, or hypnosis. She adored the Catherine Wheels. They made her feel strange and unreal, as if she were looking into an abyss.

After all the fireworks were gone, the children were doled out sparklers, which they were only allowed to use with gloves. The sparklers let them write their names in the air, as if they were inscribing their thin identities into the vast constellations of the night sky, the atoms of the air around them. She misses how back then in the country you could always see the stars and the sky achieved a proper dark. In the city where she lives now the sky is always a murky brown, the colour of Coca Cola or dirty rivers.

She used to hate how eventually they’d have to go inside. She used to want to stay out in the garden forever, sucking in the lovely coldness of November night. She hated how the sparklers had to be chucked into water buckets, where they’d snuff out with a quick hiss. The adults would always check that they hadn’t burned their little fingers. She remembers the faint char marks that stained her gloves. Remainders. She found those gloves, only a few months ago, when she’d gone home to help clear the house. They were in that same yellow jacket she used to wear, and even just touching the plasticky fabric brought back glimmers of firework enchantments. But the gloves were full of holes, the stitches became undone in her hands. Everything was to be given away, sold or donated to charity, after her mother died and now that the house was to be sold as her father left for business in America.

He’d phone her from new places and his voice would crackle over the phone like a fading sparkler. She closes her eyes and still she smells the warm soup, the tickle of gunpowder.

And oranges. She remembers the oranges. She never liked oranges.