In My Room.

Some months ago, I acquired two big nine litre storage crates of poetry I’d written– in highschool– that my old man had kept in the garage, he and my mother share.

I’ve allowed these two crates to operate as a makeshift side tables since November. I’m sure, on some level, I’ve done this deliberately.

A lot happened in November.

And a lot has happened since.

All of which, has rendered those two big dusty boxes something to tackle at a later date.

Even now, as I write this, I wonder what’s in them.

I’ve still not looked.

They’re see-through too, which, I think, means something.

I rearranged some furniture the other night and now the two big crates are even more highly functional than ever. Books and a lamp and a potted mongrel plant of Sclumbergera/Hatiora (Christmas Cactus) sit neatly on top. It’s an inconvenience to reshuffle things now, I tell myself.

It looks good, my new corner.

As I grow more interested in my in the origins of my plants and why all the them  have suffered so much the last few months. They’re sick of it, you see. Of the summer. Fucking jack of it. I learn that they’re mainly South American, and mainly used to a bit more rain.

So they want the season to change, you see. And so do I.

Which it has.

Which is grand, but– you see what I’m saying?

The plant dies if it doesn’t get what it wants.

But what happens to me?

It’s obvious, right?

I’ve got a couple of catci Christmas’ in my flat, that I rescued from the garden of my old place. They were buried beneath all number of things and it was a fun first day, living there, finding them, and thinking, right, you’re all coming to live with me.

I turned that apartment in to a real little Jamanji Palace in the space of 24 hours. It was a riot. I had so much fun loving them all and spattering  them all over my space, on top of book shelves and tables, in the shower, by the doorway. It was wild, my old place. I kept loads of things alive.

I really do love my plants.

And to be fair, all I’ve really wanted to do all day is hang out with them.

I’ve been getting a lot of feedback from this blog of late, from all number of sources, which has been lovely, really lovely… but not all of it. Not really. And so many people have been telling me what to write about lately. So many. I just really felt like locking myself in door todays, surrounded by the sounds of rain and mainly silence… and i just really felt like chilling. Pottering. Turning the soil, so to speak.

Which I have done.

All day long.

I don’t consider myself a pessimist.

I think of a pessimist as someone

who is waiting for it to rain.

And I feel

soaked

to the skin.

– Leonard Cohen.

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Comments
One Response to “In My Room.”
  1. Leanne Moffat says:

    My dear girl, how can anyone tell you what to write? Some days, you may write 3 sentences, add some videos, and I still am interested, and I still get what you are saying!! I hate when people “suggest” what I should write. If It’s so goddamn interesting, and easy to write, then they can goddamn do it!?!? Sorry, a brief rant. Keep on, just keep on. You are brilliant, and I look forward to your blog every day. L xx

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