..dear reader..

All excited about a bloke that I met on match.com is now a friend on facebook. From the contenent grew up in Scotland, utterly, utterly delicous. Far too good to be true must be an arse wipe really... Philosophy is moving on but still not reading. Writers block is one thing but readers block is even worse. Thank I founf twitter or a really would be going mental. It's like everytime I pick up a book its just another symbol of what I have lost, what I could of been and what I was. There is still a big part of my delusional brain thinks that none of it happened. That one day I will wake up and just start getting on with all the things that are so hard, like making friends, stopping smoking, managing a job, being an a student. I never stopped being in my early teens, when I still believed I might be okay. When I still had hope that my brain was looked after enough to be okay. That all that pain, shock, drugs and shocks wasn't a match for my big brain. Before I learned ...

I'm just practicing at staying up late at the keyboard for the late shift I'm going to have to pull of tomorrow as I'm helping mum flit on Friday. Both things momentous in there own way. The essay should help me catch up enough to make a proper attempt at the next module and not just tap something together at the end. The move, well no more Christmases up there. No more listening to that house rot as the graveyards on either side stretch to reach each other. The only thing getting in their way is a rat run. It was difficult to end a poem their but I think I did it. Maybe I should just put them up here, but I don't know it is a kind of publishing which can mean disqualification from some competitions. I think 'Anti Matter' is almost there, in a way. There was a specific mention to the Arab Spring that I've worked in better by taking it out but still haven't replaced it with the right sense of revolution in the air sentiment. It might go back...

I want to go through my notebooks sometimes slashing line breaks and impaling full stops all over the place. Deleting, embellishing, cleaning up. With the old cliqued witch Virginia Woolf at my shoulder, smouldering away in her Victorian clobber. Vanishing if I dared turn my face from my writing habit. It's different now though there is Twitter, and an Arab spring that no matter what the summer brings has unleashed feelings and thoughts that violence cant bottle up again. I wish I could write pulp or proper academic standard literature, consistently. I am moving away from just aiming to rock the tiny minds of people with instrumental poetry about lost babies. I will always to do that but I also want to share the other stories. Amazing stories, in stunning dramatic settings, with compelling people and triumph over severe adversity. Now I am in a position to build, to invest, to grow I can separate the language I use from what happened whilst admitting how much of an in...

I'm not sure I've ever felt this at home before. If I did I'm sure I wouldn't remember and besides I would know it wasn't pernament. The state of mind, the material conditions the social oppurtunites, all changing all the time. Not so much as up and down as exploding or imploding. The meds are probably helping, working on the delusion that most of it never happened. I had to cling to it very tightly then it was a crutch. Now its not needed, I have a place, a place that's as unconventional, akward, pretty and intimating as me. Recently I've been told 'I love you' 10-20 times a day. He can forgive me for being grumpy sometimes, so can I. Drugs can be good. But I'm no where near trying out the coil for the pain yet. a coil to help discomfort , does it leak morphine? My star crossed mind gives me afterpains at the very thought. My god I over commit myself sometimes, acting like I have to live in a way that pleases the social worker, this ...