..dear reader..

Saw my grandad twice over the long weekend.  He said something about someone called Alan and 'I couldnae stand up to them'.  I couldnae help wondering if related to the sense I've started having about going on trips with my Grandad when I was very little, 2ish say, a good bit before we moved to Glen.  There was arguments about it. Incest glimpses, my legs are bended up towards my face, he is on top.  My dad was an obvious bastard but Grandad not so.  I have the usual sense of disbelief when the images and feelings are not ones I have already become accustomed to. My cousin's funeral on Monday.  The doctors have been saying my grandad doesn't have long for years.  I never believed it before but today I lent over his devastatingly frail and angular frame and tried to lift him up against his pillows I knew something big had changed.  Thankfully a nurse saw this and they sorted him out.  Outside in the corner a woman kept crying...

Scotland hitting the early twenties in March. Bloody brilliant. Wierd walking around in a T shirt when the trees are all still bare. Maybe I could of made more of it but I'm not a big fan of sunburn, I hate feeling cooked. Sunshine makes me want things though. More/better friends, entertainment, opportunities. Sex. Starting taking meds more regularly. Made some decisions, feeling like more of grown up who is learning how to care for herself. I keep seeing, feeling, sensing something I used to be much more aware of. It hard to describe, its like a dot, a point, a spot even, in the center of my mind. I'm not sure what it means, is it a center, a blind spot, a full stop? I'm not sure but I've feeling like I can explore being me. Like I'm more aware of my environment, the Earth, my body. Like I can allow myself to be. I cried in dramatherapy last week. Someone else in group wasn't her usual self. She looked so hurt, so small and vulnerable it bro...

Clothes on the hanger or hugged together in clean mountains. His room a room. A bright, beautiful room. We make a good effort in a slightly hobling race to hold hands and reach the summit together. I always glance across the city to point where you cant tell where the grey buildings end and the sky begins. She had put her arm around me without touching me once. I start drawing my hands, my wrists. Seeing the contours the creases and the scars in oils, pencils, charcoal, pastels. My forearms, one brown one pale on a background of black and red turning to sunshine white and daffodil yellow.