I was inexplicably awake at 8.45 this morning. I managed to be fed and dressed by 9.10. At 9.30 I was at the dry-cleaners. At 10.00 I was in the library picking out this week’s reading (‘Ghost World’ – Daniel Clowes, ‘London Pigeon Wars’ – Patrick Neate, ‘The Elements of Style’ – Strunk and White) I went to Books etc with my breath held, hoping to find ‘Fun Home’ by Alison Bechdel. I did. I finished it about an hour ago. In an hour, once I have tranquillised my hair, I will go the ICA and watch ‘Pic up the mic’. Yesterday it was ‘Atonement’.
The days are becoming very long. There are only two weeks until I move out. It sounds very final and grown up. I am looking forward to it because there are all sorts of things I have planned. Reading ‘Fun Home’ today was great because there is a point about a letter which resembles my situation completely. I come from a family of isolated individuals who do not talk to each other, therefore a letter is fitting if there’s anything one wishes to say. In Harry Potter (I can’t remember which book) our eponymous hero is greeted by an owl that drops a message which shouts on being opened. I’m so glad they don’t exist. There was another moment of clarity in ‘Fun Home’ – it isn’t the same without the visuals, but the point remains intact:
It’s true that he didn’t kill himself until I was nearly twenty, but his absence resonated retro-actively, echoing back through all the time I knew him. Maybe it was the converse of the way amputees feel pain in a missing limb. He really was there all those years, a flesh-and-blood presence steaming off the wallpaper, digging up the dogwoods, polishing the finials, smelling of sawdust and sweat and designer cologne. But I ached as if he were already gone.’
I’ve just received the proofs for the FYP anthology. I suppose there are ten representatives for ten years and I’m representing 2005. I’m curious about who the others will be. Helen Mort will definitely be in there and something tells me Charley Geater might be the person for 2006. Due to the name I keep thinking about Foyle’s and the launch in December; I cringe because I think about the task of explaining things to people, admitting things and then dealing with the hostility or the awkwardness to come. Then I realise that may not be the case! The days are long, I suspect, because I am on my own, a habit I’m rapidly getting used to. So minutes seem like hours; an hour seems like the whole afternoon; in total it’s ample time to get lost in something else. And nobody matters, which is the main thing.
(Finally: am trying to write this review, but bullshit comes so naturally to poetry.)