I really do -I'm insane and I write love stories about toenails

© Ben Westwood

I hate your toes and your toenails, I swear, I really do. I think about your toenails and how confrontational they are -you know I was never one to shy away from confrontations but this... They are crooked, hard and layered in a ridiculously grotesque way over your rough skin the way a dirty roof hosts a dying family and I hear myself scream internally -yes, they have won. They stomp on the edge of my long vaporous dress and I see myself recoil at the ferocious grunts coming from the corners of the room, the coarse and husky sighs of your footsteps accompanying me into my retreat.

The day my lemon tree died your toes were carefully wrapped in a hideous russet blanket and I hate myself for remembering these details but I know I was thinking about the colour grey because your dirty feet always looked out of place on our grey carpet. I really hate your toes and your toenails, I really do, and I swear that day, I almost asked you to leave the house because it really seemed inconceivable that you and I could live together, that something so warm and visceral could be capable of anything else other than carefully managed violence. Your toenails make my chest heavy and my breathing shallow and I know these are signs of anxiety, yes before you asked I researched it and yes, I still hate the way your toes look even hidden beneath an old mustard sock.

It took me a long time to forget about your feet when I was in the same room as you, I never told you, but that was the reason I bought the lemon tree. I thought it would distract me from the plain sight of your naked, warm feet walking all over me as you left pieces of yourself all over the house, just like a cat, and I was right -it did, for a while. You shuffle from room to room, carpet to carpet, from bright, vivid lights to the dim lamp on my bedside and your toes, your ugly toes, they follow me into the warm spot in the bed and they make me touch you and them, and then you again -at times like this I think of the lemon tree and how powerful beings need powerful roots; I play hide and seek but there really is no one seeking me. Tense as wires, the muscles in my back finally gave in after a couple of months, and now the assault of my senses feels more like a tender caress that I cannot help but approve of.

I still hate your toes and your toenails, I swear, I really do. Only now there is something rather tender about the way they look when emerging from the white duvet or when solidly tangled in the grey carpet. In the morning I look at them and I still hate them.... but with crushing tenderness. Beneath the sheets I hear you murmur something incomprehensible and slowly, then suddenly, an elusive sense of belonging that is neither here nor there submerges me. It's peculiar how tenderness works its way into your body, like a new habit slowly drowning into an old one. The art of feeling at home whenever I glance at your ugly toenails feels like an ironic, absurd romance I cannot help but court in spite of all the warnings...

No, really, I hate your toes and your toenails, I swear I really do.

I have no recollection of writing this, but I must have because it was my handwriting

My scalp itches in the morning and the water here tastes like cold metal -almost as if someone had punched me in the face and I was left on the dark carpet, left to lick the blood remnants off my own face. Blood is thick but so are the curtains and the mustard rays they project are dancing fairies against an odd landscape where I don't belong. 

Idols are scary things because pedestals are only ever made of misconceptions: it's hard living up to a vision you didn't conceive, especially if they build your statue 5 meters too tall.

The bus did not stop for me

The lovely James Hunt invited me on his radio show 'For Folks Sake' two weeks ago, where we chatted about my short stories and how hard it is to be an existential cat. He also asked me to compose a short story while on air... so here it goes! 

You can listen to the podcast here, and follow James here.

The bus did not stop for me

I waited 36 minutes at the bus stop and
it did not stop for me. I waited 12 more minutes
and it felt like an old party I could not attend. Fists clenched
from the cold, I thought it was funny how
if you grit your teeth hard enough they will move inches
but not mountains, leaving a taste of bloody accordion and-
if even the bus did not stop for me, who am I to blame you for
not moving hills and taking my pulse?
Nursing myself back home is not an easy task. And -if even
the bus did not stop for me who am I to blame you for not
following with gritted teeth, trying to taste novocaine
but only licking on rusty blood clots? It's cold outside and
like an old party I can't attend, I await
at the bus stop of a city stranger than me.

Rambling midnight thoughts on honesty

Alfredo Jaar

I'm writing again and it suddenly feels like I can breathe again -the way a city breathes after the rain cleanses the crisp morning air. I used to write a lot. I used to fill notebooks all the time, I used to write on the margins of my books and my receipts and it felt both addictive and relieving. Then, when I ran out of papers I used to write on coffee shop napkins and on my phone. And after a while the only words I ever laid down on paper were 'jasmine tea, potatoes, tomatoes, milk'.

Sometime last year, the idea that words aren't enough started forming in my mind and it never quite left it. Are words and beauty enough for a lifetime? Is anything ever enough for a lifetime? Writing is an organic relationship between the hand and the mind, but there comes a certain point when the hand  starts hiding little things from the self, like a mischievous kid hides stolen objects. 

All art relates to perception not nature, but what if your perception was clouded by your nature? Laying out words is laying yourself naked, on a cold bed, for everyone to see. Being naked and unashamed is a hard truth for everyone to bear, but especially the self -some truths are so true they are terrible to admit. Hiding little secrets behind a word or a chapter is easy -having your deepest thoughts exposed the way the sky is exposed sounds like a betrayal. Though, perhaps it feels better the way pouring sweet words over a healing wound feels good, or the way the sand feels good when it remembers the saltiness of the water. 

You have to make it a rule to always be honest, especially towards yourself. It's the only way your words will come out right, and I understand now that this was a frightening idea for me. You cannot write if you cannot be honest with your own words: the moment you start becoming scared of your own self is the moment words cease to exist as a means to life. Looking back, I realize now that not allowing myself to write down the truth was denying myself assertion over... over what? Over ego, perhaps, sense of pride, feeling of shame... and the frightening idea that some people will not understand the anatomy of your naked mind, laid out there to be judged and touched by every passerby -beggars, and lurkers and vendors; and cruel minds.

Without prejudice, without watering down my words, without editing for fashion... Raw honesty is the only catharsis. Fearlessness starts with the taming of your own truth. It is not easy, my mind is bruised with secrets and desires but I know better now -wounds heal but do not follow. 

So, from now on, honesty. It's very scary because I know that I see myself in a fully disparate way than others see me, which is painful to admit for it means that no one can ever really know you the way you know yourself. But for now -I am writing again.

Response to 'I want the real thing'

I finally ventured myself to the Richimix Jawdance spoken words night last week, and felt inspired to write this as a reponse to a piece called 'I want the real thing', performed by a very shy guy with trembling hands -his voice wasn't, though.

Unknown

Response to ‘i want the real thing’

You say you want something real
so real you could fall asleep next to;
I ask: ‘aren’t your own ghosts good company enough?’
she will smile and bear your insecurities, you say
like broken twigs collected for a birdnest,
she will mend your crooked teeth and your
crooked heart but, what is really crooked is
your chin
and please, please, let me tell you that you needn’t be afraid
of a crooked chin, it might break down but it will not
spill glass over wretched nights.
She will dip your sorrows into a white pillow, you say
I ask: ‘aren’t your own hands big enough for you?’
you want to play an orchestra of four hands
but the piano bears two without harm
you put her voice in a microscope
but up close human vocals are as ugly as spilled coffee
next to a drunkard on the 243 nightbus.
The girls in pantyhose wait
it’s the same as before, it’s the same as the other time
your sighs are as heavy and distant as the moon
she will reflect them in tune, you say
I ask: ‘don’t you tune your guitar by yourself?’
you say you want the real deal, the wars, the pain,
the parents, the house and the champagne,
I ask: ‘is it still real if 
the drugs are wearing out 
and your hands stop shaking
and your eyes are closing and
is it still real if time has eaten you?'
I fall asleep on a white pillow and rejoice, but I guess
not everyone finds pleasure in little things such as
a lone head on a big pillow

Fiction: A story in 150 words

©Suzanne Zhang, MAMCO Geneva Switzerland

Hunting ghosts

Your eyes are shut. You came prepared, but not for this. She warned you that it would be difficult. You're brave. This time you will succeed. If not, you have eternity to succeed. People often believe it is a tragedy to have forever, but you know finite things are worse. They have no hope to cling on and end up fading away...

Your eyes are shut. And slowly, like watercolours dissolve into water, it happens. You’re neither here nor there, neither standing nor floating, neither aware nor unaware… You dream of a colour you didn’t know existed, its warmth wraps around you like light –or is it darkness? You don’t know, you’ve never seen this color before. Your cheeks are burning; they’re frozen. They irradiate splendour. It is sweet and good. You finally succeeded. You can finally let go. It’s okay, your eyes are shut.

On L.Pierre's 'The Island Come True'

The well known Arab Strap’s mouthpiece Aidan Moffat offers us a fourth release under the name L.Pierre, The Island Come True. After waiting six years since his last album Dip in 2007, Moffat’s sound evolved. It grew bigger, darker and, at some points, lighter. The album borrows its name from a chapter in  “Peter Pan” by J.M. Barrie, and just like Wendy, Moffat’s sensibility is growing.  Pianofortes and children’s lullabies walk hand in hand (Dumbum) while tumbling drums (Drums) rejoice at the sound of seagulls (Kab 1340). The rhytm is throbbing and at the sound of Moffat’s keynotes forests, wild bushes, secret mountains and rivers awake to accompany him in his tracks. The tone is fantastic, avengeful, fearless and sporadically strange. Coupled with the creaking sounds, L.Pierre’s album The Island Come True is definitely a voyage back to Wonderland, but this time with an armed heart.

You can listen to Harmonic Avenger (personal fave) here, and buy the album here.