go to the exhibition of Man Ray photographs at the National Portrait Gallery if you’re in London. so eerily beautiful and a glimpse of Paris life in the 1920’s that makes you question your own boring life.
I always wanted to be Mel C in my primary school Spice Girls cover band, but since then I have consistently let myself down. rather than a face-kicking whirlwind of grrl power, I’ve become a sickly Melanie in Gone With The Wind, bruising my skin on cotton sheets while hanging onto the thriftiness of Scarlett O’Hara with feeble and lady-like arms and looking admirably at my boring husband Ashley. I almost fainted the other day, which is precisely the kind of leisure the latter Melanie would approve of.
good stress gets you going, making you spray papers with intelligent black dots or tick to-do lists like they are drugs. but even when things start to go my way I seem to scream and close my eyes in bewilderment. it’s a bottom-of-the-well-kind of panic and the walls are all slimy and wet.
I was never meant to be Mel C anyway. I was Victoria and she never sang or danced or did anything impressive except looking sincerely pissed off with everything.
burning hot, I spit fire. a devil weak against the tiles. my head is full of grey landscapes, dusty soft or growing like tumors, mean shapes that will eat your dreams. spinning walls, ballroom halls without the music and all the left-behind dirt and shame.
when I fall I fall hard and my body aligns itself with the corners of the floor.