June 25, 2009

• I’m melting into the music, the darkness of it, the rust and chains and needles and knives. The blackness of this NIN album. I am alone in the house. I have, at most, an hour of solitude, so needed, so very needed and appreciated. The music is so loud. My doubts are swept under the welcome mat with the ding of the microwave on repeat and the hot steamy sterilized bottles and the tiny pink dresses and blankets, nappies bundled and binned, hands washed and washed, baby talk, lullabyes, childrens tv. I’m craving something sinister in me, something dark and crafty. But I am lactating as I type this. There is milk soaking through my t-shirt and I realize my destiny. But still, but still  give me at least the shadow and the memory of drink and drugs and fags and words words words. I didn’t realise how badly not-writing would affect me.
  
  Until I can reverse the spell, here is part 3 of my Paris novel The Blush, at Dogmatika:
  http://dogmatika.wordpress.com/2009/05/27/the-blush-iii/
  
  

  • 3:57 pm
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