The Drivel Thread

From what I watched last night, and heard on Radio 4 this morning, it’s not looking too good for Russell.
All those women can’t be wrong. I think a lot mor women will now come forward as well.

It does look bad. It’s strange the MeToo net didn’t catch him, though.
Do you already have the photo picked out, Light Housework? Because if not, given current events, maybe it should be:

that reminds me of the time Moz, EddY and friend went out on the lash

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(made by @Alexi !!)
Pig Out Before the Fast

I've been ill of lung
And went to bed
But after a while
I felt better enough
To take the bus
Back to the restaurant

For the second time today
To eat vegan Satay
A spicy dish
With tofu and rice noodles
I brought my knapsack
For the beer store

Because I can't keep away
Now that I feel
These might be my last days
I want to pig out
Before I fast
To try to starve the infection
I saw plenty of people stoned out of their minds on my outing. Several were passed out on the concrete. The area I live in is hosting more and more hard core drug addicts it seems.
I don’t feel courageous enough to sketch Morrissey with Shirley Manson. I guess I’m jealous, that she got to be in a photo with Morrissey, with her tongue sticking out, looking right at him.
The Last Time

Grief plagued me
As I laid in bed
Thinking of one I love
He has made many passes at me
And I failed each time
To catch them

People say I think too highly of myself
But it’s he who thinks highly of me
Or lowly
He delves so low
As to love me true
I wonder if he’s grieving tonight too

It’s a hollow feeling
In my heart
That I felt in my bed
A ringing rippling sense of loss
In my chest
He slipped through my fingers again

He waited patiently even
But I was unable to approach him
For lack of courage
For lack of conviction
For lack of recognition
The last time
I bathed, brushed my teeth, went to buy watercolour paper and ink, came home to drop them off and make sure they didn’t get wet from the rain, then I went to the store to buy hummus and bread, because I felt hungry and didn’t have the willpower to fast. I didn’t cough that whole time, but upon arriving home to tear into the food, the coughing began, and I wound up going to bed. I seem doomed.

Cue a troll to say “Nobody cares!”.
Transcribing my morning pages:

Slept well, and awoke to remembering Red Face, looking right at me. “My love is as sharp, as a needle in your eye! You must be such a fool, to pass me by.” Indeed. The fridge purrs and traffic hisses, as does the pen. I woke with a bit of a cough. I wonder if I don’t taste blood coming up from my lungs. Morrissey. Yes. It was he on the bench, looking right at me, and then lying back, with his face out of my view. A crow just cawed. It’s getting cool. I’ve the beige hoodie on. It’s so cozy and comfortable. I love Morrissey more than ever. The way he was dressed, reminds me of Peter Falk as Columbo. I really like it. But those shoes, I should have known it could only be Morrissey. What a lover he is! He’ll come again, if I survive this mold infection, which I probably won’t, ultimately, but it might go into remission again, if I fast intermittently, and go easy on the carbs. Come back, Morrissey, before I die. Anne comes to mind, as I search my mind for subject matter to write about, this session of morning pages. I love Morrissey. How I do love him this morning. Peter Falk. He’s an attractive man too. Morrissey likes him, as per the backdrop of Columbo moving his hands as he works out a mystery. I love Moz. How I do. Love Red Face. With the needle in my eye. That laser eye of his, the intensity of his stare. The music video for Seasick, Yet Still Docked comes to mind. Morrissey’s intense stare in it, is the same, as Red Face’s intense stare. He hasn’t lost it. He’s still there. Anne comes to mind again. I love Morrissey. I feel very cuddlly now. Loved. He loves me. People think I’m crazy, but they are fools. Boring old fools. I’m feeling some welcome sensations in my torso, this morning. I’m not in any pain at the moment. No coughing is about to erupt. The pen is juicy. I’m perfectly warm and comfortable. I love Morrisey, with his red faced needle in my eye, and yes I passed him by, fool that I was, but I’ll never forget him being there for me. I hope to feel his arms around me, while I’m still relatively healthy. And get a photo of us, maybe with me posing exactly as Shirley Manson did, because I thought of sticking my tongue out beside Morrissey to be photographed, before she, actually did it, and maybe it’ll be a thing, people sticking their tongues out beside Morrissey, posing for photos, looking right at him, just as that Shirley did. Her Stupid Girl song is in my head now. It’s the only one I know. It’s very catchy to my ear. Morrissey, as Columbo. Peter Falk, as his backdrop. Peter was probably a good swimmer. “Stupid girl. Can’t believe you fake it. Can’t believe you fake it.” She’s got a great voice, and a muscular tongue, and great taste, to have the instinct to look directly at Moz with her tongue stuck out for the photoshoot. Shoot me now. Pin and mount me. It’s light out. The traffic doesn’t sound so busy. The fridge is quiet. Today I see my doc and then K picks me up to take me to the picnic, then we go to the conservatory, then, I guess I’ll try again to fast for three days. Maybe, if I don’t cough the evening away, I will draw Morrissey with Shirley, and begin painting the double portrait, on the paper I stretched on the gatorboard, for the large extra matting I have in the box for the big frame. I hope that matting won’t discolour in time from N’s fingertips pressing down on it. Oh well, it can be replaced, and I like N, and she meant well, so maybe I’ll leave them there, as a souvenir. Wow, morning pages wrote themselves today. Fast.
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I felt lousy when I got home from the picnic, and went to bed for a while. Just now, I’m beginning to feel okay again, but it’s too late to get up the nerve to go for a walk. My right lung still feels like something destructive is going on there, or at least camping out in there with intentions of destroying my lung. It doesn’t hurt right now, but it feels like a toxic goo is lodged in there. So I won’t be out walking, hoping Morrissey will intercept me, this evening. Maybe in the morning, I’ll get lucky, finally. "Let me, get what I want, this time."
Respect, gratitude, and compassion, three qualities I’m sure Morrissey gives generously of, if given the chance. If grabbed.
I’m an old woman now, with lung problems, and my voice sounds like Julia Cameron’s. Why has she not gone vegan I wonder. I guess she hasn’t listened to Meat is Murder enough.

I tried to sleep, but only had vivid visions of beautiful young people with style. Not my usual visions. I enjoyed looking at these people. Maybe I’ll go back to bed after this forbidden coffee and see more of them. As long as the coughing doesn’t get too bad.

I wrote 19 loose leaf pages yesterday, all stream of consciousness. It was a pleasant way to spend time. I bought a bottle of ink the other day, and finally it’s clearly vegan. I hope it won’t gum up my pen. It’s smudge proof and waterproof, so it might clog it up. I won’t break it open until I’ve used up another bottle of ink that’s getting close to empty. Then I’ll pour the new ink into the old bottle of Lamy ink, because the design of that bottle is superior, in the sense that it has an ink well in the centre at the bottom, that has proven to be convenient. The new ink comes in a bottle that is too deep, which would be messy to use, because the pen would be too deeply immersed, and then would have to be wiped more than necessary. With the Lamy bottle, it’s a minor wiping of the tip of the pen and it’s good to go. What would I do without my fountain pens? It feels pleasant to type for a change now.

I hope the mold infection in my lungs doesn’t metastasize into other organs very soon, like my brain, but if so, at least I know I was loved. I wish I was just being a drama queen. No, I don’t wish that. I wouldn’t want to be like that. I’d rather be me, though almost everyone thinks I’m batshit crazy and/or straight up lying.
anxiety bloody awful poetry testing the waters trying to feel good in your own skin trying to make friends wanting to alleviate anxiety wanting to feel safe to be honest wanting to have integrity
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