A new...............

I've decided to squish my blogs together : a Day to Day Today plus a poem of sorts, hopefully per day ... it makes me feel better :

check here:

http://www.whatnatanyadid.blogspot.com

See you there!

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I have never felt so

Lost
and so completely found at the same time.
I lay, but can't sleep : I can't get you out of my mind... I don't know why. This is the opposite of before (quite literally)
If you break my... heart? .... who will I be?
Am I scary?
Hope not.

A head : Full

I don't know ... I fell off and now I'm floating on all the things that surround clouds ... air I guess. There were stars and you made them come up in the sun, untill they were too tired to dance at night. Now the night is dark. There are broken strings and holes in the sky. But I have this dream ... I talk with a little bird - the little bird from before, and she sings the stars back. Sometimes. And sometimes I think of you. Then I dream. But sometimes I think of you ... and sometimes I think of you, and you. I don't know anymore what is to be. Truth? What was supposed to be... I'm lost in one of the holes in the sky. Fell in. Sometimes the bird makes me happy, but other times she makes me cry. It's not her fault... just my own, because it is so difficult for me to see now in the dark.

Blue Green

In the blue green light it all seems so right, so lovely. Through the blue green light we are there, and the flock of birds in flight look down on us, it all seems so right. There are no bad words here, no sentences of fake questions and harsher answers still. This blue green light is a lake with a film on top; she holds all our bad words on the bay until we feel better. We lay beneath her body … we don’t need to breathe here. Nothing to feel but the warmth we feel not, outside. She waves and ripples. We are her but also each other. We hide in her caves and talk in bubbles that will never reach her surface; she makes us brave, ironically. She is filled with secrets, all diluted. In your eyes… is the only beauty I could ever find in you… a fake beauty of a reflection of myself in you, or my dreams to be more precise.

Birds are funny things

There are true things as sentences and if told we might melt like snowflakes:

Two birds are on the same telephone line but they can't see each other really: not for sure...
Sometimes they think they can hear eachother dreaming...
... she doesn't like melted snowflakes so she sits and waits for new snow to cover the old,
will she say it now? could she be so bold?
She knows though that if this what she is told is different from her dreams she will be no more than a rain drop fallen on the dirty ground,
with no more than a tear to show for the dreams she once had.

It is all too complicated in bird land.

Dreams are only dreams after all

Kitty caught her mouse in the end; the mouse saw her own reflection and decided to stop.

Kitty couldn't sleep; she missed little mouse.

No Snow, but...

...at the carnival
the little wind
up white horses
and bunnies do
make me
happy *

Dreams are harder when you don't believe in them

I remember the bit where they send each other pretty words through the telephone line ...
not sure really though - there are too many rainbows resting in my cereal...
colours all over now:
maybe you don't see ... or you do but you don't want to ... do you?
Is there a way ... to see all the dreams come to life the way I see them in my mind? ... because for that I need you to believe them too

knotted

In the night time fairies come into my room and tie my hair in knots ... Lisa says it's Titania, she does it to horses too ...

Do you...

Understand?

She writes you a book, and you know who the characters are ....
We all speak in metaphores... some speak louder and clearer - but who understands will, I suppose... clues are all over like fairy tales, like a little girl lost in the woods finding her way back to her litte tree house along the line of pretty red ribbon: metres and metres of it...
What if she never finds her way back? what if the wolves find her first? what if she becomes so happy lost in the tiny bed of flowers that she forgets where she will be loved?
Does she know that she is loved?
She is small because that is how she feels safe: the real world is not real at all ... it is better in dreams - she should live there always (in the dream-that is where they should be)
It's lovely there with lavander pillows and pretty petals - where the wolves will never find her... where there are no small gardens to be kept comfortable in - but only fields and fields of flowers...........

*

Sad

I've ran out of wool...

All in all, bar two : a nice day.

I said about feathers... it was lovely, too much wine - pretty photos. Cold and smoke with friends. new dress, half an hour ... many words & secret thoughts...
home and blurred. : mean people should be banned - gone.
another day the next with pain killers and crochet.
*
all in all bar two a nice day.

A yellow one...

I saw another fairy ... I hope it was a fairy anyway,
It was yellow and small and fluttered like a moth (but not a moth or anything like that) - but faster, all the way up my wall and towards the window...
It woke me up from a really deep sleep.
She was pretty ... I'll call her Flo
*

..you will work it out

With the faintest smell of guilt over somekind of unknown wrongdoing... maybe... I get ready to wait for your words. I think I will keep waiting, and finally read the words I'm not expecting - good or bad.... I'll be as ready as I can be.

sugar loss

I have an apple pie... but why is the red one not in it?
I like the red one more.

On the back burner...

burning

Today I am a cat

But that's just the way it is...

Just when everything started to go so well.
There was so much - so thick with it.
Oh, how the air dilutes and thins out...
can I really live like this - with all and nothing at all?
They'll overtake me in the end

And then they'll take me over.

...

... I saw a fairy today ...

Loosing my Marbles

I dropped my little bag and all my marbles rolled out over the floor.
I will try to pick them up...
It will be hard.

Leaf

They drench her wounds with salted spit but she can't poke them with her butter knife...
However much they deserve it.
What a strange world this is, how the clouds have grown more angry, how we hold our face to be brave,
She is not safe, she is not brave.
This life (?)
These are the fungus.. we live beside,
How the world has stopped to grow to let them.
Who will she be when she is old?
She is not safe...
And she can't poke them with her butter knife.

In my own world...

My website needs a website doctor :(

... But, I do have the ingredients to make some tiny people ...

*

Abstract

...Speak to me...

Give me a title

... On the same page,
of the same book,
in the same library...
- to read the same line? -

Yellow Moon Beauty...

*

... Today we went to the butterfly house ...

This moon moth lives for just over a week,

It has no mouth, it is born to starve to death.

It is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

***

Wolves

I made my garden pretty.
I made one pretty for a friend.
Then they all came, howling... they loved them so much that they asked me to plant theirs.
I planted all the pretty flowers they asked for.
But still they wanted more.
I gave them lilies and daffodills and daisies and irisis...
Not enough.
So I scattered pearls from dying oysters and diamonds from the deepest mines...
Still unhappy...
...They screamed and trampled all the flowers down,
Then they took a match to mine.
I stand beside the cinders - not ready for this.
I don't like those who howl at me.

Thunder goes... boom....

... and I can't digest anything ...

Drowning

Sinking further, from blue to black where the air is dense...
Where I collect myself a stone and behind my back those mermaids take the seaweed - make themselves dresses to dive with the octopuss who danced with me only an hour before. Where I speak in bubbles which rise alone and disolve before they reach the surface.
I have no reflection here.

pins and needles

All the pins fall to the floor in pretty patterns of flowers - the needles stay where they are

Things to find on my bed...

Material,
Bag,
Camera,
Cat.

In The Park

* I found a little robin sitting in a tree *

... he sang a sad song to me...

OUch...

My sleepy face ....
updated my website:

www.flutterbydaisy.co.uk

*

Go

And he is as blunt as rusty knives and he makes me not want to eat. Once a part of it... now, he tells me goodbye - like those knives, and I'm drunk on the wine he gave me...

I wish I could keep this feeling - seeing my wrist bones - I wish I could do that, but sometimes other things take it's place -

Why should I be around these people who are far away from me... who try to be far away from me??

What I thought, What is Ture

tip-toe over twigs with nasty fingers, the pretending is now turned - she pulls at me blindly and I choke on leaves.

All of This

On the train a cliche asked me if hills roll. Looking out of the window, listening to Fiona Apple feeling as though I'm in a movie, movie? ... film,
Crates are piled high by building block houses - no life, to me anyway.
Leaves go past quick and blur into one big moving tree.
A mans bacon sandwich smells like death and my stomach rolls like the hills - The cliche laughs and goes away...

Yawn

My keyboard is tired, as am I - the little T looks up to me and asks me 'no more' so I'll listen and for tonight that's it. I will try to sleep with all these pretty letters dancing around my head... They are all blurry now...

I fly got stuck in here earlier - a big one... I opened the door but she stayed inside, and now she just sits - I think she is sleeping, keeping me company.

bzzzz

A mind of their own

Happy faces mean happy fingers that make pretty things… when people are mean or distant – or silent my fingers get all twisted and nothing works anymore – my machine makes clanking noises and the thread keeps breaking...

key Trees and Magic Trees

A pretty garden of scenes with plastic flowers… there’s a key tree in the corner, a table with wine, a teapot to make the flowers grow and golden frames that hang on string from the sky which is stained with tea. Inside are happy words and worlds with pretty cabinets of Victorian delights beside the little person-fairy-doll-branch. We investigate a world of lace and frills where cats play then go to see the magic tree and it’s sad and dark and surrounded by deer… then I see a lemon chicken. It get’s late fast and we travel all the way back across the world.

Lovely...

... Take me to the fairy toadstools

I Awake...

...All fuzzy, like a big ball of wool – the screechy one that makes that awful sound when you bite it…

Frank the Onion

Today I planted an onion
I called it Frank
Because it was.

The Girl

Grey feathers of fallen thoughts rest upon the floor; the sun watches them becoming old…

Passing people uncaring walk. She, the one with the bright eyes brings one to her breast; the

feather kept – searching the sky hanging. But winds are uncaring… the feather blows, becoming

as lost as the bird that shed it…

Again,

But always the girl – that is where home lies.

Spirits and Spirits

Bizarre mix of bells round my wrist – there are chocolate bunnies, we talk of dying and some think that Jesus was real – Who am I? Who is she? Who are we all? … Our identity – is blurry. Talk of school girls, priests’ strangulation and ghosts. There’s wine and Bacardi with mixers and cigarettes – round the kitchen table. Friends. We play games with dice and words and guess the famous person on our heads. I didn’t know I was the Pope she thought she was Johnny Cash – we are all us, sitting with Minnie Mouse. There was not enough coffee, but lots of tiramisu. I didn’t like lamb but I ate lasagne, she said I was thin. She said she was fat.

Time...

...Slipped by when I wasn't looking.

What's in a Name?

Poetry…

… Rymes, rimes, hymes:

All the spellings of 'Rhyme' I have seen today in my lecture…

Fantastic.

The Strangest of Dreams...

I pick at grains of sand with tweezers in hand and I see a gleaming which pleases my eyes.
Reaching out with an unsteady finger through a ring of flies – proportions contorted – I touch it. I found it. Nerve endings stirred, never more have I cared for something as unknown as this. Smooth with the ridges of a shell, it breathes but does not move. The man on the moon above booms out a voice so loud – that of an angry crowd, he bellows down to me to leave this poor thing be. I look up with a start, shocked that we are so far apart and I say ‘what right have you up there to shout down at me and tell me this thing of beauty I see cannot be touched’ but he has gone and all that’s left is me feeling in the wrong. Again with my tweezers I pick and flick the bits of sand away, when across the bay a lady lay stood up, she sat down walking and in silence she spoke ‘that does not belong to you nor anyone of this earth’
‘But who on earth are you’ I say ‘I found this thing and now it is mine’ and as quick as anything she disappeared and I felt fine. I continued unbothered to pick up my new finding. When all of a sudden its light became blinding and there’s no space now in the sand to hide it. Without sight all I can do now is feel with my greedy fingers in, out and around it. I misstep and fall inside – it’s wet on the walls and it’s soft underfoot and I bet that this was what they were talking about. But without any doubt I carry on walking knowing that my freedom lies on. Hanging strings wrap me up and I am stuck. I fidget, fumble and fling my limbs around as though insanity stole me. And then just like that I’m outside and I can see. I look down towards my feet and there lay lots of pieces of broken coral and pearl.

Getting There

Half asleep, for last night insomnia would not stop to speak. All night she told me boldly of the fears she has and shared with me her songs that end never, ever infinite they are and loud. She is not apologetic but on the contrary quite proud that she selfishly forces this reality unnaturally upon me ‘till it covers me like a plastic bag.
I’m on the train. Uncomfortable, but I cannot blame the people around me. I’m going to be late and I hate it when that happens, but it does and it becomes me. I glimpse through the slice of window I can see at the trees with blurred edges and the birds that backwards fly, and I am not there, but here flawed and I would not have heard it had it have cawed to its partner having gotten a worm for tea. That’s what I think I did not see as I am squashed ‘tween armpit and pot-belly. On their backs I can smell their houses and I don’t like it so I stop breathing, can’t tell anymore how many seconds my breath was just my own and I have to let her go; a farewell to she from me for this is my stop. As the train slows I make sure that I have not forgot’ my bag. Follow the barriers shining with reflections of those who heads are now of sheep and cows and sows and they make their noises but I don’t because I am bored of all this. My brain compares; the lift or the stairs? But my legs just keep walking ‘till I’m outside dreaming of sleep. Walking lightly touching not a single gap to save my back from breaking, like my Nan told me when I was small I recall it well obviously. The pedestrian code I need not abide as I stride through crowd and traffic alike. They all have eyes, only some of them shine in time for me to see them so I move but they don’t because that’s me, that’s what I do but unfortunately they are not like me, in this way. Which is best? Should I delay my journey further for the sake of a politeness which they do not care for either way? I digress… so the building hangs over me in shades of old, behold its grey glory looming. Buses pass behind me, their voices are heavy with smoke so they moan along the road been told where to go and on board are people moaning too – it catches I’m sure. Inside into another crowd, check the time which wastes a bit more of it ironically, stairs and hallways doors with handles and numbers, I can’t see inside them which nerves me – I tell them to go away so that I can go away inside and they listen for once which is nice. And I’m sitting here, writing here content that despite the world I finally got myself here.

C and P

Confusion, I don’t know. Paranoia spread around – like damp.

...Pass me a cloth.

Twinkle, Twinkle

Staring up through the window at the stars - hundreds of them; tiny blue light bulbs hanging from the sky on silver threads. Soon the clouds will pass beneath them - they'll hide away.
Look at the little LCD lights flickering away on the little circuit board of Sant’ Antioco. It comes closer – floating on the still blue-black waters until we were inside; little pulses of life…

Peaceful Insomnia

Last night I couldn’t sleep,

But this morning we woke up and painted everything white – I like that.

Gone...

I really should come back... from the away.

Musically Unspoken

Music sounds different; its ears have different listeners of different times…
And its sounds speak of other words, that to you have less meaning,

Anti for your depressed – too late

Hers with others, within a time I’ve never seen – less now?

Mine safe in the world of my own as it screams inside never to mix with the air.

A place apart from here, a place not in time but in somewhere else much deeper,

I think that unquiet has to be learned to write beautiful words that are thought and that time will come in at its own pace.

I dream of a room in the time to come, filled with a mess of dreams – shared and not formed both alike…
In time.
It all takes time in the end and without that thought I’m gone again…

Thoughts get in your Smoke

The smoke leaves my lips as I blow it up to the ceiling, I’m heavy. I wonder what it would be like to be the smoke, rising and falling away from itself; weightless it can see its insides… and it floats. I could stay up there and look down at everyone at the dinner table.
They couldn’t see me – wouldn’t see my face as I become lost in my own thoughts. They wouldn’t feel sorry that I didn’t understand, thinking that my thoughtful face means that I’m sad, which I’m not, I’m just thinking of being smoke.

Confusion creeps between the floorboards...

I feel small and you, up there... looking down upon me as I trip and fall between the floorboards. Dusty webs stretch over my eyes - when the world turns to black I know it was them: those eight legged manipulators changing my future as I rock on my knees and wish to be up there. You laugh, you don't free me... just grin, look what the cat dragged in, grin. You are the mouse, a cats tale tail tale of a cat. I cannot be free today but when you hear the patter of eight footsteps - you will be sorry, for I belong with them now - they are the only ones to teach me. One day i will be tall again, and I will smile as I look down upon you looking up back at me up there.

I smell dying beetles...

I don't know. It's not easy to say what's happening inside here where I am. The door is locked and on the outside I hear them screaming... under the door, the crack of light I see ten piles of oranges. The smell rises up into me of dying beetles....
Where am I? Lost inside -
Drag my fingernails along the ground. A cold pavement. Gravel. Bleeding. Is this it? the place where you have taken.... me.... taken. Am I to go now through the crack in the door 'drink me' shrink small? is that it? my name is not Alice sir!