Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,600 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 43 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

K

http://deathofthewriter.wordpress.com/

—-

It’s a beat that rocks the pulse

It’s a groove that fills the room with a smooth measure

Time

At times He’s your friend, dishing out the seconds so the body can move with rhythm

The flick of a wrist, complete command

A slight biting of the lips, He’s moving too fast

Gradually yet suddenly – who can tell for sure – the colours start to blur

Synaesthesia as we enter into a misty purple whirl

Out of focus, no beat keeps the rhythm as pupils swivel in dizzying sockets

And then

Clarity

But the seat is empty,

The kit is silent

Those measured seconds still pulsing in this ocean of

Pure Silence

Where did you go again?

Was there ever a drummer who sat in that seat

Measured out the time

Kept us in line with the beat?

Or is he a figment of my imagination

A misty purple blur, the outline unsure

Time came and stole you away

…

I’ll try and remember that flick of your wrist,

The talent that

Once Upon A Time

I couldn’t miss

It is a lie.

Unzip. Take off the rucksack that is still too big for you. Turn around and ask your teacher for another essay. You are not ready.

You try to console yourself listening to the comforting mellow voice of Foy Vance, but underneath those irish melodies is coarse harshness, the stroke of reality. See, people don’t tell you that the ‘Adult World,’ that elusive Mountain of Independence that we’ve constantly been trying to prematurely climb, from those early years when some of us tried alcohol before passing out in the park in front of school – at 2pm – to those sly drags on half puffed cigarettes, is a fake mirage that transforms into a barren, drought ridden landscape no DEC worker would recognize. Sometimes we burnt our fingers trying to touch it, sometimes we felt mature, all the time we had a bed and some comforting authoritative figure to take control again.

See, the  ’Adultworld’ can at times be held together with bitterness, necessity and the daily 9-5 grind – an extra 2 hours makes a huge differences, see those grey hairs already approaching – no you’re not Rogue and reality isn’t Magneto, this is called…dun dun DUN… Stress. Looking through the eyes of a changeling, technically 18 in the elongated body of a twenty something with the naivety of an 11-year-old and the maturity of..well it depends on the situation – i have seen how time ages us faster than we realize. I have seen how those people we strive and aspire to prematurely mutate into, are secretly yearning to regress back into the childhood we are running away from. We can rant at our parents, we can cry on the phone to friends, we can write pitiful attention seeking suicide letters, and there will always be someone’s heart that we will be breaking on the receiving end – a heart that underneath it all breaks out of love and care. But once we step over that threshold, jumping high with a burst of youthful energy, there is no come down. We’re left falling through sand. There seems to be no one to vent to, no one who cares, because we are all part of the grind.

So what do these stress – I haven’t got time – MOVE – people do? They vent out on the public. The vulnerable, the irritating presence of those that are unwanted. I currently happen to be one of those – a street fundraiser (This will concern another post.) Yet, there is something very vulnerable and touching about these busy individuals. A yearning to find love,care, someone to just talk to.

I live in a broken city where people are yearning to just have their voices recognized. The temptation of money I can assure you, is not enough for me to run too quickly into that harness and start the upward haul of mountain climbing. My youthful heart isn’t as ready as I thought.

We were stranded at a distance

The sand beneath our feet impaled forming bejewelled soles

[ We danced as though we had diamonds on the soles of our feet]

—

The years had ebbed like fraying thread unwinding, falling

Slithering to private corners of lonely bars,

The cacophony of seductive whispers a shackle that restricted our throats -

Your apple struggling with clipped wings to break the roaring silence

as we stared across the minute distance.

—

The muted flame a changeling: from violet to indigo

to Michael’s blue

It burnt, heatless, lifeless, scorching my fingers in its dying embers

Scorching our sweat lined palms as my charred hand slid through yours

meeting in a clasp.

—

Childhood was grooved in your hand, our hands

locking in familiar, intimate positions of the past

The human body is pliable. Padded out with flesh and meat, some calcified bone, it can bend itself to fit into the cold, unflinching marble of a corner. Press your ear close enough to the low budget-paint-as-fast-as-you-can blue varnish door and you’ll hear the faint memory of a lonely trickle of water. It only burbles now, as though its chemically infused voice is being strangled, the shards of worn and rusted metal lodged too firmly into its traditional routeway.

The poor excuse of a water fall had been flowing for too long in this place to think of changing. At least, that’s what the body thought.

Eyes lit only by the reflection of electrons and framed by sticky black wings couldn’t actually see through the low budget-paint-as-fast-as-you-can blue varnish door. But they could think. Ponder.

The right arm, folded neatly into its armpit, fingers just brushing the clavicle, slowly stopped sensing the crushing weight of the body as the good and bad fat pressed down in earnest, deaf to the ebbing screams and moans of their brotherly limb. The body shifted slightly as a lethargic jog of crippled signals listlessly began to compete for the nervous systems Paralympics.

It  sighed. Stagnant air pressed over cracking vaseline-forgotten lips before timidly rising to tickle the nose awak.

Deep inside, near the fringes of the grey matter metropolis, a little signal stirred, stuttered and gurgled nonchalantly wondering if today the busy coats would notice the pliable body curled in the marble corner, starving.

It was sweet.

Too sweet to sit for a long time tucked into the curve of a moist mouth, just where the tongue dips before it arcs towards the gaping, gluttonous, throat. Droplets of treacle slithered over muscle like velvet rippling over naked skin, tantalizing the taste buds into an ecstatic frenzy. If the crumb of baklava, a fading memory of a dangerously rich pudding, could grow legs, it would sashay down the pink strip of the mouth’s highway, making a raucous brouhaha, as saliva and bacteria would rush, desperate like a cocaine dependant yuppie from their squalid domains, yearning for one touch.

One lick.

Yet the crumb knew. As it waned in size, it grew in power, the now oblong flake a lord unto itself. Justice had no seat in his sugar induced court. Instead it sat like a leper with the denied contenders of the diminishing pudding, clothed in  melancholy and regret.

 Considering that the political world seems to have gone to pot from where I stand, and the effort entailed in writing about it in lucid enough state where my frustration at the current stupidity and injustice doesn’t result in a gravely damaged keyboard – for now I shall just stick to creative writing.

 So today you are lucky and getting  2 pieces, i’ll aim to do this on a weekly session – but as my blog shows, will power is currently not a strong point.

K x

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads This blog is doing awesome!.

Crunchy numbers

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 3,900 times in 2010. That’s about 9 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 10 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 13 posts. There were 20 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 4mb. That’s about 2 pictures per month.

The busiest day of the year was May 17th with 43 views. The most popular post that day was Get Over.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, piony.livejournal.com, mail.live.com, tipstohairremoval.com, and WordPress Dashboard.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for anish kapoor, laura izibor, the holiday, svayambh, and anish kapoor svayambh.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

Get Over May 2010

Anish Kapoor – Perception and Deception November 2009
5 comments

Laura Izibor October 2009
2 comments

The Holiday January 2010
1 comment

Teens and Tiaras January 2010

What was striking about those events was not the ironic flip-side of the comic book story abruptly noted after the highly realistic knifing of Kick-Ass himself, but a sudden ethereal realisation that my childhood was slowly dwindling away. Before this two-faced month is over I will have crossed tentatively into the realm of adulthood – a world I only know to be deceitful, stressful and hard. Gone are the days when my mother woke me up with a song before slapping a wet flannel over me. Now I am woken by the scream of my sisters mobile as mum calls us from downstairs to say we have 30mins before we are officially late for school. Gone are the days when a note explaining why you didn’t manage to complete the holiday homework would suffice. Far off are those starry memories when Disney movies made you smile, dance and sing. Recently re-watching Sleeping Beauty the visage of Maleficent sent me to my altar praying.

Everybody supposedly aims at optimism when the new year shines its bright January smile. Unfortunately it tends to be covered up by the dark sky and faux-fluorescent street lamps (when I crack my eyes open, I see burning orange and a pitch-black sky, this month is two-faced cheating day for night). I’m entering my adult years with the knowledge that debt is my new best friend, university potentially a bad idea and that I only have 4 months left before I become an Undergrad or NEET.

When I was younger I used to glower at my dad with barely hidden chagrin when he would reply – when you’re older you will know – . I’m not sure what it is I’m supposed to know, but I realise I don’t particularly want to get older. Everything gets so much more complicated. You have no excuse. Eating lamb tureen tonight exemplified this point. Where my homely sister set about creating a dinner even Delia Smith would be proud of let alone Ramsey, I was upstairs trying to battle out whether poverty is the greatest killer of tectonic hazards. My mother kindly reminded me to try cooking soon, as one day I’ll ’need to do it for my husband’. An apt reply that he could cook for me was met with sad smiles. This is what adulthood does to you. It makes people usher you into your destiny. At 9 saying I never wanted to get married because I didn’t like men – all based on the charming yet pimping caricature of James Bond – I was met with a ‘don’t worry, you’ve got a long time to go’. Now 2011 has become the door knob for that long time.

I’m sure when my birthday does roll around, slyly without the jingle of presents, except perhaps ID, I’ll take it in my stride like any other day. But years from now I’ll look back and remember this was the day I, like Aurora, became all grown up…(un)luckily she had prince charming waiting for her.