If home is where the heart is, then I am a stray.



I know I am remarkably focused at work. I suppose that’s a good thing. Means I don’t have to think, to wonder. But at night, I lie awake, tossing and turning trying to sleep.

It’s very hot these days. I sweat profusely, even while laying perfectly still. And yet, I jerk and twist, seeking relief in sleep.

Yesterday, my mind returned to a dream I had not seen in a while. I don’t know what triggered it; it was more a nightmare than a dream. It was like a horror film I couldn’t stop, although I was all too acquainted with the ending. Fortunately I woke up before I saw it to the end, then played a film and slept soundly till morning.

Tonight’s nightmare is a different one. It is the seemingly impossible dream of feeling skin against skin. I close my eyes and all I see is flesh – some primal desire to touch someone else, to be with someone else, even in this summer heatwave.

And as soon as I snap my eyes open, my mind tells me all that will have to wait. After all, I have to spend the next month being on top of things – editorial work, dissertation, finding a flat, finding a job… How do people manage? I wouldn’t say it’s impossible, but it seems like trying to climb Everest without an oxygen supply; an uphill struggle that few complete. Then again, looking at the way corporate capitalism works, the system is designed to keep a few people at the top.

Oh well.

Incomplete: Snippets

Attempts at writing today were hijacked by the desire to focus on fiction and not on reality, though reality was mainly on the brain. Result: snippets of ideas and rants.

Clip clop clip clop clip clop.

The horse was not stopping. The rider’s pull on the reins did not slow the creature to a halt but rather seemed to spur it on its frenzied path along the street.

There formed a choir of screams and squawks as people tried to move out of the way to avoid being trampled by the mighty beast.


She wants to travel. He wants to be famous. They want to make a change. She wants to destroy the patriarchy. He wants to transition and have surgery.

What do I want? I don’t really have an answer to that, do I?


Sunday afternoon. The wind swept gently through the city streets. The sky was blue, the sun bright.

The streets were almost empty but for a few pedestrians. Most people were probably on a beach or at a park someplace, he assumed.

He lowered himself silently onto the metallic bench. It burnt slightly, due to the heat from the sun, but it wasn’t uncomfortable enough for him to get up. He sat cross-legged, and snapped open the laptop, balancing it precariously on his lap.

He stared at the blank white page.



I can feel her stare from behind her large sunglasses. They take up most of her aged face, but I can feel her stare. I suppose it’s not everyday you see someone like me sitting indoors on a beautifully sunny day sighing and huffing and puffing in front of a computer screen.

I wish I could ask her things, before her friend comes back with coffee or tea. I want to ask about life, and love, and learn something from her wisdom. Obviously not all grey-haired people are wise; that would be a crass generalisation and assumption. It would be nice to be able to ask, though.

I guess as a writer I’m used to interrogating myself, my boss, or the internet (through blogging) whenever I struggle with something. I suppose not all questions need – or have – an answer. It would be nice to have someone I can ask though. Someone wiser, who doesn’t have an agenda – political or otherwise. I’m not saying friends are not good to talk to, but I do know quite a few who are activists in one way or another. I’m not looking for a doctrine or a lecture on how bad stereotypes and the patriarchy are. I know they are bad. But that doesn’t help me feel better when I try to talk to someone. All the doctrine and science in the world doesn’t help with the ache. So why bother with it?


According to a friend of mine, not all relationships have to be sexual; it is possible to be friends with a beautiful amazing person. I agree, but only to a point. Being able to know there’s someone there, who you can reach out to when you need a hug, or something, that’s important too.

I guess intimacy is important. Sort of. I mean… I run from intimacy. I would rather just have a fling; I’d probably fall in too deep anyhow. Maybe this makes me damaged or screwed up in some way, I don’t know. I don’t want a relationship or an “us” to work towards. I am a writer with a strong sense of what is romantic and what is not; I kill the mood quite often (usually by accident), but I guess I just want to be that mr. Right Now. Being in a relationship seems to cause stagnation of both imagination and writing endeavours. Being able to fantasize about anything, anyone… that needs something more versatile.

Besides, who needs to be a “boyfriend” anyhow? I don’t need that label to be able to be with someone I like. Well… I say that, but the person I like has a boyfriend and he’s not me.

Fuck that shit.

Fuck it all.