200809 I love my family

Yes readers, sometimes ‘love’ transcends the boundary of a quick fumble behind the wheelie bins.

After dining on a ‘frugal foodies menu’ at a vegan restaurant, I spot my mum and dad sneaking into the chippie and coming out with sausage and chips, whilst I freewheel in the brusk wind along the promenade.

I love my family.

How good is that feeling when you can really be you, warts and all, with three over-60s who’ve just emerged from a sewer tour.

I said I couldn’t bear it – any whiff of sewage would flash me straight back to four months in India.

Vegan food, all well and good, but give me the protein…..

I mused upon becoming a pescatarian whilst in the land of a million gods, but then my hair started falling out, my periods stopped and I became so weak a dip in the ganges felt like murder (incidentally, on Good Friday I got robbed and on Easter Monday I nearly got raped, how’s that for a resurrection). As my good friend Johnny quipped, ‘oh, so you can rape the willing’.

On Tuesday I found myself browsing the shelves of the non-fiction section of the library. Am I sad? I thought. No, I’m wholesome girl at heart, belonging to libraries in over five London boroughs.

I think of myself as a piss-psychologist, and found Eric Fromm’s ‘The art of loving’. Solid as a rock, he died in 1980, so none of that ‘power of now’ bullshit for me.

There are sections including brotherly love (oo er, we’ve all been near someone’s brother), motherly love (suck that titty), erotic love (praise god all creation praise), self-love (masturbation), and love of god (oh for the love of god). Brackets mine, incidentally.

And it may be the first book I’ve read for a decade without pictures. (have trained travelling partner to quip in literary conflab ‘does it have pictures? No? then she won’t read it’). Rock on, Vonnegut.

I’m on page 11 already. And it is food for thought. The theory that we are all separate and as social beings need to interact, need that validation, and in a culture basing itself on consumerism, we only look at the tin, but don’t sample its contents. Have you tried Campbells meatballs? Catfood, but strangely moreish.

And all this coincides with a wedding I shall attend on the morrow. Received a surprise phonecall from the blusher, asking for a massive favour. To read a poem. Well, more of a futurist poem (fuck Goldsmiths, that means it’s shit). A performance poem. Here we go. Witch of the wedding scares guests into oblivion. Again.

It goes as follows (if you can’t be arsed skip this bit, I’d hate bad art diverting you from my blog):

love is love
(pause)
love is love love is love
(pause)
love is love because love is love and when love is love then love is love
love is love loooooooove iS louuuuuuuuuve
(pause)
as love is love love could only be love
(pause)
love is the love of love and love as love is love who love
love is (pause) love
(pause)
llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeee
is love (~)
(pause)
in fact love could only be love cauz love is love
(pause)
love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love love is love
(long pause)
love is what love is : love is a love love of a love love, love is the love who love the love but it's not the love who is not love because love is love as love in love... (pause)
(pause2)
LOVE IS LOVE (stronger)
LOVE IS LOVE (more stronger)
LOVE IS LOVE (loud)
LOVE IS LOVE (very loud)
love is love (nearly silent, twice)... (long pause)

(silence)

ovlesi velo ovel slo as loe is l tub so livo secuz vlevo sil vleo

(improvised singing)

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiizzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooveeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

(silence)

love is love as much as love could be loved, it is indeed a form of love where love is always love
the only aim for love is love, there is no other love than love, love is love
and as love is love love would always remain as love

(silence)

LOVE IS LOVE

Yes…………………………………………………………..well we’ll see what happens eh? I’m not practising it, and will perform from a scruffy piece of paper, possibly flashing my blood-stained panties. Christ help me if it ends up on youtube.

Anyway, the point of this section is that the bride happens to be the sister of the man who deflowered me. I’ve had to go a long way back to fulfil this blog, but this is the ultimate nostalgia.

And then he came to the phone. And then we talked for an hour whilst my neighbour flooded my kitchen. And now I’m persuading myself to fall in love with my memory of him, though it was I who shunned him way back when.

He wants to come and stay. I want him to come and stay. Effeminate, but far from so in the ‘area’ (mano for the Spanish amongst us), it can’t go worse than the choir boy. I say that now.

So in an amazing sequence of events, when I have decided to give up on the internet (again) whilst inhaling my own methane on the seafront, maybe love has come to me. Incidentally, I farted and then literally smelt roses. That was poignant, and could possibly have replaced a lyric of Morissette’s. If Morissette is the female subjunctive of Morrissey, then us ladies ain’t doing so good, and God knows I’m miserable now.

Anyway, had to fit the poo-poo really smells like ro-rosehes bit in somewhere.

Conclusions? As usual, none really, but I turn 32 on Sunday, and what was a wretched feeling is now one of vulgar hope. This is the year of the ex, (another one sending me a CD and having coffee next week). So be it. Will have to check my tarot deck, but I fear it has less to do with the Romanies and more to do with the rheumatoids.

Adios. Happy birthday me, (pray me a fuck) x