Friday, 11 February 2011

Novel Extract (what I'd written today)

Sometimes I'd stare into the mirror for hours trying to decide what I look like. Whether I'm ugly or not or if by coincidence I look like someone I know, and by knowing nothing at all, see a face with cheekbone ridges and chlorophyll eyes buried deep within moments of anger that now seem so subdued as if the ripples on the pond have settled and now there is quiet. I could stand there not moving for so long and feeling sick in my head and stomach but the world dims through chrysanthemum window where outside is fighting and screaming and I am in a nightmare. The absolute powerlessness of it all was confusing, making me stand in one place unable to see things as they really were, which I did not understand anyway, making me stand in one place, unable to move, corrupted to the point of a kind of sense of humour: knock knock, who's there? Olivia, Olivia who? Olivia, so get out of my house. I heard a boom outside and I thought the sounds were getting closer and closer to me, and there wasn't a single thing I could do: absolute powerlessness corrupts absolutely.

I was so sick I couldn't eat, the cramps were cutting through me. I never knew how to handle these kind of things so I usually ignored them, usually attaining to a high-fibre diet, carbohydrates, protein and the other one, (50g fat, of which saturates: 4g), sugar; though my diet usually contained aspartame mostly made up of Carbon and Hydrogen in a methyl group (R----CH3). This information was usually pointless to me, yet it was stuck in my head, words upon words, numbers upon numbers.

I'd try to decide if I was real or not, like I did when Melissa asked me “There's nothing on TV” so I decided she couldn't possibly be real; all/ most thought now was based around TV, and so if I think therefore I am then and there is nothing on TV, then existence ceases to be – of course my sister took this the wrong way decided that our two separate existences were tangent to each other in relation to certain mathematical spaces. I didn't understand what she meant so I made some tea after she'd left and took it upon myself to make sure I knew I existed, but I didn't know how so I smoked in the back yard contemplating calling (--) who now hated my guts, and I had a vague idea why, though now it seemed impossible to set things straight since it was actually all her fault and not mine. She was somewhere else by now, probably weeping into a cup of tea, moaning like a fucking ghost, the propensity to attack one another for the sake of love, by which we come to the conclusion of “angry love” that exists furiously to one seeking to ability to forbid the other.

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