no good eggs left in Porto.
WEDNESDAY 6th JUNE.
May comes and leaves. Or I do. Or 4 days until orgasm.
Today I feel a little lost, the first few days with the group have been good and progressive but Omar is frustrated and wants to leave and I feel put on hold. I slept on the beach in the rain last night, beside Oz and Claira s tent; some nightswimmer tried to wake me up in the middle of the night to offer me a tent. my sleeping bag is soaked this morning but have managed to dry it out a lot already –
the suntan – the myriad weird colours of my skin more like – i have burned the backs of my legs a little, on the rainiest day on the beach –
i think i m moving forward in my head, but things put it back in time and place, maybe i m not doing better i m just ignoring it, runaway. i slept for most of yesterday. i ve lost the piece that broke off the juggling club. i spun fire during the day today. my lock still works, depsite the sand, i bought oil for 1.65€ to treat the rust –
i m lost – or am i not lost enough – i need to make some money – i have beautiful beads for macrame but back in London – i make sock poi and have been trying to perfect the wrap, hmm, sometimes i get it right but i might still have no idea what i m doing –
i d like to get to the internet to type up this journal, there are people i have promised emails to, you know there is still so much i have to be thankful for, i have to learn so much –
it was nice on Rua Caterina, C and Om put their stalls out and I sat in the shade as much as possible and played tin whistle, Patrick left to walk back to Amsterdam with Wotan the dog but I was still in the grips of 3 drops of acid, the visuals were amazing, i sat, half in half out of the open window and played with the lights from the balconies – if i stared at one window and thought about the wonderful things that were happening inside that room i could make the light grow and when it grew big enough i could make a ball of light from it and shoot it across the horizon into another lit window – hours of fun – we re all reading Rudyard Kiplings Kim after C found it in a bin – Kimbal O Hara, red oilskin cases, 3 papers, begging bowls, red bulls on green fields, Urdu, noisettes but no go for Marseille then, or Morocco, unless I have a bodyguard, the memory of water, the whisper of raindrops: we have been to Fukushima and felt the glow, digging hollows in the sand for hipbones
but i m lying here thinking, this isnt Mongolia – this isnt Rossport either
THURSDAY 7th JUNE.
skull candy. no good eggs left in porto.
i have an off day, i dont answer the phone to Nelo, i dont talk much to the others, but i feel better in the evening.
FRIDAY 8th JUNE.
spirals – i picked up a shell and saw not Finisterre, the end of the world, but the end of the universe – spirals; the three white ones are brothers but they have not gotten up the hill yet, i cannot split them up before their journey, early nights turn into late evenings, Nina – the chocolate copa with ginjinha that turns into the most delicious cocoa cherry – talking about school
when necessary, i turn into a clown. from the mouths of babes.
a nice afternoon on the ribeira, after yesterdays heartache. italian pasta and garlic aubergine mushrooms. jospeh. photographers on tour. cats in caffs, does she follow me to the bathroom? i recognise that feeling in me, ijustwannagetlaid, second helpings, i think about photos, about not changing a thing, but surely thats wrong… ? i did my thing, the things, today, i sang i played tin whistle juggled played poi – i watched the faces of the peopleand the pale ones who sat in the shade of the restaurant behind us, their plates of envy –
i worry about the bicycles. my lock has given up finally. i go to a concert tomoro with Nelo. theres talk about angels and oneness, the unity, theres not, are we ever going to work well together oh well things take time my arms are brown boring – and hypocritical who is fake are you am i – green and gold, black and red, which belt to choose, i like the pinstripe trousers, too, needtomakemoney, do a fire show, masquerade, times are tough for clowns, its not a lucrative business, check AW, get the noses, Angie her name was, Ukraine, things tumbling in a kaleidoscope, would i be happy back in London avoiding people? its a means to an end, but what end, and when, or a rear-end in itself, woofers –
i am tempted to eat fish – the boy with the fishbone through his ear – the girl with green spots on her brown boots – Magda – black and white socks, do not go gentle, no surrender, but i capitulate under the right atmospheric conditions, safe chillums, chunderslaughter, hope the backs of my legs do not peel from the sun, for sure they will, i want to find a nice nudist beach, i ve got to check every once in a while if my old life is still where i left it, dont i?
People of the North they call us, like me, North Atlantic, west coast of Ireland, its still the Atlantico though –
it was because on the first night you didnt want to do anything that the second night i relaxed and unfolded in your arms –
no rubbing skin with twigs here though –
tattooed eyelids – the star on the front of the shoulder – footfile –