Ella & Ellenore : Pt I

Ellenore: Isn’t this, like, a personality disorder?

Ella: What is?

Ellenore: Envisioning yourself as two different people? Assigning names to those people – writing scripts about their interactions – that’s a surefire sign of insanity.

Ella: Probably. In someone’s books, yes.

Ellenore: Don’t you care?!!

Ella: *shrug*

Ellenore: ????!!!!

Ella: It’s, like, an ontological metaphor.

Ellenore: ??????!!!!!!

Ella: It helps me to conceptualise my rational and irrational faculties in terms of human traits and motivations —

Ellenore: Sounds like insanity to me.

Ella: I guess.

Ellenore: Don’t you care? About people thinking you’re weird?

Ella: Not really.

Ellenore: Oh, please. Pull the other one.

Ella: Seriously.

Ellenore: You have always worried about what other people think of you.

Ella: Actually, that was you.

Ellenore: Um, sorry to have to inform you, but I AM you, babe.

Ella: …

Ellenore: …

Ella: Yeah. I guess so. Ugh.

Ellenore: “Ugh”??!

Ella: Sorry. It’s just, I don’t really enjoy your company very much.

Ellenore: Why not??

Ella: I just think I’m like, a really chill person…or I would be, if it wasn’t for you.

Ellenore: CHILL? Why would you want to be CHILL???

Ella: *shrugs*

Ellenore: CHILL people are MORONS.

Ella: If you say so.

Ellenore: They’re only CHILL because they’re completely blind to all of the ATROCITIES in the world. And all of the things that are WRONG with them. All of the things that could go WRONG in their life.

Ella: Ugh, can you please leave?

Ellenore: Oh, so you can “chill”?? You’re a fucking MORON.

Ella: k.

Ellenore: I’m always giving you good advice, suggesting things to worry about when you’re stuck — giving you the inspiration you need when things are going well —

Ella: Yeah, but —

Ellenore: Helping you see a different perspective —

Ella: Well, you see, that’s the thing —

Ellenore: I’m so good to you, and all I get in return is “ugh”??!

Ella: You make my life pretty miserable is all.

Ellenore: Me?? I’m trying to stop you from becoming even MORE miserable.

Ella: Right.

Ellenore: Because things can ALWAYS be worse.

Ella: Sure, but I mean —

Ellenore: You can’t just stop and enjoy the little things. That’s dumb. Because the next thing you know —

Ella: God, I wish you would go away.

Ellenore: Why, Ella??? Why do you hate me so much??

Ella: It’s just, you’re like, the quintessential essence, the very prototype of that thing my dad calls The Female Brain™.

Ellenore: So???

Ella: So, uhhh, we’ve been trying to persuade men for thousands of years that women have brains, that we are rational beings – and we are – I am – but you’re always there – smothering me with your hysteria –

Ellenore: Sorry? I don’t see what the problem is here?

Ella: The problem is, I’m just trying to be the best version of myself, the smart, laid back version —

Ellenore: That’s so dumb. Listen  —

Ella: I’m just trying to –

Ellenore: WAIT. WAIT. You need to listen to me!

Ella: Look, no offence, but you’re completely out of your mind.

Ellenore: What??!

Ella: You’re hysterical.

Ellenore: I’m hysterical???? I’m just prompting you to consider all of the possibilities!

Ella: …

Ellenore: All of the horrible, horrible possibilities, that you, under regular circumstances, would never even notice

Ella: I just don’t think I need you in my life. I’d really be fine without you.

Ellenore: LOL.

Ella: I can think. I have a brain.

Ellenore: Okay, insane girl.

Ella: Okay?

Ellenore: Okay. Whatever.

Ella: …

Ellenore: …

Ella: …

Ellenore: …

Ella: Cool. I’m going for a run.

Ellenore: You can’t run away from me.

Ella: …

Ellenore: I’ll always be here.

Ella: …

Ellenore: I’ll never leave you.

Ella: k.

Ellenore: I love you.

Ella: I…can’t say the feeling’s mutual.

Ellenore: Here for you always, babe.

Ella: …

Ellenore: *blows kiss*

poetry: if it’s nonsense? does it matter?

If you want to tell the truth, nonsense is your best bet.

Truth is impossible, truly. Even a child could tell you this. But if you really, really, really, want to tell the truth – nonsense is the place to go. I tell you, nonsense is the most honest you can be.

Nonsense is the most beautiful, primal, sub-conscious, sub-sub-conscious, soul-scooping, skull-squeezing, star-searching stuff.

Meaning can wait. Method can take a back seat. There’s no need to think. You just need to breathe, and reach down. As deep as you can go.

You must dance on the blade-edge of sanity – sorry, language –

Put the pen to the paper, and let the sounds in your head, the stars squalling for attention, turn to shapes on the page. Have a little trust in fairy dust.

Write.

 

nothing.

how do you do? nothing.
what do you know? nothing.
why do you do? nothing.

chaos is much too full of colour to grieve for, and nothings are not sweet at all, no matter how softly whispered. So you say

you feel nothing, huh? oh you have no idea

every time I put my head down on the pillow NOTHING screams at me.     missing. blank.        nothing is not voiceless is terrible rasping        it scalps me with rueful claws.
nothing. take a deep gulp of it.

I mourn every night for those spaces. Those chasms, the cliffs that step off
into whiteness
where I stand and strain my ears to hear, my eyes to see, my nose to smell, something, a memory, anything: nothing. Gone.

only guilt creeping up
behind my ear.

so what should I do? Grab a pen. Move on.

Sixteen

                                 Sixteen, sixteen.

        You’re labyrinthine
You’re nothing

like the songs
Nothing like

what they told me

bone by
slippery bone
I re-
hash my body,
my mind
like a child with

               wooden blocks

                                           like a space-chef
with a plastic spoon

                                                        Playing. Failing.
Stirring. Crying.

I’m like a

                  Jenga tower

                                                and every person

                                                                                       who passes me
takes a block.

I’m wobbling.

I’ve lost it.
I’ve lost
the thread –

the end is

somewhere

in the middle.
The beginning is

right at

the end.                 Lost it.

 

Betterer, Clevererer, Happierer : Resolutions* for 2016

Oh hi, 2016. I see you have arrived.

I see you got here a while ago – sorry to keep you waiting. It’s just I’ve been a little busy. I hope you don’t mind. I am about to make my resolutions now, though. I don’t think February is too late to start thinking about the things I would like to achieve this year.

What’s that you say? It is a little late, yes. I understand that. But it’s not too late – oh? You think it is too late? Well screw you, 2016. What the fuck do you know? You’re just a four-digit number, why should I listen to anything you have to say? You know NOTHING. I’m going to make my new year’s resolutions in February and you can’t stop me. Who says you can only make resolutions in January? That’s a stupid rule. I will do as I damn please. So thank you, 2016, but your opinion is worthless. Goodbye.

Ahem.

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I Can’t Stop Editing

I can’t stop editing. All I do is edit.

Preening, poking, tickling, tweaking. Smoothing over. Editing, editing, editing, editing. The bane of most writers’ existence – and yet, I have always revelled in this process. With editing, I am in my element. I have always had an eye for detail, always been good at proofreading, and I love reading sentences over and over, love the satisfaction of finally getting it just right. In fact, I would say that I far prefer editing to the initial process of actually getting words on the page. To me, getting words down is nothing but a necessary but onerous prelude to the far more enjoyable task of editing them.

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