Can you solve my contortion cundrum?

Why can’t I pull my foot to my head using my hand instead of strap?
Its like my sholderblade and wrist block the gap.

Also why can I not do this hanging upside down on aerial hoop/silks?

The apparatus under my back blocks my spine bending.

By the way I didn’t train to do this, just a good warm up. I have a slipped bone in my lower back and neck and hypermobility in my lumber spine. As A kid I used to arch back on my belly and get my toes on my eyebrows.

I want to do this in the air not on the floor. Can you help?



Happy Feet

I cleared my cheap plywood book shelf to change it’s position and picked up my shoes beside a Rolling Stones photo. They still carry the mud of Highgate Wood.


Lyra Day 2

I’ve got more confidence already but wonder how being so low I can put my own stamp on aerial hoop. Unlike trapeze you have to be procise or get tipped off and I can’t see a way of doing lyra without looking like a fatter, lower carbon copy of everyone else that does it.

I’m really enjoying learning something new though and exploring a new shape to hang on.

Today I learnt mermaid (so easy on trapeze but git scared of it on hoop), star, a didgy back drape a tucked thing.

MA Literature- I suck….

I got another ‘A for attempt Z for writing terribly dfeedback on my assignment. Even that sentence is lacking the grammer that typing with one finger on an iphone makes me not bother with.

I bought an aerial hoop and dislecated my shoulder snagging my cane on the pavement.

I signed up for tightwire and tore the ligament in my ankle tripping in the street.

I spent 3 years studying theatrical costume to be told by my teacher I will never get employed or be asked to make a costume.

I owe 27k on that failure of a 2:1 degree in doing trapeze and painting my friends eyes black.

Why would I be any good at Literature?

Look at Joyce- infamous and study the world over and utterly allowed to write that someone ‘eight’ food. But write anything that isn’t the Exact Academic Critical form of a student essay and you are shit.

Dance on a trapeze under 8ft high and be told you are shit or more precisely ‘you are not doing trapeze’

And I know I write terribly. They say my work is too fragmented…..what like ‘Blast’ or William Carlos William’s poetry that is simply what it is, not hidden meanings or there for analysis?

I need to back up my ideas with others who had the same ideas already and got them published. But what if I have a new idea? And everyone is explaining others ideas over and over why write essays at all? Why not just hand in a reading list with ‘I aggree with them’ written over it?

I just don’t see the point in it.

And to top it off my neighbour got a trapeze rig built from scaffold in her flat for £20. Something ive wanted for years and will cost me £200 in bits. All the indoor rigs cost 100s but are too fucking narrow to do any stretched out poses in.

Everything is just bollox. Yes university of westiminster- bollox- its a term us essex iliterate plebs use when nothing by Chaucer fits the feeling.

This isnt really a blog its a technology iphone cry for help…..

….. a plea for help before I fling this iphone out a bus window……oh no London buses don’t have open windows anymore….

Before I rant read Nadja, the greatest love story ever by Andre Breton of a crazy girl that latches on to an older married man, livesby chances and symbols in Paris, doesn’t work, goes mad, lives for him… it its short and has pictures. Read it!

So basically I have an iphone still on an ancient ios and 3email accounts.

I got a friend that works with video games , so theoretically taps buttons a lot,to delete and fiddle and smooth out years of stuff before moving to Japan. (Not me, my Japanese Butoh, Lolita dressing days are still a pipe dream).

So now every time I send an email through a contact it only sends from the one account I don’t want to use and the other account that is personal is getting dozens and dozens of fake paypal and skype messages. I know theyre fake- they’re sent from my address. The inboxes of all 3 are now one big inbox and I’m so lost….

So I download skype and use the account from like a decade back and it has 10 requests- 3 of people I actually know and the rest are all blank profiles with names far crappier than Ariadne.

How do I delete a skype account?

If I just update the whole phone will everything cleanly go away? And thats another thing it says I have no space to update so if I do I have to will i never have space for anything else? Backing up content before doing it means I’ve no effing idea where the backups saved….

Gives up. I’m going snood shopping. I want snoods for my injured neck.

P.s- i spoke lots in class today, ranted about the death of Camden, possibly whispered and laughed about but i’m doing my essay on Nadja and haunted cities- by memories not dead people. And there’s some weird little glimmer like a bit of grit in my shoe as I walk the makes me think I love circus, somewhere, far down.

Oh god I hate circus……

‘Then why do you do you do it…’ So man catty confident girls have asked in the past after sumersaulting sideways down a rope.

I’m not sure what I do ever was.


First day stretching in 6months. Why does my toe only reach my head with a strap? Yet not idf I’m upside down on silks with the silk around my foot? Yet never in a half back balance on hoop?

‘There is no why’- Philippe Petit.

Wasting Saturday

There will always be a part of the mind that thinks being at Victoria station must mean returning to the slum lin the suburbs, or fleeing it.

Hours of unmoving bus in post match traffic through Fulham; the sparkle of Christmas clad shops and swerving tail lights. There was once a cold night in this station sat on a silver suitcase, talking to a homeless man called Wayne in another failed attempt to flee for a dream life by the sea. It had turned out to be a Hove hostel with no lightbulbs, bedding and cracked windows up six flights of prisonesque stairs. No holiday to be found.

I thought Wayne looked like my trapeze ex-teacher and wondered if he was an actor to convince me to go home. I gave him a hug for the rarity of kindness, only found in Londoners with nothing to do, and spent a week with a chest infection in Croydon’s unheated walls.
Station coffee shop: mouth cutting bread and constant squirts of bleach by bored staff on empty tables. The route was dotted with square windows revealing frantic chefs and empty tables of eateries like TV screens suspended amongst the black of night time bricks and roofs.

In Lush I hunt for old favourites to dissolve in the bath, oh the gratitude of finally owning a private bath for only my bones. Two days the bath in the slum had been full of caustic bleach Continue reading “Wasting Saturday”

Of London: of darkest night

“I Wish I was fucking blind the way you wave that stick around,” moans my twunt businessman  of the day because, how terrible, he has to step an inch to the side to let me pass the street in the world that revolves around him. Like you are meant to for someone who CANT SEE YOU.

Another bag hits my injured shoulder, injured from repeatedly snagging a titanium stick on cracks in pavements, “waving” it around because that’s how you have to. I saw a blind trapeze performer doing a comedy song about cane pavement rage. Yeah the agony in my dominant arm and nightly dismissal or pity is a barrel of laughs.

Yeah that blind woman actually gets allowed to train in circus and not turned away because she can’t see which rope unites which trapeze.

But I’m told everyone at the circus ‘Values’ me. What this means falls empty on my scratching of understanding. I’m about as valuable as a broken wrist.  Your beautiful women fly through the air and eat fire.

I crossed the road without some invisible person leading my by the arm (apparently blindness means you can’t be spoken to or verbally given directions and will shatter at any moment. How do you think blind people got to that street in the first place?)

Ta, bloody da…Look ma no hands.

Is this not literary enough? I went to study literature tonight, asked the front desk lady how I register my modules now I’ve saved 5k to write terrible essays and she just starts barking at me in a cheap accent so I can’t get a word in. Tried to ask a further question and she just snaps “listen to me” and carries on barking that it’s nothing to do with her. I leave while my mouth is still closed to my internal dialogue.

We learnt about biographies tonight: Gaskell, Charlotte Bronte and Orlando. Think my essay will be on post Darwinian fears in adaptations of Jekyll and Hyde…

Today’s unread blog was brought to you by the number 2, caffeine, lysine, ibuprofen and Mowtown…..

(It’s a Sesame Street reference. When I was little I always hoped and believed cities were like Sesame street)

Of London:Riot

Silhouettes huddled against the flames, our molten sky, our news story.

Now do you see?

I had kept watching from my third story panorama all evening. August gleaned every building block frail white and grey until the first black puffs of arson waved on the horizon.

London Road is burning down, burning down,,,

The flyover and two narrow streets were our cordon. The TV dished out unrest of cars set alight east of the city but social media barked out violence the reporters ignored miles from the scoop. Police never come out unless it’s rape or murder and no one here  calls the Police despite years of sirens.

They won’t come this way…..

The mad silent girl entered my room, unusually coherent, to look at the smoke and tell me there’s another fire to my right and now we are cornered. In daylight there was no difference other than those black abstract  plumes.

And Primrose was not back from work. She called herself princess and lived in the lounge, spoke in whispers and snored like a pig. She wouldn’t have known the danger to cross.

And then the messages trickled from somewhere all transport had stopped.

Across the road I climbed the stairs to the flyover into a video game of helicopters and near by explosions. Children, nothing more then shoulder height boys, strutted past masked up tooled up without a care in their steps.

Smoke hid the church, have they burnt the church? Walking over the roads arch down into the black.

And then the bus blew up.

“We have to get to…,”the young couple with a baby ask in the dusk, “We crossed the park the trams have stopped.”

“Lady don’t go up there….your baby, no the west is gone too.”

Teenagers told reporters they were showing the rich people and police they can do what they like. So you burn and loot and attack like Mr Hyde on your purest crack, the poorest streets where a baby is stranded in smoke?

Night hid the smoke but opened its anarchic arms to vomit fire. Maybe the heat would kill the germs of the place..

I packed, I bagged up the important things. I put towels in the sink and under the door.

And I sat on the desk at the window of the slum and watched those outlines of people watching the neighbourhood burn.

The thin, dirty panes were like cigarette burns on my knuckles and would rattle with each new explosion.

Every friend with a car was sent begging letters for escape but no answer came.

See it now?

It was a relief. All those years of filth and crime, now everyone could see. The scum had lit a beacon on the Abyss.