Haeronymo’s mad again

I am still peeling off the Purse Curse. It started with losing my purse on a neverending journey with a present from my dad. It was a cigar box guitar; Cuban cigar box, fence stake and only three strings.

It plays like my heart rattles when it rains and the streets are all mine.

But so dear was the need to take it back to London without injury that I lost my purse. Hence the purse curse.

The jinx has offered 4 hours of mobile calls to HMRC, missed classes, sobbing mornings, electric shocks, lost post, exhibit rejection’s, play plagerism, aerial equipment refusals and (what I hope was the finale) failing humiliatingly failing my essay on London- the only thing I understood. In 17 years of education, I did a lot of courses, I never failed one deadline. Even the dissertation I wrote in one week about circus still got 51%.

It wasn’t the failing, it wasn’t the appalling grammer unnoticed until I uploaded it here days after. It was being accused of imitating the writer I included in the essay – Iain Sinclair. Despite being the last woman of flanery, the ghost of Camden Market and performed barefoot through this grubby city that has pained my bones for life, I am seen as ‘attempting to be creative’ and ‘tempted to imitate’.

No!

The time I did strip tease insude a giant pumpkin was creative. Teaching myself aged 30 and 12 stone to walk en pointe, like ballerinas, in a hostel bathroom while homeless was creative!’

All I did was write words. Words from before the 6 pages of Iain Sinclair I read were ever known of.

I am not a shit imitation. I am a shit actuality of me.

If only they knew what reading Nadja had done. You could have remived rust from a ship with the tears Nadja gave me. I thought it was the greatest tale of lost love ever. It is surrealist writing that is so like my own view of city life it was normal. Breton made me think of my circus teacher talking about me and my loopy ideas.

Will the purse curse ever end? It has given me two beautiful blues songs….

On twitter I have asked for a huge ragdoll of Wyndham Lewis….with a big velvet moustache…and Blast pyjamas. The icecream comfort has run out.

In a bid to stop my melodramatic crying at being a literary eejit, I went back to Thomas and his Waste Land.

This is quite amazing, please listen to the link. What odd coincidence Ted Hughes is reading. The Waste Land and Ted’s Horses are my favourites.

Bedtime story telling at it’s best

T S Eliot

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