diary of me

Ok. Let's start again. Let's start again might be a recurring theme in this diary. This is the diary of me. Who I am, who I was, who I might be. Actually, I don't know who I am. Do any of us? Who we are changes from day to day, minute to minute, year to decade. I'm not even sure who I want to, be. Used to. When I was fifteen I wanted to be Veronica Lake, you know the peek a bout (?) girl. Peek about, peeking from under her sweep of silky hair. How do you spell peek'. a bout? Must look it up but peek a bout sounds mysterious however it is spelled. She was slender, like her slender hair and looked at life sideways, the curtain of hair providing an alluring ... allooooooring.... one more time, what a word, alluuuuuring (takes long drink of Scotch and lights cigarette because she can't think of appropriate analogy for what is represented by Veronica Lake's alluring head veil. Hair is a woman's crowning glory. Hair, if you are brought up as a Roman Catholic, must be covered in church. Bit like hair and Moslem girls. Hair, my English teacher, Mr Cardus - one of the first men I felt for sexually and by that I mean, God, can hardly type the word ... did actually, no, still can't type it ... but you must know what I mean; well, he said, 'all men are trychomaniacs'; didn't understand the word but understood instinctively what he meantcompanionably . Men like women with glossy, flowing hair. Why? Care a little about men liking long, flowing rivers of hair. But I like hair. I like my hair. Today, post hairdresser, it is gleaming and streaming and swishy. Sounds like a TV ad. But I like the feel of my own hair. It is scented and I can run my fingers through and it falls back into shape, sitting companionably on my shoulders, only needing a comb if I feel like making it move, silkilyobediantly. Face framingly. Let's not think about the face. No. No. No. Puffy, eyebaggy. My fault. Too many fags, too much booze. I hope I care less about my face than I did. Some hope. I do but lack the will to stop the booze, the fags, lack of fresh air, pulling too many faces. Oh, to be without expression on the face but everything I see and hear is registered in my face. Eyebrows up, lipsup, lips down. Stop it face. Learn to be impassive. Fixed and accepting. Time to go. Go and walk. God, I do like to walk. Waste paper basket to pay for, dogs dogs dogs more of my little dogs, babies, to telll. Time to go.s

Pauline Wallin : 16 Mar 2012 14:42 |  Tags: Me |  Comments (0) |  Report a problem