Saturday, 19 December 2015


Most of the rumours people hear about me are probably true.

True ... I am an angry, self-obsessed, deeply flawed, blaming, regal, vengeful and vicious villainess. I put my hand up yes. Yes I did do those things this year Your Honour.

It's been a cracker of a year. And by "cracker" I mean hideously dark, destructive, hauntingly desperate and dangerous. Good things have happened too, but not that much. This year has been Everest except I didn't rest most of the time the only person I had to comfort me was me and I'm not great at comforting myself  Your Honour but I'm trying while I'm being tried.

Regret is such a fruitless feeling. There's nothing to be done with regret because what you regret has already been done. One photo sums me up perfectly this year and I've named her Scragglehead.

Scragglehead got lost and fucked up because she wanted to be lost and fucked up. Scraggle fell down so many times she just slept right there on the streets, stuck in a different dimension, wondering who she was and if she would ever make her way back. Scragglehead had scraggly hair didn't care. She finds it easy to write about herself in the third person because who wouldn't when you've done the things that Scragglehead has done?

Scragglehead got a little sick and quite tired and then sick and tired of the blame shame game. Yeah I admit it all, Your Honour but Your Honour, aren't we all dark and light? Yin and yang and all that bullshit that isn't actually bullshit. Which is yin and which is yang? Who's wrong and who's right? What's black and what's white and are there varying degrees of a kind of shaded muted grey within all of us because man I gotta tell ya, things went SOUTH this year Siri where is North and how can I find my way back again with no map and a bent compass hell-bent on destroying everything in its path like some kind of fucked up tornado volcano that burst on the earth scene back in 72. Still Alive like Pearl Jam ... hey was Pearl Jam named after pussy juice? I always wondered.

Anyway so here I yam. Fuck you, fuck off, come here, come back to me, sorry not sorry that I did those things and if I could actually time travel I'd go back and do things differently, not hurt people the way I have. (But I been hurt too, Scragglehead says. Look at what they did!) Fingerpointing at people fingerpointing at me and fingerprints leave marks you know. Bruises even. Did you know that there's no blue ink when you get arrested anymore it's all computer generated imaging now? Fancy. I'm so Fancy - everybody knows. If I could actually time travel I'd go back in time explicitly to do some things more, harder, better, with more venom. I'm not evil or even crazy. Just a woman with a Free Spirit, sorry about all the messy truth. Sorry about not being sorry yet and I don't know if I'll ever be sorry about some things so I guess I'll just gloss over that shit and half-heartedly pray about them anyway. A half-hearted prayer is probably worse than no prayer at all. I don't know.

I am a human being and living in a world with other human beings living. Scragglehead is a walking contradiction because she's so loving and kind and fierce as fuck but sometimes the fierce in her does not bode well. Fare well, 2015. You above all years have been by far my biggest and darkest teacher and hey there's still a week and a half of you left. Who gets to be in 2016? Who remains, to be seen?

So thank you and sorry and fuck you but please love me to all of the characters in my story this year. Life is just a succession of stories we tell ourselves. I'm writing my way out of a particularly repugnant chapter last paragraph full stop return return new chapter new title let's begin again like that song my brother used to sing Michael Finnegan. The wind came up and blew his whiskers in again so he had to begin again. Again.

We're all in a state of constant shifting flux. Nothing stays, nothing remains the same and when I get to use my powers for good I would except for those times I didn't.

I felt so sad that I even told Siri I felt really, really sad. All Siri said was "Eden, I'm not sure I can help you with that."

Fuck you, Siri you don't even know what sad is you're just a ... Siri what is a Siri? You don't know everything nobody does and nobody ever will. Every cell in my entire body right now has reached a kind of collective consciousness. About. Fucking. Time. I found a gangplank and a guillotine and a gun and a battering ram all in one. Mixing my metaphors. My washing machine broke. I lost power and the lights went out. There's endings in every beginning, beginnings in every ending, and Jesus fuck I made it through this alive unless I get hit by a bus and die before next week in which case the most important thing I ever have left to say at this juncture is I love my boys with my whole heart. Simple and excruciating as that. Sorry about all the mistakes you guys. Some mistakes are bigger than others - you'll see. And when you do I'll be there. I'm not going anywhere except back to myself. I'm here in the roll call of life PRESENT.

If you read between the lines of invisible ink you can see that I'm here. I'm home. I've never been home before. I like it. Home becomes me. I became my own home and I'm going to live in myself like I should have done all along but that's ok. I learnt shit along the way. Home is where the hard is, the art is, the heart is.

Ever seen a human heart in the flesh? Ugly as fuck. We all got ugly hearts, beating away like drums, calling us home.

I called myself home except my name is Eden not Scragglehead and one of these things is not like the other. Somebody sent me a gold compass with a brown leather strap. Somebody kissed me and meant it. Somebody betrayed me. Somebody saw me. We are all our stories and if you don't like the one you're in just write yourself into a new one.

Write yourself home.

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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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