April 4th, 2012
|05:51 pm - Untitled 1|
No one had to know
Even though we were everyone’s business
We still are
We came together and we collapsed
A cricket and an albatross
An endless ageless Marco Polo
Where were you then
And how did you know?
You were like the fucking Everglades
All spine and cheeky elbows
Billowing outwards like the pines and waterfalls
But you were never any of those things
And I was never yourshttp://iamkatylees.blogspot.co.uk/ ]
[I would really like to start only posting in my blogspot, soon. I kept posting here because I liked the sense of community and didn't want to let it go, but that's gone, now. I know there are some people who only follow me here, too. But this is the address of my new, clean blog, in case you didn't know:
October 18th, 2011
|07:21 pm - Sunk|
It's now been about four months since I last blogged but I've thought about you every day. Now it's time to repay you for your patience - here are the first two chapters of my latest novel for your perusal. Please do tell me what you think - constructive (and gentle) criticism is always welcome. More than anything I'd like to know if you enjoyed what you read. I'm nervous about this whole endeavor for various reasons so it would be helpful to know if those niggling little negative voices are justified, this time.
Trigger warnings, I guess, for violence, swearing and the POV of a guy who's not too aware of his own priviledges.
K x x x
( Click for ChaptersCollapse )
June 20th, 2011
|10:00 pm - Logic|
It is not love
It is all spines and tendrils
Tentacles through moles and scars
A sticky swarm
A crowd of flocking bubbles
It is singing
And I don't know what it means.
It grows towards the darkness and the day
As I reach out, shrink back with it
June 3rd, 2011
|03:40 pm - Lemons|
I fell in love with a stranger on a train, once. He had short, dark hair that curled behind his ears; he was carrying three paperback books instead of a computer in his laptop bag; but what really made me want him was the way he smelled.
He smelled like lemons.
Not synthetic fruity shower gel, or the acrid fumes of citrus cleaning fluid, but real lemons, the kind of smell that lingers on your hands after you've finished making home-made lemonade, the smell that stays up your nose and on your tongue for a really long time after you've finished eating a sorbet.
I sat and I tried not to stare at his hands and his head as he studied his book. 'House of Leaves'. This is not for you. Wires were pulling at my muscles - sit up straighter, smile a little more, open up your body language. I tried not to breathe too loudly. The quiet that linked us was thick and cold in the air and I almost hyperventilated on it, would have opened the windows if I knew how.
I wanted to say something to make him smile - but the one time I had made a connection with someone my own age on a train was a disaster. He had sat down behind me and after a minute or two, when the train started moving, he touched me lightly on the arm and he said,
"Excuse me, do you have the time?"
He had a low voice, an even younger Willy Mason. So I turned and I smiled and I told him the time and I watched as his face crumped while he took in my glasses and fat cheeks and stubborn acne scars and he said,
"Sorry, I thought you were someone else",
and he moved carriages.
I didn't say anything to the man who smelled like lemons, or ask him for the time, or tell him I've always been too scared to read more than a few pages of that book. I just sat and quietly took in the back of his head and the smell of his skin. Because who else can say they fell in love with a man on a train, and let him go?
February 16th, 2011
|12:12 am - A Contradiction|
(TRIGGER WARNING: [accidental] harm to children)
She lay there by the side of the pool and she didn't breathe.
People stopped swimming, walking, with drinks half-raised to their mouths. They sat up on sunbeds and stopped working at the bar and some began to cluster around the girl and the doctor, just to watch.
She was tiny and convulsive and the doctor, an Englishman on holiday, had made her spit water; nobody could tell if that was a good thing. I told my younger step-sister why fits happen and how to give people CPR as the girl's chest was worked for her.
By now my mother was treating her brothers for shock, and I was nearby in case I was needed, and two things occurred to me simultaneously; the fear that my mother had experienced a few days before while I lay winded and dizzy beneath a quadbike was more important than anything else that had happened that day; and how my ability to deal with these things in anything other than a calm and professional manner after two years of learning how to deal with death and suicide was more than a little sad.
The girl lay still until a lifeguard finally came and swept her up into his arms, her limps jangling as he carried her away to an ambulance, too late.
January 16th, 2011
|11:54 pm - New York Cares|
Sorry for my unexplained absence; I had revision and exams, and I did some traveling around New York.
New York was shiny and inspiring but at the same time grimy and frustrating. It was like any other city, really, but bigger, and I'd like to go back with more money to waste.
New LGP and short auto-bios should be coming up fairly soon!
October 30th, 2010
|10:11 pm - A Short Escapade into Non-Fiction|
As a queer, vegetarian Psychology student, there are three commonly asked questions in my life that have become increasingly exasperating;
1) Because you're bisexual, do you fancy everyone?
2) What do vegetarians even eat?
And 3) Do you know what I'm thinking?
The answers, in short, are 1) no, 2) anything that isn't made with meat, and 3), only if you tell me.
As silly as these questions seem to me, a wise man once said that there are no stupid questions, only stupid answers, and while I could go on at length about all of these topics, I thought I'd have a crack at giving a good answer to number 2. I was also inspired by Cath Elm's fantastic mini-zine, Twt 2, in which she confesses that she loves to have a nosey at peoples' shopping baskets to see what they'll be up to in the near future.
So, I invite you to take a look at what I bought at Sainsbury's this afternoon;
I can't claim to be representative of every vegetarian out there, obviously, but I think it's a pretty good shopping basket to show we don't just sit around eating raw peppers.
In total, I spent just over sixteen pounds on
- Vivaldi potatoes
- Sweet potatoes
- A big bag of carrots, pasnips, little potatoes and onions
- Cottage cheese (with onions and chives)
- Low-cal halloumi
- Quorn and apple sausages
- Veggie bacon
- Sauce mix for a veggie bourguignon stew
- Fresh bread
- German cakey-things (to save for Christmas)
For the next couple of weeks I'll be making stews, grilled halloumi with asparagus, appley sausages with cheesey leeks, sweet potato wedges, asparagus wrapped in (fake) bacon, jacket potatoes with cottage cheese and crispy (fake) bacon, and lots of really creamy soups.
So, Internet; this is an example of what this vegetarian eats. If you have any other questions about the lifestyle, or if you want some rockin' vegetarian recipes, please feel free to ask.
Katy x x x
To any veg*ans reading; would you care to share your shopping baskets, too?
Because there is no fiction above, here is a haiku;
Cooking is more exciting
Than most people think;
Winter stews, soups and
Burgers, sausages, wedges,
Even bacon baps!
|12:59 pm - Library of One|
My sweet, unloved one,
When your flower bloomed it was not as before,
Not cold, black fire
But steely allure, glinting,
And you are made of stone
But you are standing before me in lemony sunlight,
And how can I say no to you, beautiful girl?
Our ashes are lost to the sea, as one.
Napoleon did it better.
September 29th, 2010
|09:16 pm - We Gotta Keep Walking On|
My walk has a fat, round-shouldered kind of dignity. I take a lot of little steps to keep up with everyone else, you giants with your long and elegant strides, your thighs that don't touch in the middle or create painful friction as they squeeze together.
People seem to assume I drag my feet when I walk. I don't; it's the grim side-effect of the fashion-industry never supplying jeans that are short in the leg but wide at the waist. I'd sadly rather have wet calves than a muffin-top; so, on I drag.
If you can ever hear the short, quick sounds of shuffling denim behind you, turn around! It could be me.
September 28th, 2010
|08:22 pm - Is There A Ghost|
Do you want to see what I submitted to one of my favourite zines?
<a href="http://issuu.com/artemiszine/docs/artemisautumn10">It's a poem called 'Euroclydon'</a>
You can find me on page 20 (and somewhere on page 19 - guess where), but you should read the whole thing, because it's worth reading through.
It might need some explaining - for the past couple of years I had bad anaemia, caused by a teenaged eating disorder, then aggrovated by my insitance on trying to keep up with a vegetarian diet. You could always hear the rattle of little red pills in my tote bags, but I haven't had to take them for a few months now. I feel better than I ever thought I could.
Wishing you good health,
x x x