If your breasts are too big...

My friend Sinead has these parents who you sometimes forget are her parents. We sit in their kitchen in a sort of music corner, in clouds of smoke, drinking cheap wine, listening to amazing music (which Sinead hates) Discussing anything really. It is really very hard to remember that these are Sinead’s parents, you really do let go of the regular restrictions on behavior you have around other peoples parents. So in the middle of whatever subject, and at the mercy of the iPod shuffle, the music will occasionally get interrupted by speech and a strange instrument. At which point we are all hushed and asked to listen. It is Ivor Cutler, the poet. I purchased the CD as sometimes I enjoy listening to spoken word when designing (other things I listen to include Adam and Joe, Under Milk wood (weird as I wrote that it came on the iTunes shuffle - what are the chances) Bill Byson A Brief History of Nearly Everything (I got a bit bored of that though) I plan on listening to Flight of the Concords radio series soon, when Andrew cares to lend me the CD) Ivor Cutler’s poems are really nice, they are strange and witty and a little surreal. He is also full of great wisdom such as the following:

“If you have big Breasts, you will fall over, unless you wear a rucksack”

and

“The best thing about being dead is you no longer have to say ‘I wish I were dead.’
The best thing about being alive is that you can still say ‘I wish I were dead’”

And the man with the nuance.

And then really nice things, beautiful things like “I heard a daffodil break its skin”

And amusing anecdotes about being little.

If you are into that sort of thing (not everyone is I know) but if you are, get some Ivor Cutler. And if you are after something a little more dirty why not get some John Cooper-Clark, true for punk poetry try ‘Twat’

I am the hunter who actively tries to seduce someone else...

I enjoy looking at Louise bourgeois’ drawings, and sculpture, but I do not think I can understand the full impact of the sculpture unless I was to see it in person (in sculpture?). Being unable to connect with the images in a book I decided to read about her. I picked up a good book with great insight to the lady. I felt a great connection with her, the way she thinks, her philosophy, her approach. She is a truly beautiful person. The things she says about fear, the past, isolation, it all made a lot of sense to me. I found her words to be inspirational and even helped to inform/describe some of my own writings and thought. Here are some quotes that will stick with me:

With the emotions there is always physical reaction - the heartbeat, breathing, perspiration. The body always takes part... To make art is to wake up in a state of craving, a craving to discharge resentment, rage... Art is the privilege of insight into craving. The craving is not cured, but it is acted out, indulged and in someway understood... I am the hunter who actively tries to seduce someone else.

Nothing protects you like anonimity

I am not terrified of you... I am terrified of something you take the place of. Your visit is a repetition of something that happened in the past.

Sky scrapers reflect the human condition, they do not touch.

My early work is the fear of falling, later on it became the art of falling. How to fall without hurting yourself. Later on it is the art of hanging in there.

I find the past terribly painful tthough I am tied to it. It’s unresolved. Yet I have no taste for re-visitation. It’s landscape you have gone through and explored, and outgrown. Only tomorrow is interesting.


The move from the passive to active is life itself. It means Survival through your own will. I am not the victim, the other is. I am alive. I dispise victims; I refuse to be cast as a victim, even if I admit that I don’t know how to play the game.

With the emotions there is always physical reaction - the heartbeat, breathing, perspiration. The body always takes part... To make art is to wake up in a state of craving, a craving to discharge resentment, rage... Art is the privilege of insight into craving. The craving is not cured but it is acted out, indulged and in someway understood... I am the hunter who actively tries to seduce someone else.

Limerence...

This is also a form of obsession based around desire, not exactly lust as sexual desire may or my not be there, and is mistaken for love due to the intensity of thoughts for the other person. It is quite possible that everyone has felt this at some point. At least everyone has experienced lust and sexual desire for another. And the majority unattainable 'love'. Desire is something that often gets repressed. Especially if there is a fear of rejection, and fear of rejection is key to the limerent condition. I was inspired by the game playing aspect of Limerence, lust, and love (and most forms of obsession, even erotomania) and so originally wrote out a description of Limerence as a game, but then this inspired a longer story focused around a limerent, obsessed, confusing lust for love. Here is a link to The Limerent. Here is a good quote on how to stop limerence. Just incase you want the antidote...

For those who wish a cure, the most certain course is prevention. Once you are in its grips your emotions are directed by the external situation, and the only effective action open to you is destruction of any opportunity for reciprocation to occur.

Limerence for a particular Limerent Object does cease under one of the following conditions: consummation - in which the bliss of reciprocation is gradually either blended into a lasting love or replaced by less positive feelings; starvation - in which even limerent sensitivity to signs of hope is useless against the onslaught of evidence that LO does not return the limerence; transformation - in which limerence is transferred to a new LO.

Erotomania... and other celebrity induced mental illness...

I first came across this word in my teens. I must have been sixteen, watching a documentary on the subject. The narrator gave a simple introduction to the condition and that was it I was convinced. Lord help me I am an erotomaniac. (Just like when I hear of any mental illness and something rings a little true I am convinced. I ring Daniella (my sister the psychiatric nurse) and ask her, do you think I am this. Then she will ask me why. Then we will have a therapy session. Talk about growing up. She will mention that even as a small child, I have always been a funny one. Release a few anxieties. Maybe cry a little. Then it will end with a no. You're fine. Good chat though. See you soon. I am completely sane.) As the TV show went on, explained the curious mental illness a little more (no this is not me not even a little bit, not even at all), then became more and more disturbing (stalking, psycho messages, acts, expressions as extreme as murder,) I knew for sure that I was definitely not suffering from erotomania. Not I, for I am completely sane. Good.
Then I forgot about it for a while. Oh wait. I haven’t explained anything about erotomania. Here we have it, in a nut shell (actually (this is mostly directed at my friend Nicky) I was eating a bag of pistachios one night and low and behold inside the shell was not a nut but the definition for erotomania. I know. So strange. It just goes to show, you never know when and in what strange places inspiration will creep up on you. Pretty rad right?)Erotomania: Is when you are obsessed with someone. More than that it is when you believe that they are in love with you. More than that you believe that little things they do or say are massive things that all relate to you. You become driven to extreme behavior in order to protect your fantasy (which is not a fantasy because the suffer genuinely believes that they are together, lovers). Watch this film, it is french with Audry tatu, “He Loves Me He Loves Me Not,” It is very nice.
Now this is the bit I am interested in. Let’s take it one stage further. To celebrity obsession. Erotomaniac obsessed with celebrities believe that, even though they may have never met the object of their obsession, that their obsession is in love with them. Erotomaniac's pick up messages from their ‘lovers’ through the media. Through magazine articles, through songs written or performed by the object of desire, through interviews, through television, anywhere where the object of desire may appear. This is where it gets dangerous. At it’s least extreme, the erotomaniac will send obsessive mail, love letters, angry messages, strange gifts, all of which may disturb or confuse the object of desire. Next they may be compelled to stalk the object of desire. This has lead to restraining orders placed on the maniacs by people such as Madonna. (Alright I know, I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, hey Mandi you admitted that you thought (for like thirty seconds may I add) that you were erotomanic, and we all know that you like David Bowie a little bit more than what is perhaps normal, remember that time in New York... Yes I know it sounds suspicious but let me a assure you it was all a complete accident. Stalking is not a thing I would do on purpose. Defiantly not my style. When I ended up outside David Bowie’s house in New York it was a complete accident OK, we were walking around a lot, it was bound to happen. Yes it is a little strange that I had seen a picture of it, yes I knew it was on Lafayette, but I had no idea where, we stumbled upon it by accident. No Andrew did not realise that was David’s house when I suggested we sit and have a coffee in the café opposite, and yes he would have been really angry if he had known. May have stormed off a little and caused our second New York argument. But it was a complete accident. It was not stalking. No no! And may I add compared to the extremity of mot Bowie fans I am tame, very very tame. Bowie fans would say I am not a Bowie fan. Plus David would not like me, his wife is a supermodel hottie I am most defiantly not. Andrew took that picture not me) (This is me outside in a café outside David's house.)
Extremities then lead to horrific acts. It is true that the guy that killed John Lennon was an erotomaniac. And unless I am mistaken Charles Manson was too. He believed that The Beatles were sending him messages through the White Album to start a race war (“Helter skelter is coming down fast.”) It is just absolutely fascinating, what is it that triggers the leap from regular everyday obsession or admiration to complete saturation. To believe some one you do not know is in love with you. The human mind is a terrifying thing, at any moment it could turn on us nda imprison us. This is what makes us interesting though. Is it a repression of subconscious urge. Is it a product of modern day living. Pressure to conform to modern society. Or have people always had this within them. That faulty wire where it is hit or miss as to whether it can hold itself together with out use of electrical tape or whether it will snap an electrical current through your mind changing the self. There is no way of guessing who it will happen to. It just happens.I also stumbled across this scale for “Celebrity Worship Syndrome” (that is nearly an accepted mental illness by the way)
Entertainment social
‘Fans are attracted to a favorite celebrity because of their percieved ability to entertain and become a social focus such as “I love to talk to others who admire my favorite celebrity” and “I like watching and hearing about my favourite celebrity when I am with a large group of people.”’
Which, you know, isn’t actually that weird, pretty normal in this celebrity absorbed culture. Next
Intense-Personal
‘Intensive and compulsive feelings about the celebrity, akin to those obsessional tendencies of fans, “I share with my favorite celebritya special bond that cannot be described in words” and “When something bad happens to my favourite celebrity I feel like it happened to me”’
Which is a little bit strange now, feeling such an intense connection with someone that you will only hear about through magazine articles and see on TV, and that you have never spoke to except probably in a fantasy. So maybe these are fantasists. Now this one gets me.
Border-line Pathological
‘Typified by uncontrollable behaviours and fantasies regarding scenarios involving their celebrities. “I hve frequent thoughts about my favourite Celebrity, even when I don’t want t. My favourite celebrity would immediately come to my rescue if I needed help.”’ Which made me start thinking of celebrities as superheroes and that is why everyone is so shocked when they walk down the street without make up on, like they have just revealed their secret identity. I guess this last one draws parallels with erotomania and limerence. Oh yeah what about limerence. Next post please.

Metamorphosis...

I am enjoying working with book covers so am making some more. This one is Kafka's Metamorphosis. I plan on doing a Burroughs series next.
Cover: At first I used the full image of a bug but after a discussion with a tutor, felt it was too obvious a route and so instead decided to take out elements of the insect and incorporate it into the type.Newer Cover:Spine:Back:

How in the world are they making that sound... Velvet Underground...

This is mostly for Lucy 'The Vann' Vann. What do you think he's dancing to? I'd love it if it was Velvet Underground, as in the song he wrote about them not a song by them.

Notable (proto) punker
This is Johnathan Richman
Modern Lovers
Velvet Underground Fan
Amazing words (words that make me feel ooo, and rewind so I can hear it again.)

(This bit is especially for Lucy...)Album covers, they just don't make 'em like they used to!

Torn Curtain...

Yes, Yes, Yes, Yes, YES.

Cut Up...

I am also making a couple of smaller books. I am interested in looking at the way language and visuals work together to communicate a message/meaning that the reader then interprets and thus (after the writing of, the designing of, the production of) finishes the book. So far I have only mocked up one of these books but am working on another. This one uses the cut up technique to alter the meaning of an original text. The original was quite negative and down hearted so it was fun to change and reinterpret the words.

Celebrity Is God...

I have been working on a book for my final project. I made up a whole religion around celebrity and wrote bible style stories about a God named Celebrator and a Devil named Obscurity. So it is a little tongue in cheek look at the way we treat Celebrity, like it fills some kind of void religion once filled. I tried to parallel the religion with Christianity, as it is the religion I am most familiar with and seeing as I had a Catholic upbringing, am allowed to mock a little. I won't go any further into it just yet. The finished pieces will be uploaded in June/July. For now, here are a few pictures of my final mock up. It is in the process of having it's margins widened to allow for sewing (you can see the words in the pictures below are precariously close to the spine) and then the long printing process (ink jets, unpredictable, frustrating, but a necessary evil...) It will be over the top with gold and have an embossed cover. This is my plate.ting delivery of the plate, exciting stuff!)
There are three sections. Creation. Transmission.
Descention.

The Secret History...

This work is still in progress, just tweaking the typography.
I had a deer friend come over to help me with the shoot.
Turns out he's quite the intellectual. He read out his favorite parts from Crime and Punishment. He adores Dostoyevsky and scorned me for not having read The Idiot. I know I know, but I will have read it by september, I promise him.
As he was feeling a little sleepy from the shoot, I invited my deer friend to recline on the bed for a while and offered him a drink for his troubles. In his gentile English gent accent he accepted.

I apologised for my alcohol selection. He settled for Jack Daniels, then he polished off some Jagermiester. I had no idea he was a recovering alcoholic. And what is more he gets a little sexy when drunk. He revealed that he is the new face American Apparel and began to show me his model poses.
He then attempted to seduce me. Now he is one sexy deer, but I just can't cross species like that. Call me narrow minded but it just isn't right. I shown him the door. If his modeling career takes off I plan on selling these photos to Now, Heat and Closer.

Ding Dong...

FACT, Liverpool. The Future of music. Music reflects our individual tastes and allows us to 'fit in' with certain, tribes/genre of people. It is a thing that people often use to define their self. A branding that when worn will attract some and repel others. It is almost an instinct. The future is a because of it's uncertainty. Because of the possibility of going backwards instead of forwards, to once again have to rely on instinct instead of electricity. The ding dong exhibition, to me, reflected this uncertainty. The futuristic instruments (crude and uncertain of what they were supposed to be) ignore traditional aspects of music composition such as melody, tempo, bars, key, pitch, instead opting for interaction and layers which throw out an array of noise, distortion and confusion with particular emphasis on spontaneity. A perfect metaphor for the future, but not necessarily the future of music. The instruments were too crude, to unreliable and too spontaneous. At least to me. Music has to be a reassurance, something to lean on and sink into, to become lost, relate to and engage with. It can be challenging. I am trying to define music here. I am trying to say what it absolutely is and what it absolutely isn't, only every time I come to write down what it isn't, I stop myself. This is because music is challenging. I cannot say it is not spontaneous, I cannot say it shouldn't disturb the soul because that is the kind of stuff I agree with. I bought a kraftwerk album because the noices absolutely terrify me (used to, not anymore). I used to blast out the noise in such classics as "Sister Ray" and just listen incase something should a rise. I listen to Sonic Youth, even though a lot of it is just noise and confusion (hey but not all of it, they are pretty much awesome!) Because there is a reason. There is a sense. There are not boundaries. So I take it all back. Music can be whatever. But one thing I will say is that it must be evoking and memorable, it must be something that can be recreated. That is something that these instruments were not.

Peter Saville had made a film for this exhibition. Electro soundtrack against a familiar setting, Fiddlers Ferry. It was showing the process and the landscape of the music quite literally, electricity being made to produce elecrtronically made sounds. Did that last sentance make sense? It was kind of hypnotic anyway. There was also a collabrotive piece set up. A room full of speakers, the source of the output, recording studios across the country. All the noices feeding to each other then back here as an epicentre. The idea was something quite huge, and appealing although, nothing was really happening when I was there. A couple of speaks let out a couple of groans, but nothing much behind that.


(I couldn't find any images.)

"Sense of guilt..."

In August 2008 I was summoned for jury duty. It was not quite the experience I had expected but it was an experience all the same. I wrote as I was sitting around about what I saw and felt and have recently put together something more coherent based around these notes. I decided to put it on my writing blog. This is beacause it is more speculative than true. It is also a little lengthy. So look to the WORD ETC... blog for that one.

I want to make love to the world right now...

This is a summary of my week. A lot happened. I wasn't sure If it belongs here or on my writing blog, but seeing as everything that happened on here is true, I guess this is where it belongs. It is lengthy though. I apologise.

"I someday suppose that my curious nervousness stills into prescience, clarvoyant conciousness..."

I have been feeling so high lately that I feel like making love to everyone, anyone, the next person I see, that will be fine. Just as an act, an expression, a something, a climax, a peak before I topple over, back down. This is positive. Everything is going well. This week in particular, everything is going really well. It all started last friday. After a week of wanting to throw my work in the bin, I have a day of tutorials. All of which very positive.

Sunday. Eddie is at my house. He is here for some water colours. I am tired. Bored. Andrew is also here, he offers him a lift back to his. He does not live too far away, but we are bored and want to leave the house where we seem to be suffocating. So we take him home, armed with a wallet of CDs and the tom tom, we will drive somewhere else after this. We don't drive anywhere else after this. Eddie says bye. He is in his house. We are parked opposite and to the left. I am choosing a CD, Andrew is trying to find a tom tom destination (in need of a tom tom shuffle.) An old lady leaves her house and is hovering outside the car.
"She is going to ask us to move," andrew says, "When she comes over, tell her we are just going." Ok I say, flicking through the CD wallet. They are all old tired CDs, I do not feel like listening to any of them. The old lady approaches the window, unsure, looking a little confused. She does not look nuts. She looks like a normal old, curly cropped, lady. I wind down the window.
"Hi,"
"Oh hello love,"
Silence, still flicking through the CDs.
"Can I help you with something?"
"No love I'm fine." Ok this is strange. She is standing right next to the door. ("Tell her we are just leaving, we were just dropping off our friend," Yes.)
"We're not staying, just dropping off our friend. We are leaving now."
"Oh yes your friend have you just dropped someone off?"
"Yeah, just over there. We're not staying, don't worry."
"No no that's fine love." Her hand is precariously close to the handle. In fact, is she? Yes, yes she is she is trying to get in.
"Are you trying to get in?" I am confused and my speech sounds awkward.
"No no love, not trying to get in. I'll move my hand away." I look at Andrew, he is still messing with the tom tom. This is weird. I pretend I don't care. Look through the CDs. She is still there. It is really bothering me. She is standing right next to my window. She isn't moving. She is looking at us. The curly crop is looking at us and I am feeling awkward as hell, my face is flushed, and I know that Andrew is as confused as I am. I repeat.
"Are you ok? Can we help you with something?"
"You're just dropping someone off?"
"Yes"
"Sorry, it is Amanda and Andy isn't it?" What!? My eyes widen. I am unable to speak. I want to cry a little bit. It is too much. I turn to Andrew quickly. His eyes are also wide, he is looking at her. We are silent, then Andrew replies hastily. "No no. That isn't us. You are mistaken." Under my breath, "but it is us!"
"Oh sorry love. I am sorry."
Andrew mutters, urges me to wind up my window, let's just go. I am still looking at him. He knows what I am thinking because he is thinking it too. But he is more rational and logical than me, "No. It was just a coincidence." He says, unconvincing. He is talking to himself. We drive round the corner and stop. "It was just a coincidence. Are you shaken up?" He asks me. No. I lie. I am fine. But really I am very shaken up. It was all too awkward, too weird. Too much of a coincidence. We decide against the drive. He drops me off at home and leaves.
Now let me put a stop to all this rational thought going through your mind.
1. We were out side Eddie's, so if it was a long lost relative or anything in that vain, why is she hanging round Eddie's?
2. Andrew has only been driving for a week. That has not given us enough time to put the Mandi and Andy stickers in the windscreen, over our respective heads. This also means that there is nothing in the car incriminating, or suggestive of our names.
3. How many Andy and Mandi's can there be out there? It is too ridiculous a coupling.
Any explanations for the strange curly crop? We are all stumped. Maybe it was just a coincidence.
Libby, Brig, Ben, Alex have a BBQ. We burn Alex's bread and sit by the warmth of it's fire until 12.

Monday: In the past I may have had a few freaky things happen in relation to foresight, and I also once vividly dreamt that I was enrolling into a college, a magnificent building ran by nuns. I was flicking through a book of old warrington photographs, a book I had never seen before, and there it was. The building. I read the passage by it. It was a college. It was run by nuns. It was destroyed by fire in the eighties. I am not claiming clairvoyance, or anything paranormal, (although technically I am a little bit.) It is all coincidence. There was a few dreams of my Grandad before I knew about his illness and the progression of his illness too, I will not go into that. Actually I'm not convinced about prescience. I like the idea of it but not the practice of it. I think it's all to do with perception. The subconscious picking up and interpreting messages differently to the conscious then trying to tell you about it. But that is all in the past. These things don't happen too often. But just lately I predicted something. Unknowingly. The proof is in the blog. It was predicted in Je Suis Un Petit Parson... I kept thinking about pregnancy and being pregnant and maybe that I was pregnant, with no reason to think it. Then I got a phone call off my mum.
"Has Daniella rang you?" No "You need to ring her now," Why, "Juts call her." Why, "Just do it please." Can I not just wait. "No, do it now," But if she's going to call me anyway... "MAndi call your sister she has some news." I already know what it is. At least I know what I want it to be.
Mum she's not answering. Just tell me damn it. She does I cry with joy. Daniella calls me. She say don't tell anyone it is still early. I don't (This is not breaking that promise, nobody will read this.) So now I am saving books and planning mix tapes. This will be brilliant. This will be like being a parent with none of the responsibilities of being a parent. I want to make love to everyone!

Wed. Eddie's birthday. We have a mexican night. I wear my shirt which confirms what every one is thinking, yes, I am in fact a Pepper. I do not wear my poncho. I eat four plates of chilli, endless nachos, one and a half cakes and some fizzy sweets. I feel ill. Drunk off chilli beans. I need to sit and not talk for a bit. Aimee arrives late. Her and Rachel discuss tattoos. We are sat on the floor. Aimee looks at me. What are you going to do next Mandi? I do not know what she means. What do you mean? What crazy thing will you do next? Nothing. I am going to be sensible, I am going to grow up having no tattoos, no (more) piercings, I will not re-stretch my ear. No that isn't what I meant, you're going to do something. I can see it you're on the brink, there's something inside and I can see it, and it is going to come out, I don't know what you are going to do, but it will be something big. I think she can see madness. I am unsure if it is a compliment or a condemnation. But I think I know she means. I'm bored I want to do something exciting. Feel something new. I try pressing her, what does she think I should/will do. Jake spills gin and red bull on us. The discussion is abandoned. Good. I did not tell her my plans to make love to everyone. Later Jake spills beer on us. He keeps spilling things. Eddie has had a good night. We have all had a good night.

Friday. I was assertive. Actually I felt like shit. My head hurt. I needed an inkjet printer. All booked out. The mac suite has this thing where you can book computers you see. I spot one that is free. I use it. Booked for nine. It is twenty past. If it gets to half past the booking is cancelled. It does. Ten minutes later, two girls appear. Excuse me we have booked this computer. My head ache has got the better of me. I am in no mood. I do not want to make love to the world today. What time did you book it for. Nine. And what time is it now. Twenty to ten. Yeah so you no longer have this computer, you have half an hour before it is canceled. It is canceled. They look devastated. I don't care at that point. The next booking arrives on time, i leave promptly and apologise for any delay I may have caused. I book bind all day. My headache shifts. I feel I am becoming more competent with book binding. My book looks nice. It fills me with pleasure as I can finally see an end. It is all finally coming together. A bible. A religion based around celebrity. I want to make love to the world. There is this thing, twice a term. A review. It is essentially a tutorial with an air of formality. Only I no longer feel any kind of formality as I have formed a sort of bond with my tutors and no longer feel intimidated or scared when it comes to speaking in front of them. It all feels so much different than the beginning of the year anyway. Everything does. At the beginning of the year, curling up into a ball as people stepped over me felt appealing, and although that does still sound quite nice from time to time, I now have found my life having more of a direction. And I am still not scared of the final days of university. Maybe it is because others have confidence in me. It is certainly true that tutors this year have encouraged me and found in me something that only very few have seen in the past. And I thank them for that. Makes me feel much less useless. Much less like the fraud I was in second year. So the review goes well. It was fun in fact. Today something throws me a little bit. Something that I am now dwelling on. Something possibly imagined. Something that torments me a little. I dwell on it, fall asleep, wake up and go for a few drinks. Aimee thinks I am going to do something big. Nothing crazy, just big. I am happy but I am bored. I think she might be right.

Saturday. Hungover. Hungover from over-thinking yesterday, hungover from lust for the world. Lust for someone. Lust for dancing to early 2000's indie, to the Rapture, to the strokes, to Hot Hot Heat, Be Your Own Pet, to the days when everything was uncertain because the rest of my life was always going to happen tomorrow not today, now it is nearly tomorrow and I am hungover from too much vodka. There is a horrible taste of greasy chinese food from the night before. Am I about to topple over? I decide not to dwell on it too much. I finish a book and get dressed. I am hungry which normally means my hangover is subsiding. I am a little distracted and tormented today. I decide today is the day I tell someone what is bothering me. Lately I have been thinking more and more about fronts. About what people hide. How sometimes it is too late to catch a person, how sometimes they are on the floor before we realise they need help. I do not need help, I need an outlet. So now, at least today I want to shift this facade. I want to tell someone. There is only me and Emily in the house so I choose her. The thing I love about my house mates is, above anyone else I know, that nothing I ever do or say is too much, too weird, too strange, it is just accepted as something that has been put out there, that has happened, that is now part of the cosmos, nothing I say is too much or too little, nothing I wear, nothing I listen to, every opinion is open for discussion, there is nothing that can be said that will offend, or hurt, or upset (well there is always a line but we think a like so there is no fear of saying something that may offend or hurt. That said we are all very different.) They will never judge me. I will never judge them. There are four of us and we have seen all sides of each other extreme darkness (really exteme) to extreme happiness (really extreme), we have seen it all. We are the most insecure house in Manchester. Possibly Britain. And after everything we have seen and heard, inside and outside of the house, we know that nothing is certain, but for now we are all good, we are all ok. No matter what happened the night before we will always sit next to each other the next day. We do not judge each other. No matter what. I call Emily out of her room. She stands by me whilst I make some food. Whilst I am waiting I clean the tops. She joins in. Before we know it we have cleaned thoroughly and leasurly, the whole of the downstairs, leaving gaps with enough time for cigarette and Coke breaks in the sun and the invention of a new game which essentially involves throwing pebbles at a pot until it breaks. Destructive and pointless yes, but also satisfying and fun. We do not care about the pot. It has in it a dead plant. We talk a lot. Our friendship pushed to a new level. I share what is haunting me. I am not judged. She is understanding. We are both excited but fearful, there is too much uncertainty. She reassures me on many levels. I no longer feel like making love to the whole world. I am level again. Level and tormented. Ruth returns home. We eat fish and chips and watch three films. A really good day. An ending to a truly uplifting week.