Deconstruct this anomaly...

I look unrecognisingly, at my emancipated reflection in the mirrored door of the wardrobe, lean forward, pull a face and 'ha' on the glass. I put my fingers in the condensation as if ro stroke my neck, staring into the unknown eyes of this stranger. I kiss the cold flat glass, open mouthed, my tongue snaking about on the ice, feeling for warmth.
'What do you want?' I enquire of myself, looking into the reflection of my tired eyes. But I refuse to allow myself to be led by this silly question to which I have no answer.
I shout at myself and stare into my yellowing teeth. I grimace and snort, purposely fogging up the mirror with my hot breath, then pull a silly face and answer myself in an idiotic little voice that I scarcely recognise.
'Meeeee,' I squeak.
'talking to yourself is stupid,' I say, subtly trying to change the subject, but I carry on bullying myself regardless.
'Who is "meeeee"?' I cross-question myself, intent on tripping myself up and making myself a laughing stock....
The wardrobe door swings open and once more reveals a twisted hideous body that I don't recognise as mine; the paleness of my limbs; my hollow cheeks and purple rings under my eyes; my teeth already tobacco stained and broken. I see myself as ugly and despise myself...
It's funny how mirrors hold an interesting dynamic in relation (and reflection) to ourselves. We are so desperate to catch a glimpse of ourselves through the eyes of others but, being unable to take up the position of the other, with each attempt we fail fail fail. We then rely on mirrors, photographs, a passing glance in reflective shop windows (hoping if I can turn my head fast enough I may catch myself off guard). The mirror as deeply flawed as skin, smudged and imperfect, the eyes we stare into, a cold dead reflection. The camera grains, pixelates, we are not made up of tiny little squares, we chose to ignore that which we are made up of, further still, out of sight out of mind... Perhaps we may faint upon opening up - this is just an avoidance of truth. So we rely on others for a true image... Another false image. It is easy to feel alone inside your own body, sometimes the company of others only serves to exemplify this lonelness, then again it they may be only opportunity to truthfully gaze upon ourselves. It is true that I have fallen in love with people off the back of the reflection I caught of myself in the glistening curve of their eyes.

Just yes billy childish, yes.

I try to stand but fall twisted to the bed, my calves and knees locked in cramps. I straighten my legs, screaming in pain, cursing and rubbing my calves vigorously until at last the cramps subside and I can stand on my numb and tingling feet. On reflection, it might have been wiser for me to have sat in my brother's blue nylon sleeping bag. But comfort is not what makes great literature.

Reading room tonight. Come, come. It'd be good to see you there.
It's at the Kenton up in Hackney.

another extract...

Time to catch up with the past which has somehow found itself far beyond our present. General chitter chatter and gesting and then a name is mentioned that doesn't quite sit right. Something bodily crosses the eyes of the other, blatant, dramatic - perhaps, but completely unrehearsed. Perception, on both parts, becomes interesting here. What the body conveys is not necessarily what the conscious mind picks up on. So what we had there was possibly a squirm or a look of dismay, a flash of hatred, or a reaction through discomfort. Once it is picked up on by all there-by present, the word "hate," in some form or another, is placed in the mouth of others and spat out carelessly, but you know that is not true. Not at all. It has happened twice on two separate occasions, with two separate parties. Hate was the last thing encasing the mind, uncertainty was the major - an unwillingness to settle on any type of extreme emotion, an incapability even, the only thing that was committing itself was the body and it's reaction. When asked to reflect on such obvious distractions, extreme contemplation comes to mind, not hatred. Just uncertainty. Any negative response merely turns a mirror onto oneself. It could only be perception and experience (or lack there of...), the failure to assimilate the actions of another, although bothersome, are not necessarily the fault of that particular other. Hate is a reflection or perhaps a deflection of the self. You can not answer with hatred, "Yeh, something happened there. I don't quite know what." or "it'll be a long story" are better deflections than the uttering of irrational words such as 'hate'.
"Besides that's not true. I hate my bodies reaction to 'the name'." The name is signification, the body is electricity, the signified is a short circuit, the reaction is a signal failure. And you realise that you quite like that other, or the way the name arouses the body, the attention it draws towards yourself, "It blushes and squirms, and it reveals something inside. Like it is caught out. You see hatred. Or anger. Maybe possibly even love. But all of those things are incredibly wrong. And all of them are absolutely right. But all of them are not true and require a deeper contemplation." Nothing here can be explained. Silence is a sign of contemplation but the mind doesn't think on the same frequency as the body, which is a shame. Complete understanding only occurs when she leaves consciousness behind and attempts to read her body without the mediation of language, then her body gives up, it will not work to order, you cannot force these things. An image serves as stimulant. But there is a whole universe between the self and the printed/projected/imagined image and the body refuses to act. Something is missing. The manifestation. The real. The symbolic betrays. The imaginary nurtures. The real never occurs. So as a temporary solution she will settle on this sentence as the only truth she can muster up, that she can coerce both mind and body to unite upon, through the silence: "I think I miss him."