Issara Simone Edwards's Blog, page 14

The Confession Stone.

Dark Blue Agate

Tuesday 2nd of July 2019

There’s a dark blue stone, small, like an acorn, but slightly more kidney shaped. It’s smooth and has a shone and sits peacefully in a palm or rolls smoothly between fingers.

It lived in a box on the window ledge next to a snake plant called San-Gwen. Then, it moved to a coconut shell cut in half and polished, its inside painted silver and black.

It moved from there to to the base of framed picture, a still from ‘What Have They Done to My Song.’ An art movie that was played at the Arnolfini, a movie that I went back and watched over and over again until it was gone.

Still from ‘What Have They Done to My Song’.

The picture sits on the draws by my bed, it reminds me to be myself, raw, authentic, crazy. I walk by it every day, see it when I wake up, see it when I go to bed.

I put a crystal under my pillow when I go to sleep, tonight, I choose this one.

I hold it between my fingers and it says to me: “Confession Stone”.

I put it under my pillow. I fall asleep. I dream.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ an illustrated novella, by me, available from booky places…

You Can.

Friday 28th of June 2019

Writing doesn’t just organise the world, it assigns meaning. It can make one thing mean another thing, or make a thing mean itself.

I’m writing tonight to assign meaning to an other wise meaningless night and that’s that.

Or do I tell the truth. I’m writing because I’m lonely, I’m writing because I’m bored. I’m writing because there’s something missing in my life and my distractions have lost their distracting abilities. I’m writing because I don’t want to be distracted, I want to feel. I want to feel something real, but I suppose I’ll settle for this instead.

This is a prison I’m choosing to reside in, that’s obvious. The doors wide open only it’s not. I have illusions of escape, if I do this, things will get better. And I have reality, nothing I do will make a difference. For one thing to be true, both things can’t be. But belief is a fools game, but, belief is what will get me out of here, right?

Say I do it, say I finish my novel and it’s great, what then? I don’t have an agent, I don’t have a publisher. I didn’t make any new contacts when I published with Holland House and I don’t want to go back to Holland House. There’s the Bath Novel Awards. I did meet a Caroline someone from the Bath Novel Awards, I could try and track her down, not that she’d remember me, I wasn’t the memorable one from that conversation.

Okay, what’s next, what else can I rip apart?

Say, I finish the play I said I was going to write, what do I do with it? Send it to the Old Vic? What if they say no? What if I find Caroline and she says no? Will it just be a whole lot of work for nothing? Am I just looking for excuses to not bother? I have so many ideas, so little follow through. Fear of pointlessness holds me. So, I look for meaning instead, and assign some when none can be found.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a novella, available from booky places…

Aging.

Print available from Society6 – https://society6.com/product/photography5192509_mini-art-print?sku=s6-20404562p113a263v867a264v868

Saturday 15th of June 2019

Footsteps in the sand.

I have a necklace that I’ve never worn.

I bought it because it reminded me of a witch’s talisman,

And I wanted it to be mine.

I look at it now, hanging on the wall,

And it looks like a letter in a bottle.

A lost relic, floating around in a vast ocean,

Black seaweed tangled around it,

A message still waiting to be read.

I’m so good at not finishing things.

But I like the stillness here, the rain,

The quiet it creates.

*

As soon as you start to see those little lines around your eyes that’s your cue to stop giving a shit. Start taking names and dot dot dot…

I’m living next door to my grandfather, he’s been reborn as a white woman with bad hair. Every time she yells at her kids I hear him. It’s terrifying. Is that PTSD?

*

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a novella available from booky places.

“Hello Friend.”

Tuesday 11th of June 2019

Hello.

Have you ever felt darkness? Felt it on your skin? Have you ever noticed how different it feels from light?

If light has an activity, a charge, a vibrational presence that tingles slightly, singes, but not in a painful way, in a taught way. A guitar string being pulled tight against the skin way, the feel of of it tense with the desire for release way. Then darkness is almost still, but not quite.

It’s activity is slower, passive, you feel it but in a completely different way. It’s soothing, loving, tender. It has a curiosity, a melting quality. It feels more alive in its slumber then light does in its rampage.

This is how all conversations should start, and this is a conversation, between me and you, each page of it.

So, tell me about yourself, explain yourself to me. Let me know you and I’ll do the same. We’ll share, you and I. And maybe lie a little, save ourselves our little truths, embellish the bigger ones.

I’ll try to be honest, and hope you will too, but let’s face the facts as we begin this. The truth is hard, we lie to spare ourselves from it.

I’ll leave you with this, and another “Hello. It’s nice to meet you. We’ll talk again soon.”

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a novella, available from booky places.

Honesty is Only a Disease: An Introduction.

So, apparently, lying has become the epidemic of the twenty first century. A disease as easily spread as STD’s and festering like a plague deep within the psyche.

The amount of people lying their encyclopedias off has apparently increased over the last twenty years, leaving me to wonder, why? What has happened in the past ten years that has become so deadly to share, that we believe it’s necessary to bend the truth, until it breaks off in our hand?

Well, apparently, lying is learned in the home, beginning with the innocent little fairytales read to us before we even get a chance, to say “Hold on, mice can’t talk.” What we soon realise, however, is that that fairytales are all bull. There’s no prince ready to scale your braid, that poison apple is going to stay lodged in your throat, and the evil step mother is not going to get her comeuppance, but probably a new car courtesy of that new scheme she just signed up to.

So, if all the stories are made up, what’s left to do but make up our own. And it happens, we’ve taken our first steps into lying for a living.

Fairytales, fantasy, cartoons, sitcoms and everything else, blur the lines between reality and fantasy, we start living in our own worlds, our own versions of reality. We create imaginary worlds to make life feel a little more interesting or to avoid growing up in, a lot like Peter Pan really.

But maybe that isn’t the full explanation for why we like lying so much.

If a child does something wrong they are most likely going to lie about it because the consequences of telling the truth is just not worth it. But I’m jumping a head. A child doesn’t have to do anything wrong to be met with the consequences of telling the truth.

Young children are known for their honesty, the concept of lying doesn’t exist for them yet, and honesty is the best policy, right?

If a child says something that’s true, and they will, and an adult doesn’t like it, for example “You’re fatter than my mum.” They will not only get cussed out by the person but by their parents too. Over time they learn to say what people want to hear like “Oh, my god, you’ve lost so much weight.” and the pathological liar is born.

People have become afraid to tell the truth, we become Jekyll and Hyde, fluid fictions. We live multiple lives with multiple identities, each one carefully crafted for the person we’re interacting with.

But does any of this explain why lying has increased over the past twenty years?

Oh, well, never mind. With a title like ‘Honesty is Only a Disease’ dis you really think I was going to tell you the truth, about anything?

No matter what, something will always be hidden. So, try treating everything said to you today as a lie, just for a day. Watch how words lose all meaning. It’ll be like everyone’s speaking a foreign language.

Or, if you’re feeling experimental, try telling nothing but the truth for one day, just to see how long you’ll last. If you’re brave enough, and strong enough to weather the consequences.

[Let’s be honest. This is ‘The Murder of Miss O’ my first published novella.

I don’t like the cover, it’s not what I would have picked, but, being inexperienced I trusted the editors choice.

There are a few typos in there that I pointed out and was told would be fixed before publication, they were not.

But, I’m really proud of this work and would still recommend it.]

Everything is Somewhere.

Saturday 8th of June 2019

The only reason I’m scared of ageing is because ageing reveals time, and time reveals a lack of progress in any given direction.

I want an agent to take care of my career for me.

I want a career.

I want ‘The Murder of Miss O’ to be republished, by a publisher who wants to promote it.

I want quieter neighbours.

Important things. Simple things.

I’m worried that my lack of interest in my dad is me becoming him, or is this repetition just his karma? I find it hard to care and I feel guilty for it, but my guilt doesn’t compel me to care more. I still feel it’s best to stay away, to protect myself. Whatever. This diary’s almost finished. We’re approaching the last page. Good thing I bought a new one, and a pack of pencils.

Good night diary. Thank you for being here for me. Really, thank you.

‘The Murder of Miss O’, a novella, that I wrote… and illustrated. You can buy it, it is available, honest.

[‘The Hatchet Explains it All’ has come to an end. Next book, ‘Honesty is Only a Disease’.]

Little Boxes

Sunday 2nd of June 2019

Walking through the dark, arms held out at my sides, fingers brushing the narrow walls.

A flicker of light, a match being struck. It moves to the wick of a long candle suspended in nothing, and lights it.

Five little white boxes sit on a table around the candle.

“Can you fill the boxes?” Luna-Rose says. “There are five boxes here, five more behind that door, five more behind that, but to start with, can you fill these boxes, once a day, every day?”

She points to the boxes. “This box is family, this one friendship, this box, frivolity, this mental exercise, and this one physical exercise. Can you fill them, once a day, every day?”

I’m starting to see age in my face, lines around the eyes, a drooping, a sort of relaxing that’s making me tense. It’s showing me time and it feels like I’m running out of it. I’m scared of aging, I’m scared of being alone and old. I’ve seen too clearly what age does to a body.

“Do you ever feel like if you could unzip your body and step out of your skin, you would be completely yourself?” I ask her.

“Several times a day.” She replies.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a novella, that people can purchase…

You Forgot to Change Your Sheets Again.

Friday 31st of May 2019

Happy last of May!

I’m four glasses of wine in. Again. This past week I’ve been screaming for purpose. Just now, I looked out the window, saw the sky and was like ‘why are you looking for purpose? There’s purpose right there.’ Can I describe the sky to you?

It’s dusk, just after twilight. There’s streaks of serene, still, shimmering white blue, peeking out through thick woolly dark grey clouds stretched across the horizon, like tears in reality. It’s striking, stunning, startling, focusing. It says, I’m here in this reality, and for this moment, I’m in love with the privilege. I want more.

But it’s getting darker, and the curtains need closing, and glass number four isn’t going too finish itself.

There’s so much I want to write, but none of it matters. Let’s just put it away and focus on the moment.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a novella, that I wrote, and also illustrated. It’s available from booky places, check it out.

Red Rose.

Monday 27th of May 2019

I found you growing in a graveyard, soft to the touch, like velvet, like soft skin, smelling sweetly of decay.

I bruised you walking home, held you tightly between fingers and thumb, too scared to lose you in the wind.

I followed a path of silver birches to find you, you mark the start of something, a new journey, a new beginning.

‘The Murder of Miss O’, it’s a novella, I wrote it, you get the drill, I’m promoting it, so check it out, Kindle, Amazon, again, you get the drill.

Smile.

Friday 24th of May 2019

I don’t feel real. I feel absorbed by my own fantasies.

Fantasy One: I’m a writer.

Fantasy Two: There’s a future.

Fantasy Three: People are flawed but good.

Fantasy Four: Everyone has a soulmate.

Is it time to move on, to grow up, to believe in something else, be something else?

I don’t feel like a writer, I feel like an idea. Not quite a creator, but an imaginer. So, that’s what I’ll be, a person who imagine and writes these imaginings down, or draws or paints them.

There is no future, there’s now and what I want right now and how I can or can’t get it.

People are flawed but there is no good and evil, just peoples opinions and ideas on the subject. And the last one. Soulmates. How about I’ll meet you, you’ll meet me, we’ll be weird under the stars. We’ll get what we need, for a moment, then move on. We’ll be stamps in a passport, not roots on a tree. That’s all life is anyway, people passing through.

‘The Murder of Miss O’ a novella, Kindle, Amazon, you know…