I, Priestess (9)

I, PRIESTESS (9)

The trip to the tip left me sick with unease, so I shot a few pigeons and cut down their trees.

I couldn't dismiss, though, the sight of that trash piled up in those crates; it gave me a rash. (I've applied steroid paste to calm my hives down but consumption ain't cured by prescribed cortisone.)

A culture of waste, that's what we've become (a secular place built on late-capitalism). A terrible place with no space for free-thinking (therein lie the pleasures of drugs and hard-drinking).

I wish I believed in some god or some system, where numbers made sense or bad luck had a reason. A meaning to life, a blue-print or template; I'd pray for forgiveness and accept my own fate.

But, when I trod - by mistake - on a snail on the lawn the random nature of life left me feeling forlorn.

I, Priestess (8)

I, PRIESTESS (8)

Now.

My utopia was generally going quite well: exciting, exhilarating.

Life-affirmingly swell.

So.

I took the carpet and underlay (which we'd removed very happily in less than a day) to the tip.

Should've paid for a skip. (Why, on earth, do we acquire so much idiot shit, when we only throw it away?)

The trip to the tip sort of ruined my day.

I downed a gin and hit the hay.

The Sub-Editor - Junking The Journal

JUNKING THE JOURNAL

She rolled onto her side and turned her head to mine. She kissed me, then whispered in my ear.

'I'm so pleased with myself', she said.

'I've given up authorship and erased my past. Bought a shredder from Tesco; it was shredded so fast. Carthartic and satisfying, if slightly embarrassing. I've saved all the paper I didn't write on. The paper that's left will last a life-time.

'My journals, you see, I try to describe me; but, the minute I don't like me, I buy a new diary. . .

'It's resulted in a lot of wasted paper and time.'

Art Disposal