In: scribble(s)  

In; scribble(s) is somewhat of an experiment in ‘immediate writing’, and is not by any means a Mousai project. Rather, it is a tangent that seems relevant enough to share.

As an individual and a writer, I recently started sharing short pieces of writing written within a few minutes, expressing an immediate thought or moment. No editing, little composition; just urgency. 

Under the title of In: scribble(s), we will share some of them here as and when there are enough that seem interesting.

It is equally an exercise in slightly opening the door to the more personal work and lives of those behind Mousai, which is otherwise and necessarily a project not dominated by personality. 

First three instalments below: 

I

“Fucking hell, look at that thing”
they shout as I pass.
Five of them
my resistance is silent now. 
I can read, write, and post
all I want inside.
It’s meaningless in an instant.   

“Fucking tranny, disgusting”
they continue
as my silence leaves them behind.
The street is packed.
None says, nor batters a word nor eyelid.
This is not unique.
I am not unique.

I sit with rum
the only safe pub here.
I feel all previous words build up.
Old scars start to ache
and yesterdays cuts reopen.
Like the times I took too much snow
or worse, MDMA. Until I topped them up again.

The days they leave in wake
not allowing me to forget a night I regret
least of all rise.
Today’s words are not singular.
They add to a mountain of frequent stones
and rise again in moments like this.
My only answer is silence.  

I tell myself now;
“Fuck the HRT. The effort.
The audacity to be myself.”
My resistance is nothing in silence.
I am weak.
I’ll hate myself at home
but wake and put on the same skirt.

II

He started politely.
Asked his mate to move
until he saw my face
then the slur of ‘woman’
turned to ‘thing.’

I arrive alone
I left alone
always.
How glad I am though
no woman left with him.

The envelope I was out for
it’s the wrong address.
I am moving soon, they forced it.
No matter
the title is Ms and its name is Thalia.

Thank you, HMRC
for the reluctant validity.
I am still not in work.
I wonder, though
which murderous lips lick the seal.

III

I exist with an apology.
A disclaimer that says;
“I don’t mean to be here.”

I don’t even smoke anymore
yet the patio beckons me.
I guess it’s habit.

Maybe I prefer the people.
Perhaps they are more normal, normally
but they stare more. 

It’s self harm
certainly doesn’t feel like visibility
and every staring word pierces. 

My silence and shame
answers the disclaimer;
“I won’t be here long.”