because none of us is fucking up like we think we are, is what i'm trying to say

Monday, 27 August 2012

Life Wanted.

“Laura, You just focus on moving to London. None of this romance malarkey. The man who you are supposed to end up with is still married to his first wife.”
- My mum.

On Saturday night mounting pressure caused not only my mother to Skype-console me over the day’s events, but also for the Italian skies to open over Liguria and spit tears of frustration out over the hot tarmac and scorching sands- finally putting an end to the heat wave the media here have called Lucifer.

It really has been hot as hell. Suffocating.

When it rained I stood on my balcony in bare feet, turned my face to the Gods, and got wet. I’d promised myself that I’d consume every last second offered up to me by this infuriatingly addictive country before I leave. But, as the heat cracked, the sudden change in the air around me meant in an instant, everything just felt… different. I understood perfectly. It’s time to put my ducks in a row. Now.

Internet, please consider this a shameless plug.

As of Thursday afternoon I will be homeless. And I mean, cool! Homelessness! I don’t need stuff! And things! And an address! NOMADIC WANDERERS OF THE WORLD UNITE!

Except that, yeah. No. I’m totally down with the balls to the motherfucking wall thing, as long as the metaphorical wall in my new life motto is reflected in the presence of an actual wall i.e. IN THE PLACE WHERE I LIVE. WITH STUFF.

Do you know what my wet dreams focus on right now? A linen cupboard. And a motivation wall that has colourful frames from local markets that help me to remember who said if not now, when? and don’t ever write a novel unless it feels like a hot turd coming out. And cooking utensils. I want wooden spoons and shit.

(“Yeah? You like that? You like the towels organised in size order? I BET YOU DO. And that spatula? Yeah? What you gonna do with that spatula? MAKE STUFF? I bet you can’t wait to flip omelettes with that, can you, you dirty little egg eater.”)

I figure you guys have been with me in a pretty incredible way on this bizarre, accidental journey of spiritual urm, enlightenment? Fulfilment? Madness? And so sod it. I’m gonna see how much more of me you can take.


That’s pretty much all I’ve got. BUT. Considering up until oh, I don’t know, twenty minutes ago? I had an absolute inability to even suggest to myself that I needed help let alone PUT IT ON THE INTERNET FOR ALL THE PEOPLES well. I’d say that already this big move is pushing me to be a better person.


You just wait, world. There’s a woman (and a motivation wall) in me yet.

I know there are a bunch of you who read me who never comment, never hit ‘like’, never leave muddy boot prints on the kitchen floor. You just quietly enter my piece of the world wide web, eat the public goods I share for your private consumption, and then you disappear as quietly as you came. And that’s totally okay. But right now, I need you.


I am building my tribe. In London. And some of you must live there and want to be my friend. Or my boss. Or know other people who might want to be either of those things. And if you read this blog, you know what I am about. I’m bat-shit crazy with my heart mostly in the right place, and the universe is making me move to one of the most expensive cities in the world to sell a book I wrote about my vagina.

And so maybe you know people with rooms to rent in centrally-located and cost-efficient houses. Maybe you know somebody who works in the arts who needs an assistant or floor-sweeper. Because that’s another thing: I don’t have a job yet, either. And I don’t care what I do- literally, I will be an art house director’s dog-walker or theatre janitor’s mop-carry-er extraordinaire- as long as it means I can continue on the path I have set for myself: living, breathing, meeting, sleeping, and making out with all things creative.

I just want to make stuff. And be with other people who make stuff, too.

My point:

I need a house. I need a job. I need help.

And there is absolutely nothing I can promise to provide for you in return, except gratitude and love and possibly a mention in the acknowledgements section of my future bestseller.

Also: you’ll really make my mum happy.

So. If you want to pay it forward and help a girl live her golden dream, get in touch.

Anybody? ANYBODY. 

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