Having earned her BA Drama and Creative Writing degree from Royal Holloway University, Danica has spent a year as a walking cliché, re-watching the last scene of The Graduate and pondering the future. At present, still in conversation with an old friend called Darkness, it seems she has adopted Faulkner's creed: the writer has become writing.
SIX FIFTEEN. The beeping sound of morning. Lycra, trainers, earphones in. Playlist: electro classical. High culture gone wired. Exciting and out there. Bold, almost new. Cut the crap. Good pace, keeps the pulse steady. No words. Words distract, waste time. Focus. Breathe. One, two, one, two.
Seven thirty. Shower, shampoo, conditioner, organic soap. 100% natural. Deodorant, 72 hour protection; in the 21st century we don't sweat. Cold kitchen, cold feet. Kettle hiss. Green glass. Blue glass. Plastic. Organic. Batteries. Paper. Cans. Last night recycled. If only time could be recycled too. Granola, low-fat yoghurt and green tea. A moment of peace to savour. Don't rush your breakfast, it's the most important meal of the day.
Trains smell. People smell. How come they all look so filthy all the time? Women with greasy hair tied back, men who don't change their shirts often enough. The inability to connect isn't alienation, it's disgust. The woman opposite is fat with bad skin. Gobbling up a massive chocolate pastry. Well that won't help her, the fat cow. She crosses her tree trunk legs as she draws a short, fat finger over her iPad. Jesus, who hires people like this? Image is everything.
Newspaper left on the seat beside. Careless, that's recyclable paper. Another war. Iraq, Iran, who can even keep track anymore. Their women walk around like tents. Maybe this country would be better off if they stayed in their Afghanistans for a change. Sometimes you miss seeing white faces. But that's not ok. Tolerate. Respect. Accept.
Take the tube. More people. Ugly, smelly, stupid people. They all read the papers. Who can you trust? Conservative bastards, liberal liars. The age of silence, no one has anything to say anymore. Music is sound, literature is toilet paper, theatre is television, television is hell. You have three people in the world you care about. Screw the rest of them.
Enter your gigantic glass cage. Mobile phones on vibrate celebrating the everlasting silence. Who are these people? If tomorrow some terrorist blew you all up, you'd have trouble naming five. You wait for the lift, alone. Too late. He's already standing beside you, the idiot with a head full of ideas. Pitch. Project. Super efficiency. Powerful synergy. You try not to look his way. The embarrassment of witnessing a bad case of verbal diarrhea.
Enter the lift together. Why the hell is he standing so close? Almost pressing his arm against yours. The lift not big enough for you, or what? He wears the same cologne as you. But he's green. The smell of enthusiasm overpowers the cologne. You try and avoid eye-contact. Like when you don't want to get puppies overexcited. But he humps your leg anyway. What is it that moves you, you driven, little degenerate? Ambition, aspiration? The words you use, because they sound better? But it's really all about the money. Money, money, money. Right?
Wrong. Read more...