• peholdsworth

I just want to write but I don’t seem to be writing.

I seem to be too busy not doing anything much.

Lots of lists.

Lots of thoughts.

Lots of things pulling on me until my arms tear off and my mind breaks in two and my body just says ‘enough’. And I sit down. And it asks me ‘what are we going to do?’ and I tell it, ‘I don’t know body. I can’t seem to figure it out. Every time I think I’ve got it right it seems I’ve got it nearer to wrong.’

‘That’s ok.’

‘It is? I don’t want to lose you. I can’t bear to lose you again and I’m just SO scared of living if it means losing you.’

There are no answers here. None that I’ve worked out how to put into art or practice just yet. Maybe they are here or have been here but they aren’t now.

I don’t know how to embrace. I don’t know how to embrace! Perhaps that’s the biggest issue after all, perhaps the lack of embracing or knowing how to is going to cause me to drift on and on forever with my limbs torn from my body and my mind split in multiples of two.

I don’t know why I can’t seem to do this. I can’t seem to keep the balance right – everything keeps changing. In me, around me. Through me. Inaction breeds action and action breeds too much action, and I just need to rest. World let me write. Self, let me write. I want to stop all the inessential but then when I do I find that life becomes too quiet, my mind too absorbed in the loneliness to feel into the right words. And so I drift. And I stagnate. And I tell myself that it's not stagnation, that it is busyness, that I will look back and see it as something; but I don’t and it’s not.

I drift. Still-ly. I drift.

From P. E. Holdsworth

  • peholdsworth

Maybe this is different from my newsletter?

Maybe these are letters to myself?

Maybe this is where I talk to you, Life. Is that it?

Yes, it is.

Because every time someone writes words on a page they’re really talking to you?


Because every time I sink into the truth of my art I’m really communicating with you?

If you like, yes.

Is this conversation between us enough to sustain an entire blog.

It depends.

On what?

The length of the blog.

Will it do?


Is there a point to it?

You had one.

I do. My point is to write and to write well. Am I achieving that?

You’re asking a lot of questions.

You’re right. That’s boring to read. I’ll try to say the things that are inside me out loud, onto this page.


Will people like that?

It’s not about people.

You’re right, it’s not. It’s about me; how self-absorbed.

How true.

Are we all self-absorbed?


Oh, just me?

No, many.

But not all?


You just deleted something then Portia.

You’re right I did. I didn’t think it was very good. Felt trivial.

All of life is trivial.

I might go and get some milky bar buttons now…

No. Stay.

Ok. I’ll stay. … What shall we talk about?

You were going to write what’s inside your head.

I think I am?

You’re not. Not really. Write it.

Ok. OKOKOKOKOK!!!!! LOCCCCCCKKKKKKKKKKKDOWN. LOOOOOOOCKDOWN is inside my head and inside my muscle thins—the fibres at the end of my nerves, tickling all over the inside of my body. I want to get out, I want to get out, we all want to get out get out into life to rewind the clock—no not me—not back, back was the dark, back was bad, back was a time I’d rather forget than return to. I want to go forward, no I want to be here. I want to be here

I’m here.


think I’m here. But I can’t be sure. I can’t be sure because the words I write are just seen by myself or seen by nobody really or seen by nobody much or seen by like like likes or sometimes just the one hundred or sometimes, occasionally, by just 52. And that makes me sad and that makes me feel silly and my friend is a ghost, she’s a ghost of a person she used to be and that makes me sadder and I miss my pals I hate that word but I hear it everywhere but they are nowhere and I am nowhere too but I might

just. be. here. I might.

That felt good.

I’m glad.

It felt silly too.

Life often does.

Shall I sign off with a kiss?

If you like.

Or write this: From the both of us X

Too contrite.

I’m not sure that’s how you use…

It’s too contrite.

Alright, then just from me?

Just from P. E. Holdsworth.


P. E. Holdsworth wrote this.



Just, from P. E. Holdsworth.

From P. E. Holdsworth