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.

Here’s my idea: PEOPLE WHO READ THIS BLOG CAN HELP ME.

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.

HI LONDON! I’M ALREADY MORE TREMENDOUS BECAUSE OF YOU! AND I’M NOT EVEN
THERE YET!

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.

PLEASE DON’T DISAPPEAR.

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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