...to learn the song
That is in their heart,
And to sing it to them
When they have forgotten. - Anonymous
It's been a fairly average day today. I fell out of bed at 9.30 and carried on reading one of the books I purchased from the charity shop. Cordy joked the last time we were there that by third year we could end up buying every book on their shelves - somehow I think the way we're going it could end being true.
Looking at the blurbs, I've noticed something about mainstream contemporary fiction. Most of them entail secrets emerging from the past of a main character, or the secrets of a particular organisation or the secrets of an event. All this seems to prove is not the magnificence of our literature, but the nosy nature of the society we live in - selling glorified gossip magazines as art.
Don't get me wrong, I have read some simply marvellous modern literature in recent years. I remember being given an essay to write on Angela Carter and being taken aback by the way she satirised the techniques of Perrault. I was even more taken aback by the discovery that her death had not taken place until only recently, in 1992. I had half expected her to be Perrault and Barbot de Villeneuve's contemporary.
Books released now seem to follow a Mills and Boon pattern, which depresses me somewhat. I thought the point of writing was be original?
You are a romantic goth, better known as a traditional goth. You are probably quickly identified as a goth by outsiders. Black lace, bats, and moonlit cemetaries are just a few of your favorite things. Click on my name to take my other tests if you liked this one.
If you've all ready read Miss Laney's most recent blog entry, you will know that we recently had our last lessons of the year. It was quite emotional, in the sense that we were doing memory prompts. The task was to write none stop for twenty minutes using the prefix 'i remember'. If I'm honest I wasn't that surprised by what I wrote - I don't have a great memory...but anyway, here's the list...
* I remember the run down double decker that passed my secondary school every day at 4:30. Better still I remember the day I discovered that it was actually the college bus I was to board for the next two years. *I remember confusing a litre and a half for a pint and a half. *I remember being scared to death of my English paper only to discover it was a summary of Walt Disney. *I remember falling down the cliff at Heights of Abraham and my Mum's suggestion to smother the wound in hand soap. *I remember going to two funerals in one week and mixing up who was in the casket. *I remember laughing at my Dad because he sunburnt his face. *I remember writing my first poem. *I remember visiting my Nan's grave for the first time and getting lost in the cemetary. *I remember when my Grandad had a stroke and I stayed over at my Nan's. *I remember when the teenage years started at 13. *I remember the shady kid in the playground who believed he was a distant relation of YoHans. *I remember family barbecues. *I remember feeling important because I knew the headteachers first name. *I remember school assemblies and 'that weird finger syndrome' that causes everyone to talk when the projector is switched on. *I remember when Tiddley Winks was the best thing ever. *I remember trying to learn to ride a bike despite the fact I was bleeding profusely. *I remember my neighbour calling me 'jelly tot'. *I remember having my hair cut short. *I remember pinning a picture of Captain Hook to the back of my locker. *I remember explainig to my best friend that I was vegetarian, three days before the birthday meal at her house. *I remember my mother putting Lindtdor hearts in my lunchbox on valentines day. *I remember dancing to the time warp in the sixth floor corridor. *I remember the guy who convinced everyone he was fourteenth in line to the throne of Spain. *I remember having my belly pierced. *I remember the love of my life. *I remember asking a friend why the book was backwards and the condescending look on his face as he explained that it was manga. *I remember walking into my prom, having recently been dumped. *I remember visiting the cinema three times in the same week to see Pirates of the Caribbean - At World's End. *I remember getting tipsy on one shot of rum. *I remember wondering where babies came from and the rage when I found out. *I remember taking my sunday night bath early, just so I could listen to the top 40. *I remember watching Spirited Away for the first time. *I remember when hair transfers were cool. *I remember wishing I was Sabrina. *I remember reading the first line of Wuthering Heights and shoving it back on the shelf, only to learn about eight years later that I loved it. *I remember seeing Steps at Sheffield Arena. *I remember when PCs were the height of technology. *I remember thinking everybody lived near a paddock.
I remember him standing there; blue eyes, dark hair - brooding statue of a man in front of me. Any clue of feeling, any gesture could give me away.
I hated how he watched me, expecting me to shatter. Waiting for some kind of switch to activate my emotions. A switch he believed existed in the deepest, darkest room of my soul.
I remember just the day before we laid on the grass outside the cemetery, in the shade of an enormous chestnut tree. Dreaming of the future with his head next to mine, there was a part of me that knew these were our final moments.
Taking this knowledge, I gave myself to him completely, believing that this way we could never be separated. We were fated to be apart - I knew it as well as he did - but right then, it seemed we were both oblivious.
I remember waking the next morning, proud in the knowledge I had saved us. Putting on my favourite song and turning up the volume, my heart filled with praise for whoever had given that man to me. The impending distance seemed inconsequential.
He called me some three hours later, sniffling down the phone line; despite the fact he had requested me, I couldn’t get him to speak. In the end, I requested his presence, hoping to shed light on his mystery.
So there we were, eying one other, waiting for checkmate. In the end I didn’t need him to say anything, his face said it all. Eyes, once red with wildfire lay cold and empty.
This was the moment I realised I was a murderer. Laying under that chestnut tree, I had torn his heart away, leaving him lifeless. The man I loved was dead and open-chested in front of me.
I remember giving him back his heart, wrapped in a silk handkerchief. Having won it at a fair when I was seven and treasuring it ever since, I deemed it the perfect container. Perfect for the man I shared my first dance with, tripping due to my oversized heels.
Gazing upon the bloody package, he stepped towards the door and I knew. As I slept in the grass that day he had killed me as well, kissing me softly on the cheek.
He never gave me my heart back, instead chose to keep it in a dirty tissue in the back pocket of his jeans - bleeding through for all to see.
To everyone that knew her, Alice was the bookish type, retiring to the library after classes to catch up on her reading. Nobody at school knew much about Alice, only that her personality lay reserved to the pages of her favourite hardback and the few words she spoke outside of class were to the librarian.
For as long as she could remember, Alice had loved James - the mathematician in her class. She loved his brooding nature and passion for the subject matter, matched only by her love for fantasy. He didn’t know she existed and that was the way she liked it - from a distance she had the chance to wonder how it could be between them.
In reality, James loved only one woman and that was Jessica, whose fairy dust freckles had been the talk of the classroom since she first arrived. It would be incredibly gauche to say that Alice did not know of Jessica’s existence - rather that she ignored it.
At the back of maths class one afternoon, Alice sat scribing a letter to James. The note she sat writing told the truth of her desire - written with the same degree of bleeding affection known only to poets. During the five minute interval, she wandered over to James’ desk and slipped the note into the top cover of his exercise book - scurrying back to her own after the deed was complete.
Break soon finished and the students plodded back inside - James arriving next to last. Alice watched in silent anticipation as he seated himself and opened his exercise book, picking up the note as if contemplating whether or not he had in fact seen it before.
Alice’s heart leapt into her throat as James refolded the note and turned, though not in her direction - bringing to light Alice’s mistake in sending an unsigned love letter. He solely smiled for Jessica.
I listen to your heartbeat A language long forgotten - There is no one there when I turn. Who woke me from my slumber? I reach to you and you shiver in cold As I bathe in your reflection, Dreaming of the day Our shadows cross And you know me.
It was my birthday fairly recently and even though I knew that I had friends to celebrate with, I really didn’t want to be excited.
For one, I had about three deadlines on that day - all of which were monsters of assignments. I really didn’t want to be a)working or b)handing anything in on my birthday, so I spent much of the week before at my computer screen, moaning to Laney about word count.
It was also going to be the first birthday I had spent outside of Whitters. From being a kid, my mother has always done the same thing on my birthday; arranged my cards behind the clock, decorated the front room down to balloon confetti at the breakfast table, singing happy birthday out of tune as I walked through the door.
The knowledge that she couldn’t do it this year made her extremely gloomy and throughout the week she made me promise that I would do something worthwhile. The trouble with this picture is that my idea of something worthwhile is being tucked up in bed with the latest copy of Immortal Rain, or watching 300 with my closest friends. Still, I knew deep down that I had to do something - if not for my mother, for the fact that my assignments were almost over.
It was for this reason that in the preceding hours, I spent pretty much all of my time downloading all of the abridged episodes that I could, finding that the more of them I downloaded, the more excited about my impending birthday I became.
I knew I was happy to be nineteen when I woke up at a minute past midnight to a text from Lucy, reading, ‘Happy Birthday, Olivia’, proceeding to recite the song from Madagascar. Deep down, I think I was always excited about my birthday - just didn’t know it until right then.
If you don't understand Death Note, this may seem a little random, though hopefully you will still be able to enjoy it anyway ^^
He sits in the chair, thumb in his mouth and plate of cheesecake in his hand. Twirling a polished silver fork, plump strawberry on the end, he rifles through the overfull pad of paper.
“Hmmm…” he murmurs. “It would appear there is a 99.2% chance this story was over the word limit and edited several times.”
Slowly the young detective slips a sheet of paper from the file while an elderly butler enters the room. The butler is pushing a trolley with a dish in the centre - it’s contents hidden by a silver lid large enough to shield a large turkey. Lifting the lid, there is only a plateful of gummy bears and several sugar cubes.
“Ryuzaaki, sir,” the butler addresses. “I brought your…”
But he is interrupted, for the detective leaps from his chair and peers deeply into his face - the sheet of paper tightly gripped between finger and thumb.
“Watari,” he says, lifting it until the small type is centimetres from both of their faces. “I have made an important breakthrough.”
Taking a sugar cube from the plate and crunching the grains, he shows the paper to Watari.
“The use of themes in this story indicate unrequited love,” he explains.
Watari is confused, his old face cannot disguise it.
“But…what does this mean, sir?”
Ryuzaaki turns and sits back in his chair, knees close to his chest and thumb tight in in his mouth. He considers an answer for some four and a half minutes.
“It means, Watari that considerable research was undertaken,” he states.
Lifting up the paper so it is in clear sight, Ryuzaaki scans a number of scribbles he has made on the paper.
“This story shows the same characteristics as many other romance stories of its kind - it is written in the third person and speaks of a love letter,” he explains. “I understand love letters are quite popular in romance fiction.”
First a face of confusion, now Watari’s face is a picture of shock. “I did not know you read Mill’s and Boon, Ryuzaaki sir,” he comments, but gets no reply.
Lifting the plate of gummy bears, he hands it to Ryuzaaki, who takes one and chews thoughtfully.
“I feel I could understand the mind of this deviant better if it were Mill’s and Boon,” he comments. “This story concludes in none of the regular ways. In normal romantic fiction the hero and the heroine fall in love at the end.”
His words are laced with a formation of gummy bears, shaped like a courting couple.
“And in this story…they do not?” questions Watari. He undoubtedly knows the answer all ready - but also knows that questions are the best form of developing genius.
“No,” mutters Ryuzaaki, gently laying his thumb on his bottom lip. “The heroine is rejected, for the love of another.”
Watari takes the story from Ryuzaaki and scans the paper himself. Perhaps there is a further clue - something they have missed.
“Perhaps the writer has no affection for love stories,” he suggests.
Ryuzaaki says nothing for a while and instead picks up the courting couple scene that he made, devouring the pair.
“I cannot help but wonder, Watari,” he finally says. “Why the writer chose to omit the text of the love letter. It is central to the story.”
As if in reply to this question, Watari scans the text closely. There is a hidden message there, he knows it. A message that he cannot see.
“Perhaps the writer believed the letter was not central to the text and in fact it was the effect of the note that was central,” he suggests, pointing to the end of the page. “See…it is the idea of the note as an object that causes the conclusion, rather than what is written.”
Glancing over at Ryuzaaki, he gasps inwardly; the panda faced detective has spent the interlude building a tower of sugar cubes.
“You may be right, Watari,” he answers, peering from behind. “Though I am not quite sure how it relates to the second piece of evidence.”
Watari has not been informed of this so it is new to him. Ryuzaaki also knows this, but he is too far gone in contemplation to worry.
“This poem confuses me,” he says, taking a second sheet of paper from the file and passing it to Watari, who glances over the type.
“How so, sir?” he asks, taking in the images and looking back to the detective. Ryuzaaki is chewing a stick of pocky and thoughtfully staring into space. “This poem also speaks of unrequited love, but there is no narrator - the person speaking cannot obtain affection from a loved one because of their ambiguous nature,” he murmurs, pocky crumbs dropping to his knees. “This poem is titled ‘The Muse’s Song’ so the narrative speaker is more than likely intended to be a ghostlike creature. Perhaps the two pieces are linked.”
Watari looks back at the poem and wonders what kind of individual would write such a piece. A mad one, undoubtedly.
Taking hold of the trolley once more, he rolls out of the room - partly to ponder the circumstances of the evidence, but also to fetch Master Ryuzaaki more cheesecake. Ryuzaaki does not notice this. “That must be it,” he mutters. “The poem must be the missing love letter, the heroine’s missing words.”
The crumbs from Ryuzaaki’s lap now sit upon a small coffee table in front, moulded into the shape of the Eiffel Tower. Hugging his knees against his chest, he stares at the keypad of a telephone on the wall, pondering the case over and over. “Hmmmm…” he whispers, rocking slightly in his swivel chair. “My suspicions of this writer are now 99.5%.”
The sparrow sings in another tower I know I cannot fly It was love that shut me here And told me I must die In dreaming of a prince, I know I threw away my wings Forever lost beyond the thorns Adorned with pretty things Watching from behind the glass A silent statue head Observing my prince solemnly He dances with the dead Is this the way it’s meant to be? Sealed behind a door Why ever did you leave me here To sleep forevermore The sparrow sings for us, my dear I sang for you in vain Flying from this prison, love To dance with you again.
I can't believe there are still people who haven't seen this video. At the cosplay party, we had the song on our partymix and almost everyone that knew it went for Dumbledore's part.
The water is back on at our flat, but not without its setbacks. I spent the latter part of the night before filling up whatever bottles I could find in my room, so the water situation left me unfazed. Sitting down to my laptop with a bottle of Tapfresh, I was both shocked and annoyed to discover that my internet was on the blink, so I couldn't hand any of my assignments in.
Sometimes I hate it that I'm a writer. When I tell people I write, they automatically assume that I'm going to be like Harriet the Spy.
If it only that was the case at school. They loved my newfound 'creativity' - even featured an article in the school newspaper on it 'Saiyu- our very own Poet Laureate'. Of course, back then I did not know the identity of our poet laureate, much less what one actually was. If I had, I would have backed out pretty quickly, as by admitting my passion for writing, I had signed an obscure kind of contract. A contract that entailed me being emotionally blackmailed into producing a poem every time something remotely important happened.
I hated it. Hated the fact that everyone referred to me as 'poetesse', hated that whenever we went on day trips someone would tell the guides I wrote. Hated the fact that I was drawn into a false sense of resentment for the thing that had done the least wrong.
I do not hate my writing now - only that it strikes me when I am unaware and incapable of acting. Many of my best poems were written while I was in the middle of important pieces of work - a gamble that paid off immensely in the end, as instead of a single piece of work, I finished with two. I hate debating in my mind whether my ideas belong to me or the book I just finished reading, only to give up wondering and pick it up again - at the end of the day it's worth it though, to give a piece of work to a stranger and have them compliment me on my originality, rather than how I remind them of Author Number 1.
Here's my assignment piece, its halfway between character from an object and important event in a character's life.
Why am I here? I could have asked myself that question a thousand times before now, but what answers would I get? What satisfaction would I find?
I never used to think how many people in the world doubt their self-worth, question their place. I never used to think about mine; much of it was all ready set.
I don’t remember much of my early life; everything I know to be true has a coating of oil. Where I come from, that’s normal. You either find a use or find a door; no one escapes with their soul. When I was fifteen my Dad turned to me, said, ‘Tez, you’re old enough to get a job’ and handed me a wrench. Best thing the bastard ever did.
For weeks I slaved in that shoddy garage, grease and dirt all the way up to my elbows, while he swanned around Majorca with his Mistress. It was my responsibility to take care of my mother, who exploded into tears at the slightest mention of any word related to him.
I got my first taste of heroin that summer. That light headed feeling, bringing with it a beautiful kind of knowledge - that I wasn’t me and nothing mattered.
Any crisis involving my mother automatically involved her. Aunt Stephanie. The evil kind of slut that lies about everything. I’d hated her for so long I didn’t even remember why; only that many a time after shooting up I would discover her in the kitchen, mimicking sympathy along with everything else.
Maybe it was because I knew she was poisoning my mother’s brain. Perhaps it was because she called me ‘Terrence’, just like Dad did before I begged him to call me otherwise. I didn’t know what it was, but there something about her that disturbed my inner spite.
Maybe it was because my mother listened to her, more than she had ever listened to me. A quick ‘thank you’ was all I got when I handed over my wages, a smile when I told her to turn off the television- my father wasn’t dead, there was no reason for him to appear on the news. She never listened, though; whenever I found Aunt Stephanie there, like some platinum blonde Mother Theresa, my mum would be on the couch in her dressing gown, hypnotised by the nine o’clock news.
It was because my mother listened to Aunt Stephanie that I ended up here - a place I only ever entered in my nightmares. A place for fuckers like Dad, who used their brains as weapons. A place where Aunt Stephanie would use my absence to dig her false nails into mother and make her into something twisted.
I only ever wanted to work in the garage, fix cars for the rest of my life. Watch as day after day, stranger after stranger drove away with my dreams. It was fine, I didn’t care. I had everything I needed in a heroin shot. A reminder of my place.
Staggering home one night into the hornet’s nest, I arrived to find the Queen set upon her throne, eyes square upon me. The room lay silent, not even the television played for the couch, which lay empty. My mother, pale and dishevelled, stood next to Aunt Stephanie - a plate of custard creams in hand.
“Terrence,” she said, shuffling over and wrapping me into a clumsy kind of embrace. “Me and your Aunt Stephanie have been talking…and…”
Her words were interrupted by the crashing of a plate on the floor and several custard creams hitting the carpet. Aunt Stephanie’s eyes fell to the crumbs and then back to me as mother kneeled to clear the mess.
“We have been talking,” she said, over the muffled sobs. “You deserve better than to run after your mother all the time - and the way things are going you’ll never better yourself. I’ve been asking round and managed to get you an interview at North University. You’ll be studying business - how’s that?”
She spoke so cheerily, the anger rose up in me like a dozen pinpricks. Everything about her pissed me off; the way her perfume lingered on everything of ours, how her possessions appeared in our house as if marking her territory.
“You don’t care whether or not I’m happy,” I snarled. “You only want me gone!”
It was true - she knew it - it was scrawled across her face like some childish memo. Somewhere from the carpet my mother screamed for me to be quiet, but I knew I was right and victories over Aunt Stephanie came so rarely.
Staring into her chalk skin and rose petal cheeks, I grinned at my own triumph. Chuckled under my breath louder than I meant to.
“It’s true isn’t it, you just want me gone so you can take everything that’s mine, like you’ve all ready taken everything of mum’s,” I roared.
Aunt Stephanie sighed, closing her eyes. She was older than mother; I never noticed it until then.
“I think you’ve made a mistake, Terrence,” she said.
She said it so calmly, so delicately - the anger rising up in me shocked even myself. I wanted to hurt her, maim her. Punish her, for existing.
I barely heard my mother’s screams as Aunt Stephanie’s rose cheeks twisted back in recoil from my knuckles, barely noticed as she fell back against the table. I didn’t know what I had done. Only knew that I was justified.
The euphoria soon passed, replaced by the thorny grip of mother’s fingers and her voice bellowing in my ear. How dare I hit Aunt Stephanie, after everything she had done for us? I heard everything she said, but didn’t focus on the words, just laughed. I knew it was wrong to lash out at a woman but right then, felt redeemed. I knew I couldn’t possibly explain these things to Mother - where was the point in trying?
I was the talk of the village in three short hours; everyone within a four house radius had seen mother usher my bloodied aunt into the car, apologising for me all the while. Lack of detail of course, had given way to make-believe. By the time I arrived at my mate’s flat, everyone believed I had broken her ribs.
Luckily, he was having a party at the time and set me up without so much as a question. I laid on the couch, his music thudding through the walls, just thinking about Dad, wondering for the first time what he was doing. Was he even in Majorca, or was that another fucking lie?
Before I left, mother had shoved a small box into my stomach, containing what I thought to be the vests and cigarettes that littered my room. The thrall of the party echoed in my ears, the sounds of strangers laughing with shots in their hands. Shots of another dream. I wanted to join them but knew that I couldn’t.
Reaching into the pocket of my jeans, I dragged out the last of my final shot. The scratch to the skin was instant release to everything - even the music around me seemed to slow. Falling to the floor, I shut my eyes for a moment, taking in this ecstasy. I didn’t care anymore what became of me; if I had to, I would stay there on the floor forever.
My eyes fell on the box near my field of vision and lazily, I reached for it. I wanted to burn whatever was in it, start afresh with nothing but the clothes on my back. Ripping open the box, I stared as a tub of wax crayons fell out, followed by a colouring book, messily shaded, ’Terrence’ scrawled on the inside cover in a childish hand.
There were other objects inside the box fitting much the same description - an old football, deflated and peeling, a teddy bear with no eyes, a pack of cards, ripped and torn in several places - objects I had known, but no longer remembered. Reaching my hand to the bottom of the box, I found a slim photograph in a silver decorated frame. The room was dark, but I could see what it showed - our family long before that moment. My father, his hair in a pony tail, gripped my mother’s waist as if he should die. I stood beside them, seven years old - a brand new football in my arms - embraced by a grinning blonde woman.
Screaming, I hit the picture against the floor. The glass of the frame shattered against the carpet, cutting into my skin. Closing my eyes, I absorbed the familiar iron smell, stepping through the gates of another world.
This other place was full of light, green and warm. Realisation dawned that I was the boy in the photograph, kicking my football to and fro - scattering birds in a flurry of feathers. I laughed as they danced over my head, oblivious to a ginger tom hidden in the blossom tree.
I had no idea what place this was I had fallen into, but it’s lurid colours cheered me somewhat from my situation. A bungalow sat behind me with cream coloured walls. I knew I had seen it somewhere, but right then it did not matter, as I felt myself laugh, deeply and from the bottom of my stomach, as I took hold of the football once again.
The back door opened as I launched the ball at the blossom tree, my heart leaping into my chest as it ricocheted towards the house, smashing the kitchen window. Glass slivers landed all around my feet and, kneeling to pick them up, I winced as blood crawled over my fingers, a familiar voice sounding behind me - calling my name.
I turned towards it and saw her there, glass of lemonade in her hand. Aunt Stephanie. All at once I understood, it was her house, her garden. Her window I had smashed. All of a sudden, I knew why I was there.
She did not shout at me, instead gazed at the mess I had made and back to me. An unknown feeling crept over me, a kind of dread.
“I think you’ve made a mistake, Terrence,” she said, dropping the lemonade to the ground, shattering the tumbler as it made contact.
I watched the cloudiness seeped through the grass, making contact with the spots of blood on the glass. It all seemed so familiar and I knew there was a part of me screaming to bolt.
Turning my head away from her gaze, I saw the tom cat swipe out from the blossom tree, devouring a sparrow perched on a nearby branch. Felt her steel grip on my arm, dragging me to my doom. This time, I was screaming, for now I remembered everything.
Yelling, trying to wrench my hand out of her grip, I saw the object of my demise, the thorn bush behind the bungalow - unkempt and blackened by years of neglect. Sharpened, by years of malice.
I remembered now, the day Aunt Stephanie appeared at our house, weeping at the loss of her husband - the man she left the village for all those years ago. The only solemn vow they made together was a rose bush in the garden - now a bag of thorns.
I felt my stomach lurch against the skin as the thorns appeared in view; giant claws of a panther, ready to swallow me whole. Twisting my wrist in an iron grip, she made to throw me inside, and whimpering, I pushed my body against her. Anything to escape this fate she had decided for me. Closing my eyes, I didn’t dare look into hers, for fear of what might be looking back.
“Please Aunt Stephanie,” I heard myself whisper. “I promise I’ll be good.”
Braving the beast, I opened my eyes and slowly gazed up into her face, trying my hardest to push a shaky smile across my face. Aunt Stephanie wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t doing anything - just watching.
Slowly, carefully, the sides of her mouth began to lift into the foundations of a smile and my heart rate began to slow. The grip on my wrists loosened and for a moment, I considered my safety. Her smile broadened and then, then there was only thorns.
I never got see what happened next. The muffled surroundings of my mate’s flat came back before I had a chance to see. Picking myself up from the carpet, I rubbed the back of my head with a bloody hand and gazed over at the ripped box.
I never did find out why mother sent that box to me, all I knew was the items in that box were the only things in the world incapable of betraying me. Reaching into it one last time, I felt my fingertips land on solid metal. Curiosity took over me and I pulled the object from the box, finding a wrench that I used at work.
Tightening my hand around it, I knew that I was justified.
Based on Laney's recent blog entry, here's my own attempt at procrastinating taking a break.
1. A is for age: 18 - 19 next week, oh joy
2. B is for beer of choice: I don't drink beer - prefer the intoxicaing effects of a certain carbonated beverage, christened Pepsi by the educated world.
3. C is for career right now: Village idiot, writer, daughter and just lately invisible woman
4. D is for your dog's name I used to have a cyber pet called Chuff 64. Never had a real pet though.
5. E is for essential item you use everyday:: Laptop. His name is Tosh.
6. F is for favorite TV show at the moment: I don't have a TV - does Youtube count? If so, Yugioh abridged, Naruto abridged, Ugly Betty, Otogi Zoshi, She the Ultimate Weapon, Burnt face Man, Heroes *Blathers on for hours*
7. G is for favorite game: The Journey Man Saga, it's so awfully lame, but I love it so.
8. H is for Home town: Whitters ^^
9. I is for instruments you play: Recorder, Keyboard and a bit of bass
10. J is for favorite juice: Tropical
11. K is for whose butt you'd like to kick: My own - see what I'd do
12. L is for last place you ate: I ate a bowl of Weetos in bed while considering my poetry assignment. Fun times.
13. M is for marriage: and N is for not on your Nelly
14. N is for your name: Olivia Capulet
15. O is for overnight hospital stays: I lost count years ago
16. P is for people you were with today: Tosh
17. Q is for quote: RAITOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
18. R is for Biggest Regret Never saying goodbye
19. S is for status: Online
20. T is for time you woke up today: 8:00, then 9:00, then finally 9:30
21. U is for underwear: all present and accounted for
22. V is for vegetable you love: Sweetcorn! Has to be sweet though.
23. W is for worst habit: Watching too much anime, drinking too much coke.
24. X is for x-rays you've had: When I had my braces in - I've probably had brain scans too, but a little fuzzy about remembering.
25. Y is for yummy food you ate today: A strawberry Amore yoghurt. ^^
A poem I brought with me from Easter, I only just got around to typing the thing up.
So used to reaching out for you I forgot to reach for me Now you're not here, it's cold All I do is wait and see What becomes Of what we never were The dreams we forged In silent words So used to smiling I forgot to cry What will become Of all the lies?
Sometimes I think I am the most selfish person in the world.
Recently my flatmates went to H20, which is fair in itself, they hardly ever go. the only problem with this picture is as follow: I have a 9:00 lesson the next morning and due to issues with heavy strobes am unable to join them.
This particular night, they started to get dressed at about 5:30 and I hoped to take the opportunity of an empty flat to finish off an assignment, but it never arose. After spending hours of rushing down the corridors screeching admiration for each other's outfits, they horded into the kitchen where somebody had cooked. I am not sure just what exactly it was, only that alcohol played a central role. After half an hour they seemed even rowdier than before.
Carley had been playing her music all the while she had been getting ready - the kind that seems out of place everywhere but the dancefloor. I had to lay there and try and sleep, with Soulja Boy and whatnot vibrating through the wall. I could have requested a slighter tone, but that of course would ruin their party.
I backed myself into a corner this morning when considering my portrait assignment - the more I thought about it, the less choice I had about which gender to write from. I have spent so much time musing over this blog that writing from my own life experience seems a waste. Instead, I am going to deviate slightly.
In the beginning I thought I would write about my grandmother and how we ended up on such nonsensical terms. However, I realised through careful consideration that there was a lot I didn't know and would never understand; writing about such things would only open old wounds and worsen the present situation. This itself created a new muse for me - the angle of a character realising something they wish they didn't, changing their life forever.
This was where the corner loomed. My original thoughts about the piece were that the main character was a girl and hated a member of her family for reasons she didn't know, but longed to remember. The more I thought about that situation, the more I began to realise that if I wasn't careful the story would become based on true events. I had drastically change it somehow and the main way was by changing the gender of the heroine to a hero.
You may be wondering why on earth this was a corner - well...to my recollection I have only ever written from male perspective once, and in my opinion, he sounded more than a little effeminate.
I suppose I shall have to abandon Carter in favour of Poe.
Yesterday was revealing on several fronts; I received a letter informing all residents of an upcoming water shortage - and by shortage, I mean none at all. I suppose I should be thankful, the last time this happened, they didn't warn us and only explained the depth of the crisis after it actually happened. This time we can make suitable arrangements; the plan is simple, we are to spend the upcoming days stocking up on giant bottles of water. It seems a daft precaution at first, but not so much considering the last water shortage, during which all I heard was Carley moaning about Chris' impending visit and how he was going to break up with her because she wasn't looking her best. Honestly, anyone would think she was dating Calum Best.
More revelations appeared in the form of Alissa's OCD. It bemuses me how a girl who refuses to type beyond size 8 font, is anxious to switch off lights, will not get up unless the clock is on a 5 or a ten, will not write on paper that has all ready been written on and has her CD player on exactly volume 18 can say she is not obsessive compulsive. I suppose it's the stigma that OCD just applies to cleaning, but actually it applies to a wide variety of things. My aunt has OCD and didn't get diagnosed until she was at near breaking point because of exhaustion. She washed her hair every day, washed her hands every time she touched money, shook hands with people or even touched a door handle. Considering she works on a till at B'n'Q, you can imagine how raw her hands were at the end of the day.
They say Easter is a time of DIY, well in our house it's a time of cleaning. I happened upon this poem in one of my drawers in a tidy out of my bedroom - it's about two years old.
I was coming home one night Nestled in my seat Staring out the window glass And stretching out my feet The sky had gone a crimson red I could not help but stare And as I sat there by myself I wished that you were there It looked just like a paper cut Stretched across the sky The earth was calling out to me And I did not know why I got home inspired By this sky of ruby red Now when it comes to paper cuts I think of you instead.
Screaming from the thorn bushes Watching from the shade Never asking to be heard Only to be saved You never reached a hand to me I watched you from my spot Torn flesh and bruises For this person I am not I handed you a shovel As you handed me a spade Digging, digging deeper In the silence of the glade The sun was quickly setting Many hours had passed You closed your eyes forever As I closed my own at last.
