... So I'm starting work tomorrow morning. Not the actual work of which I'm actually looking forward to (i.e. gallery work). Oh no, mother decided it would be a good idea, since I've been far too lazy so far (which, to be fair, I agree with), for me to work in the factory. Father's factory that is. So now I'm meeting one of the HR guys tomorrow morning discussing which department I'd like to work for. Accountancy, not so much. Production, also not so much. QC... urgh, no. The guy apparently suggested that I could work for the Export department, which sounds like it'll be more interesting to me. But come on! Despite the fact that I'm not doing this pro bono at least, I have no interest in the field. At all. Hell, I'd mind waitressing less. This whole behind a desk job thing I've done before and it drove me nuts. Plus, I'm working for my father, and that is something that I had promised myself, years ago, that I would never do. My dad's business and my interests clash totally. And it's so easy for people to say "oh, she got the job because it's her dad's company", and it'll be TRUE and I hate that. Sure, if I work in the gallery I wouldn't get it through my own means because the gallery owner is my great aunt's friend, but she seemed excited to get me on board, plus it's a stranger that I'm working for, and I know that if I slack off or something she'll fire me. I don't want to be some charity case. And again, desk job.
When my aunts found out I was taking a GAP year and wanted a job, they couldn't understand why I didn't just ask my dad for a secretarial position or something. It irritates me to no end. Sure, I know the benefits of using your connections, but still.
That said, the new chapter of Vampire Knight was amazing. There's so much tension now and the story, it seems, is finally coming to a climax. Aidou is... god, there is so much love for Aidou. And I really am not a big fan of Yuki/Kaname. Kaname/Zero, however, is <3.
Tuesday, 27 November 2007
Monday, 26 November 2007
I want eggs, spam, spam, bacon and spam
Seriously, what's with spam messages? No, I do not want to be inundated with a million messages from random places, such as getting a degree online from Phoenix University or whatever, or buy medication; no I would not like to purchase viagra. No, I do not need nor want to "enlarge my penis" before OR after 2008. For one, I'm a girl and as such lack the proper equipment. And for fuck's sake, I may find women attractive, but I do NOT want to check out your sexy bod on some bogus profile through a link that will undoubtedly kill Poe (my laptop).
That aside, I kill myself with deadlines. Whoops, part 3 of Hellhound novel not yet completed, despite the fact that I had just under half of it done before posting the previous part. I've been busy, sort of. And I'm easily distracted. So now I'm simultaneously trying to write something that's not total crap and procrastinating from doing said writing by reading. And apparently also procrastinating from applying to University. Say it with me: oh holy shitting fuck. I need to get application stuff ready like, three months ago. Since time unfortunately won't cooperate with my needs, I'll just have to settle with writing my personal statement and getting my forms done A.S.A.P. Of course, I should've done that all along, but hey.
Also, in fiction, why the hell do the good guys always get pissed and go "no, you killed Kenny!" (substitute with appropriate name) when the bad guy kills one of their own? Especially when they go there specifically to kill said bad guy? Seriously, even when bad guy says "go home, I am in no mood for games" or whatever. Oooh, ego blow, but fucking hell. It's your own damn fault for trying to kill the bad guy. Far be it that the bad guy actually defends himself and is defensive because you're trying to cut off his head. *rolls eyes* What're they supposed to do, drop their weapons, spread their arms and go "here I am, the sacrificial lamb to your divine justice, oh end my life so that my evil deeds are ended"? Pfft. Get real.
That aside, I kill myself with deadlines. Whoops, part 3 of Hellhound novel not yet completed, despite the fact that I had just under half of it done before posting the previous part. I've been busy, sort of. And I'm easily distracted. So now I'm simultaneously trying to write something that's not total crap and procrastinating from doing said writing by reading. And apparently also procrastinating from applying to University. Say it with me: oh holy shitting fuck. I need to get application stuff ready like, three months ago. Since time unfortunately won't cooperate with my needs, I'll just have to settle with writing my personal statement and getting my forms done A.S.A.P. Of course, I should've done that all along, but hey.
Also, in fiction, why the hell do the good guys always get pissed and go "no, you killed Kenny!" (substitute with appropriate name) when the bad guy kills one of their own? Especially when they go there specifically to kill said bad guy? Seriously, even when bad guy says "go home, I am in no mood for games" or whatever. Oooh, ego blow, but fucking hell. It's your own damn fault for trying to kill the bad guy. Far be it that the bad guy actually defends himself and is defensive because you're trying to cut off his head. *rolls eyes* What're they supposed to do, drop their weapons, spread their arms and go "here I am, the sacrificial lamb to your divine justice, oh end my life so that my evil deeds are ended"? Pfft. Get real.
Sunday, 25 November 2007
Sheldon Novel
Bit of the first chapter I wrote for my NaNoWriMo novel. Which I stopped writing, for now, but have every intention to continue again.
It wasn’t every day that you get to see your own grave. Then again, he didn’t think that it was an experience that most would relish to have. It was raining, of all inane things to happen, and the sky was dark to make the atmosphere have a suitably horror movie-esque feel to it. The thought made his lips twist in a wry smile because God, wasn’t that ever appropriate. He stood vulnerable under the unease of Mother Nature with nary an umbrella in sight to give him protection. Then again, Sheldon supposed that it would be moot, what with him being dead and all.
Fingers trailed over cold stone, numb and wrinkled from the chill of wet clothes clinging onto skin even while the letters carved into the gravestone burnt itself onto his retina:
Sheldon felt the familiar tickle of hysterical laughter at the back of his throat, his eyes stinging so that he was unsure whether the wetness on his cheeks was merely caused by the rain, or also by tears. Beloved son? Whose? A philandering father who was too busy enjoying his separation from his frigid, Catholic wife by sleeping with as many nubile young women as possible? Or the said frigid Catholic mother who was so embittered by her husband that she turned all that rage, all that misplaced religion and buried him in it? The same mother that had declared that he was not her son after she had found out his interest in other men? Lies, all lies. Even his brothers had abandoned him after their parents separated, moving away and neither hide nor hair was seen of either of them for years.
He had no one, no one that he would call his kith or kin, no one who had given a rat’s arse about him, not since he left home at sixteen. He’d given up on such simple-minded hope and built his kingdom with his own two hands. Granted, it wasn’t much of a kingdom yet, but all that mattered was that it was his, and he owed it to no one. He’d taken pride from that thought, pride that he supposed was cold comfort now that it didn’t matter anymore. There were no flowers on his grave, no woman or man weeping for the loss of him. Only cold emptiness, awful loneliness. And the ghost of himself, thinking back on his life and regret bitter and vile on his tongue.
He sank to his knees, uncaring for once in a long time about mud stains on his black jeans. His fingers delved slowly, almost with a morbid sense of reverence, into wet soil. He halted when it had gone in halfway to his knuckles, imagining the body under all that earth and wood reaching up to the touch of a soul somehow given body and corporeal form. Then his hand fisted, catching a handful of earth before his body shook. Sheldon’s forehead fell almost as slowly as a drifting feather onto the freshly turned earth of his grave, felt the rain sliding water on him, around him, through him and thought that the body buried six feet under would at least be buried with a touch of him. It was only right, after all. It was him under there, wasn’t it?
He didn’t hear the approach of the figure, wouldn’t have anyway through the sound of whistling wind and lashing rain, and the warning grumble of thunder in the sky. No, it was more of an awareness, a prickle in his scalp, goosebumps on the hologram of his life-filled flesh that made him aware of the person who stopped just short of his grave, not saying a word. Sheldon knew who it was, though. Who else would do such a thing as to stand under the fury of a building storm without the protection of an umbrella? There was no telltale sound of rain beating against canvas, so he was sure. That, and the acrid scent of smoke mixing with rain and mud answered him. The figure didn’t speak, though, just waited as Sheldon’s body shuddered, breath deep in an attempt to even itself out. Even in death, Sheldon had his pride. It was one of his lesser vices.
“I thought I said I wanted to be alone,” he managed to croak out, voice hoarse from disuse. He felt the toe of a boot kick lightly at his foot, then again as he ignored it.
“I gave you an hour,” a man’s voice answered him, a voice that was deep and gruff, husky like he’d smoked two packs a day for the past ten years, warm bite like whiskey. “Get up, your face is probably muddy.” Sheldon laughed humourlessly at that, despair tingeing the sound. But his voice when he spoke was tired, low. So much so that he wondered if it was unheard over the thunder.
“Oh leave me alone. Haven’t you bothered me enough?”
“Difficult to do that, seeing as how I’m supposed to be your guide.” Irritation clouded the voice, made him know that he wasn’t exactly priority one in the man’s life. Man… hah. He looked enough like a man, that was fact. He wasn’t, though. The entire situation was ludicrous enough that Sheldon would have laughed and thought that he was part of some big cosmic prank, if it wasn’t for the fact that he remembered dying. He remembered how time seemed to slow down as he noticed the approaching car, too fast too stop, too quick for him to move away. He remembered the pain upon impact, how it had shattered his bones, thrown his body several feet, the dull thud of his head against concrete and the warm ooze of blood quickly pooling to soak at his clothes. He remembered the difficulty of breathing, on of his bones puncturing his lungs so that each breath was a difficult, wet gasp. Mostly, he remembered how clear and yet far away he had felt, agonizingly aware of slipping consciousness behind a red haze of pain. The kick at his foot pulled him rudely from his memories and he turned his head, glaring at the man. At Death. Azrael.
He was tall, very tall. In Sheldon’s limited experience with taller-than-average human beings, he would have placed Azrael at almost 7’0”, if Azrael hadn’t corrected him and said that in human terms, he was 6’6”. Sheldon himself wasn’t short, he was at least past the 6’0” boundary by about an inch or so, but he felt dwarfed in the face of Azrael’s height and rangy strength. Sheldon was slender, toned only from jogging and tennis that he played at least twice a week. Azrael looked like some kind of ancient warrior who built his strength in battles and wars. It always disgruntled him to look up at Azrael, since that was rarely so. Many assumed that he would be slighter than his real height, due to his slenderness, the pretty features his childhood had seen matured into a beautiful face that stopped both men and women alike. It was a gift and a curse, his face, and he had learnt to wield it like the finest weapon.
“Please,” he whispered, knowing how pathetic he looked, using how pathetic he looked. He didn’t know if Angels felt as humans did, but it didn’t hurt to try. Azrael, however, seemed unmoved. “Please, just a little longer. I just want to…”
“It’s your own grave,” the angel said, bluntly. “If it were family or a lover’s, I’d understand. I won’t be tolerant to a bit of Narcissistic self-pity, so just get your arse up and move. We’ve already wasted enough time.” He almost didn’t see it, Sheldon was so fast. But superior reflexes saw him dodging the bit of dirt before it hit him square between the eyes. He felt a bit of admiration at the man’s aim, before it was squashed down by temper. “Now, that wasn’t very nice. And look what you’ve done, you’ve desecrated your own grave.”
“I just died!” Sheldon shouted. He had pushed himself to his knees, and now got to his feet unsteadily, propping himself up on his gravestone. “I just got fucking hit by a stupid drunk driver who didn’t even have any decency to stop and call a goddamn ambulance. No, I had to lie in that goddamn road and feel myself bleed to death. It was utter shite and now you want me to move on, whoo hoo hello my afterlife? When my body’s lying six feet underground with a headstone that’s spewing utter tripe about loving family and being missed and having been blessed by a man from a religion I don’t even goddamn believe in? Fuck you!” He whirled around, stomping away with his blood boiling in his veins. Stupid angels, stupid afterlife, stupid… everything. He was only 25 years old, his life had barely started, his career was just beginning and now… Oh god.
He felt his legs give way and he fell to his knees, sobbing. A man who had not shed a real tear in years felt despair crushing down on him. His body shuddered with the force of his sobs and he could dimly hear Azrael’s footsteps, could practically taste his awkwardness as he shifted on his feet, discomfort like bile in the air, so that he choked with it as he gasped in now-unneeded breath. Lightning flashed, illuminating gravestones, trees, the grass in stark relief. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe in, grasped desperately at control. When he opened them again, the next flash of lightning illuminated finely cut features, a surprisingly full and generous mouth, a figure strangely dry and untouched by rain. Azrael, his mind provided him with the name. Death. Closer than ever before and beautiful, eerily so.
It wasn’t every day that you get to see your own grave. Then again, he didn’t think that it was an experience that most would relish to have. It was raining, of all inane things to happen, and the sky was dark to make the atmosphere have a suitably horror movie-esque feel to it. The thought made his lips twist in a wry smile because God, wasn’t that ever appropriate. He stood vulnerable under the unease of Mother Nature with nary an umbrella in sight to give him protection. Then again, Sheldon supposed that it would be moot, what with him being dead and all.
Fingers trailed over cold stone, numb and wrinkled from the chill of wet clothes clinging onto skin even while the letters carved into the gravestone burnt itself onto his retina:
Sheldon Michael Darcy
1982 – 2007
Beloved son and brother
You will be missed.
1982 – 2007
Beloved son and brother
You will be missed.
Sheldon felt the familiar tickle of hysterical laughter at the back of his throat, his eyes stinging so that he was unsure whether the wetness on his cheeks was merely caused by the rain, or also by tears. Beloved son? Whose? A philandering father who was too busy enjoying his separation from his frigid, Catholic wife by sleeping with as many nubile young women as possible? Or the said frigid Catholic mother who was so embittered by her husband that she turned all that rage, all that misplaced religion and buried him in it? The same mother that had declared that he was not her son after she had found out his interest in other men? Lies, all lies. Even his brothers had abandoned him after their parents separated, moving away and neither hide nor hair was seen of either of them for years.
He had no one, no one that he would call his kith or kin, no one who had given a rat’s arse about him, not since he left home at sixteen. He’d given up on such simple-minded hope and built his kingdom with his own two hands. Granted, it wasn’t much of a kingdom yet, but all that mattered was that it was his, and he owed it to no one. He’d taken pride from that thought, pride that he supposed was cold comfort now that it didn’t matter anymore. There were no flowers on his grave, no woman or man weeping for the loss of him. Only cold emptiness, awful loneliness. And the ghost of himself, thinking back on his life and regret bitter and vile on his tongue.
He sank to his knees, uncaring for once in a long time about mud stains on his black jeans. His fingers delved slowly, almost with a morbid sense of reverence, into wet soil. He halted when it had gone in halfway to his knuckles, imagining the body under all that earth and wood reaching up to the touch of a soul somehow given body and corporeal form. Then his hand fisted, catching a handful of earth before his body shook. Sheldon’s forehead fell almost as slowly as a drifting feather onto the freshly turned earth of his grave, felt the rain sliding water on him, around him, through him and thought that the body buried six feet under would at least be buried with a touch of him. It was only right, after all. It was him under there, wasn’t it?
He didn’t hear the approach of the figure, wouldn’t have anyway through the sound of whistling wind and lashing rain, and the warning grumble of thunder in the sky. No, it was more of an awareness, a prickle in his scalp, goosebumps on the hologram of his life-filled flesh that made him aware of the person who stopped just short of his grave, not saying a word. Sheldon knew who it was, though. Who else would do such a thing as to stand under the fury of a building storm without the protection of an umbrella? There was no telltale sound of rain beating against canvas, so he was sure. That, and the acrid scent of smoke mixing with rain and mud answered him. The figure didn’t speak, though, just waited as Sheldon’s body shuddered, breath deep in an attempt to even itself out. Even in death, Sheldon had his pride. It was one of his lesser vices.
“I thought I said I wanted to be alone,” he managed to croak out, voice hoarse from disuse. He felt the toe of a boot kick lightly at his foot, then again as he ignored it.
“I gave you an hour,” a man’s voice answered him, a voice that was deep and gruff, husky like he’d smoked two packs a day for the past ten years, warm bite like whiskey. “Get up, your face is probably muddy.” Sheldon laughed humourlessly at that, despair tingeing the sound. But his voice when he spoke was tired, low. So much so that he wondered if it was unheard over the thunder.
“Oh leave me alone. Haven’t you bothered me enough?”
“Difficult to do that, seeing as how I’m supposed to be your guide.” Irritation clouded the voice, made him know that he wasn’t exactly priority one in the man’s life. Man… hah. He looked enough like a man, that was fact. He wasn’t, though. The entire situation was ludicrous enough that Sheldon would have laughed and thought that he was part of some big cosmic prank, if it wasn’t for the fact that he remembered dying. He remembered how time seemed to slow down as he noticed the approaching car, too fast too stop, too quick for him to move away. He remembered the pain upon impact, how it had shattered his bones, thrown his body several feet, the dull thud of his head against concrete and the warm ooze of blood quickly pooling to soak at his clothes. He remembered the difficulty of breathing, on of his bones puncturing his lungs so that each breath was a difficult, wet gasp. Mostly, he remembered how clear and yet far away he had felt, agonizingly aware of slipping consciousness behind a red haze of pain. The kick at his foot pulled him rudely from his memories and he turned his head, glaring at the man. At Death. Azrael.
He was tall, very tall. In Sheldon’s limited experience with taller-than-average human beings, he would have placed Azrael at almost 7’0”, if Azrael hadn’t corrected him and said that in human terms, he was 6’6”. Sheldon himself wasn’t short, he was at least past the 6’0” boundary by about an inch or so, but he felt dwarfed in the face of Azrael’s height and rangy strength. Sheldon was slender, toned only from jogging and tennis that he played at least twice a week. Azrael looked like some kind of ancient warrior who built his strength in battles and wars. It always disgruntled him to look up at Azrael, since that was rarely so. Many assumed that he would be slighter than his real height, due to his slenderness, the pretty features his childhood had seen matured into a beautiful face that stopped both men and women alike. It was a gift and a curse, his face, and he had learnt to wield it like the finest weapon.
“Please,” he whispered, knowing how pathetic he looked, using how pathetic he looked. He didn’t know if Angels felt as humans did, but it didn’t hurt to try. Azrael, however, seemed unmoved. “Please, just a little longer. I just want to…”
“It’s your own grave,” the angel said, bluntly. “If it were family or a lover’s, I’d understand. I won’t be tolerant to a bit of Narcissistic self-pity, so just get your arse up and move. We’ve already wasted enough time.” He almost didn’t see it, Sheldon was so fast. But superior reflexes saw him dodging the bit of dirt before it hit him square between the eyes. He felt a bit of admiration at the man’s aim, before it was squashed down by temper. “Now, that wasn’t very nice. And look what you’ve done, you’ve desecrated your own grave.”
“I just died!” Sheldon shouted. He had pushed himself to his knees, and now got to his feet unsteadily, propping himself up on his gravestone. “I just got fucking hit by a stupid drunk driver who didn’t even have any decency to stop and call a goddamn ambulance. No, I had to lie in that goddamn road and feel myself bleed to death. It was utter shite and now you want me to move on, whoo hoo hello my afterlife? When my body’s lying six feet underground with a headstone that’s spewing utter tripe about loving family and being missed and having been blessed by a man from a religion I don’t even goddamn believe in? Fuck you!” He whirled around, stomping away with his blood boiling in his veins. Stupid angels, stupid afterlife, stupid… everything. He was only 25 years old, his life had barely started, his career was just beginning and now… Oh god.
He felt his legs give way and he fell to his knees, sobbing. A man who had not shed a real tear in years felt despair crushing down on him. His body shuddered with the force of his sobs and he could dimly hear Azrael’s footsteps, could practically taste his awkwardness as he shifted on his feet, discomfort like bile in the air, so that he choked with it as he gasped in now-unneeded breath. Lightning flashed, illuminating gravestones, trees, the grass in stark relief. He closed his eyes, tried to breathe in, grasped desperately at control. When he opened them again, the next flash of lightning illuminated finely cut features, a surprisingly full and generous mouth, a figure strangely dry and untouched by rain. Azrael, his mind provided him with the name. Death. Closer than ever before and beautiful, eerily so.
My charade is the event of the season
There's something about the lyrics to that song that just gets to me.
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming
I can hear them say
...
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, well
It surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say
...
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
The center lights around your vanity
But surely heaven waits for you
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry (don't you cry no more)
It's mainly the verses that get to me. Plus, the guitar riffs are awesome.
I'm pretty caught up in Caellach's story. I wonder if I should write some shorts or drabbles around the same concept of the story, perhaps looking at Caellach's childhood or some aspect of "the incident". Maybe even a look at his and Fionnlagh's friendship.
Recently, I keep smelling sampoerna from my window. Usually I just think it's my brother since he smokes them and his room is next to mine, and I keep my windows open. But I know for a fact that he hasn't been to the house for a while, and I'm smelling sampoerna now. None of the night guards smoke them, either, so... big mystery.
Also, why the hell am I listening to Barry Manilow? It's on my current playlist along with The Carpenters. Then again said playlist also contains Jamiroquai and Patrick Wolf. Changed layouts for both my writing and RL journal on LJ, and the title to this one. Dreaming in Abstract. Seemed somewhat apt. If I ever write an autobiography, it'll be titled "Coffee, Cigarettes and Notebooks". It kind of seems to be the theme of my life, especially the author part my life. The coffee and cigarettes are everything else. Or perhaps I should change the coffee to Mango Passionfruit Frappuccino... or Milo Ice. But it doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
If I ever get another tattoo, it'll be an ouroboros. This one, to be exact.
This familiar image of the serpent biting it's own tail is meant to imply infinity. Or, possibly, eternally being stuck in the material cycle.
Never say I don't have meaning in my tattoos. I mean, the quill and the "Et in Arcadia Ego" all have perfectly meaningful meanings to me. Quill to signify my dream of being a writer, the quote from Nicholas Poussin, a French Renaissance painter and meaning "Death is present also in Arcadia", which I took to mean that there is bad with ever good and vice versa.
Since this post so far has been an exercise in pointlessness, why not just add a little list. Little known fact about me:
Once I rose above the noise and confusion
Just to get a glimpse beyond this illusion
I was soaring ever higher
But I flew too high
Though my eyes could see I still was a blind man
Though my mind could think I still was a mad man
I hear the voices when I'm dreaming
I can hear them say
...
Masquerading as a man with a reason
My charade is the event of the season
And if I claim to be a wise man, well
It surely means that I don't know
On a stormy sea of moving emotion
Tossed about I'm like a ship on the ocean
I set a course for winds of fortune
But I hear the voices say
...
Carry on, you will always remember
Carry on, nothing equals the splendor
The center lights around your vanity
But surely heaven waits for you
Carry on my wayward son
There'll be peace when you are done
Lay your weary head to rest
Don't you cry (don't you cry no more)
It's mainly the verses that get to me. Plus, the guitar riffs are awesome.
I'm pretty caught up in Caellach's story. I wonder if I should write some shorts or drabbles around the same concept of the story, perhaps looking at Caellach's childhood or some aspect of "the incident". Maybe even a look at his and Fionnlagh's friendship.
Recently, I keep smelling sampoerna from my window. Usually I just think it's my brother since he smokes them and his room is next to mine, and I keep my windows open. But I know for a fact that he hasn't been to the house for a while, and I'm smelling sampoerna now. None of the night guards smoke them, either, so... big mystery.
Also, why the hell am I listening to Barry Manilow? It's on my current playlist along with The Carpenters. Then again said playlist also contains Jamiroquai and Patrick Wolf. Changed layouts for both my writing and RL journal on LJ, and the title to this one. Dreaming in Abstract. Seemed somewhat apt. If I ever write an autobiography, it'll be titled "Coffee, Cigarettes and Notebooks". It kind of seems to be the theme of my life, especially the author part my life. The coffee and cigarettes are everything else. Or perhaps I should change the coffee to Mango Passionfruit Frappuccino... or Milo Ice. But it doesn't quite have the same ring to it.
If I ever get another tattoo, it'll be an ouroboros. This one, to be exact.
This familiar image of the serpent biting it's own tail is meant to imply infinity. Or, possibly, eternally being stuck in the material cycle.
Never say I don't have meaning in my tattoos. I mean, the quill and the "Et in Arcadia Ego" all have perfectly meaningful meanings to me. Quill to signify my dream of being a writer, the quote from Nicholas Poussin, a French Renaissance painter and meaning "Death is present also in Arcadia", which I took to mean that there is bad with ever good and vice versa.
Since this post so far has been an exercise in pointlessness, why not just add a little list. Little known fact about me:
- I smoke a lot. Yes, we all knew that, but did you know that my morning cigarette consists of my smoking in the shower? As I take said shower? Well, now you do.
- I like stiletto heels. I wear them. People seem to find this strange, I don't live in converse though it might seem as though I do, but not so much recently.
- I don't actually like writing poetry. Hence why I do it not so often. But sometimes I get the urge to put pen to paper and not just ramble on about myself or my random thoughts, or write pointless bits of stories that I never finish. However, I get very, very frustrated with my own perceived inability to write poetry.
- I have an obsessive personality. Yes, we all know this as well, but it extends beyond men, oh the shock and horror. I have a leaning-on-OCD obsession with my stationary. I only use one corner of my eraser at a time. If someone borrows said eraser and uses a fresh corner, I get a little freaked out and pissed off. I also buy a few same type of pens in the same colour and number them. Because I like to use up one pen at a time and if someone needs to borrow my pens, I give them one that I've already used (usually the one I was writing with at the time) and use a new one myself. I don't like giving people my new, unused pens. My obsessive personality also comes out in Photoshop. I tend to spend ages and ages making sure details are right. Like, if I'm using another layer to change the colour of a photo or something, and want only one aspect of that photo changed, then (taking the example of hair) I make sure to go around every single goddamn strand of hair if possible, so that it looks as authentic as possible.
- I fully support gay relationships. I don't see anything wrong with it and it gets my hackles up whenever someone says derogatory comments about said relationships. In fact, I'm a fan of the gay. In fact, I read gay fantasy fiction.
- I has an obsession for the Japanese things. Like their music (rock, because JRock rocks the motherfucking Casbah), their TV (JDramas are much fun), their comics (manga, how I adore thee) and their cartoons (anime, shall I compare you to a Summer's day?).
- While I have guy-ish tendencies in my choice of movies, I simply cannot take horror movies. I'm a wuss. Anything to do with ghosts and psychologically freaking me out and I bail. But I freak out quietly because I hate having other people see me weak.
- Has to do with what I said in point seven. While I hate to be perceived as weak, I cry quite easily. I hate it when I do, but hey. Also, I fake tears pretty damn well. I can cry on will. I have freaked out my brothers and sister many a time due to this.
- Although I bemoan my being single like most girls, I actually have intimacy issues... okay, that's not quite right. I have commitment issues. I'm very skeptical about declarations of "I love yous" and the like. I pretty much take it for granted that whatever relationship I get into is going to end anyway, especially at this point. Although I'm a romantic at heart, I'm cynical about my contemporaries' relationships.
- I'm a believer of trying things out before you decide it's not for you. And aside from my seeming tobacco addiction, I dislike it when people fall to so-called "addiction". I believe that if the strength of will is there, any habit is possible to break out of. As such, people who use inebriation as an excuse for their behaviour I have absolutely no sympathy for. If you say you couldn't keep your goddamn panties on because you were "too drunk", screw that. If I could do it, I'm pretty sure other people can as well.
Tuesday, 23 October 2007
Need. To Stop. Reading. JPop. RPS. NOW.
But oh god it eats at my brain. A lot. So very, very distracting. And dudes, stop me from killing my iPod from overlistenig to Shuji to Akira's Seishun Amigo. And Yamashita Tomohisa's Daite Senorita. Please. Please.
So aside from my rather embarrassing decline into JPop-dom as opposed to JRock (Oh god, KAT-TUN fangirling, because those boys are NUTS and gay and CRAZY and just so, so funny) and being blown away by how different and sexy Yamapi's singing voice is to his normal voice, things are progressing normally. Last Sunday I was one of the minor bridesmaids in Maya's wedding, I have discovered a shop that actually caters to my impossible-to-buy-shoes-for-big-feet, and bought a pair of gorgeous olive green heels. The only drink from Starbucks that I actually like and am addicted to is still the mango passionfruit frappuccino and I just bought House season three box set, Supernatural season two boxset, Death Note one and two, along with The Vision of Escaflowne and 1 Litre no Namida which features the hot, hot, hot Nishikido Ryo from NewS(God, why do I like the snarky, evil bastards, anyway?). Vicki, the bint that she is, has gotten me addicted to Tygati's writing and I'm busily reading up her stuff. Vicki recommends the Kidnapped saga, and I swear, WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?! It's too freakin' long, what with Maderrs version of it as well and GAH. But yes, my lack of willpower and their fantastic writing will see me flail as my lack of willpower sees with more late nights finishing it.
I have finished one of the three books that I bought recently, which were Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, and I'm now reading Douglas Coupland's JPod and still have Janet Fitch's Paint it Black to go. Neverwhere... I adored. I love Neil Gaiman's works. I first read one of the Sandman series (Endless Nights, which I just found to be gorgeous) and then I read American Gods and really, he's shaping up to be one my favourite authors. It's fantasy at it's best and one thing I just loved about it all was how normal the main character was. It's just wonderful. And the Duke de Carabas is just this most amazing flawed character who's shady and cunning and selfish and greedy yet has these rare moments of humanity that's just all the more powerful for how much it juxtaposed his normal character, and how Neil Gaiman has twisted the London I know and love into the dark, interesting world of London Below is just... wow. Best characters are de Carabas and Door. It's touching, dark, ironic and funny and just wonderful. The awkward developing relationship between Door and Richard was just so realistically portrayed and... Yes. Much recommendation for this book.
JPod, from what I've read, promises to be a great read. It's ironic and sarcastic and just utterly brilliant. That is all I can say for now because really, I've a long ways to go before finishing.
I will be taking part in NaNoWriMo officially this year, I've decided, so I need to think up some ideas and pronto. I've one already that I'm contemplating and it's... interesting. Oft times quite dark but it promises to delve deeper into the human psyche, this idea of foreseeing the future and what that kind of power would do to someone, if it really is a gift or a curse. I'm also toying with a few ideas that I came up with before but haven't written, one of which is based on the concept of self-judgement after death, what you would do if you had no choice but to truthfully, without bias, set your own fate for either heaven or eternal damnation... and whether such things exist outside the scope of the individual's belief. It follows a young man who died too early, who had a bright future and endless talent, brought up Catholic and renouncing religion after he fell in love for the first time at the age of fourteen with the priest of the church his family frequented.
Another idea explores the concept of alternative worlds within art, if there was somehow a doorway to connect such things, how emotions and plots and memories are absorbed by them, contorting them constantly. It revolves especially around David's The Dead Marat painting, then goes on to a few others like Munch's The Scream and Manet's Bar at the Folies-Bergere. How realism and illusion blurs until it becomes unclear what is reality and what is illusion, and if it really was illusion or a different sort of reality.
Aside from that, a lighter horror/fantasy novel with romance, witty quips, handsome bastard anti-heroes and a sarcastic, mouthy, bitchy woman reluctantly placed in the role of heroine. Probably with vampires, or witches, or both.
The second brother made me watch Goal 1 and 2. And The Bourne Ultimatum just confirmed my love for the trilogy and Matt Damon and his sexy, sexy back. Guns, carchases, political intrigue and backstabbing, and assassins with a conscience, what's not to love?
Anyway, will go now. Need to finish blasted Akame RPS and stuff before wireless cuts down.
But oh god it eats at my brain. A lot. So very, very distracting. And dudes, stop me from killing my iPod from overlistenig to Shuji to Akira's Seishun Amigo. And Yamashita Tomohisa's Daite Senorita. Please. Please.
So aside from my rather embarrassing decline into JPop-dom as opposed to JRock (Oh god, KAT-TUN fangirling, because those boys are NUTS and gay and CRAZY and just so, so funny) and being blown away by how different and sexy Yamapi's singing voice is to his normal voice, things are progressing normally. Last Sunday I was one of the minor bridesmaids in Maya's wedding, I have discovered a shop that actually caters to my impossible-to-buy-shoes-for-big-feet, and bought a pair of gorgeous olive green heels. The only drink from Starbucks that I actually like and am addicted to is still the mango passionfruit frappuccino and I just bought House season three box set, Supernatural season two boxset, Death Note one and two, along with The Vision of Escaflowne and 1 Litre no Namida which features the hot, hot, hot Nishikido Ryo from NewS(God, why do I like the snarky, evil bastards, anyway?). Vicki, the bint that she is, has gotten me addicted to Tygati's writing and I'm busily reading up her stuff. Vicki recommends the Kidnapped saga, and I swear, WHY DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?! It's too freakin' long, what with Maderrs version of it as well and GAH. But yes, my lack of willpower and their fantastic writing will see me flail as my lack of willpower sees with more late nights finishing it.
I have finished one of the three books that I bought recently, which were Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere, and I'm now reading Douglas Coupland's JPod and still have Janet Fitch's Paint it Black to go. Neverwhere... I adored. I love Neil Gaiman's works. I first read one of the Sandman series (Endless Nights, which I just found to be gorgeous) and then I read American Gods and really, he's shaping up to be one my favourite authors. It's fantasy at it's best and one thing I just loved about it all was how normal the main character was. It's just wonderful. And the Duke de Carabas is just this most amazing flawed character who's shady and cunning and selfish and greedy yet has these rare moments of humanity that's just all the more powerful for how much it juxtaposed his normal character, and how Neil Gaiman has twisted the London I know and love into the dark, interesting world of London Below is just... wow. Best characters are de Carabas and Door. It's touching, dark, ironic and funny and just wonderful. The awkward developing relationship between Door and Richard was just so realistically portrayed and... Yes. Much recommendation for this book.
JPod, from what I've read, promises to be a great read. It's ironic and sarcastic and just utterly brilliant. That is all I can say for now because really, I've a long ways to go before finishing.
I will be taking part in NaNoWriMo officially this year, I've decided, so I need to think up some ideas and pronto. I've one already that I'm contemplating and it's... interesting. Oft times quite dark but it promises to delve deeper into the human psyche, this idea of foreseeing the future and what that kind of power would do to someone, if it really is a gift or a curse. I'm also toying with a few ideas that I came up with before but haven't written, one of which is based on the concept of self-judgement after death, what you would do if you had no choice but to truthfully, without bias, set your own fate for either heaven or eternal damnation... and whether such things exist outside the scope of the individual's belief. It follows a young man who died too early, who had a bright future and endless talent, brought up Catholic and renouncing religion after he fell in love for the first time at the age of fourteen with the priest of the church his family frequented.
Another idea explores the concept of alternative worlds within art, if there was somehow a doorway to connect such things, how emotions and plots and memories are absorbed by them, contorting them constantly. It revolves especially around David's The Dead Marat painting, then goes on to a few others like Munch's The Scream and Manet's Bar at the Folies-Bergere. How realism and illusion blurs until it becomes unclear what is reality and what is illusion, and if it really was illusion or a different sort of reality.
Aside from that, a lighter horror/fantasy novel with romance, witty quips, handsome bastard anti-heroes and a sarcastic, mouthy, bitchy woman reluctantly placed in the role of heroine. Probably with vampires, or witches, or both.
The second brother made me watch Goal 1 and 2. And The Bourne Ultimatum just confirmed my love for the trilogy and Matt Damon and his sexy, sexy back. Guns, carchases, political intrigue and backstabbing, and assassins with a conscience, what's not to love?
Anyway, will go now. Need to finish blasted Akame RPS and stuff before wireless cuts down.
Monday, 8 October 2007
Monday, 17 September 2007
Hola.... travelling and other things
Ladies and gentlemen, I come to you from my brand spankin' new laptop. Meet Derek Z (Or Derek Zoolander, the "really, really ridiculously good looking" laptop), the black MacBook and my one true love. I am in supreme happy mode. Somehow, he is now also shortened to 'Dez'.
Anyway, it's been a while since I last updated. Nothing much has happened to me so far, except a few minor things of note... and some not so minor. I went to Cairo about two weeks ago. It was fantastic! We went to see the pyramids in Giza and Sakaara, we visited a tomb and went into the pyramid, which was an experience in itself. I sat on a camel, as did my parents. My mum was so scared, though. Camels are much taller than I expected them to be. Also, the skinny legs does in no way make you feel at all secure. Also, going down was kinda scary, but it was fun. Probably not for my mum, who screamed bloody murder, but hey. She even thought King Arthur was scary.
Egypt, or at least Cairo, is magical. At least to me. It's this cosmopolitan city packed full of cars, people and buildings yet it retains an almost otherworldly atmosphere. The buildings range from ultra modern steel and glass to crumbling 12th century stone which, by the way, is still being used. The range and style of architecture is amazing. It's parts ancient civilisation, parts modern cosmopolitan and parts genteel English (kinda weird, yes). The traffic scares the bejeezus out of me. Two lanes, what's that? It's a free for all. They jam pack as many lanes into one road as possible. There might be two different roads and you'd think one goes in one direction while the other goes another, but noooo.... it all depends on who gets there firts. There are cars driving over dividing pavement to get to the other road in order to escape one of their many, many traffic jams. There are all sorts of cars, Japanese, American, European... Yet the taxis are these quaint old models like from a sixties movie. Instead of buses, you see people packed into vans. Crossing the road is a death defying act.
The impression that Cairo gave me was noise and age. These people live at night. From the balcony of my hotel room I can hear a party rage on until about four or five in the morning. The food is fantastic, we had local cuisine in a gem of a restaurant that our tour guide took us to where they greeted new guests at the foot of the stairs with drums. It does the job of both making you feel extremely special and welcome, and also of informing the staff that there are guests. We saw two wrinkled old women with huge grins chatting and talking to each other while sitting cross legged next to two stiflingly hot stone ovens putting in homemade bread.
Our tour guide was a guy called Mohammad. He is an extremely informative guy, which one would expect from a tour guide. But it was more than that. He knew his Egyptian history back to front, as did most of the Egyptians we talked to. My mum said it right when she noted that they were "Egyptians first, Muslims second". To them, their ancient history is something they are still so aware of, something which they know so well. It's a matter of pride to them. However, it is not merely work or pride that was the cause of our guide's extensive knowledge, oh no. We discovered that Mohammad had a degree in Egyptology. The guide in the Egyptian Museum had a degree in Anthropology. He didn't look like it at all, he looked like a disreputable man way past his prime with yellowing teeth dotting with black, a wrinkled shirt that was once white but was now beige-ish. His hair was mostly salt than pepper. But he spoke clearly, confidently, knowledgeably. Around us, thousands of tourists walked the halls of the Museum looking at treasures, at weapons, at sculptures and coffins... thousands upon thousands of artifacts and while our guide gave us our tour in English, around us we heard tours in Russian, Spanish, Italian, French... all given by Egyptian guides.
I found out that in school in Egypt, one learnt, obviously, in Arabic. Not only that, but English as well. Some schools offered English and French. Others English and German and so on. Mohammad spoke English, Arabic and Spanish, his wife spoke English, Arabic, and her French was more fluent than her already excellent English. The daughter, Asmaa, spoke English, Arabic, a bit of French and Italian. Her sister learnt German. They are a very linguistically talented people.
What made Cairo also seem a little unreal is the geography, the landscape. It's a thriving city with the Nile running through New Cairo and lush greenery springing forth from there. There's a multitude of date trees, sweet mangoes and other delightfully fruit. But the other side, so very near to that green is the desert. Harsh, unforgiving, sweltering. The heat of it was everywhere in Cairo, but it's worse at the desert. The heat is almost physical there, weighing you down, draping over your body like a blanket.
The shopping there was great, though. We bought some interesting stuff. Essential oils, Egyptian cotton, papyrus paintings and the like. We got khartoushes made (name written in hieroglyphs) and I bought a pendant with the symbol of Isis. We went to one of the biggest bazaars and went shopping again, got some traditional Egyptian clothes, sipped tea by the sidewalk... it was nice. On Wednesday, we're going to Cape Town for a few days, my parents were raving about it so I can't wait to see what it's like.
Anyway, that's it from me for now. How's everyone?
Anyway, it's been a while since I last updated. Nothing much has happened to me so far, except a few minor things of note... and some not so minor. I went to Cairo about two weeks ago. It was fantastic! We went to see the pyramids in Giza and Sakaara, we visited a tomb and went into the pyramid, which was an experience in itself. I sat on a camel, as did my parents. My mum was so scared, though. Camels are much taller than I expected them to be. Also, the skinny legs does in no way make you feel at all secure. Also, going down was kinda scary, but it was fun. Probably not for my mum, who screamed bloody murder, but hey. She even thought King Arthur was scary.
Egypt, or at least Cairo, is magical. At least to me. It's this cosmopolitan city packed full of cars, people and buildings yet it retains an almost otherworldly atmosphere. The buildings range from ultra modern steel and glass to crumbling 12th century stone which, by the way, is still being used. The range and style of architecture is amazing. It's parts ancient civilisation, parts modern cosmopolitan and parts genteel English (kinda weird, yes). The traffic scares the bejeezus out of me. Two lanes, what's that? It's a free for all. They jam pack as many lanes into one road as possible. There might be two different roads and you'd think one goes in one direction while the other goes another, but noooo.... it all depends on who gets there firts. There are cars driving over dividing pavement to get to the other road in order to escape one of their many, many traffic jams. There are all sorts of cars, Japanese, American, European... Yet the taxis are these quaint old models like from a sixties movie. Instead of buses, you see people packed into vans. Crossing the road is a death defying act.
The impression that Cairo gave me was noise and age. These people live at night. From the balcony of my hotel room I can hear a party rage on until about four or five in the morning. The food is fantastic, we had local cuisine in a gem of a restaurant that our tour guide took us to where they greeted new guests at the foot of the stairs with drums. It does the job of both making you feel extremely special and welcome, and also of informing the staff that there are guests. We saw two wrinkled old women with huge grins chatting and talking to each other while sitting cross legged next to two stiflingly hot stone ovens putting in homemade bread.
Our tour guide was a guy called Mohammad. He is an extremely informative guy, which one would expect from a tour guide. But it was more than that. He knew his Egyptian history back to front, as did most of the Egyptians we talked to. My mum said it right when she noted that they were "Egyptians first, Muslims second". To them, their ancient history is something they are still so aware of, something which they know so well. It's a matter of pride to them. However, it is not merely work or pride that was the cause of our guide's extensive knowledge, oh no. We discovered that Mohammad had a degree in Egyptology. The guide in the Egyptian Museum had a degree in Anthropology. He didn't look like it at all, he looked like a disreputable man way past his prime with yellowing teeth dotting with black, a wrinkled shirt that was once white but was now beige-ish. His hair was mostly salt than pepper. But he spoke clearly, confidently, knowledgeably. Around us, thousands of tourists walked the halls of the Museum looking at treasures, at weapons, at sculptures and coffins... thousands upon thousands of artifacts and while our guide gave us our tour in English, around us we heard tours in Russian, Spanish, Italian, French... all given by Egyptian guides.
I found out that in school in Egypt, one learnt, obviously, in Arabic. Not only that, but English as well. Some schools offered English and French. Others English and German and so on. Mohammad spoke English, Arabic and Spanish, his wife spoke English, Arabic, and her French was more fluent than her already excellent English. The daughter, Asmaa, spoke English, Arabic, a bit of French and Italian. Her sister learnt German. They are a very linguistically talented people.
What made Cairo also seem a little unreal is the geography, the landscape. It's a thriving city with the Nile running through New Cairo and lush greenery springing forth from there. There's a multitude of date trees, sweet mangoes and other delightfully fruit. But the other side, so very near to that green is the desert. Harsh, unforgiving, sweltering. The heat of it was everywhere in Cairo, but it's worse at the desert. The heat is almost physical there, weighing you down, draping over your body like a blanket.
The shopping there was great, though. We bought some interesting stuff. Essential oils, Egyptian cotton, papyrus paintings and the like. We got khartoushes made (name written in hieroglyphs) and I bought a pendant with the symbol of Isis. We went to one of the biggest bazaars and went shopping again, got some traditional Egyptian clothes, sipped tea by the sidewalk... it was nice. On Wednesday, we're going to Cape Town for a few days, my parents were raving about it so I can't wait to see what it's like.
Anyway, that's it from me for now. How's everyone?
Monday, 20 August 2007
Recollections and formal goodbyes
You know what I miss? The little, simple things. Like waking up in the morning to watch cartoons (although to be fair, erase the morning and put in "afternoon", that would still sometimes be me), getting excited about the prize in a box of cereal... Hell. I don't get excited, but I still like them. I'm almost tempted to set up a collection. Why, I'm not quite sure...
I miss the smell of coffee and warm bread in the morning. I miss the rush to get up in time to get to school. I miss running a little to catch up with friends on the walk to school. I miss the rigid schedule (even though I said I'd hit myself if I ever thought that before I, well, I suppose I "graduated high school"). I miss waking up with only about two or three hours of sleep because I was up late the night before for absolutely no reason, or because I had overdue work. I miss doing my work by lamplight at night in my bed while my eyes just keep closing by their own volition. I miss meaning to wake up in the morning to finish up a bit of homework, only to hit the snooze button a million times because I was too tired due to sleepling late as usual, and ending up frantically trying to finish up the work due in that day in some other teacher's class, or just skipping whole chunks of lessons because "I had to go to the San due to a headache". Or stumbling into the house staffroom just before it was due to go for school, and croaking that I didn't "feel very well" and look suitably pathetic in order to be given a day off.
I miss climbing trees. Playing with the guy cousins because back before I hit about twelve, I was a complete tomboy who ignored her girl cousins and hung out with the boys because she feels more at home with them (right now, that very same tomboy who kickied a football around with the boys, skinned her knees and climbed trees has a large ratio of female over male friends, ironically enough).
I was part of a little trio with some of my cousins. Three of us born in the same year, two boys and a girl and I was the middle. I did everything with them. We played video games, we played those collectible card things... everything. I remember when we were at our grandparents' place one Raya when the boys and I snuck around with one of my older cousins and his friend from 'round the corner and we sat around and smoked. God, I couldn't have been more than twelve at that point. And I remember that the ruckus it caused when we got caught. Well, I said "we", but really it was only "them" because I was protected. They wouldn't sell me out.
My girl cousin, Niena, told me once that the boys of our muskateer group used to piss me off and I'd sulk over to their older sisters to play at being a girl, picking up a barbie doll. And the poor duo would later troup over to me and appologise and I'd forget about the girls and happily hung around with the boys again.
God, what happened to those days? I hardly ever talk to them anymore, those boy cousins of mine. We've gone off in completely different directions. One's a little punk, but then again he hasn't changed much from childhood. But he's alright. The other's gone and grown like a beanpole even though he used to be such a tiny kid. Hell, this is a late growth spurt since it came so recent. I was the tallest one of them all for such a long time, and, well, by Western standards I'm.... petitite. He wants to be a chef. Me? Still want to be an author. But oh, how it does feel like the impossible dream at the moment.
I've been distracted, recently. Haven't been able to write much of anything at all, but I will. I'll start. I have a year, I need to get my focus back. My sister... she's there for me completely and I don't know how I'll thank her. She's so encouraging, telling me that I should really focus on my writing now that I'm on my GAP year, encouraging me to write little articles or stories for magazines and such for work. I miss her. I'll hardly see her, since she's working in London and I'm back in Malaysia.
I'll miss everyone. I'll miss London. I'll miss going out to the tube at a moment's notice and go out with someone. I'll miss going 'round to the newsagent's for a pack of cigarettes whenever I've run out and chatting with the owner. I'll miss going to the pub whenever there's football on, and being surrounded by the exuberant crowd who's cheering along with me and laughing. I'll miss going to the park on a good day with my friends wtih a bottle of wine and paper cups and some food from convenience stores. I'll miss the performers in Covent Garden and Ben's Cookies. I'll miss Camden with it's dearth of people and bohemian charm, and the random Jamaican guys walking around going "do you want some marijuana? We got some marijuana", and the groups of people hanging around by the bridge with their instruments out. I'll miss the clothes, the mix of fashion on the streets from "messy" sloane chic, trousers down to your arse, business smart, drab casual, indie glam... Proper indie, not the oversold crap that everyone's dressed in that makes them look like the hybrid children of emo and commercial indie.
I'll miss KOKO and Bright Young Things nights with the girls in their fairy wings and the guys in the military jackets, the corsets and heels and pointy shoes and cigarettes and compliments on my fedora (which I have misplaced). I'll miss Fabric with it's endlessly long queues until five in the morning, and weed scented air and thunderous music and people utterly losing themselves in the hard beat of drum and bass. I'll miss the Gardening Club with it's supposedly "over 21s" age limit and cheesy music, it's friendly bouncers and the strange mix of crowd, but most of all teh nights I've spent there with my friends dancing to Pretty Woman, Sexy Back, Reach for the Stars, Ice Ice Baby and other ridiculously mixed up tracks.
So this... This is my formal goodbye. This is me saying, I'll miss you and I'll always love you not to a person, something I still haven't done yet. But to a place, a stage in my life. To school with it's iditoic beureaucracy, and rigid structure. To London and the independent, fun filled life I've lived there and the heartaches and the laughter that I've seen in it, gone through in it.
I'll be back to London, this I have complete fait in. I'll go back to London for Uni next year, because I'll have it no other way. I will go back to London. But to school, to the past over a decade of my life... I say good bye, it was nice to have been through you. You've taught me a lot.
I guess I'm only doing this now because I never had a formal goodbye at school. I left so suddenly after all, so abruptly. I didn't even go to Leaver's Ball. So... Bye. I have hardly any regrets and what I have... well, it's too late to change it, anyway. And it's not too big of a regret, anyway.
I miss the smell of coffee and warm bread in the morning. I miss the rush to get up in time to get to school. I miss running a little to catch up with friends on the walk to school. I miss the rigid schedule (even though I said I'd hit myself if I ever thought that before I, well, I suppose I "graduated high school"). I miss waking up with only about two or three hours of sleep because I was up late the night before for absolutely no reason, or because I had overdue work. I miss doing my work by lamplight at night in my bed while my eyes just keep closing by their own volition. I miss meaning to wake up in the morning to finish up a bit of homework, only to hit the snooze button a million times because I was too tired due to sleepling late as usual, and ending up frantically trying to finish up the work due in that day in some other teacher's class, or just skipping whole chunks of lessons because "I had to go to the San due to a headache". Or stumbling into the house staffroom just before it was due to go for school, and croaking that I didn't "feel very well" and look suitably pathetic in order to be given a day off.
I miss climbing trees. Playing with the guy cousins because back before I hit about twelve, I was a complete tomboy who ignored her girl cousins and hung out with the boys because she feels more at home with them (right now, that very same tomboy who kickied a football around with the boys, skinned her knees and climbed trees has a large ratio of female over male friends, ironically enough).
I was part of a little trio with some of my cousins. Three of us born in the same year, two boys and a girl and I was the middle. I did everything with them. We played video games, we played those collectible card things... everything. I remember when we were at our grandparents' place one Raya when the boys and I snuck around with one of my older cousins and his friend from 'round the corner and we sat around and smoked. God, I couldn't have been more than twelve at that point. And I remember that the ruckus it caused when we got caught. Well, I said "we", but really it was only "them" because I was protected. They wouldn't sell me out.
My girl cousin, Niena, told me once that the boys of our muskateer group used to piss me off and I'd sulk over to their older sisters to play at being a girl, picking up a barbie doll. And the poor duo would later troup over to me and appologise and I'd forget about the girls and happily hung around with the boys again.
God, what happened to those days? I hardly ever talk to them anymore, those boy cousins of mine. We've gone off in completely different directions. One's a little punk, but then again he hasn't changed much from childhood. But he's alright. The other's gone and grown like a beanpole even though he used to be such a tiny kid. Hell, this is a late growth spurt since it came so recent. I was the tallest one of them all for such a long time, and, well, by Western standards I'm.... petitite. He wants to be a chef. Me? Still want to be an author. But oh, how it does feel like the impossible dream at the moment.
I've been distracted, recently. Haven't been able to write much of anything at all, but I will. I'll start. I have a year, I need to get my focus back. My sister... she's there for me completely and I don't know how I'll thank her. She's so encouraging, telling me that I should really focus on my writing now that I'm on my GAP year, encouraging me to write little articles or stories for magazines and such for work. I miss her. I'll hardly see her, since she's working in London and I'm back in Malaysia.
I'll miss everyone. I'll miss London. I'll miss going out to the tube at a moment's notice and go out with someone. I'll miss going 'round to the newsagent's for a pack of cigarettes whenever I've run out and chatting with the owner. I'll miss going to the pub whenever there's football on, and being surrounded by the exuberant crowd who's cheering along with me and laughing. I'll miss going to the park on a good day with my friends wtih a bottle of wine and paper cups and some food from convenience stores. I'll miss the performers in Covent Garden and Ben's Cookies. I'll miss Camden with it's dearth of people and bohemian charm, and the random Jamaican guys walking around going "do you want some marijuana? We got some marijuana", and the groups of people hanging around by the bridge with their instruments out. I'll miss the clothes, the mix of fashion on the streets from "messy" sloane chic, trousers down to your arse, business smart, drab casual, indie glam... Proper indie, not the oversold crap that everyone's dressed in that makes them look like the hybrid children of emo and commercial indie.
I'll miss KOKO and Bright Young Things nights with the girls in their fairy wings and the guys in the military jackets, the corsets and heels and pointy shoes and cigarettes and compliments on my fedora (which I have misplaced). I'll miss Fabric with it's endlessly long queues until five in the morning, and weed scented air and thunderous music and people utterly losing themselves in the hard beat of drum and bass. I'll miss the Gardening Club with it's supposedly "over 21s" age limit and cheesy music, it's friendly bouncers and the strange mix of crowd, but most of all teh nights I've spent there with my friends dancing to Pretty Woman, Sexy Back, Reach for the Stars, Ice Ice Baby and other ridiculously mixed up tracks.
So this... This is my formal goodbye. This is me saying, I'll miss you and I'll always love you not to a person, something I still haven't done yet. But to a place, a stage in my life. To school with it's iditoic beureaucracy, and rigid structure. To London and the independent, fun filled life I've lived there and the heartaches and the laughter that I've seen in it, gone through in it.
I'll be back to London, this I have complete fait in. I'll go back to London for Uni next year, because I'll have it no other way. I will go back to London. But to school, to the past over a decade of my life... I say good bye, it was nice to have been through you. You've taught me a lot.
I guess I'm only doing this now because I never had a formal goodbye at school. I left so suddenly after all, so abruptly. I didn't even go to Leaver's Ball. So... Bye. I have hardly any regrets and what I have... well, it's too late to change it, anyway. And it's not too big of a regret, anyway.
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Untitled
I had a friend who said:
"I need to stop trying."
He sat by the window, on my bed,
And he seemed to be crying.
He was alone in this world,
Just trying hard to get by;
Is this what he meant that day?
What did he mean to say?
It's in the news, what he did,
He stood on top of a building, arms spread;
"God hates me," is what he said,
"Why did I have to be left all alone?"
The TV flickers in my room,
The channel's switched to the news;
It's half past four, it's on the clock,
I feel helpless, starig at a man with nothing to lose.
It's in the news, what he did,
He stood on top of a building, arms spread;
"God hates me," is what he said,
"Why did I have to be left all alone?"
It's cold, even though the sun's shining,
Why couldn't I see what he was planning?
He stood on a building, arms spread.
And Lord, he was smiling.
Smiling like he was free.
"I need to stop trying," is what he said,
It's the last thing he ever said to me.
"I need to stop trying."
He sat by the window, on my bed,
And he seemed to be crying.
He was alone in this world,
Just trying hard to get by;
Is this what he meant that day?
What did he mean to say?
It's in the news, what he did,
He stood on top of a building, arms spread;
"God hates me," is what he said,
"Why did I have to be left all alone?"
The TV flickers in my room,
The channel's switched to the news;
It's half past four, it's on the clock,
I feel helpless, starig at a man with nothing to lose.
It's in the news, what he did,
He stood on top of a building, arms spread;
"God hates me," is what he said,
"Why did I have to be left all alone?"
It's cold, even though the sun's shining,
Why couldn't I see what he was planning?
He stood on a building, arms spread.
And Lord, he was smiling.
Smiling like he was free.
"I need to stop trying," is what he said,
It's the last thing he ever said to me.
Thursday, 22 March 2007
...
So, uh, I bombed my mocks. *scratches head* And I've taken the cowardly way out and have ignored my parents' calls and my guardian's calls as well. Though to be fair I WAS ill for the past few days. And I'm feeling that headache brewing behind my eyes again. Oh god. Now I'm feeling properly chastened with my tail between my legs. All I want to do is to curl up in bed with the curtains drawn and sleep for the next hundred years. The whole waking up with true love's first kiss is entirely not necessary. Optional, but not necessary.
I've only got slightly over a week left until the end of term when it will finally be the Easter holidays and yet I'm not completely looking forward to that. Who would, though? I've only got three weeks, then comes the last term and my exams. My first exam is no the 24th of May, and my final exam is on the 25th of June. I have 12 papers including those units that I'm resitting. After which I have a week before Leaver's Ball, which I'm still contemplating not going. If I DO go, I'll have to start looking around for dresses. It's a bigger deal than prom, after all. Leaver's Ball is THE biggest event of the year, and it's our final party together. It's going to be black tie. The theme is 'Secret Garden' and the school usually has a huge marquee and uses a large part of the school grounds as part of it. They hire professional decorators, and apparently we have a casino room and a complete free flow of champagne and huge fireworks show. And when CLC says huge, it means MASSIVE.
In a way, I'm looking forward to it, the end, the big bang of my five years. The end of the end. It draws my school years to a close, finally, and then I will make my way. I'll go to Malaysia for the majority of my GAP year, I'll work, I'll garner some sort of life experience. I'll hang out with old friends, strengthen ties that have weakened, hopefully. And I'll meet new people, findo out new things, gather new experiences. I'm looking forward to it. I'll need to apply to University, though. I'll also need to re-write my personal statement.
I'm also going through a little crisis, though. In regards to what I want to do in Uni. Am I so sure that I want to spend three years doing History of Art and Archaeology? Do I really? I thought I did, I do love the subject but with abject failure staring at me in the face, I can't help but flounder and question myself. Do I really know what I want? Am I really capable of it? And what the hell do I even know about archaeology? I don't want this to be some spur-of-the-moment decision that I know it kind of was. I don't want to go to University and panic in the face of realising that I've made the biggest mistake in my life. Do I really want to face that in my life? Do I really want to go to Uni for three years doing something that I will find out that I have absolutely no talent for, or I have no interest in therefore I'll just snooze through and fail and utterly have nothing in my life?
It's all been so easy for me, you see. All my life, I've always somehow managed to scrape through doing the absolute minimum and sometimes not even that. I've been told that I'm a bright child. Things come to me easily, especially when I'm interested in it. Especially when I was younger. Whatever I've REALLy wanted to get I've managed to obtain with little effort. I wanted to go to KTJ for boarding school; I got in. I wanted to go to the UK to study before PMR, even though my grades were shite; I got into every. single. school I applied for and did the entrance exams for. For three of those four schools, they offered to put me up in the upper grade, despite my abysmal mathematics scores (to be fair, I hadn't learnt how to do some of the stuff that was on the paper) because apparently my English scores were more than above average enough for all of them to comment on it in the report. ALL of them commented on my English paper. So I got in, rather breezily. And while I stumbled on some of the subjects, as people do, I never really FAILED at anything. Which is a miracle in itself.
I'll admit this, freely. I'm a lazy shite. Completely. It's my weakness which I wish I had the power to get over. It's the one thing that I regret most about myself, this inability to work and be driven. I have no goals, no ambition and looking around me at my friends, at some of my acquaintances and seeing them go for their goals, seeing them REACH their goals, I'm left with a feeling of utter inadequacy. Who am I to feel comfortable in my abilities, who am I for some to envy when I have others who KNOW what they want from life and are not afraid to take it with both hands?
All of my life, for as long as I can remember I had one dream. One goal, one ambition. It has sustained me, it has lasted despite whatever things that have gone on in my life. It is the one constant thing in my fluctuating life. It is not ephemeral, not in flux. It is the only solid thing that I allow or that I welcome. I'm afraid that it is also this which has some cause for my behaviour, for my actions, for how I am. I won't make any excuses, I know I'm inherently lazy. It's just the way things are. But somehow it is made worse with the fact that I DO actually know what I want to do in life, have known since the first time I picked up a book, since the first time I learnt to read, since the first time I picked up a pen or pencil and put it to paper: I want to write.
My dream, my life, my sustaining breath and my complete weakness. My writing. I've found myself thinking, sometimes, that the other things didn't matter. What need have I for mathematics, for science, for geography when I wanted to WRITE? What could that help me in my future career. The majority of what I have learnt, I've realised, is ultimately useless in my life, in what I want to do. They are furnishings. They are something there so I can in the future say: I have done it. They are not essential. And it is with that thought, I think, that I have allowed myself to do absolutely fuckall in my life.
My mother told me that she's noticed me scribbling for as long as she can remember. She told me that I picked up a book and started reading earlier than she expected, earlier than my siblings. That I started writing before them. My command of language was better. They constantly make fun of the things I used to say when I was young, like when I was four and I looked at them, angry, and said, and I quote, "I have two words for you: N-O!".
It makes me laugh, thinking about it now. But it also irritates me and embarrasses me because they just will NOT let it go. Some part of me realises that they only do this because it wasn't a mistake I allowed myself to make after they took the complete piss out of me for years to come, immediately. It's the weakness I won't allow myself. My command of English came quick and quickly as well it usurped my command of Malay. I've never questioned it, all my life even when I was aware of how difficult getting work was, how the percentage of employment from University was lowering etc etc etc, I never worried, never faltered. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be a writer, more specifically, an author. A novelist. It was my dream. I didn't want to be a Nobel Price of Literature winner, I had no such large dreams in life. I would like to be famous, or infamous, but only within my field. I have no great ambition of becoming a celebrity, open to the public eye. I'm a private person, after all. Besides, people have often said that if not a writer, then I will be a hermit. It makes me laugh, now, thinking about how UN-hermit like I was when I was just slightly younger and I wonder now what has made things change, what is it that has made me feel slightly detached from society at times, though I do enjoy the occasional social gathering. What was it that made me so fiercely protective of my own privacy, of my independence. Well, quasi-independence anyway.
Recently, reality hit and it hit hard. It was not a matter of what I want to do, not a matter of me questioning my life's choices in terms of a career. No, that has always been constant, even when I realised that I could not make writing be my bread and butter. I appreciate finer living too much for that, so the question of finding an alternate "job" to do to pay for my ultimate career is something I've accepted for a few years now. No, it wasn't if I still wanted to be a writer. It was if I was good enough to be one.
When it comes to banking, to law, to medicine people look to that with respect. They don't believe that they all can do it. It's specialised, it's difficult. But with writing... well, everyone thinks they can write. And unfortunately, there are a large number of people who can do it well, and I am friends or acquaintances with quite a large group. I've known someone whose writing was infamous on the net for a few years, now she is published. I know a few others, actually. I know others who think of writing as nothing more than a hobby and yet they have the ability to move me incredibly with their command of language. It tears me apart, to know that I have this dream, this vision... and yet not know if I'm good enough, if I'll ever BE good enough to succeed.
Eh, enough. Introspection, introspection, angst, blah. I'm late for class. Again.
I've only got slightly over a week left until the end of term when it will finally be the Easter holidays and yet I'm not completely looking forward to that. Who would, though? I've only got three weeks, then comes the last term and my exams. My first exam is no the 24th of May, and my final exam is on the 25th of June. I have 12 papers including those units that I'm resitting. After which I have a week before Leaver's Ball, which I'm still contemplating not going. If I DO go, I'll have to start looking around for dresses. It's a bigger deal than prom, after all. Leaver's Ball is THE biggest event of the year, and it's our final party together. It's going to be black tie. The theme is 'Secret Garden' and the school usually has a huge marquee and uses a large part of the school grounds as part of it. They hire professional decorators, and apparently we have a casino room and a complete free flow of champagne and huge fireworks show. And when CLC says huge, it means MASSIVE.
In a way, I'm looking forward to it, the end, the big bang of my five years. The end of the end. It draws my school years to a close, finally, and then I will make my way. I'll go to Malaysia for the majority of my GAP year, I'll work, I'll garner some sort of life experience. I'll hang out with old friends, strengthen ties that have weakened, hopefully. And I'll meet new people, findo out new things, gather new experiences. I'm looking forward to it. I'll need to apply to University, though. I'll also need to re-write my personal statement.
I'm also going through a little crisis, though. In regards to what I want to do in Uni. Am I so sure that I want to spend three years doing History of Art and Archaeology? Do I really? I thought I did, I do love the subject but with abject failure staring at me in the face, I can't help but flounder and question myself. Do I really know what I want? Am I really capable of it? And what the hell do I even know about archaeology? I don't want this to be some spur-of-the-moment decision that I know it kind of was. I don't want to go to University and panic in the face of realising that I've made the biggest mistake in my life. Do I really want to face that in my life? Do I really want to go to Uni for three years doing something that I will find out that I have absolutely no talent for, or I have no interest in therefore I'll just snooze through and fail and utterly have nothing in my life?
It's all been so easy for me, you see. All my life, I've always somehow managed to scrape through doing the absolute minimum and sometimes not even that. I've been told that I'm a bright child. Things come to me easily, especially when I'm interested in it. Especially when I was younger. Whatever I've REALLy wanted to get I've managed to obtain with little effort. I wanted to go to KTJ for boarding school; I got in. I wanted to go to the UK to study before PMR, even though my grades were shite; I got into every. single. school I applied for and did the entrance exams for. For three of those four schools, they offered to put me up in the upper grade, despite my abysmal mathematics scores (to be fair, I hadn't learnt how to do some of the stuff that was on the paper) because apparently my English scores were more than above average enough for all of them to comment on it in the report. ALL of them commented on my English paper. So I got in, rather breezily. And while I stumbled on some of the subjects, as people do, I never really FAILED at anything. Which is a miracle in itself.
I'll admit this, freely. I'm a lazy shite. Completely. It's my weakness which I wish I had the power to get over. It's the one thing that I regret most about myself, this inability to work and be driven. I have no goals, no ambition and looking around me at my friends, at some of my acquaintances and seeing them go for their goals, seeing them REACH their goals, I'm left with a feeling of utter inadequacy. Who am I to feel comfortable in my abilities, who am I for some to envy when I have others who KNOW what they want from life and are not afraid to take it with both hands?
All of my life, for as long as I can remember I had one dream. One goal, one ambition. It has sustained me, it has lasted despite whatever things that have gone on in my life. It is the one constant thing in my fluctuating life. It is not ephemeral, not in flux. It is the only solid thing that I allow or that I welcome. I'm afraid that it is also this which has some cause for my behaviour, for my actions, for how I am. I won't make any excuses, I know I'm inherently lazy. It's just the way things are. But somehow it is made worse with the fact that I DO actually know what I want to do in life, have known since the first time I picked up a book, since the first time I learnt to read, since the first time I picked up a pen or pencil and put it to paper: I want to write.
My dream, my life, my sustaining breath and my complete weakness. My writing. I've found myself thinking, sometimes, that the other things didn't matter. What need have I for mathematics, for science, for geography when I wanted to WRITE? What could that help me in my future career. The majority of what I have learnt, I've realised, is ultimately useless in my life, in what I want to do. They are furnishings. They are something there so I can in the future say: I have done it. They are not essential. And it is with that thought, I think, that I have allowed myself to do absolutely fuckall in my life.
My mother told me that she's noticed me scribbling for as long as she can remember. She told me that I picked up a book and started reading earlier than she expected, earlier than my siblings. That I started writing before them. My command of language was better. They constantly make fun of the things I used to say when I was young, like when I was four and I looked at them, angry, and said, and I quote, "I have two words for you: N-O!".
It makes me laugh, thinking about it now. But it also irritates me and embarrasses me because they just will NOT let it go. Some part of me realises that they only do this because it wasn't a mistake I allowed myself to make after they took the complete piss out of me for years to come, immediately. It's the weakness I won't allow myself. My command of English came quick and quickly as well it usurped my command of Malay. I've never questioned it, all my life even when I was aware of how difficult getting work was, how the percentage of employment from University was lowering etc etc etc, I never worried, never faltered. I knew what I wanted. I wanted to be a writer, more specifically, an author. A novelist. It was my dream. I didn't want to be a Nobel Price of Literature winner, I had no such large dreams in life. I would like to be famous, or infamous, but only within my field. I have no great ambition of becoming a celebrity, open to the public eye. I'm a private person, after all. Besides, people have often said that if not a writer, then I will be a hermit. It makes me laugh, now, thinking about how UN-hermit like I was when I was just slightly younger and I wonder now what has made things change, what is it that has made me feel slightly detached from society at times, though I do enjoy the occasional social gathering. What was it that made me so fiercely protective of my own privacy, of my independence. Well, quasi-independence anyway.
Recently, reality hit and it hit hard. It was not a matter of what I want to do, not a matter of me questioning my life's choices in terms of a career. No, that has always been constant, even when I realised that I could not make writing be my bread and butter. I appreciate finer living too much for that, so the question of finding an alternate "job" to do to pay for my ultimate career is something I've accepted for a few years now. No, it wasn't if I still wanted to be a writer. It was if I was good enough to be one.
When it comes to banking, to law, to medicine people look to that with respect. They don't believe that they all can do it. It's specialised, it's difficult. But with writing... well, everyone thinks they can write. And unfortunately, there are a large number of people who can do it well, and I am friends or acquaintances with quite a large group. I've known someone whose writing was infamous on the net for a few years, now she is published. I know a few others, actually. I know others who think of writing as nothing more than a hobby and yet they have the ability to move me incredibly with their command of language. It tears me apart, to know that I have this dream, this vision... and yet not know if I'm good enough, if I'll ever BE good enough to succeed.
Eh, enough. Introspection, introspection, angst, blah. I'm late for class. Again.
Friday, 2 March 2007
Introspection 101
It's the end of mock exams and I find myself feeling listless. I'm heading towards London after my drama lesson, a fact which annoys me greatly because I could've gone back yesterday if not for this lesson. I thought it prudent to attend, however, due to the fact that my exam is on the 16th, and I've barely remembered the lines as it is. It's a good script, though. Solid. And Ms. Mercati is really proving herself to be quite the director on this piece. However, I've known that for quite some time, now. After all, the woman has been my teacher for nearly five years.
Five years... has it really been that long since I left home, left KTJ, left Malaysia behind to face this, my new future? Has it really been that long since I've let go of my friends, of my previous "Malaysian" habits and embraced this culture? I spoke to Caz about just... life in general, what's expected of me in Malaysia and what she said... it rang so true yet never did it occur to me, but for the part of my mind I keep locked to all but myself. Sometimes. I play a dual role, in my life. Almost like I have Multiple Personality Disorder, in fact. I'm not the only one who does this, it is a fact that many change who they are according to different variables, such as location or the people they are with.
I... not only do I change myself to suit those I am with, but I change myself according to location as well. There is Malaysia!Me, and England!Me. There is the me that my friends know, the me that my old friends know, the me that my third brother and sister know, the me that my parents know, and the me that our family friends know. Within those groups it is branched as well: the younger generation, and the older generation. To the older generation I am scrupulously polite, I am somewhat traditional, I am intelligent. I am centred and self-assured and many other things that I am a little of, but not fully.
Caz said it always surprises her, unnerves her whenever she hears me talking to my parents, or talking of home and realising that what she is seeing is only one aspect of my personality. I've turned so Westernized in my ideals, in my manner, in my way of thinking that it becomes harder for me, as time goes by, to fall back into those compartments that I have organized my personality in. It's probably a lost cause, but I fight for that because a very large part of me does not want to upset the organization that had took me so long. I wonder, though, if the reason why it is so very difficult nowadays is because my personality is turning more and more sure, more concrete. Yet due to this, I cannot help but wonder... which is turning real? Which of my personality is manifesting itself? And is it really the right one?
Ah, no more. I dislike these moments of introspection. They give me a headache and I suspect they make me sound more and more like the whining child I was.
Five years... has it really been that long since I left home, left KTJ, left Malaysia behind to face this, my new future? Has it really been that long since I've let go of my friends, of my previous "Malaysian" habits and embraced this culture? I spoke to Caz about just... life in general, what's expected of me in Malaysia and what she said... it rang so true yet never did it occur to me, but for the part of my mind I keep locked to all but myself. Sometimes. I play a dual role, in my life. Almost like I have Multiple Personality Disorder, in fact. I'm not the only one who does this, it is a fact that many change who they are according to different variables, such as location or the people they are with.
I... not only do I change myself to suit those I am with, but I change myself according to location as well. There is Malaysia!Me, and England!Me. There is the me that my friends know, the me that my old friends know, the me that my third brother and sister know, the me that my parents know, and the me that our family friends know. Within those groups it is branched as well: the younger generation, and the older generation. To the older generation I am scrupulously polite, I am somewhat traditional, I am intelligent. I am centred and self-assured and many other things that I am a little of, but not fully.
Caz said it always surprises her, unnerves her whenever she hears me talking to my parents, or talking of home and realising that what she is seeing is only one aspect of my personality. I've turned so Westernized in my ideals, in my manner, in my way of thinking that it becomes harder for me, as time goes by, to fall back into those compartments that I have organized my personality in. It's probably a lost cause, but I fight for that because a very large part of me does not want to upset the organization that had took me so long. I wonder, though, if the reason why it is so very difficult nowadays is because my personality is turning more and more sure, more concrete. Yet due to this, I cannot help but wonder... which is turning real? Which of my personality is manifesting itself? And is it really the right one?
Ah, no more. I dislike these moments of introspection. They give me a headache and I suspect they make me sound more and more like the whining child I was.
Wednesday, 21 February 2007
Scraps of Literacy
For some reason, the poetry came pouring out last night, probably because the prose has dried up over the past month or so. Make that nearly two months, because that was when I last wrote a chapter for Conventio Custodis. I've still got that next chapter of The Saboteurs to write before my readers suddenly decide that I've dropped off the face of the earth and stop checking for updates because that would be ouch. Especially seeing as how well those two are doing.
This whole posting on TV thing (hotel room, internet on TV, score...) is weird. For once thing it's refusing me to press enter whenever composing an email or, in this case, writing something here, so I've got to go hands on and write Html which is really quite a pain. And it seems a bit different than LJ. I mean, why is the italic html < e m > (without spaces, obviously)? Oh well, at least the the other tags still work perfectly fine. Hey, what gives?! I can go on a new line via enter on the html function but not with the normal view? WTF? The mind, it boggles.
Anyway, slightly angsty poetry ahoy. Don't ask me where this came from.
Addiction
It's always been so easy
To let you know my heart
So easy to let you in
Watch you tear me apart.
You're a drug I need,
My only hope for release,
Your coldness is my addiction,
I need the cut of your kiss.
How has it come to this?
I'm lying in bed shivering from our ice,
Crying tears inside
Letting go of all things normal and nice.
I'm a junkie desperate for a fix,
You're the heroin killing me inside,
I've tried to quit you before,
But all I could do was hide.
I tried running from you,
From the whiplash temptation of your smile,
No one ever said I was wise,
Believing your sweet whispers and deceiving wiles.
I've lost what little sanity I had,
When you touch me, I'm lost,
And I'm crying out in anger inside,
Just realising my naivety's high cost.
I want to leave you,
To let go of your hold on me;
But I can't be released
From the skillful web you weave,
All I can do is beg you, please;
My addiction's increased.
That was written as a set, but it's the one I prefer. The first was too long, the second lacks something. Anyway, here's the second:
Too Late
I've watched you from afar,
Hungry for all the little things you do,
Needing to hear your laugh,
To bask in the sunshine warmth of your smile;
It's been years since I met you,
Years since I realised my fate,
I've tried to stop it,
But it's all too late.
You're happy with someone else,
Arms wrapped around your date,
Shining like the beacon you've always been,
So efforlessly you drew me in;
I can't look at the love on your face,
Or the joy you bring to someone else,
Tear my heart out,
I'm in pain.
I'm always too late,
Too slow on the uptake,
So now I'm sitting around dreaming of release,
Your lips, your touch, your teeth.
I want you to tear me apart,
Bleed me onto the earth,
I'm in pain.
I want your hugs, your smiles, your touch,
I want all you give her for free,
But I know that it's all too late.
NB. The original last three lines saw me writing: "I want all you give him for free, for some reason. I thought it sounded better. For the sake of posting it and from saving myself from some unwanted question, the sex referred to in the poem has changed. That is all. If you're a guy you can change it to the original in your head. I still think it sounds better that way.
This whole posting on TV thing (hotel room, internet on TV, score...) is weird. For once thing it's refusing me to press enter whenever composing an email or, in this case, writing something here, so I've got to go hands on and write Html which is really quite a pain. And it seems a bit different than LJ. I mean, why is the italic html < e m > (without spaces, obviously)? Oh well, at least the the other tags still work perfectly fine. Hey, what gives?! I can go on a new line via enter on the html function but not with the normal view? WTF? The mind, it boggles.
Anyway, slightly angsty poetry ahoy. Don't ask me where this came from.
Addiction
It's always been so easy
To let you know my heart
So easy to let you in
Watch you tear me apart.
You're a drug I need,
My only hope for release,
Your coldness is my addiction,
I need the cut of your kiss.
How has it come to this?
I'm lying in bed shivering from our ice,
Crying tears inside
Letting go of all things normal and nice.
I'm a junkie desperate for a fix,
You're the heroin killing me inside,
I've tried to quit you before,
But all I could do was hide.
I tried running from you,
From the whiplash temptation of your smile,
No one ever said I was wise,
Believing your sweet whispers and deceiving wiles.
I've lost what little sanity I had,
When you touch me, I'm lost,
And I'm crying out in anger inside,
Just realising my naivety's high cost.
I want to leave you,
To let go of your hold on me;
But I can't be released
From the skillful web you weave,
All I can do is beg you, please;
My addiction's increased.
That was written as a set, but it's the one I prefer. The first was too long, the second lacks something. Anyway, here's the second:
Too Late
I've watched you from afar,
Hungry for all the little things you do,
Needing to hear your laugh,
To bask in the sunshine warmth of your smile;
It's been years since I met you,
Years since I realised my fate,
I've tried to stop it,
But it's all too late.
You're happy with someone else,
Arms wrapped around your date,
Shining like the beacon you've always been,
So efforlessly you drew me in;
I can't look at the love on your face,
Or the joy you bring to someone else,
Tear my heart out,
I'm in pain.
I'm always too late,
Too slow on the uptake,
So now I'm sitting around dreaming of release,
Your lips, your touch, your teeth.
I want you to tear me apart,
Bleed me onto the earth,
I'm in pain.
I want your hugs, your smiles, your touch,
I want all you give her for free,
But I know that it's all too late.
NB. The original last three lines saw me writing: "I want all you give him for free, for some reason. I thought it sounded better. For the sake of posting it and from saving myself from some unwanted question, the sex referred to in the poem has changed. That is all. If you're a guy you can change it to the original in your head. I still think it sounds better that way.
Thursday, 15 February 2007
All the world's a stage...
The entirety of the school is in somewhat "fancy dress". It's so weird. But incredible. Evs, Becca Barrett, Vicky Noonan and Alex Walvis are dressed up as the Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. Two girls from UC5 are dressed up as Obe Wan and Darth Vader with their respective light sabres. Ellie W-H is wearing a bright mustard yellow blazer, a white t-shirt, pink and black striped mini skirt, pink leopard print tights and sparkly ballet flats with black leg warmers. Others still come around with jewellery depicting the peace symbol and flowers drawn on their faces with eyeliner. Nearly a thousand girls walked down to school in dress from the 50s to the 80s, and lord the looks we were getting.
I look properly punk. It's weird. I have slight tendencies of it underneath it all, but this is very blatant and in your face. I've gone for the uber tack of all tackiness. I went for blood red nail polish, big chunky silver (and black) jewellery, spiked/bigged up hair, black on black with my black jeans, black Che Guevara wife beater, black leather jacket... the only colour I have are in my nails, the battered blue of my Converses and the silver on my jewellery. Oh, and I have lightly tinted aviators on, as a finishing touch, not to mention thick black eyeliner, layers of mascara and dark lipstick. My eyes feel heavy. It's painful. But I needed the extra layers, otherwise the mascara wouldn't show, and I definitely needed it.
The garishness of colour amuses me. Rosie Lilis is dressed up in a pink jumpsuit of her mother's with a bright blue scarf tied as a headband. Tzen is wearing bright blue trousers that matches her bright blue eyeshadow that goes up to her eyebrows and past the corners of her eyes. Emma F is wearing a bright orange top. Tze looks like a mental asylum escapee. Helen, because she's just an inner goth, has dressed up as, what else, Goth. Her reason for it is that the 80s marks the beginnings of goth-style. She looks like, and I have told her this, Jack from the Nightmare Before Christmas, all tall and skeletal and pale and dark.
I blame my brother for my current interest in anime and learning Japanese. As Echizen says in Prince of Tennis, though: Mada Mada Dane.
I look properly punk. It's weird. I have slight tendencies of it underneath it all, but this is very blatant and in your face. I've gone for the uber tack of all tackiness. I went for blood red nail polish, big chunky silver (and black) jewellery, spiked/bigged up hair, black on black with my black jeans, black Che Guevara wife beater, black leather jacket... the only colour I have are in my nails, the battered blue of my Converses and the silver on my jewellery. Oh, and I have lightly tinted aviators on, as a finishing touch, not to mention thick black eyeliner, layers of mascara and dark lipstick. My eyes feel heavy. It's painful. But I needed the extra layers, otherwise the mascara wouldn't show, and I definitely needed it.
The garishness of colour amuses me. Rosie Lilis is dressed up in a pink jumpsuit of her mother's with a bright blue scarf tied as a headband. Tzen is wearing bright blue trousers that matches her bright blue eyeshadow that goes up to her eyebrows and past the corners of her eyes. Emma F is wearing a bright orange top. Tze looks like a mental asylum escapee. Helen, because she's just an inner goth, has dressed up as, what else, Goth. Her reason for it is that the 80s marks the beginnings of goth-style. She looks like, and I have told her this, Jack from the Nightmare Before Christmas, all tall and skeletal and pale and dark.
I blame my brother for my current interest in anime and learning Japanese. As Echizen says in Prince of Tennis, though: Mada Mada Dane.
Wednesday, 14 February 2007
Captain's Log, February 14th 2007
In answer to Adlin's demand of, and I quote, "Blog. More." here is my next post. To be fair, these are probably not going to be very frequent things, as I am, sadly, really far too lazy for my own good. But I do so hate disappointing people, so hereby prompts my post on the dreaded day of all single people or rather, people with taste, St. Valentine's.
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Valentines day in general. If you have a significant other, go right ahead and use the ready excuse to shower each other with affection and love and all those other sick making things that are becoming far too trivial and people are being far too blase about these days. Don't get me started on the concept of teenaged dating and the overuse of the word "love". I call myself a pragmatist and I'll readily admit that I'm a cynic. I don't believe in the capability that over-hormal teenagers have in being "in love". I believe in lust, in chemistry, in extreme like, but Love? The big L-O-V-E? I have such high expectations of it. My parents have been together for over 30 years, my grandparents...far longer, obviously. I'm looking for that.
On another note, Mike annoys me, and yet he also knows how to make me into a puddling mess of girlish-ness. It's annoying. He sent me a Valentines text. He also said that 'Suffocated Love' by Tricky is the song that is just us. I checked out the lyrics, because I'd never heard the song before, and I really don't know what to make of it. I mean, really. Help me out, here:
It's too good, it's too nice
She makes me finish too quick
Is it love? No not love
She turns my sexual trick
She says she's mine, I know she lies
First, I scream, then I cry
You take a second of me
You beckon, I'll bleed
She suffocates me
She suffocates me with suggestions
I asked 'do you feel the same?'
And later on, maybe
I'll tell you my real name
She's so good, she's so bad
You understand, I can't expand
Now I could just kill a man
She's on her knees, I say please
I cross her city lines, she's got fine highs
I think ahead of you, I think instead of you
Will you spend your life with me
And stifle me?
I know why the caged bird sings, I know why
Forgive and you're forgiven
Kingdom come
Can you wait for yours
I need to taste some
Life's really funny
I laugh while she spends my money
She's my freak I guess I'm weak
You ask what is this?
Mind your business
I pass idle days with my idle ways
'Til the twelfth of always
She walks my hallways
I keep her warm, but we never kiss
She cuts my slender wrists
Let's waste some more time
I sign the dotted line
A different level She-devil
You ask what is this?
Mind your business
I pass idle days with my idle ways
'Til the twelfth of always
She walks my hallways
I keep her warm but we never kiss
She says I'm weak and immature
But it's cool I know what money's for
Push comes to shove
Her tongue's her favourite weapon, attack
I slap her back, she mostly hates me
Lou says that I should be insulted. Strangely and perversely, some part of me feels... I don't know... empowered that I have that effect on him. I'm still irritated, though. Ah vell. It just means he'll get a piece of my mind later on.
Oh hell, I'm late. More later.
eta. 30 mins after original post: Done with activity of the day. Feel somewhat blah. Some strange happenings are occuring in school. Somehow, yesterday, someone got bitten by the public menace bug and decided to trash the school. The porters think that it has to be someone from the inside. The hallway of the sixth form entrance has been splattered with raspberry yoghurt, a pair of knickers were hung on the wall, next to it a poster with the words "Enjoy Valentines Day While You Can" written on it in Chiller font. Very creepy and reminiscent of that bizarre Valentines Day massacre-type movie David Boreanaz was in a few years ago.
The sixth form common room was upended. Sofas and chairs were thrown around, pillows were slashed... it's been locked now because of it, and my fellow sixth formers are in a complete rage about it. It's literal seeing red, now. The toilets have all been messed up. The Lower College (years 7-9) toilets were smeared with grease or vaseline, and someone spray-painted the anarchy symbol on the wall and posted up pictures of Marilyn Manson and people having sex on the walls. The same can be said for the Upper College (Years 10 and 11) and the sixth form toilets as well.
I know that it might not seem like much, for any normal school it's somewhat average behaviour or at least it isn't given to this much sensationalism, but this is the Cheltenham Ladies' College, one of the top boarding schools in the UK... even the world. With the student body being made up of some of the best families, plus with the headmistress' emphasis on "lady-like behaviour", this is actually outrageous behaviour. Not to mention this week is the week of Scholarship exams in school. What a thing to show prospective students and parents, eh? The staff are absolutely livid. They're probably going to end up being far more strict on us for our leaving pranks, which is an absolute shame. They're never very lenient, anyway.
Other news: tomorrow is C-day. It's the prefects' day of entertainment. Each sector of the student body and staff have to dress up as a certain thing. Lower College and Upper College have to dress up from 50s - 70s dress. Sixth form in 80s and staff are anything from Victorian to 80s. It's a pity, I wish a prefect had had the same idea as me and told the teachers to turn up "Greek". How amusing would it be to be taught by someone in a toga for a day? *smirk* I want to see that. Knowing Mr. Chalmers, he'd tie-dye it pink. Where else can you get a cross-dressing, guitar playing Chemistry teacher in a band made up of teachers but here? We're quite unique, I must say. And Mr. C is one of our accepted eccentricities.
I'm going 80s punk. I've got black jeans, battered converses (although they're not high tops...but I'm not going to buy new shoes for this, dammit!), a vest top ripped at the sides and fastened with safety pins and my black leather jacket. Plus, I've got supremely tacky "rock and roll" type jewellery. I'm going Billy Idol but without the bleach blonde hair. I'd say Blondie, but... also not so much with the blonde.
Anyway, I have class. Further updates shortly.
p.s. Was that enough of an update for you, Ad?
Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Valentines day in general. If you have a significant other, go right ahead and use the ready excuse to shower each other with affection and love and all those other sick making things that are becoming far too trivial and people are being far too blase about these days. Don't get me started on the concept of teenaged dating and the overuse of the word "love". I call myself a pragmatist and I'll readily admit that I'm a cynic. I don't believe in the capability that over-hormal teenagers have in being "in love". I believe in lust, in chemistry, in extreme like, but Love? The big L-O-V-E? I have such high expectations of it. My parents have been together for over 30 years, my grandparents...far longer, obviously. I'm looking for that.
On another note, Mike annoys me, and yet he also knows how to make me into a puddling mess of girlish-ness. It's annoying. He sent me a Valentines text. He also said that 'Suffocated Love' by Tricky is the song that is just us. I checked out the lyrics, because I'd never heard the song before, and I really don't know what to make of it. I mean, really. Help me out, here:
It's too good, it's too nice
She makes me finish too quick
Is it love? No not love
She turns my sexual trick
She says she's mine, I know she lies
First, I scream, then I cry
You take a second of me
You beckon, I'll bleed
She suffocates me
She suffocates me with suggestions
I asked 'do you feel the same?'
And later on, maybe
I'll tell you my real name
She's so good, she's so bad
You understand, I can't expand
Now I could just kill a man
She's on her knees, I say please
I cross her city lines, she's got fine highs
I think ahead of you, I think instead of you
Will you spend your life with me
And stifle me?
I know why the caged bird sings, I know why
Forgive and you're forgiven
Kingdom come
Can you wait for yours
I need to taste some
Life's really funny
I laugh while she spends my money
She's my freak I guess I'm weak
You ask what is this?
Mind your business
I pass idle days with my idle ways
'Til the twelfth of always
She walks my hallways
I keep her warm, but we never kiss
She cuts my slender wrists
Let's waste some more time
I sign the dotted line
A different level She-devil
You ask what is this?
Mind your business
I pass idle days with my idle ways
'Til the twelfth of always
She walks my hallways
I keep her warm but we never kiss
She says I'm weak and immature
But it's cool I know what money's for
Push comes to shove
Her tongue's her favourite weapon, attack
I slap her back, she mostly hates me
Lou says that I should be insulted. Strangely and perversely, some part of me feels... I don't know... empowered that I have that effect on him. I'm still irritated, though. Ah vell. It just means he'll get a piece of my mind later on.
Oh hell, I'm late. More later.
eta. 30 mins after original post: Done with activity of the day. Feel somewhat blah. Some strange happenings are occuring in school. Somehow, yesterday, someone got bitten by the public menace bug and decided to trash the school. The porters think that it has to be someone from the inside. The hallway of the sixth form entrance has been splattered with raspberry yoghurt, a pair of knickers were hung on the wall, next to it a poster with the words "Enjoy Valentines Day While You Can" written on it in Chiller font. Very creepy and reminiscent of that bizarre Valentines Day massacre-type movie David Boreanaz was in a few years ago.
The sixth form common room was upended. Sofas and chairs were thrown around, pillows were slashed... it's been locked now because of it, and my fellow sixth formers are in a complete rage about it. It's literal seeing red, now. The toilets have all been messed up. The Lower College (years 7-9) toilets were smeared with grease or vaseline, and someone spray-painted the anarchy symbol on the wall and posted up pictures of Marilyn Manson and people having sex on the walls. The same can be said for the Upper College (Years 10 and 11) and the sixth form toilets as well.
I know that it might not seem like much, for any normal school it's somewhat average behaviour or at least it isn't given to this much sensationalism, but this is the Cheltenham Ladies' College, one of the top boarding schools in the UK... even the world. With the student body being made up of some of the best families, plus with the headmistress' emphasis on "lady-like behaviour", this is actually outrageous behaviour. Not to mention this week is the week of Scholarship exams in school. What a thing to show prospective students and parents, eh? The staff are absolutely livid. They're probably going to end up being far more strict on us for our leaving pranks, which is an absolute shame. They're never very lenient, anyway.
Other news: tomorrow is C-day. It's the prefects' day of entertainment. Each sector of the student body and staff have to dress up as a certain thing. Lower College and Upper College have to dress up from 50s - 70s dress. Sixth form in 80s and staff are anything from Victorian to 80s. It's a pity, I wish a prefect had had the same idea as me and told the teachers to turn up "Greek". How amusing would it be to be taught by someone in a toga for a day? *smirk* I want to see that. Knowing Mr. Chalmers, he'd tie-dye it pink. Where else can you get a cross-dressing, guitar playing Chemistry teacher in a band made up of teachers but here? We're quite unique, I must say. And Mr. C is one of our accepted eccentricities.
I'm going 80s punk. I've got black jeans, battered converses (although they're not high tops...but I'm not going to buy new shoes for this, dammit!), a vest top ripped at the sides and fastened with safety pins and my black leather jacket. Plus, I've got supremely tacky "rock and roll" type jewellery. I'm going Billy Idol but without the bleach blonde hair. I'd say Blondie, but... also not so much with the blonde.
Anyway, I have class. Further updates shortly.
p.s. Was that enough of an update for you, Ad?
Thursday, 8 February 2007
Snow
It's snowing, today, the kind of snowfall that brings to mind not England and especially not in February, but something more mystical, like I'm caught in Narnia. It's a thick constant fall that was present when I woke up, and I feel miffed that they didn't say hello to me when they arrived in the middle of the night. It's a thick carpet of white fluff, sinking my shoes in deep to leave imprints about an inch deep and slipped inside my shoes and turned my ears, nose and hands into ice blocks. I never longed for hot chocolate as much as I did then, and I never felt as elated.
The school looks beautiful covered in snow and surrounded by the powdered bare branches of trees that stand in military-esque lines over the whitened lawn and quad. The dome of the observatory is half dusted with white and the spire of the GAP students'/language assistants' apartments pierces the sky like some kind of medieval turret of some kind of castle. And me, in the dreary, ugly old 70s modern concrete and glass of the sixth form building still feel like a princess, because the snow has magic never before realised.
Forget Hogwarts, forget Harry Potter and his mystical world of magic and beaurocracy. The Cheltenham Ladies' College's Nouveau Gothic/ugly concrete slab combination building surrounded by snow covered white grounds? The prettiest thing ever seen.
I'm such a sucker for blogs, first LJ, now this. Ah well, at least the techies haven't blocked this yet, and I do need somewhere for me to vent. I've missed my venting sessions and the moments of angst/emo-tears-of-woe. Though to be fair, that hasn't happened in a while, which is a good thing to my mind. Gospel Choir seemed to be quite the hit this morning, and nothing beats hearing Jail House Rock in the morning, to wake you up.
The school looks beautiful covered in snow and surrounded by the powdered bare branches of trees that stand in military-esque lines over the whitened lawn and quad. The dome of the observatory is half dusted with white and the spire of the GAP students'/language assistants' apartments pierces the sky like some kind of medieval turret of some kind of castle. And me, in the dreary, ugly old 70s modern concrete and glass of the sixth form building still feel like a princess, because the snow has magic never before realised.
Forget Hogwarts, forget Harry Potter and his mystical world of magic and beaurocracy. The Cheltenham Ladies' College's Nouveau Gothic/ugly concrete slab combination building surrounded by snow covered white grounds? The prettiest thing ever seen.
I'm such a sucker for blogs, first LJ, now this. Ah well, at least the techies haven't blocked this yet, and I do need somewhere for me to vent. I've missed my venting sessions and the moments of angst/emo-tears-of-woe. Though to be fair, that hasn't happened in a while, which is a good thing to my mind. Gospel Choir seemed to be quite the hit this morning, and nothing beats hearing Jail House Rock in the morning, to wake you up.
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