Well, well, well. I have neglected this a wee bit. I apologise. But, in fairness, my boring useless life has taken on a whole new persona. It has grown from a homely caterpillar (not the very hungry sort) into a terrible butterfly, out-of-control and more than likely to be crushed in one misplaced round of applause. In no particular order (as all are losses, so why clarify which is the worst?) I have in the past week failed a placement through no fault of my own, dropped a grade through my own stupidity, fallen head over heels for someone totally unobtainable but yet so reachable, and wandered into the realms of indescribable jealousy over the well deserved happiness of my best friend. I am a bad, bad person.
You know when you go over situations in your head, how you'd like them to go, what you'd like that other person to say, how everything would fall neatly into place, like a child's giant floor puzzle? I have pieced together this conversation so well, the edges fit and the words tessellate. However, the reality fairy does not appear to be singing to my tune. Fair enough, I am tone deaf, but still, she should catch the gist. I have prayed, I have wished on eyelashes, but yet still, to totally misquote Sinatra, it ain't going my way. And, yes, I am very aware that I sound like a child, but don't we all when we want something so badly and yet it remains infuriatingly out of our reach?
And I talk to my friend. Oh, she knows everything. And she responds as a friend should, with truths and harsh words, for my own good. And she is right. Mainly because she is going through the same thing. Sorry, was. It transpires that the one thing I want to happen for me (which does, unfortunately, require hurt on someone elses part; like I said, a bad, bad person) has happened for her. And she has some shocking luck in the love department, as in truly shocking. The rational part of me is happy. She deserves this, so long as he is decent. Which he appears to be. But the childish, arrogant, selfish part of me is actually jealous because it has not happened for me. I am still being pulled along, a puppet on a string. And I will not do anything about it. I could stop seeing him. Stop talking to him. Stop all contact. But I won't. I know I won't. I will allow him to screw with my head and torture my soul, I will allow this to continue because I am weak. I so wish I wasn't. I wish I was strong enough to finalise this, draw a line in thick, black pen and say "ENOUGH!" But I am not. I never have been. I am a martyr to the beat of my heart; my head cannot overrule, it would be a failed and bloody coup that I am too tired to instigate.
If we own a possession which breaks and shatters at the slightest of glances, we'd wrap it up and hide it away, no temptation would be strong enough to persuade us to put it on show again. Why, oh why do we not do the same with our hearts?
I am currently listening to Blood Red Shoes - I Wish I Was Someone Better.
Ha.
Thursday 25 June 2009
Saturday 13 June 2009
Life imitating art...
OK, so I have been inspired recently by so-called "forbidden relationships". You know, the kind that happen but really shouldn't; affairs etc. Not because I agree with them at all, but because I am intrigued as to what may go through people's heads when they embark upon such life choices. To that end, here is a snippet more of my writing joy.
They used to meet in a park. Green, subtle, anonymous. Hide in plain sight, he always used to say. At first, there was no guilt, they were doing nothing wrong. Harmless strolls accompanied by soft breezes and ice creams, seats by the boating lake, a playful touch and an innocent smile. Two friends, close in bond if not in age, smiling at the unlikely discovery of a kindred spirit.
But innocence never lasts. The child unravels the legends and the myths, their rosy, misted veil is ripped from their eyes and the world degenerates into grey skies and bleak outlooks, dangerous bends and blind summits; reality taints their beauty and innocence dies.
She'd have sold her own mother to have truly believed the charm, the words, the lies, the supposition which tumbled from his lips; the lips she longed to kiss, despite the immoral connotations. As he spoke of love and longing, of snatched moments and promises of change, she saw the gold band glint in the light of their betrayal. A singular, circular symbol, binding him to another, foresaking all others. She was forsaken. Forbidden. Perhaps that was the excitement.
And yet, though the golden glint blinded her blue eyes, she closed them tight, ignoring it's persistent glow. Love is blind, they say.
What about lust?
It had enveloped her, a want and need for something she must not have. The cake before supper, the wine locked away in the drinking cabinet, the apple from the tree; all temptation stems from the forbidden, and she had disobeyed all of the rules, trampled all over the Garden of Eden and snatched the fruit from the serpent's jaw. Lust had drowned her supposedly steadfast morality and she had succumbed to its watery grave. Though, as is so often the case with such things, she was not aware that she was engulfed until the water had reached neck height and there was no way to escape the current.
The subterfuge could've continued for an eternity. No-one was hurting while it was just the two of them, a secret not to be shared by anybody else. No: not even she, with her career steeped in characterisation and pretence, could deliver such a line with conviction. The hurt was always there, pain building like a tidal wave, waiting for the moment to crash down, destroying civilisations and annihilating lives.
She'd drowned a family with her selfish desires.
He'd promised a life, a safety the adult her had never experienced. Protected in his arms, surrounded by his love. They just had to bide their time, he said. The girl was only 8, and the boy had exams, and we all know how important they are. Their plans would only make matters worse. They had to wait for "the right moment". And so she waited, a puppet of the Disney generation, clinging to her happy ending, her strings expertly manipulated by a collector looking for a mint-condition plaything to store away and toy with on a whim. She checked the backs of her hands, making absolutely sure that the strings had been severed. She was nobody's toy.
Not anymore.
It had taken her a long time to realise he was like all others. Charm hid his true colours for longer than it should have, but soon the black and the shade eroded the illusion of hope he'd created and she had to leave, take her eyes and ears far away from his silken patter and his puppy-dog expression, find somewhere as bleak and full of nothing as her own existence.
And so she was here. Salt winds flew at her, scalding her skin, corroding the halo languishing around her neck.
Daddy's little angel.
Now she felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. Her parents. She couldn't begin to imagine their horror when they were confronted with her behaviour. Their morals, spirit and love, bound in her, shattered by her self-centred delusion that no-one would ever know. She could not face them; she was too cowardly to be confronted with their despair. Soon, they would be free of her and the shame. They could put her to the back of their mind, reminiscing only on Christmasses and birthdays, when the flow of wine opens the floodgates for memories best left buried.
"Who will you marry when you're a grown up?" Her mother would ask her toddler self, all curls and marmalade stains.
"Daddy!!!" She'd squeal delightedly, her blue eyes wide, a toothy grin across her round face. Her mother would smile indulgently, the way a parent does at a precocious child.
Even then she'd tried to lay claim to someone else's husband.
She really should've seen this coming.
"Funniest" part of all of this? I was a silly, horrible girl last night and kissed someone who was not free to be kissed. Turns out such subjects are not intriguing, just rotten and awful and stomach churning and heart-wrenching. But still, at least I'll be able to write with a bit more conviction. Every cloud and all that.
They used to meet in a park. Green, subtle, anonymous. Hide in plain sight, he always used to say. At first, there was no guilt, they were doing nothing wrong. Harmless strolls accompanied by soft breezes and ice creams, seats by the boating lake, a playful touch and an innocent smile. Two friends, close in bond if not in age, smiling at the unlikely discovery of a kindred spirit.
But innocence never lasts. The child unravels the legends and the myths, their rosy, misted veil is ripped from their eyes and the world degenerates into grey skies and bleak outlooks, dangerous bends and blind summits; reality taints their beauty and innocence dies.
She'd have sold her own mother to have truly believed the charm, the words, the lies, the supposition which tumbled from his lips; the lips she longed to kiss, despite the immoral connotations. As he spoke of love and longing, of snatched moments and promises of change, she saw the gold band glint in the light of their betrayal. A singular, circular symbol, binding him to another, foresaking all others. She was forsaken. Forbidden. Perhaps that was the excitement.
And yet, though the golden glint blinded her blue eyes, she closed them tight, ignoring it's persistent glow. Love is blind, they say.
What about lust?
It had enveloped her, a want and need for something she must not have. The cake before supper, the wine locked away in the drinking cabinet, the apple from the tree; all temptation stems from the forbidden, and she had disobeyed all of the rules, trampled all over the Garden of Eden and snatched the fruit from the serpent's jaw. Lust had drowned her supposedly steadfast morality and she had succumbed to its watery grave. Though, as is so often the case with such things, she was not aware that she was engulfed until the water had reached neck height and there was no way to escape the current.
The subterfuge could've continued for an eternity. No-one was hurting while it was just the two of them, a secret not to be shared by anybody else. No: not even she, with her career steeped in characterisation and pretence, could deliver such a line with conviction. The hurt was always there, pain building like a tidal wave, waiting for the moment to crash down, destroying civilisations and annihilating lives.
She'd drowned a family with her selfish desires.
He'd promised a life, a safety the adult her had never experienced. Protected in his arms, surrounded by his love. They just had to bide their time, he said. The girl was only 8, and the boy had exams, and we all know how important they are. Their plans would only make matters worse. They had to wait for "the right moment". And so she waited, a puppet of the Disney generation, clinging to her happy ending, her strings expertly manipulated by a collector looking for a mint-condition plaything to store away and toy with on a whim. She checked the backs of her hands, making absolutely sure that the strings had been severed. She was nobody's toy.
Not anymore.
It had taken her a long time to realise he was like all others. Charm hid his true colours for longer than it should have, but soon the black and the shade eroded the illusion of hope he'd created and she had to leave, take her eyes and ears far away from his silken patter and his puppy-dog expression, find somewhere as bleak and full of nothing as her own existence.
And so she was here. Salt winds flew at her, scalding her skin, corroding the halo languishing around her neck.
Daddy's little angel.
Now she felt the tears prick the back of her eyes. Her parents. She couldn't begin to imagine their horror when they were confronted with her behaviour. Their morals, spirit and love, bound in her, shattered by her self-centred delusion that no-one would ever know. She could not face them; she was too cowardly to be confronted with their despair. Soon, they would be free of her and the shame. They could put her to the back of their mind, reminiscing only on Christmasses and birthdays, when the flow of wine opens the floodgates for memories best left buried.
"Who will you marry when you're a grown up?" Her mother would ask her toddler self, all curls and marmalade stains.
"Daddy!!!" She'd squeal delightedly, her blue eyes wide, a toothy grin across her round face. Her mother would smile indulgently, the way a parent does at a precocious child.
Even then she'd tried to lay claim to someone else's husband.
She really should've seen this coming.
"Funniest" part of all of this? I was a silly, horrible girl last night and kissed someone who was not free to be kissed. Turns out such subjects are not intriguing, just rotten and awful and stomach churning and heart-wrenching. But still, at least I'll be able to write with a bit more conviction. Every cloud and all that.
Thursday 11 June 2009
Things what annoy me, innit.
Dear Mr Halifax.
I am writing to enquire as to why you feel the need to pay my bills for me. Now, on the face of it, this seems like all kinds of win. However, on closer inspecton, it appears you are paying direct debits for me, and then charging me for not having the money in the account...and then again for going over my overdraft. Now, excuse my ignorance, but if I don't have the money, and you take it anyway, I will, of course, go over my overdraft. So why do I need to be charged twice? How about you don't pay it for me, the DD will bounce, you don't pay anything and I only incur one charge. This, while not ideal, seems a far better idea to me. (Ideal, just so you know, would be a lottery win or an extra £100 on my overdraft. But both you and Camelot appear to be against me. Incidentally, why is this? I'm a nice gal. Honest, Guv.)
Also, while we're on the subject, can you tell me why paying 18p for me costs you £48? I'm sure someone may well be on the fiddle in your expenses department, I would have a word if I were you.
Finally, please stop spending my money on Howard Brown and those silly, overblown adverts, which tell me you'll give me a fiver if I pay you a grand. Not only does that seem disproportionately unfair, but I'm pretty sure that if you'd stopped wasting pennies on Mr Brown et al then Lloyds TSB wouldn't have had to bail you out a few months back.
Yours,
Disgruntled.
I am writing to enquire as to why you feel the need to pay my bills for me. Now, on the face of it, this seems like all kinds of win. However, on closer inspecton, it appears you are paying direct debits for me, and then charging me for not having the money in the account...and then again for going over my overdraft. Now, excuse my ignorance, but if I don't have the money, and you take it anyway, I will, of course, go over my overdraft. So why do I need to be charged twice? How about you don't pay it for me, the DD will bounce, you don't pay anything and I only incur one charge. This, while not ideal, seems a far better idea to me. (Ideal, just so you know, would be a lottery win or an extra £100 on my overdraft. But both you and Camelot appear to be against me. Incidentally, why is this? I'm a nice gal. Honest, Guv.)
Also, while we're on the subject, can you tell me why paying 18p for me costs you £48? I'm sure someone may well be on the fiddle in your expenses department, I would have a word if I were you.
Finally, please stop spending my money on Howard Brown and those silly, overblown adverts, which tell me you'll give me a fiver if I pay you a grand. Not only does that seem disproportionately unfair, but I'm pretty sure that if you'd stopped wasting pennies on Mr Brown et al then Lloyds TSB wouldn't have had to bail you out a few months back.
Yours,
Disgruntled.
Monday 8 June 2009
Hmpf.
OK, so I was sick today. It's now 10 days in a row. Still, not so great. And my placement phoned the uni, I think they are under the impression that I just fancied a lie-in this morning. Yes, because I am stupid enough to risk my career for a couple of extra hours in bed. Sometimes, people's underestimation of me really grates.
Anyway. Sick day today meant I got to listen to Jen on the radio. And lady, if you are reading, YOU ROCK. More than Muse on a pebbled beach! (That's a lotta rock.) Just plain awesome, indeedy do. Eloquent, prettyful, talented and full of loveliness; is there nothing you can't do!?
Ah well. I'm in on a late tomorrow, meaning I can lie in tomorrow morning. Bootiful.
I have 7 shifts left in the hellhole. Roll on 8.30am, Friday 19th June 2009. I'll run from there quicker than Any Wino from rehab.
Anyway. Sick day today meant I got to listen to Jen on the radio. And lady, if you are reading, YOU ROCK. More than Muse on a pebbled beach! (That's a lotta rock.) Just plain awesome, indeedy do. Eloquent, prettyful, talented and full of loveliness; is there nothing you can't do!?
Ah well. I'm in on a late tomorrow, meaning I can lie in tomorrow morning. Bootiful.
I have 7 shifts left in the hellhole. Roll on 8.30am, Friday 19th June 2009. I'll run from there quicker than Any Wino from rehab.
Sunday 7 June 2009
Oh, my.
Well, well, well. Two days in and I can already see this is going to take over my life, in much the same way HTV and Facebook have. Oh, dear.
Today has been my first day off since Tuesday, which doesn't sound too bad until I share the joy that is my 11 days in a row to come. Which, aside from total lack of sleep, needles me for various reasons:
- For 8 of those 11, I am not getting paid. True story.
- I will have very little time to watch the mountain of DVD's which appear to be breeding on my bedroom floor.
- I will miss Jen on la radio :(
- I will not have time to write anything more than flash poems and random one liners. And I have much to type up and share.
Anyway, annoyance aside, I've had quite a nice day, pub lunch with my family to celebrate my mother's birthday, relaxed afternoon with a nap and family viewing of Only Fools and Horses on GOLD+1 (how Sunday's should be) and I even managed to get a wee bit of my work on cardiac rhythms done. Now debating whether to go to the pub and risk a hangover for work in the morning, or stay in and watch the new series of Kingdom. I also have a hankering to watch some Russell Howard and giggle/swoon my evening away. Oh, decisions, decisions.
Here for you all is a snippet of something I was working on whilst burning my pasty frame on holiday. It's already been posted on HTV, but I am rather proud of it, even if I do say so myself. Feast your eyes xx
[untitled]
The sea was thunder grey. This pleased her. She'd never really been one for blue waters and bluer skies. They held too much hope, too much false relaxation. People could not see that they has merely suspended their troubles with expensive foreign beaches and hot suns, not escaped them. The woes and tribulations would still be there upon their return, waiting on the welcome mat, bound nicely in brown windowed envelopes. No, the thankless cold and grey suited her nicely, thank you very much. You knew where you stood with perpetual winter.
The pier was long and worn. Doubtlessly pristine in its heydey, the weathered wood now splintered sadly, its whitewashed exterior barely concealing the rot underneath.
How apt.
Signs swung desolately in the harsh wind, having long given up attempting to entice the youth of the town to sample the wares within. Flashing neon lights and dancing machines had superseded seaside cream teas and one penny slots; the pride of the town had been left to decay. It seemed that just one strong gust of wind and it would shatter, float on the sea, a thousand forgotten pieces cast into oblivion.
What a wonderful idea.
It wasn't that she was a bad person. She had been respected, revered. She'd had friends and family and morality and purity. How quickly things change.
She reached the end of the long timber walkway quickly. The edge of the world. Here, she could see for miles the same vast, hopeless expanse, and it warmed her. It pleased her to know that emptiness was not treading the realms of the insane; it was here, clear and obvious for all to see.
The gentle, deafening roar of the water as it crashed against the metal construct below her two feet filled her ears. She reminisced on that morning, standing under a cascade of lukewarm water, hoping the force of the water would cleanse her charcoal soul. The nostalgia threatened to overwhelm her as she tried to grasp at that elusive emotion one last time - hope. But it sprinted away, giggling softly at her pitiful form as it left her.
Her bare feet rose to meet the bottom rung of the dilapidated railings surrounding her. Don't climb, they seemed to wheeze with age as she descended upon them. We cannot take the weight, we are weary.
She ignored their pleas. She did not care for the feelings of others. At least, that's what she'd been told.
She released her hands, stretching them outwards, and the bleak breeze caught her hair. The long, golden strands flew out behind her, woven strands of sunlight illuminating the concrete sky. She was flying; this was her freedom. Ironic, she thought, how freedom can so easily be juxtaposed with finality. Yet, for all of her freedom, she felt nothing; no joy, no fear. The increase of the thudding in her chest was merely down to the speed with which she'd reached her destination.
She was morally bereft. She had no right to feel.
Placing her hands back to grip the railings in front of her, she sighed as the wind subsided. She could not cry, not muster one lonesome tear to solidify her fate and make it somehow tangible. It was as if she'd seen it coming from the very beginning; from the moment we are born, we are slowly dying. It made sense, then, that as the introduction of his touch had brought her to life, so the withdrawal of it should end her living.
Today has been my first day off since Tuesday, which doesn't sound too bad until I share the joy that is my 11 days in a row to come. Which, aside from total lack of sleep, needles me for various reasons:
- For 8 of those 11, I am not getting paid. True story.
- I will have very little time to watch the mountain of DVD's which appear to be breeding on my bedroom floor.
- I will miss Jen on la radio :(
- I will not have time to write anything more than flash poems and random one liners. And I have much to type up and share.
Anyway, annoyance aside, I've had quite a nice day, pub lunch with my family to celebrate my mother's birthday, relaxed afternoon with a nap and family viewing of Only Fools and Horses on GOLD+1 (how Sunday's should be) and I even managed to get a wee bit of my work on cardiac rhythms done. Now debating whether to go to the pub and risk a hangover for work in the morning, or stay in and watch the new series of Kingdom. I also have a hankering to watch some Russell Howard and giggle/swoon my evening away. Oh, decisions, decisions.
Here for you all is a snippet of something I was working on whilst burning my pasty frame on holiday. It's already been posted on HTV, but I am rather proud of it, even if I do say so myself. Feast your eyes xx
[untitled]
The sea was thunder grey. This pleased her. She'd never really been one for blue waters and bluer skies. They held too much hope, too much false relaxation. People could not see that they has merely suspended their troubles with expensive foreign beaches and hot suns, not escaped them. The woes and tribulations would still be there upon their return, waiting on the welcome mat, bound nicely in brown windowed envelopes. No, the thankless cold and grey suited her nicely, thank you very much. You knew where you stood with perpetual winter.
The pier was long and worn. Doubtlessly pristine in its heydey, the weathered wood now splintered sadly, its whitewashed exterior barely concealing the rot underneath.
How apt.
Signs swung desolately in the harsh wind, having long given up attempting to entice the youth of the town to sample the wares within. Flashing neon lights and dancing machines had superseded seaside cream teas and one penny slots; the pride of the town had been left to decay. It seemed that just one strong gust of wind and it would shatter, float on the sea, a thousand forgotten pieces cast into oblivion.
What a wonderful idea.
It wasn't that she was a bad person. She had been respected, revered. She'd had friends and family and morality and purity. How quickly things change.
She reached the end of the long timber walkway quickly. The edge of the world. Here, she could see for miles the same vast, hopeless expanse, and it warmed her. It pleased her to know that emptiness was not treading the realms of the insane; it was here, clear and obvious for all to see.
The gentle, deafening roar of the water as it crashed against the metal construct below her two feet filled her ears. She reminisced on that morning, standing under a cascade of lukewarm water, hoping the force of the water would cleanse her charcoal soul. The nostalgia threatened to overwhelm her as she tried to grasp at that elusive emotion one last time - hope. But it sprinted away, giggling softly at her pitiful form as it left her.
Her bare feet rose to meet the bottom rung of the dilapidated railings surrounding her. Don't climb, they seemed to wheeze with age as she descended upon them. We cannot take the weight, we are weary.
She ignored their pleas. She did not care for the feelings of others. At least, that's what she'd been told.
She released her hands, stretching them outwards, and the bleak breeze caught her hair. The long, golden strands flew out behind her, woven strands of sunlight illuminating the concrete sky. She was flying; this was her freedom. Ironic, she thought, how freedom can so easily be juxtaposed with finality. Yet, for all of her freedom, she felt nothing; no joy, no fear. The increase of the thudding in her chest was merely down to the speed with which she'd reached her destination.
She was morally bereft. She had no right to feel.
Placing her hands back to grip the railings in front of her, she sighed as the wind subsided. She could not cry, not muster one lonesome tear to solidify her fate and make it somehow tangible. It was as if she'd seen it coming from the very beginning; from the moment we are born, we are slowly dying. It made sense, then, that as the introduction of his touch had brought her to life, so the withdrawal of it should end her living.
Saturday 6 June 2009
Just to get started...
Well, apparently, it is high time I got me one of these. I have always been somewhat slow when it comes to technology; I can barely work a calculator, so this, believe it or not, is quite an achievement. I shall mostly be using this to...well, post snippets, waffle and contribute random blurbs to the online world. Doing exactly what it says on the tin, really.
I write a lot. Mainly crapola, but what you gonna do, creativity flows, I can't help it if it's more dumped-in-the-Thames-sewage than pure freshwater stream. But, no doubt, I shall inflict my literary genius upon whoever chooses to read this from time to time. Just 'cos I can.
Enjoy xx
I write a lot. Mainly crapola, but what you gonna do, creativity flows, I can't help it if it's more dumped-in-the-Thames-sewage than pure freshwater stream. But, no doubt, I shall inflict my literary genius upon whoever chooses to read this from time to time. Just 'cos I can.
Enjoy xx
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