All 9 entries tagged Journal
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February 11, 2010
Oh what do you want from me?
World, look at me.
February 04, 2010
I am sleep deprived and hungry, thank you Rootes on bouth counts. Who stole my cheese!? Who stole my sleep!? I really can't complain too much, it is usually a drunken me being horribly inconsiderate and racous in the corridors. I know now next time. At about 4am I was sobbing for myself in bed yelling "SHUT UP!" to no avail. It was a very sorry picture.
I would like my post to come now please. It's been far too long, it really should be here by now. I have an essay to read first, something ridiculously abstract and incoherent that I won't understand and thus, will spend the duration of my seminar feeling like a total moron. I am trying, but the work is trying too. (What a witty pun... do you see now how hungry I am?)
My room has at least managed to maintain an acceptable level of clean since Sunday though, this is quite the achievement. However cynical I sound right now, I am feeling rather motivated, and my To Do List that is sat before me is progressivley getting shorter. Fabulous. Perhaps I can go out this weekend without an overwhelming sense of guilt that I should be in the library translating medieval english that I don't understand and see now relative use for in my future. Oh please do hurry up Year 2 so I can take a billion creative writing modules and leave the hell of overanalysing of book and the stubbing of my ability to read something I want to.
How do people do so many things? I can just about find enough hours in the day to sleep, eat, read the set books, complete my seminar work and eat a little more. I must devise some kind of schedule. I must go to the gym. I must eat less and nap less. I should probably begin living in the library. I really just want to curl up in my bed and write woeful poetry... time for coffee.
February 03, 2010
How are you? I disregard this too much and yet am often scared to ask because it does no justice to our relationship. It sums up so little in these analytical heads and overzealous hearts. Tell me how you feel, what you think, you opinion on your life, your future, your past. I want to learn everything again because I feel uneducated when it comes to you right now. I feel like I have no place in asking what’s happened here and why is this and what was that about… I know not of your events and you know not of mine.
So I’m bridging the gap, and please don’t set this one alight. We’ve been so bitter, so agonisingly stubborn. I just want to sit inside your head again, like I used to, reading over discarded memoirs and learning about the brutality of your Father, the indifference of your Mother. I want to hug your mind, and fall across the photographs of your youth, tracing your history in a hazy set of polaroids.
I will be yours again, and I hope you will be mine. I let it slowly fade. I took a picture of us and left it in the sun until the edges curled and our faces paled into insignificance. I let your light go out. Someday our love will be resurrected. Leave this letter in the sun, and let us start again.
January 19, 2010
It has flickered beyond morning and forgotten to inform me. My alarm clock is blinking defiantly at me, holding up its metaphorical hands as if to say “you never told me.” I roll over to face the window in hope I remembered to draw the curtains, only to be greeted by two large pigeons engaging in something no one ever needs to witness on the extension roof. They’re having better luck than I am though. It is almost 2pm before I manage to battle out of the sea of sheets to rehydrate my mouth, which subsequently feels like a family of tobacco flavoured rats have fornicated in whilst I slept.
No ones in, which is a relief because after a glass of water I proceed to vomit into the sink. What a mess, what a fucking awful mess I am. After 20minutes of dry heaving I step into my customary freezing shower to shift the odour of sweaty bed sheets and cheap wine. I let the cold water rush over my bruised back, war wounds from nights out. I notice a new swelling on my right knee and a flashback of stairs and stilettos ensues. What a mess.
Yawning ferociously I sit down to my breakfast of dry, seedy toast and black coffee.
I am wishing to expel all the ideas and patchwork, poorly sewn together plans that I tried to tell myself were feasible. Futures can only be built upon pasts and most certainly presents. It is all subjective. What is reality at this hour, the sixty minutes between two o’clock and three, may not be so by tonight. The world could collapse by then. What is fact and fiction flirts with deception. Nothing is truly here or settled or assured. The wooden floor that secures my place could splinter before the day is through. The microwave in my new kitchen may break and Mum might cry because she finds out I drink concoctions of red wine and beer and vodka and anything greasy, acne plagued boys feed me.
I may be planning a train journey to stay with my aunt because my Dad thinks I have a drug problem but I would enjoy it because I’d eat bagels and smoke cigarettes and write pretty things on the train and play the game when you make up peoples lives. Like the man with the briefcase and badly shaped eyebrows whom is about to come into a small fortune but will waste it on a fast, polished red car instead of his wife and will be lonely because he forgot what it was to feel and only remembered what it is to spend. Perhaps I will be betrayed by someone most loyal or perhaps I should not doubt them but myself instead. It is possible that I may disown someone who when I woke up this morning was beautiful and untouchable and precious beyond materialistic surroundings, but I don’t think I’d do a thing like that. I do not feel like I need to prove myself or make some brash decision. I feel magnificently reckless in a most floral and sparkly way. The world is at one with me from as far as I can see from this sofa made from cow. I’m sure that’s quite the juxtaposition and that nature is actually angry at for being seated so comfortably but whilst nature can only communicate to me through weather and bird song and appearance and that outside today is fresh and sunshine filled and the leaves are pleasantly waving in the wind and the birdsong is shrill enough to be heard but not so shrill that it aches my ears it’s as I said, the world and me are at one.
I am loveless in a most satisfying way. I recall what it is and how overwhelming and perfectly poignant even the small worlds of “can I see you tomorrow?” felt but that is dead and decomposing now in a scentless, tactful style. It is not blotting my being or making everything illegible, in fact it is sparking a creativity born from the ache that was residual. I am scornful but witty and meaningful and my senseless acts of summer nights need be no more than a memory that makes me smile. My head is pounding in a dull, wonderful manner that captures the previous evening’s occurrences better than photographic evidence. I remember what it is to enjoy my own company and revel in the uncertainty of tomorrows tomorrow. It is all a product of Summer and smoke and trying to quit it in a most effortless, “I’m not actually trying to quit I’ll just say that so people find my new habits less revolting and resist the need to lecture me on things I got an A grade on without trying” sort of way. My sentences are most marvellously long and very likely grammatically incorrect in a purposefully accidental fashion. I think Dickens would be disapproving but irresponsibly intrigued with my character and though I would never make it into a published book, I’d be at the least a scribble on a page to return to at some later date. A kind of working project that was never going anywhere and never will develop into a Pip or Dombey.
I am sleepy and covered in dew and morning even though we are well into the second half of this Saturday in April. This occasion may not be memorable like the loss of your virginity or the first time you get told “Well maybe our love is just different” but within this hour it is treasured and will be stored away somewhere that will never forget. There are pancake wrappers and empty cups that desire filling and an empty packet that once contained drugs and shoes that should probably be on my feet and carrying me home to do more practical and beneficial things but in actuality this right here seems to be the most beneficial thing I will ever do in all my life. No one could taint this and I will admire them for trying. One seems malicious within my vicinity of life. I seem a little lost and a little unsure if lost is an emotion and a little unsure if uncertainty is an admittance of cowardice. I adore the world and appreciate that this adoration will soon be spent and I will return to being mocking and malevolent and quietly optimistic, but deafeningly cynical. The fabric of my existence is at peace.
December 13, 2009
It has been a most odd few weeks. I'm not really sure what is happening to the world but it is definitely falling apart at the seams a bit.
Granny Groves passed away on Tuesday. It feels very surreal, I've never lost anyone close to me. She was my only Grandmother and even then, I didn't get to have the full enjoyment of knowing her. She was wonderful.
I remember very milky tea with lots of sugar in it when she lived at the old flat.
I remember going through Dad's old toy cars in the sliding glass cabinet.
I remember playing "I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts" on the organ in the bedroom.
I remember the teapot that was also on Pauline Fowler's shelf in Eastenders.
I remember the horrible, ghastly carpet.
I remember those Chinese musical balls you moved about in your hand.
I remember tickling my cousin Barbara at Christmas and my brother singing Twinkle Twinkle little star on the toy kareoke box.
I remember "you've put on some pounds" comments when I was already self-concious enough.
I remember my first boyfriend meeting her and realising I didn't want to marry him because I wanted to be a "Granny Groves" to someone one day.
The funeral is on Thursday and I'm very much looking forward to celebrating her life. She wrote poetry, and maybe a little of her gift is shining in me now.
November 06, 2009
Isn't it a most wonderful film? I am close to knowing every line.
GENTLEMEN UP STAGE LADIES DOWN STAGE, ARE YOU A LADY MR. KENT!
Yann Tiersen is rounding my night off perfectly. I am suffering from a lack of words and thus am forcing self to do that "found poetry" thing. I am counting sheep.
Home on Sunday, and a very quiet weekend as most people seem to be away. I shalln't be too lonely, I have a plan to avoid such emptiness.
November 04, 2009
So it's been a little while, I apologise for that dear diary (we all know I always start journals and only manage to keep them for about a week before I return perhaps monthly to go "ahhh I'm so stressed!)
Life is actually pretty wonderful. I am now 19, in my final year of adolescence which is terribly frightening and exciting all at once. I have a new lust for life on Wednesday mornings after my creative writing class, and I'd like to boast about how absolutely jovial I feel (despite the fact I have 2 essays due in for Friday and have only written one paragraph of GCSE standard dribble).
I am alive and that is wonderful. To feel alive is even more glorious, I am working on that.
I'm very sad the poetry module is over, I really was enjoying it. Creative non-fiction sounds like quite the challenge for me, but I like to be out of my depth and thrown from my warm, comfort zone.
I have a package I am off to collect... I LOVE POST!
And then, sadly, I will have to crack on with an essay or 2.
October 20, 2009
Either some angry sex going on upstairs/downstairs or the taps in this place are seriously dodgy. I say both.
I feel very inadequate tonight. (Not just because I am lonely in my room or slightly intoxicated due to cheap cider...)
October 19, 2009
2 Sundays away from Londonia in this new kingodom of Warwick from my little Rootes castle.
I love it (except I think I have scurvy.)