Scribblings of moi

We're like strangers.

2011-03-23T14:35:00.000-07:00

I haven't really blogged in a while. I think it's because I've been a bit too emotional and I know that I would have let the dominate my blog and reveal more than I would actually intend to reveal about myself. However, that's probably exactly what I'm going to do now, because if I can't write into the empty void of my blog, then what can I do?

Looking at my other posts I can't believe the tone I use and the enthusiasm. I've just not been feeling that way at all recently. I remember at the start of this year I was really excited about the potential of everything, I was super confident again and for the very first time in about five years I was truly and sincerely happy. It's not to say that I'm not now but I don't feel like the shiny new spark that I was then. It's like I've reached an emotional deadspace or something.

I have everything that I've wanted in the last six years. Everything. And yet it doesn't really feel like it's enough. Infact it doesn't really feel like I thought it would. I didn't realise how much work everything is. Uni, people, everything. Everything needs so much commitment and drive and in my most self doubting moments sometimes I don't have it in me. I seem to be pushing things away and my effort to be 'good' is wasted because it results in just horrificness to be honest.

So I don't know. It's not even as if I'm in a rut. It's more a case of "what now? What more do you want from me, eh? What more could I possibly give? What am I supposed to do now? What do I do next?"

I've had to train myself as well and it's particularly different at the moment to keep doing mind exercises and stay positive and don't let the negative thoughts consume me. They're always there. And they weren't for a while but the minute I indulge in one I'm stuck in a swamp of them. I sink into it.

I don't really feel like myself. I don't really know what I want to do about anything anymore. I don't look the way I want to. Infact it's the first time in my life I've been overtly insecure about my looks in a way that it's effecting my daily life. This has never happened to me before. Infact in January I was so confident about my looks and my body. I wasn't being arrogant but for the first time I was sincerely comfortable in my own skin.

I have never been this insecure before. Never.

The only thing I can really think to do about any of this is wallow and be sad, because for me there's a kind of comfort in that, I've been doing it for years, but the more I do it the more I'm pushing people away. Even this blog entry is dangerous because it is too self indulgent and it is wallow worthy. I can't really do that anymore, but I don't have any other kind of coping mechanism.

I am going to keep doing my exercises and try and push passed this as much as a I can with as litle damage as possible. I'm sure I can do that.

You

2011-01-16T15:45:00.000-08:00

"You don’t want me, no
You don’t need me

Like I want you, oh
Like I need you

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life

You can’t see me, no
Like I see you
I can’t have you, no
Like you have me

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life

You can’t feel me, no
Like I feel you
I can’t steal you, no
Like you stole me

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life"

I never understood why if two people loved each other then they couldn't just fight for it and tell whatevers holding them back to piss the fuck off. Y'know? I always wondered why you'd let that be squandered, and why you wouldn't fight for it with every bit of yourself. And it's not necessarily a sad realisation, more of a freshing one, in that there are probably some people you shouldn't love. I think if you can keep them in your life, and keep them being important to you then you should, but I don't think you should let the fact you're in love with that person dominate you. Afterall, I love cigarettes and they're terrible for me.

Like in (500) Days of Summer. The male protagonist, he's there. He's in love and he knows what he wants, and Summer, while she comes across as heartless bitch for the most part, that's not really the case. She's just not there yet, and she does get there, just not with him. A person shouldn't have to wait for another person to get there.

I hate waiting around for anything anyway.

The future is unwritten.

2010-12-28T19:03:00.001-08:00

Every year, once a year, I watch Joe Strummer: The Future is Unwritten.
I only ever watch this film once a year. There are a few reasons why. One because I took my then punkest best friend to see it with me and my dad when were both...fuck, 14 or something. It spoke to us. My dad drove us home fast as fuck playing Sonic Youth full blast, and for the first time I felt free. Y'know? The first time I saw that film I thought I could DO anything. BE anything. If Joe could do it, so could I. I was mocked for that a lot, but it stuck with me; I can be whatever the fuck I want.

A year later, the second time I watched it I cried almost all the way through it, because by now I was an established Clash fan. It was the first time I mourned for Joe and everything that died with him, but I still felt inspired. I wanted to make the most of my life before it was taken away from me before I knew it.

I may have missed a year of watching it. I think that year was when I was probably the most estranged from myself.

I watched it this year, when I rememberd my private tradition. I had to watch it in sections because apprently I sleep a lot these days. Now when I watched the end, I just felt sad. I was mourning, but more than I had before. I mourning over how safe music is now, the apathy people have towards it, how punk seems like it never really happened, how mocking people are to people like me even now, how much I empathised with Joe, how much I missed someone I had never met, how much I wanted to be this man. I wanted to be in that period of time, to experience what I've felt I've missed. To meet like minded people who recognise that in the 8th aniversary of Joe's death it was a fucking big deal. He was a big deal.

There's a scene on the dvd, where he's being recorded for something unrealted to the film (Julien Temple made the film in a very... ransom note kind of way) and he approaches these two girls for a gig with his new band. This is years, and years later. They have no idea who he is.

I would do anything to talk to Joe. Just one conversation.

And I think the reason why I only let myself watch the film once a year is because I am so in love with that man, and how much he's influenced me, changed me, continues to change me and inspire me when I finally give The Clash and even his other work the time it's deserved. It's the purest, simpilest, crippiling love I've experienced. Which is why I don't throw myself in front of it often.

I miss someone I've never met.

R.I.P Joe Strummer.

Good bits of 2010

2010-12-27T10:07:00.000-08:00

Green Day, June 2010. Photo by Eilidh Duff.
Green Day 2010, photo by Eilidh Duff
Mookymeet in London - July.
My Chemical Romance with Emma - November
My little bro. Ace 24/7.
After Pretty Reckless with Eilidh and Robyn. December.
The Pretty Reckless with Paige, Eilidh, Robyn.
My birthday night out here with two randoms in suits, Jenny, Denny, Chris, Greg and Sian
Getting drunk for reasons I can't remember with Gayle, Eilidh and Natzy. July
- Fiona's 18th with Jade, Tom, Mark, Imran, Pat and Mark. November.
Eilidhs Pirate Party with... a lot of people. March.
Paris 2010, January.
Leeds meet, September.
Pickles birthday, December. With Pickles and Emma.
My 'prom' with Natzy, Eilidh, Lauren, Catriona, Chris and Caitlin. May.
Natzy and I sharing "Kodak moment" when she came to cheer me up. November.
Unkown flat venture with my ladies. Febuary/March/April/May.
Natzys birthday party with Lauren. January.
The best party I've ever been to. May.

That time Eilidh bet up Mark. May/June.

Good bits that don't have photographic evidence:
April: AFI with Craig C. Where I drank risky amounts, chatted up a neo nazi's daughter and acted inappropriately about 99.9% of the time. I barely remember AFI but the night was good. It was very good.

The night after Lukes birthday party, July: Chris, Natzy and Craig came over, got steaming, had epic discussions about DBZ, X - Men, watched Wolverine, went on chat roulette and all passed out watching shit tv after getting a take away at stupid o'clock in the morning.

The time Mark trashed Craigs bathroom: August/September. Before Mark left Craig and Mark got stupidly drunk (I didn't since the fucker bought me cider) and we were in a Green Day mood. So we were beltin' out tracks from American Idiot. All three of us, just screaming in this shitty bedsit. It was great. When Mark left things were great too. Maybe even my favourite night ever? Crazy.

Evelyn, Evelyn, May: I had the beginnings of a throat infection which would later stop me going to prom but nevertheless, the gig was magnificent. Jason Webley was stranded in New York and Amanda was at the venue, so she hooked up the Mac and got all these people on stage to sort it out and they played their full set together. TOGETHER. When he was in fucking New York and she was in Glasgow. It was the most magical thing I'd ever seen.

Meeting Immy, July: Words can't describe how incredible and bizarre it was to have a friend from the net in my town, walking about the town centre with me. It was fucking crazy. Sadly for her though she had to interact with Craig. Even more sadly for her it was when me and him weren't talking, so it was pretty uncomfortable. She met Natzy though, and we like Natzy.

Promise me no dead end streets

2010-12-23T12:45:00.000-08:00

And I'll garuntee we'll have the road.

My last big adventure of 2010 was going to Leeds. Done my usual. Told few people I was buggering off, mentioned it fleetingly to el parento's, forgot I was actually going and then rolled up to meet Emma all shocked and unprepaired. I've been more places this year than I have in my whole life, and I only really went to London and Leeds. I think I mean something else though.

A knocked down dragged out fight
fat lips and open wounds
another wasted night
no one will take the fall.

When I'm in East Kilbride it's much like squabling with a lover you've been with for years. When I'm here I'm walking around with cotton wool in my ears, black eyes, fat lip. It tricks me into thinking I can't leave, and before I do leave I try ANYTHING to get out of it. If I could break my own leg I would. Then I go, and the world is large and people are interesting. Leeds men are particularly lovely. So that's why I leave a lot, when I can.

Recently though East Kilbride isn't the villian. There isn't a villian. There's just a town I live in and a world I have no idea about.

I think this has been the most unusual year I'll ever have (or want to have). In some ways it was the best in regards to sorting myself out, but obviously it was the worst for why I had to. So many wonderful experiences were had, so many awesome gigs, bit of a crap relationship but a lot of fun inbetween times. I couldn't appreicate it when it was happening to me, but now I'm loving the adventure I've been on this year.

I hope next year's a more positive one.

Where do we go from here and what did you do with the directions?
Promise me no dead end streets
and I'll garuntee we'll have the road.

The accordion player and living statue

2010-12-15T13:03:00.000-08:00

Can someone (If anyone actually reads this blog, I'm never quite sure if I've been typing into oblivion or not) give me some feedback and maybe even brainstorm with me on where to go from here? I need a dramatic scene to happen before it can end. Please if there's anything about it that you would change or want to add then do it! I need help and I'm not particularly sacred about my writing.

I have seen many street performers throughout the years in Florence. I have met those whom have tried to mimic the magic of Houdini; musicians have also established themselves in the little bohemian square which showcased various amounts of talent and skills. There had been clowns, mimes, and living statues like myself. All sorts. Never a dull moment. None quite as important, however as the accordion players. Or really, my accordion player that I had met so long ago. Generations have passed since then, now an elderly man takes the place of youth. I watched this elderly accordionist deliver melodies from his enchanting squeeze box, time had etched itself into his skin, the same way it has done to mine. His eyes were framed with tributaries of wrinkles and laughter lines. Amongst the music was the flurry of dark haired children dancing to their own tunes of innocence and youthfulness, ignoring the irate expressions of adults having to manoeuvre around them. I felt the tinny of the accordion sound accelerate my heart beat, the only way the accordion can and I swayed to the spell of the music, falling deeper into my memories of the musician I once loved.

Street performance is not as popular as it once was. Cynicism has become a symptom of the preforming arts, where if a real definition is not clear performances are ridiculed and deemed to be ‘pointless’ and ‘a waste of time’. The square where I spent my happiest years was covered in colour. Flower boxes with glowing violets and periwinkle lined the plentiful obscure shops which were often vintage themed, selling antiques, clothes, knick knacks. Little bistro’s, bars and cafés were scattered throughout. Sometimes lights and lanterns would hang and twist down the larger street lamps illuminating everything in a magnificent orange and red glow in the evening. And littered all around would be my creative troupe. Some would practice to simple magic tricks, others card games. A few seized their own visions of living statues and would shock passer-by when they moved suddenly. In the height of bohemia and entertainment it was the most wonderful place to be. I had chased bohemia for as long as I could remember. I was a child that ran in the forest outside her home in her bare feet to feel the soil mingle with my strangely pallid skin and as a teenager I would become my art, painting my naked body in vivid colours, feeling them merge into me. I believed my body to be a canvas, and I treated it as such. I left my parental home on the outskirts of Tuscany at an early age and eventually settled into a small apartment in Florence. In my early stages of adulthood I had evolved into the art of street performance where I hid every inch of myself behind masks, paint and costumes. As a child there had been elements of loneliness, which is not to be confused with disliking my own company. Often I was frustrated by the lack of beauty that my peers were able to witness and so I immersed myself in the exquisiteness of nature, music and literature. Inspired by my lonely years in Tuscany I sought likeminded beings that I could enchant and entertain. One day I bought a second hand wedding dress and white fabric. It was worn at the seams, splitting in unsightly areas and the pristine white was now an awful cream colour. It was perfect. In my naivety had never experienced an intense love for another being before and thought then that such things were a farce, so I became the dishevelled Bridal Statue that gave flowers to patrons and simultaneously poking fun at convention.

I had been preforming for several months, and although the pay relied on the generosity of the public (which was not very often generous at all) and my hours standing perfectly still were trying I found a routine that I was safe in, although not necessarily happy. The same artists had been preforming with me, and after each long day we would take off our masks and change out of our costumes to become ourselves once more. Often we would go to a bar and celebrate being back in our own skin, something that was becoming more and more of a rarity. On one day, a day not particular at all, a shift had occurred in our dynamic. I noticed a strange wheezing musical noise being played above the chattering tourists. Many were flocking to the opposite side of the square, under a little porch. I strained my eyes to see but I had posed in the opposite direction and was unable to move until I was paid to. I had never heard an accordionist before; the instrument was a strange alien to me, something that didn’t belong. I was almost irritated with the obstruction that had tempted me to move and distracted me. When I was able to proportion myself freely I saw him for the first time. My accordion player manipulated his instrument in a way that I had never seen before, his motions were fluid and constant, his body swayed in time with the Parisian music expressing an almost feminine quality emphasised by his incredibly lean body and long hands. Every day I would pose in certain ways just to steal a glimpse of his slicked back dark hair, or the way that his coat flowed around his striped trouser leg. His top hat would irk slightly when he got too enthused and he had a habit of stopping to cough into a little polka dotted handkerchief. His face was long but delicate with sunken cheekbones a pasty complexion, giving him a glow that only a sick person would have. He never spoke to any other performers and scarcely would give anyone eye contact. He just played his accordion from sunrise until sunset before lurking off into the shadows of the alleyway.

Grumbley bum.

2010-12-15T10:35:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it's becaue my toe nails hurt or my assignments crap or I keep getting myself worked up over things that I have absolutely no control over or my rooms still messy or it's meant to be snowing tomorrow buuuut I feel rubbish. Nah not really rubbish. Just lethargic and unmotivated and doubtful. I keep doubting my writing ability.

Grumble.
This is a wee moan. I'll try and pap something proper here tonight because maybe it won't look as shit as it does in a word document?

I'm not going to live my life on one side of an ampersand

2010-12-14T16:16:00.000-08:00

Even if I went with you, I'm not the girl you think I am
I'm not going to match you
cause I'll lose my voice completely
I'm not going to watch you because I'm not the one that's crazy.

Oh Amanda.

I currently a ball of frustration wrapped in a coat of anger flavoured..something. It's purely because I can find the fucking words or formulate a plot. I have an accordion player and a street prefromer who love one another painfully. My street performer is a living statue who is greatly influenced by Amanda Palmers 8ft bride. In my mind my street performer is a bride who hands out flowers, and maybe even dances with her patrons. I'm not sure yet. I know that she has long matted brown hair and freckles speckled across her face. She has bright green eyes and a strange pallid yet olive complextion. She's from Tuscany and moved to Florence to chase a bohemian dream. She never really had friends never bothered to give her heart to anyone because she was to beautiful and exotic.

My accordion player is a young man who is lean and perhaps almost Skeletal. He wears white face pain that resembles a mime, but has vivid rouge cheeks and long think eyelashes like a woman would. He wears a top hat and a coat with tails, and he wears white gloves with gold buttons on them. His hair is slicked back but very long, with one white stripe running through it. Underneath all of the make up he has very olive skin tone that's incongruous to the victorian theme he's got going on. No one knows where he is from, for he doesn't speak much. He plays his accordion on the same square everyday, rain or shine, playing because he loves the music so much. One day he is affronted by these glowing green eyes behind a white mask. An 8ft woman is posing in a wedding dress across the pavement from him. He falls in love with her immediatly.

I already know something possibly unpleasent is going to happen to my accordion player.
I'm not yet sure whether that unpleasent thing is death. It could be something worse (to me), he could give up on his art and his heart could break for the girl that he couldn't attain. Maybe he'd go somewhere else, or even be discovered?

Are my young couple even going to converse in this little story of mine? Is it an unrequited love?
What is going to change the dynamic? Could a totalitarian Government suddenly fuck up Italy?

I DON'T KNOW WHERE TO GO WITH THIS.
But I know I love my woman and man too much to abandone them without a real beginning or end.
I hate deadlines.
I also hate really inconvienant people deciding they want to be in my life again. It's thrown my creative juices right out of whack.

"No one gets it, no one gets it
You're on a low, your honour
can't you protect us?
Protect us?
Who needs love when there's law and order
Who needs love when there's Southern Comfort
Who needs love when the sandwhiches are wicked and they know you at the Mac Store!"

Oh, oh, oh, someday, someday...

Amanda, you're giving me a fairytale.
She's so talented. She wouldn't let a twatbag uninspire her. She can write the most beautiful songs and be so wonderful and oh...

If I can't sort out what I want to do about my real life how can I possibly write out a life for my two lovelorn characters?

I need help with this!

I'M BRINGING ME BACK, YO!

2010-12-11T06:20:00.001-08:00

What's the happy haps?
This blog has been neglected for almost a year it would seem. The posts I made in the past were morose ramblings of a very confused lady girl. I am as confused as ever, and I am still a lady girl (My sex change hasn't quite taken place yet) but I'm not the morose chap I once was.
Which is a bit of a pain in some respects because I came out with a lot poetic shit back in the day and now I can barely string a sentence together.

With that in mind I'm going to use the blog for personal and professional reasons. That is to say, my ramblings, rants and ideas can live here, along with my short stories, which will pop up every so often.

So what's new?
Everything. Everything is new and different and I am new and different. So much so I may even change my name to something shiny and spectacular. Like, erm. I don't know. But y'know the sentiment is there.

I'm 18 tomorrow. That'll be a hoot.
I suppose I have nothing good to say today - but I'm definetly going to give this blog thing a bash again. It'll clear up my tumblr as well, it will.

2010-05-15T17:32:00.000-07:00

People always leave.
Peyton Sawyer, One Tree Hill.
My depedence on that TV show is ridiculous.

Reasons To Be Miserable.

2010-05-14T19:06:00.000-07:00

Don't worry, this isn't a misery filled blog full of doom and angsty gloom. In fact, it's quite the opposite. It's going to be so filled with love, it might even make you feel a wee bit sick because of it.

I am going to miss the forum. I am so overwhelmed with the niceness of the people there, especially in the aforementioned thread (I couldn't help but have a little lurk around the threads when I got home, I wanted to see if I was really gone, I am.) It's really wonderful that people have taken the time to speak to me, add me on things, and say such lovely things. It sounds silly, but I can't imagine how the next few months are going to be without that place. It's a new challenge though. And, as Magda said, it's not the end of my adventure just yet.

A nice thing is that not EVERYTHING that I've ever posted will be gone. So I can even be a bit creepy and lurk on myself haha. It's nice to have some evidence that I was actually there, y'know?

It's crazy. When I joined a year ago having a rant about my upcoming English exam I didn't have a clue how attached I would get to the place and the people. I've taken a lot for granted, and with the things happening now, I'm so lucky to know how blessed I was, and am.

In times where my faith in everything is being stripped away gradually, it is forever being built back up again by people. Friends, family, Mooky folk. Without them, I'm not sure how well I'd be doing right now. They all display incredible strength and support which is so admirable. I hope to be that great one day.

I fear this blog will stray even further from its intended use in the upcoming months, but hey. I love it.

:) - ...a smile?!

2010-05-04T13:35:00.000-07:00

My creative writing teacher said I was a good writer.
My nurse today told me the world needs writers.
A stranger with an impressive moustache told me to keep working hard and enjoy my life.

And it's crazy wonderful things like all of that, that makes me want to get an eraser and start scrubbing out all the sillyness that's been going on recently, cause I'm pretty sure my life is about to get interesting.

A letter to my immune system.

2010-04-22T07:47:00.001-07:00

Dear Immune System,

I've known about you for a very long time but I've yet to understand you. We've been through a lot, you and me. Like comrades, we've fought some wars together. Some bloody, some bacterial (lovely). You were with me that time when I was three, and sliced my nose clean open on a church gate. You managed to heal me up, not let any infection get in and things were pretty jolly. You were there that time I burst my lip twice within two weeks. Minus a little scar, you managed to keep things ticking along pretty well there. Injuries are good, you're a fucking wizard when it comes to them.

Give you a simple task to do like, Oh, I don't know keep germs from eating my appendix and things get a little more trickier. Suddenly we're not longer comrades, my dear. You're the drunken solider that manages to fall asleep in the trenches. When I was 10, and my appendix went "KABLAAAAM" that was pretty bad. After that little episode we all figured, hey now, you dropped the ball there but the body's on the mend now so the system will do its job. OH NO. NO. SORRY. That was too much to ask, wasn't it!? No. I had a lovely infection and left with a mess of a stomach. Cheers immune system. Cheers.

Sigh. I got over it though, I really did. I had to, because you're the only immune system I have. We had some good years together after that. A virus here and there, maybe a little cough or cold. Kids stuff. You sobered up, fought it off and we did a fucking jig. In the last three years, my pet, you've let the side down. No, you have. See all the other immune systems out there, with all the healthy people? Yeah? See them pointing and laughing at you? Yeah? GOOD. Does it make you feel like less of a functioning system? HM?! DOES IT?! Good. Quite right too. You've gotten lazy. You're wasting your life, listening to that rock and roll, smoking those cigarettes, drinking those poisonous drinks - you're going crazy. You're rebelling against your own system! Stop partying with those antigens, they're bad eggs!

10 chest infections in three years isn't doing your job, immune system. A week long struggle with tonsilitus isn't doing your job, immune system. Infact, if anything you're a liablity to this poor body I'm stuck in.

Brain does alright, makes some rubbish decisions sometimes, but overall he's pretty good.
Heart - no problems there, beating away like there's no tomorrow.

Think about them next time you decide to get distracted. Phagocytes, lympocytes... I expected better from both of you. I think it's time that we part ways, my poor system. It's quite clear that your lifestyle is just too much for us both. We've been through a lot, yes but...

Well, basically you're shit and I hate you.
I WANT A NEW IMMUNE SYSTEM PLEASE.

Preferably made by Apple. Mmm. Shiny.

Lots of loathing, your ex
Kristy. x

Brave II

2010-04-15T09:49:00.000-07:00

"it’s so easy to be afraid. to do nothing. to not make your art, to not follow your calling, your passion, your impulses, to not take any risks for fear of people cutting you down and misunderstanding you.
most people are CONTROLLED by fear, because they’re convinced they’ll do the wrong thing, say the wrong thing, write the wrong thing, sing the wrong thing.
those fears are founded. you can see that, here, now.
shit happens, you can upset people.

and you need to do your work anyway, because the world needs you to.

that, i think, is how you get brave." - Amanda Palmer.

I just need someone to say this to me every morning before I wake up.
Words are all I need.
I hope.

Coming Clean

2010-03-25T13:07:00.000-07:00

There's a lot of things I don't know. Especially about people.
Infact, there are more things I don't know about life, the universe and everything than I do know.

Closer to home, there's lots I don't know about the people in my life. There's a lot of things that they don't know about me.

I don't know why I'm doing this, maybe I'd like someone to know. Maybe. I don't know.
Here are things no one the planet knows, except from me.

- I like hiding. Not creeping into a shadow and curling up into a ball, but going somewhere that feels safe.

- Incidently, I have four 'safe' places
. 1) my room.
2) The library
3) Glasgow Cathedral
4) The water tower near my house.

- Sometimes when I'm out and about, and everything is mundane and boring I'll want to scream something or laugh, or run, or lie on the ground in the rain and stretch out.

- I have loads of my own artwork on my walls, but no one ever knows because I take it all down whenever someone comes in my room. I don't know why.

- I have an empty can of Tennants lager in my underwear drawer that's been there for nearly three years, when I used to steal my mums cans and have a little drink once in a while.

And that's some pointless information you didn't need to know, and didn't know beforehand. But now you know.
But really, I want to know more about other people, because they're the ones who are interesting.

LOVE

2010-03-22T15:30:00.000-07:00

I've waited hours for this
I've made myself so sick
I wish I'd stayed asleep today
I never thought that this day would end
I never thought that tonight could ever be
This close to me

Just try to see in the dark
Just try to make it work
To feel the fear before you're here
I make the shapes come much too close
I pull my eyes out
Hold my breath
And wait until I shake

But if I had your faith
Then I could make it safe and clean
If only I was sure
That my head on the door was a dream

I've waited hours for this
I've made myself so sick
I wish I'd stayed asleep today
I never thought that this day would end
I never thought that tonight could ever be
This close to me

But if I had your face
I could make it safe and clean
If only I was sure
That my head on the door
Was a dream

You know when you just hear something, and your heart just goes into flames. You can feel it climbing up your throat and intoxicating your head, it reaches down to your toes and every step you take just eminates that feeling. That's The Cure for me. I haven't felt so good about music since Rage Against The Machine claimed Christmas No. 1. (My heart jumped out of my mouth and done a little dance, I swear).

Thing is The Cure have always been there. I've had them on as background music so many times, skipped through albums. Just recently I've listened. REALLY listened. I am so in love with music again because of this band. Fuck, I'm so in love with LIFE.

Everything's so clear and good and scary and terrible and wonderful and marvellous.
I'm just so in love with everything right now. Even the scary parts.

Love Letters.

2010-01-28T15:19:00.000-08:00

To Lord Alfred Douglas
Sent from Courtfield Gardens, 20 May 1895

My child,
Today it was asked to have the verdicts rendered separately. Taylor is probably being judged at this moment, so that I have been able to come back here. My sweet rose, my delicate flower, my lily of lilies, it is perhaps in prison that I am going to test the power of love. I am going to see if I cannot make the bitter warders sweet by the intensity of the love I bear you. I have had moments when I thought it would be wiser to separate. Ah! moments of weakness and madness! Now I see that that would have mutilated my life, ruined my art, broken the musical chords which make a perfect soul. Even covered with mud I shall praise you, from the deepest abysses I shall cry to you. In my solitude you will be with me. I am determined not to revolt but to accept every outrage through devotion to love, to let my body be dishonoured so long as my soul may always keep the image of you. From your silken hair to your delicate feet you are perfection to me. Pleasure hides love from us, but pain reveals it in its essence. O dearest of created things, if someone wounded by silence and solitude comes to you, dishonoured, a laughing - stock, Oh! you can close his wounds by touching them and restore his soul which unhappiness had for a moment smothered. Nothing will be difficult for you then, and remember, it is that hope which makes me live, and that hope alone. What wisdom is to the philosopher, what God is to his saint, you are to me. To keep you in my soul, such is the goal of this pain which men call life. O my love, you whom I cherish above all things, white narcissus in an unmown field, think of the burden which falls to you, a burden which love alone can make light. But be not saddened by that, rather be happy to have filled with an immortal love the soul of a man who now weep in hell, and yet carries heaven in his heart. I love you, I love you, my heart is a rose which your love has brought to bloom, my life is a desert fanned by the delicious breeze of your breath, and whose cool spring are your eyes; the imprint of your little feet makes valleys of shade for me, the odour of your hair is like myrrh, and wherever you go you exhale the perfumes of the cassia tree.
Love me always, love me always. You have been the supreme, the perfect love of my life; there can be no other.
I decided that it was nobler and more beautiful to stay. We could not have been together. I did not want to be called a coward or a deserter. A false name, a disguise, a hunted life, all that is not for me, to whom you have been revealed on that high hill where beautiful things are transfigured.
O sweetest of all boys, most loved of all loves, my soul clings to your soul, my life is your life, and in all the world of pain and pleasure you are my ideal of admiration and joy.

Oscar.

Just say YES!

2010-01-22T11:18:00.001-08:00

"Hi Kristy, my mates I went on holiday with are having a party tonight. Loads of ganj and Mighty Boosh. I'm allowed to bring a friend, fancy it?"

"...Uhhhhhhm. Nah, I need to tidy my room"

"...Eh. Fair enough. Bye"

Idiot.
JUST SAY YES.
Go out.
GO OUT
GO OUT
GO OUT.

Urgh. Go to bed. There's a good idiot.

Reason No. 9094025893220 of Why I love Amanda Palmer

2010-01-09T14:41:00.000-08:00

Today I purchased my very first record. A real record. A vinyl record. The way music should be, with it's beautiful album artwork, and it's rounded smoothness. It's heaven.

This glorious moment was triggerd by my long suffering best friend Lauren, sensing my anguish and pain since all I could find were "The Cribs" and "Editors" albums went on a little search of her own in HMV and came up trumps, thrusting "Who Killed Amanda Palmer" in her little hands. She had that look in her eyes of:

"Buy it now Kristy, it's -4,00000 outside, you've been dragging me around shops all day, I'm hungry, and if you go hmmm, I'll think about it one more time I'm going to impail you with something sharp and pointy"

I did buy it though. I wanted nothing more than my first purchase to be Amanda Palmer, it's apt. It's wonderful. I want to have her children if it were biologically possible. So, I opened the sleave and went to admire the beautiful vinyl hidden within, feeling all wonderful in doing so. Then, suddenly, a little piece of paper falls out the sleave and flutters down onto my carpet almost modestly. I pick up the little leaflet and look at it quizzically

THANK YOU FOR PURCHASING
WHO KILLED AMANDA PALMER
TO DOWNLOAD YOUR DIGITAL VERSION OF THIS ALBUM FOLLOW THESE INSTRUCTIONS:

And I did. I got a free, digital version of the album (which I didn't have legally beforehand, bad me) as a present for doing the decent things and buying her record in the first place. It's reasons like that I adore Amanda Palmer, because everything she does is like a little reward for the fans, who are just doing what they're supposed to be doing in the first place. It's bizarre, but beautiful. She's a good 'un.

I was wrong, it's Friday and I am in love.

2010-01-08T12:30:00.000-08:00

I don't care if Moday's blue.

2010-01-07T12:34:00.001-08:00

Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too.
Thursday I don't care about you.
It's Friday, I'm in love.

Keeping busy is a ridiculous thing to tell someone when they want nothing but to sit around and mope in their own swirling vortex of procrastination, winter influenced misery and general sleepyness. The tasks that could be done are

*Various bits of revision
*Various bits of essays
*Various bits of reading
*Various bits of vinyl buying
*Various bits of scribbling

The world is my oyster. A disgusting, unsatisfying and distinctly unappealing oyster. It's times like this I usually either shave my eyebrows off, bleach my hair and embark in drunken escapades where in which I usually end up walking about four miles trying to get home with a lecherous former friend draped around my neck. Not all necessarily in that order. But my eyebrows have finally grown back in a way that resembles their former shapley state and my hair is still recovering from my last attack of dye and angst.

And I can't do all of the productive things above because

*Revision doesn't distract me
*Essays have to be done on the laptop, and I can't spend more than an hour on it until I get the glasses man to bless me with a pair of glecticles to stop my optic nerve from frying
*I have been reading, just not the right books, and I'm starting to get annoyed with my badly dubbed southern accent my brains decided to apply whenever I read 'The Sookie Stackhouse' Novels/Series/EPIC SAGA/why can't it just be books for a bloody change?
*I don't want to spend money. Simples.
*I suppose this would count as a scribble, just missing the ink. It's about as functional as a scribble anyway.

New Year. New inspirations. New inspirations for everyone to quit smoking, making them even all become the biggest nicotine, ravenous, evil creatures to ever grace the long suffering world. Then there's muggins in the middle of it, trying to keep her one track mind from repeating what the mime said the night before.

Last year I was so focussed on fixing myself. And going blonde (WHY?!). Now...?

But it's okay

SMILE
God forbid I make a fuss.

It's Thursday, Robert Smith and yes, it is grey, just like all the other days.
Tomorrow is Friday, but I know I wont be in love.

YEUCH. That's a bit grim.

Bah Humbug.

2009-12-25T06:26:00.000-08:00

I don't like Christmas.

I don't know why. I don't mope about, and I don't discourage everyone else from enjoying Christmas, but I just don't like it. Simple as that.

Christmas, to me isn't a significant day. It doesn't spark inspiration, or the need to over indulge in food or drink. I don't feel the need to tell people how I feel, nor do I understand why it's a difficult time of the year for other people. It doesn't matter if it's going to be snowy, or if it were to be blazing sunshine. I just hate bad weather anyway. Christmas number one is never something I'm excited by, only this year I was because it was the part of me screaming "ANARCHY YEEEEEAH". I enjoyed that more than I'm enjoying today.

I buy presents, and I put up the decorations, but it doesn't mean that much to me. I enjoy getting things at Christmas, but only because I think "Thank God, that means I wont have to spend my own money on make up and I can save for a flat instead".

Christmas is just another day. And this year, it's a Friday.

Christmas doesn't bother me that much though, I don't loathe it and I wont usually go off in a huge commericalisation rant unless I'm pissed off at the world. (Which is often actually.)

What does bother me about Christmas though is other people. Not even people, more thier reactions to me when I say "I don't like Christmas". I haven't preached, moped, said a word really all day. Smile, thank you so much, dead happy, this is great, going to my room now. That's the routine.

And yet I keep getting:
"What is WRONG with you?"
"What's WRONG?"

WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. Like there's something in me that can be scribbled out/erased/glossed over/welded together to make me better. To make me RIGHT. Because I don't like Christmas it's all WRONG, WRONG, WRONG.

I don't feel wrong.
Apparently I am though.

2009-11-20T07:29:00.000-08:00

Is it wrong to look at the people around you and just see them as bits of material for your latest academic project that they're forcing you to do?

I've reduced people in my life to bits of creative fodder.

One person in particular.

Is that wrong? I know tonnes of people do it. Is it wrong to just use someone because their mind is a little bit more surreal than any other you've came across? It is wrong. It's like exploitation of our memories, and more to the point his.

It's horrible, but if I proceed, if I use them for what I'm writing at the moment, that means I'll finally have utter control on the situation. A writer is essentially a puppet master after all. I could make anything happen in that short story. Ha. Sick satisfaction of a control freak.

Then again, if I were to proceed it means I'd have to get to know them all over again. Start at the basics of everything, try and get inside their head and make a real character. My own thoughts and judgements can't cloud that.

Baiscally I can't write, "THEY ARE A COMPLETE ARSEHOLE!" as a character outline. Then again, I probably could.

It's wrong though, isn't it?

2009-11-15T08:43:00.000-08:00

Right. Cool. So,
Right. Okay.

My intention of click clacking away here initially, this fine evening was to have a gigantic self pity session where I moaned about having no motivation, and how rubbish everything is, and it's horrible being so poor and single and having loads of course work to do, and how I hated using this as a diary rather than trying to write short stories because that's what I intended, but NO!
Enough is enough. Big deal. I'm in a rut. Big deal. Who gives a fuck?

BIIIIIIIG DEAAL. It doesn't matter.

And a lot of things are good. So, veering away yet again from my intended use of this blog. Here's some good things, to cheer myself up and get me motivated for my dissertation.

GOOD SHIZZ:

-I have my health
- I have my hair
- I am young
- I have food
- I have water
- I have warmth and a house
- My family are still kicking about
- Best friend who may as well be my wife
- A group of friends who've been kicking about with me for nearly 5 years
- Lots of clothes
- My room
- Music
- Sky box
- Still in full time education, and I'm doing alright in school.
- I have shoes
- I have a working noggin.
- I've developed a new love for Stella Atrios
- I still have feeeeeeeelings
- I'm liked, despite the situation.
- Still got all my limbs.

SEE IT'S ALL GOOD!
Just need someone to kick me up the arse every so often, that's all.

The essay I'm supposed to be writing.

2009-11-11T11:18:00.000-08:00

The essay I'm supposed to be writing out right now, as the deadline is tomorrow, is "A Streetcar Named Desire" and "Sweet Bird of Youth". Two main themes in both texts are sex and death.
Almost every bit of analysis I've came up with and decided to include has something to do with sex.

I can't help wonder if this is some of my subconcious seeping through as I'm writing.

Just a ridiculously personal and too much information filled thought I'd thought I'd share with the rest of the world.

Found on a bit of scrap paper

2009-10-18T05:27:00.000-07:00

Dreams - dreams are things that are taken for granted as a delusion and imagination. People say when dreams die the soul perishes also, but what's worse? A perished dream or a life without one? To have no appreication, hope or ambition? or to be lost in a sea of endless opportunity, blinding and overwhelming the senses.

Is it worse to dare and dream of something?

My name is Casanova.

2009-10-10T10:38:00.000-07:00

It's safe to read about the adventures of a man long since passed than to even fathom the idea of stepping out and creating your own.
That's not true. It's easy (Not necessarily easier) to fantasize over new cultures, bold colours, lovers that you'll never meet and situations you're unlikely to be in.

I've never met anyone who has been on a real adventure. Yet, history is overflowing with people who lived extravagant, enriched, full lives. Romanticized and stylized, almost definetly but as long as there is a basis of fact, that's good enough for me.

Yet, it doesn't fill me with hope. There is a small pile of books that has set up residence at my bed side. Slowly but surely I am turning each of their pages, smelling a hauntingly unusual scent that the pages of Primo Levis "If This Is A Man" and "The Truce" holds. A tragic rendition of an inidivuals time in Auschwitz. He survived. What suffering have I ever known? Heart ache, whilst like an all consuming disease I don't think constitutes for true suffering. Look at me right now, so comfortable on my bed, a plate of dinner next to me, a television melting my brain and my dog looking at me with huge pining eyes. Safe, warm. Not for one second am I wishing that something so devastating would happen to me. Never again. No. Maybe you wont understand, but I would like anything to make me feel something. I don't think you'd ever understand what I'm trying to say right now.

"The Glass Menagerie" lays just a few pages in, spine bent. An old copy. The words of Tennesse Williams are printed. He lived his life. He's known. I'm learning about him and his works everyday in school and will be for the next few months. I'll always remember the facts and information. I'll read Steetcar, and I'll read Sweet Bird of Youth and part of me will envy Stella and envy Chance Wayne because for all their short comings they are characters that are more alive than I am.

Luckily, there is time. I'm only sixteen, which is what I've been screaming at myself for the last half an hour. I have plenty of time to live properly. The way I really want to. The only regret I have is that I know my life span will not hold on long enough to watch all the minutes of video I want to, turn all the pages of books I know would help shape me for the better. I'll miss out in some peoples words and ideas and I will die completely ignorant of them. And so will you. It's life.

Maybe I should become a modern day Lothario, perhaps I, a not so humble scottish girl from an unknown town could shake up Europe in the way Casanova did. Is it possible to do that in the mordern age? Where the shadows hold thugs on drugs, so much to be scared of? Was Giacomo?

The question is, can we really risk not finding passion in our lives?

The clock keeps ticking and I'm still late.

2009-08-28T09:14:00.000-07:00

Some things are genetic, that is true. The brown eyes I have are my dads, his brown eyes were his mothers. We don't know whos eyes she had though, she was adopted.

With that in mind, and me forever worshipping Amanda Palmer ("Runs in the family" has been inspiring this train of thought) I wonder what else is inside of me, making me tick like clockwork. Why are the cogs in my brain turning the way they are, how are they turning, and are the different from your cogs. Punctuality, for example, is that inhereited? My father is infamously late for every and any event, major or not. So am I. Time tables and deadlines are problematic.

But why? I'm allergic to things, why was that in my genetic code? When I look around the lunch room at school, I see the cliques, and sometimes I can see the train of thought going on in each individual. At least I think I can. I can tell by peoples eyes whos holding it together, who hasn't had life beat them with a metaphorical big stick, who's happy, and who hasn't had a fucked up thought process like this. I can see the insane and the sane, and I'm usually right about them.

Today in History I was thoroughly freaked out, because I began to remember happier (unhappier, depending on the month) times with an old friend. The memories were pictures in my head, and then I wondered, if I'm using the eyes my dad genetically passed on to me to stare mindlessly at my teacher, then how on earth am I viewing this in my head?

"Well obviously Kristy, it is the brain, your memories are stored, along with your imagination to picture this altogether. "

Thank you condescending noggin' but that answer isn't good enough for me. I want to know HOW this is happening. I want to know why, and I want to know the ins and outs of the cinema that my head seems to have. I want to embrace the fact I have no idea what my brain is, and it's bizarre, because THIS IS MY BRAIN TALKING. The outer is just a shell, protecting the grey, mooshy overlord in the skull. How can you be something and not have a clue what you are ?

So what parts of my DNA were taken from my mum and my dad to develop my brain right now. What aspects did I get. Are my crap social skills from my mum, or is that me? am I completely my own person, was my brain just a canvas, or was this built in me.

Oh questions, questions, questions.

2009-08-19T11:56:00.001-07:00

Back at school blues. Let me get a gruff voice, pour a glass of whiskey and I'll send you on a journey of jazz filled wonder.

I can't even be bothered to try and make this sound eloquent. I can't be bothered painting myself a nicer picture. I'm not. I'm blank, unmotivated and moody as hell right now. Actually, no. I'm not moody at all.

That's the problem. I'm nothing. Nothing is going on in my life. I should be thankful for that in some way, but I'm not. All I can think about is how I am alive, but I'm not living. I thought I was given a second chance to build a life for myself. A life for only me, where I could do what I like, when I liked and not answer to... yeah. Anyway, no.

I wish I had some passion, or hatred, or anger, or love, or sorrow, OR ANYTHING left in me. Then I can produce something worth merit. Then I immerse myself in books.

All I fucking do is watch One Tree Hill because these characters are so relatable, but far more exciting than me. I shouldn't be envious of fictional characters, and I shouldn't be so involved with them either.

OH, moan, moan, moan. It's really not all bad. It's not bad at all. I'm just fed up and wish I could whisk myself away and do something. I'm sure it'll all come together soon.

It's strange having all my loose ends firmly tied up.

Hoarding since childhood.

2009-07-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

They spelled my name wrong on my hospital tag. I kept strange things safe.

2009-07-26T11:25:00.000-07:00

Things I want:
Inspiration
Motivation
Poloriod Camera
Artistic Eyes
Roses
Fairy lights
Note books
To read more
Dresses
Claw like nails
A job I enjoy
Cigarettes
Love. My own kind of love, the love that I'm looking for, the love that I want to show people. Not a partner, just a person.

Things I should get:
School uniform. A real one. So I behave myself, and not be thrown out of 6th year.
Sense
A sturdy bag
Stationary
Sensible shoes
Good exam results.
My dads birthday present.

Things I need more than any of the above:
Health and happiness. In everything.

But what will I get?

Dehydration is pimp slapping my brain.

2009-07-19T01:23:00.000-07:00

I AM SO HUNGOVER.
IT IS NOT FUN.
I DO NOT KNOW HOW I GOT HOME.

Hopefully, and emphasis on the hope, I didn't make too much of a twat of myself.
Although I was feeding some Goldfish some bread...

DEVELOPMENT: Well, I was getting changed there, realised I was still wearing my bra from last night. Lovely, I know. Anyway, off it went and then suddenly a £ coin falls to the ground and clinks at my feet. The Queens face looking up at me with nothing but disgust and shame.
WHAT DID I DO LAST NIGHT?!
And why wasn't I paid more.

I jest, I jest. No one raped me. I'm sure of that much.

It poses a problem.

2009-07-12T14:49:00.000-07:00

I seem to keep falling in love with ideas, paint, paper and screens. Every day I am besotted with eloquence, art and things my mundane brain could never, ever concieve or develop.

I'm like a leech.

The curse of updating.

2009-07-08T17:20:00.000-07:00

The problem of a blog is updating it. This is a dilemma for me.
On one pale hand, I am lazy and have nothing of value to type, nothing that has any kind of merit at least. On the other pale hand, I've recieved compliaments on this here blog (Which has made my clogged up heart sing, dance and party like it's 1989) and I don't want to become boring by having the same 3 posts up for all eternity, burning into the eyes of individuals who will never, ever get the time they spend reading my inane ramblings back.

I may have a job. Or, an interview, at least. This is scary. This why I refuse to have a bank account. I keep putting it off, in hope I will not have employment and venture out into the inexplicably big, petrifying and cruel bad world. I've always felt older than my years, but when it comes to direct responsibility, like working. My God. The fear. The crippling fear. It freezes every ounce of independence I have scraped together and shatters instantly. I flee into the arms of any form of human willing to dish out sympathy and help fuel my selfishness, then go onto complain that I am skint.

I thought I had grown, and flourished and I was a mature, hardworking individual. Where as in reality I am a mere bum, out of her depth and scared out of her wits.

It kind of feels good.

My romanticised and impossible ideal

2009-07-03T13:09:00.000-07:00

I've been reading "Love letters of Great Men" and from what I can take from it is that no matter how "Great" the man, he is open to have his flaws too. The most common is adultery, promises that cannot be kept, a love that is merely infatuation, a longing for what cannot be had.

Whilst judging these love struck fools and feeling increasingly cynical and bitter about love itself, I began to question what qualities I look for within a significant other. I say signifcant other loosely, because first thing first: If and when I get into a relationship, the other cannot be overwhelmingly significant. I will not devote myself so completely to another man or woman.

Physically, I need someone where I will happily feel the need to ravage them in a animalistic manner. I am not shallow, by no means are looks essential, but this is my ideal partner, so there. Ha. I would like someone with a strong jaw line, mezmerizing eyes with a quirky twist in their features that you just can't put your finger on. Someone who is just a tad taller than me, who aren't as thin as me. Broad, almost. With manly, manly arms. A collarbone that juts out, and you can see the different angles of it. I love a good collarbone.

Now the important parts, the parts that will make this person perfect to me: The personality. Essentially the only thing that is worth anything in this world. You could have all the money in the world, you could be so very well educated, eloquent, but if you have a terrible personality, you are rich in nothing. That is how I feel.
He will listen. That's the most important thing. He will listen to what is being said, he would listen to music with a particuarly kind ear, he would have a taste for critisism and a sarcastic bite. He will not be venomous. This poor, perfect soul will know perfectly how to handle my neurotic mannarisms, my undeniable and unnecessary need to pick holes in everything. They would appreicate great literature, and they must at least like one Sex Pistols song that isn't "God Save The Queen", "Pretty Vacant, or, "Anarchy in the UK".

If I drink too much, they wont judge, they will be drinking with me, and finding it funny to collect traffic cones on the way home. If I ever chose to pick up a cigarette with them, they would let me smoke, and kiss my nicotine lips regardless. They would have a taste for the real beauty of life. They would like french cinema, cult classics and be able to sit and watch at least two of "Spaced," "Black Books", "Peep Show", "The Office", "Buffy The Vampire Slayer," "Extras", or "Hollyoaks". This is a must.

They will understand that I am a creature that cannot be contained through a relationship, and let me run about, declaring how I need to spread my wings, explore other horizons, before getting myself into a mess and flying straight back to them again. Someone who will, essentially, just humour me. Lord knows I need that.

They will not take the piss out of me, although that is easily done. They would prefer a night in, drinking red wine with me, discussing various Philosophical debates, Art and Literature.
The will be faithful, they will be clever, The will be broody, dark, troubled souls that are so tortured that they are beyond salavation. I will be infatuated with their trauma. I usually am.

Of course, apart from the last two sentences no man I have ever met in my young years have ever lived up to my ridiculously high expectations. This is why I am single. This is why I am happy to be single. No man will ever live up to what I expect of them to be. They would have to have the wit of Oscar Wilde, the intelligence of Stephen Fry, The lustful good looks of Billie Joe Armstrong, The insanity of Clara Bow (We can't forget the females here), the unpredictability of Sid Vicious, the raw magnetisim of Russell Brand and the exoticness of Noel Feilding.

Of course, this is what I want, so by default I will go with the complete opposite. To someone who is nothing but terrible for me, and destroys me bit by bit with their beauty. Typical, really.

A day where your head is all that's going on

2009-07-03T13:08:00.001-07:00

I done a lot today. I had no choice but to do things. What else would I do with my time, other than lying in my low bed, and giving myself headaches by looking at the laptop screen for so long. A little like now.

Today I noticed my attention span can only last for an hour when films are on. Even films like Amelie, which I adore. As a result it's taken longer than 2 hours to watch the film. That's okay though, because I've also noticed that sleeping is a strange thing that I can't understand or explain. Sleeping, a natural occurance, but one that is so mysterious that it causes some ounce of fear. Or maybe that's the strange pictures that flash behind my eyes and tell me that an elephant isn't pleased about my exam results.

He had a point though, they were pretty shocking. In the dream I mean.

I like the sound of typing. The click - clack, click - clack, click clack. It's something quite soothing about it. The act of typing itself is quite enjoyable. I like seeing words forming quickly. I like seeing my hands get jumbeled up because they can't quite keep up with what my distractable brain is thinking about. Quick, get this down before something grabs my.. what now? Nevermind.

I noticed it's the small things that matter most to me. The finishing touches that make something perfect, imperfect or something in between. Like filling empty picture frames. What else would go there other than a photograph? nothing else is quite at home like a photograph in a photoframe. They were made for eachother. Now they're together and it takes away the element of lonlieness that the photoframe had when it just had a plain carboard background. Now it has colour, company, life and movement. It tells a story.

I noticed that things are easier when mind mapped. The heart, for example. When put down into logical terms and black and white, or blue and red since that's the only ink I had, it seems to make a lot more sense than it would if you put into consideration the engimatic nature of emotions. Not that anything was achieved by this, but it made sense. That's what's important to me in the end, that something follows some sort of logic, or has a name. Fear of the unknown they call it.

I noticed that inspiration is a funny thing, that can die as soon as it is given the chance to live. It's like a comet, so wonderous and beautiful, powerful and full of potential as it speeds across the sky - it can go anywhere - but then, it crashes and smoulders and usually you're left with a pile of nothingness in a casm. A casm of nothing but burnt bits of rock that are no use to anyone, unless a geologist. Hm. Regardless, I keep coming up with a big pile of nothing. Infact, this is the only thing I've finished and even then I'm enjoying the click - clacking so much that I might not finish this.

Can you finish something that never had a direct point or purpose in the first place? Would it ever really be finished if that's the case. Like people, you can always tell if somethings missing in a person. It's in their eyes. I never notice though, because I don't like giving eye contact.

If I can't see my eyes, I don't want to see yours. I think that's fair.

At least I'm using my noggin'

2009-07-03T13:07:00.001-07:00

I've never felt this kind of frustration before. It's almost exhilarating, or it would be if it wasn't pissing me off so much.

I have an idea.
No, not just an idea. Tonnes of ideas. Things I could actually do. I keep seeing things flash up in my minds eye. It is so clear. I can't do any of it. I know I previously said I could. Physically I could. Mentally, no. I can't get anything out.

Thing is I'm on the verge of something really great. I can tell. Unless this mysterious pressure on my brain is a tumour, I'm pretty sure I'm on to something great. I feel a change in my thinking, I feel a change in my attitude, I feel it in me. I feel really inspired. Not the usual kind where I want to burn down buildings and start up my own soicety that isn't a soicety, but genuine inspiration where I can actually look at things and put things together and take them apart and paint, and pencil and photography and charcoal all are dancing in a circle in my chest, shouting things at my heart and making it beat so fast. I'm so full of excitment and adrenaline. I don't want to loose this, but my hands are so confused and my head is talking so quickly that nothing is coming out right.

NOTHING

and it is very, very annoying. I'm so blocked, but some things are leaking through. It's going to be so great. I can tell, it would be, it would have so much potential. I need to write something ANYTHING. I know what the subject is. Why can't I find my own style, why does it sound so dry and trite every time I try and put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard.
Nothing in my stupid head works out like it should.
I can't loose interest in this, I wont loose interest in this. How can I? I don't even know what it is yet.

By the end of this summer I will produce something extraordinary. I will, will, will. I CAN.
I can, am able to and will.

BUT WHAT?!