hmm.

i'm not sure if i like it on here anymore, if i feel entirely comfortable. now before i mention anything that could possibly offend or be at all hypocritical, i just want to say how much i usually enjoy it on here, and how many interesting people i've formed bonds with before.
but it all seems a little..false..at times. it makes me feel very self conscious, i think i like it better when i'm not writing on a blog, that it actually damages my writing, because i'm not as honest as i am in personal journals about my thoughts and experiences. when i avoid it on here, my fiction is fluent and pure and honest and me, not altered for an audience, as i do without realising.

i don't think i like lists anymore. i don't think i like checkboxes and intakes and keeping up to date with replying. life is very much different, i have found, and i have not done enough of living yet, too easily do i become slovenly and destructive when i spend my evenings on here.

i also fail to understand how everyone seems to have identical interests.. well, i know that possibly it is because we're on the same blogrings and influence each other and are of like minds etc. its only that sometimes, i have to confess, i get a little bit bored with sylvia plath, as much as i love her, everywhere and all the time. everybody likes 'little gardens and cups of tea and cats and smoking in cafes and alice in wonderland and typewriters and 'the catcher in the rye' and floral and pale people looking gaunt and gormless'.

i read so much on here that i don't believe to be true to life. i read so much that seems to thrive on nothing but a very cliched sense of despair. there are people who have very true suffering, not to mention those who indeed write very well, very nakedly. but i am very aware also of contrived, thoroughly meaningless plath-only inspired lines of synonyms, not talking about anything, as such, just talking. its not a rule, but sometimes i get the impression that there aren't many of us who actually enjoy things like art and literature for the right reasons, because we're all so besotted with how we are being viewed as enjoying art and literature.

please, i honestly don't mean to sound insulting, at all, i swear, i have always been attracted to such things myself, but somehow, it seems futile now, and nothing at all but images.

thistles.

" Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasphed fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground. "

- Ted Hughes, 'Thistles'

spacey, spontaneous day; perfect. house and garden to myself, warmest and brightest weather since yester year. i sat with strawberry muesli and tangerines on the patio with the cat against my feet, sparrow harmony in the hedgerow, then taking a nap in the rhododenron. i haven't felt so gladed and laced in with nature for months now..couldn't you just weep when leaves make dappled shadows on your body, and all you can hear is a light breeze and dragonfly hum?

voids away from yesterday, i was over my head when one of my true friends, evelyn, turned up on a whim, quavering with exaltment with the first journey she's taken in her first car; an ancient white citroen that issued crunching that i heard from the bushes. having been absent since christmas, i hadn't seen her for a good few months, turning out to be staying with a cousin for the weekend. yet she was at the door with a spritely flourish, an embrace and, once i bustled her in, a great 'happy birthday!' well, having informed her very genially that my birthday is actually next friday, we had a poke of fun at each other and proceeded into the kitchen for orangeflower tea. she looks ravishing these days, with hair grown rich and abundantly, the colour of my tangerines, that she'd always been so conscious about.

evelyn is two years older than me; she's in a sixth form in london now that she loathes, but she's a wizard at history, in particular, and has an astute mind that memorizes facts in a snap. a weakness of her's, however, and has been for years, is spontaneous, unreasoned shoplifting. in her own words, 'done for the thrill of it'. (though i can't deny: with the amount she's shifted and caught redhanded only once? it appears to be some talent, if it could be called that!) 

when she presents me with a rather brimming paper bag of unwrapped birthday presents, i have to question their legality - a pair of magnificent peacock feather earrings, a nautical style leather satchel from the topshop in london, a brass egpytiany necklace, boxes and bottles of my favourite incense and oils, benefit posie tint blush, and a notebook embossed with klimt's 'the kiss' for my writing - but nonetheless, i ask nothing of it, and we have another long hug. then the darling gives me an electrifying tutorial (everything, in literally just twenty minutes) on my entire usa 1919-1941 history revision for my exam next week, whisks away with a lemonbalm scented air kiss... and leaves me astounded at the kitchen table.

a certain minor light may still / leap incandescant / out of kitchen table or chair

i watched a marvellous programme on the new york modern art gallery today, and did an hour of bellydancing :) seems like an awkwardly exotic thing to be doing on such a day as this, with absolutely starch white glaring skies. don't you just prefer it when the heavens open? and shopping for prom outfits (which i do not particualarly even wish to attend for whingey, sorry-for-myself reasons) is pretty grim in such a climate.
well, i suppose you have to find antidotes in sculptures, orangeflower tea, rooks, fig incense. any antidote.

but there is something unavoidably awful about lurching up to the modern mall, with sterile shining floors; glib canvas fish suspended from a glass roof; the same resonant bustle and murmur of my school hall; prams and burgers and puddlestained ugg boots; high street humidity in one warehouse of tawdry architecture. i reallly have developed quite a distaste for the place.
please, bring back the days of early mornings in town with my mother and father when they were docile, waddling as an infant about clarks, past times, thorntons, art shops, the disney store, the early learning centre... somehow it seemed free from the gull cries and engine revs and bitterness of cities.

still, i have to keep buoyant for my own sake. i like lists. did you know, darlings, that on this day in 1959, two monkeys from the ussr survived a mission to space in a shuttle?!

rant- do you ever get a sort of self righteous feeling that, actually, you would have a lovely body if it weren't for a supposedly cemented layer of fat? i think i'm fitter and far more muscular than most girls, but its not acknowledged because of it being that i'm petite, yet thick thighed, posessing a nasty shape around my middle and arms. sometimes i don't know what i do wrong.
i need to pull my socks up. something, if anything, has to change in the way i go about this.

i'm still here, all we need is the morning vapour to wake us

it has been a long time. nothing, really, has changed much. my hair has grown. i have grown. more mature, more furtive. everything i aimed to do for my own experience and passion, in this year, so far, has failed to come to fruition, unless it be academic, and even that is not as beautiful as i fancied.
it has been surreal. but soon, soon, these awful exams will be through, and i can live out a summer to my own satisfaction. god, i have such a biting appetite to live, now.

and i had to return here, if just once, because it is such an indulgence to dabble in a virtual paradise. its quite a luxury to have such a diverse concentration of spirits at a fingertouch... i have missed its quirks. i have missed the thoughts and the purging of the mind, the strange sad bohemian tales, the exodus of the people to a place where certainly everyone is safe, and everyone is a fascination.

my only regret is that true life is often such a disappointment when you finish on here. but then, even if you forcibly impregnate yourself into life, it often miscarries you.

well, one thing, anyway, that i'm delighted in with this year, is that i have managed to stop binging. smiles for that, at least! i haven't binged for weeks now. i think i've only binged a handful of times within the year, which is something, considering it used to be up to multiple occasions in a week before.

i am only sorry that i have neglected the anonymous who had come to mean something to me, and if i caused any concern. i hope sincerely, that you are all still well, if you are still here.

and che, i am sorry that i turned my back for a while. i have been so angry with everything these past few months, but i'd like dearly to speak again with you. not many people on this hemisphere who excite me as much as talking to you!

i can't believe that i posted this far back last november; " rotten secret #3 my father is pestilence. he seeps the essence of grief into my mornings and evenings. he never let me see the beauty in the world, lest it was subjective, and when i stalked pleasure to the core, he taught me that i was the antichrist. " and it seems suddenly so intuitive. nothing has really changed. partly why i vanished was just through trying to bear living with my parents. i've realised how disturbing i find them both, these past few months. they're abstracts. they're parallels. they do not like hearing of just how frightening it can be to live with their two extremes.

but still we must try and survive.
and even better, let's all try and live, this summer. there is always time to follow.

sylvia speaks through my soul

"and john says: 'i could love you violently, if i let my self.' but he has not let himself. why? because i haven't touched him, i haven't looked into his eyes with the image he wants to see there. and i could. but i am too tired, too noble, in a perverse way. it sickens me. i wouldn't want him, even as he became a victim. so i tell him casually that i won't let it happen, playfully, because it is a stillborn child. i have given birth to so many of these.

and then bitterly, i say: do i love richard? or do i use him as an excuse for a noble, lonely, unloving posture, under the perverse label of faith? using him so, would i want him on the scene, thin, nervous, little, moody, sickly? or would i rather cherish the strong mind and soul and blazing potency alone, refines from the marring details of the real world? coward."
- sylvia plath. the cambridge notes, february 1956

well, sylvia, i think that he must be both john and richard.
and i have wished to write him a long letter, tell him all, that i tell my credulous listeners, prettily poised at the walls from across the world.
only, i am quite sure that i could never live up to sylvia, what with her artful ways with words. or how she would fold her fingers around story moths without crumbling their wings; blow them purling to the candlelight. she had her dark marauder.
do you think, sylvia, that i will ever be a muse for your john, or for your richard? for, i may be trussed, as you forewarned, to live under this 'perverse label of faith', with a 'noble, lonely, unloving posture'.

the wizard is still clawing at my window. his eyes are still moons of dust and flies. can you see him?

 
rotten secret #3 my father is pestilence. he seeps the essence of grief into my mornings and evenings. he never let me see the beauty in the world, lest it was subjective, and when i stalked pleasure to the core, he taught me that i was the antichrist.