You know those blogs you read, and they're documenting lists that make them happy/things that they're grateful for?
I want to list and remember everything in my life that is fearless. Chronologically. A little snapshot of the things that make me fearless.
A thousand thousand fearless things. Let's start.
And yes, I know a thousand thousand is a million. I'm not a complete ignoramus.
#1: A hard conversation with a good friend.
#2: Camping. In the middle of freaking nowhere. With no running water.
#3: Keeping a diary and pouring my heart out.
#4: Trying to be social.
#5: Reshuffling priorities. Realizing I'm happy with things I didn't think I'd be happy with.
#6: Admitting to myself that I don't like random fifteen minute silences. It's easy to ignore people in a metaphysical sense of the word.
#7: Singing Fearless and realizing that something like that will happen for me.
...more to come.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Warm Fuzzy :)
My dear Claire
You've got fifty thousand friends and you deserve every one of them.
I don't know anyone who doesn't smile when they see you.
You were always there for me when times got tough. I can't say that about anyone else at school.
I love how you're always up for a little whinge about a certain person.
I love how you always go out of your way to make someone's day.
You're so beautiful and talented and I love you muchos, claire bear.
You've got fifty thousand friends and you deserve every one of them.
I don't know anyone who doesn't smile when they see you.
You were always there for me when times got tough. I can't say that about anyone else at school.
I love how you're always up for a little whinge about a certain person.
I love how you always go out of your way to make someone's day.
You're so beautiful and talented and I love you muchos, claire bear.
mon votre snob.
The thing about going to a school like mine...it's very hard just to be a normal, Taylor Swift, Jane Austen kind of girl with a little thing for Westlife or One Direction.
Don't get me wrong, I listen to stuff people have never heard of - Garfunkel and Oates or Dog Ears, anyone? - but I don't care if one or one billion people like them, it doesn't change the type of music that they make and I like. But I don't think anything is going to make mon votre snob come off his high horse and say that my taste in music is different, but equal. One day I swear I'll catch him listening to something embarassingly...normal...
There are two kinds of musical snobs. People who genuinely love the avant-garde, and the people who pretend to for the hell of it, and the second more than two people find out about a particular band BAM! it's no longer alternative enough. There's a difference between being unique and being a twat.
We should never be ashamed of what or who we like. If you can't close your eyes and float away in bliss listening to the kind of music you claim to like, you're only fooling yourself. I'm not going to become anti-mainstream anytime soon, because I'm going to miss Fearless and Back to December. Real people don't make judgements.
Don't get me wrong, I listen to stuff people have never heard of - Garfunkel and Oates or Dog Ears, anyone? - but I don't care if one or one billion people like them, it doesn't change the type of music that they make and I like. But I don't think anything is going to make mon votre snob come off his high horse and say that my taste in music is different, but equal. One day I swear I'll catch him listening to something embarassingly...normal...
There are two kinds of musical snobs. People who genuinely love the avant-garde, and the people who pretend to for the hell of it, and the second more than two people find out about a particular band BAM! it's no longer alternative enough. There's a difference between being unique and being a twat.
We should never be ashamed of what or who we like. If you can't close your eyes and float away in bliss listening to the kind of music you claim to like, you're only fooling yourself. I'm not going to become anti-mainstream anytime soon, because I'm going to miss Fearless and Back to December. Real people don't make judgements.
Half of My Heart : Day 2
Daybreak, Base Camp
You have to be grateful for the mistakes you make. You learn so much from them.
So what have I learned?
I've learned that love, like everything else, won't just fall into my lap. I know the kind of boys I obliviously attract, and the Devil himself couldn't endear me to some of them. I've learned that it's okay to be loud, and flirty, and yourself, and it's okay to ignore the boy who got the wrong idea and is sulky about it. I've learned it's okay to not like someone who likes you, but at the same time you can't hold a grudge against every crush who doesn't return the favour.
You have to be honest with everyone you love, even if you think the disappointment may kill you. As ridiculous as this may sound, the worst thing he can say is "no". Crushing, yes, but the end of the world? Hardly. And sometimes, you might not get what you want, but you can get a pretty amazing friend. But you won't get anything unless you're just yourself, just fearless. It's scary, but the only friends, or more than friends, worth having are those who love you for yourself.
I'm glad that I'm away for a few days. I'm glad I have some time and space to write, even though you know I hate wrting by hand and the lack of technology is killing me. It's nice to go away, be alone, cry a bit, and move on.
It was bitterly cold this morning, but now the sun is shining and the waves tumble happily. It has been twenty-four hours of having the roar of the ocean in my ears. I love how empires can fall and hearts can break but some things remain eternal.
En route to Point Hoop (I think. It might have been Point Hook.)
The men found a whale bone washed up on the beach and were whooping with joy. The babies and I went exploring up the rocky plateaus after breakfast and the rocks are not rocks at all, just sand weathered by the martyrdom of time. They look deceptively ancient and unbreakable, so when they crumble at your fingertips and crack underfoot you feel like God. Just beyond the dunes it is dense and lush and green, nothing but green all around. We're a million miles away from the concrete jungle and I haven't got a clue where we are or where Point Hoop is, but I like the slow jolting progress of the convoy. I just caught a glimpse of the sea before plunging into green again. We've stumbled across a homestead in the middle of nowhere, and I can't help but think that you would not want to hurt yourself out here - it's a long way back to civilization.
We've stopped at an inlet, if you can call it that. It seems to be as big as the sea itself, but very calm. The sand and piles of dried seaweed feel like marshmallow underfoot. Some people went swimming but it's too cold for my taste, so we climbed up to the rocks and sat like mermaids in the sun.
I love being here. I love hearing "Charlie on the move" on the radio. I feel most at home with a file spread across my lap and a pen in my hand. I have a growing pile of papers, ready to divulge to the world. I cannot write without an audience; I love the thrill of tattling. It keeps me safe. There are so many people who are ready to cry traitor, but I only write what I know. I'm a big believer in revenge and retaliation. You can't hurt me and expect to get away with it.
Later, Drage's Beach
If I look into the distance the sweeping scenery reminds me of Korea and I'm cut by a fierce desire to get on a plane and run away. Out here all the tumultuous dramas of reality are out of sight but ot altogether out of mind. I really need the sensory overload that is returning to the fatherland to truly forget about Perth.
Being in love is an incredible high. I'm addicted to the rush, to the butterflies. Last year was my annus mirabilis; last year I was more or less permanently high on happiness, on hard work, on liberating myself from depression, on belonging and believing. But what goes up must come down, and this year feels like the inevitable low. I hate what always happens after I forget to look whre I jump, but I'll trip over again soon. I don't know whether my insane ability to fall in love even though I've been hurt before is fearless or just plain stupid. Am I an eternal optimist or just a bit of a masochist?
Base Camp, Peppermint Beach
It's the lazy afternoons I love best. At home I sometimes loll on my bed for hours, reading books and listening to music and dozing. When I camp it's not much different, only a little more peaceful.
You can always tell who cares about you, and who you care for, on the last day of term. There are a few girls who hug me tight and wish me Happy Easter, all with varying levels of sincerity. Some girls walk straight pass, unknowning and uncaring, as though they've forgotten how much I've given and how much I've turned a blind eye to when we were, once upon a time, friends. Others glare at me as if they rather like the prospect of my being all alone at Bremer Bay, but it would be greatly preferred if I were at the bottom of the sea. I get an awkward nod from an awkward boy and I hastily make my retreat before he can say or do anything that will raise us up to a whole new level of weird, and as I give another guy a big bear hug I feel just a little guilty that I can sit on laps and ruffle hair for so many boys, just not this one.
There's something very intimidating about a boy who is always very kind to me surrounded by people who do not like me at all. I always feign the kind of cool disinterest because interest makes you vulnerable. I do not like how people are so easy to judge, but c'est la vie.
Lockers can tell you much about people. the scatterbrains are always trying to find their locks, only to find it buried in their bags or flushed down the loo or something. I hate how there's always a big grou pof people sitting right next to my locker and how they all stare at me as I fumble awkwardly with the combination. The only thing more awkward was when some girl decided to have one of those annoying giggly whisper converstaions at the lockers...plastered against my locker. A girl bnt her head a fraction of an inch so I could creak the door open a millimetre, and all her friends glared until I sheepishly shut my locker and apologized. I don't know why that still makes me angry, but why did I have to apologize? Oh, I know. Because I'm me, and she's the girl who gets her way in everything, even the colour of her date's suit at the ball. I should have just whacked her on the head with the door of my locker.
But there was one episode at the lockers that really hit where it hurts. We've had the same lockers for ages now, and we've all had awkward conversations with the locker next to yours. My locker is next to a girl I once considered a good friend, before she and all my other friends teamed up to break my heart. A few days ago she asked me whether I had just moved lockers, and why was I there? Two years. Two years of being friends, two years of chatting at the lockers. Two years of helping people with their lit essays, two years of biting my tongue. And they don't even know I exist.
I never realized I meant so little to people who meant so much to me.
To be continued...
You have to be grateful for the mistakes you make. You learn so much from them.
So what have I learned?
I've learned that love, like everything else, won't just fall into my lap. I know the kind of boys I obliviously attract, and the Devil himself couldn't endear me to some of them. I've learned that it's okay to be loud, and flirty, and yourself, and it's okay to ignore the boy who got the wrong idea and is sulky about it. I've learned it's okay to not like someone who likes you, but at the same time you can't hold a grudge against every crush who doesn't return the favour.
You have to be honest with everyone you love, even if you think the disappointment may kill you. As ridiculous as this may sound, the worst thing he can say is "no". Crushing, yes, but the end of the world? Hardly. And sometimes, you might not get what you want, but you can get a pretty amazing friend. But you won't get anything unless you're just yourself, just fearless. It's scary, but the only friends, or more than friends, worth having are those who love you for yourself.
I'm glad that I'm away for a few days. I'm glad I have some time and space to write, even though you know I hate wrting by hand and the lack of technology is killing me. It's nice to go away, be alone, cry a bit, and move on.
It was bitterly cold this morning, but now the sun is shining and the waves tumble happily. It has been twenty-four hours of having the roar of the ocean in my ears. I love how empires can fall and hearts can break but some things remain eternal.
En route to Point Hoop (I think. It might have been Point Hook.)
The men found a whale bone washed up on the beach and were whooping with joy. The babies and I went exploring up the rocky plateaus after breakfast and the rocks are not rocks at all, just sand weathered by the martyrdom of time. They look deceptively ancient and unbreakable, so when they crumble at your fingertips and crack underfoot you feel like God. Just beyond the dunes it is dense and lush and green, nothing but green all around. We're a million miles away from the concrete jungle and I haven't got a clue where we are or where Point Hoop is, but I like the slow jolting progress of the convoy. I just caught a glimpse of the sea before plunging into green again. We've stumbled across a homestead in the middle of nowhere, and I can't help but think that you would not want to hurt yourself out here - it's a long way back to civilization.
We've stopped at an inlet, if you can call it that. It seems to be as big as the sea itself, but very calm. The sand and piles of dried seaweed feel like marshmallow underfoot. Some people went swimming but it's too cold for my taste, so we climbed up to the rocks and sat like mermaids in the sun.
I love being here. I love hearing "Charlie on the move" on the radio. I feel most at home with a file spread across my lap and a pen in my hand. I have a growing pile of papers, ready to divulge to the world. I cannot write without an audience; I love the thrill of tattling. It keeps me safe. There are so many people who are ready to cry traitor, but I only write what I know. I'm a big believer in revenge and retaliation. You can't hurt me and expect to get away with it.
Later, Drage's Beach
If I look into the distance the sweeping scenery reminds me of Korea and I'm cut by a fierce desire to get on a plane and run away. Out here all the tumultuous dramas of reality are out of sight but ot altogether out of mind. I really need the sensory overload that is returning to the fatherland to truly forget about Perth.
Being in love is an incredible high. I'm addicted to the rush, to the butterflies. Last year was my annus mirabilis; last year I was more or less permanently high on happiness, on hard work, on liberating myself from depression, on belonging and believing. But what goes up must come down, and this year feels like the inevitable low. I hate what always happens after I forget to look whre I jump, but I'll trip over again soon. I don't know whether my insane ability to fall in love even though I've been hurt before is fearless or just plain stupid. Am I an eternal optimist or just a bit of a masochist?
Base Camp, Peppermint Beach
It's the lazy afternoons I love best. At home I sometimes loll on my bed for hours, reading books and listening to music and dozing. When I camp it's not much different, only a little more peaceful.
You can always tell who cares about you, and who you care for, on the last day of term. There are a few girls who hug me tight and wish me Happy Easter, all with varying levels of sincerity. Some girls walk straight pass, unknowning and uncaring, as though they've forgotten how much I've given and how much I've turned a blind eye to when we were, once upon a time, friends. Others glare at me as if they rather like the prospect of my being all alone at Bremer Bay, but it would be greatly preferred if I were at the bottom of the sea. I get an awkward nod from an awkward boy and I hastily make my retreat before he can say or do anything that will raise us up to a whole new level of weird, and as I give another guy a big bear hug I feel just a little guilty that I can sit on laps and ruffle hair for so many boys, just not this one.
There's something very intimidating about a boy who is always very kind to me surrounded by people who do not like me at all. I always feign the kind of cool disinterest because interest makes you vulnerable. I do not like how people are so easy to judge, but c'est la vie.
Lockers can tell you much about people. the scatterbrains are always trying to find their locks, only to find it buried in their bags or flushed down the loo or something. I hate how there's always a big grou pof people sitting right next to my locker and how they all stare at me as I fumble awkwardly with the combination. The only thing more awkward was when some girl decided to have one of those annoying giggly whisper converstaions at the lockers...plastered against my locker. A girl bnt her head a fraction of an inch so I could creak the door open a millimetre, and all her friends glared until I sheepishly shut my locker and apologized. I don't know why that still makes me angry, but why did I have to apologize? Oh, I know. Because I'm me, and she's the girl who gets her way in everything, even the colour of her date's suit at the ball. I should have just whacked her on the head with the door of my locker.
But there was one episode at the lockers that really hit where it hurts. We've had the same lockers for ages now, and we've all had awkward conversations with the locker next to yours. My locker is next to a girl I once considered a good friend, before she and all my other friends teamed up to break my heart. A few days ago she asked me whether I had just moved lockers, and why was I there? Two years. Two years of being friends, two years of chatting at the lockers. Two years of helping people with their lit essays, two years of biting my tongue. And they don't even know I exist.
I never realized I meant so little to people who meant so much to me.
To be continued...
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Half of My Heart : Day 1
En route to Base Camp
Bremer Bay is a beautiful place some seven hours away from Perth, between Esperance and Albany. There's not a building in sight and the air has the fresh tang of the sea. My babies play in the seaweed as if they do not have a care in the world and the soft, steady rumble of waves and the gentle ripple of sparkling clear water clears my mind.
Everything is tinted with a strange kind of sadness, a feeling of loss I cannot quite shake off. When you have been in love with someone for so long it is hard to stop the tears from falling. I'm not angry, not this time, and I don't know whether that makes it better or worse. It's just very defeating, the finality of it, realizing that nothing will come of it. It is not easy being passed over for someone else.
I never thought I would be able to say that to you. I could not look you in the eye and repeat it. I never thought I would have the courage to say that you made your choice and as your friend I am happy for you; but I am too proud to be someone's second choice, if it ever came to that. I hope it will never come to that. Although the people at school who love your company and treat me like dirt may think otherwise, I know I deserve better.
A lot has changed since I was thirteen and saw you for the first time, and liked what I saw. Back then K and I sat on the steps of the Thomas Street Building where we could sometimes see you, and K stole my sandwiches and gleefully told me that you were too old for me, that we had nothing in common and we would never be friends. Obviously K was as good fortune teller as he was a boyfriend.
It's been in the back of my mind for a little while, because I trust that our friendship will last longer than what is left of high school. I genuinely, sincerely don't want anything more from you. I am happy that you seem to be happy, and I'll wait very patiently for my turn. It can't be long now.
By the time I get back to Perth I shall be fine, and everything will be as it was before.
Base Camp, Peppermint Beach, near Bremer Bay
The babies and I went to explore the dunes and the crumbly sandstone plateaus as we made camp here at Peppermint Beach, about an hour or so out from Bremer Bay. Skye is still very over-excited and eagerly clambers up to the highest peaks to get the best view, whilst Bella sulkily slunk away, dug a hole under the car and promptly fell asleep in it.
I've been camping for a few times now, ranging from being a Girl Guide captain in barrack-style dorms to school camps to what we're doing now; what I call Proper Decent Camping - driving to the middle of nowhere and plonking your ass down under the stars, sacrificing flush loos and internet connection in a desperate attempt to avoid the easter-egg consumerism and televangelism of Easter.
At sixteen, I've become a woman of the family. When I was little I was the baby of the lot, the youngest of the youngest - which in Asia results in a bizarre combination of over-the-top pampering and complete lack of respect. But as you get older you get supplanted by little baby girls who will one day join you in being a woman of the family, and you can't help but weep nostalgic and feel the deja vu.
My niece Yu-Dam is five years old and the most adorable little girl to flash her dimples and call me im-mo, or maternal aunt. I remember her sitting on my lap, fully absorbed in picking the strands of pith off a few segments of mandarin. She's dressed how my mother used to dress me - dark dresses with white tights and fussy little Mary Jane shoes. She's a great deal prettier than I am, with fluffy curls and exquisitely huge eyes with preposterously long eyelashes. I speak to her in Korean, the prerequisite condescension unfamiliar on my tongue, but all her education will be in English and she knows a word or two.
"Chair. Cherry. Kiss." Girl after my own heart.
Her parents have called her Irene, and I am beyond jealous because I have never fully reconciled myself with a name few can pronounce and even fewer can spell. But when I ask her what her name is she puffs up with pride and says "Yeeee. Yoooo. Daaaam."
That's what I used to say, before I was old enough to be humiliated by every misspelling and mispronunciation. Kwoooon. Jeeee. Soooo.
One day Yu-Dam will join us in being a woman of the family, but I'd give everything I have just to let her stay this little.
Nightfall, Base Camp
It's past eight and the moon is large and luminous, dancing in swirls of clouds. It's dark but the moonlight makes everything visible with perfect clarity, but bleached black and white like an old cowboy movie.
Why do they say it's "just friends"? There's nothing trivial about friendship. Being friends is like being in love, only a lot less awkward. It means that I'll always be there for you, and you'll always be there for me, but we'll always have other people, people who are friends and more than friends. That is all I need.
When I was friends with K I wasn't content. We weren't close. I had to watch what I say, because there was always a feeling that he would run for the hills if I told him a tenth of what was on my mind. It's because I wasn't happy with our friendship that I wanted more. It never occurred to me that you can have a decent conversation within a friendship.
The hardest part of being friends with someone you love is that you always have it in the back of your mind that something might happen at some point. It is hard if they say it wouldn't work, but harder still when you are forced to say it. It is hard knowing that they will never ask and you will never say yes even if they did, but it is something that I owe myself. I have faith that something really amazing is just around the corner. Someone fearless.
But it is liberating. It is exciting that you can be friends, that for once in your life love hasn't resulted in bitter animosity.
You're not completely out of my mind, but maybe I will get some sleep tonight.
To be continued...
Bremer Bay is a beautiful place some seven hours away from Perth, between Esperance and Albany. There's not a building in sight and the air has the fresh tang of the sea. My babies play in the seaweed as if they do not have a care in the world and the soft, steady rumble of waves and the gentle ripple of sparkling clear water clears my mind.
Everything is tinted with a strange kind of sadness, a feeling of loss I cannot quite shake off. When you have been in love with someone for so long it is hard to stop the tears from falling. I'm not angry, not this time, and I don't know whether that makes it better or worse. It's just very defeating, the finality of it, realizing that nothing will come of it. It is not easy being passed over for someone else.
I never thought I would be able to say that to you. I could not look you in the eye and repeat it. I never thought I would have the courage to say that you made your choice and as your friend I am happy for you; but I am too proud to be someone's second choice, if it ever came to that. I hope it will never come to that. Although the people at school who love your company and treat me like dirt may think otherwise, I know I deserve better.
A lot has changed since I was thirteen and saw you for the first time, and liked what I saw. Back then K and I sat on the steps of the Thomas Street Building where we could sometimes see you, and K stole my sandwiches and gleefully told me that you were too old for me, that we had nothing in common and we would never be friends. Obviously K was as good fortune teller as he was a boyfriend.
It's been in the back of my mind for a little while, because I trust that our friendship will last longer than what is left of high school. I genuinely, sincerely don't want anything more from you. I am happy that you seem to be happy, and I'll wait very patiently for my turn. It can't be long now.
By the time I get back to Perth I shall be fine, and everything will be as it was before.
Base Camp, Peppermint Beach, near Bremer Bay
The babies and I went to explore the dunes and the crumbly sandstone plateaus as we made camp here at Peppermint Beach, about an hour or so out from Bremer Bay. Skye is still very over-excited and eagerly clambers up to the highest peaks to get the best view, whilst Bella sulkily slunk away, dug a hole under the car and promptly fell asleep in it.
I've been camping for a few times now, ranging from being a Girl Guide captain in barrack-style dorms to school camps to what we're doing now; what I call Proper Decent Camping - driving to the middle of nowhere and plonking your ass down under the stars, sacrificing flush loos and internet connection in a desperate attempt to avoid the easter-egg consumerism and televangelism of Easter.
At sixteen, I've become a woman of the family. When I was little I was the baby of the lot, the youngest of the youngest - which in Asia results in a bizarre combination of over-the-top pampering and complete lack of respect. But as you get older you get supplanted by little baby girls who will one day join you in being a woman of the family, and you can't help but weep nostalgic and feel the deja vu.
My niece Yu-Dam is five years old and the most adorable little girl to flash her dimples and call me im-mo, or maternal aunt. I remember her sitting on my lap, fully absorbed in picking the strands of pith off a few segments of mandarin. She's dressed how my mother used to dress me - dark dresses with white tights and fussy little Mary Jane shoes. She's a great deal prettier than I am, with fluffy curls and exquisitely huge eyes with preposterously long eyelashes. I speak to her in Korean, the prerequisite condescension unfamiliar on my tongue, but all her education will be in English and she knows a word or two.
"Chair. Cherry. Kiss." Girl after my own heart.
Her parents have called her Irene, and I am beyond jealous because I have never fully reconciled myself with a name few can pronounce and even fewer can spell. But when I ask her what her name is she puffs up with pride and says "Yeeee. Yoooo. Daaaam."
That's what I used to say, before I was old enough to be humiliated by every misspelling and mispronunciation. Kwoooon. Jeeee. Soooo.
One day Yu-Dam will join us in being a woman of the family, but I'd give everything I have just to let her stay this little.
Nightfall, Base Camp
It's past eight and the moon is large and luminous, dancing in swirls of clouds. It's dark but the moonlight makes everything visible with perfect clarity, but bleached black and white like an old cowboy movie.
Why do they say it's "just friends"? There's nothing trivial about friendship. Being friends is like being in love, only a lot less awkward. It means that I'll always be there for you, and you'll always be there for me, but we'll always have other people, people who are friends and more than friends. That is all I need.
When I was friends with K I wasn't content. We weren't close. I had to watch what I say, because there was always a feeling that he would run for the hills if I told him a tenth of what was on my mind. It's because I wasn't happy with our friendship that I wanted more. It never occurred to me that you can have a decent conversation within a friendship.
The hardest part of being friends with someone you love is that you always have it in the back of your mind that something might happen at some point. It is hard if they say it wouldn't work, but harder still when you are forced to say it. It is hard knowing that they will never ask and you will never say yes even if they did, but it is something that I owe myself. I have faith that something really amazing is just around the corner. Someone fearless.
But it is liberating. It is exciting that you can be friends, that for once in your life love hasn't resulted in bitter animosity.
You're not completely out of my mind, but maybe I will get some sleep tonight.
To be continued...
A Note
I spent my Easter camping near Bremer Bay, between Albany and Esperance about 500km from Perth.
I don't usually do this, but I kept a diary whilst I was away. I was far away from my blog but I had a lot to think about, a lot to talk about. I wrote it with every intention of publishing it as a series here.
But when I got back, I wasn't quite sure. Such is the fast paced nature of life and growing up that how I felt and what was going through my head three days ago aren't entirely relevant now.
But I have decided that I can't keep this locked away. I still felt how I felt, even if I don't feel it now.
I was away for three days, and so this will be published over three days. Please try and keep in mind that it was written three days ago, which when you're a teenager is a bit like a diary from a previous life.
I don't usually do this, but I kept a diary whilst I was away. I was far away from my blog but I had a lot to think about, a lot to talk about. I wrote it with every intention of publishing it as a series here.
But when I got back, I wasn't quite sure. Such is the fast paced nature of life and growing up that how I felt and what was going through my head three days ago aren't entirely relevant now.
But I have decided that I can't keep this locked away. I still felt how I felt, even if I don't feel it now.
I was away for three days, and so this will be published over three days. Please try and keep in mind that it was written three days ago, which when you're a teenager is a bit like a diary from a previous life.
Monday, April 09, 2012
stay beautiful.
I just want you to know that you're always the highlight of my day.
I just want you to know that I love you dearly, and I'm always happy that you're happy.
I just want you to know that I'll always be there for you, and I hope you'll always be there for me.
I just want you to know that you mean the world to me, even though you're a massive pain in the arse with a cute accent.
I just want you to know that it's lovely having someone to talk to.
I just want you to know that I'm so glad that we are friends.
I just want you to know that you're really going to be someone, ask anyone.
I just want you to know that I hope everything turns out okay for you.
I just want you to know that you find everything you're looking for.
I just want you to know that I hope she's amazing.
I just want you to know that I hope that one day I'll find someone as amazing as you are.
stay beautiful.
I just want you to know that I love you dearly, and I'm always happy that you're happy.
I just want you to know that I'll always be there for you, and I hope you'll always be there for me.
I just want you to know that you mean the world to me, even though you're a massive pain in the arse with a cute accent.
I just want you to know that it's lovely having someone to talk to.
I just want you to know that I'm so glad that we are friends.
I just want you to know that you're really going to be someone, ask anyone.
I just want you to know that I hope everything turns out okay for you.
I just want you to know that you find everything you're looking for.
I just want you to know that I hope she's amazing.
I just want you to know that I hope that one day I'll find someone as amazing as you are.
stay beautiful.
Thursday, April 05, 2012
Happy Easter, Everbody!
I know I am known to take long blogging siestas for no apparent reason, but I thought I might let y'all know that I'm skaboodling away from civilization for a bit.
Four days away from running water. Lovely.
Truth be told, I love camping. The deprivation is refreshing - lack of makeup, lack of internet, lack of anything else but a good book and good times.
Anyway, I hope you have a good Easter, whatever Easter means to you - because I'm an immoral and indifferent atheist it means snoozing in the car with my baby and my iPod whilst the countryside tumbles by.
I'll be back to the tumultuous dramas of reality soon.
Four days away from running water. Lovely.
Truth be told, I love camping. The deprivation is refreshing - lack of makeup, lack of internet, lack of anything else but a good book and good times.
Anyway, I hope you have a good Easter, whatever Easter means to you - because I'm an immoral and indifferent atheist it means snoozing in the car with my baby and my iPod whilst the countryside tumbles by.
I'll be back to the tumultuous dramas of reality soon.
good intent
i love the surrealism of casual fridaY
i have never befOre talked to fate
or to a genie
or to a rUbik's cube
or been embraced by chocolate eyes.
i love hoW the surreAlism contiNues
only for a momenT or two
you makE your cameo
because that is all you ever Do...
i love The fleeting secOnds
when your reputation is transcended
by your good intent.
it's when the surrealism ends
that the tears start falling.
if only we could stay in a world
where you and i are equals.
i had to swallow a lot of pride
to let you back in.
it is not always easy
being that person
nobody wants to be seen with.
that's when the tears start falling.
it is a waltz of hypocrisy
that lifts me from the slums of loneliness.
it's when i bunK dowN fOr the night
in the cold
that the tears start falling.
i told you i don't mind;
i don't.
but still.
i know there's no conspiracy
when tWo hearts meet.
but i knoW tHis isn't a two waY street.
I know you didn't mean it.
you meant so well.
inspired by Cameo loveR, good intent and two waY street by kimbra.
i have never befOre talked to fate
or to a genie
or to a rUbik's cube
or been embraced by chocolate eyes.
i love hoW the surreAlism contiNues
only for a momenT or two
you makE your cameo
because that is all you ever Do...
i love The fleeting secOnds
when your reputation is transcended
by your good intent.
it's when the surrealism ends
that the tears start falling.
if only we could stay in a world
where you and i are equals.
i had to swallow a lot of pride
to let you back in.
it is not always easy
being that person
nobody wants to be seen with.
that's when the tears start falling.
it is a waltz of hypocrisy
that lifts me from the slums of loneliness.
it's when i bunK dowN fOr the night
in the cold
that the tears start falling.
i told you i don't mind;
i don't.
but still.
i know there's no conspiracy
when tWo hearts meet.
but i knoW tHis isn't a two waY street.
I know you didn't mean it.
you meant so well.
inspired by Cameo loveR, good intent and two waY street by kimbra.
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
the guilt of being a writer.
Would you believe me if I told you that this blog is only half of what I write?
Maybe more than half.
But, I write for myself. Stories. Things with a coherent beginning, middle, end. Characters.
Ah, characters.
I am not the kind of person who can dream up particularly original characters. All my characters are based on people. Me, mostly, because I know myself best. But there are others...
There are some characters that I call revenge characters. When I say that they'll regret hurting me, I mean what I say.
There are others, I just copy things from them. It almost feels like plaguerism, but they haven't copyrighted their eye colour, the way they lope down the corridors. It makes characters interesting, when they're real.
But now I am presented with every writer's dilemma. How much is too much? Everything I write I know, everything I write he has told me, or I have seen for myself. I cut and copy from my own inventory. Everything I write is how I feel, how I felt, how things, people, make me think. I add things on, because it's a story and not a diary - a bit more drama, but the bare bones are real and raw. It's all anonymous, but it's not a particularly flattering image I have created.
But when someone is a friend, a friend who has hurt you but now you're all over that, is it okay to still write about it? Surely if anyone leaves a mark like that, that becomes a personal experience? Am I breaking any unwritten privacy laws? Is it not bad enough that I cry myself to sleep in private, am I not even allowed to write about that, either?
Sometimes I feel like I have too much power, as a writer. If I wanted to I could expose so much about people, lie and cheat until they become truly detestable. The medium I write, it doesn't matter what's fact and what's fiction as long as it's all scandalous and exciting.
I'm sorry if I pull your story apart. I'm sorry if you think I'm crazy or if anyone who reads it will think that you're crazy. It's all anonymous, but we all have brains. It's just what I do. My experiences are all research.
But I will tell you this. What I write about anyone is the truth to me. It's how I felt, how you are. I won't change that. I'll put us in a dystopic futuristic city where you and I are both high on Mary Jane, but it doesn't matter whether it's here or on Mars you and I will be who we are, and I'll paint that the best I can. The story might be different but the character wil lbe the same in fact and in fiction. And you know I don't believe in censoring anything.
Maybe more than half.
But, I write for myself. Stories. Things with a coherent beginning, middle, end. Characters.
Ah, characters.
I am not the kind of person who can dream up particularly original characters. All my characters are based on people. Me, mostly, because I know myself best. But there are others...
There are some characters that I call revenge characters. When I say that they'll regret hurting me, I mean what I say.
There are others, I just copy things from them. It almost feels like plaguerism, but they haven't copyrighted their eye colour, the way they lope down the corridors. It makes characters interesting, when they're real.
But now I am presented with every writer's dilemma. How much is too much? Everything I write I know, everything I write he has told me, or I have seen for myself. I cut and copy from my own inventory. Everything I write is how I feel, how I felt, how things, people, make me think. I add things on, because it's a story and not a diary - a bit more drama, but the bare bones are real and raw. It's all anonymous, but it's not a particularly flattering image I have created.
But when someone is a friend, a friend who has hurt you but now you're all over that, is it okay to still write about it? Surely if anyone leaves a mark like that, that becomes a personal experience? Am I breaking any unwritten privacy laws? Is it not bad enough that I cry myself to sleep in private, am I not even allowed to write about that, either?
Sometimes I feel like I have too much power, as a writer. If I wanted to I could expose so much about people, lie and cheat until they become truly detestable. The medium I write, it doesn't matter what's fact and what's fiction as long as it's all scandalous and exciting.
I'm sorry if I pull your story apart. I'm sorry if you think I'm crazy or if anyone who reads it will think that you're crazy. It's all anonymous, but we all have brains. It's just what I do. My experiences are all research.
But I will tell you this. What I write about anyone is the truth to me. It's how I felt, how you are. I won't change that. I'll put us in a dystopic futuristic city where you and I are both high on Mary Jane, but it doesn't matter whether it's here or on Mars you and I will be who we are, and I'll paint that the best I can. The story might be different but the character wil lbe the same in fact and in fiction. And you know I don't believe in censoring anything.
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