Now Playing: Moving to Mars by Coldplay (and I heard it on the radio that one day we'll be living in the stars)
I'll admit, going so long without technically washing my hair was giving me the creeps.
But there is no way I'm going to put up with that manky bulletproof residue from bicarb. So...I have invented a little detox, which I'll do from time to time, whenever my hair needs a little pick me up.
Green Tea Detox:
2 cups green tea
2 tsp bicarb soda
Dissolve bicarb in green tea, tip over hair and massage in. Rinse thoroughly, follow with black tea and rosemary acid (this is really important! ph balance!). Use occasionally to strip hair.
Super soft, clean hair! Happy.
Sunday, June 03, 2012
Sprezzatura
Now Playing: Never Let Me Go by Florence + The Machine (and it's over, I'm going under, but I'm not giving up, I'm just giving in)
Nonchalance. Careful carelessness.
It's an essential part of society, isn't it, sprezzatura? The ability to hide everything one might feel or believe.
Why is it such a valued trait? It always has been, from the medieval courts of Europe to the petty playground politics of high school. It's not something I personally admire in someone; I much more prefer intensity, passion, vulnerability. Why hide what makes us beautiful with sprezzatura?
Nonchalance. Careful carelessness.
It's an essential part of society, isn't it, sprezzatura? The ability to hide everything one might feel or believe.
Why is it such a valued trait? It always has been, from the medieval courts of Europe to the petty playground politics of high school. It's not something I personally admire in someone; I much more prefer intensity, passion, vulnerability. Why hide what makes us beautiful with sprezzatura?
Saturday, June 02, 2012
Irrational Fears.
Now Playing: Kiss With a Fist by Florence + the Machine (you hit me once, I hit you back, you gave a kick, I gave a slap, you smashed a plate over my head then I set fire to our bed.)
I am terrified of waiters. By extension, I am also terrified of air hostesses, and generally any stranger I have to go up to to ask for help. Customer service shits me. Every time I'm in a shop if I see someone in a uniform I run away. I can't look them in the eye.What's seriously annoying is that employees in boutiques and bra shops don't even wear a fricking uniform most of the time, and they jump out at you like a fricking ninja with random things you could never say in normal conversation, like 'I FOUND THAT 12B FOR YOU LOVE, DO YOU WANT ME TO COME IN AND HAVE A LOOK???'
Social awkwardness for the win.
What can you say? You're demanding information, they're holding you at ransom with that little nugget of knowledge that you really, really need - like 'could we have the Cashew Chicken without the cashews or chicken?' or 'can I have a drink before I die of PMS because I look so terrible on planes I could probably pass for 46.' You can't flirt with them, you can't get to know them, and they sure as hell don't make you laugh.
That is my three criteria. I can be as endearing and enchanting and enigmatic as the next young, innocent, flirty teenager with people I can flirt with, get to know, and make me laugh. The people I love best are people I flirt with, know pretty well, and who make me laugh. Any situation where I cannot do all or any of the above, I go batshit crazy.
Simple.
I don't know why I'm telling you this. It's not as if I could make myself any less appealing...
I am terrified of waiters. By extension, I am also terrified of air hostesses, and generally any stranger I have to go up to to ask for help. Customer service shits me. Every time I'm in a shop if I see someone in a uniform I run away. I can't look them in the eye.What's seriously annoying is that employees in boutiques and bra shops don't even wear a fricking uniform most of the time, and they jump out at you like a fricking ninja with random things you could never say in normal conversation, like 'I FOUND THAT 12B FOR YOU LOVE, DO YOU WANT ME TO COME IN AND HAVE A LOOK???'
Social awkwardness for the win.
What can you say? You're demanding information, they're holding you at ransom with that little nugget of knowledge that you really, really need - like 'could we have the Cashew Chicken without the cashews or chicken?' or 'can I have a drink before I die of PMS because I look so terrible on planes I could probably pass for 46.' You can't flirt with them, you can't get to know them, and they sure as hell don't make you laugh.
That is my three criteria. I can be as endearing and enchanting and enigmatic as the next young, innocent, flirty teenager with people I can flirt with, get to know, and make me laugh. The people I love best are people I flirt with, know pretty well, and who make me laugh. Any situation where I cannot do all or any of the above, I go batshit crazy.
Simple.
I don't know why I'm telling you this. It's not as if I could make myself any less appealing...
Now is Beautiful.
Now Playing: Yellow by Coldplay (look at the stars, look how they shine for you and everything you do)
I think year twelve is screwing with my head.
I never used to think of myself as a risk taker. Well, I took academic risks. I gleefully burned all my math books.
But apart from that, I used to be what you might call quite...conservative.
But there's something about thrill-seeking, doing something you know you'll probably regret later, living in the now and worrying about the consequences if and when they come...it's luxurious. I love it.
That's not to say that I've lost my virginity whilst completely high/zoned/stoned/drunk/etc or tried marijuana, because I haven't. I said that I'm reckless, not stupid. I'm talking of a distinctly more tame but nonetheless deliciously exciting kind of pleasure. Living in the moment. Throwing your head back and laughing. Savouring every bite, every deep gulp of something hot and spicy and delicious. Licking your fingers, one by one. Wearing something lacy that nobody's ever gonna see. Basking in the glow of a comment nobody else will ever read. Twirling around in that new dress for no apparent reason, before putting it back on the hanger, dragging on your tatty pjs and going to bed.
It's so easy to forget to live in the here and now. I used to spend all my life wondering what life will be like in the future. I forgot about now. Now is beautiful.
I think year twelve is screwing with my head.
I never used to think of myself as a risk taker. Well, I took academic risks. I gleefully burned all my math books.
But apart from that, I used to be what you might call quite...conservative.
But there's something about thrill-seeking, doing something you know you'll probably regret later, living in the now and worrying about the consequences if and when they come...it's luxurious. I love it.
That's not to say that I've lost my virginity whilst completely high/zoned/stoned/drunk/etc or tried marijuana, because I haven't. I said that I'm reckless, not stupid. I'm talking of a distinctly more tame but nonetheless deliciously exciting kind of pleasure. Living in the moment. Throwing your head back and laughing. Savouring every bite, every deep gulp of something hot and spicy and delicious. Licking your fingers, one by one. Wearing something lacy that nobody's ever gonna see. Basking in the glow of a comment nobody else will ever read. Twirling around in that new dress for no apparent reason, before putting it back on the hanger, dragging on your tatty pjs and going to bed.
It's so easy to forget to live in the here and now. I used to spend all my life wondering what life will be like in the future. I forgot about now. Now is beautiful.
Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur
To me,
Sorry spells defeat
I have done something
That cannot be undone
But my tongue
Will curl around
What?
Acknowledgement?
I cannot correct or replace
So please accept my shame.
Can any word
Or sound
Any act
Or thought, or deed
Dry the tears on my pillow
And unbreak a broken heart?
Apologies ring with insincerity
It is nothing more,
Or less,
Than saving face
By all means,
Let them eat cake.
To be the kind of person
Apologetic of life
I could not live
Without the reckless
Callous
Sinful desire
To never, ever,
Truly regret.
I will live and die
Unashamed.
Pardonnez-moi, monsieur
But I will not bow down.
Click here for a discussion of Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur
Sorry spells defeat
I have done something
That cannot be undone
But my tongue
Will curl around
What?
Acknowledgement?
I cannot correct or replace
So please accept my shame.
Can any word
Or sound
Any act
Or thought, or deed
Dry the tears on my pillow
And unbreak a broken heart?
Apologies ring with insincerity
It is nothing more,
Or less,
Than saving face
By all means,
Let them eat cake.
To be the kind of person
Apologetic of life
I could not live
Without the reckless
Callous
Sinful desire
To never, ever,
Truly regret.
I will live and die
Unashamed.
Pardonnez-moi, monsieur
But I will not bow down.
Click here for a discussion of Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur
The Intellectual Whore.
Now Playing: Somebody That I Used to Know (Live) Gotye ft. Kimbra (now and then I think of all the times you screwed me over, but had me believing it was always something that I'd done)
It may surprise you that the first person to tell me that women should 'reclaim whore' was someone at school. I won't say who.
It's not that we - underaged, sixteen year old ingenue students - were encouraged to suddenly become slags. Whore does not mean what it means now, not in the context we were talking of. In another universe the word whore was applied to women who dared to play in a man's world. Educated, intellectual women. Women who intimidated men so much that they had to go for the low-hanging fruit; promiscuity, whether factual or fictional. Women of history that modern women should admire.
One such woman was Aspasia of Milesia, Pericles' mistress. Aspasia was amazingly influential in a world where women were not citizens, not given the right to vote, etc - Pericles left his wife for Aspasia, Aspasia was his right hand in all matters (although we will never know the extent of Aspasia's true political influence, because history is, of course, written by men), men would take their wives to learn from Aspasia, because although her promiscuity was widely condemned nobody could deny her brilliant mind and her wonderful education, and when Pericles' opponents tried to harm him, they did it by attacking Aspasia.
Strong women are confident women, confident in their own capabilities, aware of their own vulnerabilities, and capable of manipulating both to get what they want. I've often said that the most powerful person is not Caesar, but Caesar's women - and you only have to look at Servilia or Cleopatra or even Giulia Farnese to see that that is true. But then there are women, powerful enough in their own right to eclipse men - like Catherine II - who weren't afraid to live life to the fullest. (Although the tale that she died trying to have sex with a horse is probably a lie).
Lucrezia Borgia, the illegitimate daughter of Pope Alexander, was accused of having an incestuous relationship with her father and brother, the Pope and Cesare Borgia; it is known for certain that Lucrezia had an illegitimate child during her marriage to Giovanni Sforza, known as the Infantus Romanus, and that Lucrezia and Cesare forced Sforza to declare his impotency (unlikely, considering he himself had an illegitimate child) so that the marriage could be annulled in a time where divorce was impossible (she was the daughter of the Pope, after all). All of this historically unproven fuss over a woman who was historically proven to be the only woman who sat on the chair of St Peters in loco parentis. Who cares? It is only women who have their private lives pulled apart and elaborated with lies and half-truths. How many people do you think Henry VIII slept with? A lot more than six, I'll tell you.
I perhaps have a rather bad reputation for being almost entirely indifferent and unjudgemental of people's personal lives. I like being unjudgemental. Some of the people I know get so...so angry, about what people do outside of school. Why? If it's not hurting anyone, then, well, it's their perogative...
Society is, was, and perhaps always will be afraid of women who take pride in their own attractiveness and sexuality. Now we don't mind if a woman is intellectually capable of being equal or better than men - not much, anyway - but the second sex gets involved we suddenly become Victorian prudes. A woman can enjoy every pleasure and right that men have, except for sex. If a man sleeps around, he's a champ. If a woman sleeps around, she's a slut. Why is that?
It may surprise you that the first person to tell me that women should 'reclaim whore' was someone at school. I won't say who.
It's not that we - underaged, sixteen year old ingenue students - were encouraged to suddenly become slags. Whore does not mean what it means now, not in the context we were talking of. In another universe the word whore was applied to women who dared to play in a man's world. Educated, intellectual women. Women who intimidated men so much that they had to go for the low-hanging fruit; promiscuity, whether factual or fictional. Women of history that modern women should admire.
One such woman was Aspasia of Milesia, Pericles' mistress. Aspasia was amazingly influential in a world where women were not citizens, not given the right to vote, etc - Pericles left his wife for Aspasia, Aspasia was his right hand in all matters (although we will never know the extent of Aspasia's true political influence, because history is, of course, written by men), men would take their wives to learn from Aspasia, because although her promiscuity was widely condemned nobody could deny her brilliant mind and her wonderful education, and when Pericles' opponents tried to harm him, they did it by attacking Aspasia.
Strong women are confident women, confident in their own capabilities, aware of their own vulnerabilities, and capable of manipulating both to get what they want. I've often said that the most powerful person is not Caesar, but Caesar's women - and you only have to look at Servilia or Cleopatra or even Giulia Farnese to see that that is true. But then there are women, powerful enough in their own right to eclipse men - like Catherine II - who weren't afraid to live life to the fullest. (Although the tale that she died trying to have sex with a horse is probably a lie).
Lucrezia Borgia, the illegitimate daughter of Pope Alexander, was accused of having an incestuous relationship with her father and brother, the Pope and Cesare Borgia; it is known for certain that Lucrezia had an illegitimate child during her marriage to Giovanni Sforza, known as the Infantus Romanus, and that Lucrezia and Cesare forced Sforza to declare his impotency (unlikely, considering he himself had an illegitimate child) so that the marriage could be annulled in a time where divorce was impossible (she was the daughter of the Pope, after all). All of this historically unproven fuss over a woman who was historically proven to be the only woman who sat on the chair of St Peters in loco parentis. Who cares? It is only women who have their private lives pulled apart and elaborated with lies and half-truths. How many people do you think Henry VIII slept with? A lot more than six, I'll tell you.
I perhaps have a rather bad reputation for being almost entirely indifferent and unjudgemental of people's personal lives. I like being unjudgemental. Some of the people I know get so...so angry, about what people do outside of school. Why? If it's not hurting anyone, then, well, it's their perogative...
Society is, was, and perhaps always will be afraid of women who take pride in their own attractiveness and sexuality. Now we don't mind if a woman is intellectually capable of being equal or better than men - not much, anyway - but the second sex gets involved we suddenly become Victorian prudes. A woman can enjoy every pleasure and right that men have, except for sex. If a man sleeps around, he's a champ. If a woman sleeps around, she's a slut. Why is that?
Insecurities
Now Playing: The Scientist by Coldplay (questions of science, science and progress, do not speak as loud as my heart)
It's always amazed me that pretty much every single person who has ever walked this earth is insecure. Even the most beautiful, amazing people (to me) have the deepest and most profound insecurities.
It really shocked and saddened me, that beautiful, talented people can become so profoundly discontent with themselves, and to desire to be better than is even possible. I always used to take comfort (strangely) in the fact that a more beautiful woman than me, a more talented woman than me, might be happier than me, and that I might be happy if I were more beautiful and talented. But it's not true. Confidence is not a prize bartered away to the highest bidder; it's something we have, somewhere within us, and only through strength and courage do we find it.
I have my own fair share of insecurities. Not helped by the people I have met. I am that girl who is always, always passed over for someone else; not just by boys, but by friends, by teachers; I am always the girl come second and I hate it. I once loved a boy so much I did not realize how often and how deeply he put me down; how often he would make me feel so inferior that I would be thrilled if he looked twice in my direction. I had to watch everything I did or said, for fear of a backlash. My own friends stabbed me in the back when I faithfully tolerated and turned a blind eye to every petty annoyance, like I thought anyone would. It is not easy to overcome personal insecurities when you're always tossed in the gutter.
I think all girls are conditioned not to believe it when anyone - especially boys - tell them that they're beautiful, or that they're attractive, or that they don't need makeup or that they looked pretty on a particular day. There is so much pressure to be perfect, to be infallible, to constantly be endearing and enchanting and enigmatic; the media is our harshest critique, even if only a dozen people know you by name, and it is quite bizarre to realize that real people are not nearly so cruel.
I always used to assume that I was an anomaly. Although I am possibly the world's most cynical critique and I can hate people within half a heartbeat of knowing them, I can also be completely unjudging, and forgiving, and tolerant - probably far too much for my own good. I feel too much, I love too much, and although I'll slip white lies without batting an eyelid (the standard one is to immediately say 'it's someone from outside of school' when you're talking about someone to a classmate and another classmate tries to join the conversation) I won't actually go out of my way to lie for the sake of spouting a compliment. I love the quiet sincerity of compliments, and perhaps I should have a little more faith that other people are like me, too. But I am so unbelievably and irrationally terrified of people's judgements, people's opinions, that I think the sooner I learn to be fearless, the better.
It's amazing how much you can gauge from people just by talking to them. There is so much to read between the lines, so much to decipher about personality. Insecurities sing out, and they're quite saddening, but interesting. Little hypocrisies, tiny things that can make me shiver or bristle with annoyance, small traces of defensiveness or posessiveness or competition. Other people are so afraid of this; femininity, masculinity, sexuality, humanity - and I suppose I would be, too, if I weren't so caught up in how wonderfully fascinating we all are.
It's always amazed me that pretty much every single person who has ever walked this earth is insecure. Even the most beautiful, amazing people (to me) have the deepest and most profound insecurities.
It really shocked and saddened me, that beautiful, talented people can become so profoundly discontent with themselves, and to desire to be better than is even possible. I always used to take comfort (strangely) in the fact that a more beautiful woman than me, a more talented woman than me, might be happier than me, and that I might be happy if I were more beautiful and talented. But it's not true. Confidence is not a prize bartered away to the highest bidder; it's something we have, somewhere within us, and only through strength and courage do we find it.
I have my own fair share of insecurities. Not helped by the people I have met. I am that girl who is always, always passed over for someone else; not just by boys, but by friends, by teachers; I am always the girl come second and I hate it. I once loved a boy so much I did not realize how often and how deeply he put me down; how often he would make me feel so inferior that I would be thrilled if he looked twice in my direction. I had to watch everything I did or said, for fear of a backlash. My own friends stabbed me in the back when I faithfully tolerated and turned a blind eye to every petty annoyance, like I thought anyone would. It is not easy to overcome personal insecurities when you're always tossed in the gutter.
I think all girls are conditioned not to believe it when anyone - especially boys - tell them that they're beautiful, or that they're attractive, or that they don't need makeup or that they looked pretty on a particular day. There is so much pressure to be perfect, to be infallible, to constantly be endearing and enchanting and enigmatic; the media is our harshest critique, even if only a dozen people know you by name, and it is quite bizarre to realize that real people are not nearly so cruel.
I always used to assume that I was an anomaly. Although I am possibly the world's most cynical critique and I can hate people within half a heartbeat of knowing them, I can also be completely unjudging, and forgiving, and tolerant - probably far too much for my own good. I feel too much, I love too much, and although I'll slip white lies without batting an eyelid (the standard one is to immediately say 'it's someone from outside of school' when you're talking about someone to a classmate and another classmate tries to join the conversation) I won't actually go out of my way to lie for the sake of spouting a compliment. I love the quiet sincerity of compliments, and perhaps I should have a little more faith that other people are like me, too. But I am so unbelievably and irrationally terrified of people's judgements, people's opinions, that I think the sooner I learn to be fearless, the better.
It's amazing how much you can gauge from people just by talking to them. There is so much to read between the lines, so much to decipher about personality. Insecurities sing out, and they're quite saddening, but interesting. Little hypocrisies, tiny things that can make me shiver or bristle with annoyance, small traces of defensiveness or posessiveness or competition. Other people are so afraid of this; femininity, masculinity, sexuality, humanity - and I suppose I would be, too, if I weren't so caught up in how wonderfully fascinating we all are.
Friday, June 01, 2012
처음
But then there are numbers in brackets
And poems, and words, and songs
There are sweet praises
And sordid whispers
Kindness and cruelty
All tumbled in one
Perhaps I should thank you
For robbing me of my insecurities.
I will have nothing to confess
At the time of reckoning
Because in the end
Everything is nothing
I am no fool
I remain in reality
But I cannot ignore
How innocence
Makes everything
Reckless.
Click here for a discussion of 처음
And poems, and words, and songs
There are sweet praises
And sordid whispers
Kindness and cruelty
All tumbled in one
Perhaps I should thank you
For robbing me of my insecurities.
I will have nothing to confess
At the time of reckoning
Because in the end
Everything is nothing
I am no fool
I remain in reality
But I cannot ignore
How innocence
Makes everything
Reckless.
Click here for a discussion of 처음
Erratic
Now Playing: Good Intent (Simlish) by Kimbra
I follow a few blogs and sometimes I have seriously checked back five squillion times and there's not a single update.
I must confess I'm a little like that.
Not that many people care, only I have quite a few texts from my friend along the vein of 'BLOG SOMETHING I'M BORED', and another friend who tends to intepret lack of internet activity as lack of life or sanity. Which in my case is normally true, because unless I'm depressed or drowning in work I am quite proud of the fact that all emails I bother to care about have a 24 hour turnaround.
I don't work to schedule, you know? I reject order so much that despite nearly two years of pretty much the exact same classes in the exact same rooms with almost the exact same teachers I still cannot remember, for the life of me, my school timetable. You'd think that I'd remember what I do every Monday morning for the last two years, but apparently not. What's worse is that now I'm not at school, because it's exam week, and by the time I get back I am seriously screwed. I have no idea what classes are when. I'll probably remember them very conveniently by graduation.
Sometimes I write at school. Most of the time I write after school, at home. Lots of the time I'll start a blog post and then get distracted by email, or homework, or showering or eating dinner or generally having a life. Sometimes I get so busy or distracted or depressed I don't post anything for weeks.
I don't like the idea of scheduling posts. It is something I can do - I can set the exact time in which something appears, if I want to. But I never do. I feel like you lose the moment, don't you think? I don't have moments of inspiration at exactly 8pm every Tuesday and Thursday, so why should I make my blog look like I do? I like to think that randomness is just part of my charm.
If it's any comfort for the lovers of order and organization (so what exactly are you doing here?) on average I post about 20.9 times a month. So check back every 1.4 days ;P
FYI that took me ages because, ya know, I don't do numbers...
I follow a few blogs and sometimes I have seriously checked back five squillion times and there's not a single update.
I must confess I'm a little like that.
Not that many people care, only I have quite a few texts from my friend along the vein of 'BLOG SOMETHING I'M BORED', and another friend who tends to intepret lack of internet activity as lack of life or sanity. Which in my case is normally true, because unless I'm depressed or drowning in work I am quite proud of the fact that all emails I bother to care about have a 24 hour turnaround.
I don't work to schedule, you know? I reject order so much that despite nearly two years of pretty much the exact same classes in the exact same rooms with almost the exact same teachers I still cannot remember, for the life of me, my school timetable. You'd think that I'd remember what I do every Monday morning for the last two years, but apparently not. What's worse is that now I'm not at school, because it's exam week, and by the time I get back I am seriously screwed. I have no idea what classes are when. I'll probably remember them very conveniently by graduation.
Sometimes I write at school. Most of the time I write after school, at home. Lots of the time I'll start a blog post and then get distracted by email, or homework, or showering or eating dinner or generally having a life. Sometimes I get so busy or distracted or depressed I don't post anything for weeks.
I don't like the idea of scheduling posts. It is something I can do - I can set the exact time in which something appears, if I want to. But I never do. I feel like you lose the moment, don't you think? I don't have moments of inspiration at exactly 8pm every Tuesday and Thursday, so why should I make my blog look like I do? I like to think that randomness is just part of my charm.
If it's any comfort for the lovers of order and organization (so what exactly are you doing here?) on average I post about 20.9 times a month. So check back every 1.4 days ;P
FYI that took me ages because, ya know, I don't do numbers...
A Thousand Thousand Fearless Things #34
Now Playing: Kiss With a Fist by Florence + The Machine
#269: A kiss with a fist is better than none.
#270: Being cruel ;P
#271: Exams. Bad. Exams when sick. Worse. Stumbling into the Fuhrer looking like a walking corpse. Worse still. Ah well, three down, three to go.
#272: Me and numbers. Match made in heaven. Pity we're on earth.
#273: Sleepyhead ;P
#274: You wouldn't believe half the things I get up to now, but let's just say it throws you deep into the realms of inadequacy.
#275: Dear hormones, if I wanted to look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, I would have bought one for charity.
#276: Food is my first love XD
#277: Why must men suck at multitasking?
#278: My fluffy little Ewok got a BAAAAD haircut. Now it looks like a drunk lemur.
#279: Getting lost in music. I doubt anyone dances as weirdly as I do. I watch far too much of Kimbra.
#269: A kiss with a fist is better than none.
#270: Being cruel ;P
#271: Exams. Bad. Exams when sick. Worse. Stumbling into the Fuhrer looking like a walking corpse. Worse still. Ah well, three down, three to go.
#272: Me and numbers. Match made in heaven. Pity we're on earth.
#273: Sleepyhead ;P
#274: You wouldn't believe half the things I get up to now, but let's just say it throws you deep into the realms of inadequacy.
#275: Dear hormones, if I wanted to look like Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, I would have bought one for charity.
#276: Food is my first love XD
#277: Why must men suck at multitasking?
#278: My fluffy little Ewok got a BAAAAD haircut. Now it looks like a drunk lemur.
#279: Getting lost in music. I doubt anyone dances as weirdly as I do. I watch far too much of Kimbra.
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