Well, what is there to say? Los Parentos (I know that is wrong, I don't need to be told, but the RIGHT way of writing it would be nice) have returned from Italy. They bought me a beaded purse, which was nice of them. It is in the shape of a very fat bunch of grapes, with three leaves and then the grapes all below. Unfortunately:
a) I have noticed that in some lights you can see these gold dots in the grapes (they are also outlined in gold), which makes them look like strange, periwinkle-y purple boobs. It's not even funny, just weird.
b) It's actually smaller inside than it looks. I was all excited about it potentially being able to replace my current purse, which has broken a bit, but I don't think it can fit cards, change and keys all at once without some kind of tragic accident.
Yesterday, because I had a bit of real free time for the first time in ages, I spent at least four hours tidying the house in preparation of the parents' return. I actually missed my mum, because living with my lazy-ass brother for four days does that to a girl. I hoovered the back room, the front passage, the downstairs bathroom and the kitchen (twice!). I mopped the kitchen floor. I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned the computer screen and dusted it, tried to clean the keyboard as much as I could, cleaned the mousemat and then the desk that it sits on. I tidied the papers round there too. I cleaned the TV and the glass shelf-thingy which houses the DVD player, Sky box and video (way to make myself sound overprivileged!), and cleaned the fronts of those appliances too. I tidied the area around the TV and cleaned the cabinet that holds our videos. I took the clothes upstairs, sorted and folded them (though there were only four...). I straightened out the sofa and plumped the cushions. I tidied the shoes, put whatever new mail I found in a magnetic clamp, and then stuck that on the fridge. I sorted all the random papers affixed to the fridge so that letters were in the clamp at the top, then random shite, then phone numbers and contact details for people below. I also wiped the surfaces in the kitchen, with spray, tidied the area near the turntable and TV and cleaned the microwave and the two racks and two metal protector thingies that came with it.
I think it is quite clear to see from that lengthy paragraph that I am Superwoman. However, my arse hurts rather a lot now. It feels rather bruised. It was a pretty wearying weekend for me when you consider all I did yesterday, plus the fact that I accidentally got up too early on Saturday (after not getting enough sleep). And after dinner on Saturday, I got really bad stomach pains due to something I'd eaten that was intent on tormenting me. I had to take Rennie Deflatine, for God's sake, and that did help, even though wind was not the problem. Something wanting to exit my stomach pronto - it would seem, preferably through my mouth - was the problem. The pain was making me writhe and sweat for a while, and I may even have prayed. Oh, the shame. Nonetheless, this has only made me more vehement about avoiding left-overs wherever possible, and heating stuff up properly. Laziness - especially when it comes to food - is unforgivable.
I shall end this rather pedestrian rant with a couple of mini-rants. Firstly, I really am not cut out to be studying Seventeenth-Century Literary Culture. Our seminar leader Rose went to Oxford, and can I say, it really shows. She's OK and all, but I just get that sense of slimy slipperiness from her that I always get from those people. I can't explain it at all. They just kind of remind me of lizards - perfectly-trained, smooth, diplomatic, hairless, CREEPY people. It is as if all the personality and individuality in them gets distilled out to make them smooth, efficient analysing machines who know lots of critical jargon but don't really seem to have their own opinions on, or passion for, what they're talking about. Rose was genuinely shocked that people in our class had come from 'such different academic backgrounds.' Steph muttered to me afterwards something about how she was probably shocked we hadn't all read the classics, or something, and I suspect she was right. Need I say any more about the Oxford / Cambridge production line? I'm sure some people must just be thinking I'm jealous and that I'd go like a shot if I had the chance, but in all honesty, even if I could go, I can't imagine staying. I could never be one of those people though, which rules me out. It makes me think of the first issue of The Invisibles, where they say something about being made smooth in their heads and between their legs, or something. It's all very Demon Headmaster.
Might I add that the major cause of my bitterness was getting 62 for a rather labour-intensive essay (trans: I laboured and laboured to make my relatively weak points, and it so showed), only to have what I already knew repeatedly pointed out to me. I pretty much always know what is wrong with my essays, but usually there is a proper reason for it. With this course however, it's because there's NOTHING I can do. I fucking HATE studying stuff that has mountains of criticism on it, it makes me seize up mentally and produce shite essays because my real control over what I say is already so diminished. It's just like Shakespeare last year. Fun to read - crap to write about. Also, the seventeenth century is really boring because - and I can just imagine legions of studious, conservative old farts spitting dust at me for this - it is so far removed from our age now, and me, as to be insensible. If you want to call our age self-obsessed, try looking at them. White men writing English epics about conquest and trying to turn London into a Rome or Athens? Women being publicly invisible? Religion virtually dominating mass culture (don't even try to link it to now, it's not the same.)? Fuck off. At least with Nineteenth-Century American Literature, we get to do people like Kate Chopin, who have more relevance to me and mines, so to speak..
A word on global warming before I go: how the hell can anyone really deny it exists now? I know that Britain's weather has always been capricious (to say the least), but suddenly going from 18-degree heat (well, apparently - I know it got up to 16 at least) and sunshine to 4 degrees this morning and sleet (apparently hail and snow will follow) is insanity. Anyone who thinks that God is sending it to punish us deserves to get sleet down their trousers. Seventeenth-Century and Milton are making me lose my already tremulous (read: virtually non-existent) appetite for God even more. Yes, he's a genius. Yes, Paradise Lost is soooo amazingly dense. So what? He's dead now, and I ain't no Puritan!
Monday, March 19, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
'And I Wake Up Alone...'
My title, and my mood, come from the song of the same name (Wake Up Alone) by Amy Winehouse on her fantab 'new' album Back To Black. It is excellent, please do buy it. I have been - and still am - hooked on it. It was great because I even got to see her live at Porchester House just last Wednesday - for free! I won tickets somehow. I think she might be lucky for me or summat, because I won a poster of hers as well once. We had the most annoying couple behind us, but I will post on that later if I can be arsed.
Enough digression. Since I admitted to ---- that I have felt a bit attracted to A--- in the past (not something I was happy about, I tell you. Talk about WRONG WRONG WRONG!), we went through a seriously rickety period that was the worst in recent memory for a long time, and then - we survived. It felt like there was a lot at stake here, and there was really, because we've been together for almost four years now. We are actually pretty good now, and I can't help wondering almost if we needed this in some way. I'm not trying to prettify the whole affair, but was it some kind of Fated Intervention? It has made so much difference to everything.
Par exemple, it has reminded me strongly of why only ---- is THE man for me. No-one else loves me like he does. No-one else will sit there calmly and let me rant about my work. No-one else is going to teach me how to cook, mess about with PCs or about the law. Most importantly, no-one else will make me face up to myself - and tolerate my abject weirdness - like he does. He totally gets me (God, I know, that's so Californian teenager, I'm sorry). We have a tendency to feel too alike at times, and completely alien at others, but I'd like to think we'll get the balance right eventually.
I have subconsciously been doing that thing of trying to 'replace' him with A--- (that I did while he was away). Except that now the element of attraction that derived from them being similar is not there because my hormones are under control and we are much more stable. This time, I've been constantly harassing A--- to talk to me, and then when I do get the chance, I realise I don't actually want to. He is a very good friend of mine - I'd daresay he's become one of my closest friends, but don't let him find that out! However, no-one replaces ----. It's scary to realise how much you love and need someone. I was wasting loads of time yesterday and then I was talking to A--- at 10.00 p.m., wondering why I couldn't leave him alone when I didn't actually want to talk to him.
Bingo - because the man I DID want to talk to was sleeping. I called him at 9 o'clock and he woke up and spoke in his 'asleep' voice which is heart-rendingly sweet. I couldn't bear to ruin his sleep (he NEVER sleeps that early, so he must have been knackered right out), so I let him go. However, he was the one I wanted and the one I still want. Not A---, not S-----, not any of my friends... but him. I feel a bit bad sometimes, because I do like my friends, but the way I am just means I can spend a lot of time alone quite happily, and then factor in that S--- is way more important to me than anyone else, and you get a serial friend-neglector. I have to stop being a disorganised, dim-witted flake, and then I will be better at keeping in contact with people.
Well, that was quite therapeutic. Another post may be necessary!
To close, I'll just say that you really need to be careful about making subliminal associations. I already have the terrible tendency to connect random things, which makes me a good English student. However, yesterday for some reason I was looking up that girl Kaavya Viswanathan who is my age but slightly older, and then I looked up other high-profile plagiarism cases where top-university (sorry, college :-P) students have fallen from grace, such as Aleksey Vayner. The whole thing was quite interesting to me for many reasons, like 'Why on earth do these people do these things when they are at such a high-profile place of study?' and 'If they're so clever, why do they get caught, and caught doing dumbass things?'
This all came back to bite me on the behind when my younger Jij (brother-in-law), -----, rang up pretending to be someone from my uni saying they had reason to suspect I had taken quotes off the Internet for my essay on Moby-Dick. I fell for it (!), because:
a) I had actually written a bit about that at the start of my last essay, and
b) I was trying to find the chapter where the quote I wanted was, so I Googled it and then located it in chapter 46 (I think) in my Penguin Classics copy. I was just thinking 'But that's not wrong is it?!!'
c) I was on general dumbass setting yesterday. My parents would have destroyed every last remaining shred of my self-esteem after I had myself, had they known or even been here to know.
Oh well, all's O.K and I had better get the hell going to wash my hair and maybe go to 8 Til' Late so that I can get some plain chocolate biscuits and some soy sauce. Dinner tonight is going to be good!
Enough digression. Since I admitted to ---- that I have felt a bit attracted to A--- in the past (not something I was happy about, I tell you. Talk about WRONG WRONG WRONG!), we went through a seriously rickety period that was the worst in recent memory for a long time, and then - we survived. It felt like there was a lot at stake here, and there was really, because we've been together for almost four years now. We are actually pretty good now, and I can't help wondering almost if we needed this in some way. I'm not trying to prettify the whole affair, but was it some kind of Fated Intervention? It has made so much difference to everything.
Par exemple, it has reminded me strongly of why only ---- is THE man for me. No-one else loves me like he does. No-one else will sit there calmly and let me rant about my work. No-one else is going to teach me how to cook, mess about with PCs or about the law. Most importantly, no-one else will make me face up to myself - and tolerate my abject weirdness - like he does. He totally gets me (God, I know, that's so Californian teenager, I'm sorry). We have a tendency to feel too alike at times, and completely alien at others, but I'd like to think we'll get the balance right eventually.
I have subconsciously been doing that thing of trying to 'replace' him with A--- (that I did while he was away). Except that now the element of attraction that derived from them being similar is not there because my hormones are under control and we are much more stable. This time, I've been constantly harassing A--- to talk to me, and then when I do get the chance, I realise I don't actually want to. He is a very good friend of mine - I'd daresay he's become one of my closest friends, but don't let him find that out! However, no-one replaces ----. It's scary to realise how much you love and need someone. I was wasting loads of time yesterday and then I was talking to A--- at 10.00 p.m., wondering why I couldn't leave him alone when I didn't actually want to talk to him.
Bingo - because the man I DID want to talk to was sleeping. I called him at 9 o'clock and he woke up and spoke in his 'asleep' voice which is heart-rendingly sweet. I couldn't bear to ruin his sleep (he NEVER sleeps that early, so he must have been knackered right out), so I let him go. However, he was the one I wanted and the one I still want. Not A---, not S-----, not any of my friends... but him. I feel a bit bad sometimes, because I do like my friends, but the way I am just means I can spend a lot of time alone quite happily, and then factor in that S--- is way more important to me than anyone else, and you get a serial friend-neglector. I have to stop being a disorganised, dim-witted flake, and then I will be better at keeping in contact with people.
Well, that was quite therapeutic. Another post may be necessary!
To close, I'll just say that you really need to be careful about making subliminal associations. I already have the terrible tendency to connect random things, which makes me a good English student. However, yesterday for some reason I was looking up that girl Kaavya Viswanathan who is my age but slightly older, and then I looked up other high-profile plagiarism cases where top-university (sorry, college :-P) students have fallen from grace, such as Aleksey Vayner. The whole thing was quite interesting to me for many reasons, like 'Why on earth do these people do these things when they are at such a high-profile place of study?' and 'If they're so clever, why do they get caught, and caught doing dumbass things?'
This all came back to bite me on the behind when my younger Jij (brother-in-law), -----, rang up pretending to be someone from my uni saying they had reason to suspect I had taken quotes off the Internet for my essay on Moby-Dick. I fell for it (!), because:
a) I had actually written a bit about that at the start of my last essay, and
b) I was trying to find the chapter where the quote I wanted was, so I Googled it and then located it in chapter 46 (I think) in my Penguin Classics copy. I was just thinking 'But that's not wrong is it?!!'
c) I was on general dumbass setting yesterday. My parents would have destroyed every last remaining shred of my self-esteem after I had myself, had they known or even been here to know.
Oh well, all's O.K and I had better get the hell going to wash my hair and maybe go to 8 Til' Late so that I can get some plain chocolate biscuits and some soy sauce. Dinner tonight is going to be good!
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Vive la Rome! (Or something like that)
Can you tell I'm too tired to think up half-way decent post titles?
The parents have been safely packed off to Rome (they'll be gone until Sunday), and my brother and I are at home. How do I plan to celebrate this riotous occasion? Simple - I don't. I have been feeling increasingly anti-social over the past few days, dunno why. Maybe it is because I have a lot to do, and I want to do it, but I'm still not determined enough to devote myself to it? I have read a bit of Paradise Lost, book I though, which is all good, and I plan - yes, PLAN - on finishing the rest tonight. Tomorrow's homework on Yves Saint Laurent is so not happening.
Went to have lunch with S--- up in Angel today, where he is working for his placement. He had his hair down, as I have been pushing him to have the courage to do, and he looked SOOOOOOO CUTE. I almost wasn't sure what I wanted to do to him, but for some reason yanking his hood over his head and / or hugging and squeezing him very tightly came into my mind. What is wrong with me?!! The beauty of this first glimpse was, however, ruined by the sight of the flakage up-top. His hair is lighter than mine - well, it looks closer to brown than mine does - and is gorgeous. It is all obedient and soft, and not as shiny as mine (not necessarily to be taken as a good thing!) but this means that dandruff REALLY shows up.
Good grief, all I need to do now is lapse into my 'cool, young, female, probably a (fashion) magazine editor's PA' voice and start advertising Head & Shoulders. Instead, for my own private mirth (not that of my non-existent reader(s)), I'm sticking this in.
Anyway, we had a buffet lunch at Indian Veg Bhel Poori House (their spelling!) for £3.50. Cheap and cheerful is most definitely the right description. We couldn't help feeling smug about all the non-Asian (Indian) morons who thought they were getting something amazing, just because it wasn't the bog-standard South Indian dosa-bhel-sev-chaat jobbie. I have no problem with that particular cuisine, but I have to say, kudos to the owner(s) of Indian Veg for spotting that gap in the market. And for £3.50 - really a very good deal since you get a lot of veggies and it's all fairly non-greasy, blah blah blah. It's definitely better for you than going to many Chinese buffets, where death by grease is inevitable. However, no, it wasn't amazing, S--- preferred Sagar (though we got more potato than veg having the set lunch there, AND it cost more), and we were mildly amused / terrified by the vegetarian propaganda that was, quite literally, EVERYWHERE.
But ja, I went to see him, we had lunch, I produced my magic surprise of 'live' drinking yoghurt with peach pieces, we walked a bit, we kissed, I headed off to uni (amazingly only about 7 stops from there. If only it was 7 as opposed to 26 between uni and my home ...) and picked up my essay (worth 60%!) for What Happened To The Epic From Milton To Pope. I got 75. SEVENTY-FOOKIN'-FIVE! I was in shock - really - for about five minutes at least, and then I felt very, very tired. I don't know if I can tell Katy, my friend whom I took the course with (I pretty much took it to be with her, which sounds potentially lesbo, but I was just trying to ensure we would stay in contact somehow, living in Bow and ......... respectively (!), and I figured not many people would want to touch it with a bargepole. I was semi-right). She was well mad because Isabel 'yoh yoh' Rivers ('yoh, yoh' is how she shows assent) accused her of lying about her word count, refused to take into account that she got evicted shortly before having to write this essay and therefore could only come in once to get whatever books were left (Kent to east London is THREE HOURS!), and gave her 54.
I have no idea what to say to Katy, because I.R seems to love me, even though I was mostly just b.s-ing all the way and paraphrasing her thoughts back at her... or so I thought. Either way I have a solid First for this module, since I got 70 in the other essay. Whoa, baby. Poor Katy, I don't get why I.R disliked her so much. She couldn't even get her name right for about 5 weeks or something.
Anyway, now I shall come full circle by explaining why I am tired, and then leave because of it. I stayed up till midnight for some absurd reason last night, couldn't sleep, woke up about 5 times and got woken up to say goodbye to my parents who I think left at 7 (cue me mumble-yelling to my mum in a sleep-fogged voice: "Muh... muh. Muh! Bread and Pro-activ!" Don't even ask). I stumbled downstairs in my teddy-bear pyjamas, hugged goodbye to them (or rather let them hug me, I was still undergoing pre-wake-up rigor mortis) and mistily registered that I had to turn on the dishwasher and put a washing load in and that dinner was taken care of. Beautiful. I woke up at 9, and I have been out since. Time, I think, to take a nap and speed on (I hope) with PL book I!
The parents have been safely packed off to Rome (they'll be gone until Sunday), and my brother and I are at home. How do I plan to celebrate this riotous occasion? Simple - I don't. I have been feeling increasingly anti-social over the past few days, dunno why. Maybe it is because I have a lot to do, and I want to do it, but I'm still not determined enough to devote myself to it? I have read a bit of Paradise Lost, book I though, which is all good, and I plan - yes, PLAN - on finishing the rest tonight. Tomorrow's homework on Yves Saint Laurent is so not happening.
Went to have lunch with S--- up in Angel today, where he is working for his placement. He had his hair down, as I have been pushing him to have the courage to do, and he looked SOOOOOOO CUTE. I almost wasn't sure what I wanted to do to him, but for some reason yanking his hood over his head and / or hugging and squeezing him very tightly came into my mind. What is wrong with me?!! The beauty of this first glimpse was, however, ruined by the sight of the flakage up-top. His hair is lighter than mine - well, it looks closer to brown than mine does - and is gorgeous. It is all obedient and soft, and not as shiny as mine (not necessarily to be taken as a good thing!) but this means that dandruff REALLY shows up.
Good grief, all I need to do now is lapse into my 'cool, young, female, probably a (fashion) magazine editor's PA' voice and start advertising Head & Shoulders. Instead, for my own private mirth (not that of my non-existent reader(s)), I'm sticking this in.
Anyway, we had a buffet lunch at Indian Veg Bhel Poori House (their spelling!) for £3.50. Cheap and cheerful is most definitely the right description. We couldn't help feeling smug about all the non-Asian (Indian) morons who thought they were getting something amazing, just because it wasn't the bog-standard South Indian dosa-bhel-sev-chaat jobbie. I have no problem with that particular cuisine, but I have to say, kudos to the owner(s) of Indian Veg for spotting that gap in the market. And for £3.50 - really a very good deal since you get a lot of veggies and it's all fairly non-greasy, blah blah blah. It's definitely better for you than going to many Chinese buffets, where death by grease is inevitable. However, no, it wasn't amazing, S--- preferred Sagar (though we got more potato than veg having the set lunch there, AND it cost more), and we were mildly amused / terrified by the vegetarian propaganda that was, quite literally, EVERYWHERE.
But ja, I went to see him, we had lunch, I produced my magic surprise of 'live' drinking yoghurt with peach pieces, we walked a bit, we kissed, I headed off to uni (amazingly only about 7 stops from there. If only it was 7 as opposed to 26 between uni and my home ...) and picked up my essay (worth 60%!) for What Happened To The Epic From Milton To Pope. I got 75. SEVENTY-FOOKIN'-FIVE! I was in shock - really - for about five minutes at least, and then I felt very, very tired. I don't know if I can tell Katy, my friend whom I took the course with (I pretty much took it to be with her, which sounds potentially lesbo, but I was just trying to ensure we would stay in contact somehow, living in Bow and ......... respectively (!), and I figured not many people would want to touch it with a bargepole. I was semi-right). She was well mad because Isabel 'yoh yoh' Rivers ('yoh, yoh' is how she shows assent) accused her of lying about her word count, refused to take into account that she got evicted shortly before having to write this essay and therefore could only come in once to get whatever books were left (Kent to east London is THREE HOURS!), and gave her 54.
I have no idea what to say to Katy, because I.R seems to love me, even though I was mostly just b.s-ing all the way and paraphrasing her thoughts back at her... or so I thought. Either way I have a solid First for this module, since I got 70 in the other essay. Whoa, baby. Poor Katy, I don't get why I.R disliked her so much. She couldn't even get her name right for about 5 weeks or something.
Anyway, now I shall come full circle by explaining why I am tired, and then leave because of it. I stayed up till midnight for some absurd reason last night, couldn't sleep, woke up about 5 times and got woken up to say goodbye to my parents who I think left at 7 (cue me mumble-yelling to my mum in a sleep-fogged voice: "Muh... muh. Muh! Bread and Pro-activ!" Don't even ask). I stumbled downstairs in my teddy-bear pyjamas, hugged goodbye to them (or rather let them hug me, I was still undergoing pre-wake-up rigor mortis) and mistily registered that I had to turn on the dishwasher and put a washing load in and that dinner was taken care of. Beautiful. I woke up at 9, and I have been out since. Time, I think, to take a nap and speed on (I hope) with PL book I!
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Milton, Kate... and Thomas N-
Since I have not posted on here for a high old time, I figured I would today. I have un petit peu de temps to breathe, since I have pretty much given up on being super-diligent in French. Quoi faire? If I can't get the critical article on Inch'Allah Dimanche (excellent film, by the way) done, or Thursday's homework, (which looks set to be about fashion. Fuck off) then OH WELL. I have so much to do anyway. I will rant on this topic as I am now too lazy and vague to have the Life Discussion I had planned.
D'accord, well. I have to read the first book (or is the first two?!) of Paradise Lost for next Monday, plus a pack of secondary reading. Yes, that's right... 'a pack.' Moan, whimper, mumble, etc. Now, I have read Paradise Lost already (hallelujah! Hallelujah!), as anyone unfortunate enough to know me in real life knows. It was a near-deathly experience which took so long, I can't actually remember how long. I fell asleep about 20 times through though, which BODES ILL.
Ironic thus that the second book I have to read (for Tuesday!) is called The Awakening. Kate Chopin, breast-exposing woman on the front cover (no... not Janet Jackson... though you can bet those SuperBowl spectators - and Justin - sure came to their senses pretty fast). Apparently, we'll like it. We'd better, is all I can say! Still, it is shorter than The Bostonians, which wasn't actually too bad, so there is hope for me.
In between this delightful reading fun comes the shock of actually having to THINK FOR MYSELF, otherwise known as my radio project with Thomas N-. Let me take you on a little tour of Tom. He is gangling (tall-ish, incredibly skinny), very intelligent and unbearably formal. I like him, but sometimes I am caught in the desire to terrify the hell out of him by rubbing his head very very slowly. Why, you ask? Well...
The formality can be a bit much for sure. I have times where I feel like sticking my hands in my back pockets and going "Well gee Tom, why don't you lighten up a bit?" like some 1950s American-schoolkid-gone-Enid-Blyton. Tom is lovely, but he tends to be impatient - something that doesn't come across at first, because he has a stammer (I think). Thus, he takes ages to say something. Cruel people in our class (Therese, Nesh) smother laughter when he speaks up. To be honest though, I think it is simply because, like me, his brain often moves faster than his mind. In his case, MUCH faster. I do like him a lot, but sometimes I just feel like going 'Tom, I know you're very smart and etc., but please shut up a second and let me talk, and while you're listening, formulate a bit so you won't struggle to express your ideas.' He also tends to interrupt / talk over you sometimes. I'm certain it's one of those things people have constantly forgiven him (because he is sweet), thus he doesn't realise he's doing it. Did I also mention that the boy is so goddamn diligent, he makes me look like some Courtney Love-style layabout? It verges on the bureaucratic. Bad girl, you will not - no, you will not pull his ears! Aha, um yes, well, I need a bit more patience too.
But ja, this radio project basically means we have to actually prepare a script, interview some specialists, give the whole thing a proper analytical backbone (it has to make some kind of clear argument) - AND THEN RECORD IT ALL IN NINE MINUTES!
I tell you, nine minutes? I know that dear old Nicole is a bit nuts (apparently her husband was in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956...), but this takes the biscuit. Personally, I am all in favour of our being replaced by those chipmunks that can be heard when a tape malfunctions / is played speeded-up.
D'accord, well. I have to read the first book (or is the first two?!) of Paradise Lost for next Monday, plus a pack of secondary reading. Yes, that's right... 'a pack.' Moan, whimper, mumble, etc. Now, I have read Paradise Lost already (hallelujah! Hallelujah!), as anyone unfortunate enough to know me in real life knows. It was a near-deathly experience which took so long, I can't actually remember how long. I fell asleep about 20 times through though, which BODES ILL.
Ironic thus that the second book I have to read (for Tuesday!) is called The Awakening. Kate Chopin, breast-exposing woman on the front cover (no... not Janet Jackson... though you can bet those SuperBowl spectators - and Justin - sure came to their senses pretty fast). Apparently, we'll like it. We'd better, is all I can say! Still, it is shorter than The Bostonians, which wasn't actually too bad, so there is hope for me.
In between this delightful reading fun comes the shock of actually having to THINK FOR MYSELF, otherwise known as my radio project with Thomas N-. Let me take you on a little tour of Tom. He is gangling (tall-ish, incredibly skinny), very intelligent and unbearably formal. I like him, but sometimes I am caught in the desire to terrify the hell out of him by rubbing his head very very slowly. Why, you ask? Well...
The formality can be a bit much for sure. I have times where I feel like sticking my hands in my back pockets and going "Well gee Tom, why don't you lighten up a bit?" like some 1950s American-schoolkid-gone-Enid-Blyton. Tom is lovely, but he tends to be impatient - something that doesn't come across at first, because he has a stammer (I think). Thus, he takes ages to say something. Cruel people in our class (Therese, Nesh) smother laughter when he speaks up. To be honest though, I think it is simply because, like me, his brain often moves faster than his mind. In his case, MUCH faster. I do like him a lot, but sometimes I just feel like going 'Tom, I know you're very smart and etc., but please shut up a second and let me talk, and while you're listening, formulate a bit so you won't struggle to express your ideas.' He also tends to interrupt / talk over you sometimes. I'm certain it's one of those things people have constantly forgiven him (because he is sweet), thus he doesn't realise he's doing it. Did I also mention that the boy is so goddamn diligent, he makes me look like some Courtney Love-style layabout? It verges on the bureaucratic. Bad girl, you will not - no, you will not pull his ears! Aha, um yes, well, I need a bit more patience too.
But ja, this radio project basically means we have to actually prepare a script, interview some specialists, give the whole thing a proper analytical backbone (it has to make some kind of clear argument) - AND THEN RECORD IT ALL IN NINE MINUTES!
I tell you, nine minutes? I know that dear old Nicole is a bit nuts (apparently her husband was in the Hungarian Revolution of 1956...), but this takes the biscuit. Personally, I am all in favour of our being replaced by those chipmunks that can be heard when a tape malfunctions / is played speeded-up.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Attempt
I am writing this to try and express myself, because that’s what I need to do more, apparently.
I feel like I’ve become slightly more provocative. I don’t feel like humouring people’s feelings. I don’t care about them. Being all alone while other people in my French / Modern Languages classes are all chummy together still hits me, but I feel even less like talking to them. I hate them for the effort they would exact from me. People are fucking stupid, dull, hypocritical, selfish morons. I am not sacrificing anything for anyone. I wish I could die. I do not want to have any links to anyone. People are such useless, inconstant things. Everyone has to go and live their own fucking life – well, go on. The world does not have time for the likes of me; I know that. But who cares? It’s just as Cee-lo says in the song of the same name – who cares? I’d like to melt a bit and feel all like a bit of attention from my boyfriend and/or my cousin would make a difference. Maybe it would. The thought of it makes me feel sick. I don’t feel able to relate to my boyfriend at the moment. The thought of him confuses me too much. Any kind of sexual desire (HA!) usually lasts about 2 minutes – literally. No fire in these loins! Not even a spark. He irritates the hell out of me, to be honest. My bad mood will infect him, and besides, he’s got his own life and problems (fucked-up finger to worry about). I feel like cutting myself off from him completely – let him continue to live his separate life. I don’t see how the gulf between us can be negotiated. I am a totally different person to the one he fell for.
My family – let’s not even go there. Living torture is the best way I will describe it. Being a female is only another disadvantage. It makes me feel cold and really sick. I cannot be anyone’s mother and I don’t want to be anyone’s wife or mother-in-law. I hate the thought of sacrificing myself for others. Fuck you, if you’re so bothered about what to eat, go to a fucking restaurant. Get take-away. Hire a maid. Don’t ask me, I’d rather die. I wish it would just happen already. I wish I could deaden my mind and die peacefully to all the things that trouble me. If I live, I will become my sister, always stressing and whining about everything with cessation. If I die, I might get some peace. I wish I cared enough to take an overdose. I kind of wish someone would just murder me already. That’d at least be an interesting way to go.
I can just imagine people’s eyebrows raising, thinking “Oh, how selfish.” Oh, how fucking selfish indeed. Go fuck yourselves. What amazing merits have people shown me, that I should cling to them? Why should I trail round after them, in constant need of reassurance, while they try and bat me off to live their own lives? I'm bored of being a reliable coper. 'You'll get through. You'll get through.' FUCK YOU, NO, I WON'T! What do you say to THAT, eh?
I hate them. I hate them all. I hate you all. Humankind is a stupid, self-contradictory mess which will always damn itself when it looks like there might be hope. We don’t need a God to blame for the mistakes we make. Fucking morons. To Hell with us all.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Death Is Certain - Royce Da 5'9
ROYCE DA 5'9" LYRICS
"Something's Wrong With Him"
(feat. Carlos "6 July" Broady)
[Royce Da 5'9" + (6 July)]
Uhh, yeah, my conference calls with 'Los and Kino
consists of - (Nigga tone it down, there's way too much killin)
Of course I ignore 'em, a poor man talk
I don't give a fuck if I throw my poor fans off
Pathetic war done entered my brain and permanently changed me
Now I'm angry so FUCK a metaphor
FUCK hip-hop, hip-hop sucks!
You got, niggaz on top swingin from 2Pac's NUTS!
It's like, I could go in the lab
and try to write somethin that's nice or bright but I will be holdin back
My scripture's in the dark
Deep-rooted soldier inside my soul, uncontrollable temper like "The Hulk's"
My wife don't like my album, it's way too dark for women
She say it sound like I hold grudges
She rather listen to Joe Budden's, no disrespect aight?
But FUCK a party now and everybody like
[Chorus: Royce + (6 July)]
(What's wrong witchu nigga? Every song you killin)
(Every rhyme you spit is violently put)
Lethal, BUT - I have no problem
with puttin this gun down and beatin yo' ass up
I was taught rhyme from the heart, they will feel you
I like the dark, you cut on them lights, I will kill you
(Something's wrong with him)
[Royce Da 5'9" + (6 July)]
(Just like his pops
He don't give a fuck if you like him or not
He's a major problem) I will slap yo' ass in church
And apologize to Jesus later, punk!
Why am I hot and you not, and why is you rich?
And why I ain't got SHIT in my pocket but lint?
This ain't rap no mo', this not a flow
This is beef, there's a couple street niggaz that got to go (bloaw!)
My name is Nickel (haha) I'm from the suburbs (yeah!)
It's only a ten-minute drive to come and get you (yeah)
TIRED of you hoes
I will slap snot side-ways outta ya nose, PARTNAH! (partnah!)
I know we got drama
But I will still show up at your funeral and hug yo' ugly-ass momma
Everybody wanna know why the flow is so bad
(Why is you so mad?) Everybody askin
[Chorus]
[Royce Da 5'9"]
I'm a natural since - I wrote "Black Girl"
I hope that you don't think
that I won't smack yo' bitch
Cause I will clap her if she happen to be witchu, when I kill you
You can get ideas, nobody compares you thugs
I will put out the bub on top of yo' head
This .22 rifle, be shootin them bouncin bullets
The enter into your head and exit out yo' foot
Ride off as soon as my clip turns, you click and
[click click, BOOM] them choppers is lookin for eyeballs (yeah)
You could bring yo' roughest toughest thug
that's jealous just tell him to touch me, I will fuck him up!
I will knock his ass OUT
And if I can't beat him I will grab my heater and POP his ass!
FUCK yo' life, stripes I will shock yo' hood
And I ain't never dyin, knock on wood - whattup 'Los?
[Chorus]
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Goddamn Moods
I was feeling all horny until today, but then I got a text from S--- at 4.08 saying 'Skype in 20 minutes?' - which I MISSED completely and only saw about 38 minutes ago.
You shouldn't beat yourself up about stuff I know, but the evil irony of it has just trashed my mood completely. I've really started to miss him in the past couple of days - it's set in really badly. I had been HOPING we could talk. And then, I missed my chance because my phone stayed upstairs in my bag all day! On top of that, I got soaked good and proper today around the lunch hour(s). My hair, WHICH I WASHED YESTERDAY, got drenched. The stuff in my bag (a present from him - cue more nostalgia) was barely protected. Which is why my phone ended up staying in there all evening... >_< It all comes full circle! Oh well, Bitch is hassling me to get off. Better run...
You shouldn't beat yourself up about stuff I know, but the evil irony of it has just trashed my mood completely. I've really started to miss him in the past couple of days - it's set in really badly. I had been HOPING we could talk. And then, I missed my chance because my phone stayed upstairs in my bag all day! On top of that, I got soaked good and proper today around the lunch hour(s). My hair, WHICH I WASHED YESTERDAY, got drenched. The stuff in my bag (a present from him - cue more nostalgia) was barely protected. Which is why my phone ended up staying in there all evening... >_< It all comes full circle! Oh well, Bitch is hassling me to get off. Better run...
Sunday, September 17, 2006
A Much-Needed Post
There are times in your life which are, for want of a better word, utterly BLAARGH. The feckless senselessness of that word sums it up - a mad mix of fear, frustration and disbelief. Otherwise known (by me, at least) as 'grey areas,' these are the kind of moments which we should welcome for humanity as a whole, because they help further our advancement by pressing us to think deeper about things. On an individual scale however, they can just feel a bit unfair. Yes, change has to come, but it has a nasty habit of coming all at once so that you suddenly feel as if you're riding The Twister with a desperately-mooing cow behind, looking up your knickers.
Wow, that was almost deep! I have been leafing through our astrology books in yonder C------- while attempting to avoid doing the minimum amount of book-shelving, and apparently the period 2000-4000 is the age of Aquarius, which means we can expect lots of pioneering breakthroughs in the scientific fields, and face up to totally new ways of thinking about things. Or something. The main gist of it seemed to be that it's all going to be about newness and change. I also read that apparently at the age of 19, one enters a Scorpio year. The only real thing that stuck there was it saying that Scorpio years are 'make-or-break' after the over-diplomatic / indecisive Libra years (that's a mix of paraphrasing and quoting, don't sue me, I'm not claiming they're my own words!).
Now, you could dismiss this, fairly correctly, as bollocks. Which year of your life isn't make-or-break, in some way? Nonetheless, that got me thinking quite separately that Scorpio or no, this really has been, and will continue to the end to be, one hell of a year. It might not be over yet, but I still need to do my little Cancerian retrospective, because there's so much to examine.
My eldest sister got married. This should be simple, but puh-LEASE, it's an Indian wedding! The months before went into planning and preparing it like loons, plus my family (second-eldest sister especially) reiterating doubts about sending my sister into such a family as my Jeej's is. The wedding day was a tidal wave of emotion, with my calmness unfortunately evaporating when faced with so many self-repressing females. Typically Moonchild, I gauged the hidden mood (without too much effort, I mean, come on, the bride was my sister too!) and expressed it for those who could not - my mum, my second sister, my sister's best friend. Now, we have to hear about the bust-ups with her hubby every now and again, which are usually sudden and explosive; the bitchiness of her mother-in-law who just wants to control her, her stupid sister-in-law, their collective uselessness. It has become a huge, wearying circus, one which never quite seems to settle down, and so, every now and again, my mum goes into a tizzy as to whether she's going to come and stay with us, or try and divorce him, or something. Good God.
My second eldest sister's getting married. Therefore, we've leapt rapidly into the planning stage with lots of aggro - her angsting about how it's going to be after she's married, reinforcing verbally just how reluctant she is to get married, being depressed and cynical... One minute she's getting huffy over the thought of doing everything for his family herself, the next she's saying vehemently, and venomously, that men are utterly useless and thereby showing us wordlessly that she has decided, angrily, to go along with just everything my mum has fed us about married life - 'Nine times out of ten, the woman has to give in.'
Wonderful. I often feel compelled to ask her, 'Why are you marrying him? One minute you're all cute over him, the next you're reeling off all these problems you're going to have to face.' She too, in a more forceful way than my other sister, is just tiring and cacophonous. I smile before her anti-male rants, because I have a guy who is beyond her imagining - he enjoys cooking and he does it incredibly well! However, the unpleasant air eventually gets to you - not only to me, irritatingly sensitive though I am, but also to my mum. Of course my dad and brother don't have a clue, but they have been part of this stereotype my sister dreads, and so it is not something for them to relate to. Thus it seems my mum will spend her future just worrying about the two of them all the time, both for totally different but intrinsically linked reasons. How ironic. She thought she was teaching us how to face the hard ways of life as an Indian woman, but all she transferred was a curse.
Still, I am wise to this, so there is some hope for me, albeit not very much. During my jaded jags, I break down and feel myself bending to this bleak and loveless view of the world. The world certainly becomes more black-and-white. White becomes oblivion and escape through suicide - or becoming a 'gori,' a full white girl, being disowned by my family and severing all ties with my culture. People can call me a coconut as much as they want, but I don't fucking care, because at least I'm not a hypocrite. I know more than them, and I can see what is going wrong, what is at the root of our fucking problems. I CAN SEE THE FUCKING FUTURE, BITCHES. But they don't want me to able to touch it. Black is be more Asian, join the walking caricatures of .........., fatten Tradition's bloated arse a bit further and forget that I was ever different. But fuck that, I'm a Cancerian. I'm all wrong from the start. I choose colour, I choose the humanitarian approach, I choose cautious optimism and determination. I'd rather be Brikh, British and agnostic / Sikh, not Brindian, pretending to be a Sikh and hypocritical.
I realise I have to thank Mr. Gettings for this in a lot of ways. How he came to be so goddamn perceptive, I do not know. Maybe he isn't, and maybe he's just bold. But, when he proposed that essay title to me, 'Sikhs are natural iconoclasts and freedom fighters. Discuss,' he GAVE ME A CLUE. I couldn't see all the little connections then that I can now. When I looked back on it, I began to wonder how he could have been so smart. I sent him 'Indian Woman,' my angry poem, and he gave me this essay. There was a link there, and it has become the basis of my ideas and birthed something totally new from my head, the way Athene came from Zeus.
The other uncertainty comes from this being the first time that my boyfriend and I have spent so much time apart from one another. It has been bad in the respect that it has brought all my insecurities to the fore. I have a tendency to feel that my problems are unimportant, that I shouldn't trust anyone with them, that I can only rely on myself... This all comes from the 'typically Indian' mindset doled out to me courtesy of my family. Obviously this caused problems with S---, because he wanted me to talk to him and open up. I, however, felt that he was off having a good time, so I didn't need him, and didn't want him to see that I was unhappy. It was like competition - 'who's coping the best?' Ludicrous, but being away from him, and missing his influence made me regress emotionally. Thank God we got over it. It led to us having one of the worst fights we've had in a long time. I've been making him cry too much, and I feel terrible.
Now that that has finished, he tells me about a girl called Emma. He met her on an Oxford open day, they talk from time to time and get on well enough. She broke up with her boyfriend and gave him her number and asked him to call her, etc. etc. I'm not particularly worried, even though he feels worried that she might fancy him. I say that maybe she doesn't have many good guy mates, and that's why she asked you to call her. We Skyped very briefly today, and he said he was still worried about it. I said she was probably too cut up over the split to think of fancying him, and he agreed, but still sounded unsure. So I asked him why he thought she might like him. And he said, she's one of those people, you know, who you don't talk to much, but you still get on really well with whenever you do? A-ha, I thought. I wasn't upset or afraid, or anything. I could see what was going on, it was what had happened to me many times before when I feared I liked A--- or something like that. I warned him my thoughts were 'horrible,' and suggested that perhaps a tiny part of him, which he was reluctant to acknowledge, found her attractive, hence the angsting. This left him even more uncertain, which left me quite sure that it was probably the case.
So how should I feel about this? I'm not necessarily right, but I have a gut instinct for these things and it is zoning right on in. I thought, with a certain grim amusement, that it could only be karam, completing its cycle. I throw up my hands and accept it; I deserve to feel even slightly threatened. However, I don't. This is maybe exactly what I needed, because I have absolute faith in him, more than he may even have in himself, just as he said to me a month or so ago when I feared I would be attracted to A---. Emma is a blessing in disguise, because she may have removed some of my biggest demons. He is not going to cheat, he is not going to leave me. This is a way for him to realise how intensely beautiful he is, so much so that other people besides me can see it. I am glad because I love him. So, so much. If I'm wrong, how Attic-tragic it will be. But I trust, and I believe. With all the pre- and post-nuptial madness around me, I think the universe owes me one.
Wow, that was almost deep! I have been leafing through our astrology books in yonder C------- while attempting to avoid doing the minimum amount of book-shelving, and apparently the period 2000-4000 is the age of Aquarius, which means we can expect lots of pioneering breakthroughs in the scientific fields, and face up to totally new ways of thinking about things. Or something. The main gist of it seemed to be that it's all going to be about newness and change. I also read that apparently at the age of 19, one enters a Scorpio year. The only real thing that stuck there was it saying that Scorpio years are 'make-or-break' after the over-diplomatic / indecisive Libra years (that's a mix of paraphrasing and quoting, don't sue me, I'm not claiming they're my own words!).
Now, you could dismiss this, fairly correctly, as bollocks. Which year of your life isn't make-or-break, in some way? Nonetheless, that got me thinking quite separately that Scorpio or no, this really has been, and will continue to the end to be, one hell of a year. It might not be over yet, but I still need to do my little Cancerian retrospective, because there's so much to examine.
My eldest sister got married. This should be simple, but puh-LEASE, it's an Indian wedding! The months before went into planning and preparing it like loons, plus my family (second-eldest sister especially) reiterating doubts about sending my sister into such a family as my Jeej's is. The wedding day was a tidal wave of emotion, with my calmness unfortunately evaporating when faced with so many self-repressing females. Typically Moonchild, I gauged the hidden mood (without too much effort, I mean, come on, the bride was my sister too!) and expressed it for those who could not - my mum, my second sister, my sister's best friend. Now, we have to hear about the bust-ups with her hubby every now and again, which are usually sudden and explosive; the bitchiness of her mother-in-law who just wants to control her, her stupid sister-in-law, their collective uselessness. It has become a huge, wearying circus, one which never quite seems to settle down, and so, every now and again, my mum goes into a tizzy as to whether she's going to come and stay with us, or try and divorce him, or something. Good God.
My second eldest sister's getting married. Therefore, we've leapt rapidly into the planning stage with lots of aggro - her angsting about how it's going to be after she's married, reinforcing verbally just how reluctant she is to get married, being depressed and cynical... One minute she's getting huffy over the thought of doing everything for his family herself, the next she's saying vehemently, and venomously, that men are utterly useless and thereby showing us wordlessly that she has decided, angrily, to go along with just everything my mum has fed us about married life - 'Nine times out of ten, the woman has to give in.'
Wonderful. I often feel compelled to ask her, 'Why are you marrying him? One minute you're all cute over him, the next you're reeling off all these problems you're going to have to face.' She too, in a more forceful way than my other sister, is just tiring and cacophonous. I smile before her anti-male rants, because I have a guy who is beyond her imagining - he enjoys cooking and he does it incredibly well! However, the unpleasant air eventually gets to you - not only to me, irritatingly sensitive though I am, but also to my mum. Of course my dad and brother don't have a clue, but they have been part of this stereotype my sister dreads, and so it is not something for them to relate to. Thus it seems my mum will spend her future just worrying about the two of them all the time, both for totally different but intrinsically linked reasons. How ironic. She thought she was teaching us how to face the hard ways of life as an Indian woman, but all she transferred was a curse.
Still, I am wise to this, so there is some hope for me, albeit not very much. During my jaded jags, I break down and feel myself bending to this bleak and loveless view of the world. The world certainly becomes more black-and-white. White becomes oblivion and escape through suicide - or becoming a 'gori,' a full white girl, being disowned by my family and severing all ties with my culture. People can call me a coconut as much as they want, but I don't fucking care, because at least I'm not a hypocrite. I know more than them, and I can see what is going wrong, what is at the root of our fucking problems. I CAN SEE THE FUCKING FUTURE, BITCHES. But they don't want me to able to touch it. Black is be more Asian, join the walking caricatures of .........., fatten Tradition's bloated arse a bit further and forget that I was ever different. But fuck that, I'm a Cancerian. I'm all wrong from the start. I choose colour, I choose the humanitarian approach, I choose cautious optimism and determination. I'd rather be Brikh, British and agnostic / Sikh, not Brindian, pretending to be a Sikh and hypocritical.
I realise I have to thank Mr. Gettings for this in a lot of ways. How he came to be so goddamn perceptive, I do not know. Maybe he isn't, and maybe he's just bold. But, when he proposed that essay title to me, 'Sikhs are natural iconoclasts and freedom fighters. Discuss,' he GAVE ME A CLUE. I couldn't see all the little connections then that I can now. When I looked back on it, I began to wonder how he could have been so smart. I sent him 'Indian Woman,' my angry poem, and he gave me this essay. There was a link there, and it has become the basis of my ideas and birthed something totally new from my head, the way Athene came from Zeus.
The other uncertainty comes from this being the first time that my boyfriend and I have spent so much time apart from one another. It has been bad in the respect that it has brought all my insecurities to the fore. I have a tendency to feel that my problems are unimportant, that I shouldn't trust anyone with them, that I can only rely on myself... This all comes from the 'typically Indian' mindset doled out to me courtesy of my family. Obviously this caused problems with S---, because he wanted me to talk to him and open up. I, however, felt that he was off having a good time, so I didn't need him, and didn't want him to see that I was unhappy. It was like competition - 'who's coping the best?' Ludicrous, but being away from him, and missing his influence made me regress emotionally. Thank God we got over it. It led to us having one of the worst fights we've had in a long time. I've been making him cry too much, and I feel terrible.
Now that that has finished, he tells me about a girl called Emma. He met her on an Oxford open day, they talk from time to time and get on well enough. She broke up with her boyfriend and gave him her number and asked him to call her, etc. etc. I'm not particularly worried, even though he feels worried that she might fancy him. I say that maybe she doesn't have many good guy mates, and that's why she asked you to call her. We Skyped very briefly today, and he said he was still worried about it. I said she was probably too cut up over the split to think of fancying him, and he agreed, but still sounded unsure. So I asked him why he thought she might like him. And he said, she's one of those people, you know, who you don't talk to much, but you still get on really well with whenever you do? A-ha, I thought. I wasn't upset or afraid, or anything. I could see what was going on, it was what had happened to me many times before when I feared I liked A--- or something like that. I warned him my thoughts were 'horrible,' and suggested that perhaps a tiny part of him, which he was reluctant to acknowledge, found her attractive, hence the angsting. This left him even more uncertain, which left me quite sure that it was probably the case.
So how should I feel about this? I'm not necessarily right, but I have a gut instinct for these things and it is zoning right on in. I thought, with a certain grim amusement, that it could only be karam, completing its cycle. I throw up my hands and accept it; I deserve to feel even slightly threatened. However, I don't. This is maybe exactly what I needed, because I have absolute faith in him, more than he may even have in himself, just as he said to me a month or so ago when I feared I would be attracted to A---. Emma is a blessing in disguise, because she may have removed some of my biggest demons. He is not going to cheat, he is not going to leave me. This is a way for him to realise how intensely beautiful he is, so much so that other people besides me can see it. I am glad because I love him. So, so much. If I'm wrong, how Attic-tragic it will be. But I trust, and I believe. With all the pre- and post-nuptial madness around me, I think the universe owes me one.
Monday, September 11, 2006
She Be Sicknin'!
ARRRRR, yes, I be! It's not actually Talk Like A Pirate Day yet (that's September 19th - thank yous go out to David Langdon for that rather random fact), but I'm getting in the mood early. I have decided to be a pig(-let? -ling?) and just wallow in my own disgustingness. I mean, have you ever actually LOOKED at the faces of those pink mar-maals (I had an attack of the ol' Toffee-Nose there...) and seen how happy they are to be rollin' in the mud? Well, I have! And so, I think that right now I really deserve to just be all smurky (smug and smirky) about how happy I am. Wait a minute - that makes no sense! Usually people are smug because they're doing the whole 'I'm so happy... so MUCH happier than you,' thing. I, however, am more along the lines of 'I'm happy... very happy... it's nice not to fight... yay.' LOL.
Alright, the happ'ness (the happ'nin hap'ness, bro :-P) is now under threat because my neck and shoulders kind of ache and I am so FARKIN' tired. But I will soldier on regardless! Sitting up a bit more appears to be helping. I must resist the urge to just lay my FACE on the keyboard and have a little long rest. Thank God I've decided not to take any extra days next week - hopefully that way I might have some chance of restoring my sleeping pattern before uni starts again on the 26th. I really must start sleeping earlier though, because I'm going to have to get up painful early. The latest I'll be able to get up will be 7. Thank God it's only 1 semester, and thank God it'll be winter. I can bathe the night before and sleep in peace without having to worry about sweating and smelling. Although, now that I think about it, there's a distinct possibility that some of my French courses might begin really early...
*few minutes later* Oh, thank God, they all are 11-1 from what I can see so far. I think the rest of my English courses are fine too. Just the Epic-Milton-Pope one... oh well, someone's going to take over from me soon, (I'm at work...) so I better be gone. I'll rapidly and garbled-ly detail why I have been and am fairly happy:
I love my boyfriend so much, he is so great and wonderful and gorgeous, that all I can do is go mad thinking about how he feels and how I won't actually get to touch him for close to another month and then about 4-5 months after that. I accept wholeheartedly that I am the source of most of our problems. I'm too bloody sensitive. But I'm working on it! And he... he is GREAT. So there's hope for us yet. Oooh, he is so sweet. I want to eat him. :-P
Thought I would throw that in there for a bit of excitement. Nothing like a bit of cannibalism to stir up the cliché-sick masses! Hi ho, hi ho, and off to shelve I go... :-(
Alright, the happ'ness (the happ'nin hap'ness, bro :-P) is now under threat because my neck and shoulders kind of ache and I am so FARKIN' tired. But I will soldier on regardless! Sitting up a bit more appears to be helping. I must resist the urge to just lay my FACE on the keyboard and have a little long rest. Thank God I've decided not to take any extra days next week - hopefully that way I might have some chance of restoring my sleeping pattern before uni starts again on the 26th. I really must start sleeping earlier though, because I'm going to have to get up painful early. The latest I'll be able to get up will be 7. Thank God it's only 1 semester, and thank God it'll be winter. I can bathe the night before and sleep in peace without having to worry about sweating and smelling. Although, now that I think about it, there's a distinct possibility that some of my French courses might begin really early...
*few minutes later* Oh, thank God, they all are 11-1 from what I can see so far. I think the rest of my English courses are fine too. Just the Epic-Milton-Pope one... oh well, someone's going to take over from me soon, (I'm at work...) so I better be gone. I'll rapidly and garbled-ly detail why I have been and am fairly happy:
I love my boyfriend so much, he is so great and wonderful and gorgeous, that all I can do is go mad thinking about how he feels and how I won't actually get to touch him for close to another month and then about 4-5 months after that. I accept wholeheartedly that I am the source of most of our problems. I'm too bloody sensitive. But I'm working on it! And he... he is GREAT. So there's hope for us yet. Oooh, he is so sweet. I want to eat him. :-P
Thought I would throw that in there for a bit of excitement. Nothing like a bit of cannibalism to stir up the cliché-sick masses! Hi ho, hi ho, and off to shelve I go... :-(
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Stuck To It!
(Note: I posted this yesterday, but due to some weirdness, I had to delete and re-post it today).
Yes, I am actually here as I said I would be! Don't think it's just you that's thrilled with my attendance - I'd love to be less of a flake, less forgetful and overly emotional, but now especially I can't help it (lack of sleep... TOM... as mentioned yesterday).
I am in a very strange place at the moment. I'll start from the beginning: on the 28th of August (nearly a fortnight ago), S------- headed off to Groningen in Holland for 6 months. I knew that I was going to find it hard to cope without him, whether it came sooner or later. So, to try and 'prep' myself, I worked myself up a bit the night before after doing the washing-up (kitchen TABLE drama, HAHA) by listening to weepies. Ambulance by TV On The Radio and Prototype by André 3000 tend to do the biz when I need them to. I cried, I purged, I was trying to remove the irritation before it happened.
Now, that sums it up, really - I was obviously going to have to suffer anyway. Last week, I got my dues. Everything went wrong - stress over uni work that I still haven't done, a strong sense of isolation, bodily woes, lack of sleep, fights with my family - it didn't take much to make me cry. S------ kept saying he would talk to me. I was feeling suicidal because it didn't seem like things were going to get better anytime soon. The lack of sleep was chronic - it made everything much, much worse and magnified my emotions by, like, 50. Obviously, because he was busy going out with his friends and settling in and whatever, he let me down 3 times in a row. So I got to hating him. The mere mention or thought of his name could make my throat lock, then lead to me bursting out crying before feeling intensely nauseous. It made me rather depressed to realise that I should expect him to break, rather than keep, his promises. I remember saying (probably to my cousin) that my heart was broken. And it was, because I felt that he’d lied to me.
Thus, I sent the following email to him, titled ‘Enough’:
‘I don't want to talk to you on Skype. I'm not going to make any arrangements or promises, and I don't expect you to either. Stop telling me you'll talk to me this day or that evening, because you can't stick to it.’
… and changed my MSN name to “Love? What the fuck is that shit? DON’T DO IT, KIDS!” Upon taking note of these two things, he rang me while I was in bed. I was obviously rather disgruntled with him. He asked what he’d done wrong, and then I started crying and told him. He felt incredibly guilty and then cried a bit too. We fixed it, though.
Today, however, I made him cry by being a bit cold, indifferent and ambivalent. I couldn’t help it, though - I felt like he was too busy to email or text me, when it turned out he hadn’t been doing ANYTHING at all. Obviously that pissed me off, and what with TOM being around, I was getting that horrible ambivalence towards him, where I just don’t feel able to relate and get over myself. We fixed it – again. It’s not good though, and this blog post will help remind me of how I need to be more mature and selfless. Fuck the rest of the world – ultimately it’s only him that matters, I never loved anyone else as much and as eagerly. DEFFOS not my family. Speaking of that, The Boy is hassling me, so time to go and ensure this blog remains uninvestigated by him. More self-serving noodle served up soon ;-P.
P.S.: Lily Allen is SO GREAT. She really is. I have totally fallen in love with her album. I think it actually deserves FIVE STARS! However, American thick people (I'm assuming they're American by the way they've managed to somehow miss the fact that she has a London accent) have transcribed her lyrics rather shittily, leading to me having to correct at least 3 of her songs - after all, I had to go by those and they don't even make sense in places! Sample:
'And don't you feel it's all the same,
Some sick game and it's not insincere,'
(from http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lilyallen/everythingsjustwonderful.html
Obviously the lyrics websites all just copy off of each other, so they've ALL got them wrong).
What the fuck?! It's NOT insincere? Why, then, would she be complaining?! I ask you, honestly. It's things like that that just made me think go on my little GeekMission(TM)...
Yes, I am actually here as I said I would be! Don't think it's just you that's thrilled with my attendance - I'd love to be less of a flake, less forgetful and overly emotional, but now especially I can't help it (lack of sleep... TOM... as mentioned yesterday).
I am in a very strange place at the moment. I'll start from the beginning: on the 28th of August (nearly a fortnight ago), S------- headed off to Groningen in Holland for 6 months. I knew that I was going to find it hard to cope without him, whether it came sooner or later. So, to try and 'prep' myself, I worked myself up a bit the night before after doing the washing-up (kitchen TABLE drama, HAHA) by listening to weepies. Ambulance by TV On The Radio and Prototype by André 3000 tend to do the biz when I need them to. I cried, I purged, I was trying to remove the irritation before it happened.
Now, that sums it up, really - I was obviously going to have to suffer anyway. Last week, I got my dues. Everything went wrong - stress over uni work that I still haven't done, a strong sense of isolation, bodily woes, lack of sleep, fights with my family - it didn't take much to make me cry. S------ kept saying he would talk to me. I was feeling suicidal because it didn't seem like things were going to get better anytime soon. The lack of sleep was chronic - it made everything much, much worse and magnified my emotions by, like, 50. Obviously, because he was busy going out with his friends and settling in and whatever, he let me down 3 times in a row. So I got to hating him. The mere mention or thought of his name could make my throat lock, then lead to me bursting out crying before feeling intensely nauseous. It made me rather depressed to realise that I should expect him to break, rather than keep, his promises. I remember saying (probably to my cousin) that my heart was broken. And it was, because I felt that he’d lied to me.
Thus, I sent the following email to him, titled ‘Enough’:
‘I don't want to talk to you on Skype. I'm not going to make any arrangements or promises, and I don't expect you to either. Stop telling me you'll talk to me this day or that evening, because you can't stick to it.’
… and changed my MSN name to “Love? What the fuck is that shit? DON’T DO IT, KIDS!” Upon taking note of these two things, he rang me while I was in bed. I was obviously rather disgruntled with him. He asked what he’d done wrong, and then I started crying and told him. He felt incredibly guilty and then cried a bit too. We fixed it, though.
Today, however, I made him cry by being a bit cold, indifferent and ambivalent. I couldn’t help it, though - I felt like he was too busy to email or text me, when it turned out he hadn’t been doing ANYTHING at all. Obviously that pissed me off, and what with TOM being around, I was getting that horrible ambivalence towards him, where I just don’t feel able to relate and get over myself. We fixed it – again. It’s not good though, and this blog post will help remind me of how I need to be more mature and selfless. Fuck the rest of the world – ultimately it’s only him that matters, I never loved anyone else as much and as eagerly. DEFFOS not my family. Speaking of that, The Boy is hassling me, so time to go and ensure this blog remains uninvestigated by him. More self-serving noodle served up soon ;-P.
P.S.: Lily Allen is SO GREAT. She really is. I have totally fallen in love with her album. I think it actually deserves FIVE STARS! However, American thick people (I'm assuming they're American by the way they've managed to somehow miss the fact that she has a London accent) have transcribed her lyrics rather shittily, leading to me having to correct at least 3 of her songs - after all, I had to go by those and they don't even make sense in places! Sample:
'And don't you feel it's all the same,
Some sick game and it's not insincere,'
(from http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/lilyallen/everythingsjustwonderful.html
Obviously the lyrics websites all just copy off of each other, so they've ALL got them wrong).
What the fuck?! It's NOT insincere? Why, then, would she be complaining?! I ask you, honestly. It's things like that that just made me think go on my little GeekMission(TM)...
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Too Hot, Too Hot
God, I have REALLY got to post on here more often! What with the increased fatigue and isolation, though, it often feels like way too much effort. My brother is currently doing coursework and his UCAS personal statement all the time anyway, which doesn't leave much room (or privacy) for typing up posts, now, does it? I could do what I have done before, and write out blog posts before putting them online. However, this has been roundly unsuccessful because:
a) About three of the five times I forced myself to try writing things down, I ended up getting bored and recording myself speaking my thoughts into my mobile phone instead. This has, ironically, just doubled my workload because now I have to listen to them again (while cringing both inwardly and outwardly at my voice prattling on) and 'transcribe' them into proper blog posts. So clearly, these are never going to see the light of day.
b) One of the five times (the first!), I wrote a bit, realised I was fed up with my increasingly self-aggrandising navel-gazing, and my fountain pen, and left it as a half page of gibble.
c) When I did finally manage to get one down, and actually enjoy the catharsis of scribbling away scathingly (about my siblings, quelle surprise!) , it spread over about 3 pages and I absolutely could not be arsed to type it up.
That's what it comes down to really - I'm just a fookin' lazy-arse. My constant exhaustion-through-lack-of-sleep and fraternal-monopolisation-of-the-PC are making it much worse. But yeah, I'm 'ere now, might as well get a world-class moan in. If anything gets left over, I'll be able to post it tomorrow (woohoo!) because I'm home alone.
1) I'm so, so tired. All the time. Sleep comes randomly and tends to be infrequent.
2) I'm so, so lonely. All the time. Friends' calls come randomly and tend to be infrequent.
3) I'm so, so bloated. All the time. Digestion fluctuates randomly and freedom of pot belly tends to be infrequent.
Just realised the nice little 'abc, 123' thing going on with my bullet points. That's great, I'll summon up The Jackson 5 next time I'm suffering at work due to all or any of the above and can't remember how to strict order things (I'm a librarian, for those of you who are left cold by the jargon. Not a real one though - I don't hand out reservations or papers to people, and I don't have an MA in Information, Something). The lovely rhythm will, however, have to be ruined, because Dewey tends to be rather prolific. Shame, dat. Then - THEN, this has just occurred to me (can ya tell?!) - I can mentally break out into that, er, song by The Go! Team which has the lyric "Two four six eight ten!"sung in a highly excitable manner. This, of course, will make me think nostalgically of kids playing 'jump-rope' (I am not an American) - or skipping, as we call it - and Hey Arnold!, and all my good work will have gone down the pan because I will be off into the heady land of Fatigue-Friendly Procrastination and word association.
Blimey, I surprise even myself. I know late-night is meant to be my inspired time, and these entries often take a turn for the unexpected, but that was (sur)really something. I have been unpleasantly hot and sweaty and prone to feel temperature changes a lot this week, along with the emotional erratica of last week. Somehow I don't think menopause will be that much of a surprise when it comes... Anyway, I appear to have broken the cycle of PMT at last, so hopefully now the excessive tiredness (y'know, feeling like you're going die after lunch at work around 2 in the afternoon) and excessive perspiration (y'know, feeling like you're going to die bathed in your own fluids, or have people not-so-subtly trying to avoid you subtly). My main gripe of this week is I'm just so TIRED. Even when I sleep with time to spare, it never quite seems to be enough, and I always wake up, whether it's because I've nearly fallen off the bed or banged my elbow (been sleeping upside-down recently. Don't ask... I'll explain tomorrow). My eyes feel worn out and periodicity (hah) is making it at least five times worse. Being on the PC as much as I have been hasn't helped either. Since I'm getting really isolated and have no life, I find myself just chatting to Colin and whoever else I feel isn't too much on MSN. It seems to be A Time For Leos - I'm getting on well with him and Saki's little brother. I've realised I don't have to make too much effort with either of them. It's a good feeling. Especially right now.
Well more tomorrow, I feel like falling unwashed and unbrushed into bed. I should've on arrival, really, to set my sleeping pattern - but ack VELL, ACK VELL!
a) About three of the five times I forced myself to try writing things down, I ended up getting bored and recording myself speaking my thoughts into my mobile phone instead. This has, ironically, just doubled my workload because now I have to listen to them again (while cringing both inwardly and outwardly at my voice prattling on) and 'transcribe' them into proper blog posts. So clearly, these are never going to see the light of day.
b) One of the five times (the first!), I wrote a bit, realised I was fed up with my increasingly self-aggrandising navel-gazing, and my fountain pen, and left it as a half page of gibble.
c) When I did finally manage to get one down, and actually enjoy the catharsis of scribbling away scathingly (about my siblings, quelle surprise!) , it spread over about 3 pages and I absolutely could not be arsed to type it up.
That's what it comes down to really - I'm just a fookin' lazy-arse. My constant exhaustion-through-lack-of-sleep and fraternal-monopolisation-of-the-PC are making it much worse. But yeah, I'm 'ere now, might as well get a world-class moan in. If anything gets left over, I'll be able to post it tomorrow (woohoo!) because I'm home alone.
1) I'm so, so tired. All the time. Sleep comes randomly and tends to be infrequent.
2) I'm so, so lonely. All the time. Friends' calls come randomly and tend to be infrequent.
3) I'm so, so bloated. All the time. Digestion fluctuates randomly and freedom of pot belly tends to be infrequent.
Just realised the nice little 'abc, 123' thing going on with my bullet points. That's great, I'll summon up The Jackson 5 next time I'm suffering at work due to all or any of the above and can't remember how to strict order things (I'm a librarian, for those of you who are left cold by the jargon. Not a real one though - I don't hand out reservations or papers to people, and I don't have an MA in Information, Something). The lovely rhythm will, however, have to be ruined, because Dewey tends to be rather prolific. Shame, dat. Then - THEN, this has just occurred to me (can ya tell?!) - I can mentally break out into that, er, song by The Go! Team which has the lyric "Two four six eight ten!"sung in a highly excitable manner. This, of course, will make me think nostalgically of kids playing 'jump-rope' (I am not an American) - or skipping, as we call it - and Hey Arnold!, and all my good work will have gone down the pan because I will be off into the heady land of Fatigue-Friendly Procrastination and word association.
Blimey, I surprise even myself. I know late-night is meant to be my inspired time, and these entries often take a turn for the unexpected, but that was (sur)really something. I have been unpleasantly hot and sweaty and prone to feel temperature changes a lot this week, along with the emotional erratica of last week. Somehow I don't think menopause will be that much of a surprise when it comes... Anyway, I appear to have broken the cycle of PMT at last, so hopefully now the excessive tiredness (y'know, feeling like you're going die after lunch at work around 2 in the afternoon) and excessive perspiration (y'know, feeling like you're going to die bathed in your own fluids, or have people not-so-subtly trying to avoid you subtly). My main gripe of this week is I'm just so TIRED. Even when I sleep with time to spare, it never quite seems to be enough, and I always wake up, whether it's because I've nearly fallen off the bed or banged my elbow (been sleeping upside-down recently. Don't ask... I'll explain tomorrow). My eyes feel worn out and periodicity (hah) is making it at least five times worse. Being on the PC as much as I have been hasn't helped either. Since I'm getting really isolated and have no life, I find myself just chatting to Colin and whoever else I feel isn't too much on MSN. It seems to be A Time For Leos - I'm getting on well with him and Saki's little brother. I've realised I don't have to make too much effort with either of them. It's a good feeling. Especially right now.
Well more tomorrow, I feel like falling unwashed and unbrushed into bed. I should've on arrival, really, to set my sleeping pattern - but ack VELL, ACK VELL!
Monday, August 21, 2006
My Shoegazing Summer
I return! Whether this is a soaring, triumphal, brass-band comeback, or a lone trumpet-parp that sounds more like an apologetic whisper, I don't know. My summer, however, has been HUUUGE. Enormous. There was so much felt and experienced, I was eventually discouraged from posting in every single instance. Let's just say that if it had been a drug trip, it probably would've been the sort that culminates in you either dying, or feeling like you're going to shortly.
The headlines so far, then:
a) I realised my sixth-form form tutor Mr. Gettings was my soulmate. Or rather, I acknowledged it to myself at last. Don't stop reading in horror! I lost contact with him for a while after starting at uni, but I emailed him to tell him my first-year results, and it created a kind of email chain where we emailed each other pretty much every day or so. He's not my soulmate the way S------- is... I'll explain it shortly. He made me stick at writing poetry, rather than just the odd one every year or whatever :-P, and we talked poetry a lot in our emails. Except that now because I'm not a student any more, I think he was able to open up a bit more, and as a result, I got to see some of his poetry. It was good because it stopped me feeling that my melancholy over missing him was mostly just due to my sentimentality: the intense bond was not just in my head. He also challenges me a lot which I enjoy because it turns my ways of thinking on their head - it's incredibly stimulating (lol). Anyway, he sent me this course of emails towards the end describing how he formulates a poem. I couldn't pick up much from the first draft, but I discerned some possible references to me in it. Then, I just thought "Nah." He sent me two more versions, and it took me a while to realise that he was re-drafting and editing the same poem. Finally, I got this email:
'I have struggled with your poem, but having slept on it I have finally given birth to level 3. So here it is, the actual intended poem. (Sort of). I hope it is OK and you've seen the creative process that I've gone through. I really , really won't email out anymore this summer, So , ....., in touch soon. D'
The poem was written for me - about me (obviously). I skimmed over it at work, and got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I read it in the evening and cried my eyes out. It's called Somebody's Child and if anyone ever writes anything half as beautiful about me again, I'll be ridiculously lucky. Even if it wasn't about me, it's still gorgeous. S------- read it and was also silenced by its power. I love my blog and readers, but I don't think I'm going to post it here, just out of respect for him.
2) I am questioning my cultural identity, etc. etc. This is partly Gettings' fault; he sent me this email in response to my sending him an angry piece called Indian Woman:
'Re. the subject of your poem Indian Woman; I think you are a Punjabi, Sikh, intellectual, second/third generation immigrant British woman.
Look on the bright side!
No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.
You are also part of a society and part of a tradition, Kaur.
So you don't like it. Drop out of Sikhdom and wait tables while you go through university; but before you act hastily ask yourself: How will I be to my children? How will I preserve their identity in an environment that is often challenging and maybe hostile? Solidarity with your group gives you some security. Sikhs are natural iconoclasts and freedom fighters! Decide.
PS. Write a coherent well argued essay on the subject IN PROSE. Write a polemic if you like.
x David.'
D'you see why I love him?! D'you see why I don't want to lose contact? He is a constant, much-needed kick up the mental arse (lol). I'm also reading Londonstani, the hyped Gautam Malkani novel that's set where I live! Whoo. This has in turn introduced me to Pickled Politics, a new addition to my links. Go visit, and see what they make of it, and of Nirpal Dhaliwal's review(another Indian author whose novel Tourism was competing with it...): http://www.pickledpolitics.com/archives/422 The comments are also hilarious and really worth reading. S---'s unexpectedly strong reaction to Londonstani really made me want to read it, and now I am wondering what I am. It's much better than all the depressed, isolated navel-gazing that makes me decide exactly what I am, with unsurprisingly self-destructive conclusions. Am I coconut? Am I in the middle? Is it about my real opinion, or what a slavish little part of me (and my family) wants? Do I really want to be 'gori,' or am I seeing the error of my ways?
I think soon I'll probably decide, like S---, that it's all just "things," and I don't give a shit. But wahey! Long live the Positive Shoegazing Revolution. Better than being oblivious (like a typical 'rude' girl or boy... or my brother) or ripping the shit out of yourself (indie types). My love of hip-hop looks like all making sense now...
The headlines so far, then:
a) I realised my sixth-form form tutor Mr. Gettings was my soulmate. Or rather, I acknowledged it to myself at last. Don't stop reading in horror! I lost contact with him for a while after starting at uni, but I emailed him to tell him my first-year results, and it created a kind of email chain where we emailed each other pretty much every day or so. He's not my soulmate the way S------- is... I'll explain it shortly. He made me stick at writing poetry, rather than just the odd one every year or whatever :-P, and we talked poetry a lot in our emails. Except that now because I'm not a student any more, I think he was able to open up a bit more, and as a result, I got to see some of his poetry. It was good because it stopped me feeling that my melancholy over missing him was mostly just due to my sentimentality: the intense bond was not just in my head. He also challenges me a lot which I enjoy because it turns my ways of thinking on their head - it's incredibly stimulating (lol). Anyway, he sent me this course of emails towards the end describing how he formulates a poem. I couldn't pick up much from the first draft, but I discerned some possible references to me in it. Then, I just thought "Nah." He sent me two more versions, and it took me a while to realise that he was re-drafting and editing the same poem. Finally, I got this email:
'I have struggled with your poem, but having slept on it I have finally given birth to level 3. So here it is, the actual intended poem. (Sort of). I hope it is OK and you've seen the creative process that I've gone through. I really , really won't email out anymore this summer, So , ....., in touch soon. D'
The poem was written for me - about me (obviously). I skimmed over it at work, and got a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I read it in the evening and cried my eyes out. It's called Somebody's Child and if anyone ever writes anything half as beautiful about me again, I'll be ridiculously lucky. Even if it wasn't about me, it's still gorgeous. S------- read it and was also silenced by its power. I love my blog and readers, but I don't think I'm going to post it here, just out of respect for him.
2) I am questioning my cultural identity, etc. etc. This is partly Gettings' fault; he sent me this email in response to my sending him an angry piece called Indian Woman:
'Re. the subject of your poem Indian Woman; I think you are a Punjabi, Sikh, intellectual, second/third generation immigrant British woman.
Look on the bright side!
No man is an island, entire of itself
every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were,
as well as if a manor of thy friends or of thine own were
any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind
and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls
it tolls for thee.
You are also part of a society and part of a tradition, Kaur.
So you don't like it. Drop out of Sikhdom and wait tables while you go through university; but before you act hastily ask yourself: How will I be to my children? How will I preserve their identity in an environment that is often challenging and maybe hostile? Solidarity with your group gives you some security. Sikhs are natural iconoclasts and freedom fighters! Decide.
PS. Write a coherent well argued essay on the subject IN PROSE. Write a polemic if you like.
x David.'
D'you see why I love him?! D'you see why I don't want to lose contact? He is a constant, much-needed kick up the mental arse (lol). I'm also reading Londonstani, the hyped Gautam Malkani novel that's set where I live! Whoo. This has in turn introduced me to Pickled Politics, a new addition to my links. Go visit, and see what they make of it, and of Nirpal Dhaliwal's review(another Indian author whose novel Tourism was competing with it...): http://www.pickledpolitics.com/archives/422 The comments are also hilarious and really worth reading. S---'s unexpectedly strong reaction to Londonstani really made me want to read it, and now I am wondering what I am. It's much better than all the depressed, isolated navel-gazing that makes me decide exactly what I am, with unsurprisingly self-destructive conclusions. Am I coconut? Am I in the middle? Is it about my real opinion, or what a slavish little part of me (and my family) wants? Do I really want to be 'gori,' or am I seeing the error of my ways?
I think soon I'll probably decide, like S---, that it's all just "things," and I don't give a shit. But wahey! Long live the Positive Shoegazing Revolution. Better than being oblivious (like a typical 'rude' girl or boy... or my brother) or ripping the shit out of yourself (indie types). My love of hip-hop looks like all making sense now...
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
The Link Edition
Muchness to talk about! A feast of Zidane, music, resentment and secret-sharing follows; how good does that sound? Oh, so very.
Starting from the top, I have finally found the will to listen to new music again! There I was, feeling completely alienated from it, taking Life one or two albums at a time, when a few songs destroyed my ennui. These would be:
- Howling Bells – Low Happening. I personally hold them responsible for starting the wave. http://www.myspace.com/howlingbells Their whole album is actually rather excellent.
- Muse – Supermassive Black Hole. When whoever it is (Matt Bellamy? All of them? One, or all the above, plus machine?) whispers the title near the end, I think of Franz Ferdinand’s Darts of Pleasure. Darts of the pleasing kind, indeed, though is must be said that Mistuh Bellamy is rather too sweaty in the video. Is operatic rock more hair-spray than spray-on, then? http://www.myspace.com/muse
- Christina Aguilera – Ain’t No Other Man. Terrible though it is, the belief that people will swallow anything as long as it’s well-packaged is proven true here. However, it would grievously unjust to give this song no credit. A Jalapeno Popper fo’ sho’, it is gratifyingly, gratuitously gutsy. Her voice, and some inspired lexical choice (‘badass’!) , along with that fabulous, trumpet-rich groove, make ALL the difference. Good God, people have recorded many songs in this vein. Let’s see if one hand suffices for counting the number of them that were as GREAT. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYXU4ebQ2w8
I also enjoyed the video of Toxic by Britterspears. I finally kind of almost saw her sex appeal to guys, though I was disturbed by how puppy-dog her eyes are in it. Toxic is a necessary lifetime viewing experience for us all. It is ludicrous (red-haired Britters) and hilarious (again, red-haired Britters… and pretty much the whole video) – and she actually gets away with black hair! http://www.mtv.com/music/artist/spears_britney/videos.jhtml
That is the link between all these random listenings – I was finally able to relax and just get into it, just ‘rock out’ a bit. All of them are Just A Little Bit Anthemic (I don’t generally do anthems, they tend towards the brainless too often. I may be an enthusiastic pursuer of Music-As-Opposed-To-Religion, but I’m no zealot).
Speaking of zealots, I will probably identify my eldest sister on here as that at some point (Zealot). My other sister (8 years older!) has garnered the selective acronym SHITW (Stupidest (or Shittiest) Ho-bag In The World. Yes I know, the W ruins it). I say selective because
a) I’ll likely forget to use it at times, and
b) Like all werewolves, she does turn sometimes. You can never tell which way it’s going to be – sometimes it’s human! And that can be quite scary.
Anyway, kind of through her, I have fallen to watching Big Cat Week on BBC1. It is immensely pleasing to see how much the presenters love their job, especially Jonathon of the cheetah team (The Cheetah Team?). He has been profiling Toto, a 7-week-old cheetah cub. Now, I hate to admit it, but Toto is really rather gorgeous. Hearts were in collective mouths yesterday as he hid in long grass, a short distance from a prowling baboon, chirping for his mother. That’s right – he chirps! ‘A tiny, birdlike call’ is how an effusive, God-thanking Jonathon described it after his mother found him safe. Watch it, people – it’s worth it! http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/programmes/tv/bcd/
Other things of interest – The Nanny, a sitcom produced by Fran Drescher http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran_Drescher . It is surprisingly funny, feel-good and charming, despite the ‘80s-ness. I am hooked http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Nanny_(television) – and Lily Allen. I’ve been listening to her for at least 2 months now, but her single Smile is apparently going to #1. Or already has. Whatever, I love her. She’s a little chunky, rude, funky and unforgivably cute. WORK IT! http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic
Zinedine Zidane. He’s always been compelling, but even since the announcement of the World Cup finalists – whew. I am delighted at the furore his headbutt has caused, because I banged on and on about how it was odd for him, and how the cause behind it had to be established. As they ‘wrote’ on the Arc de Triomphe in Paris: Zizou, on t’aime! Zidane, we love you! You are softly-spoken and have long eyelashes and random outbursts of temper. Corblimeyphwoar, are those the nascent calls of a perverse sexual attraction I hear? Coming! http://www.mg.co.za/articlePage.aspx?articleid=277278&area=/breaking_news/breaking_news__sport/
The secret is somewhat disappointing now. Or is it…? I bought 2 pairs of earrings for Sophie – don’t remember her getting me owt for my birthday... For some reason, I think I feel this justifies not getting her a card. Confused? You bet I am! My party piece shall be showing her one then both pairs, and asking which she wants, if not both. Oh, what comedy if she chooses neither…! >_< I plan to to hit the party for about an hour, put on a good show, all smiles – maybe even participate in some of that ‘80s karaoke (fucking hell!) – and leave in a blaze of triumph, having used her own tactics against her. HA!
Starting from the top, I have finally found the will to listen to new music again! There I was, feeling completely alienated from it, taking Life one or two albums at a time, when a few songs destroyed my ennui. These would be:
- Howling Bells – Low Happening. I personally hold them responsible for starting the wave. http://www.myspace.com/howlingbells Their whole album is actually rather excellent.
- Muse – Supermassive Black Hole. When whoever it is (Matt Bellamy? All of them? One, or all the above, plus machine?) whispers the title near the end, I think of Franz Ferdinand’s Darts of Pleasure. Darts of the pleasing kind, indeed, though is must be said that Mistuh Bellamy is rather too sweaty in the video. Is operatic rock more hair-spray than spray-on, then? http://www.myspace.com/muse
- Christina Aguilera – Ain’t No Other Man. Terrible though it is, the belief that people will swallow anything as long as it’s well-packaged is proven true here. However, it would grievously unjust to give this song no credit. A Jalapeno Popper fo’ sho’, it is gratifyingly, gratuitously gutsy. Her voice, and some inspired lexical choice (‘badass’!) , along with that fabulous, trumpet-rich groove, make ALL the difference. Good God, people have recorded many songs in this vein. Let’s see if one hand suffices for counting the number of them that were as GREAT. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eYXU4ebQ2w8
I also enjoyed the video of Toxic by Britterspears. I finally kind of almost saw her sex appeal to guys, though I was disturbed by how puppy-dog her eyes are in it. Toxic is a necessary lifetime viewing experience for us all. It is ludicrous (red-haired Britters) and hilarious (again, red-haired Britters… and pretty much the whole video) – and she actually gets away with black hair! http://www.mtv.com/music/artist/spears_britney/videos.jhtml
That is the link between all these random listenings – I was finally able to relax and just get into it, just ‘rock out’ a bit. All of them are Just A Little Bit Anthemic (I don’t generally do anthems, they tend towards the brainless too often. I may be an enthusiastic pursuer of Music-As-Opposed-To-Religion, but I’m no zealot).
Speaking of zealots, I will probably identify my eldest sister on here as that at some point (Zealot). My other sister (8 years older!) has garnered the selective acronym SHITW (Stupidest (or Shittiest) Ho-bag In The World. Yes I know, the W ruins it). I say selective because
a) I’ll likely forget to use it at times, and
b) Like all werewolves, she does turn sometimes. You can never tell which way it’s going to be – sometimes it’s human! And that can be quite scary.
Anyway, kind of through her, I have fallen to watching Big Cat Week on BBC1. It is immensely pleasing to see how much the presenters love their job, especially Jonathon of the cheetah team (The Cheetah Team?). He has been profiling Toto, a 7-week-old cheetah cub. Now, I hate to admit it, but Toto is really rather gorgeous. Hearts were in collective mouths yesterday as he hid in long grass, a short distance from a prowling baboon, chirping for his mother. That’s right – he chirps! ‘A tiny, birdlike call’ is how an effusive, God-thanking Jonathon described it after his mother found him safe. Watch it, people – it’s worth it! http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/programmes/tv/bcd/
Other things of interest – The Nanny, a sitcom produced by Fran Drescher http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fran_Drescher . It is surprisingly funny, feel-good and charming, despite the ‘80s-ness. I am hooked http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Nanny_(television) – and Lily Allen. I’ve been listening to her for at least 2 months now, but her single Smile is apparently going to #1. Or already has. Whatever, I love her. She’s a little chunky, rude, funky and unforgivably cute. WORK IT! http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic
Zinedine Zidane. He’s always been compelling, but even since the announcement of the World Cup finalists – whew. I am delighted at the furore his headbutt has caused, because I banged on and on about how it was odd for him, and how the cause behind it had to be established. As they ‘wrote’ on the Arc de Triomphe in Paris: Zizou, on t’aime! Zidane, we love you! You are softly-spoken and have long eyelashes and random outbursts of temper. Corblimeyphwoar, are those the nascent calls of a perverse sexual attraction I hear? Coming! http://www.mg.co.za/articlePage.aspx?articleid=277278&area=/breaking_news/breaking_news__sport/
The secret is somewhat disappointing now. Or is it…? I bought 2 pairs of earrings for Sophie – don’t remember her getting me owt for my birthday... For some reason, I think I feel this justifies not getting her a card. Confused? You bet I am! My party piece shall be showing her one then both pairs, and asking which she wants, if not both. Oh, what comedy if she chooses neither…! >_< I plan to to hit the party for about an hour, put on a good show, all smiles – maybe even participate in some of that ‘80s karaoke (fucking hell!) – and leave in a blaze of triumph, having used her own tactics against her. HA!
Monday, July 10, 2006
Oh la la, and a bottle of rum (Life is a pigbum)
I think everyone has these episodes in your life that just seem to be wrenched from some postmodern contemporary novel (wooh, look at the big words!). Specifically cringesome chick-lit type moments, where you agree to something and then think "Why did I do that? Oh God, OHGOD, WHY?!"
Except in this case - no, it is not the wedding of a former best friend / school-time enemy / random better-off acquaintance (also probably from your days in some sort of education). Oh no - I agreed to go to Thorpe Park on August 4th for my school-time friend Katie's birthday (there, I told you, didn't I?!).
Why is this a big deal? I mean, we all DREAM of going to places like that and shakin' off the pretentiousness to live again as kiddies, right? Wrong. Firstly, I am only 18, so I don't need to be doing that just yet. Secondly, AAAAAAAAAAARGHWHY?!
OK, let me explain. There are ISSUES here. ISSUES. I am only too well acquainted with the glorious notions of self-sacrifice. I came from a culture that thrusts it at you (Indian), and I chose to drop it as though it were HOT and run like hell. Giving things up for your family is one thing. Enduring things for your friends is another. Seeing as how I'm pretty much in the s*** now, I think I'm fairly entitled to complain lots about it. This does take the piss somewhat, dammnit!
Attempting the vaguely numerical system again: firstly, I will be paying for an experience which I would avoid like the plague if it were FREE. I do not like Thorpe Park; I do not like theme parks. I admit that they are a genius rip-off, but good God are they childish and uninspired. And, anticipating anyone who tells me I'm pretentious and just scared, HELL YES, I shout out in response. Oh, YES am I pretentious, and yes I am scared (to a degree). I don't mind some rides; if people want to go on things that spin them round with all the support of a good bra, that's fine by me! I just don't think that having a minor cardiac infarction is necessary to improve my quality of life. I don't see the need to pay in order to nearly die of fear, you know? I can smell the roses just fine without it!
Secondly, I am feeling really disillusioned with all my friends. If you make sacrifices for your mates, you want to feel like they're really great and worth your time. I'm really feeling like I've outgrown all my sixth-form mates. They always want to do the same things, talk about the same things, and it just feels like utter tedium. I can't talk to them about music or films or books. I can't see them going to any gigs without complaining about the price. I'm pretty sure I'm the most politically left-wing of all of them too, which makes me nervous. It would make ANYONE nervous! Katie and Zaneta can really veer towards the right-wing sometimes, and Angela and Joanne are just like Yes-men types. Going along with everything, agreeing with them - it makes me uncomfortable.
I'm still not sure if I should go to Sophie's 80s karaoke party this Friday. Karaoke is not something I ache to spend the whole evening participating in, especially not with 80s music. Fucking hell, I wasn't even born till after half-way through, why should I care?! And SingStar is all very well and good, but everyone's psycho competitive tendencies come out, and then I feel like screaming. Yes, I've been to one of these parties before! I also end up getting stranded there because she doesn't exactly take into consideration that I don't have a car or anything. Is it wrong of me to want her to take things like that into consideration? Am I too nice? I don't do that to people. Then again, I don't invite people who dislike each other to the same party and expect them to get along just for me. Is that proactive and mature? Or is it arrogant and selfish? I really don't know. And Sophie's a good friend. It really sucks when you're struggling to see the good side of any of your friends.
Except in this case - no, it is not the wedding of a former best friend / school-time enemy / random better-off acquaintance (also probably from your days in some sort of education). Oh no - I agreed to go to Thorpe Park on August 4th for my school-time friend Katie's birthday (there, I told you, didn't I?!).
Why is this a big deal? I mean, we all DREAM of going to places like that and shakin' off the pretentiousness to live again as kiddies, right? Wrong. Firstly, I am only 18, so I don't need to be doing that just yet. Secondly, AAAAAAAAAAARGHWHY?!
OK, let me explain. There are ISSUES here. ISSUES. I am only too well acquainted with the glorious notions of self-sacrifice. I came from a culture that thrusts it at you (Indian), and I chose to drop it as though it were HOT and run like hell. Giving things up for your family is one thing. Enduring things for your friends is another. Seeing as how I'm pretty much in the s*** now, I think I'm fairly entitled to complain lots about it. This does take the piss somewhat, dammnit!
Attempting the vaguely numerical system again: firstly, I will be paying for an experience which I would avoid like the plague if it were FREE. I do not like Thorpe Park; I do not like theme parks. I admit that they are a genius rip-off, but good God are they childish and uninspired. And, anticipating anyone who tells me I'm pretentious and just scared, HELL YES, I shout out in response. Oh, YES am I pretentious, and yes I am scared (to a degree). I don't mind some rides; if people want to go on things that spin them round with all the support of a good bra, that's fine by me! I just don't think that having a minor cardiac infarction is necessary to improve my quality of life. I don't see the need to pay in order to nearly die of fear, you know? I can smell the roses just fine without it!
Secondly, I am feeling really disillusioned with all my friends. If you make sacrifices for your mates, you want to feel like they're really great and worth your time. I'm really feeling like I've outgrown all my sixth-form mates. They always want to do the same things, talk about the same things, and it just feels like utter tedium. I can't talk to them about music or films or books. I can't see them going to any gigs without complaining about the price. I'm pretty sure I'm the most politically left-wing of all of them too, which makes me nervous. It would make ANYONE nervous! Katie and Zaneta can really veer towards the right-wing sometimes, and Angela and Joanne are just like Yes-men types. Going along with everything, agreeing with them - it makes me uncomfortable.
I'm still not sure if I should go to Sophie's 80s karaoke party this Friday. Karaoke is not something I ache to spend the whole evening participating in, especially not with 80s music. Fucking hell, I wasn't even born till after half-way through, why should I care?! And SingStar is all very well and good, but everyone's psycho competitive tendencies come out, and then I feel like screaming. Yes, I've been to one of these parties before! I also end up getting stranded there because she doesn't exactly take into consideration that I don't have a car or anything. Is it wrong of me to want her to take things like that into consideration? Am I too nice? I don't do that to people. Then again, I don't invite people who dislike each other to the same party and expect them to get along just for me. Is that proactive and mature? Or is it arrogant and selfish? I really don't know. And Sophie's a good friend. It really sucks when you're struggling to see the good side of any of your friends.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Currently Depressingly Unfunny
Now, I am no genius of the comedic variety. I would like to think I make people laugh, but just as often I do the crabbish thing of hiding away and refusing to interact with anyone. I have been somewhat lacking in humour recently. This is because:
a) my mutti has gone psycho with her usual weathervane-like regularity (i.e., completely erratic and unpredictable).
b) she and my father egg each other on with beautifully predictable regularity.
c) my brother is a lazy, obsessive eejat.
Starting from the top: I have been talking ON MY MOBILE PHONE to people a few times in the past 2-3 weeks quite late, around 11 p.m. and absolute latest, until 1.00 a.m. (although I doubt any recent calls have been THAT late). I talked in a whisper, or as quietly as I could - a few times I was probably a bit louder than I meant to be. However, I was on MY phone, in my bedroom - not patrolling the passage and talking as if I want to blow the person on the other end away, like Father Dearest does. Probably about a week or two ago, someone knocked on my door a couple of times while I was talking to my beloved. I cried out (with alarm) that they should not come in (I wasn't wearing any trousers).
I got a third knock around 11.30 (methinks), followed by Mutti bursting in in her nightie and beginning to rant and rave like a mad werewolf / possessed bedsheet / red-faced loon. While I looked at her and fought alternating urges to shriek, burst out laughing and cry with the rage that was slowly filling me, she put forth her full, hypocritical glory. And I quote: "GET OFF THE PHONE! (x several) TELL ME WHO YOU'RE TALKING TO!" (Why Mother, how would that be possible if I'd hung up on them?)
She did variations of those two several times while I sassed her (she was asking for it, really). I was all "I've hung up," very nonchalantly. She started shrieking madly about taking my phone away from me. I reminded her that it was MY phone and she couldn't take it. She squawked that fine, I could take my phone and get out of the house. I was feeling utterly condescending, and embarrassed by her pathetically desperate display of emotion. I was in no mood to play the contrite kiddy, oh not at all. I don't think she liked that.
I had managed to pull my arm back by my side and cut the call discreetly, so she couldn't see who I was talking to. Unfortunately, he called me back repeatedly, and then texted as well. This, she liked. She stood before me in her heaving nightdress, psychotic gleam in eye. "Are they calling you back? Sending you messages? They want to see if you're alright, don't they? They know you're getting beats, that's why. They know you're in trouble, and they're calling back because they want to know - Is she getting slaps? Is she alright?" Psycho grin, waiting to lead into accompanying laughter. I was actually quite unsettled by this.
"I KNOW WHO YOU'RE TALKING TO!" (Now, this was the crowner. This was the absolute pinnacle; I thought I might have to swallow a knuckle to avoid laughing at her fucking hypocritical idiocy. It couldn't get any worse...)
"You're trying to befool me! (Oh hell yes, it did!) You tell lies! You tell so many lies! You try to befool us! (She was making it really hard for me to keep a straight face). But you watch, I'll take your phone when you're not expecting it, and I'll get Dad involved next time! Talking after 11 o'clock! GO TO SLEEP!" She stomped out, turning off the light as she did so, and leaving the door wide open. I got up - "TURN THE LIGHT OFF!"
"It's ALREADY off!" I yelled back. My previous emotional mélange was giving way, now filtering and distilling, into a pure snowy-white-hot anger. I waited for her to fuck right off, then I got out my Donald Duck pad and wrote my best poem in ages, called Thoughts Of Murder.
A few days later, I went to the Hard Rock Café for lunch, because they were doing their original menu at '70s prices, and I thought "Why not?" I was going out anyway. Obviously, I wasn't going to give my parents a blow-by-blow of what I did, so I mentioned that as the main point of my day. I was also late home by 20 minutes - ironically enough, we'd left London at 4.15 so that I could be home by 5.30, but the Piccadilly line had delays. I really should have known better. I should have known those psychos had an ace up their sleeves.
All seemed fairly OK, until dinner time, when we were all eating and my mum suddenly started on to my dad: "She went out to EAT today, did you know that? Only to EAT!" My dad probably said something about coursework - he loves coursework. Randomly when I want to go out and spend a little of my OWN money having fun: "Why is it necessary? Is it COURSEWORK? Do you have to meet your friends to STUDY?!" Anyway, I tried to defend myself, saying that S----- and I were hanging out - everyone does, after all - and then they started on about how I should only leave the house to go to university, or to work. Then my mum went "Right, after today, you are not going anywhere. Either you come to the shop and help us, or you stay home and do the housework and make dinner, or you go to work. Tell me what days you're working - I know you're not working every day, so don't try and lie to me - write down your schedule and give it to me."
She and my dad just work on each other, and he took his cue here. He probably said something about my being bloody ungrateful, and also possibly useless. He DEFINITELY said something along the lines of "It's enough hassle trying to GET you to come to the shop... you don't want to help ever... we have to drag you there... it's a bloody waste of our time... bloody ungrateful, useless... no respect, don't want to help even once... DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!" And he waved his finger in front of my nose, millimetres from my face. "We know all about you, staring at me like that... we know what you're up to, and WHO YOU'RE WITH."
At times like that, I really really hate my parents. I fantasised about breaking his finger, or biting into it hard. They're the fucking ungrateful ones, always conveniently forgetting whenever we're good. And their novel approach to fairness! - being exercised at that very moment - insulting all of your children in one go, instead of just the one. Their idea of a compliment is to compare to you to someone - say my cousin, just to try and make trouble because we love each other so much - and tell you how you're lacking in comparison. So yes, I was banned from going anywhere to have fun. I suspected I knew what the psycho accusations of lying and 'befooling' were about: they'd seen S------- walking me home from an Ed Harcourt gig in London on June 9th.
This was confirmed when I had a shouting match with my mother the next morning. She dragged it out of me that he was there, although I would never be completely honest with her. I told her we were just 'good friends' - why the hell would you risk trusting a fucking psycho like her?! That gleam came back into her eye, when my brother came down for his breakfast at 11 (funny how "GET UP ....., IT'S 9 O'CLOCK!" doesn't apply to him), and she went "Oh you're not going to tell me in front of him, are you, huh? Huh?" Just like that, taunting me, like the fucking emotional eight-year-old she is. That little **** sat in the back room, and in keeping with her ringleader fun, she refused to get rid of him when I got angry about him being in the back room. She didn't refuse - just deliberately didn't respond to it. He heard our yelling, but I didn't care, because he's been waiting to stitch me up over S--- for years, literally. He made a point of cyber-stalking me at one point, so I could do absolutely nothing, say nothing, look at nothing, without him retrieving it and searching it for evidence. I had to go through my Deviantart journals and poems, and get rid of every last reference, no matter how subtle, AND beg all my friends to leave stupid nonsense comments to erase evidence. I couldn't even say anything on their FORUMS because he'd find it!
I ended up spewing out a whole lot of resentment - I have built up a lot of hate over the years. It made no difference of course, because a few days later my cousin invited me over, and I rang my mum to tell her a couple of hours beforehand (This after telling her thrice in the morning too). So I said, 1 or 1.30, I'll be going to P----'s house, and she was all fine, fine, whatever, just as long as you've done your chores and let us know. Which I had. So I went, had a great time, decided to stay till 4.30. I was just talking to P----, P----'s younger sister, my youngest girl cousin, when my phone went off. It was Withheld, and no-one spoke when I said hello. Then I got a text saying I had 4 new Voicemail messages. I dialled with confusion, and listened. What I heard almost made me break something.
Would you believe, it was my dad, with the following. "...., this is your dad speaking." Grand pause. "Where are you, and who are you with?" Mother muttering in background. "When are you reaching home? Immediately ring back." What fucking bullshit! My parents act like it's of utmost importance that they know where I am ALL THE TIME and make out like they were going to have a heart attack if I'm a bit late, or forgot to ring and say where I was - BUT WHEN I LET THEM KNOW, IT'S NOT IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO WARRANT REMEMBERING. My mother actually fucking admitted it, and then tried to make the excuse of "Oh, we're old, we're senile, you always have to remind us" - then she got angry at me, for fuck's sake, and said that if it bothered me so much, I should write where I was going and stick it on the fridge! Thank God I am leaving tomorrow, until Saturday, for the Wireless Festival. Lord knows I need it.
a) my mutti has gone psycho with her usual weathervane-like regularity (i.e., completely erratic and unpredictable).
b) she and my father egg each other on with beautifully predictable regularity.
c) my brother is a lazy, obsessive eejat.
Starting from the top: I have been talking ON MY MOBILE PHONE to people a few times in the past 2-3 weeks quite late, around 11 p.m. and absolute latest, until 1.00 a.m. (although I doubt any recent calls have been THAT late). I talked in a whisper, or as quietly as I could - a few times I was probably a bit louder than I meant to be. However, I was on MY phone, in my bedroom - not patrolling the passage and talking as if I want to blow the person on the other end away, like Father Dearest does. Probably about a week or two ago, someone knocked on my door a couple of times while I was talking to my beloved. I cried out (with alarm) that they should not come in (I wasn't wearing any trousers).
I got a third knock around 11.30 (methinks), followed by Mutti bursting in in her nightie and beginning to rant and rave like a mad werewolf / possessed bedsheet / red-faced loon. While I looked at her and fought alternating urges to shriek, burst out laughing and cry with the rage that was slowly filling me, she put forth her full, hypocritical glory. And I quote: "GET OFF THE PHONE! (x several) TELL ME WHO YOU'RE TALKING TO!" (Why Mother, how would that be possible if I'd hung up on them?)
She did variations of those two several times while I sassed her (she was asking for it, really). I was all "I've hung up," very nonchalantly. She started shrieking madly about taking my phone away from me. I reminded her that it was MY phone and she couldn't take it. She squawked that fine, I could take my phone and get out of the house. I was feeling utterly condescending, and embarrassed by her pathetically desperate display of emotion. I was in no mood to play the contrite kiddy, oh not at all. I don't think she liked that.
I had managed to pull my arm back by my side and cut the call discreetly, so she couldn't see who I was talking to. Unfortunately, he called me back repeatedly, and then texted as well. This, she liked. She stood before me in her heaving nightdress, psychotic gleam in eye. "Are they calling you back? Sending you messages? They want to see if you're alright, don't they? They know you're getting beats, that's why. They know you're in trouble, and they're calling back because they want to know - Is she getting slaps? Is she alright?" Psycho grin, waiting to lead into accompanying laughter. I was actually quite unsettled by this.
"I KNOW WHO YOU'RE TALKING TO!" (Now, this was the crowner. This was the absolute pinnacle; I thought I might have to swallow a knuckle to avoid laughing at her fucking hypocritical idiocy. It couldn't get any worse...)
"You're trying to befool me! (Oh hell yes, it did!) You tell lies! You tell so many lies! You try to befool us! (She was making it really hard for me to keep a straight face). But you watch, I'll take your phone when you're not expecting it, and I'll get Dad involved next time! Talking after 11 o'clock! GO TO SLEEP!" She stomped out, turning off the light as she did so, and leaving the door wide open. I got up - "TURN THE LIGHT OFF!"
"It's ALREADY off!" I yelled back. My previous emotional mélange was giving way, now filtering and distilling, into a pure snowy-white-hot anger. I waited for her to fuck right off, then I got out my Donald Duck pad and wrote my best poem in ages, called Thoughts Of Murder.
A few days later, I went to the Hard Rock Café for lunch, because they were doing their original menu at '70s prices, and I thought "Why not?" I was going out anyway. Obviously, I wasn't going to give my parents a blow-by-blow of what I did, so I mentioned that as the main point of my day. I was also late home by 20 minutes - ironically enough, we'd left London at 4.15 so that I could be home by 5.30, but the Piccadilly line had delays. I really should have known better. I should have known those psychos had an ace up their sleeves.
All seemed fairly OK, until dinner time, when we were all eating and my mum suddenly started on to my dad: "She went out to EAT today, did you know that? Only to EAT!" My dad probably said something about coursework - he loves coursework. Randomly when I want to go out and spend a little of my OWN money having fun: "Why is it necessary? Is it COURSEWORK? Do you have to meet your friends to STUDY?!" Anyway, I tried to defend myself, saying that S----- and I were hanging out - everyone does, after all - and then they started on about how I should only leave the house to go to university, or to work. Then my mum went "Right, after today, you are not going anywhere. Either you come to the shop and help us, or you stay home and do the housework and make dinner, or you go to work. Tell me what days you're working - I know you're not working every day, so don't try and lie to me - write down your schedule and give it to me."
She and my dad just work on each other, and he took his cue here. He probably said something about my being bloody ungrateful, and also possibly useless. He DEFINITELY said something along the lines of "It's enough hassle trying to GET you to come to the shop... you don't want to help ever... we have to drag you there... it's a bloody waste of our time... bloody ungrateful, useless... no respect, don't want to help even once... DON'T YOU LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT!" And he waved his finger in front of my nose, millimetres from my face. "We know all about you, staring at me like that... we know what you're up to, and WHO YOU'RE WITH."
At times like that, I really really hate my parents. I fantasised about breaking his finger, or biting into it hard. They're the fucking ungrateful ones, always conveniently forgetting whenever we're good. And their novel approach to fairness! - being exercised at that very moment - insulting all of your children in one go, instead of just the one. Their idea of a compliment is to compare to you to someone - say my cousin, just to try and make trouble because we love each other so much - and tell you how you're lacking in comparison. So yes, I was banned from going anywhere to have fun. I suspected I knew what the psycho accusations of lying and 'befooling' were about: they'd seen S------- walking me home from an Ed Harcourt gig in London on June 9th.
This was confirmed when I had a shouting match with my mother the next morning. She dragged it out of me that he was there, although I would never be completely honest with her. I told her we were just 'good friends' - why the hell would you risk trusting a fucking psycho like her?! That gleam came back into her eye, when my brother came down for his breakfast at 11 (funny how "GET UP ....., IT'S 9 O'CLOCK!" doesn't apply to him), and she went "Oh you're not going to tell me in front of him, are you, huh? Huh?" Just like that, taunting me, like the fucking emotional eight-year-old she is. That little **** sat in the back room, and in keeping with her ringleader fun, she refused to get rid of him when I got angry about him being in the back room. She didn't refuse - just deliberately didn't respond to it. He heard our yelling, but I didn't care, because he's been waiting to stitch me up over S--- for years, literally. He made a point of cyber-stalking me at one point, so I could do absolutely nothing, say nothing, look at nothing, without him retrieving it and searching it for evidence. I had to go through my Deviantart journals and poems, and get rid of every last reference, no matter how subtle, AND beg all my friends to leave stupid nonsense comments to erase evidence. I couldn't even say anything on their FORUMS because he'd find it!
I ended up spewing out a whole lot of resentment - I have built up a lot of hate over the years. It made no difference of course, because a few days later my cousin invited me over, and I rang my mum to tell her a couple of hours beforehand (This after telling her thrice in the morning too). So I said, 1 or 1.30, I'll be going to P----'s house, and she was all fine, fine, whatever, just as long as you've done your chores and let us know. Which I had. So I went, had a great time, decided to stay till 4.30. I was just talking to P----, P----'s younger sister, my youngest girl cousin, when my phone went off. It was Withheld, and no-one spoke when I said hello. Then I got a text saying I had 4 new Voicemail messages. I dialled with confusion, and listened. What I heard almost made me break something.
Would you believe, it was my dad, with the following. "...., this is your dad speaking." Grand pause. "Where are you, and who are you with?" Mother muttering in background. "When are you reaching home? Immediately ring back." What fucking bullshit! My parents act like it's of utmost importance that they know where I am ALL THE TIME and make out like they were going to have a heart attack if I'm a bit late, or forgot to ring and say where I was - BUT WHEN I LET THEM KNOW, IT'S NOT IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO WARRANT REMEMBERING. My mother actually fucking admitted it, and then tried to make the excuse of "Oh, we're old, we're senile, you always have to remind us" - then she got angry at me, for fuck's sake, and said that if it bothered me so much, I should write where I was going and stick it on the fridge! Thank God I am leaving tomorrow, until Saturday, for the Wireless Festival. Lord knows I need it.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Brasil, oh Brasil
This: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/5042418.stm, sent to me by my boyfriend, has made me think a lot. Therefore I am posting it here.
Things have been nothing short of tumultuous lately. It's almost getting old. I think I am getting senile due to having a rather strange sleep pattern, although I thankfully haven't woken up in the night for the past 2-3 days. I really need to drink all the water I'm going to drink by 8pm from now on... Satkirat and I have had some 'issues,' not so much with each other as with ourselves. Call it a huge great Venn diagram of insecurity; we can both be exceedingly hyper/over-sensitive at times, and this is effectively the perfect time for blow-ups. TOM has paid me a visit (all of you should know what that means by now!) so the Deranged Psycho Bitch tendency is... somewhat more accessible than it would be normally.
I have been working a fair bit - three days a week, four last week, and I haven't been paid for probably about 9 or 10 days. That means I'm owed at least £357. That's no small amount, and I have been spending stupidly recently. Stupidly is the keyword here. I bought something like 11 tops from Uniqlo for £77 (pretty much). Hello, fucking idiocy! The worst thing is that I didn't think at all when I was doing it. There was no rebellion, no need, and no realisation that "hey, I bought about five or so tops already...!" I just bought them because my brain had become fried from being out all the time, and all day, and probably because I had nothing better to do. Boredom really is a killer. When I got to the till and they calculated the sub-total, I was like "Shit!" Then I figured it was too late to back out, so I went ahead and bought them all. I am going to go and return about 6 or 7 of them tomorrow. They're brand new after all.
Before this, I had spent £28.50 on 19 pairs of knickers from Primark, which I most deffo could not return. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. I am totally gutted now, but I am going to make a scene in Uniqlo if they refuse to accept back their BRAND NEW TOPS. My bf was right; I just went from spending hardly anything to spending too much, and it fills me with fear. I was more than a little horrified at how my self-control evaporated in the presence of boredom.
It caused unpleasant situations, and showed me that I need to fill my time with other things. Things like reading The Watchmen, watching Chungking Express, and listening to Gilles Peterson's sessions in Brazil online (I heard some of the last show on the radio...). I quite like Brazilian music, although I've mostly just heard baile funk and bossa nova. Bossa nova might be 'middle-class music' but it makes you so happy! Anyone who doesn't believe me should just listen to Aguas de Marco by João Gilberto (it may feature Stan Getz, I think it does). He sounds so merry, like a giant bunch of fresh cherries :-D. Bebel Gilberto (yes, she's a relation, she's his daughter!) generally makes you feel that the world is beautiful and calm.
Speaking of happy music, I cannot help it - I like Lily Allen. She does look ever so slightly (endearingly, say I!) porcine on her Myspace page: http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic
Still, she makes music that is a bit snarky and makes you smile. She's Keith Allen's daughter (the man behind dumbass football-based hit Vindaloo), but don't hold that against her. She is summer! She also looks a teeny weeny bit like one of the winners of Strictly Dance Fever. That show is starting to depress me, because it showcases the worst thing about the mentality of the British viewing public. We love the underdog, oh yeah, we fucking LOVE the underdog. In all fairness, the gap between the two final couples was narrower than it's ever been, but logically considering what the prize is, I feel that history repeated itself one time too many.
Every goddamn series, the couple who are better suited to win don't win. This has happened on Strictly Come Dancing as well (although that's nowhere near as fun, especially because it's basically a vehicle for slebs to fawn all over each other). The couple who were consistently good, Darren and Lana, weren't quite as good on the night of the final, and lost. Never mind that they actually tried to take a risk. Darrien and Hollie - who ARE excellent dancers - performed their perfect-scoring milonga again, and then played shamelessly to their strengths (Hollie's a street-dancer...) during the freestyle. They won. They deserved to win, but the other couple actually deserved the prize itself more.
You see how bizarre it is? It's just yet another dialectical situation; does the ability to perform better on the most stressful night of the competition make you better suited to be a professional dancer? Or does being a consistently versatile and excellent performer count? Perhaps Darren and Lana are actually thus better off doing the professional-dancer-competition-celebrity route then, because they can take that many strings to their bow? Who knows? One thing I do know is that I prefer this kind of moral dilemma to several others. Even if it does involve swimming-costume-leotards, kneepads and dangerous dresses...
Things have been nothing short of tumultuous lately. It's almost getting old. I think I am getting senile due to having a rather strange sleep pattern, although I thankfully haven't woken up in the night for the past 2-3 days. I really need to drink all the water I'm going to drink by 8pm from now on... Satkirat and I have had some 'issues,' not so much with each other as with ourselves. Call it a huge great Venn diagram of insecurity; we can both be exceedingly hyper/over-sensitive at times, and this is effectively the perfect time for blow-ups. TOM has paid me a visit (all of you should know what that means by now!) so the Deranged Psycho Bitch tendency is... somewhat more accessible than it would be normally.
I have been working a fair bit - three days a week, four last week, and I haven't been paid for probably about 9 or 10 days. That means I'm owed at least £357. That's no small amount, and I have been spending stupidly recently. Stupidly is the keyword here. I bought something like 11 tops from Uniqlo for £77 (pretty much). Hello, fucking idiocy! The worst thing is that I didn't think at all when I was doing it. There was no rebellion, no need, and no realisation that "hey, I bought about five or so tops already...!" I just bought them because my brain had become fried from being out all the time, and all day, and probably because I had nothing better to do. Boredom really is a killer. When I got to the till and they calculated the sub-total, I was like "Shit!" Then I figured it was too late to back out, so I went ahead and bought them all. I am going to go and return about 6 or 7 of them tomorrow. They're brand new after all.
Before this, I had spent £28.50 on 19 pairs of knickers from Primark, which I most deffo could not return. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson. I am totally gutted now, but I am going to make a scene in Uniqlo if they refuse to accept back their BRAND NEW TOPS. My bf was right; I just went from spending hardly anything to spending too much, and it fills me with fear. I was more than a little horrified at how my self-control evaporated in the presence of boredom.
It caused unpleasant situations, and showed me that I need to fill my time with other things. Things like reading The Watchmen, watching Chungking Express, and listening to Gilles Peterson's sessions in Brazil online (I heard some of the last show on the radio...). I quite like Brazilian music, although I've mostly just heard baile funk and bossa nova. Bossa nova might be 'middle-class music' but it makes you so happy! Anyone who doesn't believe me should just listen to Aguas de Marco by João Gilberto (it may feature Stan Getz, I think it does). He sounds so merry, like a giant bunch of fresh cherries :-D. Bebel Gilberto (yes, she's a relation, she's his daughter!) generally makes you feel that the world is beautiful and calm.
Speaking of happy music, I cannot help it - I like Lily Allen. She does look ever so slightly (endearingly, say I!) porcine on her Myspace page: http://www.myspace.com/lilymusic
Still, she makes music that is a bit snarky and makes you smile. She's Keith Allen's daughter (the man behind dumbass football-based hit Vindaloo), but don't hold that against her. She is summer! She also looks a teeny weeny bit like one of the winners of Strictly Dance Fever. That show is starting to depress me, because it showcases the worst thing about the mentality of the British viewing public. We love the underdog, oh yeah, we fucking LOVE the underdog. In all fairness, the gap between the two final couples was narrower than it's ever been, but logically considering what the prize is, I feel that history repeated itself one time too many.
Every goddamn series, the couple who are better suited to win don't win. This has happened on Strictly Come Dancing as well (although that's nowhere near as fun, especially because it's basically a vehicle for slebs to fawn all over each other). The couple who were consistently good, Darren and Lana, weren't quite as good on the night of the final, and lost. Never mind that they actually tried to take a risk. Darrien and Hollie - who ARE excellent dancers - performed their perfect-scoring milonga again, and then played shamelessly to their strengths (Hollie's a street-dancer...) during the freestyle. They won. They deserved to win, but the other couple actually deserved the prize itself more.
You see how bizarre it is? It's just yet another dialectical situation; does the ability to perform better on the most stressful night of the competition make you better suited to be a professional dancer? Or does being a consistently versatile and excellent performer count? Perhaps Darren and Lana are actually thus better off doing the professional-dancer-competition-celebrity route then, because they can take that many strings to their bow? Who knows? One thing I do know is that I prefer this kind of moral dilemma to several others. Even if it does involve swimming-costume-leotards, kneepads and dangerous dresses...
Monday, May 22, 2006
Too Much Contradiction
I started laughing the other day when I was listening to the new Christina Milian song, 'Say I.' Before being vilified for doing so, I would like to point out that:
a) I was ironing, and had been for a while, resulting in Frazzled Brain Syndrome. This is where your music taste heads to some tropical island for bask-sunning, and you enter the zone of 'School Disco' and 'guilty pleasures.'
b) The other options were: weird 80's-sounding pop, music that sounded like it was being played underwater, weird 80's-sounding music that sounded like it was being played underwater, and Duncan James singing clichés in a froggy voice that rendered them even more painfully obvious. I had the dubious pleasure of watching him repeat this on Strictly Dance Fever, and granted myself my first toilet break.
Anyway, there is a really great bit where she yelps:
(and I quote:)
you want to dance then get down
you tryna chill then sit down
do what you wanna to do
don't let nobody tell you what you're suppose to do
Thank you,
http://www.lyrics4all.net/c/christina-milian/so-amazin/say-i.php
I just love that hypocrisy! Blimey, when it comes out of nowhere, in a POP SONG of all the things, you know you've got to be on your guard. It is almost sublimely ridiculous that she failed to notice those two sets of directly contradictory lyrics placed right next to one another. Still, the girl can't help it, just like she can't help having a cute face which is somehow at the same time sexy to men. Although that might have more to do with her clothes' frequent habit of disappearing. Bad, bad denim-leotard-swimsuit thingy! (= video of When You Look At Me, where her cleavage made its full debut).
Moving on from 'the black Britney' (Whoever dubbed her that was surprisingly accurate...), let's hear it for Indonesia! In response to your puzzled looks, I stake http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/5001786.stm
Banning public kissing? BANNING PUBLIC KISSING?! I almost laughed when I read that. It's a dangerous thing, that public kissing. You know, it could... it could.... give people ideas! Because civilised people in civilised countries don't do it! I hope you can spot the sarcasm in my tone. No, I'm sure that in places such as India, Africa and Indonesia, people don't like kissing in public. They just get pregnant three, four, five, six times... or more... and thus is born a strong and functional family unit, where girls are always manual labourers and guys just take whatever they can get. Calling those women 'homemakers' would be a little too glamorous for me.
I am so fucking DISGUSTED I can't even think. There was that, and then there was - is - this. It is a transcript of a conversation with my 'friend' Colin (friend being used in the loosest sense of the term). I'm sure you can guess who I am:
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
haha, my friend challenged me to remix an arctic monkeys track
it's really funny
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well I hate them...so I'm making it really cheesy and happy
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why do you hate them again?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
cos they're a walking cliche, and I really dislike the guy's voice
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why are they a walking cliche?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well it's like if you gave a bunch of chavs with semi-musical ability some instruments, and they went off on one singing about how they don't like their shitty town. which seems to be the fad for the theme in all indie songs these days. I guess it's best to appeal to the lowest common denominator if you want to hit the big time
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Have you listened to them?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
fo sho
I have to all the time
and all the chavs get up and sing loudly and cause trouble
I suppose that's meant to pass as irony
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Hmmm.
What's meant to pass asirony?
as irony*
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
chavs singing along to songs that are cashing in on the disgustingness of chav culture
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Hmmm.
I don't really have anything to say.
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well why would you
they're just a dumb band
I wouldn't even be bothered if they didn't play them everywhere I go out with mates
Jesus H. fucking Christ! (Sorry, Christians). I wouldn't have minded if he had just said he liked them, but you SEE that arrogance? It's quite stunning, really. I'm being very diplomatic here, going to Annoying Child mode and asking "Why?" to everything. He labels Arctic Monkeys 'chavs' presumably because they're working-class (although they're not exactly typical working-class, are they?) and probably just because people he considers chavs like them. I just looked through their album tracklist, and there is nothing about, I quote, 'their shitty town' or anything 'cashing in on the disgustingness of chav culture.' As is the case with such people, I think he's lashing out because:
a) they've got a success he can only dream of for now, and
b) he's got more in common with them than he wants to admit.
Colin is obviously pretty snobby, but he's not exactly loaded or anything, and his family are barely middle-class, so it's pretty rich of him to insult working-class people, just because he's intimidated by those in his area. Of course, his area might as well be the world for him, right? Myopic is the word. That's the most terrifying thing: there's a mix of Pathetic Old Bastard Fart-Head and stupid, spoilt useless little brat in Colin. He can be good company, very occasionally. Granted, this is usually when I can't get to anyone else to talk to them first. Hilariously enough, there seems to be a vague current of snobbery, or maybe just disdain running through the Arctic Monkeys' album too. Like father, like son, kid - like father, like son! *evil laughter*
Anyway, I have been at work all day, and thus I am lacking appropriate brainpower to prolong your misery with this post. Fly, my pretties, fly!!!
P.S.: I DID, as a point of principle, look up Rudolph Nureyev, and for your viewing pleasure have enclosed the following. http://www.christies.com/promos/nov05/7141/images/7141_lot45.jpg
Ooer, I say, ooh! RE: Boys who WORKIT: YES, YES, THRICE YES *nods like loon*.
a) I was ironing, and had been for a while, resulting in Frazzled Brain Syndrome. This is where your music taste heads to some tropical island for bask-sunning, and you enter the zone of 'School Disco' and 'guilty pleasures.'
b) The other options were: weird 80's-sounding pop, music that sounded like it was being played underwater, weird 80's-sounding music that sounded like it was being played underwater, and Duncan James singing clichés in a froggy voice that rendered them even more painfully obvious. I had the dubious pleasure of watching him repeat this on Strictly Dance Fever, and granted myself my first toilet break.
Anyway, there is a really great bit where she yelps:
(and I quote:)
you want to dance then get down
you tryna chill then sit down
do what you wanna to do
don't let nobody tell you what you're suppose to do
Thank you,
http://www.lyrics4all.net/c/christina-milian/so-amazin/say-i.php
I just love that hypocrisy! Blimey, when it comes out of nowhere, in a POP SONG of all the things, you know you've got to be on your guard. It is almost sublimely ridiculous that she failed to notice those two sets of directly contradictory lyrics placed right next to one another. Still, the girl can't help it, just like she can't help having a cute face which is somehow at the same time sexy to men. Although that might have more to do with her clothes' frequent habit of disappearing. Bad, bad denim-leotard-swimsuit thingy! (= video of When You Look At Me, where her cleavage made its full debut).
Moving on from 'the black Britney' (Whoever dubbed her that was surprisingly accurate...), let's hear it for Indonesia! In response to your puzzled looks, I stake http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/asia-pacific/5001786.stm
Banning public kissing? BANNING PUBLIC KISSING?! I almost laughed when I read that. It's a dangerous thing, that public kissing. You know, it could... it could.... give people ideas! Because civilised people in civilised countries don't do it! I hope you can spot the sarcasm in my tone. No, I'm sure that in places such as India, Africa and Indonesia, people don't like kissing in public. They just get pregnant three, four, five, six times... or more... and thus is born a strong and functional family unit, where girls are always manual labourers and guys just take whatever they can get. Calling those women 'homemakers' would be a little too glamorous for me.
I am so fucking DISGUSTED I can't even think. There was that, and then there was - is - this. It is a transcript of a conversation with my 'friend' Colin (friend being used in the loosest sense of the term). I'm sure you can guess who I am:
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
haha, my friend challenged me to remix an arctic monkeys track
it's really funny
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well I hate them...so I'm making it really cheesy and happy
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why do you hate them again?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
cos they're a walking cliche, and I really dislike the guy's voice
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Why are they a walking cliche?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well it's like if you gave a bunch of chavs with semi-musical ability some instruments, and they went off on one singing about how they don't like their shitty town. which seems to be the fad for the theme in all indie songs these days. I guess it's best to appeal to the lowest common denominator if you want to hit the big time
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Have you listened to them?
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
fo sho
I have to all the time
and all the chavs get up and sing loudly and cause trouble
I suppose that's meant to pass as irony
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Hmmm.
What's meant to pass asirony?
as irony*
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
chavs singing along to songs that are cashing in on the disgustingness of chav culture
DOCTOR WHO FANATIC, w00t w00t says:
Hmmm.
I don't really have anything to say.
Shine on benevolent son - nigga killa says:
well why would you
they're just a dumb band
I wouldn't even be bothered if they didn't play them everywhere I go out with mates
Jesus H. fucking Christ! (Sorry, Christians). I wouldn't have minded if he had just said he liked them, but you SEE that arrogance? It's quite stunning, really. I'm being very diplomatic here, going to Annoying Child mode and asking "Why?" to everything. He labels Arctic Monkeys 'chavs' presumably because they're working-class (although they're not exactly typical working-class, are they?) and probably just because people he considers chavs like them. I just looked through their album tracklist, and there is nothing about, I quote, 'their shitty town' or anything 'cashing in on the disgustingness of chav culture.' As is the case with such people, I think he's lashing out because:
a) they've got a success he can only dream of for now, and
b) he's got more in common with them than he wants to admit.
Colin is obviously pretty snobby, but he's not exactly loaded or anything, and his family are barely middle-class, so it's pretty rich of him to insult working-class people, just because he's intimidated by those in his area. Of course, his area might as well be the world for him, right? Myopic is the word. That's the most terrifying thing: there's a mix of Pathetic Old Bastard Fart-Head and stupid, spoilt useless little brat in Colin. He can be good company, very occasionally. Granted, this is usually when I can't get to anyone else to talk to them first. Hilariously enough, there seems to be a vague current of snobbery, or maybe just disdain running through the Arctic Monkeys' album too. Like father, like son, kid - like father, like son! *evil laughter*
Anyway, I have been at work all day, and thus I am lacking appropriate brainpower to prolong your misery with this post. Fly, my pretties, fly!!!
P.S.: I DID, as a point of principle, look up Rudolph Nureyev, and for your viewing pleasure have enclosed the following. http://www.christies.com/promos/nov05/7141/images/7141_lot45.jpg
Ooer, I say, ooh! RE: Boys who WORKIT: YES, YES, THRICE YES *nods like loon*.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Boys who WORKIT
Rudolph Valentino is sex. He really is. Most of youse probably won't be able to see what the fuss is about in any of the images online. I have to admit that that's completely understandable. I don't know what it is that is so goddamn attractive about him. His androgyny is definitely appealing to me; I find him a lot more interesting than many of the fey indie-boy types who are touted today. I remember seeing him onscreen at some point - and I just thought: "Who is THAT?!" very excitedly. That's extraordinarily weird for me, because I have never been one to get overwhelmed by anyone's looks. The longest crush I had on a sleb was four days (Leonardo DiCaprio), and it was only because my best friend liked him. I know, I know... but I haven't been that sad since. Rudy's the violently passionate androgyne (I know - not a real word. It should be, though.) as opposed to the slightly girly boy. They have their appeal and all, but they're just not as sexy.
Well, me being me, I got him mixed up with Rudolph Nureyev in my head (bear in mind, I don't actually know what Nureyev looks like, so it's a reasonably easy mistake to make!). Although he apparently embarked on a dance tour, so I'm not going to get the following connection from nowhere.
Men who dance. Why is it so very hah-hah-HOT?! (Those are representative of gasps, if you were wondering). Or rather, men who dance well. I find it ridiculously sexy, and I was thinking about it, and I am not the only one! Take Anton Du Beke for example - star of Strictly Come Dancing, v. famous professional ballroom dancer and dance coach on Strictly Dance Fever. He really seems to have a way with the ladies, despite looking ever-so-slightly Transylvanian (read: vampirical :-D). He has a fairly long-ish head and a VERY pointy chin. And yet! He seems to have some kind of indescribable charm that makes all his partners and many of his female students go all girly. Check this: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2004/12/21/ftdance21.xml He is charming, and he does have a good sense of humour, as evidenced by the footage of him training one of my fave couples, Darrien and Hollie, on Dance Fever last week. He was trying to make Darrien more manly and Holly more ladylike.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/strictlydancefever/dancefever/news/2006/05/13/32186.shtml Boy, did it ever work. Darrien - I mean, not even Darren, for God's sake - is practically camper than the cast of Queer Eye... They showed him celebrating his birthday on the show, and he was all "I love Kylie!" However, the boy does dance well, and Anton did a number on his and Hollie's American Smooth routine. He also did a number on the cute and pixielike Hollie, who got all giggly and giddy whenever she danced with him - the shot of him going "Holl-ie! Go, girlfriend!" was priceless. My sister has commented (accurately) on how many of the blokes on the show have weird, fleshy faces and girly voices, and Darrien is no exception to this.
But hot damn! He and Hollie danced amazingly, and I (perversely enough) found their routine simmering. I could see a hell of a lot of passion in it, which was odd because American Smooth is generally supposed to be smooth, beautiful, lovely etc. It's a romantic dance. I have re-watched it several times, and I love it - the music, the costumes - it all works fabulously. The more I watch it, the sexier Darrien becomes. Perhaps because dance is so difficult. It is like acting, except that you're dancing and acting at the same time. You need to be the conduit for the music while mastering it. You need to let fly the full range of appropriate emotions while keeping yourself under tight control. You have to make the audience feel intensely, but only what you want them to feel, and you need to mind yourself. The man must lead, and so real grace and skill is needed. It is, then, much like finding male actors attractive, except that captivating male actors seem to be in short supply currently (well, for me anyway) and they don't, can't, have the same anonymity (read: mystery) that male dancers do.
So, returning to my first-ever post, dance expresses a range of paradoxes. When it is done well, I find it as unifying as World Cup football. The best thing is that it doesn't pit any group against any other group - apart from the obvious fact that couples are dancing against each other. Though at the time of performing, the competition aspect has very little influence. Another interesting thing is how people can within themselves recognise quite clearly what constitutes good dancing and a good performance without the kind of argument that would precede similar reactions to music (for example). Just watch the clip of Darren and Lana's Flamenco. Dear Lord, that was f****** FANBLOODYTASTIC. I started shrieking and applauding, I couldn't help it. I've also watched it maybe six times since... it's just a really fantastic, passionate performance. It makes you dance and want to dance, which is all you can ask for, really.
Anyway, I am sorry for being dead for so long, but I had exams and really bad insomnia to contend with. Plus my love-life was getting ridiculously unbalanced. It's all good now though! So I'll be back (as Arnie says. Anyone who hasn't seen the bit with him as Hamlet in Enemy of The State really should. Just that little bit. Hilarious). Dr. Who is kingly, and you can download it to your PC off the BBC website - do it people! Do it, do it, do it! TOOOOORCHWOOOOOOOD!
Well, me being me, I got him mixed up with Rudolph Nureyev in my head (bear in mind, I don't actually know what Nureyev looks like, so it's a reasonably easy mistake to make!). Although he apparently embarked on a dance tour, so I'm not going to get the following connection from nowhere.
Men who dance. Why is it so very hah-hah-HOT?! (Those are representative of gasps, if you were wondering). Or rather, men who dance well. I find it ridiculously sexy, and I was thinking about it, and I am not the only one! Take Anton Du Beke for example - star of Strictly Come Dancing, v. famous professional ballroom dancer and dance coach on Strictly Dance Fever. He really seems to have a way with the ladies, despite looking ever-so-slightly Transylvanian (read: vampirical :-D). He has a fairly long-ish head and a VERY pointy chin. And yet! He seems to have some kind of indescribable charm that makes all his partners and many of his female students go all girly. Check this: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2004/12/21/ftdance21.xml He is charming, and he does have a good sense of humour, as evidenced by the footage of him training one of my fave couples, Darrien and Hollie, on Dance Fever last week. He was trying to make Darrien more manly and Holly more ladylike.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/strictlydancefever/dancefever/news/2006/05/13/32186.shtml Boy, did it ever work. Darrien - I mean, not even Darren, for God's sake - is practically camper than the cast of Queer Eye... They showed him celebrating his birthday on the show, and he was all "I love Kylie!" However, the boy does dance well, and Anton did a number on his and Hollie's American Smooth routine. He also did a number on the cute and pixielike Hollie, who got all giggly and giddy whenever she danced with him - the shot of him going "Holl-ie! Go, girlfriend!" was priceless. My sister has commented (accurately) on how many of the blokes on the show have weird, fleshy faces and girly voices, and Darrien is no exception to this.
But hot damn! He and Hollie danced amazingly, and I (perversely enough) found their routine simmering. I could see a hell of a lot of passion in it, which was odd because American Smooth is generally supposed to be smooth, beautiful, lovely etc. It's a romantic dance. I have re-watched it several times, and I love it - the music, the costumes - it all works fabulously. The more I watch it, the sexier Darrien becomes. Perhaps because dance is so difficult. It is like acting, except that you're dancing and acting at the same time. You need to be the conduit for the music while mastering it. You need to let fly the full range of appropriate emotions while keeping yourself under tight control. You have to make the audience feel intensely, but only what you want them to feel, and you need to mind yourself. The man must lead, and so real grace and skill is needed. It is, then, much like finding male actors attractive, except that captivating male actors seem to be in short supply currently (well, for me anyway) and they don't, can't, have the same anonymity (read: mystery) that male dancers do.
So, returning to my first-ever post, dance expresses a range of paradoxes. When it is done well, I find it as unifying as World Cup football. The best thing is that it doesn't pit any group against any other group - apart from the obvious fact that couples are dancing against each other. Though at the time of performing, the competition aspect has very little influence. Another interesting thing is how people can within themselves recognise quite clearly what constitutes good dancing and a good performance without the kind of argument that would precede similar reactions to music (for example). Just watch the clip of Darren and Lana's Flamenco. Dear Lord, that was f****** FANBLOODYTASTIC. I started shrieking and applauding, I couldn't help it. I've also watched it maybe six times since... it's just a really fantastic, passionate performance. It makes you dance and want to dance, which is all you can ask for, really.
Anyway, I am sorry for being dead for so long, but I had exams and really bad insomnia to contend with. Plus my love-life was getting ridiculously unbalanced. It's all good now though! So I'll be back (as Arnie says. Anyone who hasn't seen the bit with him as Hamlet in Enemy of The State really should. Just that little bit. Hilarious). Dr. Who is kingly, and you can download it to your PC off the BBC website - do it people! Do it, do it, do it! TOOOOORCHWOOOOOOOD!
Sunday, April 30, 2006
A Tale of Two Amrits
People! Permit yourselves to fall about (laughing? Cringing? We'll see) once I have described some of my latest adventures to you. And don’t be scared to comment - I’d love some indication that my readership does exist outside of my imagination. :-D This is a cautionary tale (kinda) about how being very honest can backfire on you. As you do (when you are SupaFly, anyway), S------- was trawling the Internet, when he found an innnteresting *cue Mr.Burns-style-finger-action* website and Myspace page. The page is called Village Indian, I offer a link to it on this blog. The Myspace is here: http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=49931394
Me being me, I fired off an excitable introductory email first, and thought later. I asked lots of questions, which probably made it seem like I fanced him. Oh God. Now, he doesn't look all that on his Myspace - very skinny - but I decided to go VI and look at his picture there too,, to compare and see what I was 'up against,' if you know what I mean (which you probably don't...). Schiessenhauser! He looked v. good, and slightly as if he had stepped out of a 'conscious' hip-hop video.
It would seem that The Spectre of Fey Skinny Indie was returning. I have these phases where I get all wiggly about the likes of Alex Kapranos, and er... that's it so far (see the link for this post above!). I went extremely self-conscious and giggly, and texted my cousin about it, and also forwarded my email to my bf. See, I am a complete child - there was no imagining relationships with him, or any such rubbish. It was more:
'He's pretty.'
*tittering*
'He is!'
*more tittering*
*giggles all round*
Yes, I know. I am such a terrible girl. My cousin and I just compared his two pics and died laughing for about 10 minutes when I went to her house. However, my sense of honour eventually overcame all else. I emailed apologising, and enclosing a song I really like. Here is his reply:
'Ha. No, no worries, I've been too swamped to write you a response. Even then though, I get so many emails and such, I make it a habit to keep 'em to music (unless and until I meet people). Anyway, thanks for the Brazilian Girls! They actually got their start right down the street from me here in the East Village, at a fun club called Nublu. Born out of impromptu experimental jam sessions. They're great!A few bands we're loving here this week are Love Is All, Cloud Cult, Land of Talk - and The Walkmen were amazing last night!-A'
I was understandably freaked out, like BLEEPING HELL, he is a celebrity of the miniature variety! I got even more awed, and vowed to rarely email him. I have made good on this; he is, as he says, a busy guy. I mean, the dude goes to a gig virtually every damn day and / or night. I blame S--- - I related all this to him, and he went something like 'Well why would I worry about you fancying him?! Maybe I was worried that I would fancy him!'
Need I say more? I have always found that boy funny... ;-)
Me being me, I fired off an excitable introductory email first, and thought later. I asked lots of questions, which probably made it seem like I fanced him. Oh God. Now, he doesn't look all that on his Myspace - very skinny - but I decided to go VI and look at his picture there too,, to compare and see what I was 'up against,' if you know what I mean (which you probably don't...). Schiessenhauser! He looked v. good, and slightly as if he had stepped out of a 'conscious' hip-hop video.
It would seem that The Spectre of Fey Skinny Indie was returning. I have these phases where I get all wiggly about the likes of Alex Kapranos, and er... that's it so far (see the link for this post above!). I went extremely self-conscious and giggly, and texted my cousin about it, and also forwarded my email to my bf. See, I am a complete child - there was no imagining relationships with him, or any such rubbish. It was more:
'He's pretty.'
*tittering*
'He is!'
*more tittering*
*giggles all round*
Yes, I know. I am such a terrible girl. My cousin and I just compared his two pics and died laughing for about 10 minutes when I went to her house. However, my sense of honour eventually overcame all else. I emailed apologising, and enclosing a song I really like. Here is his reply:
'Ha. No, no worries, I've been too swamped to write you a response. Even then though, I get so many emails and such, I make it a habit to keep 'em to music (unless and until I meet people). Anyway, thanks for the Brazilian Girls! They actually got their start right down the street from me here in the East Village, at a fun club called Nublu. Born out of impromptu experimental jam sessions. They're great!A few bands we're loving here this week are Love Is All, Cloud Cult, Land of Talk - and The Walkmen were amazing last night!-A'
I was understandably freaked out, like BLEEPING HELL, he is a celebrity of the miniature variety! I got even more awed, and vowed to rarely email him. I have made good on this; he is, as he says, a busy guy. I mean, the dude goes to a gig virtually every damn day and / or night. I blame S--- - I related all this to him, and he went something like 'Well why would I worry about you fancying him?! Maybe I was worried that I would fancy him!'
Need I say more? I have always found that boy funny... ;-)
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