Log in

No account? Create an account

Particular Blues on a Grey Summer's Day

There is a floating non-reality to a leisurely indoor life. For all the surrounding environment is like a bubble or a dream, a cloud or a shell; vivacious electrons actively seizing and expelling energy beyond the plump, watching nucleus. Conclusions reached by physicists in regard to recent LHC findings indicate the strong possibility of a ‘Higgs field’ that produces mass in central atomic particles.
This luxurious indolence of a well fed, well kept existence has no resistance, no Higgs field, and leaves me weightless, aimless. As if suspended in a vacuum of deep space, this is the unjustifiable blues of a wealthy teenager whose parents cushion her through unemployment, in the determined and equally unjustifiable belief she will amount to success. What bigotry. Or is it ignorance.

I flutter in many directions but do not fly.

I open my mouth to sing but can only croak.

Winter is here.

Observing the Betters

I don't mean Betters in the gambling sense. I mean the writers whom I admire; Maurice Gee, Jo Rowling. Currently I'm watching a feature based on Kate Mansfield. Ooooh the ads are over. Maybe I'll come back to this post. Or perhaps it will sit here unfinished like everything else I ever start.

Oh hai dere gewl

Blogging seems a lot less necessary these days.
Oh wait.
It was never regular anyway.
Usually the case with these blogs is that something shit has happened in my life, or I'm fed up, or overwhelmed, or dead bored. This time, I'm perched on the tip of my bed in my tiny little hostel room waiting for my brother to text me back. This could take anywhere from a minute to a few hours. In this particular situation, a few hours would be entirely inconvenient as the text is going to steer the ship of my last night in Wellington before the half semester break. To meet Brother for a bev, or not? My life is a drunken Hamlet. So, I go home tomorrow.
I recently read a blogpost by one of my favourite youtubers regarding home, and where it is. Funny things happen when you escape the nest, and it's an oddly odd time for someone my age. The first holidays of this year, I loved home with an unyielding fervour for indulging in things that home has, such as 1) real cheese, 2) a shower with real pressure and in which you don't have to wear jandals to avoid diseases/stray hairs, and 3) the joys of television. During the second holidays, it only took me a week before I craved Wellington's independence and bustle. And now, I'm not sure I want to go back. At least, it's not my home anymore. I think now it's my parents' home and one of my houses. It houses me, it does not feel as a home should. I believe Wellington is my home- no particular place, just the city in general. 
Okay, so my back is aching from the awkward position from which I'm typing. 
Perhaps I'll watch some Black Books until Brother replies. Black Books is great; Dylan Moran is an Irish babe. 
Until next time,



I'm home again, after 8 weeks away, but it doesn't feel like a home should. There's nothing but the comfort of memories, and with a brain as forgetful as mine it's needless to say those memories are fairly perfunctory. The ones that aren't, however, are like bombardments to the fortress of psyche that I try so hard to unify. Driving along roads shadowed by painful memories is not something I would like to experience again, but I have to get to the airport somehow or else I won't be returning to my actual home, (which I hesitate but am inclined to call my real home). The city, the friends, the challenges.

You know what is the ultimate shit balls about my parents' home, though? That I have less privacy in this house of three than living in a hostel of 300 students. There's the glaring tv spewing american accents and the scuffing of winter slippers over the carpet, the closing of doors and the eerie silence of the countryside which does more to distract me than all the raucous students at my hostel combined.
Okay, so that's an exaggeration.

Holiday goals:
- write write write
- acquire new clothes
- acquire new knowledge
- read read read
- avoid friends enough to retain my sanity but make efforts to appease their needs to uphold friendly conventions

Right. Now, off to bury my nose into point four of that smashing list!

Of course the old loathed lie- did I write 'lie'? I meant 'life'- would crumble. Only I wish it would do so faster. We've been defined and consequently liberated by our university decisions, but the inevitable clash of personalities has been bubbling, bubbling, bubbling and is ready to erupt. I'm ready for this to be over, and I want to pull the plug quickly.
How could I expect to leave without her puppet strings tugging me inexorably back? The way I was ruled, it's possible I'm the only one who felt this way about us, and it would crush her to know her own faults. She lives in a fairy world parallel to reality where there is no suffering and no uncertain horizon. It's almost unbearable to be around all those rainbows and unicorns for more than a day- and I lasted years.

No pretty way for this to end. Maybe if I leave the volcano to bubble, the heat will die down and reach dormancy.

A promise.

Hello, blog. I’m yet undecided as to whether I should moan about loneliness and malnutrition, or rant about ego bloated individuals, or tell you how I haven’t written something both creative and merit-worthy since early last year. And this makes me sad for a number of reasons.
If the writing drought goes any longer I’ll be standing empty-handed in line to apply for the creative writing course I’ve been dreaming of, and without that course I’ll be stuck getting a degree to fulfill my dream of working in a business which is currently collapsing and eternally doomed: publishing.
When I’m in between regurgitating a book onto a note page and wasting hours feeding on fleeting moments of online RSS information, my stomach might sometimes make a thunderous growl and remind me of the food I cannot have. Somebody recently told me that humans only need three things to live contentedly; sex, sleep, and food. That last one really resonates in me- like, literally, the growl resonates throughout my digestive system. Anyway, it’s in those moments that I visualise my ideal future. Either writing in a beautiful countryside cottage, or being a top-dog publisher and unashamed coffee-whore who can afford baskets of muffins whenever she fucking well wants them. Like I said, both of these futures appear dishearteningly unattainable right now. Failure for the former can only be blamed on myself.
Thus, I hereby promise to allocate more time to writing each day, pursuing entrance to that amazing university course. So. Please excuse me. Not only do I have two Political Science essays to research, plan, and write, but I have a story to pen and a script to complete.
There’s a train coming my way. It’s the last one for a long time and if I don’t catch it now, I’ll be old and crippled and wondering, “What if?”

On the Other Side

I miss writing when there are a thousand things to be done. That's why I'm back.

Things have changed, blog, and for once I think it's for the better. A month ago I moved out of home and into a hall of residence in the capital city, and I love it here. I'm not force feeding myself with false interest in people who, for the most part, I don't care about. Ever since I watched the documentary on JK Rowling and heard her say that she didn't really start enjoying life until she knocked on the door of her 30s, I've had it buried in the recesses of my mind that maybe being young just isn't my thing. Then I came to University, and made friends who are like me, and who like me. The workload is cumbersome and stressful, but I love the pride of finishing a piece you're worked laboriously over and I love that I can study what I chose, not what my parents or that squeaking voice in my head which nags about growing up and being broke have told me to study.

I should probably return to my readings. Much Ado About Nothing. It never ceases to amaze me that my homework is to read Shakespeare. Homework is a JOY! Life is becoming a joy.

Are my angsty teenage years over? We'll see.

Home Alone, Saturday Night

Ever since Dad got sick, I've started to crack.
Not noticeably to other people, but the rock wall of Hollytude that for so long has stood in silence and fortitude has its moments of weakness, its chinks in the stone, and in those moments I secretly hope somebody will kick me down and let me crumble so I can rebuild myself again. Because I don't like this person. This wall.
But when I show weakness, nobody cares. Is it because I've been the absorbing stone of other people's whining for so long that people negate the fact that I might actually care about something, or be upset?
I don't want to hear about your ex-husband's court case, or your perfect life that you seem to find some way to complain about. I don't want your sympathy, I just need you to be there. Don't try to do anything other than just be there.

Rant over.
I can't wait to get away from this city and start over.

I Am a Madwoman!

Because, honestly, what other explanation would there be for an extremely-busy-girl-such-as-myself to be typing furiously on a cold Saturday night. I should be at a party, shouldn't I? Or a date?

Well, I did in fact turn down a poker party this evening because I thought I would be much occupied with my tremendous amount of homework and study, but I am quite useless as I'm sure you know, so I spent half the night reading and the other half watching Charles Dickens dvds. A date? COUGH. I stand no chance with the person in question, and things are becoming increasingly awkward from my parents' points of view as my friends begin to engage in texting-obsessions with elusive strangers and I remain textless and dateless. (But I hate texting anyway, it's too itty-bitty-I-can't-be-arsed-typing-on-these-tiny-buttons). Parents are concerned for my popularity, to say in the least, and I truly don't care for it.

Since I last hammered at these humble keys, I won a trip to Turkey. That's a long story.

I also attended the school ball! It was semi-lame because the night was consumed by posing, waiting for the photographer, waiting for friends to finish eating, or doing embarrassing dance moves with my dress slipping down. The worst part arrived a few days later, when I saw the photos and realised that I didn't even look good in my ball dress. I blame the hairdo. Seriously, WHY DID I EVER CUT MY LOVELY HAIR?

Yesterday the fourth edition of the Inkling (student newspaper that I started) came out. I am not proud of that issue, nor the one before, as the articles are pointless, rambling fluff, much like this blog. Therefore, I think some changes are in order before the entire school thinks I'm a raving loon. Which by the title of this blog, would be correct.

Here is something I transcribed last week, in class.

Teacher: And why is this slogan significant?
Him: . . . It's the name of a John Lennon song . . .
Me (in my head, of course): Excuse me, while I take my clothes off.


Sisters Can't Be Brothers, Yo.

Why the frick do girls snub one another?
I'm tired of secretly disliking a selection of my friends, the patronising double takes some girls get on their outfits in the shopping mall, and mostly, the way they're too afraid to "offend" a fellow woman by telling them the truth.

Walking into the Body Shop with my brother today. He's a friendly chap, and the female cashier holds no reserves on leaping over and politely complimenting the band on his shirt. When I add to the conversation, a dirty glare is the only response I'm granted. All of this in the space of, say, four seconds.

Maybe it's just a New Zealand women-are-so-desperate-cause-we're-suffering-a-man-drought thing, or some primal animalistic sense of competition, but girls are such opportunists. Watch an episode of the Hills, for example. Actually don't because it's shit. *clears throat*
Watch three minutes of the Hills, for example, and that is all one needs to comprehend how goddam horrid girls are to each other; clawing and conniving over a lunkhead's affections. Meanwhile, said lunkhead is chilling with his bros on the beautiful beach which the program should essentially be based around as wherever-the-heck-they-live is some glamourous paradise. How did those scabby, spoilt brats earn their way into paradise when all they do is fight?

Unfortunately I'm a bit of a hypocrite. But that doesn't mean I don't wish that girls could be more sisterly to each other. Don't take that the wrong way, think like the fascist-communist scale. "Too sisterly" are girls who practically sleep together, and "Unsisterly" are the aforementioned Hills girls. If only there was a name for the middle, and if only its population were the majority.

Yet sadly, the scale can't be summarised with a normal distribution curve shows more of a parabola.

Parents are home, gotta pretend I'm actually working, BAI.