things i will miss most # 43 & 44

# 43: taking the post down to 105 and wasting time chatting to sam (the receptionist).

# 44: jaffa cakes.

things that have made me cry (or almost cry) this past week:

* the visa debacle with MB/the embassy
* getting home too late on thursday to do anything that i needed to. chalk this one up to complete overtiredness, lack of food (i sound like a toddler) and currently emotional instability
* the last ever episode of Buffy (man, that show rocks)
* more visa debacle with the courier company. and MB.
* Everything Is Illuminated - Jonathan Safran Foer
* thinking about having to leave my house forever
* Finding Neverland (again)
* Chocolat (which for some reason, i'm annoyed about)

Something of an emotional knapsack, as HF keeps calling me.

things i will miss most # 5

(l to r: alice, laura, me, al's little sister, amy. at the forefront, my fi)

childhood best friends who, now you're supposedly grown up, meet for a "quick drink" and three hours later still find yourselves in the pub

fuck them up their stupid asses

so i spent most of my day at the embassy today. i read a whole book and still had time over (incidentally, i should have re-thought my choice of book, as it kept making me choke up, and i was thinking how terrible it would be to start crying in the middle of the embassy, in that huge waiting room, because of a sodding book.) i had to buy overpriced food because, in a case of astounding wishful thinking, i thought it would take maybe an hr and a half, two hours at most and hadn't had lunch or anything.

and then i finally get called up there for my interview (one of the last up, natch), only to find out that i'm not on the correct database, that the "organisation" that's sorting out this internship hasn't entered me.

i got outside, called the company, managed to remain calm, then went round the corner and burst into tears on the phone to my mum. not my finest moment. there were three armed police guards staring at me. excellent. one of them even strolled really unsubtly right around me, brandishing his machine gun, checking i wasn't carrying a bomb or something i expect. no, no, just your run-of-the-mill public breakdown.

i'm so fucking fed up with the company; they seem so bloody disorganised. as if moving to another country for year wasn't stressful enough without all this other shit.

so today's f-u goes to them. fuck MB, fuck them up their stupid asses.

spoofalicious, baby

'american we stand as one'

i don't know whether to laugh or cry

what film are we talking about

"so you really thought it was a good film?"
"yes! how could you not?!"
"but - the story was so messy and weak! and-"
"it was brilliant! there was such great camaraderie and that bit when-"
"yeah, okay, there was a good sense-like, nice chemistry between them all, but otherwise it was rubbish-"
"no-"
"-the storyline was just messy and sooo predictable-"
"-yeah, whatever..."
"it was!"
"it was a good film-"
"rubbish"
"nope"
"yes"
"nope"
"your mum."

nice to see we can still have eloquent discussions about films.

cheap thrills

somehow there was still room in us after that huge meal at the restaurant so we made a late night trip to the supermarket for a £2 bottle of bucks fizz and sticky toffee pudding. one of our finer plans, i feel.

fun for all the family...

another family/religious holiday, another trip to A&E with my sister.

we`ve realised what her "thing" is. with some people it`s writing, some it`s music, some it`s kicking a ball around a pitch. my sister? her gift is putting the `special` in special occasion by throwing the big holidays (first christmas, now easter) into disarray with a variety of tricks. after the mystery seizure on christmas eve, her lastest trick is getting hydrogen peroxide in her eye just as we`re about to leave to go to suffolk for sunday lunch, necessitating a quick trip to casualty and then over to moorfields eye hospital in the east end (which was quite strange as it was all shut up and dead apart from the A&E part of the hospital.)

it`s a real gift, i think you`ll agree.

(she`s fine. i don`t have that inappropriate a sense of humour that i`d be laughing if she`d gone blind. they just irrigated it for what felt like ages, did a litmus test - on her eye, *shudder* - and gave her some ointment.)

i`m starting to wonder whether someplace with padded walls might be safer for her - and us...

tower bridge is falling down

best overheard conversation last night in london eye pod between two American ladies who were looking at one of those skyline guide things, trying to identify everything.

Woman #1: Where's Tower Bridge?
Woman #2: Ah don't know
Woman #1: Well Ah thought it would be really obvious. It's like bright blue isn't it?
Woman #2: Ah think so.
Woman #1: So where'd it go? That's Bucking-ham palace, that's Waterloo... Ah don't see Tower Bridge nowhere.
Woman #2: Well maybe they tore it down. They done tore London Bridge down, y'know.

I was snickering in the corner throughout this exchange then kindly informed them it was actually round the bend in the river; we were now too low down to see it as it was blocked by buildings along the south bank.

fried my little brains

okay, we went to see the kills last night. me and dig were both complete miseryguts, both completely preoccupied with psychotic housemates (him) and burglaries (me).

but cat claw and fried my little brains made me feel fractionally better.

fuckers

around the 20th of december last year, someone asked me what i`d like for christmas

i foolishly said "better luck for my family", `cause that`s pretty much all i *do* want

i jinxed it. ever since then, it`s all just going further and further downhill. it`s laughable.

we got back this evening to find out we`d been burgled. my dad`s antique clock (apparently worth about £1500. should`ve sold it ages ago, in my mind), mine and my ma`s jewellery boxes (including 4 birth certificates and 1 marriage certificate), the lovely pentax camera that was my fotolog staple before i got my digi, a gameboy, a minidisc player, and, most crushing of all, my fricking laptop. my fucking career.

so laugh with me, and cross your fingers that the duncan luck goes uphill from now on.

(the forensics dude took my fingerprints so they could compare and contrast etc. apparently scotland yard destroys them once they`re over, they don`t get put on a record or anything. apparently.)
**

on the plus side, i did return home to exciting packages from various ebayers, including a johnny cash lp that is now of course playing loudly. i need me some whiskey. strange they didn`t think to take them.

snow! real live snow!

so by the time it turned new year here in steamboat (colorado), it was the equivalent of like 7 or 8 in the morning back home. yesterday was a looooonnng day.

but now i'm here and there's no rest for the wicked so i had a ski lesson today which was wicked. and there's just so much snow everywhere! and it's sunny! hurrah!

merry motherfucking christmas

how we spent christmas eve and the wee hours of christmas day

my sister had to be rushed to hospital. she had a seizure of some kind. i`ve never been so panicked and scared in my whole life but somehow still managed to call 999 and coherently give them our address and phone number

she`s back home and relatively okay now, thank god. not quite the start to christmas we had hoped for


merry motherfucking christmas indeed

like an ostrich

you try and bury your head in the sand so you don`t go crazy from all the shit that`s happening, then something happens to bring it all home.

alison's uncle is being held hostage in iraq.

hardly something you can ignore.

leaving on a jet plane

Fri 31-Dec LHR - DEN

Thurs 6-Jan DEN - JFK

Mon 10-Jan JFK - LHR


strange that previous post laments the state of america, yet the same day i book my trip over to the states to go in little under two months. can't wait though. skiing and partying can safely be separated from politics. i hope.

the death of democracy

*thanks to dogseat for image

It’s the day after the US Presidential Elections. Bush got back in. Something like 51% to 49% is what I heard.

The day is grey. There’s no sun and the low clouds are blocking out any blue sky. Everything seems faded of colour in this light. The trees are shedding their leaves. All in all, the weather pretty much matches my mood. It’s reflective of how a lot of people feel.

The New Yorkers were all so optimistic that I thought maybe Kerry had a chance. They were all gathering at one house to watch the results come in, bottles of champagne chilling for the celebratory drinks, flasks of whiskey tucked in back pockets to calm the nerves as Jon Stewart chatted his way through Election Night. But the champagne and whiskey turned to commiserating drinks, something to steady the nerves ahead of four more years of Bush.

That’s what I’ve seen a lot of. “Four More Years.” “Four Year Hangover.” “How can 59, 054, 087 people be wrong?” as on the Daily Mirror, above. Strange, they always seemed a fairly right wing newspaper. Jumping on the Kerry bandwagon.

I saw Kerry’s concession speech where he got a standing ovation. “We’ve still got your back man!” someone yelled from the crowd as the applause subsided. I almost cried.

I think we might be hearing the death rattle of democracy.

more bikes, less cars

halloween critical mass last night was sooo much fun

after swapping the huge mountain bike for the chonch bike (aka deathbike for cutie, recently renamed 'elizabeth' by sam) we congregated on the south bank by the national. i just about managed to hook up my devil horns to the front of my bike.

to be honest, the mass was a little disorganised and there seemed to be some power issues to be worked out; no one ever seemed to really know where we were going. we went over waterloo bridge, up kingsway, round bloomsbury square, then headed up to the couriers pub (can't for life of me remember name), up clerkenwell rd, past farringdon station, through smithfield, then down over london bridge, along the south bank to tower bridge, back over that (where small confrontation occurred between posh twat and overzealous slightly scary bike courier guy wearing a death hood) past the tower of london, along that route back to the west end, along the embankment, trafalgar sq, charing cross road up to tottenham court road, up oxford street where we shut down oxford circus by riding in circles for a while. which was amusing. then they headed up portland place to who knows where while me, diggle and sam hopped off our bikes, locked 'em up and went to The Heights bar, a bar about fifteen stories up on top of the st george's hotel. very nice.

me and sam then for some reason decided to cycle home too, which almost did me in.

one week later...

well. quite a year for the red sox. first world series win in 86 years. took its damn time coming. screw the curse, screw the yankees, screw st louis, we won. hah.

or something a little more sporting.

and now, after all those nights of staying up to watch the bloody games, i need some serious sleep... zzzzzz...

curse schmurse

Bos: 10
NY: 3

have it!

unconscious comfort

had a really restless sleepless night last night, brain churning, couldn't get things off my mind

at one point i woke up to find myself curled up foetally, thumb in mouth, cheeks wet with tears

jesus

felt emotionally exhausted which only added to the insomnia

what's going on?

puellae est in bar

so i was out with friends the other night. we were in a packed vodka bar in central london. one-in one-out style. we're young, we're in a bar surrounded by lots of other young people and freely flowing alcohol.

and it suddenly occurred to me we were talking about latin. yes, latin. caecilius est in horto. cerberus. matella.

are we like the biggest geeks in the world?

i can't believe it's october already.

shit.

9/11... belatedly

it was three years ago last saturday. wow, it seems both so much longer and much more recent than that.

following various links i ended up on laura holder's site (aka lauratitian) and saw her post about 9/11 when it happened and it got me thinking.

actually it got me feeling. i see things like this, these personal glimpses at the disaster that happened and i can't read them properly. i feel choked. i feel like i'm almost about to cry.

so where was i? it's something everyone remembers, isn't it.

i was working my last day at starbucks in uxbridge. it was the end of summer vacation between my first and second years at university. i'd spent the summer working back at starbucks after Thomas (manager) had invited me back, and had been whored out to various stores: richmond, kingston, gloucester road, uxbridge. kingston was the best, it was where mikee and scotty worked. uxbridge i didn't like very much. apart from the fact that it's miles away, the people there weren't so easy to get on with and they seemed to resent the fact that i'd come straight in as supervisor when i was the youngest person to work there (hah. sorry. that was a belated hah, as well).

so i get in to work for a 1pm shift and i've just punched in when my sister calls me on my mobile to say a plane had crashed into one of the world trade center towers. we were both kind of "wow" but it seemed like a crazy joke at the time.

in the next hour more people came in and reports trickled in. both the towers had since been hit. a plane had flown into the pentagon. i had to explain to Roberto (spanish? south american? can't remember), one of the guys working with me, what the pentagon was. when he understood it was a US governmental building he cracked a huge grin. "good. down wiz ahmairicayn goverrement." what a prick. i hated him even more right then. maybe if he'd realised what a big deal it all was he wouldn't have said it. but he still did.

my sister called again, more panicked this time. she was home alone and i think she just wanted some reassurance, to hear a family voice. there wasn't much i could say, especially as i was meant to be working. she stuck a VHS in and pressed record; every channel had been taken over by the news.

when i finally got a break, i went over to the electronics store in the shopping mall where we were based. i think it was a Dixons. the mall was pretty empty. there were other people gathered in there, standing hushed in front of the bank of televisions that always line the back walls. all televisions were either showing footage of the event, or were tuned to a Sky Movies channel that just showed movie trailers in a continuous loop. one of them for that schwarzenegger flick, The 6th Day and there were a few seconds when you couldn't tell which screen was showing reality and which was showing the future apocalyptic style film. i suddenly couldn't stop shivering and got out the store.

i don't remember much of the rest of the shift; i don't think anything much happened. everywhere was much quieter than usual, i know that much.

those are my main memories of the day. then a couple days later, driving up to nottingham and back in a day with claire to drop stuff off at the new house. driving with her is usually pretty fun, we put on loud music, she pisses around, we talk and joke. we listened to bbc radio the whole time, constantly talking about the tragedy and we barely spoke a word between us. it was strange.

and now. it's the personal accounts, like i mentioned, that affect me. it's almost as if it's been overdone or something in the mainstream media. although saying that, the images of it in Bowling for Columbine made me cry and not be able to stop.

a while ago, whilst at work, i was browsing through people's archives (it's so much easier with a good broadband connection) and came across frank's dedication to the event here and, even though i was at work, it made me cry. that sneezy feeling you get in your nose, the choking feeling in your throat, the prickling feeling in your eyes when you're trying your hardest not to - started as i read his caption then eventually got the better of me as i scrolled down and read the comments.

and that's just one of them that immediately springs to mind. like i said, it's these personal takes on the tragedy, the personal element that get me. i think it's been - i don't know, overdone or something in the mainstream media. the pictures and words are still horrifying but when it's just something like this - and from people i've met in person, no less - then it just brings it home to you.

Fear of Failure (yes, I'm capitalising it).

Some people use it as fuel, the hot hard core of their ambition.

Others are so crippled by it that they don't even try - which of course is a type of failure. It's a vicious circle. So scared of failing that you don't even try and in the process fail anyway.

It's ridiculous.

I've had enough of bitching about how sick I am of this city, how I feel stuck in a rut or something.

I can't even bitch about being scared to call The Producer 'cause Fate's wheels turned and clicked and we bumped into each other. And it was good news that I heard - but obviously I've barely done a thing about it. Written a couple of paragraphs. Why? Because I'm scared they won't like what I come up with when I know this thing inside-out, back-to-front and in Latin if it really came to it? Probably. It's taken on tones of apathy, this fear of failing thing. It's become more of a "nah I can't really be bothered" more than I "oh god what if they don't like it." It's just a masquerade.

But enough. If I'm tired of London (then I'm tired of life?) then I can do something about it. And I am.

And this writing thing. I'm going to do it. I need some self-discipline. I need to find somewhere to work; there are way too many distractions here. But people are leaving and going back to school and so on so the place will empty out a little. That might help.

And a job. I need to get a job. I don't have time this week (no, honestly, I'm already working on Thursday and Friday) but Monday morning, bright and early, I'll go do the rounds of the agencies, peruse the Guardian Media. Get something to keep me going.

And soon I'll blow the hell out of this popsicle stand.

The Producer speaks

so i bumped into The Producer the other day; he was walking out a dry cleaner's as i walked past - when i should have actually been in richmond. and he'd tried to call me an hour previous but my phone had been off. it's so easy to see these "signs" everywhere...

after a little chitchat:

"...what it comes back to is that I think you're a fantastic writer-"

oh god, that sounds like there's going to be a 'but', he's going to say 'but- something', oh shit, but what?

" - and what's coming back from these people is that they think you should write a book."

oh.

yes, that was unexpected. now what??

hey, at least it saves me calling him. i hate calling people.

signs

so the deadline for that job i kind of wanted (trainee script editor) was actually august 20th, not august 27th. that means i missed it. i obviously wasn't meant to have that job. maybe it's a sign that i shouldn't be editing other people's scripts but focusing on my own. because if i'm honest with myself, in my heart of hearts that's what i'd love to do for a living; write scripts. i think i had it too easy the first time round, with a producer saying he wanted it. but now - it's probably just gathering dust somewhere at shepperton. and i'm too chicken to call and ask what's going on, if he's still looking for an agent for me, if he's even still interested. i keep telling myself i'll call in september. i'm just one big coward. afraid of failure. so maybe i should just admit that i fucked up over this job application deadline instead of seeing everything as a sign. it's just a way of interpreting everything to your liking. it's stupid.

anyone?

this weblog is a tiny little fragment of cyberspace that i get to call my own. to do what i want with it, to share with others. a couple of people sometimes read the posts; i know this 'cause they leave comments. that's fine. it's a kind of validation.

i saw this quote about a month ago: "sometimes the things you don't want to talk about are the things you need to talk about most."

true. very true. i'm not much of a talker in reality, but i thought this could be my space to vent, to talk, to get rid of some of the demons. but it's so much harder than i thought. i don't if there's some kind of boundary i'm not meant to overstep. my posts on here range from the everyday talking about films, to the emotional heartwrench that i try to hide up or just fail to accurately write about because i let myself get caught up in the emotion. i don't know if by writing about the things that eat away at me i might alienate people. or what if people i know read it? what then?

so what's the answer? start a new blog? an anonymous one?
say fuck it all and write about it on here, where i suppose i might at least get some answers?

can anyone tell me?

the life you save may be your own

not so nice incident at liverpool street station last night waiting for one of the last tubes home after adam's b'day party. perverted man. i vented here.

so i jumped on the first train that turned up, a circle line, and got off at kings cross to wait for the h'smith & city line. a girl sat down next to me on the bench, looking like she was trying not to cry. then she was crying, quietly, to herself - the way you do if you can't help crying in public. she worried me, and i almost checked what was wrong, but something - that kind of unwritten rule about not talking to people on public transport, or that innate sense of britishness whereby you seem to ignore public emotion - made me stop. i was going to ask her when we got on the tube but she got on one carriage and i got on another. i could still see her through the carriage windows and she was still really upset and it was hurting me to watch her, so a few stops down the line i just got up and went to the next carriage and sat down next to her and asked her if she was okay.

she said her heart had just been wrenched out, proper heartbreak, but it was her own fault. i tried to tell her it wasn't. it was really upsetting me. i don't know why i overempathise so much. it's weird. emotionally numb, just feel others' pain or something too much. i just chatted to her till edgware roadwhere she got off to get the circle line round to sloane square. i apologised for breaking the unwritten tube law about talking to people and she said it was fine, it was actually quite refreshing that someone gave a damn or whatever.

i remember back in february, after that guy harrassed me all the way on the district line then followed me off the train, how relieved i was to hear a human voice when that guy asked me if i was okay or whatever. it's like - i don't know, just someone reaching out or whatever. i couldn't just let her sit like that the whole time on the tube. even if it wasn't for her, i needed to do it for myself because it was upsetting to see her, and i would have felt like such a shit if i hadn't.

i've just noticed i tend to lose coherence and any ability to write properly when writing about something emotional. strange.

and on another note, you'd have thought that having deleted someone's mobile number from my mobile's phonebook would be enough to make me realise the relationship is probably dying if not dead. but no, it needs for me to have re-entered the fucking number then to re-fucking-delete it for me to maybe think this is finally it. fucking idiot. i don't know why i give people so many chances. people that i love, i mean. it's a shame. the friendship was taken for granted. maybe because i was upset by that among other things, maybe that's why i went and talked to the girl. but maybe if she got off the train just feeling only 0.01% better because someone acknowledged her, then i guess that's a good thing.

oh, and look. it's friday 13th today.

make it so

or, things i learnt from art departmenting, part 3:

17. j seems to have been a jedi in a former life. obi wan hattobi or something. (heyyy, goes nicely with the hanalita-solo name i got...)
18. to "cut in" does not mean drive in front of someone rudely, it means to paint carefully around the edge of things such as windowsills, plugs, sockets and the edge of walls. i cannot be trusted to do the latter.
19. before this, i didn't even know what a valence was, let alone own two of them
20. windsor is quite a sweet town but i wouldn't live there, despite the grand castle
21. slough is definitely *not* a sweet town and i certainly wouldn't live there for all the tea in china
22. B&Q trollies are absolute arses to push around
23. i defintely can't wear those jeans again for anything other than painting
24. i need to find a job that is as satisfying and enjoyable (in its own way) that i can get paid for. twenty quid away from the overdraft. eek.

(part one and part two )

snakes everywhere

i fell asleep this afternoon (hey, i'm takin sleep wherever i can get it) and had really strange dreams about snakes

but get this - it was like a trilogy.

there was the first installment which was like some kind of X-Files ep or something, something to do with people being taken over by a big snake or alligator type thing. but that story concluded and everyone was safe and happy.

then the second installment kicked in. and from there it just got worse. it turned into some Roger Corman kind of horror movie, with snakes and 'gators everywhere and no one was safe and being killed left, right and centre. so fucking weird.

i just got done reading The Fatal Eggs by Mikhail Bulgakov. i think that's where it's all come from.

but what am i meant to do when i either don't sleep, or when i do have bizarre freaky nightmares like that?

good lord.

"these go to eleven"

just watched A Mighty Wind whilst babysitting
 
came home and put on This Is Spinal Tap
 
"nowtro, if you will"
 
"mime is money, my friend"
 
christopher guest is GENIUS. soooooo gooooooooooooood.

to whom it may concern

please, get out of my dreams


this isn't easy, but i'm trying


but please-

maybe it's 'cause i'm a londoner...

walking around london is one of the best things. exploring all the little back roads, stumbling across treasures, strange shops, people, stories, houses. and the museums and galleries that are free. i wanted to go to the wallace collection today, but we kind of ran out of time as we went for dim sum in chinatown after oxford circus - heading away from manchester square.

and i go through phases of constantly having my walkman jammed on, walking around with a soundtrack to wherever i am; or just not being able to handle the music, like it dulls out some of the world around me or something, and burying the walkman under the rest of the junk in my bag.

i did it in new york too. it was so nice having those first five days all by myself, just walking all over the place, block to block. i think it's slightly easier there, what with that grid layout and all. but - and this is going to sound gay in a totally gay way - you get a better sense of the city when you do this. off the beaten track or whatever.

there are times when it feels like your own private city, when you come across something you've never seen before, or some amazing little shop. like that second hand bookstore in NY that was around union sq somewhere. all those bukowski and harry crews books, and the ladders that you moved around and climbed up yourself to rifle through the top shelves (imagine that happening at waterstones or barnes & noble... they'd be so scared of litigation if someone fell or something, customers wouldn't be allowed within a five mile radius of a ladder). and the fat cat that just sat in the middle of the back room and regally watched the book browsers, and the other cat that twined itself round your ankles as you weighed up whether to buy those two william faulkner books (you didn't in the end as you figured it was only your third day in town and you should watch your money until you knew how the trip was going to play out). and the smell of the books, kind of dusty and musty and papery.

i was trying to convince HF today of the beauty of doing stuff like this, trying to convince her to just walk somewhere, anywhere, wherever we end up, but she was tired, full from dim sum and feeling a little grumpy or something, so that idea was dismissed.

never mind. i like going by myself, antisocial bug that i am. i'd rather go by myself than with someone who just doesn't *get* it. and i don't think she does.

with all that ra ra ra you playin yaself

clearing up my room i found all my old mix tapes from years ago

jeru the damaja. wu tang. tribe called quest. noreaga. redman. funky dl. rasaan patterson. mostly taped off choice fm. blast from the past. can't tell you how much it takes me back. almost like being 15, 16 again.

was listening to dymon-'all i want' and wanted to start wailing.

but goddamn if 'playin yaself' ain't a hottttt song. maybe i'll see if bella has any jeru albums or summat.

it's suddenly turned into being all about hip hop again in the past couple weeks.

"with all that big willy talk, you playin yaself"

rock... hard place...

i had this dream last night that the reason sam hasn't been in contact, seems as if she's not speaking to me, is because i - i won't tell someone something

and she was all like "it's for your own good", and refused to talk to me until i did something about it

but it left me in the position of: if i didn't say anything, then i'd lose her friendship; if i *did* say something, i ran the very real risk of losing this other person's friendship. stuck between a rock and a hard place.

'cause although it was a bitchy thing to do, kind of immature, i could see a method in her madness (there's a back story to the whole thing that i'm not going into...). but i didn't know what to do - i was thinking that was it worth being friends with someone who would do something like that. then remembering how good the friendship was when it was working.


then of course i woke up.

but i've still spent all day thinking it's real, and having to remind myself it's not.

coincidentally i actually got an email from her this evening. i'd like to say out of the blue, but i texted her on friday night to see if she was back and this was a four line email response to that. four lines. wow.

better than nothing?

i'm such a sucker. loyal to the point of stupidity.

but like i say, i now can't get this idea out of my head, about her being really pissed off that i'm too... "me" to do anything, say anything, whatever.

t'was all just a dream. queen mab at work playing her dangerous games.

tears for fears

maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
aaarrrghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

huh

right. hopefully that's out of my system.

that's three times people have said something along those lines. GAAAHHHHH.


hhhhh. okay. whatever.
it's never gonna happen.
it's fine.
fine.

rockin the shit ghetto baby style

i keep forgetting to say, we saw this totally bling bling ghetto baby on brick lane on sunday

she had gold everywhere, including a fat gold chain round her neck that hooked onto her dummy so she wouldn't lose it

hardcore ghetto baby style

kind of wish i'd taken a shot

poetic interlude # 1

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows:
My friends forsake me like a memory lost,
I am the self-consumer of my woes -
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love's frenzied stifled throes -
And yet I am, and live - like vapours tossed.

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreasm,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
Even the dearest, that I love the best,
And strange - nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod,
A place where woman never smiled or wept -
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lies,
The grass below - above the vaulted sky.

John Clare (1793 - 1864)

*****

no real reason for it being in, i just found a scrap of paper with it written on when i was going through some junk and really liked it and felt like sharing. it's not one of my favourites, it's just - a poem for a monday.

fiction is the lie we use to tell the truth

from script secrets (my emphases) (wait, is that the plural of emphasis?):

"For a script to be good, it needs to be something personal and emotional... but for a script to sell it needs to be something commercial that a couple hundred million people will pay to see. How do you find an idea that's both? What if all of the commercial ideas you come up with you aren't passionate about, and all of the personal ideas you come up with aren't commercial? How can you turn that personal and emotional idea into something with commercial potential?

...for a while it seemed as if everyone I knew betrayed me. I ended up hardening my heart and withholding my trust. I closed myself off from the world. After a couple of years living like this I realized I was miserable. Those walls that prevented me from having my heart broken again or my trust betrayed also prevented me from having any friends or any real relationships. I had to tear down those walls - even if it meant getting hurt again.

This was perfect material for a screenplay - very emotional, and something that most people can identify with on some level. But there were three problems with writing this as a script:

1) Not interesting enough. Gee, my heart got broken and a friend screwed me over - big deal! Who cares? This stuff happens to everyone, so why would six hundred million people worldwide pay to see my version? How would this be entertaining? Let's face it, this story is like listening to some friend tell you about the bad day they had at work... boring!

2) Even though I was over the broken heart and the friend's betrayal, it's still painful subject matter. Would I really want to relive all of that stuff in a script? Would I subconsciously tone it down in order to make it easier (emotionally) for me to write?

3) When all was said and done, the girl who dumped me and the friend who stole my deal weren't the real problem, I was. Hey - people get dumped every day, but how many completely cut themselves off emotionally afterwards? How many people go out of their way *not* to fall in love again, and go out of their way *not* to form friendships? The real story was that I had stopped trusting people... was I brave enough to tell that story? Would I try to sugar coat it, or maybe make it look like my ex-girlfriend was a monster so that my reaction would make more sense? Could I really be honest about my emotions?

Which is why I believe that fiction is the lie we use to tell the truth.

I was going to wear a disguise... find a way to explore all of these painful emotions in a safe environment. So I used the tool of magnification - I took my basic story and blew it up. Magnified it.

...All I did was take an event from my personal life and raise the stakes, intensify the emotions, and change the back stabbers into bloodsuckers. That's how magnification can be used to turn your personal story into a big commercial story. Find the basic emotional conflict in that personal story and magnify everything around it."

interesting.

list one

my list of things to do when i get the f- out of this job:

* sort out broadband. dialup is giving me a headache and a half
* script w/ J - we must sort something out
* sort out room - finish painting it, put up remaining shelves, tidy up
* new job?? - update CV, prob sign up w/ some agencies
* research internships abroad - most likely NY and Pareeee - visas etc - maybe call Bill and see if he has any good contacts in NY?
* travel: NY, Cuba, Hong Kong, Prague, Rome, Berlin
* delete web history from work computers i've used - so they don't stumble across fotolog or this
* go to brighton for a day (take camera) - megabus has cheap deals
* watch series three of 24
* spend a day watching old buffy episodes. no doubt cry at 'Becoming parts I and II' and 'The Prom'
* make dentist appt
* make doctor's appt
* ride bike
* see maria
* james II's 9th b'day party on 11th july (football party)

* SORT OUT LIFE - in general. needs a lot of sorting.

slowdance/makeout

vegas?

vegas??

wtf?
--------

on a whole other note (these entries are turning schizophrenic) thanks to b-dub for the faaabulous CDs. can't believe they got here so fast. must have been a speedboat or something. total flashbacks listening to them of the bbq at chonch's, asking pk who sang the songs, trying to explain that i didn't really grow up in the whole soft-rock thing and therefore didn't really know these songs so well (a conversation that repeated itself this weekend just gone w/ LBG. people always find it amusing that i had never been to a gig before about a month ago). slowdancing to - surprisingly enough - the slowdance CD and working out that at the time of my prom pk was 30 and finding it kind of funny. the crazy dancing and striptease in meadows' house. but this is just repeating a post a few back about the actual bbq.

cuckoo...

i swear to god, prozac would help so much right now.

it's a shame i'm not a drug person.

everything is so up and down.

maybe electroshock treatment. or a lobotomy.

bring it on, nurse ratched.

caffeine highs

so the coffee i had earlier has well and truly kicked in

i'm jivin around in my chair, dancing to the music i'm listening to on my headphones, rabidly flicking through netpages (mainly fotolog to be honest)

then i go back to the purchase order software that i keep minimising on the screen and my eyes just glaze over...

at least i get to go home in an hr and twenty mins

i can't believe it's critical mass tonight and (a) i didn't find out about it sooner (thx frank) and (b) i've already got unchangeable plans. it sucks.

of all the restaurants...

I bumped into my producer as he was walking out The Ivy this evening

Does anyone else find this as funny as I do?

(and what are the coincidences? i was walking up from seven dials as he walked out and almost into me)

a small good thing

even if old friends let you down and fuck you around, remember there are new friends who are more than happy to help.

small rays of sunshine that they are.

oh, and the raymond carver story to which the title refers made me cry when i had to read it at university. i was in the middle of the library at the time, too.

FAO: Sara

stop reading my blog. i didn't think you read it any more.


thanks.

one of the things currently wrong

i haven't heard from P. properly in ages.

i'll send a text just to try and touch base, make contact. no reply. or the briefest of replies that couldn't sound more like a brush off if it tried.

i try to talk on messenger. i get ignored. or the briefest of replies, where P. sounds incredibly distracted, gives really generic answers and makes no attempt at conversation or returning the questions.

i try calling, leave a voicemail or message with someone else in the house. no calls back. i even got through one time, was promised i would be called back in about an hour (P. had just walked through the door). obviously never heard back.

if P. was a guy, i would have given up weeks ago.

but she's meant to be my "best" friend. and suddenly it's like we're strangers or something.

i don't know what's up.

we co-ran a company together.
she practically spent half of last summer and the previous summer at my house.
she considers my family hers.
we have conversations where no one has any idea what we're talking about.
we do that weird psychic link thing i seem to get with people when i spend a lot of time with them.
we have a similar sense of humour, like the same books, films and other superficial things.

we're the ones we turn to when things are going down the pan, when the winter crazies set in, when vodka is required at 1 in the morning after bad breakups, the ones we celebrate with after dissertations have been handed in, final exams taken, the ones we go to brunch with up at the american-polish diner and sit there reading the papers. the ones we share really fucking stupid jokes with that still make me laugh (Amanda Huggankyss? Snipers and squirrels? Glamorama? Band on the Run?)

we had more contact when she was in brazil for fuck's sake. when she wasn't that happy, when things were bad here, there were always long emails or conversations on MSN. and even a phone call where i spoke to brazil on my mobile for like, forty minutes. (surprisingly not that expensive, although i hadn't meant for it to be that long, or to call on my mobile, it was just what happened.) we both needed it though and i didn't care.

so how can a friendship that can be that intense or whatever suddenly dissipate into nothing?

so she's back with j, friends always seem to take a backseat when it comes to boyfriends/girlfriends, it's a fact of life. that's understandable. but - fuck it, i don't know. its since she got back from brazil that it's all been weird. did we both change that much?

do i give up or keep trying? am i just humiliating myself if i do?

cutting it

"did you ask the hairdresser for it to be like rachel from 'friends'?"


pah. stupid boys.

i love my job

gaaaaaAAAAAHHHHHH! bah! arrrghhh!

christ, this job and this woman are doing my head in. i'm rapidly losing patience, and it takes a lot for that to happen. but she never lets you just get on with things, she always has to double check and treat you like a child. makes me want to say why don't you just do it yourself, instead of telling me to do something then hovering over me whilst i do it or whatever. AGHHH! oh, and she's always got so much to do, but instead of *doing* it, she sits there getting in a flap about it, constantly telling me how much she has to do and how much of a panic she's in. then she sits and plays cards on her computer.

MAAAAAAAAAAA!

okay, maybe this is slightly PMT-induced, but genuinely driving me bats. i'm SO leaving at the end of june. the other jobs i've been doing at this company have been boring but i could stand them. this facilities shit is so at the opposite end of the spectrum from interesting or anything i want to do, and working so closely with her... goddamn.

maybe i'll quit and take july off. doing some writing (that would be an idea). maybe go do another summer school program at st martins, or something.

anything to not be here. it's a shame, there are some good people here and i could do with the money. it's just this particular job.

bah humbug.

note to self:

damaged people looking pensively/sadly/angrily/frustratedly in broken mirrors is a terrible cliche. do not use.