Education is a queer old thing isn’t it? It’s not good! browsing tedious websites, because they block off the good ones (I’m not talking about porn) passing the four hour gaps in between 45 minute lessons, starving hungry and penniless because the bus fares to the college are a frigging fiver… Who’s ever heard of being too OLD for a bus pass?!
College life. There’s a ham roll in my bag. Can’t eat it though I’m in the library more or less trapped. I could go down to the refectory but there’s only a quid in my pocket and that wont stretch further than a tub of (which is about 5, Wow!) grapes. White grapes, it’s like a slap in the face! Even if I did do that I’d be bored to death. I love my books but I don’t want to read here, I can only read in the bath. So that ideas humped!
My eyes hurt from staring at the computer, and I just caught a glimpse of my student ID photo which now makes me want to pluck them out. I look like the half ton son!
I suppose I’m in a state of limbo at the minute. I’ve reached that point in my life when I need to make some serious decisions (decisions which I should have made about 4 years ago when I was 17!) I feel as though I should be... running, racing towards A grades, portfolios and universities; achieving. But what for? For money? For status?
I don’t want work to consume me and take over my life, and before you say anything I’m not lazy with aspirations of a career on the dole and being crowned MS GIRO 2009!
I don’t know… I feel as though I want to be free, a job, my own place, time in the evenings to write and to read or to push the boat out and go buy a lottery ticket and a Tesco finest yoghurt, do some tai chi, stare at the stars, turn my flat into a makeshift casino and have a party, smoke a cigarillo should I take a fancying to such an activity - ok ok I’m transgressing, sorry - without the ghost of ‘presentations and essays yet to come’ looming over my shoulders. I’d love to be able to go to the beach or to the countryside at the weekend, not to be stuck typing up work that I don’t want to even do. I feel as though I’ve left it too late for further education, I don’t think I’d be clever enough anyways, 3 hours to complete a 45 min question… who am I kidding?!
I need a break I guess, I know that shop jobs are like gold dust nowadays but I can really picture myself in a snazzy little boutique somewhere. Or is that pure fantasy?
I’m not sure what I want but I do know that I don’t want a huge loan, trying to make ends meet (because I would be living in London) by cold eating spaghetti hoops out of a 15 pence can, one hoop on each finger just to save on gas and water bills!
The course I want to do isn’t easy either! 13 hours a day 6 days a week, do you know that people studying theatre have to work harder than those wanting to become lawyers?!
And to be perfectly frank, I don’t want anymore hard work. I’ve been drifting aimlessly around the education system for 5 years now… I think I’m ready to stop.
Its not that I don’t want to get on in life because I DO have ambitions, but sadly unspecified, a jumble of different fragments, it’s a Rubik’s cube I need to solve in order to look upon the complete picture. Write, perform, publish, analyze, create, make, and write again.
Gaps in between lessons
I suppose they get you thinking don’t they?
Oh god, I’m bored again now
1 hour to go before *ding ding* round 2 of Twelfth Night discussions
I suppose I could see what films are worth watching at the moment
Still, in a few second I just know that the message ‘internet explorer has encountered an error and needs to close’ will pop up on the screen and the threadbare ties keeping me from madness will become instantly severed.
Friday, 27 February 2009
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Shaking
I’ve had my downs lord knows I have. But this is the first time in my life I’ve ever felt truly terrified. Abandoned, lost and alone.
I haven’t done anything, it’s not me, it’s not my fault, I’m not ugly, not that fat…. That’s what they say, but when someone says that they haven’t found what they were searching for (and you though that you had) you throw up, you throw up, YOU THROW UP! Nothing else matters but the sickness eating away at you. You start to wrap yourself up inside it and it becomes your bed, a resting place, the only place that you can bare to be. You don’t want to move, you don’t want to speak, breathe, see, hear or feel anything ever again. Just to wallow in the sickness of your heart. Sleep, the only slim hope, but you’re not even sure that you want that either.
If there was an off switch somewhere lodged into the back of your head, well, if it was fused into the back of my head, I’d be screaming, crying, bleeding, smashing my head again and again against the white brick wall, whilst praying to god that the switch would flick and my body fall, slump down, down to the floor. I could smile then.
Well that was a few days ago, I don’t feel quite so melodramatic now, more hopeful for want of a better term. It was certainly a wake up call because I do tend to get carried away. I have nothing if not an overactive imagination blinded by romanticism. That’s a good description actually. I could delve into the dark shadows of my psyche and talk a lot of gibberish of how I have no friends and a distant family relationship and link that to my reasons for believing in fairy tales but I promise you I won’t. There’d be no point in it.
Imagine a fun night in. Are you thinking of a huge pile of DVD’s? Wine? A good friend? A trifle that has the same circumference as the very moon itself? The last one I’ll let you get away with, I was being ridiculously subjective, but I bet that’s what over 50% of you were thinking. That’s what I’d be thinking too and that’s how everything started out, but as the end credits of one film ended… I failed to see the joy in his eyes at the prospect of film number two about to commence, the adventures about to be had.
Adventure, the most important part of a little boys imagination and I’m telling you now if that same little boy doesn’t have that that sparkle of fantasy somewhere within him years later, then he is not a man. Upon reflection it is the quality that I most admire in him and for being so utterly sightless I am truly ashamed.
Me? As he is eagerly scrabbling, prying open the laptop with his fingers, I turn into the spoiled princess, the dark side of all sweet little girls. I crave attention, to be told I’m pretty and for my prince to recite a thousand sonnets before sweeping me off my feet to a far away land (in other words, pure, unadulterated, hardcore sex!) otherwise I’ll stamp my feet and scold. The man is kind and caring and so sacrifices his pleasures, to see the woman smile, to stop an awkwardness from surrounding them, or a simple act of chivalry. Still whatever reason for his kindnesses he feels a prang of sadness; a sense of failure, allsorts of unknown pressures that I was oblivious to.
Fiery temperatures can cause things to melt away. In my unmindful temperament I was melting away a soul, a good soul. His ideas and musings we being trampled on by my keenness to show him the big wide world. The deep blue ocean, the rush of a capital city, the magic of skating at Christmastime (I’d overshot slightly as it was by then January). I wanted to play and share my toys, forgetting that I was forcing him to play with Barbies.
Dedicated to the trifle maker! X x X
Whom I love dearly
I haven’t done anything, it’s not me, it’s not my fault, I’m not ugly, not that fat…. That’s what they say, but when someone says that they haven’t found what they were searching for (and you though that you had) you throw up, you throw up, YOU THROW UP! Nothing else matters but the sickness eating away at you. You start to wrap yourself up inside it and it becomes your bed, a resting place, the only place that you can bare to be. You don’t want to move, you don’t want to speak, breathe, see, hear or feel anything ever again. Just to wallow in the sickness of your heart. Sleep, the only slim hope, but you’re not even sure that you want that either.
If there was an off switch somewhere lodged into the back of your head, well, if it was fused into the back of my head, I’d be screaming, crying, bleeding, smashing my head again and again against the white brick wall, whilst praying to god that the switch would flick and my body fall, slump down, down to the floor. I could smile then.
Well that was a few days ago, I don’t feel quite so melodramatic now, more hopeful for want of a better term. It was certainly a wake up call because I do tend to get carried away. I have nothing if not an overactive imagination blinded by romanticism. That’s a good description actually. I could delve into the dark shadows of my psyche and talk a lot of gibberish of how I have no friends and a distant family relationship and link that to my reasons for believing in fairy tales but I promise you I won’t. There’d be no point in it.
Imagine a fun night in. Are you thinking of a huge pile of DVD’s? Wine? A good friend? A trifle that has the same circumference as the very moon itself? The last one I’ll let you get away with, I was being ridiculously subjective, but I bet that’s what over 50% of you were thinking. That’s what I’d be thinking too and that’s how everything started out, but as the end credits of one film ended… I failed to see the joy in his eyes at the prospect of film number two about to commence, the adventures about to be had.
Adventure, the most important part of a little boys imagination and I’m telling you now if that same little boy doesn’t have that that sparkle of fantasy somewhere within him years later, then he is not a man. Upon reflection it is the quality that I most admire in him and for being so utterly sightless I am truly ashamed.
Me? As he is eagerly scrabbling, prying open the laptop with his fingers, I turn into the spoiled princess, the dark side of all sweet little girls. I crave attention, to be told I’m pretty and for my prince to recite a thousand sonnets before sweeping me off my feet to a far away land (in other words, pure, unadulterated, hardcore sex!) otherwise I’ll stamp my feet and scold. The man is kind and caring and so sacrifices his pleasures, to see the woman smile, to stop an awkwardness from surrounding them, or a simple act of chivalry. Still whatever reason for his kindnesses he feels a prang of sadness; a sense of failure, allsorts of unknown pressures that I was oblivious to.
Fiery temperatures can cause things to melt away. In my unmindful temperament I was melting away a soul, a good soul. His ideas and musings we being trampled on by my keenness to show him the big wide world. The deep blue ocean, the rush of a capital city, the magic of skating at Christmastime (I’d overshot slightly as it was by then January). I wanted to play and share my toys, forgetting that I was forcing him to play with Barbies.
Dedicated to the trifle maker! X x X
Whom I love dearly
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