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If my life were a TV show, this past weekend would have been some kind of season finale. The details paint an unhappier picture than the reality, but SUFFICE TO SAY that it was loosely comprised of losing almost all of my valuables, the people I care about having no idea where I was for a few hours, and ending up at a police station in the middle of the night. I'm okay, everyone's okay. I have the flu and I'm without any of my cards or forms of ID but damage control is, so far, going well. I'm in, like, episode two of the new season where everything tangible has worked out somehow but everybody's emotions have been thrown up onto the floor and I'm cleaning it up, drip by drip.

The last time I read a book that made me want to write was a year and a half ago. That's not great. So much space on my shelf is being monopolised by inaccessible sentences (Eliot) and unadmirable characters (Kerouac) and unexplained epiphanies (Murakami). I'm currently reading 'For Whom the Bell Tolls' by Hemingway and it is a drag. Does anyone have any recommendations?

music: frank ocean | swim good
Hello. As I so often need to do, I am going to start this post with an apology to everyone I've friended for my lack of dedication on livejournal. You are all in my heart, always. I'm lucky enough to be the kind of person who knows what and whom to appreciate, and I think it will be very difficult for me to forget much of the love and encouragement and wisdom that I have taken from you. I should say it more often, and more emphatically.

Last year, an old friend of mine asked me to write a blog. I wrote three posts which I revisited a couple of hours ago. It's astonishing how depressing they are. I had such a negative outlook on so many things. For the first three or four years that succeeded high school, I think I was in some kind of depression that, in being hidden from friends and family, hid itself from me a little. It feels quite foreign now, thankfully. My writing then was good, though. Spending my nights curled up with my misery instead of sleeping or reading did wonders for my biting metaphors. I've tried to write over the past few months and little of it has turned out to be very good. I hope I'm not someone who can only write when they're terribly unhappy. I like happiness too much, though not being good at anything would make me unhappy again.

I have begun looking at electives for my third year of law school and I feel myself stepping gingerly back into the excitement that I felt when I first started this degree. I love looking forward to next year. I love that last year I was looking forward to this year. My life is in crescendo.

My best friend is falling apart and our friendship hangs on to bits of cord that tremble as they stretch. I feel so hurt and she feels so unhappy but I think we both know that to lose one another would be too, too awful for either of us. It is unspoken but despite the fact that it takes more and more effort each time, we are committed to this. We make duty out of seeing one another, out of texting, out of looking each other in the eye. Maybe it means that it's already over, maybe it means that we're too strong for it to fall down completely. You don't just give up on eleven years of friendship.

I am actually going out with the best guy I could ever have hoped for. He is the stuff of a thousand pop songs.

22 November 2011 @ 02:12 pm
Wishing I didn't want this, or that, or him. Enviously witnessing someone else's abandon. "You deserve better. I hope things get easier for you." Catching pins before they hit the ground. Smoking on the balcony. The only kid awake at nap-time. Days in restaurants by myself. "A unique Cleopatran beauty." My mother screaming at my father about how useless he is in bed. Not knowing why any of you like me. Not wanted at the formal, not wanted at Speech Night. An online public orgy of an apology. Commentary destroying art. The honesty of 3am conversations is always painful. Cut. The humiliation of school sports. Trying to like you as I once did. The best hugs. One-shot emails telling me how horrible I am. Being told that the dark faces in the audience were crying as I sang. Weekly phone calls about nothing. Wearing your raincoat as you drowned next to me. One of the bad girls. I do not dance (well). "Queremos ir a Pamplona." Convincing myself that I just don't want to make things hard for you. Relief and pride always shaded by shame. My voice cracking behind the microphone. Collapsing in the park, in class, at the station, at the library. Seeing my teeth move back. All talk and nothing to show for it. Not being able to remember what it's like to feel healthy. I'll show you mine if you show me yours. Sucking the fun out of other children's childhoods. A hidden talent for mimicry. The things you don't tell me. It's okay not to have a competitive bone in your body when your standards are that high. That little girl's long fingers. Knowing that I should make tea for you in the mornings. Lonely under the waterfall. Dependent and independent. Surrounded by people who look just like me. "Does she speak English?" Writing all through the night and sleeping through Christmas Day. Everything works out perfectly. The one time I didn't let you beat me, but you still did. Not wanting to get better because I was so happy. My story was the best of them all. Crying because you'd made up and I was left alone in my petty playground battle. A prolific emailer. The last all-nighter. One new message from the right person. "We used to ride the waves." That horrible smell of vodka and cigarettes and sweat as you stuck yourself inside of me. Maybe I am a good person, by virtue of the thoughts I don't act out. Losing your respect. Always feeling cold. I told lies as a child. Belonging in a group where no one belongs. Monet and mathematics. The easiest conversations are with complete strangers. Looking bad. Never learning to ride a bike. "Seeing you makes my day." Guilty pleasures. Disappointed and disappointing in Paris. Broken fingernails. Talking to your sick dog. I don't want to see your imperfections. Being loved, being wanted, being missed. Weeping in a quiet room on Christmas Island. Being paralysed by ideas, by possibility, by the infinity of them. My grandmother never liked me. Kissing you in the dark. The huge shift of my tastes, like eras, like tectonic plates. The eternal passenger. One more kilogram. My French teacher coming back to wish us good luck after she'd been sacked. Paranoia replaced by defiant, lead-lined egoism. "Stop looking at me." The email that could have ruined everything. The right synth line, the right line of dialogue, always writing themselves. Taking the ugly route. Never being happier than now.

I'm not writing football slash anymore. I just don't feel any affection for these characters, knowing the flawed, changeable individuals to whom they are attached in the real world - knowing the limitations of these attachments. I like them so much more when I change them completely.

I think that my three-year dabble in the world of football fic has been worthwhile. I like to think that I've learnt more about building characters with whom readers can identify rather than whom readers merely like. More about the centrality of conflict, and about the idealism of resolutions. I'm going to focus entirely on translating all of these fragments of ideas and styles and skills into original pieces, which, since I was a three-year-old writing poems about cats, has always been my ambition.

If you added me to your f-list because of football fic, feel free to remove me if you like; I totally understand.

mood: calm (for once)
music: crystal castles | reckless
31 August 2011 @ 04:25 pm
1. When you looked at yourself in the mirror today, what was the first thing you thought?
"That's some big-ass hair."

2. How much cash do you have in your wallet right now?
A five-dollar note that I borrowed from my mother. That's all I've got to keep me going for, well, I don't know how long.

3. Do you label yourself?
I used to be a big label person. Not consciously. I would just automatically try to find words to categorise people, just to organise my mind, I suppose. These days, I don't like labels at all.

got treasures in my mind but couldn't open up my own vaultCollapse )

mood: a bit, like, fuck you
music: kanye west | power
22 August 2011 @ 06:29 pm
Hello, all! I don't blame you at all if you choose not to read this post, since I am the flakiest f-lister in the history of f-lists, but hopefully you'll read far enough to see that I miss you, hope that you're all really, really well and am genuinely interested in what you've been up to. I hope that you're doing things that make you happy and that you're spending time with inspiring people.

I am much the same as I was when I wrote my last post. Happy enough, healthy enough. The internship is going swimmingly - I now write weekly blog posts on peace, poverty and development here if any of you are remotely interested. Law school remains interesting, challenging, and full of wonderful people. My disc is still slipped but I suppose you can't win every battle.

So, that's it for attempt number two at being a better f-lister. It'll be much harder to stay away now that the football season's started again, anyway.

mood: oddly energetic
music: girls aloud | crocodile tears
30 July 2011 @ 10:10 am
Greetings, old chums! Again, many apologies for being a highly neglectful f-lister and disappearing for... however long I've been gone. I assure you, I do have excuses aplenty:

- my immune system doesn't exist
- I have a slipped disc
- law school is hella difficult
- I went to Melbourne for a week
- one of my closest friends has a depressive disorder

Ahem. That last one probably should have come first. It's a complicated situation.

I'd really love to know what you've all been up to. Really and truly. Please tell me how you've been and what life has been throwing at you of late. In particular, if you've traveled or anything (like come home from a wicked exchange trip... *cough*), please link to me posts you've made! I am determined to stop being so shitty at this f-list thing. I have missed many of you so, so much, and I'm glad that I can at least stalk some of you on Twitter.

As for me, I'm doing really well. I'm happy and filling my life with the things I love to do. I never have a moment's rest because every inch of every day is taken up by law school, dressmaking, writing music, picking up Spanish again, decorating my room, spending copious amounts of money on sixties clothes... Though I don't have a job, I did score a great internship at Act For Peace, which is a non-government aid organisation targeting overseas communities torn apart by conflict. There's a lot of work to be done on cluster munitions legislation and refugee policy at the moment, which is exactly the kind of work I want to be doing.

Melbourne was amazing (and I'll probably do a Melbourne photo post soon). I turned twenty-one there, and I honestly didn't pick the link at the time, but I suddenly feel as though I'm beginning a new kind of life. My world suddenly includes art deco design, exercise (due to afore-mentioned slipped disc), going to an office - things that I never so much as thought about a fortnight ago. And all of my issues with my health are forcing me to take better care of myself - to cut down on my beloved coffee (though I accidentally had three yesterday), to force myself to get some sleep, to stop smoking, to layer up when it's cold. I feel like I'm in a much better place now. Life is good.

mood: cheery
music: we are scientists | after hours
Lessons from this week:

Remember how much you wanted to get into law school; don't fuck this up.
Anybody who tries to make you feel stupid obviously has some sort of complex.
You've been through much, much worse than this; don't feel defeated. If it makes you feel better, it'll make everyone around you feel better. (Wasted, numb, vengeful, etc. ≠ better.)
There's something to learn from even the worst book (i.e. how not to write).
Shut your mouth once in a while.
Don't apologise for the things you like (unless, you know, one of the things you like is racism).
Remember that your best friend is most likely the greatest person you'll ever know.

mood: serene
music: the who | baba o'riley
A meme: These are the titles from my WIP folder. Ordered in terms of how much I like them (at the moment). Feel free to ask about any of them. I think that's the whole point of this meme.

the fine print

negative space

seasons escape you




this higher ground

*Yeah, I know I've already written a story called Lovelines, but I suppose I'm making a sort of series of it with different pairings.

mood: vaguely disappointed.
music: frankmusik | done done
15 May 2011 @ 09:41 am
Title: Counterpoint
Chapter: 4 of 4
Characters: David Silva / David Villa; Sergio Ramos / Fernando Torres; Steven Gerrard / Xabi Alonso
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Lies.
Notes: AU. Sorry about the delay; this past week was finals week.
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

| Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |

and you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think aboutCollapse )

mood: chirpy
music: pj harvey & thom yorke | this mess we're in