Built from the wine up...

This week has been absurd. In a bad way. The bad sort of absurd which makes you want to ram your face into a wall untill it bleeds.

First off, I was pretty darned ill. By this I mean I was forced to take more than one day out of sixth form because I could not think straight or breathe. The middle day was spent trying to navigate my drugged up and unsightly way around Birmingham city and university alone, getting quite flustered but being too proud to show it. Things I saw on that little adventure:

• Razor points in the train toilets. Bloody ridiculous: anyone attempting some facial topiary on a train is asking for trouble and is lucky to leave with their nose still attached.
• A full grown man reading Eclipse ashamedly on the train. He was not remotely young. He was on Eclipse which sickeningly means he'd endured the first two books (and probably in an equally public manner) - shocking.
• Smiling at dashing sandwich dispensory staff gets you a sandwich - at standard price.
• Nobody at Birmingham knows where the English department is; apart from myself, and I found it as a fluke.

The morning was (as I attempted to text my dad) 'a hotbed of disaster', until I orientated myself, was given a cup of tea for free, and drowned my sorrows with a bit of shopping (new coloured pencils - score!)

The afternoon was lovely however, with a spicy-spicy mexican burrito and an outline of a gorgeous and enticing looking course. Also having somehow found time to chat to the Head of Admissions and encouraged him to reconsider the A-Level I already have, which he'd overlooked. Score Two!

Came home and went straight from the station to another station: the Fire Station. Learned about weapons of torture hitherto undescribable. Anything that fires iron filings and water so fast they can cut through a man is something to be avoided I say. Came home, crashed out, wept a little, dragged myself into the next day.

Was ill until I decided I couldn't afford to miss today so went into school to find myself faced with a number of prospects:

• Interview at Warwick which I still have yet to have any real feelings either dreadful or delighted about. Later discovered today was the deadline for the coursework and faced the pressure by churning out a commentary in two hours, sending Mr Anderson a mildly freaked out e-mail entitled 'PAINFULLY URGENT' and posting the bloody thing.
• Art that is 'unmarkable' because frankly there's not enough of it.
• The need to summon up some form of title and inspiration for History Coursework.
• Chasing the world about changing the date of my exams because of aforementioned interview which, for some reason involved talking to no less than 5 people about it.
• Nobody seeming to know anything about an essay we were most definitely set.
• Latin certificate - yay!

This evening was a delerious haze of writing frantically, arranging, posting and drinking a nice amount of wine. Decisory factor here: wine makes my life.  ALSO, acquired Radiohead's new album and was grateful to be able to zone out to it after sending off the portfolio from hell. Every cloud, eh?

As to the situation now, I am sitting slightly drunk in full-body bunnyrabbit pajamas, lazing about and listening to Radiohead. Awesome.

The moment you find out you have to write a commentary for Warwick in 2 hours...

This evening...

has been quite honestly one of the most hilarious of my life thus-far. Death by choking on laughter nearly occurred. That is how amused I was. I am giggling at the mere memory of it.  Anna came over for a delayed Pub Therapy Sans Pub, and we had a great time being silly. Here are some quotes to illustrate:

"Milo is the son of Gelamen's sex-mayor."
*
"I am in shock, look I have a boner - I MEAN BLANKET."
*
"Ezra's voice gives me weird hand cramp..."
*
"Saving your Boo."
"If I was ghetto, I would say get off my woman."
"But we're not ghetto, we're fucking ETON."
*
"WHY WON'T IT LOAD?"
"OHHHH GOOOOOOD, I'M AAAAAAAAAAGING."
*
"Roland! You bastard! Stop putting your cock in that socket, my friend. You are in some serious trouble."

That is not half of it.

Civilised conversation.

This evening the parentfolk and I went to see The King's Speech (which was excellent, as we knew it would be) and afterwards went for a chinese. Over a feast, some malibu and coke and beer and cider we had some quite interesting turns of conversation, I can tell you.

One classic example took place between courses, when I had found a pen and was explaining the layout of NBs, with diagrams. Afterwards, I did some doodling of Rolly, which included the BEST sketch of him, on a napkin, I have done so far. HP, being an insensitive fool threw out a few insults about him, and this conversation happened. Let me just take a moment to remind you we were in a rather packed restaurant and talking quite loudly.

HP: His nose looks like a penis.
ME: Oi, don't say that. [speech about how noses are an excellent and important part of the anatomy] IDK what sort of penis you have, but -
HP: Well, you know...half of you came through it.
ME: ...wtf...why...what...who would SAY THAT?! [flailnej]
MADRE: What's that?
HP: Rachel's just insulting my penis.
MADRE: ._. Don't SHOUT.

:) Cheerful, cheerful times.

Coincidences...

Freaky, freaky things are afoot. Anyone who follows me on Facebook will know that I got a bit excited about Thomas Ruggles Pynchon the other day after he was mentioned to me. Because I've wanted to start to get back into online writing bits, this evening I started up a bio for a Head of Science chappy called Roland James Pynchon (because the name was too good to not use) which is fine and dandy.

Following this, however, I was rummaging through shuffle and got absolutely freaked out when THIS song came on:



The lyrics of which include:
'Poor professor Pynchon had only good intentions when he
Put all his bunsen burners away'

Serious business, and also freaky as I could have sworn I'd never heard the name before Don mentioned it in English the other day. Freaky Deaky!
(Incidentally, Andrew Bird is a winner, and you should listen to him. (Y))

Getting back into doing my portfolio. Forgot how much I love and miss writing Basil. Baw.

Bottles and bottles of arachnids...

It's meant to be the tertiary text, but I have just read about twelve reviews of the Propeller Richard III I saw back in November and my eyes are beginning to go fuzzy. I'm trying to work out - because my memory has betrayed me - whose finger he bit off after killing them. It could be a couple of people (Anne? Edward?) and for each of them it would have a very different significance - and connection with The Changeling (where Deflores cuts of Piraquo's finger after killing him).

None of the reviews mention it - not even the lovely thorough ones. Some of them mention 'finger biting' but remain bloody ambiguous like an uncertain and vague bitch of research hell. Er- but yes, this Richard III business is becoming a bit of an obsession.

Also, had a moment of AHA! while reading a review on a blog. The Blog's subtitle was "The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there." and I had a nice little 'oh-ho, I know where you're coming from there, old laddy, old boy!" That quote's from The Go-Between by L.P. Hartley - actually, it's the first sentence, and all - and that gives me a sad sort of joy to have floating around in my head...

More cheerful having done excesses of research and also installing my SHINY new HiFi system, which is beautiful, and which involved me basically reorganising my room and shelving again... everything's always better when it's a bit fresher, I think. Have also moved the MASS of tickets and posters and notes and whatnot from my pinboard (it was becoming painfully close to collapsing everywhere) and made it all into a montage on my wall.

That's all for now - I love that I have five or so more solid days to dilly-dally and over-complicate this essay. Hurrah!

Oooh, bonus anecdote! I was faffing about in the bathroom looking for something in the cupboards and found that my uncle had left us a gift in one of them. Delightful! I hear you cry - What a nice man to do such a thing. Yes, yes, if it had been a bath bomb, or a necklace or something other than a dead, moldy mouse and its brother's skull I would have been overjoyed. Unfortunately not. You may be surprised to hear that I was not surprised by this and simply held my breath and went to inform the parentfolk. I blame tradition - a rather longstanding one which I may properly explain in another blog, at another time, when my eyes aren't eroded by Dicky 3 reviews.

Nanight, lovelies xx

The Laptop Blues (A Ballad.)

Woke up this morning, cheery as can be,

Opened my laptop and it snapped off at me,

Bits of wires and metal and screws,

I need a new laptop 'n' it's giving me the blues.

Hoo, hoo, hoo, the snaptop blues.

Hoo, hoo, hoo, the craptop blues.

Googling on the web, looking through shops,

Tryin' to find out if anywhere sells good laptops,

Not too pricey, or cheap, this is hard to do,

Can't find a good laptop that I can afford, too-hoo-hoo

(The laptop blues)

(The craptop blues)

(It's snapped, boo-hoo)

Got me some money from the kindle I sold,

Maybe now I can get a laptop that's not old,

Huntin' for cash down the side of the bed,

Ain't enough money even to buy some bread.

Ooh-hooo!

The Laptop Blues!

Ooh-hooo!

Gonna try searchin' Yahoo's!

Well it's five days till Christmas, and I'm starting to wish,

I'd not asked for a new HiFi, or a special Poole dish,

Because I need something more in the computery vein,

Don't wanna have a HiFi and need to save up again...

Ooo-hoo!

Dell, Fuck you!

You-Do!

Need to learn to manufacture quality computers!

Ooooooooh!

(la la la)

Oooooooo-oooh!

(la la la)

I's got the laptop, snaptop, shut-your-traptop, absolutely crap-top blues!

(yeah.)

NOM. NOM. NOM. :D

Today was very exciting in that it was the first day I released some of my creative writing into the wild. That is, let anybody read it who wasn't directly involved in its genesis. This was an intimidating prospect as I have always had a horrid, underlying sense of doubt as to whether it was any good. When you write something for yourself, and know it inside out, it's very easy for your mind to fill in the gaps and turn something mediocre into an absolute Odyssey of emotion and depth and what-not.

So naturally when I asked my dad to read the first (very tiny) bit of it last night, it was with a great deal of apprehension, and apology. Since then, various people have read and commented on it, and I am feeling a smidge more confident.

Aside from that, however, it is as though an entire new vista of excitement has opened up in that now I am able to share these characters and things which have been very close to my heart, but locked away in the realm of unspoken things, with people. It gave me a definite rush, which possibly contributed to my excessive hyperactivity this afternoon after a lesson with Mr Anderson where we discussed the thing for an hour solid.

I cannot recall ever being so naturally excited about anything as I am my writing - it's strange because for ages I was so sure that I wanted to pursue art, and now I can barely bring myself to dash out coursework pieces. I just want to write and write and read and do a bit more writing... Also, when I don't write for a few days I get horrid pangs of needing to, which is bloody disastrous.

It's part addiction, part obsession and 100% exciting. :D

---------------

In other news, Mr Anderson has been hiding the fact he has been in possession of a copy of Burgess' 1985 for as long as I have known him! This makes me one third annoyed, as I have been searching ad frustra for a copy for as long as I can remember, one third delighted, as it means my search is over and one third as though my day could not get much better.

All thought of coursework deadlines? Kaput.

Drowning in Paper (The Maws of Doom)

Half term, though good as far as doing exciting things and resting goes, has left me in a bit of a pickle.

I have a 3 A1 board deadline in three days, which I have almost absolutely no work for, I have coursework preparation coming out of my ears, am in the middle of reading three books which I would like to get through before my birthday when a new year's reading-list starts and, of course, my creative writing portfolio, which is an extract of 25PP.

Aforementioned portfolio is turning into a project worthy of a capital letter. It is supposed to be a sixteen page Portfolio of creative writing, with a two page commentary, and it is meant to be not shit.

Presently, my Portfolio is THIRTY-TWO pages long, lacks any form of commentary, and is very, very rough. It needs the largest amount of slicing and chopping and rearranging known to man. These pages are size 10 font.

Typically, the time when I really ought to be focusing on art deadlines, I haven't a painting bone in my body and just want to hack away at the giant redwood that is my Portfolio. So, I am sitting on my bed with a page full of 'TO-DO' list, absurd, loose pages of continuous prose and a cup of cold tea.

Let the carnage begin - I'll see you on the other side, providing I don't die in a bloodied mass of paper cuts and misfired staples, or have my pen run out half-way. xxx

I laughed at this far too much.

I also cannot construct sentences this evening. Everything I have written thus far is shit.Shitty shitty shit shit. I am going to give up for now and read Man in the High Castle and think about grammar. I am also going to make angel delight and eat all of it. Screw you, lack of appetite.

And stop using the word 'as' to convey events. Kristos!

Barriers To Civil Rights: A Ballad.

There once was a man called Booker,
Who wondered what civil rights were –
His accomodationist aim,
Led to political fame,
Until some problems began to occur…


Without sufficient organisation,
He put emphasis on education,
“If we want some improvement,
We don’t need a movement,
We should focus upon work preparation.”


Though the white men turned in his favour,
Others trust in him began to waver.
His best chum Du Bois,
Said he “ you won’t get very far,
Through such accepting and conformist behaviour.”


Most black people lacked land and employment,
And had no money to aid life’s enjoyment,
So they formed a committee,
To take on New York City,
And assert their general discontent.


The South weren’t so fond of such sights
As the pressure groups wanting their rights,
The KKK took to lynching,
The Deep South unflinching,
In the Supreme Court, corruption ignites.


Jim Crow’s laws enforced race segregation,
Which depended on state destination,
Southern court collusion,
Prevented black inclusion,
And led to further social degradation.

Getting back into writing so heavily is clearly having a detrimental effect on my work-ethic. But frankly, Mr Shankly, so long as I get the work done on time by SOME means, the writing is more important, and better for my soul.

There is something excellent about being so involved in a plot, knowing the characters reactions better than you know how you, yourself, would react in such a scenario, that the ideas just keep flowing. Nomnomnom.

That said, I do have a painfully expanding mound of artistic expectation piled at the end of my bed awaiting annotation...

I have also downloaded far too many musical soundtracks in the past 24 hours, it is slowly turning my masculine side gay, I am certain.

Joy Unbounded!

Assam tea is basically crack in liquid form. I swear, I am almost in pain with how hyper I am and how excellent everything in my life is right now. It's the weekend, I've just spent the evening writing a couple of really exciting 25PP passages, revisited another old character, Basil, who is one of my utmost favourites, and pranced about in my Lance Corporal jacket saluting various people in my house.

No pub tonight, because my dad's out badmintoning, but I am pretty darned cheerful all the same.

Tally ho! Let there be loud music, more tea and good, old-fashioned revelry! Aha!