I PASSED MY EXAMS (COMMENCE CARTWHEEL)!!!

All that work. Everything that I have worked for during the past two years. And there it is, sitting in a brown envelope. A rectangular brown envelope. I have realised something: I am happy and proud. Of my grades, and of myself. Because I get the feeling that I have earned this. I got reasonable grades. A colourful cocktail mix of As, Bs and Cs. I got into 6th Form. English, Art and Psychology here I come!


I am still scared. About my future. What can I do? Law has been ruled out. I would love to do something creative, and to travel. I can still make something of myself. But I do not want to disappear. What happens now?

I am scared, terrified, petrified. All because of one day, (morning actually) approaching fast. That day is Thursday 25th August 2011. GCSE Results Day, or G-Day as one of my mates punned. The end of the world (or so it would seem), or the beginning depending on your grades. So what do you do at the appocolypse? What if I don't make the cut? What if I did unutterably crap? I wish I knew the answer to these questions. There is no reassurance, at least until then.

Painting

I've been painting a lot lately, every day when I can get inside the studio, altogether too much. It's so consuming, being there. The scents of oil paint and canvas stretching through. The smallest sounds, of pencil whispering to paper and the voices echoing from the CD player. This is my piece of Heaven, I could spend my whole life here, grow grey in my old shirts and jeans. Barefoot against the stone of the floor, mixing colours. But then, what would I be missing out on?

I would miss my little Brother's laugh. I would miss Summer and Winter. I would miss the dirt. I would miss the river, and chocolate and my family (on an almost equal basis-just kidding...I think). Everything I love. I forget sometimes that Art is just that, an image in flux, dependent upon ideals (or nightmares) rather than real life and the conditions it bares.

I wrote this to persuade myself that it is not good to be so absorbed in any one thing. Everything in moderation, or so they say. So they (my parents) tell me. So I tell myself. But I am almost out of time, this Summer, and am coming to the realisation that things will never otherwise be as they are now. I am sixteen years old, and without care.

Mud Pies...

I want to go camping. Now. This minute. I need to see that sun. I need to beat on that drum, in time with my heart. I grew up with it, and now it is in my blood. Now when I try to concentrate on something, I feel a blatant need to press my body against the grass to breathe it all in. (As a child did you make mud pies? Did you smear the mud across your face and smile? It is very like that.) I can be myself when I am away. I drink cider, play, dance. I am like I am no where else. In what other situation is that freedom available? At school I was an imitation of that person, a ghost; barely there. While camping I can drop the mask utterly. I don't have to care. 

Mood Music:

Impatience

What do you want most in the World? To touch, to feel? Is it that sensation of falling, so hard that the pain of it matches up with the pleasure? How being so hurt inside can smart, and then make you smile? There is nothing like it, and then to bite your own lip to be sure that it is real. I'm speaking of Summer and what fresh pleasures it can bring; the scent of lavender, your mother's perfume, a pile of laundry left in the Sun, a quarter of an apple. Summer is a season for happiness and....relaxation. But I am on the edge of a chasm. I have worked for two years for my GCSE's, I want my results, I want the certainty of a place at the sixth form at which I applied. I will have to wait. A Summer of waiting. I will be waiting for the Musters and the trees and candles.

Have you ever been around a secluded campsite after dark? It comes alive with the sleeping bodies and the wood smoke, a knotted branch swaying in the wind to a rhythm. It is best when the witching hour dawns. The World is a savage place again, reclaimed by the wildnerness.

Fast Car.....(and bike)

This song sums up everything I feel so completely; the way that I have watched myself change and grow, that adventure. The beauty of it strikes deep, touches and cords at my back chasing spirals of feeling. Like fingertips. There, but not, past. While I grow, so do others, so slowly I almost didn't notice. It's frightning, when that happens. That dusty photo, hidden in a closet can reveal how young and free we once were, it brings monsters with it.

Numb: without feeling. Many things cause that. Fear, Alcohol, Love, (H/W). Alcohol can bleed that feeling most cleanly felt, or it can warm it, give it sweet colour that I have only ever found on a bike (and with family and friends). The speed is an aphrodisiac for life.

So here's my Song for today....

There are times when I look at people and see imitations of human behavior. My Brother is an example of this; I look at him now and try to see the flesh and the blood (preferably including a brain and a heart) but all I see is glass. Glass that can be placed in an oven to remould and reheat yet remains opaque. Where is that boy I knew, that kind laughing boy? He is eight years gone, buried deep inside, so far that no real part of him is now visible. I look into his eyes sometimes, and have to look away before I hear that voice or see a shadow. I try to remain distant, not to get too close, but seeing him as he is now is devastating. We used to play games together (me, Ashley, Maria and Kim), Dugeons and Dragons even, orchestrated by my step-dad. I hope that now he has left the House he will smash his glass exterior, and become the Brother I once knew.

I wish for a simpler life. One which did not deliver punches with such ferocity. The Victories that I earn are also as such. Why is life like that? Why can one thing that hurts so much be tempered by such elation?

27/04/1995

Birthdays hold significance. At least some do. I feel that, as I push my fingers down into the carpet. My drawings are still there. On the wall. Small scribbles, smiley faces and stars, they are faded. Bleached lighter with the passing of the years and the sun. I always thought that the space under-the-stairs was my own, a hidey hole for my secret thoughts and things, shared only with a friend. Words have been bleached too, changed ; at least my interpretation of those words has. Like the word friend. Friend is now a different word, with a different meaning than that of a decade ago. At six, the world had a magic sheen, a lustre. I could see the magic behind a fragment of broken blue bottle glass, a piece of foil. Books still hold that magic. So happy Sixteenth Birthday to me, and may everything change again and again and again.

Expanding in to the Unknown

I have encountered a small problem. I am running out of storage space. I haven't just filled up my wardrobe...I have filled up Narnia. LOL.

 

 

A Letter to the Anonymous

A marvelous picture, painted. By you, by me, both. Colours explode, red, green, yellow, blue, into fireworks and gasoline. Boy, what wonder? Like a father to me, Mother and Fathers and Sisters and Brothers, you throw, I catch. The ball is not a ball, but a Baby, a fish, a grandfather clock.

The end justifies the means, or so they say. With each breathe it calls, entwining pale fingers until it hurts, in my hair, which you would brush and mingle with yours. I dance on the tallest spire, gasping for air. A dove, A rose, who is not a rose without a thorn. Deceptive sleep. Mouth to teeth to eye, all as sharp as the blade that runs along skin.

I Love You.

What a week......

I am still recovering from this weeks exertions. Right now we (students) are suffering from what we call homework overload. From this I have deduced that Teachers are all either a) inhumane sadists b) evil aliens intent on world domination. This weekend I am left to tackle: a history practise paper, an as yet unfinished tech GCSE, an Art essay and a hideous amount of German translation. All of this is reducing me to a shiny puddle of goo (brain has melted). Thou art not to worry, I shall persevere; for cake, for prom, for freedom from the tyrannical clutches of all that is pure....evil (aargghhh, running out of adjectives).

Walking in my stepdad's footsteps......

I was so very proud, my first pair of four inch heels. It was wonderful, when I got home and realised I was taller than both of my parents (even my mother, whose hair stands an inch all by itself). Be that as it may, why was I not warned?? It's not walking, it's falling. It's not even falling, one leg ends up some place different than the other one. Perhaps this is just the grace of an under developed ugly duckling. I don't think so. It is something that all women hide, successfully and unsuccessfully, It is some kind of sadistic, evil conspiracy, that women do not tell the agony involved when it comes to wearing heels. Why would anyone want to make me feel this ridiculous?

I have a somewhat conspicuous feeling that this is revenge. Models make it look so easy, so simple. One leg in front of the other. Hip, Hip. And Hooray, your off, looking utterly gorgeous. In reality, this happy occurrence, is nothing but a delusion.

That is how the situation developed in to a lesson. A lesson given, not by my Mother, as you might expect, but by my Step-dad. That is how, we both ended up in heels. He, gliding. Me, falling. He may have had considerably more practice in this area, surely though, this is not natural. For a dude to be better in heels than me. That is kind of insulting. But not exactly shocking. Colour me jealous.

I've had writers block for the past week. All I have wanted to do is fall asleep. Constant exhaustion, its infiltrated everything. Finally, freedom for a whole week. I can cook, if I want to. I can listen to my MP3 at top volume, and no one will care. It's as if the Sun, my personal Sun has appeared suddenly. I'm Free.

Wake

When I wake, it is like a dream. Things are hazy, softened by the world, and the things in it. My bed is iron, a prison, I am the prisoner. Entrapped within the world of a fairytale. The carpet is spongy beneath my feet. The carpet is blue. A beautiful blue, fading in some areas. I lay on that carpet to read, to sleep, sometimes it appears bottomless, like a cave. Caves are shaped by water. Into patterns, swirls.In my mind I wander in these caves. Swimming in them, consumed by the beauty that they produce. Then I wake. The lights turn on, consequently everything becomes serious.

Orange HIt my Eyeliner

An orange piece landed in my pocket. No, I am not kidding. An orange piece, a piece of orange. It's juice went on my eyeliner (which I also had in my pocket). There are times when I want to punch people (and by people I mean immature pricks) in the face. Are we not past that yet? When we were six, then I could understand. But we're not. At least I don't think so. What next? An ear phone, rolled up sandwiches, a piece of orange. A Toaster Oven? What the Hell is wrong with this School? It seems, the more obscure, the more welcome. 

  

In the Canteen, whippersnappers stuff carrot up their nostrils (I never exaggerate). In the Science block there are black marks on the ceiling (of very questionable origin). And we (the young whippersnappers of today), are the Presidents and Prime Ministers of tomorrow (enter barely suppressed hysterical giggle). The World is Doomed.

It seems similar to Peter Pan, but reversed. On the exterior, children grow up. On the inside, it appears as if some remain four years old. Four was great. Words that worry me now (try Coursework), had no effect on me then. Chocolate buttons were currency. Almost nothing is the same. I like it like that. I still revert back to being my four year old self, it's solace. It is not good to be that way all the time. There has to be equanimity.

P.S the image is purely for entertainment value. It has a certain....je ne sais quoi

Way of the Fist

It is sometimes necessary to ogle beautiful things. Shoes, in particular. Shoes are more important than men's butts. They are at least consistent. They also fit nicely, and make me look good, which is more than some guys can do. I have in particular been 'checking out' shoes from the designer 'Iron Fist'. These shoes are the mother****** of all shoes. Here is my favourite shoe from their collection(Phwoar):

 How fabulous are these! Absolutely to die for....(intone sign of hopeless longing). The mix of shades and materials is calculated and clever. Black suade and sequins; I never thought that those would work together. Yet they still manage to mix Luxe and Punk. I think that 'Iron Fist' does some clothing too. Watch this space.

I fall asleep, often, with my head buried in a book. Simply to feel the pages, to smell the ink. It is a feeling like no other. Nostalgia and lightness of being rolled into one sleepy moment, half dream, half reality. Almost as if the story has been tattooed across my face in oblivion. If words equated to reality, the sparrow painted on my back would fly, its wings pounding against my flesh. I would feel it's heat, it's heart, it's bizarre beauty. I would feel its eyes.

Intermittently, I wish I could lay all my cards on the table, and finish this game. The game of relationships and Aces. I am not trusted by my friends, but what would I ever do, to them? I have to use my powers of deduction to figure out what is happening. And often, when I do piece things together, the jigsaw is wrong. And it starts again.

I feel helpless. When they are hurting, it is like some hideous side show. Like some kind of terrible glass, something I can see but cannot touch. Maybe they want it that way. Who knows?

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

How freaking Awesome! My first bog award! It's from an amazing blogger called Kate. Check out her Blog 'Diamonds and Coal', she is an inspiring writer.

Apparently I have to write about my five 'guilty pleasures'. So, voila, here they are:
1)"Ben and Jerry's" in Bed (preferably "Phish Food". The one with all those yummy chocolate shaped fish.)
2)Painting
3)Getting very dirty (In the literal sense)
4)Spending more money than I actually possess (but I really, really needed those gorgeous red shoes!)
5)Singing. Out of tune. I am the Leona Lewis of the shower.
 

I also get to pick six of my favourite bloggers, so as to spread the good word of "Irresistibly Sweetness". These women are truly excellent writers, so please, take a look at their blogs.

autumnesf at Autumn Asks Why

Baglady at Bag Lady

Daydream Lily at Daydream Lily Blog 

Mandy's Kidding at You've Got To Be Kidding Me

Heather Cherry at The Open Letters Blog

And finally, The Barreness at The Barreness , alas not "Irresistibly Sweet" is interesting. Not for the faint of Heart though.


Thanks guys, for reading. Thanks, Kate, for the award. It was sweet of you.

Here comes the Rain....

Some of the worlds most beautiful things can been seen reflected in the rain. A forgotten word or place. At first sight, it appears blue, and then opalescent. Often it is possible to see your own face, aged though it may have become. Or another face, best left secret and unseen. Rain brings back everything, washed and perfect and new. That is why I revel in it.

Everybody has secrets. Little secrets. Big secrets. But they do not always equate to lies. Do they? Unless you tell them what you mean, falsely. Me and my friends don't have that problem. We do not talk, really talk. That is why I long to scream in the middle of class. But that is not their fault, it's mine. My whole life amongst my friends amounts to little more than a concentrated web of complicated origin. So, here it is (the truth *Gulp*)...

I love marmite, especially with ham and toast. I hate liars, deceitful people (and therefore,by default, sometimes myself). I love the smell of oil paint. My favourite sweets are Rowntree's fruit gums. The TV show I like most; The Simpsons, with Ugly Betty a close second. I don't like Manga. The most influential person in my life is my strange little brother. When I was little, I wanted to be a ballet dancer (but gave up because I had the grace of a baby elephant). Now I want to be a Journalist (but this changes hourly). I weigh about ten stone(ssssshhhhh). When I'm old enough, I want a fully fledged motor Bike (not sure what kind yet) and a tattoo of a bird on my shoulder. I really, really don't like my seemingly over large thighs (they make me self conscious). When I loved 'Scooby Doo'(not much changed there...). I love to read. 

The fact that I have spent time deducing what I do and do not like may seem a little pathetic to you. It is. But this is one of those times when I need Truth, rather than Lies, or even pretense.

Old(er) Things...

People in my generation do not listen to the 'Talking Heads' or 'The Beatles' or even 'The Smiths'. They listen to 'Justin Bieber' and to 'The Jonas Brothers'. This is depressing, especially considering the situation in which we (students) are meant to discuss music (in School). It is not possible to be 'popular' while you listen to bands like these, despite their awesomeness. They instantly qualify you as a Freak. Sometimes I compromise and listen to 'Evanescence'. But in what reality can you pretend to like something so....annoying as Justin Bieber's squeaky little voice?

In one of my favourite books, 'Revolution' by Jennifer Donnelly, music symbolises something more than life itself. Hundreds of years are preserved in music, but it takes us that long to really appreciate the very words, and the  pulse that accompanies it. The main character 'Andi' describes herself as 'battery acid', she is a character that I can sympathise with. She plays guitar, plays until her nails bleed, until her mind is enveloped by the music and nothing else. Not blood. Not death. I find myself wishing that I could put into art what she puts into music. Soul.

Sorry, back to the subject, 'Old Things'. No one watches old movies anymore either. I find myself talking to air when I try to discuss the complex (and not so complex) feelings hidden within 'Breakfast at Tiffany's' Holly Golightly. The old movies are pretty fabulous, no Red Carpet like them. Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, Ava Gardner, Grace Kelly and the rest of those beautiful actresses, were amazing. Not to mention their outfits. I mean, Phwoar, what I wouldn't trade for a Vintage Givenchy Gown (yes, I would trade my own mother). There will be a 'Old(er) Thing' come back, at least I hope so. All the designs back then were so very elegant.

Go play with your Crayons.....

Kids can be cruel. That is a common phrase among adults. Today was just another day. German Oral exam, blah, blah, blah. Anyhow, it was not until the afternoon, when a sandwich bomb landed square on my blazer that things really started to go to Hell. Yes, I was less than amused, but now I realise that that part of my day was really quite funny. The next part, not so much. So, this group of guys in my English class, decided it would be fun to make some random girl cry. That would be me.I fell for it. My angerducts are connected to my tearducts. The stuff they said upset me. But only because I allowed it to. I am usually in tight control of my emotions, but today it was all too much. I cannot deal with pathetic little children and waking up at 5:30am (to go to the Gym). I was so tired, and therefore not in the mood for any kind of confrontation. My anger got the better of me. Next time those boys choose me as a target, there will be Hell to pay. And not in the way they expect. Being a goody-two-shoes has its advantages.

Hey, life goes on. There is this movie I want to see with my mates at some point (if anyone actually wants to go), called 'The Black Swan'. If anyone reads this and could comment (good or bad) on the film, it would be great if you could write about it below.

All Things PINK!

I yet again embark upon my search for a prom dress. I have given up looking on sites which actually center around prom dresses, instead I flit across sites like ebay and amazon, praying to find something NOT pink and puffy. No luck so far. Laugh if you wish, but sometimes something so frivolous as a high school prom can take a mind off of exams. The whole thing is cheesy and very overrated, therin lies the fun. The explosion of random sequins is reassuring.  The amount a girl could spend on a dress could fund a small country for a few months. This helps me keep things in perspective. I can separate the important from the ridiculous.

Excuse this Depression

Sometimes I worry that I have the same conversations every day. My life is so formulae that it could have been pre decided upon by some exceptionally sad bloke with absolutely no taste. At school, my smile never reaches my eyes anymore. Words come out, but I cannot feel them on my tongue. Sarcasm is frequent in my voice. Some would praise my sense of routine. Others would politely request that I get a life. I need a bad habit; to start drinking volumes of tequila or to simply roll hapless in the mud. I feel too clean. I have the urge to paint my hands. Everything I say incurs new thoughts (and evidence) of embarrassment, That very embarrassment is scalding.The heat of it burning through my clothes. Through that perfect facade I must continue, not through any real wish of my own, but rather through instinct. I try to avoid situations in which I may embarrass myself. As a detrimental result people perceive me to be boring. Sometimes, like now, I feel like an empty shell of myself. Weak, yet at the same time stronger than tempered steel. She is inside of me, she comes through my eyes; the eyes of a ghost.

Occasionally, I have the absurd desire  to be five years old again. Where and when I was not surrounded by teenage pretentiousness. By this I do not mean my friends. I so miss those days. Days of clay and mud, of paint and my imagination. But in its own way, five was hard. I had to accept that, in those years, although my childhood would not define me completely, it would have cause and effect hidden in the palm of my hand.

Reading this over has made me realise how very stupid it all sounds. My life really is not that bad. In fact, I barely ever have any time to be bored. I swim, I paint, I read. A lot of creative output. Perhaps I need another hobby. Perhaps boxercise, to take out my anger on those more disposable than those around me.