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.

A is for Artichoke

Hurrah, Whoopee, Huzzah!! Finally the horror of the Maths GCSE is finito. No more long division for me! I have also completed my English GCSE, so there will be no more (infinitely depressing books) for me. I can now be a complete soul, living without material goods. Where is my chocolate?

Why couldn't I have been a only child?

Here is an incredible revelation, I want my parents undivided attention. I want the luxury of bra shopping, unmolested by younger children. The luxury of clubbing without my big (smirk) sisters attendance. I wish. It will never happen.

Highway to Hell (aka School)

Have you ever stopped to inhale, in just some random place? I associate various smells with various things. Strange as that is. Primary School triggers memories of really terrible school dinners. Having to face day after day of aesthetically deformed food eventually took its toll. An over active imagination matched with a terror of lettuce equaled some pretty scary dreams. Now days the smell tends to be much more satisfactory.

Yet that doesn't seem to lift the depression that is achieved by simply being in school. Being a busy person, having something to do makes my day that much better. But I would rather allow myself to be caught and eaten by cannibals than do long division. hhmmmm. My Maths teacher seems to be in desperate need of a reality check. I could make some pretty startling revelations to him a)WE HAVE CALCULATORS b) Ties with fish on them are not going to gain any respect from a group of teenagers.

This situation is not helped by the almost constant homework load bestowed upon us by our enlightened Teachers. The most frightening prospect that has launched itself upon us is that they (by which I mean the Science Teachers) plan to teach about formulation of atomic bomb structure. Is this a seriously good thing to teach the futures, well, adults (I use the term as loosely as possible). I think not.

Sometimes I wish for a real work experience, but then I remember my parent's harassed faces as they roll in from work. Maybe I'm not ready for that yet, but beware, I will be. Back to long division.

Sick and %^&^%$£" Tired

Woke up yesterday with what felt like a hedgehog rolling around in my throat and chest. How? Why? And what have I done to deserve this?

Christmas Eve

So everybody is up, not bright eyed, and most definitely not bushy tailed. No one could sleep. Which is ridiculous since Christmas is not until tomorrow. Still no one can sleep. Coffee seems to be the only remedy, for some. For me. But what can I say? I've got a fun filled morning of making marzipan fruit. Such is my tragic life. Vile smells have been seeping out of the conservatory (Ashley's bedroom...Do not ask) all night, congrats to him, he has managed to destroy yet more of the worlds O-zone layer. Do you see what I have sunk to? Describing my brother's farts. At least that is a better prospect than the torture inflicted by the worlds most evil fiend, Peppa Pig. Between the hours of  7am to 11am the TV belongs to my little brother, this is something he defends with his teeth. The say that some animals from the wild kingdom have a bigger bark than bite. The same cannot be said for Tayte. Oh-no, both his bark and his bite are as bad as each other. I guess I (((((love))))) him really. I like small children. But I could not eat a whole one, too much fat. 

I had the strangest dream last night, of a labyrinth. The vines that it was made out of were beautiful, but as strong as cables of steel. The wall could not be climbed. I was searching for clues, to find something. I can't remember what. meh.

GIrl with Star Wars Robot...

How far do the Star Wars movies go Back? (See Picture)

My Freaky Deaky Family

I am one of five siblings, living in a very small house. And a result I am constantly entertained by my family, and constantly disturbed. Innuendos run rampant through our three bedroom house. Scary as it is, no one seems to mind this much. If anything, it is something to laugh at. Some times I could swear our house grows, enveloping the people within. In this way we retain our solitude (and our sanity). We know that it is only okay for me to listen to 'Pink' while Mum is far, far away. And that it is not okay for Kim (elder sister) to watch 'Legally Blonde' where there is any remote possiblity of Mark (my Step Dad) viewing it. So there it is... the extent of the cookery that is completed in our house, is completed my my step father (Mark...yes, this gets more complicated), who enjoys conducting freaky science experiments in the fridge. My mother (Debra...a perfectionist) is the cleaner. My younger sister (Maria...also a professional gambler) is the entertainer, along with my little brother (Tayte). My older sister (Kim) is the fashion guru. My elder brother (Ashley), well he can only be described as a beast that haunts the outer regions of the house. My real Dad is amazing, cokoo, but amazing all the same. And I, am the reader. I like red roses, and Books(?), and history. I have of late been exeprimenting with various hair dyes, yet originally my hair was a kind of browny blond. My eyes are green. What else is there to say about myself? My family have shaped me into who I am, and without them, I am little more than dust. 

Walking in a Winter Wonderland??

Have you ever looked at a spider web when it has been coated in frost? Everything that you see in that moment does not connect with what you feel (i.e. frostbitten). And despite the fact that the driveway is coated, dangerously, in ice, everything is aesthetically perfect. Beautiful even. Unfortunately that effect is soon ruined, either by nature, or by people like my brother. My lovely brother, who passes his time playing with Thomas the Tank Engine or more often, consumming chocolate spread. Angelic on the outside, uncontested evil on the inside. Perhaps this seems an unfair description of a five year old boy. Perhaps not.