Daily Exploits and Imaginings

Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus

2011-08-15T11:47:00.002+01:00

I often seem to be in two minds about the books I read. ‘Frankenstein’ is, unfortunately, not the exception.

The novel opens favourably: the use of a (for want of a better turn of phrase) random guy sending letters to his sister is off-putting a good way. I had approached the novel with some agitation about what I would encounter, so reading some nice letters about travelling in Russia was pleasing. On a literary level, however, it was an excellent device: the gorgeous romantic imagery and elsewhere loving, conversational tone of the letters is juxtaposed by the introduction of Victor Frankenstein’s story, as from there, the mood is bleak, bleak, bleak.

That’s not to say that it wasn’t enjoyable. I really loved the first part of Victor’s story, as he recounted his almost Faustian lust for knowledge and achievement. Shelley’s inclusion of his interest in dated philosophers such as Paracelsus created an excellent feeling of naivety that caught me off guard: pop culture had me believing that Professor Frankenstein was old, deranged and prone to laughing maniacally; in fact, he is far more interesting: he is a guilty tragedy who eternally laments his creation of the monster and tries to put things right. This inner struggle is at the heart of the novel, for me: the escalation of the monster’s crimes sends Frankenstein into deeper and deeper despair, which reaches its climax in the monster’s ultimatum: create a female partner for him, or face the death of his family.

I have to take a little break here to discuss the character of the monster. When I began the section of the novel where the creature retells his history, I encountered a problem: how does this newly-created being know anything? How did it know that shade offers respite from heat? How did it know that it should eat to feed itself? How can it have rational thoughts, if it was indeed created and immediately let loose into the wild? I don’t know much about the development of babies, but I’m quite sure that a ‘newborn’ would not know how to do very much at all. I appeased myself by saying that the monster was not a newborn, that it must have been created with a knowledge of basic things – but then the author spent several pages recounting the creature learning how to speak.

Hm. Paradoxical.

This was the biggest problem with the novel, for me. It has been hailed as the precursor to science fiction, but in my eyes it fails on the physiological front, and succeeds on the characterisation and theme. Take the monster, for example: it tells a story of its inception as a peaceful, rational being and its descent into spite from its treatment by humans, but the beauty of the passage is that neither Victor nor the reader knows how much to believe: the monster’s later actions would suggest that it is cold and heartless, and indeed Victor states that it employs ruses to get what it wants. The question is then raised: is the monster rational and vengeful, or a demon that is only rational to be calculating? Furthermore, is Victor’s view of the monster clouded by his own experience of it?

I don’t actually have the answer to any of those questions, so I’ll just summarise: ‘Frankenstein’ has been evidently touched by the zeitgeist; with its frequent citations of nature as a calming, benevolent influence, Romanticism flows through it as much as the Faustian thirst for knowledge. It has many good points, namely the humanity of Victor’s character, the ambiguity of the monster’s, the excellent Romantic descriptions and the clever structure of stories within stories. It is let done by the logistics of its ‘science fiction’ core, in my opinion – it feels like the creation and history of the monster was not as thought out as it should have been. Finally, this book is incredibly depressing. I mentioned earlier that the explorer’s tone juxtaposes with that of Victor’s: from the moment his story begins, the reader sinks in his despair at the creation of the monster, the death of his family, the inability of a future moment of happiness. Of course the mood is understandable in such a novel, but I’m left in some doubt as to whether it is excusable.

Emma

2011-08-11T15:44:00.001+01:00

Back in 2008, when I had to study ‘Pride & Prejudice’ for GCSE English, I positively loathed Jane Austen. I must have matured, however.

The novel follows the life of Emma Woodhouse, who is witty, endowed and beautiful – but does not want to marry. The first volume encompasses her scheme to match her friend Harriet with the eligible bachelor Mr. Elton; the second with the coming of three new neighbours, Jane Fairfax, Frank Churchill and Augusta Hawkins AKA The New Mrs. Elton; the third predictably charts Emma’s realisation of her own feelings for her childhood friend, Mr. Knightley.

What I love about Jane Austen is that you can guess the outcome of the plot by the blurb, but her novels are still immensely enjoyable. I’m a bit timid in using this phrase, but I believe it’s down to the ‘realism’ of it all.

Austen creates very diverse, believable characters. Many writers can create a good character in description, but do not reflect it consistently in describing their speech and actions. Austen breathes life into characters to make them, in my eyes, more than realistic. I can easily imagine the lives of Emma, of Miss Bates, of Frank Churchill, continuing when I close over the page because she transcribes her ideas for characters into living beings.

However, one problem that I have with Austen is how far to believe in it. She is known for writing novels of manners – social commentary. To that end, should I put faith in her portrayal of strict etiquette, exemplary planning for balls etc.? To what extent does Austen put across a realistic portrayal of 19^th century landed gentry? I’ll have to read other authors from the time period to find out.

I love the pacing of Austen novels. Except in instances of utmost importance (which I wouldn’t want to reveal), ‘Emma’ continues at a very stately pace, neither rushing nor stilted, but continually engaging. This is the word that is used to describe Jane Austen, and one that I find very apt. Her novels do not create immense paroxysms in the reader, but they stimulate the mind, thus challenging the preconception that great literature bounds only the very grandest emotions in life. ‘Emma’ focuses on the small details: a wry comment, a letter, body language, eye contact. I never find myself bored because the reader is enchanted by the stretched realism of Austen’s world, and so he believes in the importance of this or that ball, or his or her engagement. I can see, therefore, why people could dislike Jane Austen: she deals in the arcane and trivial lives of the upper class, which was, even in the 18^th century far removed from the lives of most – in the 21^st century, it is no wonder that in wider society she has numerous critics.

Personally, however, I believe. And so this world of rich characterisation and nuance opened up to me to become one of the most realistic reading experiences I have ever encountered.

The Big Push!

2011-08-11T15:08:00.001+01:00

I'm making a big push to resurrect my blog. My literary opinions must be vocalised!

Proof Of My Blogger-Existence

2011-02-06T12:38:00.000Z

I finished Jane Eyre. It was really very good.

I'm going to go have some lunch.

My little book that is most definitely not a diary

2010-12-28T00:01:00.000Z

I was at the glorious Belfast Continental Market a few weeks ago. I think I'll go find a picture of it. I'm going to start posting much more multimedia on this little blog. The technological age and all this hoohah. So... here we go...

Aw, would you look at that? Absolutely beautiful. The Belfast Continental Market is a glorious little gem of attempted culture in our great capital where various stalls from various different countries are set up ie. crepes, weird meat burgers et cetera...

That was quite cynical. I adore the Continental Market and I shouldn't be so harsh about it. So, on my annual galavant around the block this time, I bought a delightful pair of... Polish (?) slippers (I should probably upload a picture in the new spirit of things but I don't want to) and, what this post is really about, my glorious little leather-bound book.

It's my book log book - which I keep accidentally referring to as my log book log. Which makes no sense.

My book log book is my log book where I log books! This means that I record the date and opening thoughts of whatever book I happen to be starting, note down a few thoughts throughout if I feel the need, and then a short summary/review plus the date whenever I finish the book.

Glorious! It will be an absolute asset when I start cramming literature into my tiny mind for university interviews.

I'm writing this post because I made the first step today. I wrote in the little book (should I name it? - I name quite a few inanimate objects...) for the very first time - apart from when I wrote my name it, which doesn't count because it was boring. And in my glorious little leather-bound book I wrote:

Monday 27th December

The Odyssey

Homer

There was some little comment following that but I've forgotten what it was now.

Isn't that exciting? Doesn't it fill your heart with glee? Written recordings of every book I'm going to read until the end of time! Exhilarating!

I'm reading Homer's 'Odyssey', in case the little quotation (multimedia!-ish) above didn't give it away. It's the Penguin Rieu prose translation. I had a little rant about this in my glorious little leather-bound book earlier because how are you possibly supposed to understand Greek epic poetry if you are reading a prose translation of Greek poetry? Then I realised that even if I had been reading a poetry translation it would have been meaningless because there is simply no way that a translation could have preserved the original meter and structure of Homer's millenia-old Greek verse.

Or could they?

I don't know. I'm too tired to contemplate it.

Digression. I deeply, deeply like 'The Odyssey'. It's written in an 'oral' style that I believe essentially means it was written to be spoken in verse - like a story. This leads to many very hilarious repeated words, phrases, paragraphs and scenes in my icky prose translation that were originally necessary to keep rhythm in the Greek verse and are now just strange. For example, at the start of every single day, we receive the nice little phrase - "As Dawn arose, fresh and rosy-fingered". Menelaus is "auburn-haired", Odysseus is "resourceful", Athene is "The Goddess of the shining eyes". Every. Single. Page.

PICTURE INTERLUDE.

That's good old Menelaus looking less than auburn-haired in his grey, grey bust.

But yes, I am thoroughly enjoying 'The Odyssey'. Further updates as I progress.

Ohayo gozaimasu!

Trials

2010-11-25T17:40:00.002Z

The most frustrating thing about learning to play an instrument is that sometimes you suck. Right now (right, right now - I'm procrastinating) I'm learning to play Massenet's 'Meditation' and I want to bloody throw my viola on the ground and stand on it. Because I was better last week.

Why? It's frustrating. If I was just awful and I stayed awful all the time that would be absolutely fine, but that glimmer of musical credibility that I hear once in a while just makes it so infuriating when I sink back into the doldrums.

Matthew is self-deprecating today. It's a good thing because ninety-nine times out of a hundred he is pompous.

Book update: finished one 'young adult' fantasy novel for the library club. It's called 'The Keeper's Daughter' by Gill Arbuthnot. Enjoyable. A solid 7.8. I have to read another young adult fantasy novel and then I'm going to back to my darling littérature. Currently debating between Matthew Lewis's 'The Monk' (Gothic Romanticism -- ah!) and Vladimir Nabkov's 'Lolita' (infamous twentieth century Russian sexcapade - ah!) The life of a teenager is a difficult one.

Poetry!

2010-11-12T20:29:00.002Z

"If one really truly does indeed want to go to Cambridge then one really does have to begin studying poetry."

That is my inner scholar. He is very annoying but very correct. For that reason I bought the most beautiful little collection of poetry books a couple of days ago. It included:

W.B. Yeats
T.S. Eliot
Sylvia Plath
Ted Hughes
W.H. Auden
John Betjeman

I'll admit that before I bought the collection I had heard of four out of those six poets. But that's why I read! To learn! To that end I have started with Yeats. I have thus far read the very long introduction and about four poems, methinks. I'm not really feeling proper analysis, however.

In other news I have read the first book of Mervyn Peake's 'Gormenghast' trilogy, and I am in LOVE. I am convinced that it is indeed 'proper' literature, even though it doesn't have 'social context' or anything of the sort. I mean, it has endured more than fifty years in print. And what it does have is themes, and character, and motive, and macabre description!

I need to up the ante with my reading schedule or else no one will ever believe I'm smart.

I've Gotten Over My Fear of Woolf Quite Completely

2010-08-19T01:19:00.004+01:00

I've been frantically googling Virginia Woolf for the past hour. I want 'The Waves' in my life. I will STORM through 'David Copperfield' so the spree can begin. Erk. One should never storm through Dickens.

Bad self.

I Forgot To Give It A Title Again - Oh Wait That's Not Very Interesting So I Suppose I'll have to Call It 'BA BA BAH PROGRESSSSS'

2010-08-19T00:08:00.003+01:00

Whoopsies. Almost two months have passed by, and in that time something truly very exciting has happened.

I FINISHED LES MISERABLES.

And it was so incredibly good. Unfortunately I have a suspicion that this feeling of adoration is akin to Stockholm Syndrome: I had spent so long in custody of this book that it became a major part of my life; I read so much about the characters that I became almost forcefully involved with them. Maybe. That's one theory - the other is that it's just a truly spectacular book and everybody should read it.

A bit of both?

I have also read... 'Mrs. Dalloway' by Virginia Woolf (LOVE.), 'My Antonia' by Willa Cather (how 20th century American writing really should be), and 'The English Patient' by Michael Ondaatje (really very good and I could have enjoyed it a lot more if I had focused more).

Right now I'm reading 'David Copperfield' and I just want to swear my love for Charles Dickens. I mean, he does for literature what Taylor Swift does for country music: he makes it enjoyable, accessible and vivid. Nobody else describes a character or a scene quite like him, with his varied and distinctive similes, wonky personal traits etc. etc. This is my second Charles Dickens novel - I read 'Great Expectations' a few months ago. So far it's better than GE in one way and worse in one way.

BETTER: Pip is a horrible person. It's probably not very 'intellectual' of me to have qualms with a novel for hating the protagonist, but he just really winds me up. In contrast David Copperfield is recognisable and lovable. 1-0.

WORSE: Being semi-autobiographical, 'David Copperfield' tends to completely change everything once in about every thirty pages. First he's at home, then he's at Peggotty's (I LOVE YOU PEGGOTTY), then he's at school, then he's at work. BAM BAM BAM. The pace is too fast. We're not given enough time to acquaint with the characters and the period fully. It keeps the novel entertaining, for sure, but I'm quite sure it could be entertaining if a little more time was spent on each section.

That being said I'm only 200 pages through the 900. I'll have to read the rest to make up my mind properly.

After this I'm going on a Virginia Woolf spree. University interview and all that. Ta-rah!

I Like Your Mom's Books

2010-07-08T23:45:00.001+01:00

I'm actually only writing this since it's been a week since my last update.

I was at my friend's house a few days ago. This particular friend happens to have a mother who studied English at university, and we all know what that means: BOOKS. For years now I have looked at the cornucopia of books and wanted so badly to take them home and read them. Unfortunately my friend always said I wasn't allowed to. This time, however, PATRICIA (his mother) came into the room while I was gazing longingly at the bookcase. We launched into an enormous, digressive conversation about this and that author while she enthusiastically thrust books into my hands to read this summer. I have to say I'm very excited. So, without further adieu, Matthew's Summer Reading List:

'My Antonia' my Willa Cather
'Mrs Dalloway' by Virginia Woolf
'To The Lighthouse' by Virginia Woolf'
'A Farewell to Arms' by Ernest Hemingway'
A book of short stories by Chekov
'The English Patient' by Michael Ondaatje
'The Glass Menagerie', 'Sweet Bird of Youth', 'A Streetcar Named Desire' by Tennessee Williams
'A Raisin in the Sun' by Lorraine Hansbury
The Gormenghast Trilogy by Mervyn Peake

That's the general rough order of when I'm going to read them, although it's highly dependent on how taxing each book is. I might add in some mind-numbing tweeny books along the way. For comfort, you see.

And, of course, there's Les Mis. The less said of my 'progress' the better.

I always forget to give posts a title

2010-07-01T22:18:00.000+01:00

It's never a good idea to start writing a blog post when you have absolutely no idea what you're going to say. It inevitably leads to rambling. Oh well.

So, my one-year anniversary of reading Les Miserables is coming up in a little over a month. Yes, I have been reading it for over eleven months. On and off. While reading many other books. And generally having a life. There are two very clear reasons why this book is taking me so long to read:

It's ENORMOUS. There are just so many pages to this book. It requires such immense willpower to just consider reading it.
No writer that has ever lived will digress quite as prosaically as Victor Hugo. Les Mis is absolutely excellent when he's directing the plot, themes or character. However, every few hundred pages Hugo just launches into a rant about something not entirely irrelevant, but so insignificant that one could easily grasp the scene without a sixty-page rant about a convent. This just makes the former point even more difficult. Just keep to the actual point and we'll get along fine, Monsieur Hugo.

That's all that I'm going to say on Les Mis. It's SUMMER VAYCAY, as I've heard said in various American TV programmes. Unfortunately everybody is leaving me this summer. Enormous holidays in New Zealand and Japan do not make me happy. What are you supposed to do without people around you?

(You could write...)

HUSH. That is most definitely on the agenda for this summer. Just leave it to me. I'm doing nothing tomorrow. I'll brainstorm. I'll hunt for plot bunnies. I will ride the wave of creative...wonder.

I hate the way advertisements make you want things.

Deeper Understanding

2010-05-21T15:13:00.000+01:00

I read 'The Great Gatsby' by F. Scott Fitzgerald for the second time yesterday, and I have to say that I enjoyed it much more the second time around.

Quick digression: THE KEYBOARD/MOUSE IS BEING SO UNHELPFUL TODAY.

Anyway, I think the only reason I disliked it upon first reading was because I was young, and speed reading. Never a good combination. For example, I didn't realise that Jay Gatsby was in a criminal syndicate. Obviously I cannot speed read.

This time however, it was very enjoyable, although I still wanted to slap Daisy. But it's a lovely little book all the same. I would have to disagree that it's one of the 'three perfect examples of American Literature.

Here in Northern Ireland we study 'The Great Gatsby' in English Literature during Year 14, but not everybody in this country does. I've heard that every single student in America is forced to read it, though. That sounds fun.

The enthusiasm/grammar isn't flowing today.

Boring Update

2010-05-17T19:27:00.000+01:00

Since my last post I have finished ‘Tess of the d’Urbervilles’ by Thomas Hardy, and ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ by J.D. Salinger. Unfortunately, I really don’t feel like writing a review D:

I suppose this is just a quick little post to make sure everything’s up to date. I went shopping in the capital of Northern Ireland today! I made that sound rather grandiose; Belfast is a nice place, though. I bought a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. Cool.

I’m dong the GCSEs (uh…General Certificate of Standard Education) at the moment. They’re the first serious exams I’ve ever done in my life. It means that I don’t have to go to school unless I’m sitting an exam! It’s wonderful – lots of reading, sleeping and laptop-ing.

Those damned novelists are being clever for the sake of it

2010-05-10T12:19:00.000+01:00

Hello Blog. I'm sorry I was away for so long. I'm only using you now as a procrastinating tool. I hope you don't mind.

I have heard bad things about 'Tess of the d'Urbervilles' by Thomas Hardy. One such quote is "That's an awful book", coming from my absurdly knowledgeable librarian as I took it out. I just finished the first 'phase' this morning and so far I don't really see what they're complaining about. So far my only qualm is that the narrative is a bit jumpy and hard to follow: lots of really important things seem to happen in the time between chapters. Another irksome thing is that damned 19th century prudishness. It is really very difficult to discern when anything of a sexual nature is happening in the book, despite it dealing centrally with the theme of sexuality! Humbug.

Since my last post I also finished 'The Sea, The Sea' by Iris Murdoch. It took me so very long to read.

'The Sea, The Sea' is very much a novel of the brain. First and foremost, it is written in the first person - diary entries; you can never trust diaries - you learn about the protagonist by reading between the lines, and learn nothing about other characters because they're coloured by the protagonist! Standard first-person isn't quite so bad, even when it's heavy on the interior monologue - you can understand other characters by dialogue, movement. In a diary, however, the only things you can pick up on are the central character, and themes.

We'll start with character. That's a bit easier. 'The Sea, The Sea' begins with ninety pages of uninterrupted musings. That might sound awful, but it really was fascinating. Charles Arrowby, the protagonist, is a playwright who retires to the sea for peace and solitude. For a while he revels, playing the part of the hermit with obvious grandeur. His writing is lavish and descriptive, incredibly romantic. However, in complete contrast with his writing, his actions show discontent - hallucinations, injuries etc. It seemed to me that he was searching for a kind of solitude he was never going to find. Furthermore, he was trying to deceive himself with romantic imagery and endless philosophy.

As the novel progresses so too does Arrowby's view of the sea. Things become chaotic, people come to visit him, and the sea once again becomes an effigy of peace. I thought it was a rather cyclical novel, but that would give away a lot of the plot.

Oh! It's important to not that Arrowby is a horrible, horrible person and if you can't get past that you won't enjoy the book.

This review is horrible. It has no structure.

THEMES. Actually, I should go do some proper work. Themes will come later.

The scariest kind of shopping

2010-04-16T19:27:00.000+01:00

I'm going viola-shopping tomorrow. It will be terrifying.

There are a number of reasons why this outing will be terrifying. The first is that I will have to test out numerous violas on the shop floor with people watching and listening and judging me. The second is that I've heard the man at the music shop is terrifying. The third is that I will be spending many hundreds of pounds on an instrument which might be secretly terrible and I just can't tell.

Scary.

Oops

2010-04-01T18:53:00.000+01:00

The internet was broken. I swear. It really was.

Anyway, the last book I read was...um...The Grapes of Wrath? REALLY? That long ago? Oh dear. I'm doing exams. It's not my fault.

It's Terrifying

2010-02-23T18:41:00.000Z

I have just spent the past hour researching Cambridge University. From this I have learned two things:

I am not a normal teenager.
IT'S SO SCARY.

First things first, I need to attain A's or preferably A*'s in every exam for the rest of my time in secondary school. I also need to write fantastic, provocative exams for submission to Cambridge. I need to begin reading the newspapers so that I know what's happening in the world.

Most importantly, I need to START READING. This is how I envision my interview would go in my current situation:

"Are you interested in a particular period of literature?"

"Oh, yes. I adore Victorian literature."

"Ah, Victorian! What are your thoughts on [enter the name of an obscure Victorian author]?"

"Um...what? I liked Great Expectations..."

"Right. NEEEEXT."

Terrified. I'm off to read some contemporary literature that doesn't help my case in the slightest.

Drama Drama Drama!

2010-02-17T19:17:00.000Z

I had such an excellent day today. It began with Drama, in which our group is putting on an extract from Nikolai Gogol's 'The Government Inspector' for moderation. Today we sorted out our set (complete with an AMAZING door set piece) and rehearsed the first scene. I don't actually have a role in this scene (though I'm the government inspector himself in the next one - so. Many. LINES.) so I just sat around shouting 'suggestions' to people and eating sweets. It was such a wonderful rehearsal.

The rest of the day was just pleasant: Geography, English, swimming in games. After school I had another drama rehearsal, which was equally as fun as the first.

Good day. I'm incredibly tired now, however. Oh well.

An Abnormal Attraction to Japanese Authors

2010-02-11T18:17:00.000Z

Have I ever talked about Haruki Murakami on this blog? Well, I adore him.

The first novel I read was 'The Wind-up Bird Chronicle', which is an abstract sort of novel full of confusing symbolism, but was ultimately excellent due to its strange, wonderful characterisation and scantly elegant writing style. It also made me appreciate wells like I never had before.

Then I read 'After Dark' - 500 pages shorter, and arguably better. It was much more understandable but retained the elegant writing style and rich characters, without beginning to drag or inflict migraine. It was like a 180-page window into a square kilometer of Tokyo at night. Splendid.

Continuing my love affair with Murakami, I recently got 'Norwegian Wood' from the public library. I've been told that Murakami writes two distinct types of novel: the bizarre, otherwordly 'Wind-Up Bird Chronicle' variety, and the stable, flash-back type 'Norwegian Wood' variety. So far I've only read his strange novels, so I'm very excited to see what Murakami does in the real world.

Excited!

Monday

2010-02-08T18:20:00.000Z

I DIDN'T POST ANYTHING YESTERDAY. The world is going to fall apart.

The laptop is about to hibernate so this is just a quick little up date.

I just watched 'The September Issue'. It was very good. I'm not sceptical on the topic of fashion, so I didn't really need persuaded to see the 'serious side' of fashion. Grace Coddington is a fantastic human being - full of romanticism and creativity. Anna Wintour is...admirable.

Must dash. Skins!

Saturday's Thoughts

2010-02-06T23:23:00.000Z

Oh dear. My neurotic friend has become increasingly neurotic because I go places without him. There's a whole big story that I don't really want to tell.

It will be Sunday in thirty-one minutes! I love Sundays. They're so slow and lazy. And the best part is the Sunday Times. Style! Culture! News Review! Travel! Home! Other sections! The paper takes an absolute week to read, and I'm in love with it.

Just a small post. Goodbye Blogger.

"Everybody's plastic, but I love plastic. I want to be plastic."

2010-02-05T18:49:00.000Z

I've recently fallen in love with the idea of blogging - sharing yourself with the world, via the internet. It's fascinating. Snippets of somebody's life far away in another country, which give me a feeling of how...stuff is there. For this reason I'm going to make an impossible pledge to post something on my blog every single day, even if it is about three words long.

Today I got more exam results back. That's not very interesting. What is interesting is that I'm going to Belfast (the capital city of Northern Ireland) for a little shopping trip tomorrow. There is one particular shop that I must always visit when I go to Belfast: Hollister.

"But Matthew! Boring, thoughtless, prosaic people shop at Hollister! Why would you want to buy clothes from a shop as dull and uninteresting as Hollister?"

Reasons for my love of Hollister:

IT SMELLS AMAZING. There is not a font large enough to describe that immersing scent. I am in love with it.
The clothes are bright, nice, easy to wear and the hoodies in particular are fantastic for throwing on whenever you feel like it.
I am completely and utterly in love with this 'SoCal' lifestyle. Yes, feel free to hate me. In fact, a little part of myself died when I typed that. I apologise. I've been told by my friends and schoolmates that nobody likes Hollister any more because everybody loved it for a month (we got the shop in November 2009, I think) and now it's just old and plain, but there's just something about it that is endlessly pleasing to me.
The shop is heaven to me (apart from the crowds - not so pleasant). Good music, warmth, luscious smell, hot shop assistants. I even love the pretentious low lighting that so many people complain about. It's beach-y. And my favourite part is the TWIN SCREEN LIVE FEED OF MISSION BEACH. Coolest. Thing. Ever

So that's why I'm a clone.

I'm about to start reading 'The Grapes of Wrath' for my book club. My friend assures me that it is sublime. High hopes.

Introspection

2010-02-04T19:49:00.000Z

After over two weeks of intermittently sitting exams and revising for them, I finally started getting some results back today. I'm doing well, as I expected. I won't say any actual statistics, but there are lots of A's and A*'s flying around. It's terribly exciting.

This next paragraph is going to sound like I'm bullied or something, which I'm not. So immediately stop thinking that. In my year group I'm famously good at English Literature and French, to the extend that my classmates will eat me alive if I do anything less than outstandingly in tests and exams. French wasn't a problem, because I got 100%.

Brief moment of ecstasy.

WHEE. YAY. YAHZAH.

It's probably important to mention that I'm also a massive braggart. Unfortunately this was cut short in French today because my perpetual linguistic rival was...somewhere else. It was therefore impossible to point out that although we both got 100% MY RESULT WAS STATISTICALLY 0.3% BETTER THAN HIS.

I'm sorry for being obsessive compulsive.

So French turned out beautifully and I will be elated if I can do that well in my GCSE in June. English, however, was another matter. In my first Language paper I got 52/60 which is probably quite good by a sane person's standards, but since I'm a crazy elitist this was not good enough, especially since my friend Ruth got FIFTY-THREE. I could bear that, but Literature was just tortuous. I got 82/105 (three shy of an A* which is unacceptable in a subject that I want to PLACE IN THE COUNTRY IN), whilst Ruth and my other friend Ben got 83. Ruth was kind - she understands my neurosis. She assured me that in the actual exam I would smite her (which in a bizarre, narcissistic way made me feel better), but Ben was merciless. It was painful.

That's really just the background to this post. I had really wanted to discuss the high standards I set for myself. Now, ordinarily, since I'm so fond of shoving words where they don't belong I would have said 'impossibly high standards' just for a little added oomph. But they're not really impossible. I have a very porous mind and I'm naturally intelligent, and I'm meeting my goals in most other subjects, so if I had bothered to do any Literature revision I definitely would have come out with a better mark. I know for a fact that Ben re-read the two set texts before our Lit exam, which would have given him the advantage, for sure.

Oh dear. I'm being insane again. Why aren't I satisfied with a good mark in Literature? Probably something about literature being my 'identity' and if I don't have my high grades I have nothing. Oh well.

I just finished reading composed entirely of diary entries and letters. It made me want to blog.

Dickens lives up to my Great Expectations

2010-01-27T23:22:00.000Z

I sincerely apologise for what can only be described as the worst pun in living memory. It was just so obvious, and I jumped. I'm sorry, but it was inevitable.

'Great Expectations' has me, unfortunately, in two minds. The first one says, "This novel was FANTASTIC. I defy you to find more personalised, intriguing characters and description so lush you'd might as well be inhaling factory smog through your very own lungs."

The other side of me says, "Don't be fooled by the astounding few segments that this novel had to offer; you waded through countless irrelevant passages praying frantically for Pip to do something interesting. STOP TALKING TO MR. WEMMICK."

So, yes. My thoughts on 'Great Expectations' fall into those two distinct camps. Overall I think I'll have to side with the former just because the last couple of chapters were jaw-droppingly excellent (I'm a sucker for endings - they can be happy or sad as long as they leave a lasting effect) and the characters truly were extraordinary. Miss Havisham, especially, is one of the only characters I can think who, from the very first description of her rotten wedding dress and bitter demeanour, gave me a profoundly affecting visual image of her character. Herbert, Estella, Joe, Magwitch - all perfectly developed, perfectly unique characters. Even Pip, whom I despised for being so selfish and ungrateful was fascinating to learn about, even if i did want to punch him in the face.

Taking a step back, I'm going to discuss one of my absolute favourite elements of the novel. Let's be clear: Volume One mopped the floor with the other two volumes. One particular reason for this was Pip's fascinating narration as an adult who uses a diverse vocabulary and often quite complex syntax to convey the younger Pip's thoughts and actions. It may be a stretch to say that there was dramatic irony at work, but it was fascinating from two perspectives: the first is the later Pip's reflection on his younger self's actions, which always leads to a lot of self-deprecation et cetera, and the second was the omnipresent thought in my mind that the younger Pip, yearning and striving to be educated and successful, would one day reach that goal (well, partially) and reflect on his earlier actions. It's almost paradoxical, isn't it?

So, die Vorteilen:

Absolutely fascinating characters
Strangely brilliant writing style in the first volume (which does admittedly continue throughout the second and third volumes, but to a lesser effect)

That's actually only two things, but it made this novel very interesting indeed.

Now for the negatives. One of the main drawbacks of this novel to me was, that although Dickens could provide a beautiful, sensory description of one distinct scene (often a pivotal one), his description of more ambiguous places and lesser scenes was, frankly, shocking. I find it quite hard to visualise many of the places that he was talking about, especially in one of the last chapters when they are on the boat together. This caused me to not enjoy the final exciting climax of the novel, which was actually quite irritating.

I have brought this second point upon myself. Having read the title of 'Great Expectations' and nothing else by Charles Dickens, I quite foolishly prepared myself for a thematic work filled with nothing more than contemplation of dreams and expectation. I was quite annoyed then, when the plot of the novel veered off in other directions other than Pip's "great expectation", but, as I say, this is really my own fault. Since I had presumed it to be largely thematic, I found myself quite unwilling to enjoy the simple adventurous plot that took reign for a large portion of the novel, and to an extent it even stopped me from enjoying the fascinating characters in the novel because I couldn't stop thinking about their representations. I'm really quite angry with myself.

So, there you have it. I love and loathe 'Great Expectations'. And, most importantly, I have learned not to assume anything about a novel before I actually read it, because it invariably makes the experience less enjoyable.

I have been more than that since my absence, although I've kind of forgotten everything by now. There was 'Macbeth', and 'The Age of Innocence' by Edith Wharton (I really do think I prefer English literature to American) and probably some other ones that I've completely forgotten. Oh well. C'est la vie.

It's 11:39. I'm off to watch a BBC documentary!

I'm So Afraid

2009-11-02T19:58:00.000Z

I was feeling quite guilty as November drew nearer and nearer, and I was still without a basic plot for NaNoWriMo. Alas, Sunday came and still I had absolutely nothing to write. I wanted to placate my self-loathing somehow, so I thought I would log onto ZU and start a useless little role play just so I could write without concerning myself with structure and plot.

I'm struggling here to say if it's changed a lot, or if it hasn't at all. In my time the OoC was a constant hotbed of activity, as it was now; I'm ashamed to admit that I spent 90% of my time in that thread instead of writing, but then again so did everyone else. This had never seemed a problem to me before (probably because I didn't care at all about writing), but it has become a big one now. I posted my story (which was in my opinion one of the easiest things to reply to in living memory) and was quite taken aback when nobody replied. I do have one comrade now, but I left it open to others and nothing came of it.

This disturbed me. When I joined ZU there was an open RP once in a blue moon, and when there was one people immediately sprang upon it. Now I can see a couple floating about totally unheeded. I don't want to brag, but my opening was well-written and I'm just quite shocked at the dilapidation of the place.

Of course, the OoC Thread is still buzzing on as it was: lightning-quick posts between the oh-so-cool clique of elite members, followed by a torrent of new members 'laughing' along at the various in-jokes; it was a bit disgusting to think that I was once groveling at the feet of Altamira, insanely et al. Once in, I decided to advertise my little RP (because everyone reads the OoC Thread), and nobody even made reference to it.

Distressing.

As I just about had one successful RP going, and craved more to sate my NaNoWriMo withdrawal, I then requested someone to send me a message concerning another prospective role play, which was once again ignored amongst a sea of irrelevant chat.

I also found it very unprofessional how the tournament that I had participated in was simply left half-finished to rot forever. Not pleased.

Overall, the BA (sorry, The Escapists' Haven) needs a serious overhaul. From what I've seen there really is nothing to appeal to anyone who is serious about writing, or indeed role playing of any kind.

What's more, I loathe Power Shot.

On another note, I'm reading Great Expectations. This novel fills me with squee from head to toe. Expect a full review in the near future.

Early Morning Blog Post Just Because I Can

2009-09-25T08:15:00.001+01:00

I never know where to put the capital letters in my blog titles.

Anywho, I have to go to school in twenty minutes, but I just thought that I would check in with the dear old blog. I don't like how old my last post is.

I've been reading various classic, thought-provoking-type novels recently, so I was pleasantly surprised when I picked up a teenage novel last week. It was good. I'm not feeling the blog today. Bye bye.

Slumming It At The Beach

2009-08-01T11:41:00.001+01:00

I've been having fun since Thursday. A few friends and I took the train up to the seaside and went to the beach and pushed each other and generally frolicked. In the evening we made melted Mars Bars that took so long to eat that we missed the train.

Which turned out to be a good thing (random new paragraph!). We went to Barry's, which is a massive amusements full of roller coasters and rides and things. Major fun. Then we got doughnuts and sat on the beach, watched the sunset. It turned out to be a rather lovely day indeed.

There was another train around nine so my three friends got that and left me at the beach. I was going to stay at my friend's apartment, but apparently he didn't know that and he was quite surprised when I showed up at his door. But it was all cool. We went inside and watched 'The Beach', the second time this week I've seen that lovely, disturbing movie.

Friday was terrific fun. We did nothing until the afternoon when we went to a sea pool called the Blue Pool. Back in the '30s or something there were diving boards and everything and the water was really deep, so I could jump in from really high up. I'm bad a gauging distances but I'm guessing it was about 25 feet. It turns out jumping from that height hurts quite a bit, but I still loved it. I was falling for about a second, but it felt all slow, the way everything does when you're exhilarated. Then, just before I hit the water, a streak of panic tore through me for about a millisecond. Should I have jumped? But it was always fun. I plummeted into the water really quickly, like a bullet, and then the water just grabbed my whole body and held me in place for a few seconds. I jumped lots of times because it was fun.

That night we went to the theatre and saw a play. It was a silly little farce about a robot and relationships and things. I enjoyed it.

Since I've been so busy I haven't had any time to read, but I DID dream about books. The first was about Les Miserables, and the West End cast were coming to my town to put on a special performance for a select audience. Unfortunately, they were late so we had to watch the animated cartoon (what?) instead. The second was about American Psycho and I was Patrick Bateman and I wasn't as buff as I had imagined. I think it means I'm insecure. Maybe.

That's all that's happened in the last few days of my life. I enjoyed them. Tomorrow I resign myself to a week at the caravan with my arthritic grandfather who does nothing. At least I'll get a lot of reading done.

Goodbye!

Assigned Summer Reading That I Didn't Know I Had

2009-07-29T23:16:00.000+01:00

I don't think I like Pride & Prejudice. When you don't care about the protagonist (Elizabeth bores me to tears) I don't think you care about her marital struggles. We were made to read this in English Literature class and at first I was thrilled and I kept batting my hand, exclaiming, "OH, Mr. Bingley!" Then I started reading the book and it got rather tiresome. I'm some 100 or so pages through it now.

I discovered tonight that I have to finish this book by September, and, after spending an hour or so poring over positive and negative reviews on Goodreads.com (which I recently bookmarked!) I have a feeling that PaP might get somewhat better. I can only hope.

In other news, I finished 'American Psycho' by Bret Easton Ellis a few hours ago. I haven't written a review in ages and I'm in the mood.

The first thing that struck me as I read the book is the protagonist's attention to detail. The book is written in the perspective of Patrick Bateman (our titular psychopath) and he pores over clothing, hair, drinks, designer labels, credit cards and a number of other material things and treats all of his creepy killings almost as little asides that break away from his 'real' life which involves nothing more strenous than making reservations at various upmarket restaurants. And there are lots of them. At first I was struck by this reversal of interest between the reader and Bateman, where we focus on the gruesomeness of the murders whilst he gets infuriated by asking to 'please hold' making reservations and talking to his vast number of girlfriends. Later it gets quite annoying.

Excerpt:

"He's wearing a linen suit by Canali Milano, a cotton shirt by Ike Behar, a silk tie by Bill Blass and cap-toed leather lace-ups from Brooks Brothers."

In this particular scene Bateman begins by describing his friend Price; he then goes on to describe, in detail, what he and his two friends Van Patten and McDermott are wearing. For the first twenty pages I could bear it as it was making a point about the materialism and obsession with style that was nurtured by the prep generation, but after 380 pages I was ready to strangle Mr. Ellis. I began to skim through these descriptions of clothing just because they bored me to death, and if I'm being honest a lot of the book just goes round in a loop of girls, clothing and reservations.

But it's interesting. As the novel progresses Bateman becomes more and more unable to quell his bloodlust (BUT THANK GOODNESS THE POLICE DID NOT INTERVENE I WOULD HAVE CUT SOMEONE IF IT HAD BECOME A CRIME NOVEL) and it was extremely interesting to see how he began to unwind and his friends didn't notice - didn't care. In one scene towards the end he calls a friend and completely confesses all of his grisly murders and the friend laughs, completely unwilling to burst the bubble of self-indulgent unreality that the entirety of Upper Manhattan is living in.

One thing I liked is that he has several chapters that go by the same name that allude to the tautology of Bateman's life.

(I had another thing to say and I just forgot what it was.)

Oh! In several scenes throughout the novel Bateman is referred to by his friends and colleagues by different names, and Bateman, once again too afraid to cause a scene, simply goes along with it. This poses a question: are all of these people who they pretend to be, or is everyone just following a facade out of politeness? This question became another core element of the story when Bateman murders a colleague, then finds that said colleague has been seen in London, and that his friends have eaten with him. Who did he kill? Who is Paul Owen?

Unfortunately, some of the murder scenes in the novel are just disgusting. Prepare yourself for some disturbing stuff to happen.

I'm to-ing and fro-ing a lot in this review. Overall, I really enjoyed American Psycho, but I think I'm enjoying it more now that it's over. It allows me to think about the main theme of the novel without wading through designer labels and lunch dates and parties and a million other things I don't care about.

I'm reading my friend's novel next. And on Sunday I'm starting Les Miserables, which is my August reading project. I must say I'm rather excited.

Oh one more thing!

XOXO Gossip Girl

Not Going Through a Phase

2009-05-24T22:02:00.001+01:00

I discovered today that I genuinely like surfing. Do you know how I know this?

Because surfing sucked today.

It was absolutely freezing, my ankle was in pain and there were surfers everyone. They were looking angrily at me and I was getting in the way and I was all nervous because I didn't know where I was supposed to go. But I still really had fun. Which shows that I enjoy surfing.

This isn't a very good blog post. Oh well. I've also discovered the joys (and irks) of Facebook and I've become a little bit addicted. I've started taking lots of pictures of stuff and making lots of albums and talking to people and playing little games and writing on the walls and it is fun.

I think that's everything. Crap blog post. Bye!

I <3 Obsession

2009-05-23T14:04:00.000+01:00

I really do love obsession. In fact, I'm obsessed with it. Right now, I'm obsessed with Tori Amos (who I'm very strongly considering dubbing my favourite artist ever) and I'm listening to her just about non-stop. I mean, really. I love her. At the moment I just have her greatest hits album (because I always buy greatest hits when listening to a new old artist) and it's fantastic. Once I've listened to every single song a million times and fallen in love with every single song I'm going to buy all of her albums in chronological order. Because there's nothing better than rediscovering a greatest hits song on an original album. It's like, "Wow! This song is a massive hit but they didn't know it at the time!" So squee for that.

For my imaginary readers who are interested, check out "Cornflake Girl", "Crucify" and "Spark". Life-changing.

Next obsession. My birthday is in four days (whoop whoop!) and I'm getting forty-three books.

Yeah.

But I'm happy about it because I know what 42 of them are so there's just the right amount of surprise. I'm also getting a pair of super-awesome earphones (which couldn't be more perfect because my exams start the next day which = oodles of iPod fun whilst I try to revise) so I'm seriously looking forward to listening to all my favourite songs in superb quality.

I'm also currently obsessed with "Revolutionary Road", which is our review for this blog post. I must say that it is the number one most depressing novel that I've ever read, but I totally 100% love it. The way that Yates darts between the past (how things used to be), the future (how things could be), and the oh so INADEQUATE present is mind-blowing. The man is (was?) a genius. The characters are so real and he evokes such sadness from something as mundane as the suburbs. But that's how he does it. Everything is so fantastically quaint that it is "hopeless and empty", to quote Frank Wheeler.

Downside. I hate. HATE. April. The good news is that terrible things happen to her and they were all her fault. Frank, her husband, does the whole 'I have a dream' thing beautifully by contemplating and dreaming and ultimately STRIVING to meet the goal, while April sits around thinking about how things could get in the way and how she won't be happy without the dream and, really. She needs to adapt.

I think I have to go now, but there are more obsessions. I've discovered a new love of blogging, so expect more frequent posts, dear imaginary reader.

XOXO Gossip Girl

Various Wonderful Things

2009-04-28T14:00:00.001+01:00

It’s been a good few weeks. There was Easter (which was pleasantly uneventful) and then the first week of school, which, despite draining me to exhaustion point was quite fun. A few days ago I got the results of my music exam back, and I was relieved, to say the least.

After my horrific sight-reading and some other parts of the exam that I have forcefully removed from my memory, I was pleased to discover that I got 118. With 100 being a pass and 120 a merit, this wasn’t too shabby. I’m actually really happy with it because I know that if I improve my sight-reading everything will be shiny and wonderful. I also haven’t looked at my viola in weeks which makes me happy and…un-stressed.

So that’s one think to be thankful for. My first week of Easter was so fantastically easy and agreeable. It consisted of getting up at 9:30 every morning and going for coffee with some friend or another. Nights I stayed with a friend or just stayed at home shamelessly watching “Gossip Girl” (with more on that coming up).

Week Two was spent in Portrush where I took long walks on the beach and played dangerous amounts of '”The World Ends With You”. It’s a fantastic little DS RPG set in Tokyo’s coolest district – Shibuya. I would explain the whole story but you just have to play the game and let it unfold naturally. Let’s just say that I became very, very addicted. (For those that care this week was called ‘Week Two’ because that’s what they do in the game. Now anything that consists of a day and a number is just unbearably cool to me.)

That weekend was my first time in the water since March, but I wasn’t surfing. We found this amazing little pool place, and, nearby, an even more amazing little pool. It was really deep and had a large rock hanging above it so you could dive in from several metres up. Major fun. So, as you may have guessed, that weekend was all about exploring the dear Antrim coastline in my wetsuit.

Going back to school was unpleasant, to say the least. 7:35 is such an ungodly time. For the first five minutes I trudged around like a stupefied zombie, boiling the kettle and painfully climbing up the stairs. Mornings are awful. But then when I got to school everyone was there and it was fun and we chatted and laughed and everything was as easy as breathing. I’ve decided that I need people around me or I go all philosophical and depressing.

So the rest of the week commenced like that, but with the growing pressure of my impending drama performance, which is how we skip to today (or yesterday, because the story begins then).

Let’s be clear. Yesterday kicked ass. It was funny and fun and school is fun because there are lots of people. So when I destroyed my poor ankle in P.E. I just lay there laughing for about five minutes because I was having too jolly a time to let pain get in the way. After that I milked the ‘I’m in pain’ thing until I got home.

Skip forward to this morning, and my foot was STIFF. I doddered even slower than usual to the kitchen then practically pulled myself upstairs into the shower. Everything was hunky dory except for how slow I was. Then, just as I was buttering my (home-made!) pancakes I took a sudden bout of sickness. I collapsed into a chair, sweating, freezing and ghostly, and proceeded to retch unsuccessfully into a bowl. I didn’t eat my poor breakfast and felt so bad because my homemade pancakes just sat there not being eaten.

So I watched TV and did the whole sick thing for a while and now I feel fine, which is irritating. A sixteen-hour day is far too long if you don’t have school to contend with. Right now it is 1:40 and I am bored numb. Hence the blog post. I can’t believe I need school so much.

Well, anyway, I started texting various friends to keep them busy (because school is just as boring as home when you’re there) and then my friend Ben said that my drama performance was tomorrow, first period. Which was like “OH MY DAYS I’M SO SCREWED” and I got all angry at him because he just told me to spite me because he’s like that. However, my teacher never told me this and even though I know it’s true I can just say I didn’t know when the performance was and Ben’s grand plan will be foiled. Because I am 100% not ready to perform tomorrow MORNING (opposed to tomorrow at 11:00am which I had assumed to be my time). So, I’m freaking out and all nervous and angry and stuff.

I actually have a lot going on tomorrow. It will be hellish. There’s the whole drama thing, then my music lesson (which is always a stressful experience) then I miss the whole afternoon for my Duke of Edinburgh practice expedition. It all points to carrying a lot of bags to school tomorrow.

That’s all a bit too ‘real’ for my taste, so let’s delve into Gossip Girl. It’s an American TV series (what else) set in New York’s lavish Upper East Side, and wow is it superficial. I positively love the glitz and glamour and all the scary, edgy parties and bitchiness and the venom and the fashion and the silliness of it all. The best part is that it’s seen through the eyes of a blogger called Gossip Girl who reports in her acidic, intrigued manner about all the cool people and their worries. It’s so clever because it makes what are sometimes serious matters seem so trivial and juicy. I do love it.

One last thing. I LOVE LaGaGa. Her actual songs are a bit samey and electronic, but she is a fantastic person. Her rendition of ‘Viva La Vida’ puts Coldplay to shame and she has SUCH an infectious flair for music. She’s also positively bonkers, which I love. Her teacup is hilarious.

P.S. I’ve been reading until my eyes bleed. I was about to say that I’m not going to do a review but I am enjoying procrastinating doing nothing by writing this post, so I think I will. The book was “Broken Soup” by Jenny Valentine and it was for my library club this Friday. I didn’t like the look of it at first because the blurb was VERY uninformative and it irritated me. However, I gathered from it that the book was some sort of mystery: intrigue, scandal, mad characters. I was mistaken.

Sure, chapter one was like that, but chapter two set the scene for the whole book. The protagonist’s brother, Jack drowned and now she and everyone around deals with it. There’s also a mystery element but it is drowned out by all the lament. I have to say I was disappointed that it was about some guy that had died (make no mistake, he was the main character) and I wasn’t getting BORED of reading about these people’s shattered lives, I just didn’t want to be all depressed by the nature of death. The author did have good writing ability, but it was all rather pessimistic and samey. The mother was the Mary-Sue ‘crushed parent’ who just lay around taking drugs. She frustrated me. However, I liked everyone else (except for Bee’s druggie dad that everyone loved but I thought they were stupid for leaving an infant in his care) and overall it was a good enough read. It was sweet and it taught me all about the importance of family etc.

And because I love Gossip Girl:

XOXO Gossip Girl

Something Terrible Has Happened

2009-03-26T16:51:00.001Z

At 3:55PM today I had my Grade 5 Viola exam. I’ll walk you through the horror that I just experienced.

At first glance, things weren’t so bad. I walked into the room where a nice little man said hello and asked me how my day was et cetera. All pleasant, welcoming stuff. But that I actually had to start playing, and the horror began.

Tambourin by Gossec. The beginning was horrible as always, but this one wasn’t actually too bad. My one complaint is that I didn’t magically fix the one bit that I always get wrong. However, I do feel that I’ve passed overall on this one.

Mozart. OH DEAR. Another horrible beginning, followed by a horrible middle and end. My nice low bit lacked the swoopy-ness that it usually had and my big moment that I love and always crescendo to was DISASTROUS. It makes me feel bad.

As usual, the Joplin was the best of my three pieces. Apart from one nasty bit where it all but fell apart, this one was good. I played it with some of the animation that I owe and there were ample dynamics so it was alright.

In hindsight my pieces were actually okay. Enough to pass by, at any rate. I think that I’m perhaps making things out to be worse than they are because of ONE REALLY HORRIBLE THING.

Scales next. I got a few simple ones and many were separate bows so everything was going grandly. But then…E MINOR ARPEGGIO, SLURRED BOWS.

My world came crashing down. It is well known to be the most evil arpeggio in the history of the universe. Plus, I had been learning E flat by accident up until today. Imagine by surprise.

Aural tests were good, I think. I sang whilst retaining my dignity, did some more singing with only one wrong note, as far as I could detect, and my clapping was some of the best you’ve ever seen. Unfortunately that’s where the good times end. He played me an extract from a piece and asked me the period. I told him, rather shakily, that it was romantic. Then he asked for a REASON. So I gingerly told him it was rather discordant.

Mortified.

After that he asked me about the key, but I had been listening for dynamics and musical nuances and he didn’t even ask for them. So I stuttered for an age then told him miserably that it was in two. I came out of the room feeling rather worse for wear.

Thank goodness it is all over. For another several months I have no music exams. It’s a blessing. And I have a MARVELOUS book to review but I think this entry is long enough without tacking on a 1’000 word paean.

Gatsby and Other Exciting Things

2009-03-10T22:37:00.001Z

Despite Gatsby being the main reason for this blog entry, I’m going to leave him until last. It seems logical to start with how I’m writing to the blog. Well, I recently downloaded the newest version of MSN messenger that comes with this nifty thing called Windows Live Writer. Being a ‘writer’, I was intrigued. I downloaded it as part of my package and discovered that it was actually a program that allows me to write to my blog with ease! So if the internet’s broken or something I can just save all my junk here then post it when I get on. Fabulous.

I discovered a little while ago that when my brother tells me to shut the door he’s really telling me to get out of the room and don’t leave any trace of myself behind. That’s lovely.

It’s 10:17pm so I won’t ramble anymore. On to Gatsby.

I had high hopes for this one, which is perfectly normal because I choose all my books carefully. I think this was my second ‘classic’ novel so I was looking forward to it with perhaps more anxiety than my usual novel. I have to say, I wasn’t disappointed.

The book is narrated by Nick Buchanan (who followed the pattern of being the most boring protagonist possible), a young bondsman who has recently moved to New York State’s wealthy Long Island. His cousin, Daisy is a silly girl with an affluent background and a husband that doesn’t care about her. What I was struck by here is the airiness of their relationship, like two ships passing and acknowledging one another with with fleeting curiosity. It was, what are they called? A marriage of means.

So the novel began in an easy, uncaring way with characters that cared more about parties and dresses than feelings and relationships. The superficiality was beautiful. The parties, described sparingly with a dreamlike state of half-awareness of Nick’s part were so fantastically skin-deep.

As the novel progressed these layers of padding simply fell away, leaving raw nerves that had been veiled by masks of careless smiles completely vulnerable. Daisy’s marriage all but dissolved in the eyes of the reader (though not literally because it was a marriage of means) as we discover that she is, in fact, in love with Jay Gatsby. Then there’s a terrible traffic accident and the climax of the novel is reached. After that, I believe it took a turn for the worst. With thirty pages to go and the transformation from superficial to raw complete, the book seemed to flutter between meanings. There were two shocking character deaths that I hardly comprehended because they were done without flair or emotion.

But then, as always, the novel ends with hypotheses and contemplation that set my heart soaring. Fitzgerald likened Gatsby, gazing upon Daisy’s house with long, wonder and feeling to the first settlers in America and everything was happy in literary world.

I’m now reading Grass for his Pillow by Lian Hearn for the second time. There is a third novel in this series that I never reached two years ago when I last read them, so I’m going over the first two again, then I’ll finish the series once and for all. After that, my library club novel – The Knife of Never Letting Go. It has a truly fascinating blurb. Then I imagine I’ll read something classic again. Thomas Hardy, mayhaps, as I’ve recently fallen in love with his poem “The Darkling Thrush”.

I’m going to bed now. Goodnight!

The Weekend of Friday 6th - Sunday 8th March

2009-03-09T19:31:00.000Z

I got out of school at 3:25 as usual and walked down to the library for my monthly book club. It had actually been two months since we met so we were discussing Meg Rosoff's What I Was and the infamous...Twilight.

Despite this being the least eventful part of my weekend I plan to do a little mini-review of each novel :3

What I Was really set my heart pacing when I read the blurb. Young love, contemplation of life, and the seaside. It ticked all the boxes. That's why I think I was so disappointed by it. The protagonist, instead of being the confused, fantastically lovable little boy I wanted turned out to be cynical, supercilious and uncaring. But you can't blame our dear author for having a character that was mean, could you? No, but you can blame them for said character turning from sarcastic elitist to blubbering romantic in the space of a chapter. Oh, yes! He's fallen in love; it's perfectly justifiable.

No. Characters do not change in three seconds flat, no matter how great their love. They EVOLVE.

Anyway, I trudged through the next 120 pages hating the new hapless Hilary (male) as much as the old cynical beast. The book became rather hopeless after I discovered that Finn, the adventurous young boy that lives in a shack by the sea and doesn't belong to the government, was as interesting as cardboard. The author was trying to show us that he had never been in human contact and thus didn't know HOW to have emotions, and she succeeded. Like I said, cardboard.

But then something happened. Dear old Finn disappeared and Hilary stole his shack and became "one with nature." Oh, it was splendid. It was the romanticism of Hilary mixed with Finn's idyllic lifestyle for 60 pages of almost uninterrupted nature imagery and contemplation of life with some delightful metaphors thrown in.

And then the book ended and I felt that it had somehow redeemed itself. Slightly. Though one quarter of the book being a good read is simply not enough.

Now on to Twilight. We all love this novel at first. "Oh, isn't Edward lovely?" "It's so romantic!" After time the positive thoughts of the book atrophy in your head and are usurped by dark, twisty one about how two-dimensional Bella is etc. We had such fun ripping this and its movie adaptation apart on Friday. Because no one likes Twilight anymore.

That'll do for Twilight. I'm still exhausted from Friday.

Saturday morning brought an early rise to my friend David's house to shoot the rest of his movie. I played a chav (ignorant, brutish English teenagers) and it was tremendous fun. I found out last night that it's on Youtube so everybody go look at "My View on Chavs and how they Resemble Zombies". It will make you laugh or your money back. So I stayed there for a while and played make-up artist/cameraman then returned home. My friend Jonny came over and we didn't go into town like we had planned. So we played on the Wii and watched some TV online and stuff.

That night I had to go play the viola at the Ballymena Academy Old Pupils' Association Dinner for about half an hour. When I came out it was WET. Lightning danced about the sky and the cheerful cacophony from inside and given way to thunderous roars in the sky. It took about five seconds to get from the doorway to the car, but I got WET.

Yesterday I went shopping and bought a jacket that I thought was grey but later discovered was green. I still heart it and am wearing it as I type. I also got a pair of shorts that mock me because it is too cold outside to wear them. I bought a few bracelet-y things as well because I always wanted to have random junk to string around my wrist.

I had a sudden urge tonight to run. But I was with our elderly dog so it wasn't going to happen. Now I have a not so sudden urge to get up at 7:00am tomorrow and go for a brisk morning run. Unforunately I'm 90% sure it's dark so early in the morning and our shower is broken, which means I would be sticky in school. Unpleasant.

Oh! I read The Great Gatsby and was really looking forward to talking to myself about it. However this blog entry has gone on long enough and I'm about to run out of battery power. Goodbye, myself.

All These Changes That I'm Not Sure Happened

2009-03-02T17:37:00.000Z

I'm sitting here, on my bed, wondering whether I should say everything, or nothing has changed. It's been months since I've written anything so my grammar is suitably horrible, but apart from that, life trundles on. (The old me would now lament how little my life has altered in a space of several months, but not this one!)

I've started watching Grey's Anatomy, which simply is just the best TV show on earth. I've also read a lot of books - notably Uglies by Scott Westerfield. Let's talk about that for a while, shall we?

I gingerly approached the section of my local library allocated to teenagers, knowing that I would find nothing but melodramatic, romantic trash and needlessly violent spy "novels". Turning my head to 90 degrees as I usually do when scanning books, I came across this very interesting find. It's about a futuristic society where everyone is born "ugly" (except for the "natural-born pretties" that set my heart a-twittering) and are then operated upon at the age of sixteen to become "pretty". Although the prose was lamentable, I could for once forgive the author and simply enjoy the story.

As usual, one character breaks the norm and decides she doesn't want to be pretty. However, the frighteningly awful totalitarian government doesn't like rebellion so they conscript our protagonist into finding the rebel, or she will never become pretty.

It doesn't sound like the most terrible punishment in the world, but that's the magic of Uglies: you completely and utterly believe that this is the most horrid thing imaginable. I was wholly sucked into the world where aesthetics are the only thing that matter. There was such an urgency about the protagonist to turn pretty, that when she realized the beautiful people were only beautiful because her entire upbringing and enforced that hypothesis, I still just felt the need for everyone to turn pretty.

Then again, I'm vain.

Now onto the main theme of the novel. As you can guess, it's individualism. As the story progresses we find out more about what categorizes someone as 'ugly' or 'pretty'. Pretties are the absolute average of everything that only have very subtle differences to tell them apart. Uglies, on the other hand, are ourselves. It took me a while to figure that out, though I loved that the author didn't shout to the heavens the purpose of his novel. All of the uglies in the novel eventually become confident about their appearance and rebel against the government that forces them to conform. How lovely.

I think I'm making it sound like a very girly book. But it isn't. Despite its underwhelming writing I loved it because of its characters, its futuristic setting (did I mention that? The author just makes up devices) and its fantastic message for young people. It also talks about why we should recycle and stuff, which is a plus in my book.

I didn't mean to write that much about it. That makes it seem like I love it to bits when really I just enjoyed it. Although it should come with a warning sticker because for the first 100 pages I was convinced that image is everything and judged the poor students at my school. But then everything was uplifting and wonderful.

My surfing has progressed! I'm still not 'riding the face of the wave' (the man in the surf shop asked me that and I had to decipher its meaning on the spot, lest I look like a fool) but I'm getting up a lot faster and I want to start tackling drop-ins soon. I bought some new gear yesterday because my old stuff was either ripped or constricting the blood flow to my hands. There's a competition next weekend so I'm going to head up and watch how the pros do it. They sell little cups of tea at comps so it's all good :]

Also, I'm doing Drama for GSCE and it is the most awful thing imaginable. My essays are horrible, compliments from the teacher are like blood from a stone (a rather worn simile) and I have an OBSESSED friend that won't stop OBSESSING.

I think that's it. I half-rejoined my role-playing website and look forward to starting some open RP and just going nuts. Haven't written since NOVEMBER.

Hello!

2008-12-19T21:28:00.001Z

In the five or so months since I last posted, I've discovered that I despise melodrama. That's why I'm about to purge my blog of it. I also feel like summarising my absence for some reason. But that will have to wait until later. I'm watching a movie =O

Proof that I think too much

2008-07-31T10:02:00.000+01:00

"There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,

There is a rapture on the lonely shore,

There is society, where none intrudes,

By the deep sea, and music in its roar:

I love not man the less, but Nature more."

On the very top of the list of films that changed my life, I place 'Into the Wild'. The film (journey? Experience) opens with this quote from Lord Byron's 'Childe Harold's Pilgrimage', which I'm not familiar with, but now desperately seek out. Without ruining the story (because that is an unforgivable crime) I'd like to give a brief synopsis.It begins with young Christopher McCandless graduating from college, then throwing away the $25,000 he saved to explore America. The breathtaking scenery, fantastic characters Chris AKA Alexander Supertramp meets and the interesting take on camera angles and production all added up to make the second movie ever to make me cry.

By the time I had finished watching the mesmerizing two-and-a-half hours of the movie, I felt that life was just a complete waste of time. That may not sound like a good thing, but it proves just how powerful this movie is. I urge everyone to view it. Throughout the movie I found myself thinking, "This should be me! I want the things the Supertramp has. Perhaps I should just take off." In fact, by the time it was over and I'd recovered from my weeping fit, I had the strongest urge to bolt out my caravan door and see the world. But I didn't. Instead, I poured my heart out onto a pagev at one in the morning:

"I have found the meaning of life, and it is happiness. To find happiness - pure, idylic, perfect happiness - is what I know I must now strive for. But where can it be found? In everything I do there is a feeling that I am wasting my life, but what activity or person or place can I discover that seems worthwhile?

Perhaps happiness is in my head. Man never ceases to be unsatisfied, and I'm not foolish enough to believe that I'm so different. "Happiness" is a state of mind that brings contentment in everything I do. If I can't get to that place in my mind, then bliss is a lost cause. But does that mean that I should find fulfillment in mediocrity? I need to discover things, to explore, to 'live'. Cultural norms and niceties are holding me back. To be happy, I think I need to throw my life away, and just see what happens."

Conclusive proof that I must be institutionalized, before I hurt myself.

I Loathe the Despicable Lord Henry Wotton

2008-06-25T17:42:00.000+01:00

Stop poisoning Dorian, you evil, evil man! Can't you see what it's doing to him? It is your fault that the boy is presumably immortal; you sewed the idea of eternal youth in his head, you abhorrent creature! However, your philosophies are terribly interesting and you have a wonderful sense of propriety.

I was just about to break down in tears when Dorian left Sibyl when she lost the ability to act. How could he do such a thing? Her loss of ability was a tribute to their love! She didn't need to be Juliet, or Beatrice, or Imogen because her own life was finally taking form. She was hiding in her poetry and plays, blinded to the world outside. But then Dorian showed up and cast away the veil, then found that he only loved the blind girl. The scene in the dressing room after Sibyl's epic failure was utterly heart-rending. Moreso than when I found out about her death.

Poor, poor Sibyl.

Oh, my! I'm not sure whether to rejoice or lament now that a hint of the supernatural has wound its way into Dorian Gray. On the one hand, it is interesting to think that the painting will age and show emotion, and eventually become a skeleton, while the picture-perfect Dorian Gray will remain youthful forever. I'm happy that Dorian is immortal, but I can see that his happiness won't last. No doubt he'll grow tired of youth and wish to grow old with his friends and probable future wife. He'll realise that, to rather awkwardly quote Stardust, "Youth? Beauty? None of it matters anymore; my sisters are dead!"

I only quoted that because I love Stardust too much.

I'm so enraptured in Dorian Gray. Can you tell?

I 'Get' Classical

2008-06-24T16:58:00.000+01:00

Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray is just super. I have to say, the scene when Dorian lays eyes upon Basil's work and envies the painting profusely is just fantastic. I especially loved it when he said he would kill himself when he shows signs of ageing. Stupid Sir Henry tainting his porous mind ;__;

I also love the Duchess, for some odd reason. The scene at Aunt Agatha's (who I've taken a fast liking to) was simply lovely. I adored how Harry became so enconsced in his own speech that he didn't notice when he just started babbling.

To conclude, I love Dorian, and I love the Duchess. And Sibyl. Why, everyone is just unspeakably lovely. I don't particularly like Henry as a character, but he has some interesting philosophies and he links everyone together beautifully.

I can't wait for Henry and Basil to meet Sibyl at the theatre!

First truly classical book. Huzzah.

Losing My Motivation

2008-06-17T18:29:00.000+01:00

Hey there, non-existant blog-readers. Haven't talked to you (myself) in quite a while. I'd like to say I was busy with exams, but I didn't study; I could lie and tell you I was out making the most of my life, but nobody really does that; I might just say nothing and continue with the post, but I'm going to tell the truth. I was on Zelda Universe.net, mindlessly skimming over the pages of idle, pointless chatter in the OoC Thread and everywhere else.

My two-year anniversary is coming up, and the summer holidays. I have to say I'm looking forward to both (the latter, infinitely more) but the first I find also a cause for contemplation. How has ZU changed my life?

I'm secretive. My parents don't know that I devote so much of my time (well, the process of writing, which I like to think includes conversation with others). They don't know that my fantastic marks in English don't come from the sub-par, meaningless time I spend in class, but from my perseverence in ZU's Dome and the Amphitheatre as a whole. Zelda Universe shaped my writing ability, undoubtedly, and for that I am grateful.

My parents don't know that I hide from the real world - the boring, disgustingly monotonous real world - in my writing. In there I can wisk away to somewhere so much more fun and exhilarating; somewhere that lets me forget that I have how many weeks of school left, or that I am sixty-eight years away from my expected age of death. In the same respect, however, RP'ing is much too demanding. Sometimes the world, is perfect, blissful, picturesque. I could be doing nothing with my friends, or on holiday, completely satisfied with my life, when the niggle of a waiting RP presses into my head. This is one of my biggest issues with ZU.

I'm lazy. Sometimes I just want to sit and watch television, read a book, or listen to music, but I can't, because some role-play I don't give a damn about needs me to post. I have to go and start up my computer, research someone's character I don't care about, then write something using the actions of only one charcter. Writing needs perspective from everyone; it needs flow, reality. To describe the actions of only one participant just because the other writer believes you are acting 'out of character' is aggravatingly frustrating. I couldn't care less about 90% of the characters I read, but trying to write without including them is impossible. Writing with them just leads to endless annoyance and confusion.

Off topic. Don't get me wrong. I genuinely did enjoy my two years here, but it's time to take the next step into the world of writing. RPs were like riding a bike with stabilizers: safer, more controllable, but ultimately a deflated experience. Writing a novel, a novella, a short story or anything that uses the mind in its complex, creative, unstabilized brilliance is where the real passion in literature lies. I will be so sad to put the fantastic experience of being a Councillor behind me, but I think it has to be done.

This sounds like a eulogy. Ironic, isn't it? Eulogies for a non-existant audience.

P.S. I'm feeling surprisingly emotional about this whole thing.

2008-05-09T23:37:00.000+01:00

Flee to the skies we will,
Wielding word with unmatched skill,
Words of darkness, words of pain,
Walk this world I shan’t again.

I'm in love with the poetry of ZU's Preservoir. Dark, brooding and oh so emotional, it is inspiring (and heart-rending) just to read. Mulling over P.'s latest effort (the fantastic Starless Country) set me in the mood for writing poetry of my own, so I flicked into my little book of writing, and found a half-finished piece of blank verse. I feel so inspired by P. that I'm going to stop blogging now, and start writing poetry. Wish me luck!

The Darker Side of Inspiration

2008-04-17T19:51:00.000+01:00

Here's a little tip, never go to see someone as talented and creative as Jonathan 'Juke' McErlean in an improvised AS Drama production. You will be captivated, enthralled and ultimately ensnared. From the very moment he walked on stage I was under his spell. Sporting a loose black shirt with ripped satin under-vest, gravity-defying obsidian hair, and accessories that would put Cher to shame, he truly was the devil's right-hand man. Now, Juke (his nickname in reality, not the name of the character) had a cohort whose name I didn't catch, but she was equally mesmerising. A dark, volumised tu-tu lay snuggly under the traditional silver studded belt that hung sensually from a close-worn leather jacket.

Now, the devil's two main men boasted more than spectacular costumes. They were, dare I say it, leagues better than some of the professional actors in show. Being only seventeen, it was inspiring to see how amazing they were, but also quite frightening since I'm already booked into GCSE Drama. I don't know how I can compete.

Anyway, both demons had a sort of habit. Juke played the contortionist unbelievably: the way he walked, almost like a slither; jumping (or rather, a continuation of walking, as the case was) from impossible heights and landing smoothly without the slightest bend of a knee; and finally, a sickeningly freakish backwards flip down a tiny flight of stairs, with his back arched into a perfect circle. I can't imagine anyone doing a better job of the role.

The girl would almost be at home with a travelling circus. Her prop of choice, a perfectly spherical (heavy!) crystal ball which she unceasingly rolled around her hands. She must have been practicing for months, it was that good. She caught the rules of physics by the throat and thrust them aside.

All in all, they were the two of the finest, darkest, most alluring characters I've come across, drama of literature. What's more they were fantastic actors. It must have helped that they were best friends, because their roles were so sensual, so mirrored, it was like listening to two halves of the same person. Words can't even do them justice; I should have recorded it.

So! Juke and his friend are the inspiration for my latest BA duo that should come about in a few months (Rosalie is still in the works =O). I can't wait to get my hands on them and contort them into something unbelievable.

Distances

2008-04-16T17:45:00.000+01:00

Very vague and mysterious for a blog post, no? Sadly the content isn't nearly as mystifying as its title.

Recently I've been noticing that I'm drifting away from some of my closest friends, and becoming more 'popular'. Now, I'm not going to claim that I have mastered the social structure and befriended everyone in the school, but I've handily made my way around the place. Unfortunately the popularity seems to come at a price.

This price was really only visible today, walking home from school with my close friend Megan (who, incidentally, was my cohort during the V-Day catastrophe =O). We began with small talk: discussing the horrid state of affairs at school, the general pressures teenagers are under; then, suddenly, things became a lot more personal. We both agreed that we had been drifting apart, and something had to be done about it. This is where the crunch came.

If I can be so bold as to conduct a brief interlude, I need to tell another small story. I've been friends with another girl, Hannah, for about two years now. We've never been nearly as close as Megan and I, but we're spending more and more time together, even going as far as to visit each others' houses. That may not seem so strange, but it was only months ago that the mere concept of an out-of-school meeting was laughable. So, we've began hosting little meetings at out houses every Friday night, where two other friends also join and we watch a movie.

Back to the current story, Megan and I had been trying to remedy the distance between us, when suddenly I remembered the last time I had visited her house. It was shamefully several weeks ago. During that euphoric (I need help v.v) meeting we decided to visit each other every single Friday. Now, that happened before the Friday Night Club initiated. In essence, I'm caught between a rock and a hard place. I would have lots of fun in both cases, and in both my friends are liable to get hurt if I don't show up.

So I'm in a bit of a dilemma. Best case scenario I work out another day for Megan, but her brother is absent only on Friday nights, giving us a chance to play the fabled Playstation 3 =O

I have lots of female friends. It's quite worrying.

An Attempt to Capture Fleeting Thoughts

2008-04-07T19:24:00.000+01:00

Courtesy of Selah, I've decided to start carrying around a notepad and a pencil. There are always so many ideas for stories, and more importantly poems, that always dangle themselves in front of me then float away. This way I'll maybe be able to recollect my thought train, even if the inspiration died by the time I get back home.

Anyway, I'm going to take my dog for a walk now. I'll consider it a test run for this ground-breaking idea =D

Shiny New Blog!

2008-04-06T12:31:00.000+01:00

So this post does what it says on the tin. I fixed up my blog and made it nice and optmistic (sort of). Have fun.

It hurts the eyes more now =O

Buffy the Vampire Slayer

2008-04-03T20:48:00.000+01:00

You'll have to excuse the mad ravings of a smitten fanboy, but Buffy is incredible. I've watched five episodes in twenty-four hours, which probably isn't healthy. I'm just so glad my DVD Boxset containing all seven seasons arrived; it took twice as loong as it should have!

I hate the postal service. "No. Don't bring it back to the post office if I'm out. LEAVE IT WITH A NEIGHBOUR."

Other than that, I've been pressing onward slowly but consistently with The Pure Land, a fascinating historical novel set in 19th Century Japan. The type of writing is odd, yet enchanting. Alan Spence writes with such fluidity that I can't help but be wrapped up in his untimely emphasises.

This is where The Pure Land's biggest problem lies. Although the writing is excellent, enrapturing, and endlessly delightful, I find myself being swept away bt the pretty words, unable to truly comprehend the actual plot of the story. He focuses on things like the way things are done, instead of the actual event itself. I find myself so lost in this delictable sea of adverbs that I become completely ignorant to the point of the chapter.

But alas, I'm really enjoying it. Who cares about the plot when you have pretty words and phrasing?

My Handy Tool of Procrastination

2008-03-27T17:41:00.001Z

Enormous history project. Six days. EEP.

That is all, since I should actually be doing the thing instead of complaining.

I Would Like to Submit a Complaint about the Weather

2008-03-26T00:13:00.000Z

I went surfing yesterday, with the full knowledge that my coast is a frigid collaboration of the Irish Sea and Arctic Ocean. You do not know cold until you have ran, swathed in nothing more than a flimsy wetsuit, into the Arctic Sea (see what I did there?). At first I didn't think it was too bad. My feet were instantly numbed by the water and things were going well. Then I came across my first wave. Trying to keep my head dry at all costs, I threw myself and the board over the wave, my entire torso getting covered in liquid ice.

My first (MIND BLANK, SMALL WORD WARNING) try at getting on the board was laughable. I was pushed swiftly by the freezing foam, and began the swift ascent into the standing position. Somehow I lost my balance, fell, and was completely engulfed in the water. It was like I had been struck by a thousand brain-freezes as I madly tried to decipher which way was up. Finally, I breached the surface and wiped my eyes, just in time to see my vertical surfboard crash down before me. I barely had time to glance before the thing smashed down on my head. I fell into the water again, feeling even worse than before.

To sum up the next ten minutes (hypothermia would have been the outcome if I had stayed any longer >>;, it consisted of vain attempts to get aboard and fretting about my purple hands. In the end it was just too cold, so I came out. That wasn't the end of my troubles, though. Carrying the light-weight board was more difficult than you could ever imagine. If I turned the board just the tiniest angle from the direction of the wind, it grabbed the board and tugged so much that I just felt like letting go. To add insult to injury, it started to hail millions of tiny icy bullets on my frigid, stinging face. I got into the car and sulked and cried for a little while.

Something out of American Suburbia

2008-03-22T01:06:00.000Z

So, my friend got a basketball net today. Both of us are pretty hyped about the game (since we've been playing it during P.E. and school) so we had a little one-on-one tonight. He kicked my ass - my alibi being that he is like two stones lighter than me and can actually shoot the ball. I don't care about the score, because it was really fun. By the way, that happened at 11:00pm tonight for whatever reason. We've made plans for a little rematch tomorrow.

Moving on, I'm ashamed to say that I haven't been reading very much. The Pure Land sits idly on my bedside cupboard, and I haven't taken a look at the poetry book I'm supposed to read for my literature club. The one good piece of news is that is that I have ordered George R.R. Martin's A Game of Thrones from the town library. They didn't have it, so it is coming from forty miles up the road in Belfast. From my experience, the journey should take several months.

Finally, I'm heading up the coast tomorrow. I'll be gone until Tuesday, in which time I hope to buy a surf board, receive a lesson and get on the waves once or twice more. My sources tell me that the weather will be miserable, but they said that about today and it was heavenly. Silly weather office seems to be getting it wrong every day now.

It's 1:12am; should I go to bed or something?

Indian Summers and Forgotten Blogs

2008-03-18T19:52:00.000Z

Well, I hadn't actually forgotten about my escape from the brutally real world, but I kept on forgetting to write in it. Regardless, the outcome is the same.

So the weather in Northern Ireland has been, dare I say it, good for the past few days. I can actually feel my faith in Summer returning again. The ironic thing is, news reporters predicted frost and clouds yesterday, when in fact it was nothing short than the glorious return of Spring.

Huh. I have forgotten all the stuff that was cooped up inside me. Well, this post has served it's purpose of reviving my blog.

Ciao for now!

*Kills self because of terrible pun*

A Half-Advertisement

2008-01-31T16:38:00.000Z

I have deviously and informally taken Selah's place as Councillor on Heretic-Gamer, but the website has hit a small snag: we have next to no members. So if you enjoy writing fiction and interacting with others I strongly urge you to click this link. There may be cookies :3

http://www.heretic-gamer.com/forums/forumdisplay.php?f=19

Venting Out the Anger

2008-01-29T19:29:00.000Z

The inability to acquiesce to the simplest of requests is mind-boggling. If the people at Manchester Music Exchange don't got their act together soon I'm destined to fail my Grade 4 Viola Exam. Twice - twice -have they sent me the wrong music. The first time, perhaps, it was my fault but the second was inexcusable. Expecially since they paid no heed to the emphasis of the request.

But now I have a reason to complain angrily down a phone - always a joy. And there were will be extra emphasis this time on the composer. And a refund, I'm sure of that. Regardless, my music teacher will be furious.

I'm calm again, even if the daunting prospect of a near-due English project lurks mere hours away. My tranqiul state of mind seems to have sprang from nowhere; I'm sure anyone else in my situation would be livid.

I believe this post has served its purpose of procrastination grandly. If only mother would hurry eating her dinner, doesn't she know I have things to do?

After-thought - What is the point of blogging? I am near certain that few people (if anyone) read this things. I suppose it is just a modern and more high-tech version of a diary, except boys and girls alike keep them. Or perhaps I am using my blog wrong? Should I be advertising?

Yours,
The Comma Whore

Something of a Diary-Entry

2008-01-27T23:31:00.000Z

After Kimmy's (rather laughable) attempts to not disturb me while she slipped out to Church, I managed to read 100 pages or so of New Moon, gladly welcoming Alice and the Cullens back into my life. Thus, did this marvel of a book end happily (after reading another 200 at home) and I'm now itching to start the third. I actually have it sitting right beside me, but 300 pages of a book in one day is more than enough, no?

Aside from that, a welcome jaunt to the coast left me with only minor bruises and breathing constrictions. It was still wonderful though, and I decided upon my future car (truck)! It's nothing too snazzy, so I should get it for a reasonable price in four years.

My love for Edward has been renewed. Am I not sure what to feel.

I have not watched one second of TV. Fabulous.

Morbidity seems to be the theme to my life

2008-01-25T16:20:00.000Z

After delving on this ever-so-touchy subject for uncountable months in bed, I've confronted death for the second time today. I feel guilty about writing this, but I'll persevere. Jared Griffis (AKA Duke of Clubs) has passed away, and I want as many people as possible to know of his greatness.

http://www.zeldauniverse.net/forums/battle-arena/73002-r-i-p-duke-clubs.html

Perhaps that count scratch the surface on what a fantastic person Jared was, and what an unbelieveble shame it that he is gone. I just can't get past using euphemisms to hide from the truth.

But that's all I have to say. You don't know what being speechless is until you're felt it.

First Post - Celebratory?

2008-01-23T21:11:00.001Z

Yet another subscription that I doubt will stay alive for a week. But I'd may as well give it a go, right? My intention is to post her every week about anything and everything that catches my attention.

A new band? An awesome film? Catch-up on this week's Desperate Housewives? How madly in love I am with a fictional (vampiric) character? Yep, and more.

Every now and then I probably will give in to the raging sentimentality within me and blether on about my feelings of how the world is inadequate when pitted against my expectations, but hopefully that won't happen too often.