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[06 Mar 2003|06:19pm] |
This journal is dead.
Look into the green . . .
(x)
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[27 Feb 2003|11:55am] |
I don't want to write here anymore - at least, not at the moment. I'll most likely appear elsewhere very soon, but latristesse feels done and dusted, for the moment. I never throw anything away, but the thought of those archives behind me makes me grimace.
(And I miss you and you and you and you and you and you)
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| This |
[14 Feb 2003|05:30pm] |
Just this.
Oh, I hate today in every way I can think of.
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| Wreckage |
[14 Feb 2003|02:35pm] |
| [ |
mood |
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abrasive/devastated |
] |
Someone I used to know killed himself today. It's anonymous to me, in a way, so I'll let him appear so here. It's not wholly unexpected but still comes as a shock, even more so that I was contacted so quickly and easily. I found myself crying in Deborah's office and feeling angry, incredibly angry with myself for being upset, and angry with him for letting go, even though I have no idea how or where he's been these last few months, and angrier still with myself for caring so abstractly. It's the shock, I suppose.
I have a job interview today and forgot that I'm wearing my clumsy brown cords and dirty shoes. It's The Old Thatched Tavern on the corner, 'one of the oldest pubs in Stratford upon Avon'. I went jobhunting last night and found myself walking all the way to Shottery, and ugly sub-village just outside Stratford. It's amusing how the innards of the town are kept so aptly tasteful, when the outskirts are so terribly ugly. Guesthouses sprawl along the streets, almost attractive to tourists for their English ugliness, if for little else. The Cymbeline was my favourite, I think, its garden lined with statuettes of supposed Shakespeare characters, and the bard himself peering dolefully from the porch.
Tomorrow, catharsis. My mother was supposed to be coming up with friends and taking us out for tea, but I think has abandoned the plan. I'll go to the Stratford music shop and buy new pieces to play. I'm in desperate need of some kind of fresh start, no matter how tiny.
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| Books. |
[16 Dec 2002|09:31pm] |
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mood |
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bookish |
] |
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music |
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Joy Division - Ceremony (live) |
] |
I'm learning an interesting speech, perhaps only interesting to me because it rings so true (a good thing, all the same): Why did God make me so fucking mediocre? If there is a higher power and it's responsible for me it did a terrible job.
A survey culled:
*Which books are you reading right now?
James Joyce's 'Ulysses', the letters of William Burroughs, Yeats' Love Poems and 'King Lear'. (A habit of mine - I have a novel, some form of biography/criticism/non-lit, poetry and a play all on the go at the same time. If I have nothing particular to read.)
*When is your favorite time to read?
Any time. To really read I have to get into a certain frame of mind which bears no relation whatsoever to when I read. However, I do like reading lie-ins.
*Where is your favorite place to read?
Trains.
*What is your favorite quotation?
Oh, too many to even begin....
*Who is your favorite novelist?
That's difficult, because when it comes to novels I try to read widely... Maybe I just haven't found an absolute favourite yet. At this point, perhaps Dostoyevsky, although I shamefully haven't read ' The Brothers Karamazov' yet.
*Which school text did you most enjoy?
In sparse detail 'The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock'; in greater depth probably 'Return of the Native'... I hated it in part, but it was a huge eye-opener.
*What is the most difficult book you have ever read?
Personally, probably William Burroughs' 'Naked Lunch', but in terms of literary challenge, probably 'The Wasteland'.
*What is your most overrated book?
D. H. Lawrence - 'Sons and Lovers'. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not a fan.
*Who is your favorite character?
There are many. Hamlet, for sheer intrigue; Emma, because I identify with her ridiculous amounts; Heathcliff, because he's devastatingly attractive; Prufrock, because he's so contradictory and scattered and can be interpreted so many ways; Uriah Heep, because he's such a fantastic creation; Anna Karenina - just because.
*Which characters do you hate most?
Paul Morel, Fanny from 'Mansfield Park', any of Ann Radcliffe's heroines - all for irritation reasons.
*Who would be your ideal literary dining companions?
Shelley for intellect, Shakespeare for intrigue, Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde for wit.
*What is the worst screen adaptation?
'Emma' with Gwyneth Paltrow was fairly terrible; 'The Age of Innocence' was appallingly acted.
*Name three desert island choices.
Shakespeare Complete Works. Then it gets difficult... Shelley Complete Works? Or maybe Eliot. Probably 'High Fidelity' because it would remind me of home. Maybe 'War and Peace' because I'd probably get round to actually reading it.
*What is your favorite poem?
That's impossible. Just one... I suppose Prufrock or 'The Wasteland' because they work well in isolation. Otherwise probably something by Shelley. Keats and Yeats are growing on me particularly at the moment. And I'm almost a Smiths song...
*Which book changed your life?
Prufrock (again...) made me want to teach English; 'Notes from Underground'... I can't give a reason.
*Which book would you make compulsory reading?
Shakespeare's 'Hamlet', I think. But all of them, really.
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[19 Sep 2002|12:25pm] |
Oh, fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
English re-mark back. It's an A. I now have AAB and I'm going to Royal Holloway on Saturday and I don't want to. It's so, so bitterly unfair. Turns out that the 27/90 was in fact a huge mistake. It is more likely, according to my school, that Edexcel mistook what was actually 77/90. Soddingfuckwitstupidfucking bastards. I actually exceeded my Leeds offer, but now I don't get to go there. I know there are thousands across the country in the same position as me, in fact, some worse, but it still stings.
I took the day off work today to pack for university, but now all I feel like doing is hiding somewhere and crying, because nothing ever goes smoothly, and this time there's absolutely nothing I can do about it but make the best of absolutely what I don't want.
Please, someone tell me what to do? I'm confused and I don't know whether I should pull out now while I can and re-apply to somewhere I actually want to go. I could go practically anywhere with those grades, but I think I should at least give RH a try. See how much I hate my room-mate, the fact that it's 50% overseas students who will only be around for a year, and the fact it's in the middle of Surrey....
However... I got an A in English Literature. Perhaps I'm not an such an academic failure after all.
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| That. And this too. |
[28 Aug 2002|10:16pm] |
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music |
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Joy Division in my veins |
] |
It seems ridiculous to ban yourself from things you love simply because you love them in a way you shouldn't. This morning I went digging around my CD cabinet for something fresh to listen to on the dreary forty minute tube journey to work, and emerged with Joy Division's 'Unknown Pleasures'. Most people have an 'angst' album - something they listen to when they need a cry or a release. For me, 'Unknown Pleasures' symbolises something a lot more destructive and decadent, almost. I haven't listened to this album in its entirety since around March; the associations behind it are terrible:
[Hiding at school under the stairs in the Sixth Form Block, or in the Art History Library, leaning against the radiator and shuddering as I tore at my own skin in disgust. Walking home from school, biting my lip hard enough to make it bleed. Finding shards of glass buried in the wet leaves and treating them as though they held some sacred purpose - they guarded my books in a row on a shelf. Sitting under the kitchen table, unable to breathe, clutching a kitchen knife and not really being conscious of anything but it, until my brother took it from me and dragged me out. Lying in my front garden in January, staring blankly up at the frozen sky and wondering how long it would take until the cold was painful enough to force me to go inside again.]
All of this, and still more. 'She's Lost Control' holds so much in place for me. Even now, when I listened to it on the tube this morning, I felt as though something inside me unpinned itself. My heart seemed to bite into me, gnawing its way through my chest. And yet. And yet... it was beautiful, and a strange kind of relief crept over me. I love this album too much to even think about leaving it for that long again. When I was fifteen, my mother took my copy of 'The Holy Bible' and hid it away in a cupboard and I hated her for it. This is no different. It's just self-inflicted. There is sense to it, and I did need to do it. Now perhaps I can love that album for what it is, rather than intensifying its associations.
On an utterly different note, I've been searching desperately for the last hour through the The Stage online for some interesting (and cheap) fringe theatre, as I'm starting to crave it. Suddenly, while looking through the Riverside Studio program I noticed the word 'Derevo' and shrieked with delight and excitement. Derevo are possibly my favourite theatre company in the world. Russian, very physical, incredibly original. I've seen them twice and both performances have been electrifying. It's £21 but I'd fork out pretty much anything to see them again, particularly at Riverside which is a small venue I know well and like. Tomorrow we are going to see 'Play Without Words' at the National and try and get the last minute £8 tickets, and on Friday it seems we are going to the Roundhouse to see an experimental piece based on Coleridge's 'Kubla Khan', which I've been looking at hungrily for weeks. I pity people who refuse to let themselves get excited about art and theatre and film and literature, just in case the word 'pretentious' is flung at them, and the sad thing is, they'll probably never be brave enough to even try. My otherwise terrible week has just been made.
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| Just Shostakovich |
[26 Aug 2002|11:46pm] |
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We went to see the Kirov Orchestra yesterday at the Royal Albert Hall. I was tired, I was bruised, and all my comfortable shoes were either covered in mud or broken, but as soon as the orchestra started playing last night, it all seemed to fade away into nothing. I remembered, when I was listening to them perform Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3, the idea Helen came dashing in with a couple of weeks ago, while cleaning her teeth. An epiphany, of a sort. I hate it when people 'figure me out' to such an extent that I can't think of any excuse why they might be wrong, but this was something I couldn't deny: the overwhelming sense of the spirituality I get from music; that it's my way of experiencing and understanding something more than what's simply there, as if some... higher force, I suppose, is reaching out to me. It happens a lot when I listen to music, when I play music, and I think it's the difference between being somewhere like Reading and listening to the Kirov perform Shostakovich's Symphony No. 4. It was as if, Helen remarked afterwards, the musicians weren't even touching their instruments. They were somehow producing a sound so perfect, so united, it lifted everything else out of reach, until I felt as though I was almost balancing on the sound, that I was depending on it. Certainly not the first time I've felt like this; moments of gigs I've been to: certainly the Manics a couple of years ago, probably Radiohead in Oxford, various other moments; performing in my piano trio at Guildhall particularly. I have no idea how they train musicians in those conservatoires in Eastern Europe and Russia, but it's sure as hell very different to the way they work over here. Even the incredibly flamboyant pianist in the Prokofiev was deliciously in place. Shostakovich must be a strange composer to perform in an orchestra; so much substance but curiously abstract. My favourite, I think. When the conductor waved the score in the air afterwards, almost in gratitude, I felt my arms lift upwards in applause without really being conscious of it. He doesn't let you settle for a single moment, which is what makes listening to him so deliriously unsettling, but pleasurable. I don't think I dare say any more. I've said too much already and still, when I read back, can't begin to describe exactly what I mean. And I'm very, very glad.
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| Shostakovich Not Slipknot |
[25 Aug 2002|06:19pm] |
I've just had the most blissful bath. Festival mud is possibly the most difficult to shift on earth, but I've cleansed, exfoliated, and I feel like a brand new woman, or rather girl, except for the bruises (which fade).
Tonight, as part of our Shostakovich Not Slipknot policy, we are going to the Proms, but first...
( Reading )
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| Clear your mind of cant |
[20 Aug 2002|11:54pm] |
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I'm reading 'How To Read And Why' by Harold Bloom, an American Ivy League Literature Prof. Exactly the sort of thing I'd usually sneer away. My mother brought it back from America with her, and handed it to me with a wry smile. I know why now. It's brilliant; seriously, seriously good. He makes lit crit itself compulsive, never offering smart-arse judgements, the kind that make me groan whenever I try and read critics, but instead, writes about the literature he loves with a simple kind of honesty you can't help but adore. I'm hooked. I might have a crack at his 'Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human', if the rest of this proves to be as good. I was reading his critique of Blake's 'The Sick Rose' (a favourite of mine too) in bed last night and it suddenly struck me why, or at least one of the reasons why I love it, and when I re-read it on the tube this morning, I sat there shaking my head in disbelief that he could be so concise (Bloom, not Blake - well, also Blake, but in this case Bloom). It's those words: dark secret love; so simple, but in combination exactly how I've always felt about love; a kind of 'tragic joy', as Bloom so neatly puts it. Dark and secret. Some kind of constant beyond my reach that only I can understand. I think what I like best about Bloom's crit is that he is so adamant to get rid of the kind of 'cant' that often makes lit crit so banal, particularly at A-Level. No bullshit, just reading for self-improvement in some way, and perhaps this sounds banal in itself, but I think the purpose is to get believably under the skin of the author, which in literary criticism is almost impossibly rare.
Speaking of lit crit, That Paper is being re-marked. Whitters (headmistress) rang my father today and gave her recommendation. It's £20, but I'll get it back in a week. Fingers crossed.
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| That's what tradition means |
[19 Aug 2002|10:36pm] |
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music |
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Smiths - I started something (in my head) |
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My eyes are swollen. I kept picking at my eyeliner today; enough to pluck my own eyelashes out. Helen and I started at Natwest this morning, meaning a 7 am start (having spent the last week lying around all morning) and, as soon as I got to Dean Street, being told I'd been sent to the wrong branch, and having to traipse to Goodge Street instead. I spent most of the day shivering in an over-airconditioned vault, counting £20 notes and inevitably daydreaming and losing count. Listening to The Smiths in the morning guarantees them racing round your brain all day - please note. I'm to be trained as a front of house cashier, rather than take part in the student account scheme, as there's simply too great a number of workers, too little to do, and I'll be gone by the time it all really kicks in. I don't mind. It's the kind of work that requires so little personal effort I'll numb to it sooner or later. I suppose the highlight was finding a cheque cashed in by a Dr. Quinn of the University of Leeds. I'm pretty damn sure she works for the English Department. I considered vandalising or ripping it, but realised it would probably dissatisfy me even more. After all, it's only money.
I meant to write about Saturday night. Helen and I made a semi-effort to vaguely goth up to see Sarah before she disappears to Cardiff for the duration. It was The Dev, it did bring back memories, but I really enjoyed myself, catching up with Sarah, getting decidedly drunk and oggling Goths We Have... Known. I miss goth; the sheer decadence of it, the self-irony and piss-take opportunities. I can't stand Serious Goths and I don't miss the social politics, but the odd Slimelight never hurt anyone (much)... When Sarah, Kat and Nicole headed off there, the desire to join them was overwhelming, and we probably would have had I not been wearing four inch stilettos. Helen and I are planning to go next weekend, so I shall have to dig out my old PVC and velvet.
I've been writing furiously this evening, but somehow as soon as I try and sit down here and type, it vanishes. I'm always better off with a notepad and pen, I think. If I ever attempt (ha) to write professionally, I don't think there's any way I could 'write' on a word processor. I need my pens and frantic scribblings out, and my bin surrounded by balled up sheets I've thrown at the wall in irritation. My spelling is going up the creek. 'Celibrate'. Jesus. Celibate, maybe. Perhaps this is a sign. More likely just BW inevitably shoving his way into my empty little head. We desperately need a new pseudonym, and fast.
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| Mine (someday) |
[17 Aug 2002|04:47am] |
I'm going to Royal Holloway. It sounds strange in my head when I'd got so used to thinking (or at least hoping) 'Leeds'. It's a strange little campus, almost like visiting a stately home. The main building is like an Oxbridge college or a boarding school, with two quads, turrets and an old-fashioned library and picture gallery. It's quaint, and slightly kitsch in a Victorian sort of way, but the grounds are enormous and beautiful, and the other buildings are strangely modern in comparison. It is in the middle of Surrey, surrounded by not very much, but the train journey to Waterloo is supposedly only thirty minutes. Not what I wanted of course, but anyone can get used to anything, if they really need to. I've been trying very hard to make a mental list of optimistic(!) things about going there, the most obvious of which is that I was complaining about leaving London anyway, and also that I'll get a University of London degree (I keep forgetting it's just one of the colleges), which is rather a lot better than UEA.
My parents insisted on 'celebrating' this evening. We sat and drank their most expensive bottle of 1986 champagne and ate pasta salad. All the uncles and aunts have been phoned, and my grandmother is giving me a hefty cheque. It's all painfully bittersweet. I can't help thinking I'm a failure, I know my parents think I'm a failure, but my grandmother is delighted. She spent most of last year trying to make me apply to UCL and stop me going to The North - a galaxy unknown. I know, somewhere in my head, that I'm not a failure; that my Theatre Studies and Politics grades are exactly what I'd have hoped for; it's just that damn paper, and the fact that it's English. I managed to escape later, and I've just got back from Simon's house, which included the usual quiz from his parents, before we went and sat in his roof garden, and had a smoke. And god, did I need it. The last couple of days have sent my neuroses sky-high and turned me into a jibbering mess. I'm looking forward to whole-heartedly enjoying my summer now. I got a call yesterday to be told the Natwest job is mine for definite, and that I'll be working in Dean Street. (Gay Costas every day!)
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| Trials |
[16 Aug 2002|12:35pm] |
Well, we got through to Leeds. They rejected me. We got through to UEA. They rejected me. The pissy thing about UEA is that they did it based on the incorrect Politics grade and said that it was 'impossible to go back on that option'. They offered me English and Philosophy instead, but it turned out that when my forms were sent upstairs, the only course that hadn't been filled was Culture, Literature and Politics, which probably has about as much substance as an amoeba. I spent most of the morning in the school office trying not to cry.
However
I made some phonecalls and have been re-offered my place from Exeter which I declined, a place at Southampton (which I also declined) through clearing, and a place at Royal Holloway, University of London which I'm amazed about because they usually demand AAB. So. All is not lost. I'm going to Royal Holloway this afternoon, before I make a final decision. I asked Idil a load of shoot-fire questions (she's going there) about it, but it's not really too far away, so I'm heading there now. It's been dreadful at home. Having pushy parents in a situation like this is hideous. But! I suppose I've been very lucky.
Thanks to all of you for being so supportive. I got in last night (having tried to laugh and drink away my sorrows) and your comments, texts and mails really helped.
I so so hope you are ok.
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| Those tiny letters |
[15 Aug 2002|04:17pm] |
So, I got my A-Level results. They were better and worse than I was expecting. The English is a B. Of course it's a B. I'm not good at English, no matter how many times I kid myself that if I love it enough, it'll somehow translate into talent. I just can't do it. Never mind my double A* GCSE, never mind that with the re-sit, I ended up with an almost perfect A at AS; I failed a paper. Failed. As in, actually below the E boundary. It was this one, and I think that entry probably says it all. I knew I hadn't done well, but for fuck's sake, 27/90 is like not being able to write your own name. Obviously, the other papers were fine(ish), but not enough to make it up.
I got an A in Theatre Studies and a B in Politics, both of which I'm quite pleased with, but overall I've not met either my Leeds firm or UEA insurance offer. Both of them want ABB but with an A in English. At the moment I'm sitting tight, waiting for my head of Sixth Form to call and tell me the bad news, before I have to start ringing round. There's been another fuck up, this year with Politics. One of the papers wasn't counted and was only faxed through to the school this morning (I opened the sheet to see a 0/90 score), so my grade showed up to Leeds as a C, instead of a B. It might just make a difference, but it's highly unlikely. I should not be doing English Literature at university. At this rate, I probably won't be. Thank you to people for lovely texts. They made me smile, and probably stopped me doing something ridiculous, although the knowledge that I was carrying razors and glass in my bag this morning was the only way I could force myself to walk to school. How stupid. Using self-destruction as a safety net. I work backwards far, far too often.
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[15 Aug 2002|03:50am] |
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Oh. I just accidentally deleted half the emails in my inbox, dating back to about May. If you sent me a home address since then, please send it again. Oh, what an idiot. I assure you I'm kicking myself. I can't sleep.
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| Blind spot |
[14 Aug 2002|11:43pm] |
Today was just terrible. I hate the idea of waking up and going to bed feeling morose, irritable, and my heart beating so fast it feels as if my chest might explode. Will I feel better by tomorrow lunchtime? Probably not. I have (dis)contented myself with my upcoming failures and decided to run away. This may even be the last time I update. I could be halfway across the world by tomorrow night. However, more likely than not, I'll find something through clearing that takes idiots like me and will end up at a university I don't want to go to. A couple of nights ago, I made a post-midnight phone call to Nick and ranted for an entire hour. He's very patient with me. I can imagine him holding the phone away from his ear, half-grinning; never irritated in the least. I paused midway and said "Do you mind?", and he chuckled and said, "Would you care if I did?" He made me make a list of everything in the world I could think of that irritates me in any way, and I started reeling off things so fast he practically had to yell to make me shut up. Sadly, I've actually been making the list. It's three pages long.
I spent this morning pacing up and down the kitchen, downing black coffee, and muttering. I tried to read, and found nothing that would give me any form of easy escapism. As Helen went off with my only Good Trashy Book (which shall remain nameless, but has been read more times than I care to remember), I ended up with Jane Austen, which I suppose is a different kind of trash. Half-way through, I remembered I'd agreed to go and have tea in Bertorelli's with my grandmather, Zia Netta and Zia Ida, and dashed off to Charlotte Street. Spent the afternoon being called A-lee-ss-aan-drrra and being told that I would get three As and would make the Bertorelli family proud, to which I just had to smile and say that there was nothing to be done now, and we'd see. I wonder if I would make the Dymocks proud. I'd probably do better going down a coalmine or pulling pints.
While I was waiting to go and meet Joe, I went to the National and the National Portrait Gallery and tried to lose myself in the paintings. It almost worked. I had absolutely no idea how much I liked Constable and Turner. I've come to some kind of a conclusion about the difference between the way I look at art now, and when I was a child. It's something I've talked about before, but not in connection with art. It's simply that I used to turn every single one into some kind of myth or story; I'd invent the plots, manipulate the figures into characters in my head. I think this may have more to do with the way my mother used to take me to galleries when I was little than anything else. I was given a terrible book by Rolf Harris from some distant aunt called 'Every Picture Tells A Story'. It would be pretty depressing if this were the reason. Another thing I like about the National Gallery is the way I can link up paintings with literature in so many ways, particularly landscapes. The eighteenth century satirists with their referenced idealisms of the Greeks and Romans and their obsession with symmetry; there's so much of that to be found in the art of that time: the perfectly landscaped gardens, the women draped in togas with bayleaf crowns; the landscape supposedly placed specifically for man to manipulate. All wrong (in my silly opinion) of course, but interesting all the same. And Joe; well, Joe was Joe. The topic of the Aforementioned Friday was avoided, of which I was both glad and vaguely irritated. Off to China this Friday, but unfortunately not with my copy of Possession, which I think is the only way to persuade him to read it. Sometimes you just have to force people into these things.
I wonder if I'll be able to sleep at all tonight. I have no idea how I should feel tomorrow morning. I expect it'll be the usual disappointing aftermath, even if I do get the required grades. I doubt it's even worth thinking about that. I'm stupid, I really am.
Oh, and Jo is just brilliant. Making my own list took at least half an hour's thinking-about-results time.
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| A Broken Chord |
[11 Aug 2002|11:55pm] |
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music |
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Górecki - Symphony No. 3 |
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The screen has become blurred up here, and I'm not quite sure what I'm writing. Perhaps I never am. I say too much too often, or sometimes I just say the wrong thing entirely, or sometimes I get it right, but it's just at the wrong time. I am more intuitive than I give myself credit for. I don't trust my instinct when more often than not it's entirely right. Even about people I can't read at all.
My parents are back; they brought with them smiles and suntans and anecdotes. My mother talked to me about the people I would have loved to watch and fit into tiny slots: the strange gamblers transfixed by their machines, unchanging expressions, even when they win. My father told me about avenues of whore houses with churches on the other side of the street. That's Nevada, he said. My mother knows me too well; the people I'd be fascinated by, the books I'd want. I have my own copy, finally, of Sartre's existentialist biography of Baudelaire; something she bought spontaneously, when, unknown to her, it's been on my Amazon wishlist for months.
Tonight I am listening to, with continual realisation, my favourite piece of music of all time; the most important thing I've ever shared with my father: Górecki's Symphony No.3. I have vague memories of Sunday lunch in Dorset, perhaps a birthday, Classic FM backing the conversation in the car. That terrible drone, my mother and grandmother called it, but when the car stopped we couldn't get out, my father and I. It immersed itself into my blood even then, aged six or seven. I had images of Thomas Hardy figures stumbling across deserted heaths, but reaching their destination all the same. I went and bought my own copy yesterday, thinking I'd lost my father's treasured version (which I think I prefer). I used it for my soundtrack to Caryl Churchill's 'Fen' last year. It kept me company so many nights in the winter when the music really did seem to mingle with my blood in a way I found confusingly pleasurable. I beg anyone, anywhere, whether you like classical music or not to listen to this piece, and know everything about me you could possibly want.
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| And now |
[10 Aug 2002|07:15pm] |
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music |
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Copland - Clarinet Concerto |
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I just wrote an enormous entry here, and my computer decided to crash and delete every word. I can't bear to word it all again, and making this list will probably make me cry, but:
1. Helen has gone back to Leicester
2. I am ill and drinking cup-a-soup
3. I quit my job, but I'm sad because I had a really good evening with Paolo and Gurdy on Thursday, even though they did make me go and stand in Borders and listen to Primal Scream, when I protested that I didn't like them. I have their phone numbers.
4. My parents are coming home tomorrow.
5. We were nearly burgled on Thursday night.
6. I love Copland's Clarinet Concerto. The woman on the front cover looks incredibly dour. String of pearls and a gold watch. Haircut and dress that don't even belong in the eighties. Yet she plays so emotively. I wish this kind of thing were written for the oboe. I love this about musicians - all artists, in fact; that whatever they give out of themselves to the world changes entirely as soon as you see/hear their work.
7. I shall probably now go and watch the incredibly frivolous boxset I bought today, when collecting our photos. Helen said, genuinely wistful, that she missed it. We last watched it a week ago. I screamed with laughter, but secretly decided that something had to be done.
We planned to make a photo diary, but these are just terrible. One day I suppose I shall have to come to terms with my looks, but not yet.
( In case you'd forgotten )
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[08 Aug 2002|10:21am] |
I woke up this morning and realised that I felt terrible. Wretching, stalling frustration. I'm sure it's this job. It makes me feel self-destructive, which is ridiculous, really, and slightly worrying. I sat for ten minutes shaking, and couldn't bear to let Helen hug me goodbye, I felt so horribly untouchable. I know what this is - it's the endless rejection. This job is like amplifying my fear by about a hundred and actually volunteering it upon myself. The fact that I have to go and do this today, probably standing in the rain, just sickens me. We got caught in the downpour outside Camden station yesterday. Jordy hugged me tightly, because he said my face had turned as white as snow, and I looked so hungrily unhappy, but today I think being hugged by anyone would simply break me in two.
I should have left by now, but I can't bear it. What an idiot to think I could carry this off.
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| I is. |
[08 Aug 2002|12:56am] |
I hate this job. I actually hate it. As the week progressed, I thought I'd slowly numb to it, but Camden today was worse than ever. Not a single sign-up. I did, however, get a marriage proposal, and when I politely declined, got shoved into a wall. I was on the verge of tears when I saw Zero heading for Coffee Republic and decided my desire for a conversation longer than "Excuse me, can you...", or with people who openly use the phrase "shits'n'giggles" was greater than my fear. Half an hour and a black coffee later, the afternoon seemed almost bearable, although, as it was Camden, there were several semi-interesting meetings. Firstly, a very attractive barman from 'The World's End', telling me that my walking around the pub the night before in my black 'dress' and boots had made his evening; secondly, a Slimelight Mistake (the worst imagineable) who could unfortunately remember me vividly; and thirdly, the St Marten's twat I still couldn't remember the name of. Even with my disastrously red t-shirt and tramp-like appearance I felt like a prostitute. The only sign-up I got yesterday was from a man who told me he'd only stopped to ask me to go to a Jane's Addiction concert with him.
As for Zero (Helen and I forced his poorly self out of the house last night), I can report that he is about as unfrightening as something fairly unfrightening, with a bit of intimidation thrown in now and again for good measure. I also randomly stumbled upon Amy and India on their way to the Dublin Castle, and was given hugs big enough to make up for the length of time I've not seen them.
Helen and I watched the BFG tonight, and reminisced too much. Amazing how many more associations you make when you're a kid (perhaps this would explain Jo and my obsession?). To be a traditionalist, I loved the book more than I ever liked the film. I remember it being the very first proper novel I ever read to myself, because I was so determined to read it before I saw the film (something I've tried to stick to ever since); I was so young I couldn't even phrase the words in my head; I'd lie in bed and speak them out loud. And then I remembered visiting Roald Dahl's house when I was seven or eight, and exploring the caravan he'd written every word in, and the Roald Dahl Rose his wife gave me, because I asked her incessant questions about how he'd written his books, and where he got his associations from.
Otherwise, things could be better. It's exactly a week until results day, and only three days before my parents return. However, Helen is guaranteed a job, and the prospect of her being here another eight weeks seems to blot out the seven hour terror shifts I'll have to do until next friday.
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latristesse's journal