A Tiresian Tragedy

I haven't blogged as much recently, partly due to the fact I've been blogging here, but also due to the fact its been difficult to write about a particular subject. Well, anything really. I mean, I have so much to say that before I can even go all ninja finding writing materials that I've forgotten what I wanted to say. I'll sit and ponder for ages what it was that I was thinking and another idea fades like a shooting star.

It really is starting to become a problem (ﾟ´Д｀ﾟ)ﾟ

Recently though I've been working on a new story for my Textual Intervention module. We're studying fairy tales; their dynamics, how there is underlying intratextuality and how ANGELA CARTER BASICALLY WROTE LOTS OF PORN (yup). But I love her work, and it actually influenced my decision for my assignment piece, which also takes its form from my favourite fairy tale; The Little Mermaid.

Now, I know what you may be thinking, "Oh I love it! I've watched the Disney version!" - NO. Stop, please don't go on because to me, it just takes the essence away from the original story. It just polluted the story with unnecessary characters and campy villains and oh dear I really can't go on any further. But the original by Hans Christian Anderson, is a tale of unrequited love, self-sacrifice and humanity. Yeah, it probably sounds like a misery machine and do you know what? Perhaps it is. The first time I read it I felt melancholy; I guess, since Anderson's original reader was for a man who would never return his love, I can sympathise. But there is something I was fascinated with: the notion that even though we come from different places and speak different languages these cannot hinder us from tearing down barriers and escaping our roots. But when we tear ourselves from the past, we can't go back. When our hearts are set on something we can't persuade them out of it. We should follow what we want and if it leads to misery, then we can proudly say that we did what we wanted to do. That, in essence, is what I find to be one of the most poignant messages within the tale.

Although my retelling of the story is actually intentionally supposed to be depressing  (〃￣ω￣〃ゞ Here is an excerpt from my piece called A Tiresian Tragedy:

But Warren and I were aware that none of them were like us. They had a linear path that was set for them, whilst ours was twisted and bent, marred by transience and uncertainty. When my family saw me stray from what they wanted they left me to the obfuscation and retreated. To them, our family was a machine and I was a broken cog that should be replaced. Now, their lives functioned like clockwork.

We had planned that day to take a walk down to the beach in the hope that we’d either be able to pull or get hideously drunk trying. As I pulled myself onto a chair at the beach bar, I felt my skin sizzle like the electric wires that stretched across the city. Even in this weather the scarring, though barely traceable in normal weather, felt as if it were suppurating. The glints of glass that remained embedded in my skin felt as if they shimmered as the rays of light danced upon my cheeks.

I'll be uploading it to my blog in the near future, once I'm entirely satisfied with it. Hopefully I'll be posting more regularly now~

Routines, Twattiness & Sleep.

Its difficult to resume a routine once it has been forgone. During the holiday periods I frequently find myself roaming around the house saying 'I have nothing to do', 'I'm bored', when in actual fact I have so many things I need to get done. I take life for granted a lot; I watch TV instead of writing down my thoughts, I obsess far too much over social situations than what I'm supposed to be reading and dream far too much about the future when I should be living in the present. Becoming entangled in fantasy, its easier to forget about reality and even worse, it makes me feel like I've already achieved half of what I want. It's fucking ridiculous that I should be feeling so gratified when in actuality, I've managed to accomplish nothing more then coming up with an idea and never putting it in to action. Procrastination and I seem to be fantastic friends at the moment.

Sleep and I, are not.

Although during this Semester, I've managed to try and progress from the immaturity I possessed in my first year. Finishing assignments hours before the deadline, skim-reading and leaving writing full of the most ridiculous mistakes is not something I want to take in to my second semester of the year. I've managed to miss out on firsts several times throughout my first semester. If I had taken the time to do that extra proof-reading or plan in advance, perhaps my marks would have been made up, but I'm still in awe that I can stream-of-consciousness an entire assignment within a night and manage to make it sound cohesive.

It also makes me wonder; why do we congratulate people when they announce something fantastic they are working on? 'Congratulations! Your half way there!' or 'Thats great, keep it up!' can be reinforcing to some people but for me, its a gold medal. I feel that if and when I decide to vocalise my plans for any creative projects I should be hounded by Goblins. Whenever it happens. So even if its just a conversation with my parents or a passing chat with an estranged friend that I'll be reminded that I still have far to go.

Coming up with an idea isn't a half-way mark; its a start. Its a slow start, but one at that. I won't belittle the fact that I may have come up with a great idea, but I think I shouldn't absorb all the attention and disregard the product. Its becoming so familiar that laziness has just consumed me. And frankly, I just want to eat some decent food and get cracking on some work.

So tomorrow I have a plan which could either go one way or the other. I'm not going to list it here in fear that the goblins won't actually appear (or may do), but I feel as if I will have to uphold my promise and write a blog post.

Oh now and I'm going to leave you with a rather amazing song that taught me a lot about Fruit & Veg. I know all the words and no, I am not ashamed.

Week.

The end of my first week ends with an avalanche. Sort of. If you count opening your window to a deluge of snow rushing down the roof and freezing your nipples off, then it did. Which happened. Yeah, I'm confused.

The week has been a respite for me because its finally kicked me back into a routine; gone are the days when I can crawl out of bed at three in the afternoon and lounge like trailer trash in my underwear; I've actually been getting up around 6 *gasp*, changed by 8 or 9 *le bigger gasp* and been pretty productive! *le-what-the-fuck-gasp*. Its strange to have a feeling that this will be rigid, that I won't let things keep me up  at night, letting thoughts unravel until I'm left with a mess of anxieties to clear up: I wake up and the day doesn't feel so broken. I mean, like every other human being I still dread getting up without a bit of a lie-in, but who doesn't?

My actual classes this week have been pretty interesting, either due to debates that nearly escalate into fisticuffs or having to work with people that I have a history with. When someone you loathe sits deliberately sits near you for whatever reason, it always seems like a power play of some kind. It feels like I should either a) just try and be decent or b) just embrace my sardonic personality. B usually wins. I'm never really surprised.

But I guess one of the strangest things about this week is the amount of things have happened; I got the rest of my results for last semester and got a decent 2:1, My boyfriend broke up with me, I've maintained a more healthier routine, I've met with an older ex and managed a coffee date. All in the space of 5 days.

It all feels a bit unreal to be true. Its what I used to think a lot. But it has this kind of strange cohesion that just makes it fit, as opposed to when everything felt unreal and was fractured and messy.

Life is strange, and unreal I guess.

First Snow

Its day one of Semester two. I'm officially over halfway through my degree. It feels like it hasn't been long since I started and in reality, its true; I'm halfway through my second year and in the coming months I'll be making some massive decisions about my future. I haven't even had my first class and images of the future are flickering in the forefront of my mind like a broken projector jumping between hazy possibilities of where I'll be going. There's no signposts, no path laid out by some friendly deity and no tour guide to show me where I need to go. Where do I need to go? Where do I want to go? I often find in the early morning, especially when I'm feeling under the weather, that the nagging at the back of my mind that was easy to dispel has pushed its way to the front of my mind, refusing to relent and unphased by my attempts to cast it out.

The roundabout of roads becomes overgrown with flora that tower oppressively far above and space feels claustrophobic, tight, compact, sealed off. Walking any direction brings me back to the same place I started. Trying to purge the thought makes the hedges burn bright and fierce. I feel like my lungs and time is the smoke waiting to snuff me out.

And whilst this array of choices becomes a raging internal battle, the snow is falling softly outside. The cold is seeping in and the chill is the lick of nature trying to lull me into a respite I've been seeking for hours and hours and hours. The hours that pass feel like they have stealthily sneaked away to some unknown shores and the unknown shores are where I'm currently treading water. The maze becomes the sea and the sea becomes me. The sea swallows me up and the maze is still me.

Some Poetry

In the second half of last year I found it difficult to write poetry that I was wholly satisfied with. Poetry last year really made me question whether I want to be a commercial poet or just do it on the sidelines for fun, probably because of my lecturer. I mean, I'm not stupid, I know poets don't make a lot of money nowadays but contemporary poetry, or at least from my lecturers perspective, seemed like the last dregs of creativity that were just becoming more and more diluted, more and more manufactured. I mean, even now the media is trying to 'sell' individuality and independence: 'yeah we're totally indie people we live on £2 a day and weave baskets with our beards'. I know not everyone is like this but its almost becoming vapid to stand up for yourself and say 'Well, I guess my music taste is unique' without getting a ton of criticism from other people claiming nothing is original. And when something is sold as individual its like the dogs fucking bollocks.

I find life confusing sometimes so I wrote this poem which may or may not be related.

I'm not surprised people become alcoholics.


The Last Dregs

The first, the last; the worst
--not second or third
the thirst,
a craving for liqour
drink quicker get sicker

See how she rolls from dusk to dawn
sweet Aurora,
with her lips still longing,
unsatiated,
for the taste of something more.

”Quis hic locus, quae regio, quae mundi plaga?"

There are times like the past few days when it feels like my sky is about to tumble down. When the ground is not below, but rippling like water and surfing through the air in torrents of  black liquid. When doubt is an insect burying through my head and leaving me a lifeless carrion; taking extra special care to shred all the meat off my bones and leave me to the open air. And this was definitely a time where it felt like relapse wasn't just a distant shore but a desert island I'd washed up on.

But it wasn't. It's not me saying 'I'm cured! my anxieties have vanished and I'm ready to stop festering and get on with my life!' - That would be fucking stupid. They don't just evaporate like that. Its not me saying I've had a spiritual awakening and I have come to accept a deity as a saviour for helping me in my time of need. It was a spark that burst into a flame and has began to burn the prison I built around me.

I'm arming myself for it. The niggling at the back of my head was all for the better.

Life is an adventure that I've barely explored. I'm letting in the light after revelling in the dark for too long and I don't want to waste another second.

PS - the quote is from Seneca's Hercules Furens (The Mad Hercules), Act 5, line 1138. I originally heard it from the film Girl, Interrupted.

Alone at night I'm wrapped up in my thoughts.

When I was sixteen I thought the most rational decision I could make at the time was to take four boxes of pills and wait for something to happen. Ever since that day it's been a struggle to smile knowing it will soon falter or hold onto something without worrying it will soon disappear. Everything expires eventually and when it does, it'll decay quick.

The things we love and lose are the never the things we can choose.

So I guess if your reading this you'll ask why I'm going over something that is probably extremely personal. At 6am. I mean, out of all the times I could sit and methodically go over this post, I've picked a time in the morning where commuters are ready to set off for their last day of work before the weekend, couples are beginning to rouse each other with soft caresses of their flesh and cats, well are being cats, and are probably nestled at the bottom of someone's bed all comfy (whoever you are: I hate you).

It's so easy to become wrapped up in thoughts before we sleep. We can have the entire day to stretch our creative bones or sit like 'the thinker' and worry about our existential problems but we don't. The most comfortable place can actually be a source of discomfort or malevolence to some of us. At the moment I'm currently wrapped up in events that have transpired over the previous two days and, for some reason, times far behind me that I sometimes wish would stay buried where they are.

It seems like the dead like to talk more then we expect. And worst of all we indulge them.

However, it's significance is very important to me. The outcome of what happened and after breakdown gate is always relevant. When life kicks me to shit or shoves me down a stairwell I always try and remember what almost happened didn't happen and what I wanted to happen, never happened. As nihilistic about life as I am, the things we try and expect are always the unexpected we try and predict. Life is a giant rubber band ball and some hideous entity is chucking us across the floor one minute then using us to tie his hair back.

Nothing feels cohesive at 6AM and the thoughts I'm keeping myself warm with should really be traded in for better sheets.