Bah, Humbug

Ah, Christmas: the lights, the laughter, the presents and - most importantly, in my opinion - the food. Suddenly, however, the joys of the festive season seem to be sullied with a bad case of Scrooge-itis. Everything and everyone seems to be against Christmas these days. People complaining about everything from when the Christmas lights go up (“It’s still 3 days ‘till Christmas, why are they putting them up so early?!”) to the social etiquette of gift-buying (“Well she’s in my Psychology class, and she once lent me a pen; maybe I should buy her something.”). Not to mention the plethora of idiots who whine about the fact Christmas stock arrives in shops so early, and then whine about the fact they don’t have enough time to do all their Christmas shopping.

Christmas-loathing also extends to those dreading having to be nice to long-lost relations (“My, haven’t you grown?” “Yes, Great-Auntie Muriel, I have, because last time you saw I was young enough to be wearing elephant-pattern leggings and not be making a fashion statement.”), and to those who have decided Christmas is simply over-commercialised (“Dude, by buying people presents and spreading the love, you’re totally conforming to our capitalist society.” Right, well I won’t be buying one for you then.).

And, of course, accompanying all this are the manic cries of political correctness gone mad, as supposedly “open-minded” people call for Christmas to be abolished, or at least made less Christianity-orientated. Now I’m no supporter of Christianity – or religion at all for that matter – but last time I checked, Christmas was a Christian holiday. Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that sort of give it the right to be Christianity-orientated?

Political correctness isn’t the only current issue rallying against the season to be jolly; global warming has also decided to put a damper on the Christmas spirit – literally. This year, even the most optimistic among us aren’t dreaming of a white Christmas. It’s more likely to be a sort of greyish colour, as it is forecast to be the wettest December on record in the UK.

It is for these reasons that it’s highly unfortunate I love Christmas. The completely commercial, overindulgent, ridiculous merriment of it. I love it when the first Coca-Cola advert heralds the start of the festive season, and when Radio One starts playing The Pogues & Kirsty McColl’s ‘Fairytale Of New York’ (best Christmas song ever), when ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ and ‘Home Alone’ become the only films on TV, and when you buy a 100-pack of cards and realise that won’t be enough. I already have Christmas decorations up in my room – but then again, I never took them down from last year. So apologies to you all, but I, for one, fully intend to be annoyingly happy about the holidays and will be singing Christmas songs as loudly as is humanly possible from now until New Year.

Almost

Lying here without you, I can almost taste your scent

I can reach up

And out

And steal it

Your essence

Your very deepest, darkest essence

Now belongs to me

It is all I can own of you

Here, now

You have me enslaved, ensnared

And I am a willing prisoner

Not for me, however, the cold ball and chain

The heat of our furnace has warped them

Into fine chains of silken-light dreams that settle, glinting,

On my heart

And now, lying here without you, I can almost touch them

A Word's Worth [+...]

Merci. La confusion reste sur la scène, mais il y a une boîte vide dans mon théâtre qui vous attendra.

A Word's Worth

Another combination of words

Or a new set of lyrics

Twisting adjectives to flatter, verbs to hurt

One more noun for what is

Or the next description of what isn’t

The flick of a tongue

The tap of a key

And the flowing, scratching, twirling, stabbing

Exploding lines

Of lead and ink and thoughts

Try, we do in vain, to find a better way

And though actions may speak louder than they

And though a picture may say a thousand

They are my companions, and -

Remember this: the pen is mightier than the sword

So long as one’s wit is sharpened.

Confused

The reading of my heart was your job

Accidentally commissioned to do it, you were relied upon

Every time the numbers changed I got a new sparkle in my eye

And yet suddenly my audience is gone

                    Alone in the spotlight

                    Gazing out at empty seats

                    The plush velvet begins to rot

                    And words start to collapse

Your words still touch me, you know

And I still read your heart, even though it's not my job

And I want to understand the turn of events;

Why the walls of the city fell down.

The Lake Of No Importance

I know it's been a while, but I swore I wouldn't do what I always do and start this without finishing it. So, new post. Huzzah!

Speaking of starting things and never finishing them; I wrote this beginning of something ages ago, and I still have absolutely no idea what to do with it next. Therefore, internet, NOW IS YOUR TIME. I need help...

The rain falls down in sheets of steel on the Lake of No Importance. Thin, grey clouds scurry across the skies, trying to escape as they are replaced with huge, rolling, thunder-bearing versions of themselves. The willow trees creak as they bend to breaking point in the biting wind. And cowering under them is a small boy, violet eyes wide with terror and a dark halo of hair framing a pale, tear-stained face.

I have no more. You get a pickature though. Completely unrelated, of course - just a sketchy self-portrait.

Toxic

So, I finally wrote a new piece that I don't hate and that I managed to finish. This is nothing short of a miracle, so be gentle.

It is about something specific this time, but once again the reader's perception matters more than the writer's. The words should really speak for themselves.

Toxic

The sordid air clings to everything; all-pervading

Swirling, curling, twirling crushed diamond blocks

Streams of red satin and conscience

Laughter and burning eyes

 

We are the life and soul

And the ghost in the corner smiles benevolently

She knows that soon we will touch the sun

And as wings are flicked into a pile of ash,

We fly on

 

With terms of endearment and echoes of youth

One dormant heart now erupts

Tides are turning, and we are suddenly scented

Tainted

 

Eject an apology from a rear window,

And leave for the lamplight-sunrise, far away

Wander across the endless dust to a destination revisited

And finally find, prostrate upon wilting petals,

We linger on

And I Never Understood Really...

No pictures today; I want these words to be concentrated on.

The piece of poetry I am about to present to you is one of my favourite things that I've written. I wrote it a few months ago, I guess, and in a really odd way. I simply put pen to paper and wrote exactly what came out of my mind. This is why I have absolutely no bollocking clue what it's about. But that's good, 'cause it means you can decide for yourselves.

And I never understood really

what time and elegance would bring,

and with it, the soft surrender of darkness

 

My eyes are not yet accustomed to the dim light around them

and so shapes move in colours that don’t try,

and the cool, cut-glass sun streams music onto unsuspecting faces,

upturned and glorious

 

To strive for that day, when man is free –

and woman alike – will come to naught

without the silent tick-tock of the wandering clock,

that sleeps so swiftly

when the neon brights and shining lights are gone

 

The bubbles in the rose-water burst like thoughts and dreams,

and so much else that is fragile and so easily lost,

while machines turn the tide of man

and the warmth of hearts

 

Breathe, for now is when you smile and wonder why

 

The revolutions of every wheel that slaps the backs of innocents

cannot compare to the revolution brewing in the hearts

and minds

and teacups of so many

 

May we one day explode our ugliness,

may we one day throw caution to the wind,

and play with the flames we create

 

May one day the soft beating of the drums warm our souls,

that we make take flight and scratch the stars

 

In their difficult way they gaze their star-gaze, until

with a flick and a kick they spiral away to dance with the gods

In Search Of Posterity

Well, I thought I might as well share one of my reasons for even having a blog (albeit one that I am the sole reader of); this is a little scrap of writing I did in about January. I was in Scotland and out on a walk with my dog, and came across a scene of intense beauty of some kind or another. I evidently felt moved to write the following:

The problem is that not only do I want to do it - live it, feel it, breathe it - I want to capture it; record it. It’s not enough just to have experienced it; you want to be able to hold on to the moment, share it and keep it. Not easy when your camera’s broken, your pen’s decidedly unreliable, your phone has no signal and the only conscious mind in sight is that of your dog, whom the profundity of the time and place seems to be lost on.

Related to this in terms of posterity is my One Million Masterpiece square:

The OMM's a great project that brings together artists from all over the world in the name of world records and charity. It's a wonderful thing to be involved in, and I have come to be really quite proud of my square. You can see a replay of me painting it on my OMM profile here - recommended for hidden messages!

My square is now a little out of date, in terms of what is on it and what is not. For example, June 26th 2007 was not "the first day of the rest of my life", as it turned out, and currently one of the people in the 'photograph' is threatening me for money. Also, my girlfriend does not feature (as she was not my girlfriend at the time). It is therefore not an accurate portrayal of my current state of affairs, but holds a place in my heart nonetheless.

I would like to encourage anyone who might read this to head on over to the One Million Masterpiece and get involved - whether for yourself or in search of altruism...*ahem*doesn't exist*ahem*

Pride & Poetry

'Twas Pride at the weekend (no longer am I a Pride virgin!) and although it was only my best friend and I that were available to go, I had a lot of fun and many pictures were taken, including the one to the right. I have no idea who the arm belongs to, but credit goes to them for waving that flag so well.

Not much in the way of wordiness today, just a wee scrap of poetry-ish-ness that I think complements the picture quite well.

How can you know what I am when I am so lost in time and stars?

We are never far from meaning in our daydreams

We bring the effervescent light of sound; so hard to see

Blinking, and brushing away whirling colours

Photoshopping Goodness

More pictures than words today. I've been spending a lot of time on a new digital painting of the Greek goddess, Athena (in the hopes of doing a series of female Olympians - Artemis will be next I feel). It's been taking the absolute piss to do; rather detailed. I will be posting it to deviantART when it's finished, but up until then I wanted to just post it as a WIP here.

The notes around it are just to myself - reminding me what I want. All credit to the stock artist whose work I used as a reference.

So anyway, I got very bored of Athena after a while (as I'm sure you can imagine), and started messing around on Photoshop, trying to make photographs look vintage, which I like doing. I ended up making a collage-y-type-thing of pictures that worked well being vintagified. That's right, vintagified. It's a word.

Au revoir.

War On Terror - Chapter I

So, time to start chronicling some story/novel stuff. This is the first chapter of a story I wrote for my English Language coursework last year, and then continued writing because I liked it so much (I only needed to do an extract for my coursework). It's written in the style of Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four or Huxley's Brave New World. Here goes:

Chapter I

It is six o’ clock on a Wednesday evening in early October, and somewhere a young man is walking jauntily down a narrow side street. His eyes are ocean-blue, sparkling with sun-crested waves; thoughts of the girl he is on his way to see. He flicks his freshly washed hair out of his face, and rolls up the sleeves of his regulation white shirt. It is warm for so late in the year. He takes a right-turn towards the city centre, and accordingly, so do his shadows. He is being followed. The youth, whose mind is on more important matters, is blissfully ignorant of this fact and continues to swagger along, whistling broken tunes from times gone by. He walks between two identical rows of tall, sunny-coloured blocks of flats with identical white curtains shut behind every identical square window and breathes in the cool, processed twilight air. He is carefree – confident that Alyce will enjoy his company tonight. She is one of the forgotten generation, like him. Generation X, as they are known. The ones who can still feel the illegal emotion. Joss – for that is the name of the young man – thinks of the way Alyce’s unorthodox spectacles slide down her nose when she is concentrating, and how he laughs at her warnings about Fear. To him, she has always seemed over-cautious; nobody had been Found for months – nobody taken away for treatment to return soulless and empty...

          But thinking about it too much only puts him in more danger – the sniffer dogs could be anywhere – so instead he watches the sun dip behind the skyscrapers and quickens his pace. He ducks into yet another narrow alleyway as he nears the Latin Quarter just outside the city centre. It is without the clean, fluorescent strip lighting most of the rest of the City is continuously bathed in, instead using old-fashioned electric streetlights to illuminate the dingy signs of cafés that still serve caffeinated coffee and bars that still serve alcohol. There are fewer cameras here too. The establishment he is headed to is in a cellar under a fairly orthodox-looking club that advertises the usual vitamin-enhanced beverages and Decaffee. It is a meeting place for those of the forgotten generation brave enough to defy Them, and it is Alyce’s favourite place. There she writes and recites unlawful poetry, sings long-forgotten songs in a low, melancholy contralto, and quietly becomes intoxicated, surrounded by illegal substances such as caffeine and chocolate and the members of Generation X. They who did not come willingly to be treated, unlike their elders, who were desperate for an end to the fear that had stalked them for so many years, and they who did not unknowingly receive the treatment at birth, unlike the infants of now. They are the ones too young to have lived through the horrors of the yesteryears, yet too old to have never felt afraid.

          A soft sound behind him jerks Joss awake from his daydreaming. This is not an advisable area to be in if you are about to be the victim of one of Their ‘random checks’; it would mean an automatic black mark on your personal record. Joss instinctively puts his hand in his pocket to retrieve his ID card, and as he does so there is another sound from behind him; the ominous click of claws on concrete. This is no random check. The creature behind him is one of Their dogs. Suddenly the buildings on either side of him loom menacingly, silhouetted against the dying lights of the sky. He feels a familiar sensation creep up from his stomach to his tightening chest. It slams his heart repeatedly into his ribcage and his eyes widen in panic. Dread courses through his veins and he feels sick with the realisation he is afraid. He knows what this means. It means they want him. This is the War on Terror.

Swing Me To Sunshine

At last I'm over the moon; I'm under the sun (Diamonds And Pearls - The Holloways).

Well, methinks it is time to get this words-and-pictures ball rolling. This is a poem I wrote last summer, but have since edited and refined. I thought it would be appropriate as Summer is - happily - now upon us.

Swing Me To Sunshine

Swing me to sunshine, and the sweet, lazy humming of summer

Swing me to fields of long grass swaying with the breeze

 

Swing me to vast, azure skies that touch the horizon on every side

And the whispering words of the soft-spoken trees

 

Swing me to the oppressive heat, and the stillness of the sultry air

Swing me to heavy, heady hours that drift out of mind

 

Swing me to the beat of the warming rays; back and forth

And the sepia-tinted, dark-framed view of the world

Presenting...

...the words and pictures of me, R. An unimportant sort of person who spends most of her life drinking tea with a pen in her hand. Poetry, essays, emails, articles, pointless prose, blog posts, stories that are mainly unfinished, forum posts, letters, Facebook messages. Digital paintings, sketches, photoshopped pictures, doodles. On my hand, on paper, on tables...and now, on Electric Paper.

J’écris, donc je suis.