Monday's child is fair of face,
Tuesday's child is full of grace,
Wednesday's child is full of woe,
Thursday's child has far to go,
Friday's child is loving and giving,
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day,
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
Wednesday's Child.
Monday, 28 December 2009
Christmas 2009.
I spent Christmas this year with Pickled Lily and The Stig, which, just as it did last year, made me ashamed of myself for feeling pathetically self-pitying and bitter in the run up to Christmas, as I do have a family of sorts to return to at the end of the year - in fact, I don't even need to return because they were there day to day throughout the year. And I can get very ungrateful and caught up in my own loneliness and occasionally forget this.
But, as a lovely reminder of my little mini urbanite family, I spent a chilled out Christmas Day with Pickled Lily and The Stig, and the Stig's brother, which we spent eating and opening presents and watching Doctor Who, and all the cosy things you're supposed to do for Christmas. Except for the getting gradually more drunk throughout the day tradition - as I was nursing a bit of a hangover from Christmas Eve, which I spent getting drunk at the office with one of my bosses (who I've developed a little unexpected connection with, but another story..)
Anyway, I had to work Boxing day so literally had the briefest of Christmasses ever - but it was perfect. Albeit last year may be the best Christmas I'll ever have, so this year was never going to match up, but all things considered, it was pretty perfect. Well, having to work Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, and Pickled Lily's mum not turning up, and having just missed out on a White Christmas opportunity, and nursing both a raging hangover and a blossoming mini crush on my boss - these things may not have been ideal, but somehow made sense considering the crazy year we've all had! So yes, Christmas of 2009 fit in just perfectly.
Fingers crossed New Year's doesn't kick us all in the bollocks.
------------
One of my presents from Pickled Lily was so good, I just had to brush it aside. You can tell when I really love something, like really truly love something that someone has given me, because I have to hide it away, mumble a quiet "thank-you", and pretend I'm not weeping with pure gratitude inside. For someone relatively vocal, I'm surprisingly bad at thank-you's. I always feel really self-conscious and slightly unworthy, and strangely embarrassed. And I felt exactly that when I opened it - it was a picture that Pickled Lily had drawn, of Death and Delirium, that was so.. well, beautifully drawn but it was I dunno, honest, and full of life and meaning (I sound ridiculous, but I'm really trying not to get gushy!) and something about the way she'd drawn Death's eyes just made me think of me (ok that sounded morbid, but it's not - there's a sort of sparkle, or light or something, to them that felt a bit like looking into a mirror - but everything about the picture was undeniably Pickled Lily, so it was - I dunno, it just felt like me and her through both our eyes, via her art. Fuck, I'm getting gushy and uncomprehensible. See, not so good at the thank-you's, even just in my own head. Plus I'm still in a bracket.) - There we go, out of the bracket.
Anyway, I got some lovely, sweet, funny presents this year, but that one might just be the best thing I've ever been given. Because it felt like me. And it felt like her. And lets not forget, this year I've been given a Tiffany necklace and a bottle of Moet! My point being, I haven't said more to her about it than "Ah thanks mate" - but I'm pretty sure she knows that in my language that means "I love it, and I love you, and that will go very nicely in the cosy room I keep for you in my heart with my cat and my music and the very few things that are precious and special to me - and only you would know how happy that just made me, and would have thought to do it in the first place".
But, as a lovely reminder of my little mini urbanite family, I spent a chilled out Christmas Day with Pickled Lily and The Stig, and the Stig's brother, which we spent eating and opening presents and watching Doctor Who, and all the cosy things you're supposed to do for Christmas. Except for the getting gradually more drunk throughout the day tradition - as I was nursing a bit of a hangover from Christmas Eve, which I spent getting drunk at the office with one of my bosses (who I've developed a little unexpected connection with, but another story..)
Anyway, I had to work Boxing day so literally had the briefest of Christmasses ever - but it was perfect. Albeit last year may be the best Christmas I'll ever have, so this year was never going to match up, but all things considered, it was pretty perfect. Well, having to work Christmas Eve and Boxing Day, and Pickled Lily's mum not turning up, and having just missed out on a White Christmas opportunity, and nursing both a raging hangover and a blossoming mini crush on my boss - these things may not have been ideal, but somehow made sense considering the crazy year we've all had! So yes, Christmas of 2009 fit in just perfectly.
Fingers crossed New Year's doesn't kick us all in the bollocks.
------------
One of my presents from Pickled Lily was so good, I just had to brush it aside. You can tell when I really love something, like really truly love something that someone has given me, because I have to hide it away, mumble a quiet "thank-you", and pretend I'm not weeping with pure gratitude inside. For someone relatively vocal, I'm surprisingly bad at thank-you's. I always feel really self-conscious and slightly unworthy, and strangely embarrassed. And I felt exactly that when I opened it - it was a picture that Pickled Lily had drawn, of Death and Delirium, that was so.. well, beautifully drawn but it was I dunno, honest, and full of life and meaning (I sound ridiculous, but I'm really trying not to get gushy!) and something about the way she'd drawn Death's eyes just made me think of me (ok that sounded morbid, but it's not - there's a sort of sparkle, or light or something, to them that felt a bit like looking into a mirror - but everything about the picture was undeniably Pickled Lily, so it was - I dunno, it just felt like me and her through both our eyes, via her art. Fuck, I'm getting gushy and uncomprehensible. See, not so good at the thank-you's, even just in my own head. Plus I'm still in a bracket.) - There we go, out of the bracket.
Anyway, I got some lovely, sweet, funny presents this year, but that one might just be the best thing I've ever been given. Because it felt like me. And it felt like her. And lets not forget, this year I've been given a Tiffany necklace and a bottle of Moet! My point being, I haven't said more to her about it than "Ah thanks mate" - but I'm pretty sure she knows that in my language that means "I love it, and I love you, and that will go very nicely in the cosy room I keep for you in my heart with my cat and my music and the very few things that are precious and special to me - and only you would know how happy that just made me, and would have thought to do it in the first place".
Saturday, 26 December 2009
Wings.
2005.
There once was a girl with silver in her skin, and blood in her lips. She wanted to fly. She hungered so desperately to be beautiful and alive. So she made herself wings, of the most tender material. Fur-trimmed lace and silk with tiny incandescent sparkles, in hues of scarlett and magenta and gold. Crystal bells at the tips with little diamonds inside which would tinkle delicately in the crisp, oceanic breeze. She tied them on securely around her waist -- And then she ran. She ran so fast she thought she might run into beauty. Beauty with sunlit hair, pearl fingertips and rose coloured lips. Beauty with butterflies abound in her wispy tresses. She could show her life, Beauty could. She could show her acceptance, and happiness. Treasures she never found in herself. So she ran, far away and over the edge of the earth, her wings catching and the breeze gliding her through the air, across the horizon for everlasting, timeless seconds. She could breathe. She could feel every atom in her body, she could feel the heat, the raw energy unleashed, barely contained within her flimsy skin. But she started to slip. Her wings were colouring themselves metallic. Raging, menacing bronze covered what was momentarily beautiful. Her sins were wearing her down towards the sea ..or was it gravity? She spiralled uncontrollably, ever closer to the jagged rocks guarding the boundaries of the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing down beneath her were drowning out the sound of the gulls. Those birds always shriek when there is a sacrifice. No, Beauty did not save her. There is no hope for girls with blood stained lips, so undeserving of wings.
There once was a girl with silver in her skin, and blood in her lips. She wanted to fly. She hungered so desperately to be beautiful and alive. So she made herself wings, of the most tender material. Fur-trimmed lace and silk with tiny incandescent sparkles, in hues of scarlett and magenta and gold. Crystal bells at the tips with little diamonds inside which would tinkle delicately in the crisp, oceanic breeze. She tied them on securely around her waist -- And then she ran. She ran so fast she thought she might run into beauty. Beauty with sunlit hair, pearl fingertips and rose coloured lips. Beauty with butterflies abound in her wispy tresses. She could show her life, Beauty could. She could show her acceptance, and happiness. Treasures she never found in herself. So she ran, far away and over the edge of the earth, her wings catching and the breeze gliding her through the air, across the horizon for everlasting, timeless seconds. She could breathe. She could feel every atom in her body, she could feel the heat, the raw energy unleashed, barely contained within her flimsy skin. But she started to slip. Her wings were colouring themselves metallic. Raging, menacing bronze covered what was momentarily beautiful. Her sins were wearing her down towards the sea ..or was it gravity? She spiralled uncontrollably, ever closer to the jagged rocks guarding the boundaries of the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing down beneath her were drowning out the sound of the gulls. Those birds always shriek when there is a sacrifice. No, Beauty did not save her. There is no hope for girls with blood stained lips, so undeserving of wings.
Tuesday, 22 December 2009
To Breathe.
There once was a girl with mahogany hair and hollow eyes. She played the piano, and read interesting books & put flowers in her hair.
She wanted desperately to breathe.
-----------
2005.
She wanted desperately to breathe.
-----------
2005.
Monday, 14 December 2009
Too Cold For A Scarf.
"We have a connection, me and you."
Hmm.
Still not sure about the scarf. I thought I was going to go for it but, well, it's really cold this time of year and I can't risk going out in just a scarf, it definitely wouldn't make me warm. I'll wait until the chill in the air passes, then maybe try it on for size again.
When it's this cold outside, the decision of scarf or jumper is irrelevant - I'm staying in altogether, and keeping myself warm!
Hmm.
Still not sure about the scarf. I thought I was going to go for it but, well, it's really cold this time of year and I can't risk going out in just a scarf, it definitely wouldn't make me warm. I'll wait until the chill in the air passes, then maybe try it on for size again.
When it's this cold outside, the decision of scarf or jumper is irrelevant - I'm staying in altogether, and keeping myself warm!
Sunday, 13 December 2009
Christmas Demands Proof Of Worth, And I Have None.
The things that are closest to my heart, I have the least proof of.
I have so much proof of all the stupid crap in my life that isn't actually worth a damn - the amount of photos I have of myself smiling and laughing on nights out that I've already forgotten, where I have one photo of my cat, and barely a few proper ones of me and Pickled Lily, and not even one of Ash. I know it's morbid, right, but I was thinking today - if my cat died, I would have basically no proof that he ever existed, but for my own memories and one out-of-focus photograph.
And if this period in my life was over - say if I quit my job ,which I adore, right now, it would be like it never existed, as if I never did it, because everything would be the same as if I hadn't - except for me. I'd have changed, grown, whatever, and there would be no evidence as to why. Well, I suppose the evidence would be me.
But then, Darcy. I was in a relationship with him. A proper, meeting of the hearts, melding of the days, relationship. At least of half of the year of 2009 was dedicated to him, in my life story. But I have no real proof of that period either. And when it was all over and done with, I was just left as me again. Not in a self-deprecating way just.. well, what was the point? The things you do in life should leave some sort of residue otherwise, well, it can't have been worth a half of a year of your life, surely?
Maybe I'm looking for something to stick, something to rock my world enough for it to not be exactly the same when it ends, as when it started. For me to not be the same when it's come and gone. Because then I may as well have not have done it. Can something really be worth a damn if your life would have been the same had you not done it as if you had?
Ok I'm getting a little confused with my own train of thought here, and this whole proof thing.
Just, I think I'm trying to grasp at things at the moment. Christmas always has this effect on me - that's what I hate about this time of year. It makes you feel like you have to evaluate who you are, and where you are, and what you have. Which, for the most part, is a hell of a lot less than you think.
Christmas always makes me sad for what I don't have, for what I haven't done, for the life I haven't made for myself. I don't know what it is, maybe this is just what happens when you don't have a family to retreat to, a home to return to at the end of the year. So you gather up what's around you, to see if it's home, if it feels like yours. And, if I'm honest, it never really does.
------------------------------------
I have so much proof of all the stupid crap in my life that isn't actually worth a damn - the amount of photos I have of myself smiling and laughing on nights out that I've already forgotten, where I have one photo of my cat, and barely a few proper ones of me and Pickled Lily, and not even one of Ash. I know it's morbid, right, but I was thinking today - if my cat died, I would have basically no proof that he ever existed, but for my own memories and one out-of-focus photograph.
And if this period in my life was over - say if I quit my job ,which I adore, right now, it would be like it never existed, as if I never did it, because everything would be the same as if I hadn't - except for me. I'd have changed, grown, whatever, and there would be no evidence as to why. Well, I suppose the evidence would be me.
But then, Darcy. I was in a relationship with him. A proper, meeting of the hearts, melding of the days, relationship. At least of half of the year of 2009 was dedicated to him, in my life story. But I have no real proof of that period either. And when it was all over and done with, I was just left as me again. Not in a self-deprecating way just.. well, what was the point? The things you do in life should leave some sort of residue otherwise, well, it can't have been worth a half of a year of your life, surely?
Maybe I'm looking for something to stick, something to rock my world enough for it to not be exactly the same when it ends, as when it started. For me to not be the same when it's come and gone. Because then I may as well have not have done it. Can something really be worth a damn if your life would have been the same had you not done it as if you had?
Ok I'm getting a little confused with my own train of thought here, and this whole proof thing.
Just, I think I'm trying to grasp at things at the moment. Christmas always has this effect on me - that's what I hate about this time of year. It makes you feel like you have to evaluate who you are, and where you are, and what you have. Which, for the most part, is a hell of a lot less than you think.
Christmas always makes me sad for what I don't have, for what I haven't done, for the life I haven't made for myself. I don't know what it is, maybe this is just what happens when you don't have a family to retreat to, a home to return to at the end of the year. So you gather up what's around you, to see if it's home, if it feels like yours. And, if I'm honest, it never really does.
------------------------------------
I don't know what I've been waiting for,
But I know that I don't want to wait any more.
But I know that I don't want to wait any more.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
The Flying Scotsman
Just was flicking through good ol' Face-arse and came across an email conversation that made me laugh.
The Flying Scotsman was my psychology teacher at school, and the reason for my love of bridge, and the man responsible for many of the opinions that I hold, in particular my anti-medication stance in regards to psychological 'illnesses'. He also loves to rant (and smoke, and drink, and rant..) as much as I. And he does it all with a Glaswegian accent, which makes him endearing in a Frankie Boyle mildly offputting sort of way.
Wednesday's Girl 07 April 2008 at 15:26
The Flying Scotsman, hello!
Just thought I'd drop you a line and apologise for my lack of correspondance (sp? correspondence?), Ive been awol for a while now and only finally called Pickled Lily for the first time in 2 months last night! And there is of course the ever-present fact that I am just rubbish in general.
Anyway hope you're well, and that some day this century we'll make plans to meet up that will actually come to fruition! (sp? frution? - must stop using words I can't spell.)
xxx
The Flying Scotsman 07 April 2008 at 20:44
Believe me, this summer I am going to track you down and force you to sit at a table with a hand of cards. And a glass in the other hand.
Then I am going to make you suffer for your lack of correspondence by filling you in with every tedious detail of my life since the last time we met up. And let me tell you, it's not good.
You can run, but you can't hide...
xxx
Wednesday's Girl 09 April 2008 at 23:04
See you would love my pub lock-ins, which generally involve drink, cards and me and Looney Toon discussing our tedious lives - although why so "not good" your end? Do tell, I am a giant ear, waiting for your tales of..niceness. (sorry, Black Books quote)
Anyway, country life not treating you well? You just give me the word and I'll come round and kick its arse. (or is it that bad it can only be discussed amongst copious amounts of alcohol?)
xx
PS. Also, I found my bridge bible yesterday amonsgst my old FHS revision notes (my detailed gcse Biology revision notes on what I can only assume to be photosynthesis, consisting of an A4 piece of paper with the word SUN with a big arrow pointing at the word PLANTS)
The Flying Scotsman 10 April 2008 at 19:54
Do they let you smoke during a lock-in? If so, I'm there...
The countryside is lovely (as you will see this summer when you come and visit me). However, the school I am at is grim. Although, being me, I am having some fun "playing" with them. Have you read my Myspace rants on this topic?
I will send you an invite to Flying-Scotsman-bury in due course.
xx
Wednesday's Girl 11 April 2008 at 01:57
lol Well you are always more than welcome my end - well tell you what, we can do a swap, I'll await your invite to seasonal sunny Flying-Scotsman-shire and I shall prove my worth by actually turning up (which in the world of me, is in fact a big deal) and in return I'll provide some drinking, carding and smoking indoors (thats right, Indoor Smoking still exists in pubs in The Vale after hours!)
But in the meantime I will read your myspace rantage in lieu of your company (I assume the tone of dismissive sarcasm mixed with justified cheeky superiority is still alive and well) and will try and build up my repertoire of working-with-autism anecdotes for our eventual meet/piss-up.
Until then - have you seen the bbc show about Sumerhill? I haven't had the nerve to watch it as I'm terrified they'll portray it as some adolescent anarchist free-for-all (in the bad sense)!
xxx
The Flying Scotsman 12 April 2008 at 10:28
I only managed to watch the first episode (since I have, like, a job to go to), but it was actually very good. The school was perhaps a bit too over-idealised, but the depiction of the government inspectors as evil, stuck-up gits was straight out of Roald Dahl...brilliant! xx
Wednesday's Girl 13 April 2008 at 01:42
No YOU're brilliant!
..And I'm drunk.
The Flying Scotsman 14 April 2008 at 18:22
From both of those statements, I can conclude - I taught you well. x
The Flying Scotsman was my psychology teacher at school, and the reason for my love of bridge, and the man responsible for many of the opinions that I hold, in particular my anti-medication stance in regards to psychological 'illnesses'. He also loves to rant (and smoke, and drink, and rant..) as much as I. And he does it all with a Glaswegian accent, which makes him endearing in a Frankie Boyle mildly offputting sort of way.
Wednesday's Girl 07 April 2008 at 15:26
The Flying Scotsman, hello!
Just thought I'd drop you a line and apologise for my lack of correspondance (sp? correspondence?), Ive been awol for a while now and only finally called Pickled Lily for the first time in 2 months last night! And there is of course the ever-present fact that I am just rubbish in general.
Anyway hope you're well, and that some day this century we'll make plans to meet up that will actually come to fruition! (sp? frution? - must stop using words I can't spell.)
xxx
The Flying Scotsman 07 April 2008 at 20:44
Believe me, this summer I am going to track you down and force you to sit at a table with a hand of cards. And a glass in the other hand.
Then I am going to make you suffer for your lack of correspondence by filling you in with every tedious detail of my life since the last time we met up. And let me tell you, it's not good.
You can run, but you can't hide...
xxx
Wednesday's Girl 09 April 2008 at 23:04
See you would love my pub lock-ins, which generally involve drink, cards and me and Looney Toon discussing our tedious lives - although why so "not good" your end? Do tell, I am a giant ear, waiting for your tales of..niceness. (sorry, Black Books quote)
Anyway, country life not treating you well? You just give me the word and I'll come round and kick its arse. (or is it that bad it can only be discussed amongst copious amounts of alcohol?)
xx
PS. Also, I found my bridge bible yesterday amonsgst my old FHS revision notes (my detailed gcse Biology revision notes on what I can only assume to be photosynthesis, consisting of an A4 piece of paper with the word SUN with a big arrow pointing at the word PLANTS)
The Flying Scotsman 10 April 2008 at 19:54
Do they let you smoke during a lock-in? If so, I'm there...
The countryside is lovely (as you will see this summer when you come and visit me). However, the school I am at is grim. Although, being me, I am having some fun "playing" with them. Have you read my Myspace rants on this topic?
I will send you an invite to Flying-Scotsman-bury in due course.
xx
Wednesday's Girl 11 April 2008 at 01:57
lol Well you are always more than welcome my end - well tell you what, we can do a swap, I'll await your invite to seasonal sunny Flying-Scotsman-shire and I shall prove my worth by actually turning up (which in the world of me, is in fact a big deal) and in return I'll provide some drinking, carding and smoking indoors (thats right, Indoor Smoking still exists in pubs in The Vale after hours!)
But in the meantime I will read your myspace rantage in lieu of your company (I assume the tone of dismissive sarcasm mixed with justified cheeky superiority is still alive and well) and will try and build up my repertoire of working-with-autism anecdotes for our eventual meet/piss-up.
Until then - have you seen the bbc show about Sumerhill? I haven't had the nerve to watch it as I'm terrified they'll portray it as some adolescent anarchist free-for-all (in the bad sense)!
xxx
The Flying Scotsman 12 April 2008 at 10:28
I only managed to watch the first episode (since I have, like, a job to go to), but it was actually very good. The school was perhaps a bit too over-idealised, but the depiction of the government inspectors as evil, stuck-up gits was straight out of Roald Dahl...brilliant! xx
Wednesday's Girl 13 April 2008 at 01:42
No YOU're brilliant!
..And I'm drunk.
The Flying Scotsman 14 April 2008 at 18:22
From both of those statements, I can conclude - I taught you well. x
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