Wednesday, 23 March 2011

We're like strangers.

I haven't really blogged in a while. I think it's because I've been a bit too emotional and I know that I would have let the dominate my blog and reveal more than I would actually intend to reveal about myself. However, that's probably exactly what I'm going to do now, because if I can't write into the empty void of my blog, then what can I do?

Looking at my other posts I can't believe the tone I use and the enthusiasm. I've just not been feeling that way at all recently. I remember at the start of this year I was really excited about the potential of everything, I was super confident again and for the very first time in about five years I was truly and sincerely happy. It's not to say that I'm not now but I don't feel like the shiny new spark that I was then. It's like I've reached an emotional deadspace or something.

I have everything that I've wanted in the last six years. Everything. And yet it doesn't really feel like it's enough. Infact it doesn't really feel like I thought it would. I didn't realise how much work everything is. Uni, people, everything. Everything needs so much commitment and drive and in my most self doubting moments sometimes I don't have it in me. I seem to be pushing things away and my effort to be 'good' is wasted because it results in just horrificness to be honest.

So I don't know. It's not even as if I'm in a rut. It's more a case of "what now? What more do you want from me, eh? What more could I possibly give? What am I supposed to do now? What do I do next?"

I've had to train myself as well and it's particularly different at the moment to keep doing mind exercises and stay positive and don't let the negative thoughts consume me. They're always there. And they weren't for a while but the minute I indulge in one I'm stuck in a swamp of them. I sink into it.

I don't really feel like myself. I don't really know what I want to do about anything anymore. I don't look the way I want to. Infact it's the first time in my life I've been overtly insecure about my looks in a way that it's effecting my daily life. This has never happened to me before. Infact in January I was so confident about my looks and my body. I wasn't being arrogant but for the first time I was sincerely comfortable in my own skin.

I have never been this insecure before. Never.

The only thing I can really think to do about any of this is wallow and be sad, because for me there's a kind of comfort in that, I've been doing it for years, but the more I do it the more I'm pushing people away. Even this blog entry is dangerous because it is too self indulgent and it is wallow worthy. I can't really do that anymore, but I don't have any other kind of coping mechanism.

I am going to keep doing my exercises and try and push passed this as much as a I can with as litle damage as possible. I'm sure I can do that.

Sunday, 16 January 2011

You


"You don’t want me, no
You don’t need me

Like I want you, oh
Like I need you

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life

You can’t see me, no
Like I see you
I can’t have you, no
Like you have me

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life

You can’t feel me, no
Like I feel you
I can’t steal you, no
Like you stole me

And I want you in my life
And I need you in my life"


I never understood why if two people loved each other then they couldn't just fight for it and tell whatevers holding them back to piss the fuck off. Y'know? I always wondered why you'd let that be squandered, and why you wouldn't fight for it with every bit of yourself. And it's not necessarily a sad realisation, more of a freshing one, in that there are probably some people you shouldn't love. I think if you can keep them in your life, and keep them being important to you then you should, but I don't think you should let the fact you're in love with that person dominate you. Afterall, I love cigarettes and they're terrible for me.

Like in (500) Days of Summer. The male protagonist, he's there. He's in love and he knows what he wants, and Summer, while she comes across as heartless bitch for the most part, that's not really the case. She's just not there yet, and she does get there, just not with him. A person shouldn't have to wait for another person to get there.

I hate waiting around for anything anyway.

Tuesday, 28 December 2010

The future is unwritten.

Every year, once a year, I watch Joe Strummer: The Future is Unwritten.
I only ever watch this film once a year. There are a few reasons why. One because I took my then punkest best friend to see it with me and my dad when were both...fuck, 14 or something. It spoke to us. My dad drove us home fast as fuck playing Sonic Youth full blast, and for the first time I felt free. Y'know? The first time I saw that film I thought I could DO anything. BE anything. If Joe could do it, so could I. I was mocked for that a lot, but it stuck with me; I can be whatever the fuck I want.

A year later, the second time I watched it I cried almost all the way through it, because by now I was an established Clash fan. It was the first time I mourned for Joe and everything that died with him, but I still felt inspired. I wanted to make the most of my life before it was taken away from me before I knew it.

I may have missed a year of watching it. I think that year was when I was probably the most estranged from myself.

I watched it this year, when I rememberd my private tradition. I had to watch it in sections because apprently I sleep a lot these days. Now when I watched the end, I just felt sad. I was mourning, but more than I had before. I mourning over how safe music is now, the apathy people have towards it, how punk seems like it never really happened, how mocking people are to people like me even now, how much I empathised with Joe, how much I missed someone I had never met, how much I wanted to be this man. I wanted to be in that period of time, to experience what I've felt I've missed. To meet like minded people who recognise that in the 8th aniversary of Joe's death it was a fucking big deal. He was a big deal.

There's a scene on the dvd, where he's being recorded for something unrealted to the film (Julien Temple made the film in a very... ransom note kind of way) and he approaches these two girls for a gig with his new band. This is years, and years later. They have no idea who he is.

I would do anything to talk to Joe. Just one conversation.

And I think the reason why I only let myself watch the film once a year is because I am so in love with that man, and how much he's influenced me, changed me, continues to change me and inspire me when I finally give The Clash and even his other work the time it's deserved. It's the purest, simpilest, crippiling love I've experienced. Which is why I don't throw myself in front of it often.

I miss someone I've never met.

R.I.P Joe Strummer.

Monday, 27 December 2010

Good bits of 2010

Green Day, June 2010. Photo by Eilidh Duff.
Green Day 2010, photo by Eilidh Duff
Mookymeet in London - July.
My Chemical Romance with Emma - November
My little bro. Ace 24/7.
After Pretty Reckless with Eilidh and Robyn. December.
The Pretty Reckless with Paige, Eilidh, Robyn.
My birthday night out here with two randoms in suits, Jenny, Denny, Chris, Greg and Sian
Getting drunk for reasons I can't remember with Gayle, Eilidh and Natzy. July
- Fiona's 18th with Jade, Tom, Mark, Imran, Pat and Mark. November.
Eilidhs Pirate Party with... a lot of people. March.
Paris 2010, January.
Leeds meet, September.
Pickles birthday, December. With Pickles and Emma.
My 'prom' with Natzy, Eilidh, Lauren, Catriona, Chris and Caitlin. May.
Natzy and I sharing "Kodak moment" when she came to cheer me up. November.
Unkown flat venture with my ladies. Febuary/March/April/May.
Natzys birthday party with Lauren. January.
The best party I've ever been to. May.

That time Eilidh bet up Mark. May/June.


Good bits that don't have photographic evidence:
April: AFI with Craig C. Where I drank risky amounts, chatted up a neo nazi's daughter and acted inappropriately about 99.9% of the time. I barely remember AFI but the night was good. It was very good.

The night after Lukes birthday party, July: Chris, Natzy and Craig came over, got steaming, had epic discussions about DBZ, X - Men, watched Wolverine, went on chat roulette and all passed out watching shit tv after getting a take away at stupid o'clock in the morning.

The time Mark trashed Craigs bathroom: August/September. Before Mark left Craig and Mark got stupidly drunk (I didn't since the fucker bought me cider) and we were in a Green Day mood. So we were beltin' out tracks from American Idiot. All three of us, just screaming in this shitty bedsit. It was great. When Mark left things were great too. Maybe even my favourite night ever? Crazy.

Evelyn, Evelyn, May: I had the beginnings of a throat infection which would later stop me going to prom but nevertheless, the gig was magnificent. Jason Webley was stranded in New York and Amanda was at the venue, so she hooked up the Mac and got all these people on stage to sort it out and they played their full set together. TOGETHER. When he was in fucking New York and she was in Glasgow. It was the most magical thing I'd ever seen.

Meeting Immy, July: Words can't describe how incredible and bizarre it was to have a friend from the net in my town, walking about the town centre with me. It was fucking crazy. Sadly for her though she had to interact with Craig. Even more sadly for her it was when me and him weren't talking, so it was pretty uncomfortable. She met Natzy though, and we like Natzy.

Thursday, 23 December 2010

Promise me no dead end streets

And I'll garuntee we'll have the road.

My last big adventure of 2010 was going to Leeds. Done my usual. Told few people I was buggering off, mentioned it fleetingly to el parento's, forgot I was actually going and then rolled up to meet Emma all shocked and unprepaired. I've been more places this year than I have in my whole life, and I only really went to London and Leeds. I think I mean something else though.

A knocked down dragged out fight
fat lips and open wounds
another wasted night
no one will take the fall.

When I'm in East Kilbride it's much like squabling with a lover you've been with for years. When I'm here I'm walking around with cotton wool in my ears, black eyes, fat lip. It tricks me into thinking I can't leave, and before I do leave I try ANYTHING to get out of it. If I could break my own leg I would. Then I go, and the world is large and people are interesting. Leeds men are particularly lovely. So that's why I leave a lot, when I can.

Recently though East Kilbride isn't the villian. There isn't a villian. There's just a town I live in and a world I have no idea about.

I think this has been the most unusual year I'll ever have (or want to have). In some ways it was the best in regards to sorting myself out, but obviously it was the worst for why I had to. So many wonderful experiences were had, so many awesome gigs, bit of a crap relationship but a lot of fun inbetween times. I couldn't appreicate it when it was happening to me, but now I'm loving the adventure I've been on this year.

I hope next year's a more positive one.

Where do we go from here and what did you do with the directions?
Promise me no dead end streets
and I'll garuntee we'll have the road.

Wednesday, 15 December 2010

The accordion player and living statue

Can someone (If anyone actually reads this blog, I'm never quite sure if I've been typing into oblivion or not) give me some feedback and maybe even brainstorm with me on where to go from here? I need a dramatic scene to happen before it can end. Please if there's anything about it that you would change or want to add then do it! I need help and I'm not particularly sacred about my writing.

I have seen many street performers throughout the years in Florence. I have met those whom have tried to mimic the magic of Houdini; musicians have also established themselves in the little bohemian square which showcased various amounts of talent and skills. There had been clowns, mimes, and living statues like myself. All sorts. Never a dull moment. None quite as important, however as the accordion players. Or really, my accordion player that I had met so long ago. Generations have passed since then, now an elderly man takes the place of youth. I watched this elderly accordionist deliver melodies from his enchanting squeeze box, time had etched itself into his skin, the same way it has done to mine. His eyes were framed with tributaries of wrinkles and laughter lines. Amongst the music was the flurry of dark haired children dancing to their own tunes of innocence and youthfulness, ignoring the irate expressions of adults having to manoeuvre around them. I felt the tinny of the accordion sound accelerate my heart beat, the only way the accordion can and I swayed to the spell of the music, falling deeper into my memories of the musician I once loved.

Street performance is not as popular as it once was. Cynicism has become a symptom of the preforming arts, where if a real definition is not clear performances are ridiculed and deemed to be ‘pointless’ and ‘a waste of time’. The square where I spent my happiest years was covered in colour. Flower boxes with glowing violets and periwinkle lined the plentiful obscure shops which were often vintage themed, selling antiques, clothes, knick knacks. Little bistro’s, bars and caf├ęs were scattered throughout. Sometimes lights and lanterns would hang and twist down the larger street lamps illuminating everything in a magnificent orange and red glow in the evening. And littered all around would be my creative troupe. Some would practice to simple magic tricks, others card games. A few seized their own visions of living statues and would shock passer-by when they moved suddenly. In the height of bohemia and entertainment it was the most wonderful place to be. I had chased bohemia for as long as I could remember. I was a child that ran in the forest outside her home in her bare feet to feel the soil mingle with my strangely pallid skin and as a teenager I would become my art, painting my naked body in vivid colours, feeling them merge into me. I believed my body to be a canvas, and I treated it as such. I left my parental home on the outskirts of Tuscany at an early age and eventually settled into a small apartment in Florence. In my early stages of adulthood I had evolved into the art of street performance where I hid every inch of myself behind masks, paint and costumes. As a child there had been elements of loneliness, which is not to be confused with disliking my own company. Often I was frustrated by the lack of beauty that my peers were able to witness and so I immersed myself in the exquisiteness of nature, music and literature. Inspired by my lonely years in Tuscany I sought likeminded beings that I could enchant and entertain. One day I bought a second hand wedding dress and white fabric. It was worn at the seams, splitting in unsightly areas and the pristine white was now an awful cream colour. It was perfect. In my naivety had never experienced an intense love for another being before and thought then that such things were a farce, so I became the dishevelled Bridal Statue that gave flowers to patrons and simultaneously poking fun at convention.

I had been preforming for several months, and although the pay relied on the generosity of the public (which was not very often generous at all) and my hours standing perfectly still were trying I found a routine that I was safe in, although not necessarily happy. The same artists had been preforming with me, and after each long day we would take off our masks and change out of our costumes to become ourselves once more. Often we would go to a bar and celebrate being back in our own skin, something that was becoming more and more of a rarity. On one day, a day not particular at all, a shift had occurred in our dynamic. I noticed a strange wheezing musical noise being played above the chattering tourists. Many were flocking to the opposite side of the square, under a little porch. I strained my eyes to see but I had posed in the opposite direction and was unable to move until I was paid to. I had never heard an accordionist before; the instrument was a strange alien to me, something that didn’t belong. I was almost irritated with the obstruction that had tempted me to move and distracted me. When I was able to proportion myself freely I saw him for the first time. My accordion player manipulated his instrument in a way that I had never seen before, his motions were fluid and constant, his body swayed in time with the Parisian music expressing an almost feminine quality emphasised by his incredibly lean body and long hands. Every day I would pose in certain ways just to steal a glimpse of his slicked back dark hair, or the way that his coat flowed around his striped trouser leg. His top hat would irk slightly when he got too enthused and he had a habit of stopping to cough into a little polka dotted handkerchief. His face was long but delicate with sunken cheekbones a pasty complexion, giving him a glow that only a sick person would have. He never spoke to any other performers and scarcely would give anyone eye contact. He just played his accordion from sunrise until sunset before lurking off into the shadows of the alleyway.

Grumbley bum.

I don't know if it's becaue my toe nails hurt or my assignments crap or I keep getting myself worked up over things that I have absolutely no control over or my rooms still messy or it's meant to be snowing tomorrow buuuut I feel rubbish. Nah not really rubbish. Just lethargic and unmotivated and doubtful. I keep doubting my writing ability.

Grumble.
This is a wee moan. I'll try and pap something proper here tonight because maybe it won't look as shit as it does in a word document?