'Whenver its real, whatever awaits me'

I had a nap of sorts, one of those states of half consciousness and then I woke up completely and I felt such an acute sense of loss like nothing that I’ve felt so far. It was definite without being solid or sharp. It didn’t come from any particular part of my body, I sort of felt it everywhere I think it’s because it was just loss on its own; unpolluted by denial or regret, just a sad, tender acceptance of an ending. My rational side is cringing but I wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaving the city at the point that I woke up at. I n't know if I beieve in that stuff but I hope sometimes he’ll think of me and miss me. I then had two slices of birthday cake and picked off all the little bits of flake from the rest of the cake. I felt bloated and empty. I don’t like the aftertaste of chocolate; that slight sourness of dairy that’s left clinging to your tongue; it’s too much like regret. I forgot to make a wish this year. My mum had bought these candles for me they were different colours and each one was in the shape of letter and together they spelt out happy birthday. I lit them and then I looked away for a few seconds and by that time they’d managed to melt halfway and they were dripping hot wax onto the cake and melting the cake so I had to blow them out and then once I had I realised I hadn’t made a wish. I wonder what I would have wished for though.

I think i'm making pogress with the ulcer.

I think that in my own crazy, self absorbed way I was in love with him a little.

Fuck it all.

please

putsunflowers on my grave I love them so much.

so fucking what

I care too much about everything and i'm proud. fuck you.

I lied, I still want him. I want him I want him I want him.
*shivers*

I can't have him. I get 30p diegestives instead.

Self absorbed
self sufficient
Self soothing
Self loathing
Self destructive

Here we go

There's a girl her name is Betsy, she lives in the building opposite his. She's on my course.She used to hang out with a friend on his floor but nothing really happened there. She's only almost perfectly lovely. Quiet enough to be sweet and intriguing but quirky enough to be intresting and charming. She's tiny but healthy and seems whole enough to be able to actually participate in a relationip with someone other than herself. Her features are haunted by a slight anxiety or meloncholy that seems to promise understanding and make her all the lovelier.She's experienced enough to be mature and equal but not so much that she's cheap or trashy. She went to a boarding school and did sports. Culturally, socially the're from the same background. She dosn't really socialise much with people in her halls, not very extraverted either. In the next few weeks with nothing to do raely and free of obligation they'll get to know each other better and he'll hoover his room. I'll invite him to my birthday and he'll come because he dosn't feel strongly enough not to and by that time he'll be a lot happier and feel better towards me,the pity will come back. I'll make some sort of move out of depsperaton and hope, and he'll have to say that he can't. I'll press it because that's what I do and because I know why but I want to hear him say it. They might carry on for the summer or agree to get together afterwards when the year starts. He'll have his driving liscence then and he can come into London to see her or he mght even move here. She'll probably be the one to end it or it might go on. She won't let things slide as easily but he'll try this time.

Dear Freud

I'm really curious when this desperate need to connect with he who shall not be named will dissipate. Having discovered the source of the impulse to be of a completely egoistic nature(basically that I'm trying to connect with myself)it seems to reasonable to expect that a conscious acknowledgement of this particular aspect of my self absorption would get rid of the desire.
Desire. That's the real problem.
Seriously, I think (and you, judging by my last few more than lightly flavoured religious posts might agree) that there's the possibility of slipping into eastern philosophy or something. It's Salinger's fault- I'm so fucking impressionable. I've been reading him again for company and comfort from the aches. Aches that are the consequence of desires.
Are we seeing a pattern?
By the by it is truly astounding how enthusiastic my fingers have become, presented with a fresh context in which I can discus my favourite topic: myself.
Really, you surpass all expectations.
Ahh another wrench. Wince,clench, fold, fetal.

onion rings

I'm going to stop trying to control everything.

I really, realy, really want to delete this blog again.
like OMG

cliche

Saturday nights at sainsburys are a new experience. The ice cream freezers are eerily empty,the other aisles are deserted. I have a bottle of diet coke in one hand that I'm taking gulps from and a bottle of hp BBQ sauce in the other. I'm narrating my joy trip around the store in the third person. They're out of the 27p sainsbury's peanuts. That's a shame. I wouldn't have bought any but it's still a shame. I like knowing that they're there. should have bought the 2 litre bottle of diet coke, only 69p more. It gets flat though by the time you get through it. Whiskey would be nice too. I really hate using my ID. I give the aisle where I know the condoms are a mental sneer of contempt just because I feel like I should be more bitter about that element of failure. I stand in line at the front counter where they sell cigarettes and lottery tickets behind a fat, bald, sun burnt middle aged man wearing a cap. The cloth tag of the cap is curled out of the inside of the cap so that it sticks out slightly off the surface of his head. his neck is red and flaky where the rolls of fatty flesh fold on each other. The man behind me keeps nudging me with his basket while he twists his body at badly, carelessly calculated angles to take a good touirsty gawk around the store, see if he can buy anything else. One of those arrogant bastards who're always nudging people with their baskets and pretending not to notice that they did it. I flinch, almost jump. I was nervous enough before the diet coke.I forgot to tell my mum I was going to sainsbury's. I left my phone at home too fuck she's going to call the police or something I can't be arsed for more drama. Maybe I'll just stay here. The man behind me hits me with his basket again.He doesn't show any recognition of the fact. I really want to punch him in the balls. The cashier is retardedly slow.Fat, burnt guy bought something from the deli.It's wrapped up but it's the size and shape of a chicken. My turn. I get a bag but I take the diet coke In my and and put the BBQ sauce in my coat pocket. It takes the cashier him a whole extra second over the norm to hand me back my change. £2.65.
Jingle.

19:41

I miss all my friends.

please

While caught in a tsunami of self loathing and only the purest terror I, in typical Ghada fashion made a desperate and anti climatic attempt to eradicate myself and evidence of my existence by deleting the blog. I really don't think I need to explain how idiotic and ineffective and, worst of all, relief less the impulse or it's manifestation were- I'm allowing myself, in an unusual expression of self- kindness, to keep a hold of some infitestimal amount of integrity having probably handed the greater part of my self respect (packaged determinedly in a 4 page long rant) to an egomaniac. Again, I say greater and not all as a gesture of clemency to my near pureed self esteem and struggling ego which is currently, lets say, on the tender side. It seems though, that the worst of the overdramatized self loathing is over and has been reduced mainly to spontaneous abdominal wrenches that are followed by the need to lie on my stomach with the fan on for a period until the feeling passes or eases enough atleast, for me to put the abomination back up and resume my basic daily functions-
I really need to write up my evaluation!
In other news, I have begun to pursue the crocheting of my 3 metre long, maroon thing in the opposite direction, simultaneously undoing and redoing stitches to give my readopted hobby a quality of fervour not unlike that exhibited by the fanaticism of repetitive, religious ritual. Half laughing(and perhaps, half hoping)at the possibility of clarity and enlightenment being born from obsessiveness,to salvage my mind and deliver me to stoicism and complete detachment.
I have also managed to put my genes to the test and finally answer the pressing question that has no doubt been niggling at the back of everyone's mind for the past 18 (almost 19)-what do you do with 2 brackets?-(the question of whether I burn or tan) with white bordered regions of painfully scorched flesh and an even broader range of tones now making up my complexion. Lovely. Be aware however, there is still a chance might go brown; my hands are showing promising signs, i'll keep you posted.

lisp

The contradictory life and that I've been leading for the past few months and the moral inconsistencies that characterise it make me,for all practical purposes, a sociopath since i don't adhere to any one set of rules and my actions render morality ,in my life at at least, negligible. Appreciating this fact has consequently led me to a clarifying conclusion, or rather, to a rationalisation of the situation: I've usually wanted to do the 'right thing' whether that desire is a flaw or a virtue isn't for me to say but there's the right time to do the right thing and this isn't it. I'll become interested in morality again when my brain can afford it, for now this works.
Have I made myself clear? Good.

The great squeeze

Pukka-–adjectiveAnglo-Indian.
genuine, reliable, or good; proper.

I watched a German film last night called The Lives of Others.It was long, slowish but excellent. Watch it.

My fucking printer won't stop printing out alignment pages and then it makes me scan them in and tells me the pages can't be detected and that alignment has, once again, failed. Soon I'll have enough to wallpaper my room. It's seriously quite hilarious, the futility of the whole process, I feel like giving it a raisin- the printer I mean. I don't know why I don't just cancel the alignments.

Raisins are terribly tragic, I suppose it could be applied to dried fruit in general but for the sake of this rant I'm employing the use of the raisin sorta like the ambassador for the common fruit; baked and shrunken to a codensced, shriveled version of itself, a vessel of supressed saturated sweetness and-
enough with raisins!
pathetic bastards.
no one even likes raisins, I don't think. they're what you eat if you don't have sugar at home or you wanna liven up your muesli.

LISTEN.
I have something important to say somewhere and I think if I start I might actually get some of it out.
I turn 19 in a few weeks. Just under 6 actually.I can't help but think that I have under 6 weeks to live It's absolutely crazy, naturally. There's no surprise there or in the mobidity of the revelation of impending doom or for that matter (if we want to be wholistic in my incrimination and judgement)the feeling of impendng doom itself. Matter. That's what i'm saying, things have to matter (barely managed to grab the thread there.)Everthing matters when you have a deadline and this matter is like thick and buttery batter. I have to connect to everyone and everything because connection is sacred and it means you exist, and I have to for what I have to do. which brings me to the point or, more likely, just a point: I need a check list of things to do before I turn 19. Is it banal, hackeneyed and done to death. yes yes yes yes yes. but that, and here, an argument so unapologetically philistine that if you forgive me for it it must be love or something worse, is life.

So, first on the list, if Fatima invites me over this weekend is to learn to play the piano version of smells like teen spirit.

but that's all i've got so you're going to have to step up, yea.

with the lights out it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us

apocalypse please

It's happened, I've finished peep show.

shhhut

You're all going to get out of my brain now. I'll smoke you out. I swear i'll do it

It's all about control

I'm ill and I'm watching some episode of the sopranos at a stage I think I'm at.
I spent the day feverish in the crater in my mattress chain-streaming peep show, drinking herby stuff and being absolutely convinced that an ingenious desert of hobnob with warm custard poured over it is the cure to everything. I had red meat. I really don't like Beechams. I need to be sedated before I drive myself mad, or run out of peep show episodes.

I'm so scared, there's such little time left.

Reckoner

02/02/10

Following Andrea baby's (oh yes, we're doing babys now- but not in that way) proclamation that my last post was decidedly 'too short' and the enthusiasm and bubbling eagerness that reading Salinger brings about I've decided to plunge back into the blogging business with a renewed, perhaps slightly violent, gusto and update you on my wonderful life.
I've also decided I don't like the fence much. The detached, stoic mark of charcoal that is the writer on the fence; producing effortless, sophisticated prose in between languid drags of a cigarette, while she/he leans (not slouches) on the planks of wood (slightly damp from the last nights spring showers)that separates she/he from their alcoholic, semi-detached neighbours and their autistic son, watching the rising sun bulge ominously against the clouds.
It's no fun. No fun I tell you. When words are rabidly frothing out of you like bicarbonate of soda and vinegar why contain it? Why control it? I'm going to write my heart out at some point-I briefly remember resolving to do this some time not long ago, in fact, having just checked, in the last post before this(remember: recycling will save our future)- I just need to gather enough heart to make it through and to make it memorable and affecting and wonderfully cathartic but till then you're stuck with bricks, poor,gentle reader-or, just Andrea right now.
I'm going to stop all that right now because I've promised to-


03/0/10
What I was going to say when I as rudely interrupted by my pathetic attention span was that I've promised to tell you about my wonderful, wonderful life,(and I do stick to my promises; principals ya know) placing all my efforts into providing a masochistically honest drag and drop of every awkward and mundane detail excepting the colour of my pants-
well, maybe not that far, we don't want to become uncivilised ,do we? No, Ill hold on to Marlowe's bloody boots, at least for the moment. I will though tell you the colour of my underwear. It's red. There: Intimacy. Glad we got that out of the way. Now, away from italics and back to business, back to the Question: What did I do today? I'll reply to that with another question because It's my blog and I've suddenly rediscovered the power that that gives me and practically forces me to use: what do I ever do that's worth mentioning? I brood, I paint, I read, I am. I also, you might be shocked to hear, talk to people. There are two boys, guys, blokes who I sorta hang out with with a bunch of other people, they have a thing for pigeons. I love how I manage to meet all the mad people. Their quirks tickle my world with a little colour.
I want to talk about the people I meet more extensively but all the words I've used have left me dry, but one last morsel of information, for the way back, since you've been so patient with me.
I'm working on a piece now,a painting as it happens, which tries, hopes, to explore loss through the cutting of the hair.

Amour

I think of things that I want to say, that I want to type up here when i'm on the train or when i'm out but by the time I make it back home to the laptop the desire to communicate dissipates.
I want to be honest and impressionistic and write my heart out. Let's not plan scentences, let's not plan feelings.
I should shower at some point.

Jum-PA

This blog feels forced.I felt the urge to write a few hours ago when I was buzzing with insomnia a few meals, the mix of turpentine and oil paints and that maddening boy smell that's going to be in my nose for the next few days.

ompf

There's a woman on my course, she's a 'mature' student. Incidentally she's also an obstinate cow.Her name's Barbaraaaaaa Just saying.
I'll also say something else, something this time that might be of a more useful nature to someone who does not know Barbara: The killing moon by Echo and the Bunnymen is a snazzy song. Listen to it.
I demolished a whole tub of Ben and Jerry's half baked ice cream today. Didn't doshit except give me indigestion. I have pins and needles in my right foot and it so isn't the timefor pins and needles. Thing have to happen in their moments.
I saw someone today, it was the moment to see them except I didn't know it. I wish I knew what all this life business was about, it'd be nice to get a hint. You know, just saying...

00:05

I have sad eyes. I look to the world with a preconceived sadness, adoringly brushing everything and everyone in my line of vision with a thick, sticky gaze of melancholy. Its all crap naturally.

'There's a divinity that shapes our ends,rough hew them how we will.'
At the time I didn't find that conclusion satisfying and to some extent i still don't because wasn't able to maintain that sense of understanding as to how such an indefatigable raging debate could surmount to any one understandable epiphany let alone one that was so clean and simple that it (gasp) would permit functionality and the decisiveness that, in Hamlet, follows. But i did once. For a few seconds something inside me seemed to vibrate at the perfectly right frequency of that moment centuries ago, connecting to receive a trickling wave of heat that filled me up with the rich, marbled, warmth of wordless comprehension. I wish there had been words and that I'd written them down that I could turn to later to scoop out and spread the salve of recomprehension and feel soothed.

I'm worried and slightly excited by the potential my life seems to present to me to, should I choose it, encase me in beautiful crystal coffin of repressed desires, impulses and words that would in their sterile, high pressured container grow and then be gathered and thrown pathetically to bounce futily off the smooth transparent sides to define a 21st century Emily Dickinson esque existence. I don't mean to flatter myself in the dropping of that name but it seemed to be appropriate for the point I'm trying to make. Art should never be a replacement for really living, for really experiencing and doing and being because then it becomes a sickness.
Please completely disregard any pretentious and juvenile statements I make no matter how boldly I run with them- actually the bolder they are there more important it is that you instantaneously forget that I've said or written or mimed them. You have to, or I'll scour my skin till I hit bone.

I am functional and I am hygienic and I'm off to subject a set of oil paints to my tirring mediocrity.

It's ok to eat fish coz they..

I start this post with the(as i' sure you'll agree)Noble ambition to be as unpretentious and unostentatious as possible in my account of a few of the occurrences and emotions of the last day/night; so give me credit for that or at least forgive me if i do lapse, as i expect is very likely, back into pompous prose.
I woke up today with an hour of sleep,a face full of leather sofa, a dry mouth and a bitter taste. I watched people sleeping then I stared at the wall of a corridor while i drank tea. Then I left. I smelt of foreignness and the streets outside were wet and ochre, the harsher lines of the pavement slabs were softened and blurred and I felt human. I saw shops. I consumed. I saw sunflowers and they were so beautiful and so doomed I had to look away and buy a pair of boots. Sunflowers make me ache. I wished you could get the giant sunflowers this time of year. I love sunflowers so much much much. I don't understand the need to share so much information,to talk. It makes me panic.
I watched the directors cut of Donnie Darko last night, I thought I'd seen I before. I found out that I most probably hadn't because there was a scene from watership down featured in it where the ields turnd to blood. It made me feel horror. Horror is simple simple is effective affecting.
Half my thoughts have an irish accent because spent a few hours with my Irish friend.

Words I use too often : indefatigable, languid.

I read something in a book that a friend went to scarily flattering lengths to acquire for me. Whether it's the sort of book that you're supposed to have your friends go to flattering lengths to acquire I don't know yet. Perhaps it might be useful or atleast mildly interesting to tell you the name of the book which is Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters. Seymour: an Introduction. I hope your curiosity is wonderfully satisfied but not completely because that would be tragic. Whether or not the book is worth the trouble is rally beside the point because I'm unconditionally in love with Salinger and because it's only being mentioned in this blog for a line in it that is neither incredibly significant nor representative of the book as a whole,it does however, put a certain ambition I have very concisely, simply and rather elegantly in it's languid simplicity. I strongly suspect that I've built up to this too much and consequently bitter disappointment will become attached to one of my favourite writers.
How mehish.

The First

Having finally deleted the seemingly indefatigable abomination that was my old blog I've been gripped by the sudden need to write a blog entry for the first time in weeks. Perhaps, it's not the desire to post that's so surprising as the desire to write right and write well. Those of you following my blog posts will be all too familiar with the brutally Philistine subject matter,almost complete incoherence and terrifying grammar and punctuation that came to characterise the blog entries of the last few months- my deepest sympathies go out to you; it's alright now, it's all gone- not that I'm suggesting anything that I've ever published on blogger has been completely understandable or correct but that the selectness of quality control seemed to have become more yielding, dramatically so. You may also (I hope)have had enough trauma to be skeptical of the drive behind the resolution or even my ability to meet the ambitious promise to be a better correspondence. Not that you'd doubt the sincerity of the surely touching plan but(might)be a little less certain about my ability to maintain the enthusiasm to remain committed to what does not come naturally to my frazzled, anxious teenage mind. then perhaps you're also suspicious, or maybe just cautious of my definition of 'well.' If you are, you're not a complete disappointment as a human being because God knows you'd be a rabid moron to feel anything less than a 'pressing discomfort' let alone actually believe I'm capable of controlling the impressive spray of spit that companies every syllable, or even that I want to.

I'm going to use words. Loads and loads of words.