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.