Demain...

And thus, I find myself on a tightrope of self-doubt. Tomorrow morning I’ll either reach the other side, or, my rope will be cut, and I’ll fall into the recess below. Excuse my melodrama and let me explain myself. Tomorrow I find out whether or not I’ve been accepted to Cambridge to read Theology. To the majority of the people in the world it will seem like I’m massively over thinking this, but I know I’m not. Which is why I find myself writing this, at a quarter past midnight on a Wednesday morning (Tuesday evening?)

Cambridge is, and has been, my goal for the last 15 years, whether I’ve formally acknowledged it or not. Since I can remember my life was planned out for me – “go to posh prep school, academically flourish, get a scholarship to public school, do well in my exams and go to Cambridge, just like my Dad.”

It sounds so sad to see that on a piece of paper, and many will see it as hopeless, that a four year old girl could have spent her time dreaming of such things, but dreaming I have. Other universities have come and gone, I’ve entertained thoughts of others, and yet, throughout, like that first love you can never forget, Cambridge has never left my mind.  Two years ago now, I visited it properly for the first time, and I fell in love with it all over again. I chose not to apply there the first time around for a variety of reasons: the A*, the lack of social life, Oxford was “better” for English (my then chosen subject), and of course, my brother was applying, and I couldn’t bear the competition. So I applied to Oxford, blindly, like so many do, without looking at my college and without doing much preparation or working on my application much. I turned up for my interview, having not read half the things referenced on my personal statement, hated my college and all the other applicants and spent all my time in the pub with the guy I was trying to impress. He got in, I, unsurprisingly, didn’t.  Cue to this year – I’ve left school, finished my A- Levels, achieved the A*s I so worried I wouldn’t get, and realised I should have just applied to Cambridge in the first place. Having dabbled in Philosophy I realised that I’d actually really rather do Theology – more tangible, as far as I can see it. I spent the best part of 4 weeks writing my personal statement. I can honestly say that while it is by me, it was, in many ways a collaborative piece; I showed it to many people who all gave me their opinions, be it on content or grammar, before I finally sent it in, maybe 3 days before the Cambridge deadline.  Post personal statement I had the supplementary Cambridge questionnaire thrust upon me: more details – what I’d studied at school (in ALL my subjects), all my module marks, another Personal Statement and not forgetting something stupid like 300 characters on what I do in my free time which shows my interest in the subject…(never before have I been so glad that my parents have taken me travelling.)

And once that was all done and dusted? Well, there was the wait to hear if I’d got an interview. I was the last to hear, and the last to have the actual interview, something I was thankful for, so I could finish all those important books I’d mentioned but not quite finished. Well, finish them I did, plus there was the total dissection of my personal statement, the revision of all the topics I’d done for AS and A level. This revision was almost a blessing, seeing how I was working a job I hated where there was next to nothing to do, and the few tasks I had were unbearably dull…. (“Maya, please can you file these papers?” “Oh sorry, I’m preparing my Cambridge application.” “Oh, right, I’ll do it myself, don’t you worry then, good luck.” Etc.)

And finally the big day came. Two interviews, each at a different college, with two different people: four interviewers in total, four people to impress, two chances to make a good impression. I went, I saw, and I have yet to find out if I conquered. Have I done well in interviews in the past? No. And I don’t know if I did well on these. But a girl can pray.

Anyway, this post is not exciting, and no doubt very few if anyone will want to read it, but there we go. I had to write it. This for me is the greatest catharsis. I know how much I worked, I know how much I deserve this, and I know how much I want it. So not everybody will understand why this means so much to me, and I accept that, but the reality is, it does. I pray that I get a place. And if I don’t…well…I guess life will go on.

Quoi?

I had the pleasure of attending a debate on "Christian Bashing" yesterday- ie: are christians being discriminated against in what is (supposedly) a Christian country. The likes of Howard Jacobson (Man Booker Prize Winner) spoke, as did a Bendictine monk (he was hilarious.) I went because my application to a certain prestigious university for Theology seemed to demand it, and, of course, it was a topic that interests me greatly. Discrimination is something that is frequently discussed in the culture in which we live, fashioned from deconstructed influences stemming from years of empires, immigrants and popular culture.  We wake up in the mornings and are at once surrounded by the world around us, in the news, the music on the radio, the things on television. We have, for all intents and purposes, become a country with no personal culture- ours is a universal culture, and, more than almost any other country I have visited, London is a melting pot of tradition and belief, stemming, less and less, from genuine Britishness. Personally, I love this, but I therefore find it difficult to swallow claims of discrimination. In a country where everyone believes something different, the only answer is to embrace secularism. If nobody can agree on what to believe, then the answer is to base the rules on something other than belief.

The Bearable Lightness of Being

Its 12.53am, and for the first time in I cannot remember how long, everything seems ok. I went to a party last night. I had an amazing time, I met more people in 4 hours than I've met in the last 2 months. For the first time in so long I felt like myself again. Not me struck down by terror of the world around me, with potential life-failure on my mind, not worrying about what anyone thinks, or the person I'm supposed to be. I just got to be me, and people actually seemed interested. This sounds so pitiful to say out loud. God only knows this is not a post which is poetic or even particularly well written, but right now I don't care. For once, life seems bearable. Everything is in its right place, and I've been reminded of what I used to, and still can, be. And if it took me a house party full of druggies to realise that- then all the better.

Listening to: Mr. Little Jeans, Rescue Song (RAC Remix)

Gilded Cages and Painted Birds...

It occured to me today, not for the first time in recent weeks, that my life is steadily getting more bizarre. Having had this rug ripped from under my poorly shod feet several times already this year I feel like I'm falling down some AIW style rabbit hole with none of those handy tree-roots to cling to.
Firstly there was the massive failure that were my mocks: 2Bs and a C- perfectly respectable, no doubt, in the real world, but less I forget to count my blessings I must recall that mine is not the real world. Peering out from between the bars of my gilded cage is useless, realistically I don't have any prospect of escape and no amount of pseudo-rebellious relegation of my immanent exams will change that. It was just a surprise that I couldn't coast by on my cramming skills anymore I guess. But hey- lest we forget- you won't get what you want (OXBRIDGE) without those A*s...
I got a text today from my agent. She told me that the casting director for Skins wanted to see me. Which is pretty sweet, as they say, if absolutely fucking terrifying. I remember watching the first episode almost 4 years ago and loving it. I wanted to be in it so bad- I almost ran away from school once to go to one of the open auditions for the 3rd series. It never occured to me that one day I'd get a chance to do my thing purely by chance. I'm thankful for the experience, no doubt, and it would sort a whole bunch of my short term problems, but I doubt I'll get the part. Still, we can pray n'est pas?
I'm writing this as a form of procrastination. Although I never fail to be entranced by Aquinas' naivety, I couldn't take another read over my notes on Natural Moral Law. I haven't written in so long now, I'm beginning to forget to try. I will attempt to be more frequent with my ramblings in future- despite my lack of readership (not something that saddens me greatly, I wouldn't want to read my lousy mumblings either) I suppose it's a good habit to get into for when I'm on the Gap Yah... (Note the irony).
Anyway, one final thing, I'm listening to my revision playlist as I write this, a magnificent compliation of folksy american alt rock type stuff. All Deerhunter and Fleet Foxes and Cat Power- not forgetting my musical Prince Charming- Mr N. Drake himself. I seriously reccommend anything and everything by those artists. They help me work, I hope they can do you a similar favour...

Peace out, x

May on Mornings...

I'm dressed from the hips up and trying to find the energy to put on my tights and make a go of the day.

Keeping in mind, of course, it is 6am, a time considered by the majority of the teenage population inhabiting this bizarre world not to really be a time at all.

It is a fact, in my opinion, that 6am, more so than almost any other time, is part of those ephemeral twilight hours, best glimpsed only as the rose tinted ending of a good night out, as opposed to a gut-wrenching awakening, no matter how much sleep you get. After all, there is nothing more un-natural than waking up in the dark, whereas going to sleep in the light has become inherent with a sense of luxury and glamour - not only does one have the lifestyle where one can be out late, but also the freedom to sleep late and even, (if you're feeling particularly clever) to take naps, the most satisying but often unappreciated version of sleeping, which is far too often relegated to babies and the elderly.

A Broken Appointment

I just sat through an hour long talk by Andrew Motion, the ex-poet Laureate. I had dinner with him beforehand, due to my being one of the keenest English students at my school (it isn't hard, although sadly I only realised this when I walked into my kitchen afterwards and my housemates were complaining that they'd almost been lulled to sleep by his dulcet tones.)

Anyway, we had dinner, and by some bizarre chance I ended up sat next to him, which I can honestly say was an absolute privilege. Quite aside from being perhaps one of the most intelligent, well spoken, polite, and interesting men I have ever met, he was also incredibly charming with a wonderful voice. Anyway, we talked for a bit, I told him about my Uni disaster, and he very kindly told me the same thing had happened to his son, which was, I must say, most comforting.

So yes, I have developed a rather schoolgirl crush on perhaps in literary terms one of the most important men in Britain- or at least, I like to think so.

The dreams, however, of a whirlwind affair and my future as his muse were somewhat shattered when he announced (just before reading some of the most beautiful love poetry I've ever heard) that he had four or five years ago met a Korean woman, who he was planning on spending the rest of his life with. Sigh.

Such is life, eh? I'm sure there'll be other poets that come along for me to fall in love with. For now, here's a poem that I rather like, and for some reason seems to resonate at the moment.

You did not come,
And marching time drew on and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Greived I, when, as the hope-hour struck its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
- I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me.

(A Broken Appointment, Thomas Hardy)

I could go into the beauty of the language and the insane subtlety of the rhythms, but what would be the point? It would only detract from the glorious subjectivity which makes reading poetry so immensely satisfying. Like intelligent narcissism.

Ciao x