Sunday, 5 December 2010
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)
Listening to: Mr. Little Jeans, Rescue Song (RAC Remix)
Friday, 7 May 2010
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
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
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
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.
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.
Friday, 19 March 2010
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
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
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