“You don't remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened.”

- John Green

Young Love

Home

    I've recently returned home after spending 16 days in Hungary/ Serbia, doing some sightseeing and attending an International Girl Guiding and Scouting jamboree. Hence the lack of posts and whatnot. (Although it's summer, and therefore sunny, so I probably wouldn't have posted much anyway.)
    I had an amazing time, especially as the trip was so anticipated- I've spent the last year fundraising and preparing for it, so to finally go was incredible. Hungary is a really beautiful place, full of old buildings with amazing architecture, and lots of pretty scenery. It is also very very hot. Serbia was a lovely place too, though it seemed a bit busier and less quaint- it was refreshing to go somewhere which isn't completely targetted at tourists, it gave a real sense of the true culture and way of life. And Serbia is even hotter than Hungary. I'm talking 38 degrees c (and don't forget I'm from England, we're not used to the sun.)
    I went with a group of 14 other people (3 leaders, 12 girls (including me)), most of whom I barely knew. Over the course of the two weeks we got to know each other well, and form really strong friendships. We all agreed to stay in touch and I know it will definitely happen. It was odd, knowing that my family were on holiday in Devon whilst I was out on my own adventures but it didn't bother me particularly.
   However as the promise of home got closer and closer and we neared the end of the holiday, I did begin to miss my cosy house and my cosy family and the feeling of total safety that is associated with Home. As we embarked on the journey back to England, the feeling between all of us was, although we'd had a brilliant time, the trip had come to it's natural end and there was a buzz of excitement in the air at the prospect of returning to our safe little havens and our loving families. Sitting on my sofa with my parents catching up on Torchwood and Eastenders that evening, I felt totally content. I couldn't of asked for anything to make me feel more comfortable and happy than I did. And I think that's the beauty of travelling- after the whirlwind of excitement and daring, there's always that place that you can return to, exhausted and in need of a shower. Home.

My Bucket List

In the last few years it's become pretty normal to have a 'bucket list' (a list of things you want to accomplish before you die) and, well, I'm not all that normal but I do have a bucket list so I thought it would be interesting to share it with you. Bearing in mind that I'm still in school and I don't want to put things on the list just for the sake of it, it's not all that long yet.

• Get my handwriting turned into a font. If I manage nothing else in life it won't matter, as long as I do this.
• Be able to juggle decently with 3 balls. I'm getting there...
• Get a book published. Pretty self explanatory.
• Be fluent in a language. I'm studying French, Spanish and Italian currently and I absolutely love it. (Though I have about as much chance at being fluent in Italian as winning the x factor. And I can't sing.)
• Get to Grade 8 flute. I'm hoping to take my Grade 6 in Autumn. *Fingers crossed*

I'd love to hear what's on your list  =)



The Test cont.

That’s when I saw her. Her eyes were two lakes, depthless abysses, shimmering with tears. They’d spilt over and rolled down her face which was covered in blossoming bruises- all shades of yellow and purple. Complimentary colours. Most of her other eye was obscured because of the swelling.

He didn’t see me at first. I watched as his coffee coloured fist buried itself in her slender cheek, crashing against her prominent cheekbone. The noise it made was jarring. He continued to pummel the slight figure beneath him. She was limp, like a ragdoll. She began to shake her head, her eyes pleading me to leave, to not get involved. The effort obviously strained her- she looked as if she might pass out. He followed her eyes and that’s when he saw me. His steely grey eyes bore into mine. My eyes are blue, the spitting image of hers.

I hate him.

The noise is overwhelming me. I just want to block it all out, block everything out. I don’t want to remember but I can’t stop now. I can’t close the floodgates. And I can’t ignore the ticking.

When she spoke her voice was less than a whisper, the slightest breeze would have whisked her words away forever. But the house was deathly silent. “Please Jonah.” She directed her plea at me. The lump in my throat made speech an impossibility. He glared at me, hatred gleaming in his concrete eyes. I broke the stare. I backed away from the doorframe, reversing into the corridor and stumbled blindly towards the stairs. I ran up them on my hands and feet like I used to when I was seven, when my biggest worries were how to save Metropolis and how to reveal my identity to Lois Lane.

The blonde woman just came and peered over my shoulder. Now she’s whispering to the other teacher. She has grey hair and a sharp nose and she keeps glancing over at me. I don’t know her. They keep shrugging. I guess all I am is another result to them, another grade, another percentage. I’m just here to make them look good. And there are plenty of other people who can do that instead. They don’t care about me. And I don’t know why I cared so much about pleasing them before. I don’t care anymore. Caring makes you weak. It’s things like caring that stop you from fighting back, when you’re hurt so bad that you can’t put up your defences in time. I won’t make that mistake again.

This morning I got dressed into my school uniform, packed my bag full of revision cards and exercise books and walked downstairs. Another average, normal day. A dream- that’s what it was, that’s what I told myself. Then there they were in the kitchen. He stands by the kettle. It’s almost at boiling point, shaking and spluttering. Almost but not quite. She sits on a chair, avoiding his eyes and staring blankly at the table top. Another average, normal morning. But the bruises remained defiantly snaking up her neck, ruining the illusion. She’d tried to cover them up but her foundation was already ill fitting. There isn’t all that much selection for darker skin tones but it’s never mattered before, her complexion is always so flawless. Not now though. Then he spoke.“Morning Jonah.” How could he dare to act like nothing’s wrong? How could he? “Earth to Jonah” he said with a humourless chuckle. I was silent.

“Don’t ignore your Father, Jonah.” How could she defend him? I wanted to shout, to hit him, to shatter this false pretence. But instead I sat and ate my cereal, concentrating on chewing each and every flavourless mouthful. They both stayed in the kitchen as I made my sandwiches. I could feel their gazes on my back, weighing me down. Nobody spoke. I left the house as early as possible. Nobody said goodbye to me. I walked to school in a daze. Nobody wished me luck. Because nobody else cares either.

          The teachers are still looking at me funny. Not encouragingly; not concernedly; not worriedly. They’re looking reproachful. Critical. Disparaging. My head is about to burst with all of the noise. It’s like a record on repeat, turned up to the highest volume possible but still getting louder. Tick, clippety-clop, tick, tap, tick, scratch, tick. Then, suddenly, a rattling of rain against the windows. Heavy droplets smash against the glass again and again. Tick, clippety-clop, rattle, tick, tap, rattle, tick, scratch, rattle, tick, tock. It’s this room. I have to get out. Now. I can hear the sound of knuckle hitting cheekbone. The sound of the shrill whistle of the kettle. I failed her, yesterday and this morning. I failed that test. And now I’m going to fail this one too. I’m a failure. I stand up and walk out.  

The Test

        This is the first half of a short story that I wrote for an English Assessment at school. I was given the title 'The Test' and this is what I came up with. I know it's quite long but I'd really appreciate it if you read it and I'll post the rest in the next few days.

       The clock’s ticking really loudly. Every jerk of the hand reverberates around the hall and bounces off of every surface; the polished-to-the-point-of-eating-your-dinner-off-it wooden floor; the ‘off-white’ walls that stand tall around me, imprisoning me; the shiny stage sitting forlorn and unused; and of course the uniform fold-up tables in their perfect rows and columns, knelt obediently. Nobody else seems to have noticed though. They’re all hunched over their desks, hair obscuring faces, noses practically touching the paper and eyes squinted in concentration. But the ticking has crawled its way into my head and it’s echoing around my skull now, a tinny noise- like raindrops hitting against a window pane. Every now and then another sound manages to force its way in. There’s a table towards the front, the left I think, and it’s rickety. The sound of the metal table leg tapping against the ground traps itself in my mind. Along with the ticking.

          I glance around again. There are a couple of teachers pacing up and down the room, their heels clippety-clopping and their expressions blank. I am the only student not writing. One’s blonde, her hair is an immaculate bob. As she catches my eye she smiles, briefly, reassuringly. I know what she must be thinking. I’d better start working...and she’d be right. She’s turned away now, heading back to the front. I don’t think she’s too concerned- not with me. Who would be? Straight As, that’s what I’m headed for. Quite a few A*s aswell if the predictions are anything to go by. All of my teachers are in agreement- I work hard, study hard, put in all the effort. But here I am now and the words don’t make any sense. They’re dancing infront of my eyes, tantalizing me. If they would just stay still. I just can’t keep a hold of them.

          Outside the World carries on but in here, in this exam hall, time is suspended in its own shiftless freeze frame. So why is the clock still ticking?

 Outside the sky is a swathe of grey, omnipresent and gloomy but dry- just a hint of rain in the air. I wish it would just rain, just get it over with. I wish it would stop pretending. Outside is unappealing but inside is worse. There must be water in the air in here too- the words are still swimming on the page. They’re stretching and distorting through my blurred vision. The more I stare, the less sense they make. It’s like when you’re trying to remember something, some distant memory, and the harder you try, the further away it floats. So why try?

          That teacher isn’t trying to conceal her worry anymore. I’m sat back in my chair and my pen lies lost infront of me. I haven’t even taken off the lid. The paper it rests on is blank, other than the uniformly printed symbols that perpetually dent the page. The ones that seem so illusive to me.

          There is a scratching, monotonous and continuous, that drills into my very consciousness- the sound of pen against paper. It’s reminiscent of nails being dragged against a chalk board. And that table leg is still drumming away, faster and faster. It’s all pounding in my head: the scratching, the drumming...and the clock. Manically ticking, frantically racing around and around the clock face, each movement of the hands bringing another wave of deafening noise. This tumultuous cacophony of sound pulses through my mind, beating with my racing heart - forcing my heart to beat, flashing infront of my eyes. Ingrained in my brain. I’m shaking. I blink dementedly, trying to escape. Head down I attempt to focus on the question that is set out before me.

There’s a diagram. It’s all labelled and ruler precise. It’s an eye, open wide. Fearful, those pale blue irises that I know so well. The way she stared up at me from the floor. That image is imprinted forever in my mind. Now this diagram stares up at me, taunting me, forcing me to remember. But last night will last forever in my memories.

I’d heard a noise downstairs.

I don’t understand.

I crept down silently.

It doesn’t make sense.

The door was ajar, the light was on.

Why did he do it?

I saw the shadow first, dark and sinister against the beige wall.

I hate him.

'There's always an odd one'

Don't worry, I do intend to do a lovely long written post sometime soon.

My other cat was jealous

Summer

"It doesn't make a difference if we make it or not"

-Livin' on a Prayer, Bon Jovi

Atonement

I've just started reading the book Atonement by Ian McEwan and I absolutely LOVE it. I don't know why but I just feel overly excited about reading more- it's like I can tell that this is going to be a book that I'll want to read over and over again. I mean, I have had this feeling before but usually when I'm about half way through a book, not midway down page 6. Yeah.

If you're not reading anything at the moment then I think you should join me in reading Atonement basically...because it's crazy good so far! I really want to share this extract from the book with you, as I think it is just so true:

'Pretending in words was too tentative, too vulnerable, too embarassing to let anyone know. Even writing out the she saids, the and thens, made her wince, and she felt foolish appearing to know about the emotions of an imaginary being. Self- exposure was inevitable the moment she described a character's weakness; the reader was bound to speculate that she was describing herself. What other authority could she have?'

Brilliant, isn't it?

An update on the Timbuktu story- apparently Armageddon is a place too*. These people are just screwing with me.

Also a random quote of the day: "I don't know what we're doing, BUT I'M GOING TO JOIN IN ANYWAY!" (Sensible advice there... (And yes, I am quoting myself...I'm just that cool...))

Now this isn't an obligation of any sort but, if you do enjoy these blog posts and you have friends who you think may also enjoy them, then I encourage you to tell them about this little creative space in this dim, dusty corner of the worldwide interweb (because it's kind of hard to get new followers in the blogging universe (as I'm sure you may know from experience.)) Awesome  =)

*It's in Israel.

Timbuktu

Yesterday, I made a rather large discovery. This was not a ground breakingly amazing new discovery. No. This was, to most people, common knowledge. I was, clearly, not one of those people.

Firstly, I think I need to give you an idea of some other mistakes I've made in the past. You will probably notice the pattern in that they are all geography related faux pas. Well, there was that time when I thought that Denmark and Portugal were seaside towns on England's coast, between Cornwall and Devon. And that time when I thought that Islam was a country and that the religion had originated from there and, therefore, been named after it. Or that day when I found out that Egypt is, in fact, not its own country, but a part of Africa instead. Yeah, I think you're getting the gist.

So in Britain (I'm not sure about other countries) when we want to say a place that is very far away, as far away as possible (other than Australia) people often use Timbuktu as an example. So if someone asked me where my friend was, and I was feeling sarcastic, I might reply with "Timbuktu" (and a cursory roll of the eyes.)

Bearing this in mind, I think you'll agree that this use of the place is relatively misleading. I, however, was very mislead indeed. I was under the impression that Timbuktu was a made up place, another word for the edge of the world or something similar. I'd imagined it as the very last stop at a train station, completely empty of people and just full of lost things (I think I may have been influenced by the Room of Requirement slightly on this one.)

However, I was watching Charmed (a TV series about witches and girl power for those of you who, sadly, don't know (I recommend it, it's awesome) when they accidentally banished a demon to Timbuktu. One of the characters then proceeded to go and get him and bring him back. The fact that the character was able to do this made me question my previous ideas of the place and I soon found out that Timbuktu is a real place.

An actual real place in Africa* where people live and work and play. And I didn't think it existed. I thought this place was imaginary. In my defence if you type 'is Timbuktu' into Google the suggestions are 'a real place', 'a place' and 'real.' I am clearly not the first to be mistaken by its undeniable reality. Still. That's not good.

In conclusion I am useless at geography and should never be left to go anywhere alone. I'd only get lost.

On a completely unrelated topic, you may have noticed that on my blog I managed to add a 'reply' button, so I can reply to your comments. The thing is, I don't know if you actually get notified when I reply, so even though I've replied to lots of your comments, you might not have realised. So I just thought I'd bring that to your attention. Awesome. Hope you had a good day and I'll see you soon =)

*It is now on my list of places I want to visit, along with Canada, Italy and The Wizarding World of Harry Potter.

Productive Doodling

So I was just doodling on my hand the other day and it looked kind of cool so I took a couple of piccies. I couldn't decide which of these I preferred so I give you both.

(Also credit must be given to 'DarkUFO' who solved the problems I've been encountering whilst trying to download these images- if it wasn't for him/ her I still wouldn't have been able to post this.)

Rainy Days

Today has been a really good day. I've felt far more positive than I have for the rest of this week and, after an enjoyable day at school, I got home feeling creative and inspired. Why, you might ask. Did I read something thought provoking? No.* Did I have a small amount of homework and lots of my favourite lessons? Nope. (But I'm sure blogging is more important than art homework.) Did I take a 'happy pill'? Definitely not! It's actually been because it is raining**. And rain is my favourite type of weather (other than snow, obviously.)

Most people think it's pretty weird that I prefer rainy days to sunny ones, and winter to summer, and December to any other month- though I am biased as it contains both Christmas and my birthday- but I just love it. I could say it's because after rain everything looks greener and brighter and fresher. Or that there's no rainbow without rain. Or that it is refreshing and cleans the landscape. But, whilst all that is true, it's not why I think it's so great.

I actually just love the thing itself. Rain. The sound it makes against the window (that pattering that manages to be comforting instead of irritating); the feel of it when you have no umbrella and a long trek home and you can just get absolutely soaked and it is so free and awesome and you're so wet that it doesn't matter if you get even wetter; the fact it makes the whole world blurry and no one can quite see each other properly through the downpour; the license it gives you to sit inside and write blog posts and read books and watch TV without feeling guilty; the way it catches your eye through the window, no matter what you're doing; and, most importantly, it makes me feel enclosed but in a snuggly, warm way, not a scary, claustrophobic way.

I think my lazy, hot chocolate drinking, writing, reading, slightly anti-social self is just perfectly suited to this weather. I like burying myself down into the sofa, finding the perfect position and remaining there for hours, so long, in fact, that a cat decides to come and sit on me as if I am part of the furniture. Rain allows me to indulge myself with this lifestyle, therefore, it is my ideal climate. And snow...well, that's another story (or should I say blog post.)

*I've actually just finished Paper Towns by John Green which was both thought provoking AND absolutley brilliant, but that wasn't the reason for this mood.

**Thumbs up if you'd already guessed this due to the not-so-subtle title.

My Favourite Quote

"We are not nouns, we are verbs. I am not a thing - an actor, a writer - I am a person who does things - I write, I act - and I never know what I am going to do next. I think you can be imprisoned if you think of yourself as a noun."

— Stephen Fry

I really love this quote because it just seems so true, and, of course, Stephen Fry is such an epic, insanely intelligent being. I think people like to categorise themselves as 'The Artist' or 'The Nerd' and play up to this false generalisation, which limits all of the things that they could actually achieve if they could just let themselves. You don't have to be 'The Nerd' to get A*s and you don't have to be 'The Popular Kid' to be confident around others. People are far more complex than they give themselves credit for and they (or rather, we) should let all aspects of ourselves shine, or at least give them a chance to do so.

The Colours of the World

(This is a poem that I wrote a couple of years ago and found again today. It's about racism.)

Some people see the World,
In black and white,
With a neat little line drawn,
Inbetween.

I think it's more,
Like a checkerboard,
All mixed up,
Like coffee with milk.

I see the World,
In technicolour,
There are chestnuts, toffees, caramels, coffees, chocolates, bronzes and creams,
Not just blacks and whites.

In reality the World is grey,
Concrete grey,
The World like a chessboard, it's people chessmen,
Whites against blacks.

All we need is someone,
To come and paint the chessmen.

So this is a picture of my bedside table. It is a jumble of colours and objects but, somehow, they all come together to make a rather nice picture. And it's the best analogy I could come up with for this blog- a mixture of everything, that combines to make something enjoyable. Also, for those who don't already know, at 11:11 you should always make a wish. So this blog should be pretty magical too.  =) x

Welcome!

So I've created this blog as a place for me to share artwork, photographs, musings, opinions and anything that I find vaguely interesting. That's where you come in. At the moment there is no 'you', I am essentially writing to myself. BUT hopefully someone will take some kind of interest in this and will evolve into a reader of this blog. Perhaps after that someone else will do the same and, eventually, I may get myself an audience of sorts. However I have decided not to dwell on followers and who's reading this- I have created this for me. I get involved in all sorts of things; I create all sorts of art forms (and sometimes just a mess); I ponder all sorts of unanswered questions (often when I should be doing something else). Basically, I have lots of stuff floating around in my head and I could do with somewhere to off load it all. And here we are! This is my way of channeling my creativity into something almost productive, as well as just having some fun. I want this to be entertaining, interesting, thought provoking at times and just a bit of light reading. So, let's see if I succeed!