Word Thief.

I need to find some. I think I know what's going to happen. But I need to think on it.

Also, to make my plan for the year stick I've set aside a few pages in the moleskine. It's only got a few headings and note here and there. So whatever's there, it has to be added to, and then stick to it. I dunno. It'll be longitudinal and I'll scan it in. Maybe monthly?

I don't think I've ever been this frustrated in my life.

I've always been hideously lazy, but this term I am really taking the piss. Not only have I constantly left all my work til the last minute, I have been so inactive in making my own life go anyway. 

I think the problem boils down to the procrastinating nature in me: if I put something off, I feel I will never have to do it. Right now, I've been looking at my bedroom for the past 2 weeks, wondering when I will tidy it. I always have some pathetic excuse for why I am not doing something: I have to clean the dishes. I have to read this book. I have to watch this entire series of shitty american tv. I have to learn how to sort myself out. 

I promise that in the new year, I will make my life go somewhere. I don't have the foggiest what I want to do in life. I know I want to live in Paris for a while, and I know I want to work in fashion photography, but it feels as though I am merely setting myself up for inevitable failure. I have an excuse for why I won't allow myself to reach for anything as well: by setting myself up for failure, I am never disappointed. Not in people, myself, or any situation at hand. I think this mentality shocks some of those I live with, and now I'm shocking myself. When did I become so defeatist? When did I feel so bloody old? I'm nineteen, for god's sake.

I am unattached, with no desire for a boyfriend (in that sense, I am incredibly lucky. I just do not want anyone in my life, because now is the time for me to try to be selfish). I have no job (I fear, anyway). I have 12 hours of university a week, and I can't even make that. I am inherently lazy (relatively speaking, I'm not. I have a job when I have been able to have one. I do not fanny about the place doing fuck all throughout the summer like some of my friends did). All in all, I should have a lot going for me.

I think I need to get out of England. It's my only option. To drop out of university, to get a job, learn to dance, grow plants, and live. I am not living right now. This half state I am in, when a night with American TV is what I look forward to, it not living. I have this life. I should use it. I should ignore my family (right?) and concentrate on living. No, concentrate on Being. I am a human, but I am not being. And there is no sense in that. I am doing the term a disservice. I am an embarrassment to myself. I shall change. I promise. 

I think I shall now call this The Lighthouse Effect. First, a brief explanation on the aforementioned "this".

The "this" is the feelings you get when you hear, smell, think or recall something in conversation. But for me, "this" is that overwhelming sensation that the world is stopping as you're remembering a specific moment in life, in a past life (not all that Karma past life, but a life you once had a few years ago when you were a different person). And this "This" (capitalisation seems to work better) is so completely painful and awful and bittersweet and tainted with a terrible nostalgia. 

The Lighthouse Effect comes from the fact the most vivid "This" is when I sort of noticed the pattern of the Effect happening, when I was listening to The Lighthouse by Interpol. And everything for me stopped. (I swear to God if they play that when I see them with Von Matterhorn I will cry and he will tell me to man up). 

But yes. I've been having that. I wish I had the sense like Nobuyoshi to take photographs of everything. Because some of those moments are completely and utterly beautiful (I'm sure they could be recreated to become some stunning footage) and I feel annoyed that they wont ever happen again. It's like mourning a memory (is that even possible? Is it even normal?). 

I am an awful person with too many issues with too simple a thing.

I was last weighed before the end of May. And then I got weighed 3 months later, and magically 4kg has appeared on me. I shall not stand for this. Cue food diary. 

I have a friend that was asking me about love today. And it got me thinking, a lot.

I know nothing of love. I am one of those people who can talk and talk but honestly, I have no idea what’s going on. He was being very ambiguous (yet passionate), and it made me realise, I have potentially missed out on the greatest part of being young. I have a year and 26 days until my youth is behind me (at least my teen years) and I have never, I do not think, been in love. And here is why I think that.

There have only ever been 2 great infatuations, shall we call them, in my life. One was a very good friend of mine, and it went on for about 3 or so years, where not much happened and I was something ridiculous like 14. In hindsight, it was simply a very long crush. The second infatuation, was the (only) boyfriend. It was a 9 month rollercoaster of complete lies and bollocks and what I thought at the time was love. Contemplating my cynicism, I’ve begun to wonder whether I can ever or will ever be able to call anything from my past Love.

The sad truth of the world is that all relationships must end. They can end because someone moved, someone changed, someone lied or someone died, but they still end. Only, if they end on bad terms, I begin to think negatively about them, so to as make myself “get over it”. And once that happens, the whole thing gets disregarded as pathetic, and the feelings ans “not real”, so that as time goes by, I begin to regard the whole thing as a farce and a little bit terrible. And all the while I am truly convinced that I am making my own destiny, and that I am choosing how to feel about everything and that I am coming out on top.

Except, I can’t know if that’s true. By reclassifying what feelings are to me, I am forgetting what I can call an honest, beautiful moment and turning into a lie. And as time goes by, the lie grows, and the relationship is more worse and more poetic as everyday goes by, and then I don’t know if I was ever in love, because those situations were lies, and the relationships were lies, and Love Cannot Be A Lie.

Maybe controlling your own destiny isn’t what it’s about. Maybe Love really is throwing yourself at the mercy of someone else’s mind and emotions and exposing yourself to the elements.

My God, I feel like Hamlet.

Life is strange. Okay, I know I don't get any awards for saying that, cause let's face it, we all know life is strange, but it really feels it right now. Today has been a day of waking up late and feeling funny (odd funny, not ha ha funny). I've just been thinking back to the not so long ago past and re-evaluating where I stand (some people would call this reminiscing but I think otherwise. It's self evaluation, and I think it's good for you - or me at least).

I've come to realise that I'm losing friends all over again, but this time I'm beyond giving a shit. The loss of Mr Third Party was always going to affect a really close knit friendship group, and I lost a lot of friends through that (it feels like yesterday, but it was two years ago, mad or what?). I'm still debating whether they could ever have been classed as friends. Are they meant to leave so suddenly after something goes wrong? But I'm straying from the point. I lost about 20 people I could talk to and hang out with in the space of 6 months. That sucked.

Now, I'm still losing people. And this time I like to think it's not all my fault. There is only so much you can try to be kind and loving to a person for them to continually humiliate and embarrass and belittle you. And now that I haven't spoken to them in a fair while, I don't miss them. I feel awful for admitting it, but I do not miss them. I am happier without them. I don't have the dread that the next time I see them it will be bloody awful and I'm just waiting to be the butt of some joke or insult they can say just to look great in front of everyone. There's only so much crap you can take from a person, no matter how much you love them and how long you've known them and how often they've been there for you. Cause they always find a way to turn it around for a new joke.

Fuck this shit. I am my own person. I can stay away from them. I can take time off.

I think I need to learn to fall in love with life again. I'm finding it so hard.

A few links I need for the essay. It'll be a corker, I promise.

Can 35 Million Book Buyers Be Wrong? Yes.
By Harold Bloom
http://wrt-brooke.syr.edu/courses/205.03/bloom.html

Writing does not belong on tumblr for me. It belongs on Blogger. Pictures belong on tumblr. Writing, misanthropy, and general cheer the fuck up you fuck belongs on here. Inspiration belongs on tumblr. Life belongs on Blogger.

Firstly, I know barely (if) anyone reads this blog. And quite frankly, I’m happy with that. I dislike it intensely when people write blogs about the innermost workings of their brain and what makes them tick and what rips their heart out, and advertises where this piece of writing can be found. Then you get every tom dick harry coming along and thinking a) you are one fucked up mofo, and b) they know everything. There is a bit of charm in mystery. I like mystery.

I used to have a friend who would get very angry at this whole mystery business. I only say he was a friend because since I’ve come to university, I’ve barely spoken nor seen him. I’m not surprised. We used to get on really well and I would be able to talk to him, but things just disappeared when the third party appeared. I believe life is such.

However, the element of mystery, it used to drive him insane. He never understood just why girls did it. Quite frankly, nor do I. But I do like the fact that I can walk around wherever it may be, even with my own flatmates or friends, and they have no clue what is really going on. I mean, there is all the normal, superficial rubbish, but the bits that really mean things. Thoughts, feelings, desires. Never let those be known.

It’s funny really, but I’ve only just started realising that I am a walking oxymoron. I come across as a person who’s life is pretty much out there, barely any secrets. But then, there are some things about me no one knows, that they think they do. Things I will never divulge. I like that. Because at the end of the day, no one knows me. It’s better that way, isn’t it?

You could always come back with, ah, but isn’t everyone like that? I think not. Some people are open books. They have a template. You can tap into that template. Some people are closed books. They are a room of smoke or fog or however you wish to see it. And some people are both.

Yell at me for being over simplistic, but I see people like I see working objects. I know they’re not, and they’re far more complicated and ridiculous and impulsive and, to be honest, pathetic, but it’s easier to think of them as a clockwork droid, where specific things literally make them tick, and some things stop them.

Moral of the story. I hate people.

Go figure.

“Artist, Poet , Scientist, Thief?”

In my head, once upon a time there was no question as to which of these I was: thief. I could not make my own pictures, so I stole them instead. I was never a poet – writing creatively has never been my strong point (analytically is another story altogether), but I could find things very easily that I wished to appropriate for my own. Thus, I was a thief. But in my head I was a Picture Thief. The concept that I could be anything other than never entered my mind. Through GCSE, A Level, I knew what I wanted – Art School, a pretty camera, peers who understood and a creative outlet. But now I have those things, where am I left? I’m left doubting whether I’m really a Picture Thief, or a Word Thief.

The concept has somewhat shocked me. I never really considered studying literature. Clearing was basically pot luck, and I was just lucky I had passably good grades to back it up (let’s not kid ourselves. AABC never got anyone into Oxbridge). I had a whole plan for the scenario of “What If I Don’t Get Into Uni”: CRC. Art foundation. Hate it. Do it. Come out after a year with no morale from being surrounded by art kids who can draw (I struggle with stick men) and THEN go on to university. The big ones. Camberwell. Wimbledon. Goldsmiths. They all shot me down without even an interview because I didn’t have an Art Foundation. With one I felt it was possible to conquer the world.

But this one essay for photography was opening the lid to Pandora’ Box. I missed literature. I missed reading for meaning, constructing arguments, getting my point across and writing like a pretentious dick with every cause to do so. Photography is essentially the same thing, but with pictures, not words. Maybe I was never adept enough at expressing myself visually. I’ve always been able to articulate myself orally, but now I notice, not pictorially. Or at least, not to the standard that I want, that I deem acceptable.

I’ve always set high targets for myself. I remember my whole world crushing when we got our AS grades back and I found a C in literature. God forbid I got a C in anything (except Psychology. That never counted for me anyway). Everything just stopped for me. I was happy enough with a round 88% in photography, but that C broke my heart. I thought I could do it. I worked hard. I read and analysed the novel to within an inch of its life. And then we got the letter that they misplaced our papers and we were to re-sit. Hello 100% without effort. Balance restored.

You would have thought that that would have been enough to make me realise maybe I should reconsider my choices for university, but alas, it did not. I was enjoying the creativity, the freedom, the part of me I could never express in words because it was all too personal and deep, and meant so much to me I wanted it out there, but hidden. That part of me is what enjoying photography the most. But literature? It’s still calling out. I want to learn more. I don’t want to stop learning. I want to know about those stories that not enough people are reading, to understand them and to live them. But I can’t give up photography. It wouldn’t feel right. A world without observation? No comments, just observe and steal. I couldn’t do it.

So this was on my photo blog, but I figured why clutter it up? I had a blog, deleted it before uni, and now I have this. Enjoy.


This project we've been set of Tracing Memory has only just recently got the grey cells working. A few days back when I had a friend stay round my house, I found an old blog. I'm not talking "few months" old, but insanely, years old. It was ridiculous. But back then I was dealing with similar problems to now. Only I figured the problems have gotten bigger.

Like most people, I live a life. And like most people, half the time it sucks. But unlike most people, I know exactly why it sucks. Back in the day, I just moaned and bitched and whined about all the things I could do and all the things I wanted to do and why oh why wont it happen for me cause life would be so much better with it. Then I did do the things. All the things I wanted to do [well, within reason. I'm a fairly amicable wimp]. But did they make me happier? Did they put me into this state of reverie when I'm thinking "Fuck yes. Give me the world and I will take it"? Nah meight. Cause that'd be making things easy wouldn't it?

Point in case. Living at home. It's always been nuts. It's always been a little on the difficult side: living with a strict muslim bengali mother, her strict muslim bengali husband, my wimpy, moaney but adorable little brother: things were bound to get strained. Only, looking back, things were more than strained. You know you've fucked up when you're crying on the floor for 4 hours desperately trying to call the one person who can make you see sense when they're busy. Or when you've left the house out the back door and your mother is pounding on the house of your best friend, freaking out the kids.

Now I'm living in a block of student flats in empty Kent, I find myself asking, so what REALLY has changed? Granted, I no longer tear my hair out in frustration or spend days at a time crying, but I'm still arguing from afar, still trying to move out, still resisting. Surely it'd be easier to hang the old gloves up and give in. Get married to a doctor at 19, have kids at 21, give up any shred of ambition or sense of self that I have? Fuck having a career, the only career you'd need is “how clean REALLY is my house?”

Yeah. Funnily enough I can't do that. But that trip down memory lane really DID get me thinking. Living away from home, being able to do what I want to do, when I want to do it. Going out clubbing, kissing strangers, crying blind drunk to a friend in a hotel room cause of a door, has it made me a happier person? I mean, for once, things are on my own terms. But even then they're not. I still, like any normal person, don’t know what I want. I don’t even know what I am. I’m a religionless heathen [but only at term time], an ethnic minority, a little brown girl in a sea of white friends. But even then, apparently, I’m not seen as a minority. And when I’m at home, what am I? I’m the middle kid, the only girl, the first to go to university, the first to get a decent education. The first in my whole extended family to NOT to medicine. I’m also the second wild one [the first being my drugged up, boozed up, egotistical brother]. But then the rules are different for me. I still have to answer to that crazy lady who never stops building a house. But my brother just plods on at community college, with no level 3 education at 19, always partying. He doesn’t have to hide things for fear of a marriage to some backwater oaf. My parents know what he is, and it’s okay cause he’s The Boy. I still have to fight her against it. The woman who I can't live with. Only, try telling her that her daughter's moving out. Somehow, it just doesn't sit well.

End of the day, all I can do really is to take arms against that sea of troubles, but quietly, hidden in secret. Get married to a best friend just in case my family really do go fucking nuts and try to marry me off. Hide away in this life I've built for myself, the one with more and more lies and blasphemies and sin, hide away from everything. But come home, be a passably "good" girl. No alcohol. No cigarettes. No drugs. Hide myself from my family's world and slowly, just slowly, go fucking insane. After too much thought, you begin to wonder what’s better – to face the truth and the consequences of your actions, to denounce all that your families for generations have held sacred, or to quietly go freaking nuts.