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8/9/10 01:38 am - to burst

 I left from work in tears, hand stained red and my shirt ripped. I get tired of being good, bending my head, carrying the weight. I get tired of ten-hour shifts, with two cups of coffee and quick sips of water to survive, poetry in three languages. My hands trembled. I half-hoped for wasp stings, for something sharp and awakening.

I was half-running and the sky was still and covered by a thick, yellowish blanket of clouds, the leaves on the trees dead still, and on the phone, my mother was fretting over the storm that had reached her. Flash in my head, eye of the storm. There was a wall of grey ahead, my tears dried on my face, and then the world ahead was illuminated by pale violet. I gasped.

Suddenly, a white stripe between the grey and the pale yellow, coming closer. Walking where I haven't walked before, the first gusts of wind came to meet me, the street lamps swung back and forth on their wires, flickered on and off. I laughed, gasped, I turned back and picked up my pace. The clouds followed on my heels, the dark reaching, the wind. Then then then. Lamps flickering, clouds illuminated by shocks of pale violet, white, the heavy thunder growls, the darkness had come, the trees bent and sighed and howled and I had to shout so that the kind-voiced woman could give me the cab company's number. Line busy, then no connection. I reached a bus stop, empty. The clouds broke then, the rain drumming the roof, and I looked at places to run to beneath the black sky, the flickers of light. A boy stepped out of a bus across the street, spread his arms to embrace the storm. I laughed; it is a relief to remember, such people do exist.

The rain seeped through my thin, ripped shirt as I stepped from the bus stop into the bus. In the city, I followed the boy's example, spreading my arms in the rain. My tears were gone, my hands stopped trembling.

I have always been fond of storms and thunder. Two of my favourite childhood memories are of walking or riding my bicycle when a thunder storm suddenly catches me, and there's no way but keep going, be fearless. It's scary. It's exhilarating. It's being alive, all that electricity getting its release, that heaviness shattering suddenly. I am restless and I like it how they make everything new. How uncontrollable they are, how liberating. The petty little things are nothing more than that. There's always everything else. There is so much more.

And in the rain, my heart grows lighter, I am less afraid. It is so strange, the world, and everything in it. The strangeness of being here. This heaviness is not all. There is so much more to come.

(One of the most beautiful pieces of lyric ever, "how strange it is to be anything at all")

12/31/09 10:11 pm - fiction & such for december

I've been quite bad with keeping a list of fiction this year, but here is the year's ending in books & film.

before the beginningCollapse )

12/9/09 11:40 am - yesterday in numbers


hours spent in the library: ~10

hours spent doing exam-related things: ~13

hours spent taking an exam: 1

hours spent sleeping: too few

number of cats seen: 1

number of stray shoes seen: 1

number of statues with traffic cones as hats: 1

number of fire alarms: 1

number of fires: 0

number of archetypal tough scottish kids with incredibly thick accents trying to bum off cigarettes: 2



the firemen must be so fed up with us. but then, it's somewhat amusing to have a bunch of unconcerned students hanging on the street, just hoping to get back in to sleep/party/read, and have a group of equally bored-looking firemen appear and go off without a word.



but now it's time to return to the library. I dreamt about the library. if it didn't have to close for five hours, I could live there.

11/30/09 03:41 pm - things that catch light

I am restlessrestlessrestless, oh. yesterday was a beautiful day with all too many beautiful things and I should have taken photographs and didn't. today she left and it was a cold morning and I read about little boys sitting on porches singing and then made my way back, hands deep in my pockets. there was a soft blue dusk in my room, I went back to sleep for an hour and a half, and kept waking, worried I had overslept, so that my hour and a half became hours and hours. I had a dream where my mother came here and we saw a swan and then flying squirrels. though they weren't squirrels at all.

when I woke there was golden sunlight (it's so foreign now) and I ate warm rye bread as I made my way through the park. (the heron is always there, always. it's reassuring, somehow.) I have to give all my time to the upcoming exams now, live in a daze for two weeks, but I decided that I must allow myself the pleasure of walking through the park each morning, and remember to breathe. then it'll be okay.

I'm quite sure it's enough if I spend one day on french, so now I must immerse myself in literature and film. I got Человек с киноаппаратом and won't run out of books. I should run to the library now.

and oh, it's saint andrews night (I'm still not entirely sure as to what exactly that means) and we'll make a world record attempt at singing auld lang syne in more than a hundred languages. I'm quite thrilled. unfortunately the finnish translation only covers the first verse, but I reckon I'll be singing in swedish, then. should be fun.

11/19/09 08:08 am - to come home

in september I packed my bags (in a night) and read alice in wonderland on the plane and it was a bright day and the light reflected off of every body of water and every glass wall, and I fell for my new city as we slowly approached it, in circles. I have been here for over two months and feel no homesickness, because even when you feel alone, there will be elderly gentlemen who will offer you your first&only cigarette and talk about snow and say they will return in december, perhaps we shall meet again and it will feel like fiction, but for the faint smell of smoke on your fingers, and foxes running across roads (even here) and poets making you cry and beautiful boys who never say a word but take your hand and library porters who will say, "goodnight, my dear, and take care." and this on a hundred year old wall:



last night I escaped to the theatre and chills ran along my spine. (I love you so much I could burst into flames)

8/18/08 04:03 am - I'm leaving in a couple of hours

I'm going to miss my endless piles of books, the scent of stage make-up and dust in the theatre, the little movie theatres where you can sit in the garden in the night and listen to trams go by as a boy falls for a girl who thinks she's a robot, the big bookstore where I once wrote a poem for an australian man who was travelling around the world with his wife, the tiny café next to my old school with mismatched cups and no menus, reading brilliant fanfiction on the metro on the way home, choking back tears and gasps, the costume storage room called 'Hell' at school, and the narrow spiral stairs that lead there, the way my philosophy teacher gets carried away, the books my creative writing teacher told me to read and her suffocating hugs, the trenches in the woods (but those I've missed ever since we stopped playing), the way you always feel lost when the night bus goes along the tiny, dark streets after midnight, this city I've called home for nineteen years.

but I'll exchange this for writingwritingwriting, for a room perhaps shared and perhaps not, for reinventing myself, for being on my own for the first time, for waking early and for being taught by writers, for having people who write&play instruments&draw&act&other such things all around me, for a small town with two churches and a library and a tiny swimming hall, for four kilometres' walk to the train station and the nearest city 24 minutes away, for getting lost&maybe found.

(and I'll come back for fiction, before this strange year has passed.)

7/7/08 05:06 am - fic: and all the years we have wasted

and all the years we have wasted
full metal alchemist
roy/hawkeye
2,541 words
pg

--

if they wake aliveCollapse )

6/28/08 02:02 am - cells multiplying

I make attempts at reading Before I Die every now and then. (It was the book that stole my heart in London, the pictures of the girl in mid-jump, floating, the title, the idea, the spaces between the paragraphs in the final chapters.) Once more I am blinded by tears when I'm halfway through the second chapter. It feels silly. And I can't help it.

And today I bought too many books (eight), realised I probably will go crazy if I don't study at all next year (and I may just have a horribly simple, beautiful answer, one given to me by a girl I went to school with at terribly early morning at a film festival), and my father remembered me for the first time in the last nineteen years (and I him).

He sent me a book of poetry by my favourite poet. I wonder who told him.
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