featherfinyipp, posts by tag: thoughts - LiveJournal

I've changed the theme of my livejournal once again. Only, this time, I spent ages picking through the CSS document of one of the default themes, tweaking it here and there, changing font styles and sizes. Problem is, now I'm tempted to just keep on fiddling with it rather than being satisfied. As when I started teaching myself basic HTML, I found the entire process really quite enjoyable.

In other news, I've realised recently that I need to start writing/sticking things into my notebooks again, as my creative impulses have been itching lately but refuse to be sated through writing. I think I need that more physical creativity.

I've read a lot of short stories over the past few months; Joyce, Kafka, D.H. Lawrence, Katherine Mansfield and so on. I used to loathe the form, until a few years ago when in response to my complaints, a wise teacher introduced me to a couple of really good ones. A few by Doris Lessing, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman; that sort of thing. These days I am an utter convert, which reminded me of another teacher of mine. I mentioned him in an entry in 2006:

"He openly admits to having gone through a crisis midway through his English degree at Leicester University, when he got sick of reading novels. Nowadays he says he tends to not bother with novels, choosing only to read essays and short stories"

I've not gone off novels to any degree, but I appreciate his point more than ever.

All the writing I've ever done has always been fragmented and in snippets, so perhaps I will toy with the short story form. I've grown to hate the lengthy character descriptions of Dickens and the endless countryside vistas of Hardy. I want the emotion and the psychology, unreliable narrative, free indirect discourse, a blurring of lines between character and narrator, movement into and between minds. Epiphanies, moments of being, sudden self-awareness; whichever label you prefer. That is what catches me, at just over nineteen and a half.

I spend so much of my time analysing dissecting breaking down interrogating investigating. It feels like a long time since I created anything.

I wonder how many lj entries I have started typing but ultimately abandoned before posting, by now?

What is it about eyes?

I realised something odd today. I'm happy.

Not to suggest that I'm not a happy person, of course. And not that I was unhappy. But I'm happy during a time of the year that I usually hate. I'm happy in conditions that used to chip away at me. I'm having trouble sleeping - too many thoughts buzzing around my head, I suppose. I'm also having trouble motivating myself to work, which is nothing new, really. And yet still I'm content.
I suppose the difference lies in the fact that I'm not being eaten up by malaise. I'm not suffering from that sense of pointlessness, from seeing the weeks ahead and failing to see the point. I think I'm just living my life from gig to gig, finding more beauty in lyrics than in my huge poetry book. It's not a bad feeling.

I was watching Year Twelve students today. Upper Sixth is so much more enjoyable. Possibly because it's finally the end (I love my school/sixth form, but I've felt restricted by it for too long now). This time last year was a waste, for me. The bus-journey bothers me still - seven years is too long, even if the view has changed a little.

I'm reading lots. I had a barren period for a while, where I was suspended between the fantasy fiction I used to consume, and the sort of stuff I'm reading now ("Classics" in the eyes of the literary world. Can't say I always agree). Early this year, or perhaps last winter I made the conscious decision to start reading that sort of thing. I've found a lot to draw on from reading, moreso than I ever did before, although I don't get the same sheer mindless enjoyment out of them. Possibly because I engage my mind with books now, rather than expecting to be spoon-fed.

I'm online about the same amount, but my focus has changed. Conversation snatches the hours away now, rather than pirates. I have to smile at that, because it's come full circle in some ways. It's better now, though, far better. I'm better. I'm almost glad I don't have logs from 2001-2003. I'm so different - I wouldn't ever entertain such parasitic relationships these days. There came a point where I realised that I would never get back what I wanted in return from those people, no matter how patient and understanding I was. It was silly of me to not realise that sooner, but I suppose you have to learn at some point. Better online than real life, I imagine. And really, it's the conversation these days that helps me better understand who I am, or was, and may become. Conversation with intelligent, insightful, entertaining people is so much more fulfilling than pirating, which changes its role so much. Too much.

And people. People people people. They fascinate me. I'll never get bored of people. And I'll never become a hermit. I think my mother would be encouraged by that thought.

If you sit down at a computer in a computer room, the person nearest to you will sit at least one computer away. If you get on a bus, people will always chose sitting at the back on their own on a two seater, rather than sitting down next to someone nearer to the front. If you go to the cinema with a group of friends on a fairly quiet night, you'll always attempt to have a row between you and the row of people behind or in front of you. If you go to a restaurant that has communal tables (Wagamama - great thai restaurant chain, try number 37 on the menu) you'll always have a gap on the bench in between your group and the next group on the table. If your are in a crowded room with unfamiliar people, you'll cross your arms and avert your eyes.

Such are the boundaries and limits we seem to place on ourselves. Everyone instinctively maintains a personal space, a invisible zone or region around themselves that isn't generally invaded by others unless through passion or aggression. Sometimes it's as if we all live our lives in little boxes, drifting around, attempting to bump into someone else's box here and there, but ultimately intimacy is reserved for a few close friends/family/objects of affection.

***

Warning: Eng Lit geeking ahead.

Brick and Maggie in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof" are so contrasting it's facinating. Great lesson today analysing my favourite aspect of literature; characterisation. Brick is so vague and indifferent to life whereas Maggie is passionate and vivacious. Maggie connects with everyone she meets in some way, for good or for bad. She despises Mae, Gooper and their children, but admires Big Daddy and can't resist Brick. Brick on the other hand is so distant and absent. I think that's why his relationship with Skipper was so important to him - he rarely forms a bond with another person, so that when he does it's this deep, incredible thing that is infalliable and perfect and utterly pure in his eyes.

I'm really enjoying Cat. So frank and open from the start, I like that Williams adopts a different style of writing to reflect the different timescale and situation. Also - it's brand new to me. I'd done Streetcar before when I was 14 or 15 so this good stuff.