face after nameless face...

I'm not a very sentimental person. This may shock and appal you, but alas, it's true. But you'll forgive me, I'm sure for coming over all poetic just this once.

This site is nice. It's full of pretty words that don't mean anything and pretty pictures which don't really match the words all that well. It's a pointless way to pass some time if (like me) you have Italian essays to write and gifts to wrap.

And I like this site a lot. The basic concept is that people send in pages torn from books which they have whittled down to a few words that mean something (or not as the case very often is). Lovely.

So I haven't posted for a couple of days, and it's already one in the morning, so I doubt anyone will read this. This means I won't feel too bad about telling you what I've been up to over the past couple of days. On Tuesday night I went with Helen and Chris and the woman who calls herself my mother to see 'Matilda', performed by the RSC , with songs written by the beautiful Tim Minchin. I can wholeheartedly say - without reservation - that it was the best thing I have ever seen on stage. Possibly tied with Les Mis. It was just brilliant! So brilliant, in fact, that I have just bought tickets to go and see it again with my university friend Cait (who was dying to go).

The perfect evening was marred, however by the fact that due to the snow, we had to stay in Stratford for the night. There are many worse places to be stuck, I know, but I had to share a hotel room with she who must not be named, and this was not without consequences. I could spin an exaggerated but amusing tale about my night, but suffice to say that I ended up in the hotel lobby reading my book from five onwards. It was disconcertingly quiet, so when it hit six-thirty, I decided to go for a wonder in the deserted town. It was quiet and snowy and my feet got wet. Beautiful though...

Today I went to a very busy Birmingham with the lovely Sarah Dixon. It was great to catch up. I miss her insane amounts. I spent too much money. I got a cab back from the station with a driver who looked like Jarvis Cocker's fat cousin.

I believe I have run out of things to say. I would wish you a merry Christmas, but who am I kidding? I will be posting tomorrow. G'night!

for richer, for poorer, in fiction and in wealth...

I have realised that when I make sweeping, unsubstantiated commentsin this blog, these comments are challenged and turned on their head (or just mocked) by the people who read this, resulting in me feeling a bit naive, or faintly amused at the intimidating intelligence of some of the people in my life. So yes, what I am trying to say (in the longest sentence ever) is that I need to be careful.

This is how I would usually start this post:

Now, as you know, I will never get married. I do not believe that the institution of marriage can offer me anything in my life. I am fiercely independent and I will never need a man to complete me. I am already whole. BUT, if I were to change my mind (though this is unthinkable), these men would probably be the only ones in the world that I could bear to marry.

...

So though I love writing ranty paragraphs, it may be time to refine my thought processes and write like a grown up. I probably shouldn't have chosen this post to try it, but nevertheless, here is my second effort...

I may never marry. Never say never, but I'm not sure it's really for me. In the words of Summer (of '500 Days of Summer' fame) "I just don’t feel comfortable being anyone’s girlfriend. I don’t actually feel comfortable being anyone’s anything". Now, replace the word 'girlfriend' with 'wife' and you're getting close to my way of thinking. I'm sure many people have happy, healthy marriages, but I don't really like making compromises or admitting that I am wrong. And I'm scared of foetuses. And foetus-presence is implied in the holy sacrament, etc, of marriage.

Nevertheless, there are a few people in this world (none of whom I have met) I believe I could put up with forever and ever:

• James McAvoy - The original, the best. Plus, he already seems to be making one marriage work, and therefore is an expert.
• Conor Oberst - It wouldn't be the most cheerful household ever, but we could have sad, gaunt children who would be musical prodigies and have weird eyes.
• Robert Webb - Mostly because of this (which I robbed shamelessly), partly because of this.
• Joseph Gordon-Levitt - He stole my heart when I first watched Ten Things I hate About You (I think I was 12) and I never really got it back.
  
• Jonny Lee Miller - He plays Mr Knightley in the good version of 'Emma' and is the master of twinkly eyed disapproval. He was married to Angelina Jolie, however who is stunningly beautiful and I'm... well... not.
  
• Auden - dead and gay. At least my taste is original...
• Remus Lupin.
• Simon Amstell.
• Atticus Finch.
• Bill Murray.
• John Hannah.

I feel like the last few need no explanation.

variations on the word love...

Variations on the Word Love

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.


Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside.
You can hold on or let go.
. Margaret Atwood

I love this poem. I found it earlier when I was feeling a bit despondent and it made me feel... not happy exactly, but different. And sometimes change is good.

I'm considering going to stay with my auntie who literally lives at the end of the world (Gower). I have decided this because there is no wireless, no noise, and very few people. A bit of walking in a truly pretty place might do me a bit of good. Plus, unlike my house, they have fruit and vegetables so I might avoid the almost inevitable onset of scurvy.

Last night, I went to see Scott Pilgrim Vs the World, which made me want to dye my hair blue. I also get this feeling every time I watch 'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind' or 'Ghost World'. Unfortunately, I neither look like Kate Winslet or the much less famous ones in the other two films, so I think I'll refrain from being too hasty. Not that becoming 'the weird girl with the blue hair' wouldn't be fun...

and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.

A lot of people say that studying poetry at GCSE takes all the joy out of it, and I suppose I agree. But for me, the problem lies in studying a poem I really can't stand and over analysing it until it becomes even more unlikeable. I think that's what people are getting at and I completely understand. Last year for example, we were forced to reckon with the melancholy of Thomas Hardy's seemingly endless verse. His work was all basically an embodiment of his grief. He mourned the death of his wife, the simplicity of mankind, the (rubbish) century. This guy never stopped complaining and I was put off poetry for life. At least this is what I told myself. Then we moved on to Auden. And I fell in love.

The thing with Auden is that you can not just love his poems, but also be fascinated with his life. He married a lesbian to prevent her from being deported, was a massive lefty and had a somewhat exciting love life. He once wrote "If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me". So yes, I am a bit in love. Too bad he is both gay and dead. I sure know how to pick 'em...

This poem got me full marks in my English exam last year (shameless, I know). It's kind of sad. On second thoughts, don't read it.

I'm not very good with poetry. With the exception of 'The Love Song Of J. Alfred. Prufrock', they have to rhyme to keep me entertained. They have to mean at least something without months of study, and they have to have a story behind them.

If I could tell you

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W. H. Auden (1907 - 73)

When watching 'My life in Verse' with Robert Webb, I also discovered T.S. Eliot. I have written about him before and will no doubt mention him again, so I won't bore you right now.

Poetry doesn't have to be fancy. It doesn't have to have critical acclaim. It doesn't even have to be all that good to mean something to someone. I love this poem a little bit, especially when he reads it.