Clay men.

A poem I have literally just typed out and want to work on over the next few days.

Clay men, boxed in and empty,
sprawl out along the concreted ground,
pouring their souls,
in a way they never could themselves.

I pick them up slowly, carefully,
scared that a single move will break their very souls.
The sun bakes down upon them,
cooking the lifeless bodies burnt.

Birds swoop high above, wafting their wings in unison.
Cars pass by, slowly, bursting music from its seams.
Fresh pastries lure their smokey hands in my direction.
The glaring beams from the sun pull at my eyes, tugging them from their sockets.
Heat refracts itself upon the small men, making them hot to the touch.

Fighting against my senses,
I toss the men aside.
Pulling forward the ones I need,
I shoot the mess onto their flat bases.

The heat from the sun dries the gloopy white almost instantly.
My hands flounder,
pounding the small men, one by one,
onto the ground.

The remaining clay men become boxed in once again,
sprawled within a cardboard prison, fighting for air,
clambering for their poor souls,
in a way they never could themselves.

Garden Genocide.

The past two weeks have been alien to me. Kieren and I moved into the flat two weeks ago today and since then I have been on constant alert-mode. Every whistle of the wind, slam of a door, scrape of a gate, has forced my spine to stiffen. I worry constantly about an imminent attack on the flat. A siege on my shelter.
However, none of these things have happened, obviously. Moving into a new place is always terrifying. You are never completely aware of the area and a new home feels like you are a fresh target, a soft touch within the neighbourhood, the proverbial sitting duck.

Although the flat has not been attacked, there has been a few incidents outside of my own personal bubble which have seen human beings and inanimate objects alike the misfortune of crossing paths with local ruffians. Just the other night a plant pot was kicked into oblivion, shattering into a thousand (five) different pieces as two local, drunk louts decided that whilst on their travels a swift and violent kick to a piece of gardening equipment would most certainly inflate their evenings with delight, swell their nighttime travels with exultation.
This morning also brought along with it its own manifestation of violent stimulation as a fight broke out in the middle of the road, just beyond the safety of my very own garden walls. The two combatants were unequally matched I am lead to believe, however, due to the smacking sound of fist meeting jaw and then the cowardly mewl which preceded the fisticuffs.

Besides the flat, university has also begun. I have been a student also for two weeks. It is going great and so far, at least, I am up to do date on all my reading and small assignments which have been doled out to me. It feels amazing to be part of an institution which does not cause me to dread my wakening in the morning. Just two years ago I was thinking to myself that I could only dream of being in an entirely beatific and, dare I say, blessed position. Today, as I sit and write this, I can rest gleefully in the knowledge that I am.

Music makes my world go ’round.

I have just discovered the Spotify app for the iPad. Perfect!

It is fucking brilliant. I am discovering so many new bands and artists. I am also able to listen to some old songs that I had forgotten about. Finding a song that you are able to connect with or even just a song that you love for the beat, is a beautiful thing.

Listening to good music makes me feel like I am the happiest person alive.

Jack Fabian: Extreme Escapism.

A young girl, around 18, stands in the middle of a muddy, puddle-sodden, rabbit-holed field. Her long black hair whips against the wind, slashing her pale-white face.
Waves crash onto sharp, craggy rocks behind her, beneath a deep-cut cliff edge.
The girl’s head is bowed, peering down into a muddy pool of rainwater which has clogged a rabbit den. The sharp black pupils of her eyes, contrasting the pure whites, squint, fighting against the cold cutting wind. A straight white dress flaps against her bare fragile knees. In her left hand she rotates a small silver blade, twirling it around and around in fluent circular motions. Her mouth wrinkles, creasing her smooth cheeks, cutting lines into her burnished skin. Her toes curl into the mud.
She brings her left arm up. Her fingers lay still, keeping the blade steady.
Droplets of the deepest scarlet run down the inside of her arm. Splashing to the ground, filling the muddy pool a violent crimson, clouding the puddle with dusty tendrils. Like an oil spill polluting an ocean, spreading its filthy fingers outward, reaching across the edges of a once pure body of water.
Ripple after ripple, crashes down into the sodden earth sending shattering drops of water mixed with blood and blood mixed with water onto her toes.
She curls her toes again, squelching the wet land beneath her feet. She scrapes her left foot forward, shuffling it into the now fully red pool. Immersing it deeper and deeper, until it is completely invisible from the ankle down. Now the right. Both feet fully immersed, she drops the blade beside her. It bounces on the dense turf, then rests. Laying beside her, the distant clouds high above reflect into it between tracts of skin and rusty red residue of extreme escapism.

I have just finished my Psychology essay. I think.

It was unbearable trying to complete it. When I receive a new assignment brief I actually get excited because I love writing them. Then, I leave it untouched in my folder for three weeks. Having only a week left to do it, I stress constantly, swear at my boyfriend for moving my phone and throw things around the room. By the end of the week I scrape out some references from a low-rate website and hand it in ready to be graded at yet another Merit.

My problem is three-fold.

1. I need to stop being a lazy bastard and actually begin the assignment as soon as I receive it.

2. I must find a way to become more interested in the writing and researching of it.

3. I do not know anybody willing to do my work for me, for free, at Distinction level.

Moving on up!

Things are looking up for myself and Kieren. We were both a little worried about finding a place to live when we move out and go to university in September. However, last night Kieren emailed somebody, linked with the university’s property website and just a few emails later, we have a date to view the place!
We are both incredibly excited to take a look at it. The woman Kieren is speaking to seems lovely and we’ve viewed the house on Google Maps and it actually looks rather nice.

You can either be the artist or the audience.

There is a quote I heard John Lennon say during a television interview once and it has always stuck with me.
“You can either be the artist or the audience.”

I think this quote sums up the main division of our species rather succinctly. You could either be the artist who creates something, be it via the form of writing, singing, acting, dancing. Or, you could be the audience and sit avidly in your seat, pouring popcorn down your gullet, wishing you were on that hypothetical stage, doing something with your life.

Celebrity reality TV shows are helping destroy the minds of young people and leaving them unmotivated to become the artist.¬†Although I do, on the whole, despise the idea of this new ‘living like an open wound’ genre of television, I have and still do enjoy watching them every now and then. Who can resist leering at how the other half live? We love to see what we could have, what other people have and more importantly what we will never ever have in our own lives.

Keeping Up with the Kardashians is a prime example. At the risk of sounding like an old man, ‘the youth of today’ are no longer interested in making a name for themselves with the intention of creating a credible cache of work, which they will be proud of in years to come, they are instead interested only in becoming the next Kim Kardashian or Paris Hilton. When I ask young family members who Oscar Wilde or George Orwell are, they have no idea yet ask them to list the entire cast of The Only Way is Essex and they could do it without a moments hesitation. It is this very reason why the youth are unmotivated. The idols which are presented to them through television screens are of wholly materialistic value. They have no intrinsic moral, academic or cultural worth. Children are being bombarded by these artificial edifices on a daily basis and are suckered in, believing these to be the only role models by which to base their existence upon.

It is up to society as a whole to prevent this dumbing down of children by first, realising that their own interests need lie in higher cultural capital than Joey Essex, Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton.

Bring back Shakespeare and Orwell as the 21st century poster boys, I say!