maybe i just want to fly.
Un. The Russian boy with whom I was obsessed last year owns (a) an Arsenal jacket; (b) a Chelsea jacket. I don't get it.
Deux. There are leaves all over the footpaths, tumbling cream and orange and red, making me slip as I walk. Sydney at present is brown and autumnal. But it still smells like spring.
Trois. I don't understand it when people say that they have no interest in traveling to certain places. I remember this girl in my French class once said, "I don't want to go to China. Or India. No offence." I don't see how you can just rule out a country without even seeing it. How do you know that you won't like it? I just think that, no matter where you go, you'll see something new and different and exciting, something that you can't experience by limiting yourself to pretty European countries or the confines of your imagination. I feel like everywhere is spectacular in some sense; I can't think of a single place I wouldn't like to visit.
Quatre. "When the birth of my child happened, I had to take a decision to be with my family because it was an important moment. Last summer when the club proposed that I had to be sold to buy new players it was a difficult moment, but I accepted it as a professional. That moment changed my mind, from that moment it was time for a change."
-- Xabi Alonso.
I guess I've been avoiding the subject of this particular transfer. I still can't bear to read fic about it. To hear him come out and say this is pretty horrible. I wish he'd kept quiet, honestly; this stirs up so much ugliness. We all knew that his decision to be present at the birth of his son was (needlessly) controversial, but I didn't want to think that it affected anything. We all knew that the Gareth Barry saga was really hard on Xabi, but I didn't want to believe that that's why he left. But this confirmation sticks a knife in my naïve heart. I feel like we as supporters were so powerless. Despite our protests and our declarations of love and respect for him, it was decisions by the management that led him to leave; that dragged his pride through the dirt and negated every moment a fan waved to him on a street, or the Kop sang his name, or he won a damn 'star man' award on liverpoolfc.tv. He loved this club, and he wanted to stay, and I'm convinced that he would have if the people who are supposed to represent the needs of Liverpool Football Club had actually represented us.
Cinq. The Socceroos were pretty dismal tonight. South Korea totally outplayed us; we looked so shell-shocked by their pace and directness and sharpness in front of goal. We're a confident team, but I'm worried that it's getting to the point where the confidence is overstating itself and our boys are going into games thinking they'll be easier than they are. That's such a dangerous attitude to have pre-World-Cup, especially since we're struggling with injuries, and we don't have Guus Hiddink. I shouldn't let one (friendly) match make me so nervous, but there you go.
Six. I feel like I should end this on a different note (different to football-is-depressing, anyway). I read The Kite Runner on the plane back home from London, and it had me in tears that I wiped away in embarrassment as people slept around me. The story just got to me, and I was so surprised by that because the writing is fairly basic and is riddled with hyperbole and cliché. It's like how I can't enjoy beautiful lyrics if they're sung terribly. So I sat down to watch the movie at 2am the other night, an insomniac as always, and found myself in tears again. The film is so faithful to the book, it was like reliving that plane ride home once more. It was just so satisfying to know that I hadn't imagined the poignancy in all my post-travel delirium.
Sept. I'm an idiot. Can someone please tell me how to edit comments?
Deux. There are leaves all over the footpaths, tumbling cream and orange and red, making me slip as I walk. Sydney at present is brown and autumnal. But it still smells like spring.
Trois. I don't understand it when people say that they have no interest in traveling to certain places. I remember this girl in my French class once said, "I don't want to go to China. Or India. No offence." I don't see how you can just rule out a country without even seeing it. How do you know that you won't like it? I just think that, no matter where you go, you'll see something new and different and exciting, something that you can't experience by limiting yourself to pretty European countries or the confines of your imagination. I feel like everywhere is spectacular in some sense; I can't think of a single place I wouldn't like to visit.
Quatre. "When the birth of my child happened, I had to take a decision to be with my family because it was an important moment. Last summer when the club proposed that I had to be sold to buy new players it was a difficult moment, but I accepted it as a professional. That moment changed my mind, from that moment it was time for a change."
-- Xabi Alonso.
I guess I've been avoiding the subject of this particular transfer. I still can't bear to read fic about it. To hear him come out and say this is pretty horrible. I wish he'd kept quiet, honestly; this stirs up so much ugliness. We all knew that his decision to be present at the birth of his son was (needlessly) controversial, but I didn't want to think that it affected anything. We all knew that the Gareth Barry saga was really hard on Xabi, but I didn't want to believe that that's why he left. But this confirmation sticks a knife in my naïve heart. I feel like we as supporters were so powerless. Despite our protests and our declarations of love and respect for him, it was decisions by the management that led him to leave; that dragged his pride through the dirt and negated every moment a fan waved to him on a street, or the Kop sang his name, or he won a damn 'star man' award on liverpoolfc.tv. He loved this club, and he wanted to stay, and I'm convinced that he would have if the people who are supposed to represent the needs of Liverpool Football Club had actually represented us.
Cinq. The Socceroos were pretty dismal tonight. South Korea totally outplayed us; we looked so shell-shocked by their pace and directness and sharpness in front of goal. We're a confident team, but I'm worried that it's getting to the point where the confidence is overstating itself and our boys are going into games thinking they'll be easier than they are. That's such a dangerous attitude to have pre-World-Cup, especially since we're struggling with injuries, and we don't have Guus Hiddink. I shouldn't let one (friendly) match make me so nervous, but there you go.
Six. I feel like I should end this on a different note (different to football-is-depressing, anyway). I read The Kite Runner on the plane back home from London, and it had me in tears that I wiped away in embarrassment as people slept around me. The story just got to me, and I was so surprised by that because the writing is fairly basic and is riddled with hyperbole and cliché. It's like how I can't enjoy beautiful lyrics if they're sung terribly. So I sat down to watch the movie at 2am the other night, an insomniac as always, and found myself in tears again. The film is so faithful to the book, it was like reliving that plane ride home once more. It was just so satisfying to know that I hadn't imagined the poignancy in all my post-travel delirium.
Sept. I'm an idiot. Can someone please tell me how to edit comments?