What might be here and what might appear...
Feeling (surprise, surprise) rather happy right now - which may be because I don't have to go to school for the next three days,
or because some music sounds great when played loud,
or that someone I know has recovered from an asthama attack and not understood my very pathetic joke about cancer.
But then it might just be because I found half a story which I'd tried to write a year or two back [ technically, although the hourglass most certainly wasn't turned as often as it should have been ] which a very good mitation of Saki - a first rate imitation which included a character buying ivory inlaid antique tables and hoping his mother would pay for his wine tasting holiday in the south of France (!) - but the most ripping thing about the story was that the character was called Cunningham - hah ! It really is much better to use initials.
I have a copy ( a real copy, on paper, with a cover etc) of Of Human Bondage. I don't really know anything about Maugham except that list of best novels which he made. I think I read a lot his short stories when I was ten (eleven? nine?) but unfortunately all I remember is the feel of them - Code books being destroyed in Swiss hotels and mysterious couples, alpine air and fires. Don't remember anything substantial though. Almost all of them had code books in them, though. I do think they were by Maugham. I don't particularyly feel like checking right now.
Right now it is really very difficult to think that I'll have to crawl out of bed tomorrow and drag myself to the stables and then go to meet my aunts and uncles and cousins. There is a festival tomorrow and I'll have to smile at so many annoying people and be nice to very irritating, pampered, rude six year olds. Why do my colourless cousins get to go to Canada while I have to stay here ( not fair - for them the best thing about Canada will be wearing block printed skirts which no one has ever seen! ) ? And then one of them said that se'd like to go to Broadway because she'd heard a lot about it (!!?). She didn't even know that bloody 'Bombay Dreams' ( or something similar) was a failiure (oh yesssss...)
I've grown even more attached to my copy of Forster's Collected Short Stories. I still don't know who bought it. I mean, if they had to buy Forster they'd buy A Passage to India. No one seems to have read it, though.
There used to be ( still is )a Mr S--- about whom I used to write ( father of the Prick) - well my parents ran into him at some pompous do they had to attend, and it seems like he got to speak on a mic but he barely calls up or calls on my parents these days - maybe because I was rude to his son, but most likely because my father isn't at the same post as earlier [ have difficulty believing that people can be so obviously silly and pathetic ] - well he got to speak on a mic and he delivered some 'orignal' bon mots that he had prepared . Prepared. It really is fun to hear about the pathetic people who had almost been forgotten...
I don't wan't to get up [early] tomorrow - don't don't don't - nothing seems to change and I spend more time thinking about how amazing it will be when I've finished writing what I am, rather than actually writing. And then there are nights like tonight, when I'm awake enough, but too restless to write. If only there was a dance floor I could be on... And I keep imagining that my hands still smell of leahter sweat blood and something metallic. Rather long, this entry. And after some time too.
or because some music sounds great when played loud,
or that someone I know has recovered from an asthama attack and not understood my very pathetic joke about cancer.
But then it might just be because I found half a story which I'd tried to write a year or two back [ technically, although the hourglass most certainly wasn't turned as often as it should have been ] which a very good mitation of Saki - a first rate imitation which included a character buying ivory inlaid antique tables and hoping his mother would pay for his wine tasting holiday in the south of France (!) - but the most ripping thing about the story was that the character was called Cunningham - hah ! It really is much better to use initials.
I have a copy ( a real copy, on paper, with a cover etc) of Of Human Bondage. I don't really know anything about Maugham except that list of best novels which he made. I think I read a lot his short stories when I was ten (eleven? nine?) but unfortunately all I remember is the feel of them - Code books being destroyed in Swiss hotels and mysterious couples, alpine air and fires. Don't remember anything substantial though. Almost all of them had code books in them, though. I do think they were by Maugham. I don't particularyly feel like checking right now.
Right now it is really very difficult to think that I'll have to crawl out of bed tomorrow and drag myself to the stables and then go to meet my aunts and uncles and cousins. There is a festival tomorrow and I'll have to smile at so many annoying people and be nice to very irritating, pampered, rude six year olds. Why do my colourless cousins get to go to Canada while I have to stay here ( not fair - for them the best thing about Canada will be wearing block printed skirts which no one has ever seen! ) ? And then one of them said that se'd like to go to Broadway because she'd heard a lot about it (!!?). She didn't even know that bloody 'Bombay Dreams' ( or something similar) was a failiure (oh yesssss...)
I've grown even more attached to my copy of Forster's Collected Short Stories. I still don't know who bought it. I mean, if they had to buy Forster they'd buy A Passage to India. No one seems to have read it, though.
There used to be ( still is )a Mr S--- about whom I used to write ( father of the Prick) - well my parents ran into him at some pompous do they had to attend, and it seems like he got to speak on a mic but he barely calls up or calls on my parents these days - maybe because I was rude to his son, but most likely because my father isn't at the same post as earlier [ have difficulty believing that people can be so obviously silly and pathetic ] - well he got to speak on a mic and he delivered some 'orignal' bon mots that he had prepared . Prepared. It really is fun to hear about the pathetic people who had almost been forgotten...
I don't wan't to get up [early] tomorrow - don't don't don't - nothing seems to change and I spend more time thinking about how amazing it will be when I've finished writing what I am, rather than actually writing. And then there are nights like tonight, when I'm awake enough, but too restless to write. If only there was a dance floor I could be on... And I keep imagining that my hands still smell of leahter sweat blood and something metallic. Rather long, this entry. And after some time too.