Post an entry; last updated 33 weeks ago.
I ought to vent here more. The reason I don't is the lack of people. I'm a sucker for an audience. Otherwise, what's the point?
Who wants to read the short story I just handed in for a creative writing unit? It's less than 1,500 words. It shows the direction my writing has gone of late; jerky rhythms, internal rhymes, casual delving into difficult subject matter.
A Californian lass I met at the Trevi Fountain in 2005, with whom I kept in touch and fell insanely in love, travelled to France a fortnight ago. Last week I met her in London. She was meant to stay with me for three or four nights but left after two. The second day she hardly spoke. Homesick, she said. A boyfriend kept getting mentioned. I really don't know what to think. She was quite rude, actually. Obviously very confused. Her stubborn need to prove herself independent annoyed me to no end. She was in tears at one point, and refused to let me help.
The second night was very surreal. I literally didn't sleep a wink. She went to bed at half nine in the evening; I'd planned a night out for us, with meal and drinks all on me. It made me feel a tad silly. But I shan't pity myself; I kept thinking of what I would tell friends. So I was just lying there in the dark until morning. I asked the dark air several times, "Are you awake?" But there was no reply. Whether she slept I don't know. She probably did.
Still, though, I shan't forget the moment I actually saw her in the bus station at Victoria. This was the first time I'd seen her in the flesh since Rome; the second time ever. Anyway, I got some closure to a boy's infatuation, I suppose. Though I know fine well that if she was to apologise for being off with me, I'd forgive her in a moment and declare my love once more. It's the sort of spermstain I am.
Result: I have now delved even deeper into atheism (she is a Christian) and have lost faith in the American way of life. Individuals are fine and admirable, but let's face it: most are just cogs in the fucking works; that applies to the UK, too.
I'm as bitter as ever towards the System. Nothing is taught here without some sort of reference to an eventual career. And all careers events pertain to areas in research, film archiving or teaching. It's quite boring, actually. The marking system goes from 0-100 but really nobody marks below 50 or higher than 74. You can't write more than three sentences without a quote or reference. Originality is discouraged. Reading, reading, reading. I suppose books weigh more than films; literally, academically, culturally, historically. I'm surrounded by a bunch of elitists - and most of them actually teach film, too. I've concocted a sort of motto, to say when fed up with it all: "You can read all the James Naremore you want, but there's no substitute for actually seeing the films he talks about." I've said it three times now, and only one person has responded: she is a student; the other two were teachers.
I've decided that I would like to have sex with an older woman. An American, perhaps, because I have a weakness for them.
My neighbours are an 80-/90-year-old couple with a spinster daughter. All day long they stand in their back yard (my room overlooks it) shouting for their cat to come in. "Olsie", they seem to be calling. I've only lived here since September, but I've every reason to believe this has gone on for years.
I've an essay to write for Thursday. They gave us a list of nine, but they're all pretty boring; very telling, actually, of the sort of motions these people's minds go through. I've made up my own. "Memories and Desire: The Articulation of Time in Film Noir."
If anyone here hasn't seen There Will Be Blood yet, do so.
Who wants to read the short story I just handed in for a creative writing unit? It's less than 1,500 words. It shows the direction my writing has gone of late; jerky rhythms, internal rhymes, casual delving into difficult subject matter.
A Californian lass I met at the Trevi Fountain in 2005, with whom I kept in touch and fell insanely in love, travelled to France a fortnight ago. Last week I met her in London. She was meant to stay with me for three or four nights but left after two. The second day she hardly spoke. Homesick, she said. A boyfriend kept getting mentioned. I really don't know what to think. She was quite rude, actually. Obviously very confused. Her stubborn need to prove herself independent annoyed me to no end. She was in tears at one point, and refused to let me help.
The second night was very surreal. I literally didn't sleep a wink. She went to bed at half nine in the evening; I'd planned a night out for us, with meal and drinks all on me. It made me feel a tad silly. But I shan't pity myself; I kept thinking of what I would tell friends. So I was just lying there in the dark until morning. I asked the dark air several times, "Are you awake?" But there was no reply. Whether she slept I don't know. She probably did.
Still, though, I shan't forget the moment I actually saw her in the bus station at Victoria. This was the first time I'd seen her in the flesh since Rome; the second time ever. Anyway, I got some closure to a boy's infatuation, I suppose. Though I know fine well that if she was to apologise for being off with me, I'd forgive her in a moment and declare my love once more. It's the sort of spermstain I am.
Result: I have now delved even deeper into atheism (she is a Christian) and have lost faith in the American way of life. Individuals are fine and admirable, but let's face it: most are just cogs in the fucking works; that applies to the UK, too.
I'm as bitter as ever towards the System. Nothing is taught here without some sort of reference to an eventual career. And all careers events pertain to areas in research, film archiving or teaching. It's quite boring, actually. The marking system goes from 0-100 but really nobody marks below 50 or higher than 74. You can't write more than three sentences without a quote or reference. Originality is discouraged. Reading, reading, reading. I suppose books weigh more than films; literally, academically, culturally, historically. I'm surrounded by a bunch of elitists - and most of them actually teach film, too. I've concocted a sort of motto, to say when fed up with it all: "You can read all the James Naremore you want, but there's no substitute for actually seeing the films he talks about." I've said it three times now, and only one person has responded: she is a student; the other two were teachers.
I've decided that I would like to have sex with an older woman. An American, perhaps, because I have a weakness for them.
My neighbours are an 80-/90-year-old couple with a spinster daughter. All day long they stand in their back yard (my room overlooks it) shouting for their cat to come in. "Olsie", they seem to be calling. I've only lived here since September, but I've every reason to believe this has gone on for years.
I've an essay to write for Thursday. They gave us a list of nine, but they're all pretty boring; very telling, actually, of the sort of motions these people's minds go through. I've made up my own. "Memories and Desire: The Articulation of Time in Film Noir."
If anyone here hasn't seen There Will Be Blood yet, do so.