(no subject)
I missed this place! just had to go round deleting the slash incase my boyfriend came on here haha. Oh yeah, last entry two days before my 18th? Life at 18 is emo, in a word. I have a bf called Kris, met him most recently on a train. He's now going to work in a kewel restaurant in south London (i think it's south?) we were chatting. i decided to splurge not only the existance of a livejournal but the name of my account! did i not remember the stuff i had on here? still.
My uni application is complete. offers from everyone and an interview for Warwick soon. My mum wants me to go to Swansea. I want to go to swansea. but i know what's best for me - deferred gratification to the acclaimed Warkwick. or do i? maybe it'd be better to be happy and have a creative writing degree than to be part of the most prestigious uni for creative writing in the uk. but then, i'm counting eggs here - i have no offer yet. just an intimidating letter, a late-sent portfolio to my name and an interview.
I miss clare. I love clare. I scribbled on the train (in a most emo habit i'm sure you will agree) i won't bore you with free-verse drivel, but
"Clicks and taps and screen names
Will never again be enough."
I have written a play. well the first two scenes, but i know where it's going. It all happened at the Arvon Foundation course in Shropshire. There i fell in love with the falling of signal bars and the freedom of walks in the woods, getting lost even when following a stream that flowed right past the doorstep of the Hurst. I met some wonderful people there. Kerry and Peter with little Pearl, who run the place, keep the kitchen full of naughties for us. Clare Duffy, the playwright who inspired me with a beautiful play that was successful despite the 80% gay character-list. Chris Wakling, the author who inspired me, knew what i needed to know and gave it to me with such support
I have never danced so much in a week. I have never written so much in a week. I had so many tearful goodbyes and rushed, sniffling hugs that plumbers were coming to call
"No loving and lengthy goodbyes
The train must leave on time
Will it never be late
For an anticlimax?"
I strolled with clare across a beach that had been cursed by those i asked as "industrial" so i approached it cautiously, and then I was even more in love with the place, the people. So many shells i must have seemed ridiculous to be so excited about them. As my sociology teacher, Roy would say, i am sure i have possession of a "representative sample" of the shell "population". Starbucks has never seemed so individual as when we shared drinks and a chat in uncomfortable seats.
Sian, my mentor (for "English teacher" has long since become the tip of the iceburg) became wonderfully pissed and proceeded to dance out two decades of music - from emo to rave to pop - at the Hurst. I sobered, and the fridge magnet words that had previously spelled out short and cryptic poems such as
"Love Here
Will steam
And Smoke
When Luck Swallows
From a Romantic
Cup"
were replaced with
"ForeSkin So Tender Get Head In Life"
and "Then Come Honey"
And why not! My friend Matt, who i considered an acquaintance as all the others in his friendship group positively hate me lol, came out to me and Debbie on the bus to the Hurst. It all made sense, like the solution to a riddle you never would have considered but which made such sense it was laughable and left me feeling stupid. It was to be the opening line to the discourse of an extremely gay week. Gay stories, with lovable characters, the play by the wonderful Clare Duffy of course, the accusation of feelings for a teacher of the same sex, the sharing of a room with one girl and a bed with another, the trip to a friendly, if red and pink, gaybar in swansea, a lesbian weekend with a wonderful girl. Well i never. no wonder i find i have many anecdotes but few for my parents.
I miss swansea. I miss it so much it hurts. And yes, Swansea is a euphermism. It's Clare i miss (not Clare Duffy, though her presence at my side to form half of the "early riser-girls" at the Hurst would be a welcome re-experience) At first i was claiming that coming to the Hurst and then to Swansea was a week with the world stopping. But it wasn't at all was it? the world had never been so fast! the world had never been so amazing, so awakening. The only shadow was my knowledge that i was to leave soon. Too too soon.
so many experiences. Ill catalogue each as i remember. All i need is a listen through of "Dirty little secret", the official song of the week for all 20 of us! Or a rendition of the song Danny wrote while there, "Like a breeze you come and go", the unofficial song of the week for all 20 of us!
£475? yes, it's worth it for the Hurst, the Arvon centre lying between two hills in Shropshire like a palace out of Narnia. There was still snow. the only place in the UK still white, like the earth was still debating which dress to wear to be the most beautiful for us - the white or the green?
And if you can get that £475 down to £100? well.
Well it is time for bed. The late nights, about which i boast at length as never concluding before 2am, have come to an end, and i am back to the slow world. I will always remember my week. I can not imagine listening to those songs without feeling so unearthly happy and so intolerably sad that something inside me has to break dance. I will always have a secret smile for them. Maybe leaving them is what makes them all the more charishable? Love is best described in terms of rushes to leave and the need for more, so much more than whatever time we had
"Goodbye
Is my strange way of saying
I love you."
My uni application is complete. offers from everyone and an interview for Warwick soon. My mum wants me to go to Swansea. I want to go to swansea. but i know what's best for me - deferred gratification to the acclaimed Warkwick. or do i? maybe it'd be better to be happy and have a creative writing degree than to be part of the most prestigious uni for creative writing in the uk. but then, i'm counting eggs here - i have no offer yet. just an intimidating letter, a late-sent portfolio to my name and an interview.
I miss clare. I love clare. I scribbled on the train (in a most emo habit i'm sure you will agree) i won't bore you with free-verse drivel, but
"Clicks and taps and screen names
Will never again be enough."
I have written a play. well the first two scenes, but i know where it's going. It all happened at the Arvon Foundation course in Shropshire. There i fell in love with the falling of signal bars and the freedom of walks in the woods, getting lost even when following a stream that flowed right past the doorstep of the Hurst. I met some wonderful people there. Kerry and Peter with little Pearl, who run the place, keep the kitchen full of naughties for us. Clare Duffy, the playwright who inspired me with a beautiful play that was successful despite the 80% gay character-list. Chris Wakling, the author who inspired me, knew what i needed to know and gave it to me with such support
I have never danced so much in a week. I have never written so much in a week. I had so many tearful goodbyes and rushed, sniffling hugs that plumbers were coming to call
"No loving and lengthy goodbyes
The train must leave on time
Will it never be late
For an anticlimax?"
I strolled with clare across a beach that had been cursed by those i asked as "industrial" so i approached it cautiously, and then I was even more in love with the place, the people. So many shells i must have seemed ridiculous to be so excited about them. As my sociology teacher, Roy would say, i am sure i have possession of a "representative sample" of the shell "population". Starbucks has never seemed so individual as when we shared drinks and a chat in uncomfortable seats.
Sian, my mentor (for "English teacher" has long since become the tip of the iceburg) became wonderfully pissed and proceeded to dance out two decades of music - from emo to rave to pop - at the Hurst. I sobered, and the fridge magnet words that had previously spelled out short and cryptic poems such as
"Love Here
Will steam
And Smoke
When Luck Swallows
From a Romantic
Cup"
were replaced with
"ForeSkin So Tender Get Head In Life"
and "Then Come Honey"
And why not! My friend Matt, who i considered an acquaintance as all the others in his friendship group positively hate me lol, came out to me and Debbie on the bus to the Hurst. It all made sense, like the solution to a riddle you never would have considered but which made such sense it was laughable and left me feeling stupid. It was to be the opening line to the discourse of an extremely gay week. Gay stories, with lovable characters, the play by the wonderful Clare Duffy of course, the accusation of feelings for a teacher of the same sex, the sharing of a room with one girl and a bed with another, the trip to a friendly, if red and pink, gaybar in swansea, a lesbian weekend with a wonderful girl. Well i never. no wonder i find i have many anecdotes but few for my parents.
I miss swansea. I miss it so much it hurts. And yes, Swansea is a euphermism. It's Clare i miss (not Clare Duffy, though her presence at my side to form half of the "early riser-girls" at the Hurst would be a welcome re-experience) At first i was claiming that coming to the Hurst and then to Swansea was a week with the world stopping. But it wasn't at all was it? the world had never been so fast! the world had never been so amazing, so awakening. The only shadow was my knowledge that i was to leave soon. Too too soon.
so many experiences. Ill catalogue each as i remember. All i need is a listen through of "Dirty little secret", the official song of the week for all 20 of us! Or a rendition of the song Danny wrote while there, "Like a breeze you come and go", the unofficial song of the week for all 20 of us!
£475? yes, it's worth it for the Hurst, the Arvon centre lying between two hills in Shropshire like a palace out of Narnia. There was still snow. the only place in the UK still white, like the earth was still debating which dress to wear to be the most beautiful for us - the white or the green?
And if you can get that £475 down to £100? well.
Well it is time for bed. The late nights, about which i boast at length as never concluding before 2am, have come to an end, and i am back to the slow world. I will always remember my week. I can not imagine listening to those songs without feeling so unearthly happy and so intolerably sad that something inside me has to break dance. I will always have a secret smile for them. Maybe leaving them is what makes them all the more charishable? Love is best described in terms of rushes to leave and the need for more, so much more than whatever time we had
"Goodbye
Is my strange way of saying
I love you."