This journal is dead.

Look into the green . . .

(x)

I don't want to write here anymore - at least, not at the moment. I'll most likely appear elsewhere very soon, but latristesse feels done and dusted, for the moment. I never throw anything away, but the thought of those archives behind me makes me grimace.

(And I miss you and you and you and you and you and you)

Just this.

Oh, I hate today in every way I can think of.

Someone I used to know killed himself today. It's anonymous to me, in a way, so I'll let him appear so here. It's not wholly unexpected but still comes as a shock, even more so that I was contacted so quickly and easily. I found myself crying in Deborah's office and feeling angry, incredibly angry with myself for being upset, and angry with him for ( Read more... )

I'm learning an interesting speech, perhaps only interesting to me because it rings so true (a good thing, all the same): Why did God make me so fucking mediocre? If there is a higher power and it's responsible for me it did a terrible job ( Read more... )

Oh, fuck.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

English re-mark back. It's an A. I now have AAB and I'm going to Royal Holloway on Saturday and I don't want to. It's so, so bitterly unfair. Turns out that the 27/90 was in fact a huge mistake. It is more likely, according to my school, that Edexcel mistook what was actually 77/90. Soddingfuckwitstupidfucking ( Read more... )

It seems ridiculous to ban yourself from things you love simply because you love them in a way you shouldn't. This morning I went digging around my CD cabinet for something fresh to listen to on the dreary forty minute tube journey to work, and emerged with Joy Division's 'Unknown Pleasures'. Most people have an 'angst' album - something they ( Read more... )

We went to see the Kirov Orchestra yesterday at the Royal Albert Hall. I was tired, I was bruised, and all my comfortable shoes were either covered in mud or broken, but as soon as the orchestra started playing last night, it all seemed to fade away into nothing. I remembered, when I was listening to them perform Prokofiev's Piano Concerto No. 3, ( Read more... )

I've just had the most blissful bath. Festival mud is possibly the most difficult to shift on earth, but I've cleansed, exfoliated, and I feel like a brand new woman, or rather girl, except for the bruises (which fade).

Tonight, as part of our Shostakovich Not Slipknot policy, we are going to the Proms, but first...

( Reading )

I'm reading 'How To Read And Why' by Harold Bloom, an American Ivy League Literature Prof. Exactly the sort of thing I'd usually sneer away. My mother brought it back from America with her, and handed it to me with a wry smile. I know why now. It's brilliant; seriously, seriously good. He makes lit crit itself compulsive, never offering smart-arse ( Read more... )