Saturday, October 30, 2010

The Lost Weekend a title coined by John Lennon to describe his 18-month period of enormous creativity and violent self-destructiveness between 1973 and 1975, in which he broke up with Yoko, recorded himself silly, started to repair his relationship with his son and even feeked up with Paul again.
As anyone who's been on my facebook page knows, I've given this title to my photo album of sixth year: a period of enormous creativity and violent self-destructiveness.
However the past 36 hours have literally been a Lost Weekend in that it's been a maelstrom of epicness/ericness that felt totally apart from the year it's in. But maybe the intensity of this year goes hand-in-hand with your NEED to escape. Anygay;
We eventually managed to overcame the challenge of bouncers as it was all Over 18s BLEUGH, to stand AT the stage, as in so close we could have turned to the left and have been sitting on it. The lady herself came out like the souls of Ian Dury & Edie Sedgewick combined, in a floor-length black velvet dress, drinking whiskey and filling up the stage like a glitterbomb. Her voice was the exact same as in the songs I had been submerging myself in for the past week and it was suprisingly strong, heard even over the shouts of "MARINA YA SEXY SLUT" from the hunni bbz next to me. Basically, she knows her shtuff and knows how to use mediums to enhance her music and not overpower it.
The thing I like most about her is that her lyrics are clever and they're not just about love. I think the main reason there aren't many talented female artists out there atm is because they are lacking this desire to actually SAY SOMETHING, instead relying on Ooh-I'm-a-pretty-girl-and-i'm-hurt or us teenager's need to partay to sum beatz.

Then it was Waterford Time for some semi-M R&R in the book centre and then it was onto The Cinema. I spent the day with The Cinema which was fun, as I believe you say, partly because we share the same mindset, feelings, hand-size and charmingly fucked up sense of humour. Its odd when you find a Cinema that is so similar to you, but is manages to be completely their own original building aswell. There was andrew garfield, there was How Do, there was basking, there was gettin' up dem shteps, there was a milk joke.
Anyway, I am quickly learning what a fog of inner happiness feels like.
After returning to the autobus like a drug addict who's lost their supply, I discovered my malibu-soaked camping 18th for the night was C-A-N-C-E-L-L-E-D due to the five foot of rain that had descended onto..well, everything. I tried to refrain vomiting my panic all over the Route 40, so I instead vomited my panic through the phone onto my dance-addled M Friend, second name Degay. What proceeded was my basic definition of Therapy, except a lot more manic. So after the gorgeousness and gorgeousity of Marina & Waterford, I fell from one monkey bar and grasped onto another, labeled Fwiend. After a "girly catchup", we proceeded to abuse and confuse a number of people on The Facebook, stalk the beautiful people of The Facebook, personify the contents of our chinese takeaway, laugh till the room was swimming in piss, pretend to be the claw in a vending machine, find ourselves, overdose on class music, smoke the people we like, get politely angry after a glass of water was dropped onto my foot & had ghost banter, love trumpets, and bitty, topped off by watching Bambi. Ironically ofc.
A good time was had by all.
Daze like these show me what my life could ideally be after June. Self-acceptance, as Marina said is the main thing too. That's all really, Lost Weekends can get you through anything. Thanks guys:)


Wednesday, October 27, 2010

When In Sixth Year, Do As The Sixth Years Do

The last post was an olive branch for the past two months of silence. COME BACK TO THE FOLD READERS? FORGIVE ME?

Sixth year really is as chaotic as you tumblr kids make it out to be, and I've been dividing my time between learning my brain to ash and drinking my ash plus becoming addicted to work and 17 million other things I'll probably rant about here. All this has left me with no time in between for ol' cultureeatsme.

But I've had an epiphany, as i huddle in the traditional october tundra that descends on our house, listening to Tom Waits and my phone vibrate with another text either about vomit or maidhc o dainín jokes; I Miss The Blog. That flirtacious vertical line that flicks on and off at the start of the page, the minutes spent visually raping weheartit for inspiration, the grey 'Draft Autosaved' label that seems to say "Don't worry babe, I got this", and of course the congratulatory View The Post button that flickers onto the screen afterwards with a jaunty exclamation mark. Oh YES, I have missed this.* So my decision is: a post a week. Minimum. YOU HEARD ME, I can do it. Also the writing shouldn't be that bad since it'll be condensed & probably as I now have a marvellously epoc jean-ius as an english teacher. Thnks fr tha last 5 yrz again Ruáin. Anyway I'd be far too depressed if I came back in June and there was still a Scott Pilgrim rant under the now (almost) unfunny masthead. So prepare for a revival people. Stay tuned.♥

First I think this video deserves some space:

* I'm not having sex with the blog, even though it really sounds it

Home is only a feeling you get in your mind from the people you love and you travel beside.

It has been reported that some victims of torture, during the act, would retreat into a fantasy world from which they could not WAKE UP. In this catatonic state, the victim lived in a world just like their normal one, except they weren’t being tortured. The only way that they realized they needed to WAKE UP was a note they found in their fantasy world. It would tell them about their condition, and tell them to WAKE UP. Even then, it would often take months until they were ready to discard their fantasy world and PLEASE WAKE UP.