Poetry (the sort written under a veil of fatigue)

A Drifting Day

I drifted through today
It seemed like I was here but
Perhaps you imagined me?
I was smoke, not substance.
Holographic.

You thought you heard me but
I was a barely audible sigh
The concerto played around me.
I was a tentative note
Lost in the cacophony.

I was conscious but I was unconscious
I was present but I was absent
I was but I did not.
Every action was a weary exhalation
Where I was you could not be
A solitary planet.

You saw my face as I wafted past
My head was that of a dandelion
Quivering seed parachutes poised
To fly away. Anywhere.
To meander where I mused.
To drift.

______________________________

Just something I began writing in my head as I cycled home from college today. I didn't get enough sleep last night so I spent the day in a haze of tiredness, hence the sensation of drifting. Hmm... it sounded better in my head. Ah well.

Fictional characters: I keep trying to tell myself they are not real

I've been watching the BBC drama 'Five Days' this week. An hour-long episode was shown each evening, tracking five days (hence the name) in the course of a police investigation. It was all rather tense and dramatic, and I found myself getting particularly into it. I only started watching because the wireless router in my house has decided to stop working wirelessly, so I have to sit in my lounge to use the internet. I looked up from my laptop and morbid fascination sucked me in - a camera shot of blood running down the window of a train was at once both repulsive and compelling. Was the person who fell from the bridge into the path of the train pushed, or was it suicide? How was the abandonned baby linked to the case?

I finished watching the last episode on iPlayer this evening. I won't reveal what happened, but the ending left me sitting with my mouth open for several minutes. It was pretty intense.

However, as always when a series finishes, I feel a certain amount of sadness. Perhaps I become too involved in the lives of fictional characters, but having invested time in following these characters on screen, it saddens me that I can no longer see them. It's almost like losing friends. In my mind, I picture them standing there saying, "Hello? We're still here. Have you forgotten us? The programme might have ended but our lives carry on. Don't you want to know what happened next?"

Yes, I do want to know what happened next. I have so many questions - more than I had after the first episode! Does Laurie find another man? Is she happy? And her mother; how long does she have before dementia takes hold completely? What about Nusrat and Danny - do they ever get to adopt a child? Does baby Michael live a good life reunited with his immigrant father?

Of course they're not real people. I know that. But isn't it entirely natural to become attached to characters on the screen? I took a liking to one character in particular - Laurie, the police officer who is a strong woman in a male-dominated world, but with a vulnerable side. I want to see more of her. I want to know more about her. I can't simply accept that there is no rest of her life because she doesn't exist. I suspended my disbelief when I began watching, as one must when watching or reading about made-up events, and now I find I cannot un-suspend it.

One need only look at the online world of fanfiction to see how widespread unhealthy attachment to fictional characters is. Dissatisfied with the fate of a character, people take matters into their own hands and rewrite the ending. It's about gaining access to that imaginary world again, when the official writer has deserted it or moved it in a direction that you are unhappy with. Some people take it one step too far and write fiction about real people, but that's another matter entirely.

I myself was thrown into the very strange phenomena that is fanfiction after the season finale of Doctor Who. I mourned the loss of Donna, the temp from Chiswick who travelled with the Doctor and then had to forget everything. Until, that is, I found the simple but effective method of dealing with her fate that many people on the internet had chosen: change it! We didn't have to stand for the eventualities that Russell T Davies had created; we could find a million other alternatives and comfort ourselves by writing them down to share with others. Fanfiction is the ultimate geeky pleasure, and I love it. However, I was forced to acknowledge that my obsession had gone a little too far when I did a word count on my longest and favourite work of fanfiction - a fix-it, concerned with the elaborate reversal of Donna's fate - and found that I'd written 17,500 words. If only I could get that inspired when writing coursework.

No, I won't be indulging in writing fanfiction detailing what might have happened to Laurie. But in my head she will live on, and as far as I'm concerned she gets her happy ending. I am perfectly aware that I sound like a nutcase, but I'm proud to say it: I am too emotionally attached to creations of fiction masquerading as real people. I believe it was Lynn Truss, in her book 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves', who quoted someone as saying that they always seemed to become addicted to things that there is no support group for (in their case, it was semicolons). This is true of me. I should set up a group called Fictional Character Obsessors Anonymous. We mental people who care about forgotten fictional characters will unite, once and for all! Who wants to join?

...Uh, just me then.

Makeup: Lemonie fails to boycott it

Last month, I ran out of foundation and couldn't afford any more. "Fine," I thought. "I won't buy any more. At all. It's not like I need it anyway. Why should I cover up my face to conform to the unrealistic ideals of beauty that society prescribes? To hell with makeup!" And so I resolved to give up foundation and live with my imperfections, as well as saving myself money.

Well, yesterday morning I woke up, looked in the mirror and thought 'Urgh... I look repulsive'. Most of the time when I despair over a spot, it's likely that nobody else even notices it, but trust me, this one wasn't about to go unnoticed by anyone. My mother asked me whether or not it was a cold sore and my brother laughed and said 'Have you got herpes?' No, it was not a cold sore or herpes, just a spot in a particularly annoying place on my face.

What did I do? Did I resolve to drink more water and eat more healthily to make my skin better? Did I remember my vow to accept my face in its natural state? Did I remind myself that spots are normal and nothing to be ashamed of?

Ha, of course I didn't. I went out earlier today and bought some more foundation.

In fact, I didn't even stop there. Whilst in Superdrug, I found myself being unexplicably drawn towards the little sticks of concealer. And I remembered that my mascara was really old and manky, so I got another one of those too. I left the shop £13.97 poorer (eek!) but in possession of some shiny new makeup to cover up my face and conform to the unrealistic ideals of beauty that society prescribes. So much for saving money.

Why do women feel the need to wear makeup? Did I walk out of Superdrug feeling happier? Inevitably not. Besides the fact that I'd just spent a ridiculous amount of money on beauty products, I was also faced with the depressing reality that I need manufactured chemical gunk on my face to make it look vaguely okay.

People always say things like, "Makeup just enhances your natural beauty", but to put it bluntly, it's bullshit. That perfect and even skin tone that somebody might admire isn't my perfect and even skin tone (supposing it was perfect and even, which it never is). It has come out of a container. And if my lashes look long, luxurious and full of volume like the adverts say they will, that's nothing to do with me. It's to be attributed to the costly mixture of water, wax thickeners, film-formers, and preservatives (thanks, Wikipedia) that came in the little black tube. Enhance? I don't think so. There's a product for hiding every inch of your so-called 'natural beauty', because that is makeup's purpose: to hide.

I'd like to know who decided that a flawless complexion and dark, sooty eyelashes made for the ideal woman. We could just as easily have decided that the variations in a natural skin tone made for a more interesting aesthetic viewing experience. We could have embraced the variety of hues that occur naturally in eyelashes, like we welcome different hair colours (except, for some reason, ginger, which I have never understood as I love red hair). Instead we are all brainwashed into thinking that the aforementioned traits are what we should strive for. Adverts assume without question that we want to look like that - why wouldn't they, as it earns the companies selling them billions of pounds - and it seems, after my spending spree, that I'm about as far from immunue to their persuasive effects as possible.

In my defence, I don't wear makeup to impress guys. I wear it because I think it makes me look better and because looking better makes me feel better. But it's so shallow. I certainly don't feel better when I think about how easily led I am, or how my self-image hinges on putting artificial crap on my face. But until society's idea of beauty changes, I will continue to spend stupid amounts of money on said artificial crap. And on chocolate, whose artificial happiness is probably what gave me the spots in the first place, but which I won't hear a word said against.

Journeys: why they're so much more appealing than destinations

I don’t understand it when people view journeys solely as a means to getting somewhere. I love journeys. The longer the journey, the better. Even when I’m going somewhere exciting, like a holiday destination, I find myself wishing that the flight would last forever.

Now, I imagine that my inherent laziness makes up a small part of this feeling. When in a particular frame of mind, the maxim ‘If it involves moving, the answer is no’ is generally one I’m tempted to follow. Sitting in a car marvelling at the wide spectrum of trees on offer and observing oddly-shaped clouds requires minimum effort and can be just as entertaining as any physical activity to someone easily amused.

It’s more than that though. Nothing is required of you on a journey. Nobody will ever say, ‘Why don’t you do something useful?’ You will never feel guilty for not doing something constructive. I tend to favour creating imaginary scenarios to occupy myself, or thinking over issues that I don’t normally give any thought to. This valuable time to be rather than to do usually only comes in the time before one falls asleep at night, and that time is clouded by somnolence (great word; I just found it - 'A state of drowziness; sleepiness'). Other times I use to think are regularly pierced by irritating interruptions, such as my cycle ride to and from college - any musings are punctuated by thoughts such as, 'Move out of my way, moron!' and 'Why does this gentle slope feel like a mountain?' On a journey where somebody else does the steering and navigating, however, there are generally fewer impediments to contemplation.

A further appeal of journeys is the element of potential. When the eventual destination has not yet been reached, reality does not have to impinge upon the imagined possibility of what awaits. In my experience, things rarely live up to what dwells in my imagination. I am predisposed to form ideal expectations of things, and am therefore frequently disappointed when the scenes in my head are not surpassed by what eventually comes to pass.

It is quite the same with other areas. I much prefer dreaming about something I'd like to do than actually getting up and doing it, and facing the prospect that the endeavor might fail. I buy notebooks because I like the idea that they could be filled with interesting things, and then they remain empty when I can't think of anything worthy of filling them (I just counted, and I have over ten blank notebooks...) I gain an infinitely greater amount of pleasure from thinking up questions than I do from getting answers. And people seem to become far less attractive in my eyes when the attraction is mutual, because then there is a possibility that a relationship might develop and it would never match my idealistic expectations. This is surely the reason why obsessing over celebrities is much more fun: it can only ever be a harmless fantasy which reality need never taint.

So this Wednesday, when I get in the car to go to Liverpool for a family mini-break, I will not be complaining about the two hour drive. Unlike my younger brother, who will most likely ask how long it will be until we get there every twenty minutes, I will be enjoying the opportunity to do nothing but allow my thoughts to wander with no interruptions. Except for the occasional sighting of an Eddie Stobart lorry. They have individual names on the front, you see, so obviously I have to look to see what is is. Then I'll get right back to the philosophical musings.

Smell: It is actually amazing

Christmas. After the manic, excitable unwrapping that you really should have grown out of at the age of six, you're left with a mound of shiny, new stuff. Then you have to fit all of this stuff into places amongst all of the other stuff you already own. For me, this inevitably means that I have to throw away a lot of the stuff that's been comfortably settled in my room for some time to make some space (including some of the stuff that I got last Christmas and never used...) As I was embarking on this arduous task last week, I discovered that I have amassed a small collection of almost-empty deodorants. Odd and slightly worrying, I know, but stay with me here. Anyway, I was mildly surprised to find that the scent of each was accompanied by a powerful sense of memory. One made me think instantly of a formation dance competition I took part in at Blackpool, and I don't think I'm being too poetic in saying that the scent evoked a vague feeling of excitement tinged with nerves. Another brought me right back to when I started college over a year ago and the feeling of optimism was indubitable. Ignoring the fact that I'm clearly insane for sitting sniffing deodorants, I was struck by how powerful and strange sense of smell is.

I frequently catch a scent that elicits a certain emotion; sometimes it's one I can't even pin down. It's a fleeting impression and then it's gone. For a split second, there's a link back to a moment in time. Sometimes I can identify the scent and sometimes I can't. I have been known to suddenly ask, "Can anyone smell a mixture of wax crayons and red liquorice?", or something along those lines. With some people, all I get is a perplexed stare that clearly means, "She's nuts, let's back away." Others completely understand what I'm talking about, and sometimes I even get a debate about whether or not it is in fact the scent of pink sherbert and not red liquorice that lingers in the air.

And smell preference is such a personal thing - I despise the smell of turpentine, the smell of cut grass and the smell of petrol, but I know people who love those smells. Equally, I love the smell of lemons but some can't stand it. I read a book once that had a character who was raised with no smell prejudice - she liked all smells, including those generally accepted as unpleasant. Is that possible, I wonder? Are those scents inherently displeasing or are we socially conditioned to think that? (The book, by the way, was 'Dr. Fell's Cabinet of Smells', by Susan Gates. I read a lot of her books when I was about eight; 'Killer Mushrooms Ate My Gran' was a particular favourite.)

Everybody's house has a smell. That's one thing which has always fascinated me. And the only people who don't know what that smell is are the inhabitants of that house. I would love to know what my house smells like, and I sometimes wonder whether or not I'll find out when I no longer live here. House smells are always indescribable but instantly recognisable, and almost everybody smells faintly of their own home.

There was an English teacher at my old school who was well known for being very, very scary. I usually find that most English teachers are lovely but this one, Mrs Daniels, had a ferocious temper and terrified everyone. I participated in a speaking competition once, and she decided to rewrite my speech that I'd spent hours composing, which made me unbelievably angry, but I was too intimidated by her to complain (another teacher confronted her for me, which earned her my unwavering admiration forever, I can tell you). I digress. The point is, Mrs Daniels always wore a very distinctive perfume. I sometimes encounter somebody else wearing the same perfume, and even after several years the scent still strikes a dim sense of fear into my heart.

According to some, smell is even more powerful than that. I found this article which claims that the smell of lemon cleaner can make you more generous. Who knew? Apparently, people link morality with cleanliness subconsciously, which means that when they smell the fresh, clean scent of lemon cleaner, they think of themselves as being more moral. Come on. That's interesting.

I leave you with a short anecdote. It involves another English teacher (completing a hat-trick of English teachers I've mentioned in this post) who asked my class to write a short descriptive piece on anything we wanted to write about. Some chose an idyllic location; others, an interesting posession. Me? I chose a speck of dust, and wrote four pages about it. When she marked my essay, she wrote at the bottom, 'Only you could make something so mundane sound so fascinating...' Fascinating, this post is not, but are you at all surprised that the girl who wrote four pages on dust can waffle about the subject of smell for 739 words?

In which Lemonie attempts to be a poet

I bring lame poetry! I've never been a great poet but hey. By far the poet I've read the most stuff by is Carol Ann Duffy (I studied her both at GCSE and AS level) and she tends to go for the whole unstructured, free verse, I-don't-care-about-metre-or-rhyme thing so I seem to have adopted that. I quite like writing in sonnet form too but it gets a bit time-consuming and doesn't really work for a lot of things.

______________________________

The Split


You ask for your CDs back.
Fine, I say
I would like my books
The Scrabble set is mine too
Fine. Fine.

But it isn’t.
You can’t put this right
You can take your photographs
I don’t want them
But how can I return
the moments they stole from time?
The seconds they caught,
and stored in ink?
I don’t want those either.

And while we’re at it
I do want back
all of the tears I cried
over the years into
your jacket; your shoulder; your hair
They belonged to me
What have you done with them?

In fact, every word I ever wasted on you
was rightfully mine to now withdraw
Can you give me them?
No.
What a surprise.
You were always a disappointment.

When it comes down to it
All that I can really take back
is my battered heart
And irksomely
I think you know you still have that, too
If the tears that are now solely mine -
and mine alone
and pouring down my face
and searching for your jacket -
are anything at all to go by.

You can drop off my plant tomorrow, though.

A Level students: it's a wonder we haven't all stopped bothering to continue our existence...

There's a frightening phenomenon sweeping the A Level students at my college right now, and possibly A Level students in general. Few are immune to its effects and it has felled even the hardiest of students. Experienced to an only too real extent by many, it's a deadly affliction more commonly known by its acronym: CBA syndrome.

Can't. Be. Arsed.

Oh yes. It's a spate of missed homeworks, ignored set reading, dozing in lessons and doing coursework at midnight because it took that long to find the enthusiasm. It's the slipping of grades, a smattering of failed mock tests and a deluge of less than satisfactory comments on reports - "Her last French vocabulary test was not up to standard. She needs to focus a little more..."

Barely a week goes by when we don't hear about a new ground-breaking scientific study - 'Scientists have conducted new research that suggests obesity may be linked to eating too much...' - but it seems nobody's taken the time to pin down the causes of this worrying condition. So it seems it must fall to me to examine just what is behind this plummeting motivation of students. If I can muster up the energy.

Ironically, this is just the time when a lack of interest in work is really not a good thing. On the brink of university, if that is the plan, getting the right results is essential. These are our lives we're talking about. My conscience pipes up with the fact that I made more effort when I was doing SATs, whose only purpose was to determine what set I'd be put in next year and to make my school look impressive. So why throw it all away on teenage apathy?

But it isn't just teenage apathy. Sure, if you could see me sitting in bed on my laptop with the pathetic beginnings of an essay open in Word, and fifteen infinitely more amusing tabs open on my internet browser, you'd find the excuse 'I didn't feel like working' incredibly lame. If the reason for my lack of essay had been, 'I sat at my desk for six hours straight desperately trying to think of something to say about Chaucer, and eventually abandonned the pursuit to sob into my textbook instead', I think some sympathy might be in order, but this is not the case. However, the power of academic lethargy should never be underestimated. Friends who have maintained their zeal for college work ask us poor, disenchanted souls, "Why don't you just DO your work when you get it?" If they seriously felt as strongly as I do sometimes about not wanting to write a 3000-word period and genre study, they'd put it off too. When every cell in your body protests loudly against the very idea, every key stroke is like pushing a boulder up a mountain. And students are not known for their willpower.

Perhaps it's got a lot to do with how high the stakes are at this point in education. As aforementioned, these qualifications are going to get us into the university of our choice. Failure to achieve the conditions of our offers means we'll wind up in Clearing - scratting around for something half decent in the handful of places left at universities which didn't manage to attract enough people. It's all getting rather serious, because our careers also hang on this. Back when we were five and starting out at school, adulthood seemed a million lightyears away and it was inconceivable that it would ever arrive. Now we're suddenly expected to make important decisions about where we're going in life. Rather than face up to all this, when the pressure gets this high is it not partially understandable that many metaphorically stick their fingers in their ears and shout "LA LA LA NOT LISTENING! My future, you say? I'm not even going to think about it!"?

I've mentioned that childish inability to believe that we'll be adults some day, when we first went to school. That time might have arrived all too quickly, but there's no escaping the fact that in reality that was a very long time ago. Are we as unmotivated students simply becoming all too aware of how much time we've now spent in education? Are we simply weary to the point of exhaustion with the whole routine? It's difficult to face up to the responsibilities of suddenly being classed as an adult, but quite easy to be filled with a sense of our own importance now we've reached that status. "I'm eighteen and I still have some teacher telling me off for talking in class? Puh-lease!" cries the arrogant voice in our heads. It tends to forget that the alternative is going out right now and getting a job, and that the real world is much worse than this place - that teacher, no matter how much of a bitch she is, has got our backs.

And the final reason for this slump in eagerness: perhaps a slight impatience is beginning to creep into our minds over the fact that we have to exercise effort in those subjects we won't be continuing with. We've spent so long trying to choose the best degree courses for us (don't even get me started on UCAS, that's enough to take the fight out of anybody) and now we just want to get there and devote our whole efforts to that subject. We want to specialise; we know where our interests lie and frankly all this other stuff can get irritating.

So there we go. The mass decline of application to work explained. But the picture's not quite so bleak as I've painted it. Some days we can bring ourselves to start our work when we get home. Most days I love college. It is possible to supress the sulky little person in the mind that's screaming "DON'T WANT TO!" It's just a bit of an uphill struggle, that's all. But I've heard that life gets much harder, unfortunately, so it looks like I, like everyone else, will just have to get used to it (and that thought alone is enough to make the sulky little mind-dwelling person take hold of the controls and refuse to ever work again...)