The Dream

Morning light washed over the room. The sunshine shone over the neatly stacked paper in the corner of the desk. It was fine paper, with a ghost-like watermark tinting its surface. It was resting on top of some beautifully snowy hand-made sheets. The desk itself was made of beautiful rich wood, and had been carved with little faces and hands peeking out of the tooled edges. There were large, deep draws on each side, and a rack at the far end that held all manner of writing paraphernalia. There were a long line of inkbottles in a row, here a heavy bottle containing rich blue, there a squat bottle filled with black. There was a series of coloured inks too, each in tiny bottles that had been sealed with a dab of wax. The first was red, the second a lush green, the third a misty blue. The triangular label on each one told of their qualities. The ink it contained stained the portion of cork visible through the delicate glass.

There was a battered blue case along the ledge from the inks. If you were to open the case, you would find inside a beautiful fountain pen, with a blood red grip and a gilded nib. Further, past the pen, was a small jar containing a luxurious peacock-feather quill. It winked in the light. The nib was clean and free from inky residue. On the other side of the quill was a small container of blue biros, to be grabbed when all else failed, or when a phone number or note needed to be jotted down.

Underneath the rack containing the ink and pens was a space for journals. There were several art books, without lines inside them, filled with scrawls and half-baked ideas. Then there were the lined pages, within the sensible journals. There were a few half-written letters as well as a running order for a particularly tricky plot. Some of the journals were completely full, with pieces of paper jammed behind the covers and bookmarks poking out from every angle. They were messy and wild, full of long, impossible sentences and frantic scratchings. It was writing in its purest, raw form.

A smooth leather journal was open on the desk. The lines of writing were clear and precise. There was none of the meandering that was found in the other tomes, rather the structure was more planned and controlled. The rubicund cover was soft and unblemished.

To the right of the desk stood a tall bookshelf. It was made of the same deep, polished wood as the desk. It was stacked to the gills with hundreds of books. They were of varying sizes and had flashy covers. Some were old and tatty, and had little cracks along the spines. Others looked as if they had never been read. Their pristine covers sparkled in the morning sunlight. The shelf was dust-free and orderly. The polished wood was deep and strong. It was a fitting tribute to the books on its shelf.

Demands

I just had a rather interesting conversation at work. We were talking about long distance relationships, and the "rules" that apply. C said that if you're not in the same country, it's fine to be with other people. J agreed. Her partner is off travelling the world at the moment, and they have made an agreement. They are allowed to sleep with other people, but will get back together when they meet up in July. I respect that, I do. Yet, I couldn't do it. I just couldn't. C said later that she does respect my position, but it actually shook me a little.

Do I demand too much? Should I back off and allow Ash her freedom? Would she even want that? I don't think she would. I certainly don't want to be with anyone else. Is it wrong of me to... to... I don't know.

I know we're rock solid. And hell, it's hard. But I am an honourable person. I would never, ever cheat. It doesn't matter if "the rules" suggest that it's perfectly acceptable. It is simply not possible. I couldn't. *spreads hands* It's just not something I could do.

Finished!

I'm done! I've finally finished the NaNoWriMo!

*collapses*

It's done. Over. Wow. Can't believe I wrote that many words...

I'm SO doing it again next year.

Safari Girls

And then the explorers gathered their courage and marched through the jungle.

More Nano

The Chair and the Dog

The exhausted writer lurched off his chair and staggered into the kitchen to make some coffee. He prayed that he hadn’t run out. He really needed the boost. He’d heard that some crazy people were writing without it this year, and immediately dismissed them as fools. The study was quiet in his absence.

His chair was a curiously ugly creation. He’d found it at a garage sale, having flopped into it, exhausted, at the end of a long weekend of pawing through old books and shoes. It didn’t look much, but it fit every curve in his body. He paid for it and drove it home on the roof of his car. The chair had stood up to his many hours of typing as long as he could remember. He didn’t ache or feel nasty pressure in his neck after typing for hours at a time. He’d thrown out his old chair after sitting on it for an hour gave him a horrible ache in the posterior. The chair was made of twisted wire of a muddy brown colour, was accompanied by a curious scent. In the dark, it almost looked as if it was covered in hair of some kind. He had never had such a loyal piece of furniture.

The writer swore from the kitchen. He’d run out of coffee and still had pages and pages to go on his latest manuscript. The publishers were going to kill him. He dropped to his knees and dug through his messy kitchen cupboard in hope that there would be some of those little samples in the back. A jar of rice fell out, knocked by his elbow, and shattered on the tiles.

‘Arse it!’ He yelled, still not coming up with anything of the coffee species.

In his study, the chair shivered. It paused for a moment, and then shook all over. The very tips of the legs began to slowly change, forming lumps with tiny claws. The writer had started to scoop up the fallen rice and was debating whether to just stick it in a new jar or throw it out. A thick wire unfolded from the front of the chair and started to sprout hairs. The back of the chair folded in on itself, and grew ears. The legs had become thicker, tendons and skin replacing the twisted brown wire. The chair shook its newly formed head, and lolled its tongue. A spot of drool hit the carpet. The seat of the chair had rolled into a hairy little body. With one final shake, the chair made its last transformation into a dog, and wuffled. It scratched itself behind the ear and shook again. It sniffed the pot plant in the corner of the room and wagged its tail. It decided that it would really like a walk and a bone.

The writer came back from the kitchen, his shoulders slumped in defeat. There was no coffee, and the publishers were going to call him in the morning and he had to pay rent next week and there was a dog in his study.

‘Who’s a good boy?’ He asked, absently, scratching the dog behind the ears. The dog wriggled in pleasure and licked his hand. The writer promised the dog that he’d take it for a walk later and went to sit back down at his computer.

The chair was gone.

‘Where the hell is my chair?’ He shouted, tearing out a clump of hair. ‘And come to think of it, what the hell is this dog doing in here?’ He shook his head and brushed aside a tear.

‘See?’ He implored to the walls. ‘See what happens when I run out of coffee?’ He slumped onto the floor. The dog took advantage of his position and licked his face.

Something From The NaNoWriMo

I guard my treasure well. I sit at the top of seventeen stone steps, perched on the cold stone of a broken table. It was shattered once, by a spell so deep and powerful that I tremble as I sit. And yet, the magic turns away from me, for I am not a creature that it seeks to restrict. I am the keeper. The stone is so cold that my body has hardened to cope with it. Even now, I feel my legs solidifying into marble, my toes becoming carved humps in my worn boots. And yet, I remain where I am, becoming one with the stone I sit on. I could not move from this place even if that were my desire, for I have been bound here, with blood and name. Around me in a broad circle are little silver spears. They twinkle in the night. The spears are not much higher than the width of a palm, but they sit stubbornly in the ground and would deny my passage even if I could heave my bulk off this chilly ledge.

Behind me, some ways back, sits the prize. Few have braved the journey that would bring their faces to mine, and none have passed me by to lay their hands upon that which I guard. How it came to rest in this place, I do not know. Perhaps it tumbled from its owner’s fingers as he was torn apart, and stayed where it fell. Or perhaps some lost hero sought it out and placed it here. I do not know, only that I must guard it. It sits on a small rise in the ground, still gleaming. When the wind blows powerfully from the north, its strings vibrate with a song so sweet that it causes tears to flow from me. Such is the voice that turns back rock and arrow; such is the voice that fashioned a path from the underworld. I guard the harp, which was once played by Orpheus. Only a skilled musician could pick it up and do it justice. It would turn on any other, sinking them deep into the pits of Hades. Still, the music, when it reaches me, is pleasant enough. It sings to me of sweet feasts under a moonlit sky, of waters so high that the sky cannot be seen beyond them and of maidens so full of youth and merriment that they almost burst from it. I do not dare to touch it. I could not, for I am bound beyond its reach. But even if I was free of my stony table, and if I defeated the enchantment that sprung up around me, I would not dare to lay a hand on its beauteous surface. Such a harp was made for the gods to play, and I do not dare.

The harp is not all sweet songs and lullabies. There will come times that fill it with loss and sorrow, yearning for the hands of its owner. It will sing a song of lament and despair that it let Eurydice fall back into Hades and into eternal torment. I whisper to it, when I can, that it was not the fault of the harp; no it was Orpheus himself who looked back and let his mistress fall. The harp cannot hear me, or ignores my pleading whispers. It does not care to be comforted, but sings out sadness.

I remember the first time I was challenged, and the last. The first man was large, with hairy arms and a booming voice. He wished the harp for his own, to turn into a weapon of war. He wished to charm his enemies with its golden tongue, to lay waste to this world using its spell craft. I denied him, and killed him with a word, one that I found inscribed on the stone table. It was old, and powerful, and it broke him. The warrior could not have played the harp anyway; it would have driven him off, he and his clumsy fingers, suited to a sword but not to delicate strings. The last challenger was a poet. He wished to set the harp above his mantelpiece, so that it would fill his house with song. His name was Aaron. He sat with me for a day, gifting me with smoked meats and liquors of the finest make. Still, I did not relent and sent him on his way. He left with his head filled with rhyme. The harp sensed a kindred spirit in this man, and filled his head with verse and song thought to be ages lost. Still, he was not permitted to take the harp from its resting place. Sometimes I miss the poet and his songs. He was kind to me, when all else sought only to remove me so that they could have their prize.

I will remember his sweet face well when I become fully rock. It will be soon, for my waist is thickening with rocky protrusions, and my arms are now too heavy to lift. I can feel the stone twisting up within me. It does not hurt, but it is very cold. I crane my neck so that I may have one last look at the harp which I guard before I am transformed. The stone grips me. It is a perversion of the spell used to break the table. I have been exposed to its magic for an age, and now, finally, it works upon my flesh. My shoulders are stiffening, my neck twisted cruelly around to face the steps. I must keep watch for those who seek to pass me. I will remain aware when I am stone. I cannot speak, can no longer whisper comfort to the harp, for my mouth and tongue are stilled and heavy. My ears now, twist into carved rock, my long hair twining together to make a woven rope of marble. I am stone, and I guard. I will sit here, unharmed by raging wind or dripping water. I am the keeper, and I will keep the harp safe.

Garbage

My playlist has been unorganised today. First, I was listening to the Beatles. On a whim, I played 'We Can Work It Out.' I love that song. So, iTunes dutifully kept playing the album. By the time it got to 'The Long And Winding Road,' I was in tears. That song always makes me cry.

But now, I have switched to Garbage. It suits my mood a little better.

And, I am writing. I stayed up rather late last night, scrawling in one of my writing pads with my fountain pen. It has green ink at the moment, and the colour is enchanting. I made notes and notes and notes. I might just use them now.

'Everything you think you know, baby is wrong...'

I love this song. 'It's All Over But The Crying.'

Oooh. Oooh. I Like This.

Shane sent this to me this morning. I really like it! Look at that look I'm giving the camera...

I know it's completely vain to post a photo of myself, but it's my blog and I don't care...

So, this morning I couldn't sleep. I just lay in bed thinking about everything that was running through my mind. Then I got up. James came over to help get rid of Gemma's stuff, because the new guy is moving in today. He looks pretty cool, but I was embarrassed when I met him (I was in pjs) so I have no accurate measurement.

I'm going for Yum Cha today. Excellent. Then I have to go into stupid work for a stupid meeting. How annoying. At least they're paying me to sit there.

Because I'm Lame

I found this on the blog of a guy who does/did Syn. I look his blog up every now and then, and thought it would be a laugh. Turns out that I 'scored' pretty well.

This Is My Life, Rated
Life:	8.6
Mind:	8.2
Body:	6.8
Spirit:	7.3
Friends/Family:	7.4
Love:	8.5
Finance:	7.6
Take the Rate My Life Quiz

I'm not really tired, but I probably should be. I've been writing and writing and writing. I suppose it's a good thing. Working tomorrow night, but don't actually have to do any writing because I mainly caught up today.

Ah, I'm a happy girl, tonight. Chatting with Ash always makes me feel like something warm and fizzy is bubbling around inside me. She makes me so happy. And that's all I really need to say, right?

Identity Crisis

It's nearly official. I'm almost no longer an Arts student! You'd think that I'd be happy about that. Oh, I am. Don't get me wrong. I have a whole year off (honours pending) to relax my brain into forgetting all of the Lacan and Seassure and Irigiray possible.

I suppose it's a bit anticlimactic. One day I'm slaving over my last essay, the next day I'm done. And that's that. I wasn't as wildly euphoric as I thought I'd be. I didn't even do a little jig when I posted my last essay. It was more 'thank god that's over.'

And now what? I'm not an Arts student any more! No more excuses when it comes to sleeping in late, having a room full of bits of paper and books, dressing like I've just rolled out of bed or eating sub-standard food in the name of economy! Woe!

At least I still sound like an Arts student.

Good lord. I'm going to have to be an adult.

No Time!

I haven't had time to post here for a while. Today, though, I hit my wordcount for the day, and I don't have to work tonight. So, I do have time.

I'm at 15000. If I pushed, I could possibly make 17000 today. I possibly should, there will most likely be no time tomorrow.

I feel like a lost watch. No time!

Beautiful

'Beautiful to Me,' by Little Birdy

Go ahead don't go
Don't leave my open arms all warm
And go see I don't know if you're here for me
Well look the afternoon is the only place where you and I belong
You're mine forever and a day

You're beautiful you're beautiful to me.
You're beautiful you're beautiful to me.

Definately this cannot be all that you
Have to offer love
When you're on your own
Well look I fell in love
Cause this world is way too big now

You're beautiful you're beautiful to me.
You're beautiful you're beautiful to me.

And it's a love love love that is here with me

Well look the afternoon is the only place where you and I belong
You're mine forever and a day

You're beautiful you're beautiful to me.
You're beautiful you're beautiful to me.

Grah!

Beware my bloody grip! Tremble before my... tie!

Ok, so do I look like a bloodthirsty killer or what?

Last Night

I had so much fun! After some minor pissing about with speakers and that sort of techi stuff, I came home to collect James. We caught the bus over to Westgarth and found the bar with zero difficulty. We wandered in and tried to calm down Lisa, and had a beer. There were a few people already there, including Berni, who I haven't seen in ages! (She, along with Megan, graduated last year.) We had a great little chat as the other writers and a few tutors rocked up. We started the night and read everyone's intro off the back of the special tarot cards we'd prepared. Everyone was brilliant! Lisa and Anthony almost made me wet myself laughing.

After the first set, I had a vanilla vodka and lemonade. After the second set, I had another. Then I had cocoa vodka, which is as delicious as it sounds. Then I had some champagne. Lots of it, actually. I was absolutely soused. We drank, we danced, I embarrassed myself a couple of times. God, it was fun! I distinctly remember hugging Tim for ages. And drawing on people. And rock and roll dancing with this chick and then Jenny, my tutor. I'm quite sure that I attempted to charm my way into getting a HD. We shall see!

I got home at 3am and thought it would be a wonderful idea to do the dishes. I did about six glasses then went to bed.

We NEED to do that more often. Oh! The dj was Wendy, this awesome lady who used to dj at Barry's. So so cool.

Oh, and I was wearing my Nano t-shirt and everyone kept asking how it was all going. I love my writer buddies. They really know how to drink.

Muse

'Sing For Absolution' by Muse

Lips are turning blue
A kiss that can't renew
I only dream of you
My beautiful

Tip toe to your room
A starlight in the gloom
I only dream of you
And you never knew

Sing for absolution
I will be singing
And falling from your grace
ooh

There's no where left to hide
In no one to confide
The truth burns deep inside
And will never die

Lips are turning blue
A kiss that can't renew
I only dream of you
My beautiful

Sing for absolution
I will be singing
Falling from your grace

Sing for absolution
I will be singing
Falling from your grace

Yeah

Now wrongs remain unrectified
And our souls won't be exhumed


------


Earworm. It managed to get me through my hideously boring shift at work.

And now I'm home, and working on the Nano. I need a title...

'Tis coming along very well, though.

More Horse

And here's another photo, in case your heart hasn't finished melting yet.