Friday, September 26, 2008

Hyde & Seek

Bella has had an interesting week. Bella likes to speak in third person, because sometimes she feels more like she is watching her life unfold, than living it, so bear with her.

Bella has learned a lot from the way people behave towards her. She has learned to recognise the signs, see beyond the pale, and figure out who people truly are (as opposed to what they pretend to be).

God help you if you try to get close to her now.

Words are strange, especially in a digital world. You may think they can mean anything; the truth is they mean *everything*. You cannot hide behind them here. What you choose to say, or not say, speaks more about the person you are than than anything else. Simply put, the fact that you can pick and choose the words you write, think carefully, delete, replace, means you only show a certain something about yourself - but there are phrases between the words, nuances upon the letters, and ripples beneath the waves.

You think I don't see it, but I do.

Woops, there goes the third person. I guess you can understand my meaning, now.

Monday, September 22, 2008

Hesitation and subjugation

When so many people say something about you, it becomes easy to believe it after a while. Since I was a child, I was told how bright I was, how intelligent, that one day I'd 'go far'.

But the truth is, I've deceived them all.

Yes, I am very good. I am very good at understanding the bare essentials of almost any topic you can think of, and convincing you that I'm an expert. I float on the top of the ocean of knowledge, never choosing any one specialty to dive into, to dedicate my attention, or time, or life to. You think I'm going to become a Maritime Archaeologist, purely because I've convinced you I will.

I wish I had something to be proud of. I wish there was something I could hold up and go, "Look at what I've achieved".

I can be a pretty good writer; I've won awards for poetry and short-stories (published, even, but not many people knew that). I'm a good musician; I can pick up the basics of most stringed instruments, and have a talent - up to a point - for the harp (I play by ear, because I never really picked up theory well). I can argue politics, because I have a certain naivety in terms of ideology that some people find charming. I know a little about a lot of different periods of history, science and literature, and have even read the Old English version of Beowulf. I can easily see three sides to an argument, and choose any one depending on my mood and company.

Essentially, I'm a good actor. I can pretend to be all these things, to do all these things, and at times I even enjoy it. I think of all the characters I have played, and it reads like a Shakespearean cast list. Or perhaps a Greek Tragedy would be more suitable.

Hell, maybe I'm acting right now.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008


These photos are like lucid dreams; the sights, the smells, the emotions, they are all present and accounted for. Moreso than for the better part of the last three years, since I said goodbye to that tiny anti-spark. The aggression has gone, and the senses are waking up - I didn't even realise that they had gone to sleep. The memories, how things felt, all suddenly ring false; the fact that I remember them at all is a step forward.

A sideways view is better than nothing at all, and the mineshaft this Alice fell down is echoing painfully with the sound of clocks. Time is running out, my White Rabbit has come and gone, and I'm left here, white gloves dangling ridiculously from my pocket. Discarded fairytales find refuge in the imagination as dreams, broken and disjointed.

This awkwardness, shyness, cloistering... is not like the old Alice. She was a huntress, chasing that White Rabbit through the strange, the weird, the perverted. Never giving up, even when threatened by the Queen of all Hearts. One phone call threw the world into chaos, one phone call uncovered a path she thought she left behind, and suddenly this Alice wasn't sure whether she was chasing the Rabbit, or seeking the Hatter.

At least the Chesire Cat is still smiling.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

The Cat's Meow

As I walked up the steps to my house, a rare and familiar scent enveloped me.

Cherry Blossoms.

And the memories of the last time they bloomed brought such yearning that I stopped dead in my tracks. How bittersweet.

How annoying. Never have been one for letting go of control, for allowing someone or something to dictate any of my actions, I have fought like a tiger for my independence of the tight bands of control, and I still have the scratches to prove it.

So I shook it off, walked inside, and promptly shut off that part of my mind.

Denial. Independence. Same thing, really.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008


There is potential in everything. However, this is no reason to put all your eggs in one basket. Directly all one's energy towards a single endeavour will inevitably drain you, and, in my experience, usually fails.

You either like the chase, or you like being chased. Right now I feel like the hound, knowing there is no reason to chase the fox, but unable to resist sniffing around, looking for a path that leads to it. My head says to stay away, but my heart insists on trying, trying, trying again. And that is exactly what would push ME away, if I was on the other side.

So. Relaxing my hackles, I'm taking a back seat. Watching with interest what unfolds, and seeing where the path leads before I pursue it again, if I ever do...

Because this heart beats hard, and fast, and singularly in tune with his.


Honestly, I read too much into everything.

Sunday, September 7, 2008


... seems like it's spinning, a vortex. Quite literally, actually.

And the ideas, they are coming faster and more frequently, and I can't write them down fast enough to retain their magic.

She opened the door again, a sweet drink of ginger and honey, and there they all were; all my pretties, banging on the door until their hands were raw, and their wrists bled the light from them. Now they file in, one by one, two by two, and my own fingers hurt from committing them to digitised format.

My head continues to spin.
Sleep escapes me.
He eludes me.

But at least I'm writing again.