Some things [of not very much] note

It's cold. I adore Jane Eyre. It is a work of pure genius... Charlotte Brontë was truly a phenomenal woman, she is seen as the start of writing with feminism influences. Yet, she wrote in the spirit of a strong woman, even if it shocked society. I suppose that would be the reason that she used a pseudonym.

 I should have done some homework today, but I curled up beneath the covers and consumed vast tracts of text instead.

And I just discovered Tumblr.

I also feel a malady approaching, which is just fan-bloody-tastic.

 

engraved

The Same

Land, land of my birth
Are you my mother
Or am I an orphan?

Where, where do I belong?
Will I find a place in this world
Or forever just wander around?

No, I don't listen to Kwaito, wasn't born in Soweto
I don't understand you
But I want to you know

Same, we're both the same
We share the same heart
We're made of the same parts

Please don't look at me that way
I already live with the guilt that I own
From my forefather's past
Does this land belong to the tribes who engraved her stones with stories of old?
They're long gone you know
Now this is our home

I want to strip you down to the core
Take off your shirt, hat, shoes and trousers
Erase my head, all the books that I've read
The language I speak, the customs you keep
Keep on going right down to the heart
To the pain that is yours, the pain that is ours
Tell you it's all going to be alright
Is it going to be alright

Heal, can you heal?
Heal, oh, can you heal?
Heal, oh, mother, can you heal?
Or am I an orphan?
Forever a stranger here

Same, we're both the same
We share the same heart
We're made of the same parts

-Dear Reader


I love the use of the human voice in this song.
It embodies a large portion of the spirit of this country. I sometimes feel like we're trying to assauge the pain of this nation with futile plasters, when it's a broken bone...like children playing at being doctors.

Oh well, local elections in 23 days and petty fighting on many levels.Ladies and gentlemen, let us present to you, propaganda... the poor are such a disatisfied, easy weapon.   

The world is in agony. Let me out.  


   

This day, today.

Today was rain and Dadaism. I was highly amused to find out that Marcel Duchamp gave up art to dedicate his life to chess. I cannot imagine being so fully commited to a cause. I suppose that is when the boundaries between art and life bleed into each other, like a street artist's chalk in a deluge.



Readymade



  This day was a happy one. It was walking out of the history class while my peers absorbed nonsense about the Illuminati, like sponges soaking up vinegar... until they become satiated with sour, foul thoughts. All it really does is add bricks and mortar to already vainglorious bloated egos. Does it really matter, anyway? Conspiracy breeds panic. 

 This day has been not getting any of my Maths done and screaming at my saxophone.I need a new reed.  

It has been plans to educate the ematiated masses as to what reading material is nourishment to the malnourished intellect.

This day is now finished. To bed...a lost boy chased to the vast realm of slumber by Wendy.

Peter Pan

I'm dropping stitches into a dark void, seeing how the wool stretches on, on... out of sight.
I have to convince people that an egalatarian state exclusively for the wealthy is a viable option. What an oxymoron.
What futile agony this week is.

There ain't no rest for the wicked...
I need the balm of sleep.

In case you wanted to know

Watercolour

I'm really rather annoyed...

Oh well, who am I to dictate what other people say or do.

Another bleak week looms, with numbers that will threaten to strangle me beneath the flourescents of the Maths class.

At least it is only four days. 

Nonetheless, my saxophone sounds like a choir boy whose voice is breaking and I haven't the foggiest as to why and I have to play in assembly tomorrow. 

I'm overtired, it's a week until Easter and that means the end of Lent, which means that C will be back on Facebook, yay!

More importantly (not that that isn't important) it signifies another celebration of the resurrection. How beautiful. 

I've been doing a little research for art and I have a vague new idea. Really frustrated. I suppose that is part of the joy of school art. Life. Deadlines. Flatlines. 

I feel like I'm stuck in a drab cardboard box.It's sucking the life out of me. 



Watercolour

   

New Shoes

"Hey, I put some new shoes on and suddenly everything feels alright."

 - Paolo Nutini

Trains of thought.

Railways of words chasing one another across the page.

When does it end?

Do they ever feel the ache of icy sea breeze and hear the lonely call of a seagull?

And dip their fleshy toes into the frigid cold of green glass, rippling and shattering onto the broken bones of molluscs, with life long gone from them.  

Oh, to be a word.

A mere ant.

An ant that binds to all the others in it's colony and carries the weight of nations.

Letters have purpose.

Creamy homemade paper, because I was feeling exravagent.

I would have liked the functional shop-bought envelope.

There was novelty to the idea of using stamps and red post boxes.

I miss novelty.

It has so much value.

Everything seems jaded and scraggly now.

Nothing is truly exhilirating. 

I think that it has something to do with the seasons.

I'm waiting for the rain.

The rain that will wash the dry, hot dust of summer away.

I'm waiting.

Take me back to Narnia

There is no space in my head for the notion of returning to school.

This past week has been a good one.

It has been rejoicing in the complexity of children.

Holiday clubs are a celebration of life.

They're sharing something that wells up from inside of your soul.

I hit a low this weekend.

I miss everything and everyone.

Aslan is on the move.

I feel it.

There's something weighing heavily on my heart and I don't fully know how to express it yet.

I want to fill my head with the romantic notions of childhood again.

Life is beautiful. Life is ugly. Life is a paradox.

I await a place where these things no longer matter.

Go further up. Go further in.