Admonition

If you dissect a bird
To diagram the tongue
You'll cut the chord
Articulating song.

If you flay a beast
To marvel at the mane
You'll wreck the rest
From which the fur began.

If you pluck out the heart
To find what makes it move,
You'll halt the clock
That syncopates our love.

- Sylvia Plath

“I would stand and look out over the roofs of Paris and think, “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

- Ernest Hemingway

That Autumn Feeling

I said how I'd love to bottle up that autumn feeling, well I've done my best with my very own autumn playlist, I limited myself to ten eleven songs, enjoy!


Billie Holiday - Warpaint

Honest Words - King Creosote & Jon Hopkins

Hope There's Someone - Antony & The Johnsons

Just A Boy - Angus & Julia Stone

The Last Goodbye - The Kills

Late Night, Maudlin Street - Morrissey

Lost Art Of Murder - Babyshambles

Scared - Albert Hammond Jr.

Stuck on the Puzzle - Alex Turner

Superstar - Sonic Youth

Video Games - Lana Del Ray

Autumn

Autumn is my favourite season. I used to always think it was summer, I love the heat and the freedom, but recently I've started to appreciate the cold and the routine so much more. I'm never happier than when I'm walking around in the evening when it's dark outside, breathing in the pure cold air and that indescribable smell, the smell of pine and rain and excitement. You know what's great? Putting on your biggest coat and walking down to a small cafe with a book in your bag knowing that there is a warm coffee waiting just minutes away. Watching everyone around you so absorbed in themselves, their lives and their tasks brings you a sort of self gratification that you can't get easily elsewhere. We don't get enough of autumn in London, it seems like there's only a very short period between my clinging on to the ends of summer and welcoming that Christmas spirit. If only I could bottle the feeling I get walking down the my road in autumn and keep it with me for when I'm complaining about how dark or cold it is.

Short Story

So I have to write a short story for an english assignment and currently I really dislike mine. It's meant to be based on Joyce's style for his Dubliners collection. Honest criticism would be greatly appreciated; it'd  be great to get another opinion.

Kate stepped out into the cool breeze of the morning. She wrapped her swaying blue duffel coat tightly around her angular frame and started to make her way down the barren street. She glanced over her shoulder towards the sea; it was high tide. Her heavy steps echoed as she strode lightly past tranquil houses, silent and still. She liked getting up this early, before anyone else was around to watch her. She got another set of keys and opened the dark grey door, waiting in front of her; no longer noticing the irritating creak it made as she reluctantly urged it open.

Irene heard the key turn in the lock and her daughter’s delicate footsteps dance across the hallway. Her head was lowered and her eyes closed, she didn’t feel like raising her head just yet, she wanted to save her energy. She should speak to Kate today.

Kate announced her arrival, made her way to the kitchen and put together her usual recipe of porridge and tea, which she balanced sloppily onto an old tray, spilling it down the sides of the bowl. She crept into the sitting room, where sure enough, her mother was sitting in Ed’s old armchair with the television blaring in front of her. Kate placed the tray down and looked over at her mother, uncomfortably hunched forward ominously like a puppet whose string had been cut. Kate’s heart leapt.

Irene was aware of Kate frozen to her side, why don’t you stay a moment? The words came out in an inaudible murmur. Kate walked over and kissed the top of her head, stroked her cheek and then turned back towards the door.

“Wait. Please.”

She wasn’t sure if her mother was still talking in her sleep but as she looked back; Irene was making every effort to reach out her furrowed fingers towards her.

“Sit.”

Kate was taken aback by these simple words, when was the last time that she’d actually had a proper conversation with her mum? She sat perched on the edge of a hard-backed wooden chair in the far corner of the room and started to play with the shell pendant hanging around her neck. Her eyes dragged around the dusty room, like the rest of the house it was breezy and poorly heated. There was a rustic fireplace with a marble mantelpiece above it lined with various photographs: Irene’s wedding, Ed in his army uniform and numerous school snapshots of Kate and her brothers. There was a small wooden table, barely visible under piles of magazines, letters and books with the television remote balanced precariously on top.  

Kate was awkwardly aware of Irene breathing deeply to her right. Her breath had a rough undertone caused by old age and excessive smoking. Her short grey ringlets fell to her ears; she would have to give her mother a bath later. She turned her gaze back to the TV.

Irene snuck a quick glance at Kate; her burned out eyes were fixed on the screen. She looked so thin; her skin seemed an almost green colour in this light. She’d been stuck here for too long. Irene should tell her to leave, to travel

the world, to meet the man of her dreams. But then who would cook dinner?

The same drab curtains were hanging as when Kate was a little girl. An offhand memory of her and her brothers playing in this room flickered back into her mind. So much had changed since then, both Mathew and Thomas had moved to London now. Thomas was married with two children and Mathew was teaching art in a well known college. She hadn’t seen them since last Christmas; maybe they’d come up this year too. It’s strange how quickly people can drift apart. She looked back over at the collection of photographs on the mantelpiece, at a photograph of her self the first year of secondary school. She was beaming out of the frame, bright eyed and glowing, unaware of anything other than the comfort of her effortless life.

Kate’s attention was drawn back to the television; a commercial break had started. An enticing man was reciting the wonders of a luxurious villa resort in Spain: sea view, bright sun, fresh air. Fresh air would be nice.

Irene looked over cautiously at her daughter who stood up abruptly, strode over to the TV and turned it off.

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

Walking

I think walking is the most underrated activity around.
No I'm not talking about when you're rushing about walking from A to B. I mean those precious minutes when you're alone with just your thoughts walking slowly through busy streets. You can see everyone around you in a hurry to get someplace and you can feel smug in the knowledge that you have no place to get to. You can fully appreciate each step, each sight, each breath that you take. I can think of anything more peaceful or calming than just going for a walk.
So if you do one more thing tonight, take fifteen minutes out of your hectic schedule and just step outside and wander around you area.

Time

It's is bizarre how time goes by. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try to stop it; the world will continue to turn at the same sluggish pace and time will continue to slip through your fingers, like the sand from an hourglass. We like to think that we have control over time, we have labelled day and night and forced events to particular times, but in reality we have no control at all.
The strangest part is time's ability to fool you; some hours drag on for what seems like months and some weeks appear to pass in minutes. I will never be able to understand why I continue to put my trust into these distressing time waves only to have then repeatedly crash down around me swirling me into a state of panic.
Once again I find myself at a much anticipated date, much too soon and fully unprepared.  How did I neglect to realise that time would fool me again? If I'd thought for a moment I would've figured out how quickly this day would come and I may have been more prepared.
But no.
Once more I have fallen sucker to time's charming arms and let it smother me into a peaceful waiting. I would like to say that I will learn from this and that next time I'll plan my time more carefully but who am I kidding? I will never beat the clock, the clock always beats me.

First Post

So I am hoping that nobody I know ever finds this blog, I'm a sixteen year old girl living in North London and I have an awful lot on my mind so I've decided it's about time to write some of it down. To help me remember my thoughts and figure out what I'm really thinking. I honestly have no idea what this blog will be like or if I will ever even use it but here  goes...