Outside looking in

Tonight I was talking to someone about writing as an outsider. Really it is the only way to fully understand a group of people. You have to be on the fringes of a certain society to really know them. No one understand the group they are in or the role they are playing. I seriously could not tell you fully what I'm like as a person, or even what sort of friends I have; I could however tell you very accurately about groups I never quite fit into. And the further you grow from different relationships the easier it is to see the person in full. I think that's why it's so easy to be cynical of other people, because you can see their flaws so much easier than your own. We were talking about F.Scott Fitzergald and how though perhaps he never quite fit into society he was able to beautifully personify. He captured the jazz age without actually being admitted into it. I have a funny feeling that the servants at the party could tell you more about the guests than the hosts could. It's the feeling of being removed, and yet present that makes good literature. These were just my thoughts. Any more?

Green and chained

"Time held me green and dying/ Though I sang in my chains like the sea." ~ Dylan Thomas. I'm beginning to find something in poetry. I never did before, but everyone changes life makes you change. This poem is about pastoral Wales and childhood; it makes you think about returning to places you haven't been in a long time. Will they be the same or if the place will be gone; still physically there for others but not the same place you remember. As we were reading the poem today I thought about Wales and driving out of Gower, will I ever see it again? The ponies and the rugged grass offset by the cliffs and sea, I may look at it again but I won't see the same thing. I'll see it with anticipation perhaps or maybe expectations, but surprise? Worries? Probably not.

What about being chained to time? Sometimes I want to brake the clocks arms and make the tick tock stop so I can be closer to a different time. But we are in fact, chained to the clock no matter how many arms we intend on braking. Maybe I'll age with grace, and won't have to worry about the pesky clock's tick tock's. Perhaps it will be better the next time around and when I see things again it will be even better. I wonder about people too, and what will happen to my opinions over time. Will there always be excitement with certain people or will that die? I really don't know, but things like that scare me. A lot of things scare me being forgotten over time, scares me. Can a place forget you, can people forget?

Messy

A crumpled up bag of mint cookies mockingly sits on my window sill, it's trying to make a point: clean you slob. My mother always buys me mint cookies before I leave home, and then insists on having a few before I take them. I secretly enjoy this habit (tradition) mostly because I'm never able to finish the cookies. Of course it's not just the cookies that are screaming at me to clean up, it's the tissues and the piles of notebooks too... Maybe my life is a heap of untidy things, like Thatcher's office. I hope that Thatcher's office is not something that editors cut out of my book. I was reading that Jane Austen had lots edits in her book, which I really don't think makes her any less of a writer to me, considering the bulk of the edits seemed to be grammatical issues. In my opinion the real writers are the ones with the imagination and the ability to tell the story, but everyone has a different take on this; some think that grammar should be emphasized and others think the story is more important. Undeniably both are important to good writing, and I am working on the latter. Jane is also working on the grammar. I should be working on the shakespeare and the grammar.

I've been reading a little about Sheffield. There is nothing that seems too unique about it or any reason I should have dreamed about it. I don't think there is even an airport there, which would have constituted for the plane in my dream; certainly it's hard to make sense out of a place in your dream that you didn't even know existed before. I think it was part of the industrial revolution and it's in the north of england which is where I dreamed it was...but other than that I don't know why I dreamed about it.
Back in the real world there are plenty of test and papers to worry about, none of them seem as interesting as dreaming about sheffield, but I suppose I do have to think about them. Waiting for kin grade to come, that could go either way. Trying to type my book up so i can get this project going. Hopefully agents next? Keep you posted on the sheffield inigma.

Just to say

My hands are numb from holding on to the thin rope of the past. I know I should let go and fall back into the hugeness of the present, but it's hard to let go when your thumbs have grown into the rope intertwining and becoming one with this small string. The hugeness of the present feels like an abyss of foreign things that know me, and my hands seem to know them. I'v tried to put it into words so many times, but I fail. I fail at a lot, I should stop trying.
I'm scared to think about the future too. I hate how some people have it all worked out plotted and planed for a life they think they will live. I'm scared I'm ruining my life by not going into something conventional. I might end up doing something conventional. I don't know. I might be poor. Really poor. I might end up a Dickens child, except I'll be an adult, but no one will know because i'm so short and my voice is so high.
Maybe I need an activity to take my mind off the future (and the past). I could take up knitting, and be really really good at it. I could be a knitting queen, and make ticky takcies.

Just saying I could be really good at it, that is if I ever learned.

Dreams can be odd:
I kept pushing north up up the country constantly in motion. The name sheffield kept echoing. I've never been to Sheffield in fact outside of the dream world I didn't even know it existed, or it could have been Scarbourgh which would have made more sense since it's in a book I'm reading but I could have sworn it was sheffield. I was on a train and I was alone. I had this odd feeling that I should been nervous and unhappy, but I wasn't I was content not happy exactly but I wasn't nervous as many impulses as my mind tried to send. Then I came to this old plane that was painted brown, it looked like something from the forties. I went to feel the plane and I knew I was seperated from something and I was alone here, but I wasn't unhappy. I kept trying to tell myself I was but I wasn't I was just on my own, isolated.

So that is my dream up for interpretations...

Things I wish I could Do:
1. Apparate( for me this includes apparating to different countries too just so you know where I was going with this)
2. Time Travel
3. make things on your body magically disappear such a pounds
4. Get Published with out a lot of fuss
This is it for now. There is more, i know there is but for now that is all I have time for. I finished my book feeling lonely and miserable with out being able to go there. It lets me basically do the first two things. Started a new it's about Oxford big surprise there, right? Yea well you can't live in the past, but hell why can't I write a book about the past and Oxford (my past I guess). Trying to type up At Memories Mercy so people can read it through... I hope it makes someone think at least that is all i can ask. If anyone wants to read excerpts your welcome to them. I should go study kineseology= bane of my existence. Write later. Oh and P.S this picture may or may not be where I want to apparate to, just saying.