Friday, 26 September 2008

You can over think some things and you need to watch that.

Yes, I've found that a large proportion of today was spent just thinking like this:

The tutor is mean, my new friends are nice, I could could do the course and have fun and do my 'start again' that I was looking for, but there's starting again and trying to go back to some point in the past, what context do you want to start again in, I don't know, how am I supposed to know what I want, I want it fucking all, the journalism course is big and scary, but yes isn't that what you want, I don't know is it, well do you want to piss about with some fun girls for a year or get under your own skin, I don't know, why not, I don't know, stop saying that, I can't help it, to and fro and wishing if I could just think of everything on a level for just one moment then maybe things would unravel and reveal instead of always just being such polar opposites of painful decision.

One minute I want to make a choice, the next I want to float. I want to belong and be validated and point in one (or two) directions, ie imagine applying oneself to writing and getting somewhere with it? Imagine building on something I already do and making it into this reality, not just a blog but... That would feel good. But then, doubt sets in, and I start thinking 'but I'm not sure I want to BE a journalist'. And I know I don't have to be defined, but by taking on such a high level course I would be devoting myself to it and the idea of it. I just got kind of agitated thinking about doing an internship for a magazine, it's just not as portfolio is it, it's putting all energy into one thing.

Which is why I chose the course, it would be diverse snippets of information. Maybe I should just breeze (would that be viable now?) through 'contextual studies' and website building class, have fun, open up, be lite. No? THEN...oh but I don't want to make shitty pictures, have to write about an exhibition in no context at all, DRAW (bloody hell), stick things in a learning journal to prove I'm thinking or whatever. I could come off as an arsehole and piss myself off even more.

I don't even like fashion. I don't like Top Shop and Alexa Chung and expensive handbags. And in fact I don't like the majority of things. I don't like a lot more than I like. But when I like things it's serious. It's also fun.

Now. What do you want to do? How long will it take to work out, and how can you work through it sensibly, and interestingly, and make your way? The main thing is, sitting there internalising it all does nothing, apart from self-tap.


Enough of that, I'm sleeping in a sleeping bag tonight. On my bed. The moths are going through an eradication process, and seeing as three fell out of my spare bed sheet I didn't want to bother with it. It's going to be hot in there. I don't want this problem it is chronic and chronic is the WORST.

Event of the day, fish and chips at Wetherspoons on me sen (by my self) for £3.20. Astonishing value. Hammersmith is weird though. Always a warm feeling from Wether, it's like, wherever you are in the country, things are always just as shit. That £3.20 does fluctuate.

Tuesday, 23 September 2008

It's confusing but not at all depressing...

I feel like I have choices, like I've finally got SOMETHING at least to judge things off. I've only been on the course 2 days, only induction, but already in that short time it has brought some kind of clarification. What I don't want. I hope I can get onto this Pg Cert course, fashion & lifestyle journalism. If I could take that on whilst doing some styling/photo shoot work experience, I think that'd be ideal to be going on with. It would cover things I am confident in (writing) and also have no background in. I would hopefully meet people and industry through that course. If it's full should I sack this one off and wait till Feb? Or carry on with this? One thing though, I don't feel sad or stuck or regretful for being here. I am glad I have all these choices.

On a side note, even though I answered her pop questions today, I'm not as eloquent as I would like to be on things I do actually know. Like if someone says talk about Basquiat for 2 minutes, I really should be able to do that. And talk about Ang Lee's films.

Some gems from today:

"Japanese students- do you have Magnum ice creams there?" (on trying to explain Magnum photographers, why not just a magnum of champagne?)

"He's very important. Well, kind of important." (In answer to question 'does anyone know who Banksy is?')

"Can't remember whether he died from suicide or just o-d'ed" (on Basquiat)

"You know about Andy Warhol?"

Monday, 15 September 2008

If all the layers peeled away then you'd only be left with yourself

It's getting harder to calm down and think clearly and separate from all the wealth of opportunities. Instead of choosing from a reduced green mush at the bottom of a rusty couldren, I feel like I'm picking candy floss out of a big clear hot air balloon of a bag. In Liverpool I felt like I was scraping around this shitty pile, getting my nails dirty just looking for something, and in London, well it seems you just ring them, they answer, and you and your hair better be ready as they want to meet you this afternoon.

How are you supposed to know what you want? How am I supposed to DEAL with having a choice?? Not even A choice, but CHOICES. About 3 at the moment, and if I keep looking, more.

So I'm getting a bit upset with having a choice, which sounds ridiculous but is real and honest, and a completely viable way to feel. I think I just must calm down and be clear and honest with myself, and things do show themselves.

I was just looking on the LCF site about the different enrollment days. I saw that tailoring was tomorrow, and thought 'maybe I'll just roll up (again) and join that one instead'. The truth is probably whichever course I had chosen, I'd be slightly pining after the other in this interim period between new and old life.

On top of the confusion, I have the very grown up problem of a moth infestation. It should probably be expected with the fact that the clothes live in the airing cupboard, which is where the moths live. Kind of cute little smooth things, but 3 flying out when you open the door? I was a bit sad, but kind of pleased with myself, as moths are a sign of expensive clothes. They're not even that expensive, but there's no Top Shop in there, ad perhaps that should be alongside lavender, cloves, ceder and moth balls on the repellent list.

It's a grown up problem, but I shouldn't have to deal with it. Neither should I have o buy mousetraps. It was probably my own fault that I didn't think airing cupboard-moths. I wonder if insurance covers moth eaten clothes, that would be excellent.

I'm going to look at these jobs for a bit again. I just need to relax into the choice, feel grateful for having it, but don't cry about it. I know know to listen when something's not right.

Sunday, 14 September 2008

The Sartorialist might see you today. Look hot, look cool, but whatever you do, mean it.

It's funny how gaps have started to be bridged, barriers broken down. Geographically, and, I don't know, does the internet still count as geography? Is it space or time? Difficult one that. Just that by being on this blog hosting site can connect you to whoever and everyone. The S might read what I wrote. If you go into Dover St Market chances are you will SEE a celebrity. The barriers aren't actually geographical at all, they are layers, and layers of simulacra at that. I don't know enough about all that, but I'd like to know more. It really turns me on (in the head) and makes me think richly and like it matters.

I tried to get into the Peter Jensen show today. Tonight. What the fuck was I thinking?! I knew I wouldn't succeed, but I wanted the truth, I wanted the reality, I wanted the layers stripped away and simulacrum (if they are one) dissolved like rice paper on your tongue. Actuality. Proof. It made me smile and I felt like I complete twat. What does it mean about me that I can go out with bad (yellow and rooted and misshapen) hair and no make up, and crumpled clothes. Can that exist in the fashion world? What made me think I could just roll up as myself and get into a fashion show? Did I think I was surfing above the layers? Didn't everyone know it was Sunday and you're allowed to look a bit cas(ual)?

Just brushed my teeth, thinking WHY it should be exciting to work at the Rochelle School and see Giles Deacon. Why should that invoke excitement in any soul? Some strange success cadging activity. Treating celebrities and successful people as radiating deities of excellence, 'Can I have some please?'. If I've SEEN Shane Richie it must bring me some sort of mythical empowerment, no? It's bloody nuts. What it is though, is seeing real versions of projected greatness and success. It's seeing that these 'idols' are also somehow real like me, and it makes me feel like a small joke.

I don't know what I'm on about now, the lateness has just made me paranoid tired about seeing the/a mouse in my room again. I don't want it on my face in the night.

Thursday, 11 September 2008

I now have the internet, there's no excuse

I'm going to give it a go and see how it goes. I seem to have a lot of time on my hands already. It's crap having a job and crap not having one. Feeling a bit hermetically sealed. My spine feels like that too, must be the bed or the new life.

I used to write all the time. Then I ran out of things to say. Or I realised no-one was listening, so what was the point at all. Books and books of void thoughts, embarrassing and good for no-one.

I'm glad I started reading last week. Words churning is always a good thing, but strange when you find yourself writing a word you would never say, such as deduce or hermetically.

I thought I was dying today. Not in a 'I've not too much time to think' way, more like, 'why am I finding breathing a bit of a, chore?'. I've had a lot of tension in the solar plexus area which I kind of thought was a myth that actually didn't exist, but it's on Wikipedia and does exist and is something to do with all the muscles behind the stomach, in the spine etc. The diagram was too small. But it sounds like it can be to do with emotional stress, but also really symptomatic like feeling sick, having pressure in the chest etc. So basically a combination of the awful bed and the giant cookie and coffee I had around 2pm. I don't seem to process sugar too well these days, seems to make me feel sick or lightheaded.

So what would be the point in a blog? And is there any point if you don't tell anyone? At least with the handwriting there's some sort of brain-hand process going on and it looks like you're writing A Book. And people go 'ooh what are you writing', and you go 'nothing', and look really intelligent but rude but still intelligent, and the truth is you're actually writing NOTHING. Just like this.

When handwriting, scribble shows you took something back. You don't know that I just spelled something 'soemthing', then went back to change it. Or that I changed 'spelt' to 'spelled', as isn't spelt a grain?

So the diaries were different, in that I was documenting thoughts on art, my place, my ideas, bitching about annoying people and making anal lists. And then noticing myself writing about soemthing (I left that one in on purpose) and commenting on it. And thus showing my age, the time, and it all was rather embarrassing. But it was never premeditated. I just wrote stuff. Like this. It taps into somewhere in my head where I believe myself, and there is clarity. And sometimes it's nice to listen to that, and think, you're alright.

Can this writing exist without a purpose, topic, or destination? Will it evolve or will I ever even tell someone.

That will be enough for now.