DOH!

I can be so goddamned gullible sometimes. Jesus. I wrote about this a while ago, and how beautiful of a find it was for me, these 'lost' tribes. But turns out...Dumbass. But that doesn't bother me so much, as long as they're not a bunch of loin-clothed painted up Apocalypto people. They're real. And they're beautiful.

Also the other day I said I would show you that creepy bus stop guy's poetry website, so...this is it. Definitely not my cup of vanilla black tea. I'm more of a Ginsberg kinda gal. (Read 'Howl'!)

STALKER

If you've been following me all these months, you will know that best-selling British Asian author Hanif Kureishi dominates my current mental bookshelf. I am about to start 'The Body' this evening, once I round up the last couple pages of Kerouac's 'On the Road'. I'm falling so far behind on my summer reading list for my Developing the Novel class next semester. I'm supposed to be going at a one book a week pace but Kerouac's took me two weeks because of my new crazy/busy schedule (new to the office life, folks).

ANYWAY! I WAS TALKING ABOUT HANIF KUREISHI!!!

Geez, as much as I love my tangential train of thought during my writing process, it kills everything else. So, The Guardian is featuring Writer's Rooms and they naturally chose Kureishi's. Here it isss!

Ahhh...beautiful writer jumble and clutter. This may be of waning interest to you but as the daughter of an interior designer, interiors are just as important to me as wearable exteriors. Besides, a writer's work space must give off the right vibrations and must only have inspiring things within its walls. It's a very key part of the process. Anyway, also required of us for the Developing the Novel class, is that we set up and finalise our writing space this summer in preparation for the long months we'll be spending in them for the class, as well as for the rocky road beyond graduation.

Thank God I came across this because I completely forgot that assignment. But either way this proves tricky for me because I live out here in the U.A.E. half the time and then when I head back to England for school, my accommodation arrangements are pretty much non-existent. I change rooms like underwear. It's crazy. My London belongings are scattered all around London at various friends' and families' houses. And I am certainly not looking forward to the treasure hunt when I get back, of retrieving them and finding a place to rest my head.

Back on track now, I'm not sure how I'll be able to organize a proper work space until I move out to the U.S. after school. AND EVEN MORESO, I find I get more on the page by sitting on a bus from start to finish anyway! I'm set, even if I were a bum.

FICTION FRIDAY: CHRISTIAN COLLIDES WITH CORNTRUCK, AND MANY OTHER RIDICULOUSLY SHORT STORIES

Yes. I managed to find some forms of Microfiction on this website called Story Bytes; so Micro, only 2 words a piece. It's a reward for those who actually read that ridiculously long piece on Camp Cross from last Friday. Wasn't it good though?

Enjoy these.

IS MUSIC YOUR HOT HOT SEX?

So, my friend started this quarterly magazine called The Dap. Just spreading the love:

WANT TO WRITE FOR 'THE DAP'?

Ok so its easy:

Step 1-Find a band/ album/ single/ live gig you really really liked or hated...

Step 2 -Write up to 200 words at the most all album/ single reviews

500 words for any band profile/ interviews and live gig event

Step 3-Email The Dap at: thedapmagazine@hotmail.co.uk...

If it doesn't get into the magazine , then we will try our best to put it on the website when thats fully up and running.

(I TOTALLY know my first feature)

FICTION FRIDAY: NAMASTE

HEY! How come there's no writing pieces in my mailbox from you guys? Does no one read me anymore? HELLO???

Anyway, since you didn't do homework, I came prepared:

“Danayamana Dhanurasana; Standing bow pose,” Sharif said from his perch in front of the mirrored wall. Sweat was printing out on his navy blue t-shirt like ribs.

I gave a shake to release any tension and wandering thoughts from my shining body. But then I got caught up in the mirrored wall we all faced. I raked back the straggly loose hair from my face and re-arranged my new neon pink gym bra. I watched the scrawny girl, wearing heavy waterproof make-up, in a black leotard in her usual corner spot at the front. I admired the sprawling, branching tree tattoo on the tiny Asian girl’s back in front of me. The other Fulham blondes wore expensive gym bras and bottom-defining spandex. Their diamond wedding rings lay on the floor next to them because the one hundred degrees farenheit atmosphere made us drip perfumed sweat that made them slip off their fingers anyway. The men remained bare back in nothing but soaked swim trunks and shorts.

Sharif continued soothingly into his microphone headpiece, “Try not to think about your heart racing in your chest right now. Try not to think about the sweat dripping in your eyes and tickling the little hairs on your body. Try not to think about what the other people around you are doing. Try not to compete with them.”

Everything he told me not to think about got me thinking about it. I breathed out loudly, sucked in my stomach to see my ribs in the mirror and tried to focus. This is your favourite pose. You’ve been practicing it all week. Get it right this time. Focus. Focus…

“Put your right hand out, palm facing up, like you’re a waitress holding up a tray, and lean into your left foot. Reach your right hand back to grab your right foot two inches from your toes. Lift your left arm high up in the air. STRETCH with it. REACH for that ceiling. That’s it. And when you’ve got perfect balance, lean your upper body forward.”

I started leaning immediately. The others weren’t far behind.
“REACH for that front mirror, WITHOUT looking at the people in the reflection. Focus only on yourself, and on the Standing Bow. Touch that front mirror with your extended arm. It’s okay if you don’t see your right foot behind you over your head in the mirror. In a few weeks, with practise, you will.”

It sure as hell mattered. But soon, without fail, I saw the red nail polish on my toes peak out from behind my high ponytail. I couldn’t help but look for everyone else’s toes while I lowered myself expertly.

“Maintain that perfect arch in your back, that bow. And keep that extended arm as straight as you can. That’s your arrow.”

The front row had become the perfect weapons that they were, looking at themselves in the mirror with low yogic gazes. It was so quiet, all you could hear was the shifting fabric of one of the men’s track shorts, and the steady dripping of sweat on the purple mat of the man next to me.

“Twenty more seconds.”

There was a groan in the left back corner as a woman lost grip of her leg. It slung back so fast that it made the man next to her lose his balance and fall agilely back onto his wet feet.

Shit, I thought. A tidal wave was gathering, as the people in her line of fire began to waver and lose balance, flinging their limbs around in vein to steady themselves. They all fell, one by one; a dead silent Mexican wave, coming straight at me. I looked away and ground my steady foot further into my mat.
“Keep reaching. Not long now.”

Two feeble poses away, another man fell. The man to my left remained strong, his eyes closed. But the wind, it was still coming.

“And….five, four, three…”

The cool breeze had reached me, a relief from the heat, but it swayed me. I fell in a huff.

WRITE FOR ME

Oh my gosh! I have THE most amazing photography to show you, but I think posting more than 4 posts in a day shows that I have absolutely no social life. So I'll post them tomorrow (in a few hours lol). But to be fair, the only reason I'm posting so much is because I'm majorly sick, as in honking when I sniff and waking up other flatmates. Anyway, being bed-ridden, listening to Blue Oyster Cult guitar solos and sipping on the vilest of teas (Lemsip Lemon Flavoured), got me to make this:

FICTION FRIDAY

RISE AND SHINE! The morning's a-waiting! I'm only acting like this because I am coming down from a severe sugar rush. I pulled an all-morning-er with my essays and am just about ready to crash. But I decided to throw some laundry in the wash so now I have to wait for those to finish or else my intimates will get inconsiderately thrown around by the unwashed miscreants that live on my campus.

I even went out last night to the last HEARTSREVOLUTION gig at Hoxton Square Bar and Kitchen, took three night buses home near 1am AND STILL pulled my all-morning-er. It is now 10am. The cleaner will come a-knocking in a few seconds. I knew if I went to bed she would wake me. And just in case I dozed off anyway, I put a sign on my door that says (kindly) that I won't be needing her services today, thank you! *smiley face*

So I'm set, for a little R&R until dinner with my dad this evening (he did a flight to london today and is staying overnight. He's a pilot). Am so looking forward to a decent paid for meal. And a good spoil.

DID I MENTION THE HEARTSREVOLUTION GIG? Yeah, it was awesome. I have some new artists and photos to introduce you to but not right now because I'm too tired to give a fuck.

It's funny how this post is titled Fiction Friday and I'm rambling on like this with any and everything but. I guess I just missed you guys...and well my brain's all sugary.

Okay so....FICTION FRIDAY IS HERE! This time I remembered. And I remembered that I said the first piece I would post is Agyness Deyn's favourite poem, that I found in the May issue of i-D that is completely devoted to her. So, here it is:

I WANNA BE YOURS
by John Cooper Clark

I wanna be your vacuum cleaner
breathing in your dust
I wanna be your Ford Cortina
I will never rust
If you like your coffee hot
Let me be your coffee pot
You call the shots
I wanna be yours

I wanna be your raincoat
For those frequent rainy days
I wanna be your dreamboat
When you want to sail away
Let me be your teddy bear
Take me with you anywhere
I don't care
I wanna be yours

I wanna be your electric meter
I will not run out
I wanna be the electric heater
You'll get cold without
I wanna be your setting lotion
Hold your hair in deep devotion
Deep as the deep Atlantic Ocean
That's how deep is my devotion.


Sounds like a Ramones song. I think it sucks.

HOSTAGE SITUATION INTERMISSION

I'm in the library right now, typing critical reflection essays and the like as if it's going out of style. Portfolio and essays deadline in two weeks then second year is over.

I just wanted to pop in and tell you all to anticipate the starting of a new section to my blog. It's going to be called Fiction Friday. Everday Friday, in an attempt to (maybe) entertain you at the same time as practising my craft, I will post a short narrative that either I wrote or that I read and pocketed from somewhere. I'm very excited about this and think it's the best idea I've had since going to sleep at regular people hours.

Okay. I've got to go. I'm supposed to be treating myself like a hostage, holing up in here for hours doing nothing but work and here I am on BLOGGER. Hostages don't let their captives check their text messages and stuff...*sigh*

HOLD THAT THOUGHT

I started bitching to my mom about cheerleaders and ambition and short stories, and while she was plucking on same fake eyelashes in front of her full wall bathroom mirror, she said, "Why don't you write about cheerleaders, then?"

*rolls eyes* Why do moms do ingenious shit like that?

WHAT IS AMBITION?

SO, in order to win a wad of cash (£1000 actually) from Harper's Bazaar, I have to write a short story about Ambition by April 11th, the same day I am handing in my entries for the Vogue Young Talent Contest for Young Writers.

I decided to look up the word Ambition, as a starting point, to see what pops up in my head. Dictionary.com says:

am·bi·tion /æmˈbɪʃən/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[am-bish-uhn] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun
1.
an earnest desire for some type of achievement or distinction, as power, honor, fame, or wealth, and the willingness to strive for its attainment: Too much ambition caused him to be disliked by his colleagues.
2.
the object, state, or result desired or sought after: The crown was his ambition.
3.
desire for work or activity; energy: I awoke feeling tired and utterly lacking in ambition. –verb (used with object)
4.
to seek after earnestly; aspire to.

I also decided to do some research on the competition and I'll be damned what came up on google. SOMEONE HAILING FROM MY UNIVERSITY WON THE 2006 PRIZE! AND I knew her. She's a very well known erotic writer in London, Debra Mehta, and she did a reading at our University's first major literary event last year (where I sadly won Best Dressed. Whatever happened to winning something for writing? But actually there were no prizes for writing anyways so no biggie.) Anyways, I guess the topic changes every year because I don't see how erotica can be classed ambition.

WHO THE FUCK CAN SAY ANYTHING GOOD ON AMBITION BESIDES CHEERLEADERS?! You guys have to help me. Give me some ideas, some sparks, some starting points. I really need this money*cough* I mean, this recognition. Okay jokes aside, I think daily readers of my blog know I would kill to make it as a successful writer. It's not really about money for me, or else my parents would've forced me to study medicine like I had originally planned. But you gotta admit, winning this competition and that money is a GREAT place to start. One of my favourite authors Zadie Smith won this (if you haven't read White Teeth and On Beauty yet, GET ON IT!). I actually wrote about Zadie Smith in my admittance essay for my University.Anyway, this website is really good for any and everything short and reader worthy (short stories). They've got upcoming competitions and lists of magazines that publish stories etc. You can also download some short stories here for reading pleasure.

TUTORIAL UPDATE

I made my lecturer cry.

I FUCKING LIVE FOR THIS SHIT

For the first time since October the sun rose on Saturday in the small town of Longyearbyen, Norway.

I stole this bit of article from StarTribune

Elke Morgner and Allison Bailey, two graduate students at the research institute here, were hacking though ice six miles outside of Longyearbyen this week to take measurements from the underlying tundra when they saw a sliver of sunlight peek around a mountain. Despite temperatures of 4 below (-40 with windchill), they put down their tools and stared.
Then, as they worked, the shaft of light grew to fill a large swath of the valley. On their way home, they made a beeline with their snowmobiles for the light. And there it was, between two mountains: the sun.
"Look at it!" they shouted in unison. "Look at it!" The scientists hugged, did little jigs in the snow, and then stood motionless, awe-struck. Back on campus in town, advance reports about the solar spotting filtered in, and other students headed off on snowmobiles to check it out.
"How did it look?" a student asked, as others clustered around a returnee peeling off his outer clothes in the lobby of the institute, University Studies in Svalbard, named for the island. "Beautiful," he said. Then he thought for a moment and added, "Bright!"

I can just imagine how much of a big deal that is. I would die out there, as I think I am one of those people with S.A.D. (Seasonal Affective Disorder), where the dreary London weather can fuck up my day. But all the same, ever since I sadly sat through 30 Days of Night, I have gained a sort of obsession with going out there, either Alaska or Norway, or any of the other Arctic towns that have to dish out alcohol ration cards to their pale inhabitants in the dead of constant night. I think as a writer, that would be a fucking awesome thing to sit through and moan about in a notebook. I can totally picture my diary entries.

Monday 6th January

Still no sun. I have already finished the one bottle of Jim Beam given to me for the week. I should go to Jack around the corner who makes really authentic fake liquor ration cards but he's probably out skiing. I'm screwed. I guess I'll go back to bed. Was that a vampire at my window?

I am so there...one of these days. I should start saving up for the expensive ass winter gear I am going to have to buy. The coats I buy in London hardly do shit because I choose them for fashion and price over function. So it really boils down to the coat I wear out there. Because if I'm freezing, and I haven't got any liquor, I'm going to give that town hell.

IT'S THURSDAY

My last blog post was Tuesday. Sorry. Ever since I had a tutorial with my Poetry lecturer about how much my poems are lacking imagery, vitality and the actual POINT of poetry altogether, I've been boozing like a maniac. But I CAN say I've been quite regular with my Japanese phrase of the day, as well as my Item of the Day. Ya, in case you missed the memo, those two topics have been moved to the right column and have their own little sections.

So after the bad news, which I was surprised to find that I didn't break down in the middle of hearing it, which would've been the old Kara reaction to life being hard, I went to this quaint American Diner for breakfast at lunchtime with my friend Sherel. Now, I am aware that these diners serve some awesome milkshakes, and they DID look awesome, and were the perfect indulgence for the occasion, but I was quite surprised and elated to find out that they had Pinot Grigio on their menu too, so naturally I had 3 glasses of cheap ass red that had no effect on me whatsoever. Only in Britain.

Failure to launch from my depression resulted in us next heading to Hammersmith where we ended up at Edward's. There, I manhandled two cocktails at the same time; a Junebug and an After Six. Sherel tried a Cosmopolitan for the first time and was surprised to find out that Carrie from Sex and the City liked it so much and felt cheated all these years that it wasn't a pleasure to drink. She should've trusted me as a former bartender on that one. Cranberry juice and Cointreau? LAME DOT COM! Plus I showed her how to hold it properly, from the stem, which after two sips like that, resulted in her toppling the glass. 'Fuck this'.

I got boozy again last night, which wasn't my intention, but the day was so drawn out and boring, and then I started watching my OC dvd's, and then I emailed my first ever boyfriend, NOT expecting to get a response back, but I did...and then there was Facebook friend requesting and back and forth emailing going on. But he's actually great, and we're having quite healthy conversation considering the situation (first person to ever dump me in my history of being dumped). I woke up and found that I had gained a friend, and lost one (Sherel, naturally. We got in another fight). Yuh know, the fight would've been way cooler to talk about if it involved slamming a door in someone's face instead of having to say I simply signed out of MSN Messenger and the fight was over. It would also be worth talking about if I hadn't expected it. She has anger management issues. And lastly, it would also be worth talking about if I even remembered it. SO THERE. WE ARE NOT TALKING. END OF STORY.

I finally freed my hair of its extensions. I am now wholly au natural, and loving it, especially how much my hair has grown over the year. I had an incident in Abu Dhabi when I first moved there and experimented with new stylists. Basically I had to cut all my hair off and start from scratch when they were done with me. And no, suing is not an option out there. But now, roughly a year later since the cut, I am now the proud owner of the almost-shoulder-length-hair length! I'm so happy. It's so healthy, and so thick, and so not all gone anymore! I'll do a before and after picture post when I actually get it professionally overseen first because right now it's all frizzy and shit. I'm not quite the wizard yet with my new GHD hair straightener.

SO, What's going on today? Well, I'm NOT going to the gym, I am NOT meeting Sherel like we planned to last night because we are now not talking, but I AM visiting Starbucks, and buying some needed toiletries for my trip (heading home on Sunday for Spring Break). I also have a major hour long tutorial with my lecturer where three of my short stories are going to sweat it out in the spotlight for her. I am so scared, considering the Poetry feedback earlier this week, and the fact that people have been reading my work and going 'It's interesting'. IT'S INTERESTING? INTERESTING is the stupidest most fucked word in the whole English language. PLEASE. I prefer for you to tell me you flat out hated the shit. Take it back. Tell me it sucked. Don't give a writer that crap; that my stuff is INTERESTING. PFFT! Annnndddddd....I'mmmm back to being normal. Sorry, I needed to get that out. I'm glad I managed not to call any names just then. *pats back*

And okay, I have a headache, so I am going to have a quick nap before Judgement Day.

HERE GOES...(sorry about paragraphing. stupid blogger)

Loss (Draft 4)
By Kara Martin

There was a death in the family. Nothing too scary, just cancer. All his children, and their children, waited so long for it to happen, that we eventually forgot it was supposed to happen anymore. That old man really challenged us. He just propped himself up on the porch every day and lived. But he didn’t.

I remember how it went. I came home on Thursday afternoon from violin workshop. It was summer but it was raining heavily.

“Mummy! Mum? Where are you?” I called. I found her on the phone crouched low over the varnished desk in her room. She was talking to someone about floral arrangements. “Mummy? Can I go to the beach with Dominique Lee on Saturday?”
“No. Sorry, you can’t.” She didn’t even look at me.
I paused, “Are we having some sort of huge boring party again? I don’t need to be here, you know. Those people just like telling me how they knew me as a baby and I have no idea who they…”
“You can’t go anywhere, okay? Not this Saturday.”
I began to get desperate. I really wanted to go. Summer was boring. “Is it because Dominique’s dad is a funeral director? I mean, I know some of the kids at school are freaked out by that but…” I stopped because she was staring at me as if about to hypnotize me; stock still with wide focused eyes.

So, that is how I found out. Apparently Lee’s funeral home had been trusted over the years to take care of all the deceased relatives I didn’t know anything about; the ones at those huge boring parties that patted me on the head with vein-strapped feeble arms and told me about my childhood, while I stood quizzically quiet. I managed to get out of workshop practice on the Friday, which was great because I could never talk to Dominique Lee again. I had already ignored several calls from her that afternoon. I figured my mother needed me. Not really. My four aunts and five uncles on her side were having a family meeting in the kitchen. The kettle whistled noisily all day. I hid away in my room so I wouldn’t have to fake emotion, and thought about Dominique popping into the basement to ask her father the square root of one thousand or something, and her seeing my grandfather naked on a cold steel table.

Saturday was the viewing of the body, which I had been dreading all night long the night before. I stood under the modest Lee’s Funeral Home sign. And just above it, I saw drawn purple curtains in a French window and figured it was Dominique’s room. Inside, grey chairs were lined up in a dozen neat rows, on a sea of grey carpeting, all within white walls. The chill of the room had me wondering if the cold was really from the air conditioning or from that other presence old people told you about. I walked up the aisle with my brother, sister and mother, past two dozen or so cousins, aunts and uncles, all dressed in varying shades of black and grey. Some had rushed over from their busy New Yorker and Londoner lives to see him one last time. Soft jazz could be heard from a little green CD player in the corner that one of my cousins had brought. At the front of the room lay my grandfather, the famous jazz pianist; the first person to teach lawn tennis in Trinidad; the ‘Captain Carib’ comic strip artist; the reason I played the violin with a fine-tuned ear and drew brilliant doodles in class that my friends, like Dominique, wanted to keep. Well now we weren’t friends, but…

Up there things were much more cheerful and lively, compared to where we were all sitting. Who was really dead here, and who was alive? He lay in this beautifully varnished open coffin amid fresh flowers and great lighting. But I wouldn’t have called it a coffin. It invited me to lie on its soft cushions, like a bed. The man lying in it looked the same as yesterday, the day before and on my ninth birthday; very dark, bushy eyebrows, short grey curly hair, droopy yet plump cheeks, the constantly creased forehead. He wore a nice bright blue plaid shirt and simple black trousers. Everyone around me conversed very loudly while I mentally picked out who would cry among us. I watched and waited for the afternoon’s sobbing fits to begin.

“He smells a bit funny, don’t you think?” My aunt blurted in her polished British accent, nodding her head incessantly and frowning. She wasn’t too far off, I thought.
One of my older cousins leaned in to me and whispered, “You know, they have to put on adult diapers on them because they’re obviously no longer in control of their bodily functions. Something like that.”
“Mr. Lee did an excellent job with his face. The make-up is subtle yet it makes him look so much healthier,” the sisters chimed.

A little girl in a grey chair placed near the coffin nodded at everyone and their comments. She wore a stunning light blue 60’s knee length dress. She sat small in her chair, her bottom lip hanging low and her eyes glazed and drooping. She looked like a lost whimpering dog, like me. She was probably thinking how unfair the world could, like me. Only then did I realise she had sleek, shiny, grey hair pulled back into a neat bun. And when she looked my way, I saw it was my grandmother.

Finally, the women started rummaging through their bags frantically and pulling out clean tissues that soon became soggy and dirtied brown and black from their heavy powder and eyeliner. My other siblings and relatives my age and younger sat at the back trying to look as sombre as possible, heads down, hands on laps, giving the elders some space. We were all strangers in that room, and did not belong there. I begged myself to cry. I made myself think of all the times I spent with my grandfather but they were all so uneventfully boring, and so few. I knew nothing about this man, and he knew next to nothing about me; not like my friends.

This is what I knew. When my mother parked the car in their drive, behind the run down powder blue Saloon, we were told to greet Grandad warmly and kiss him on the cheek. He would grunt a reply and we would run off to play. All he ever was was worn out and he sat with his eyes closed all day on the porch in the chair that was branded his own (we still have a little trouble deciding whether or not we can sit there). He dozed, listened to tennis and cricket on the radio, or one of his grandchildren read the newspaper to him, and he took medication. The only time he sat somewhere else was when he was in front of the grand piano, revisiting his jazz band solos. And you could tell his band was fantastic and really popular, by the way his fingers weren’t shaking, like they always were, and by the way he got mad when a little kid somewhere in the house was shrieking over his runs. Whether he knew I was there or not, I loved listening to him in the corner, eating sweet bread, which I was told he made, but didn’t believe. He was blind! But then…he was sitting playing “Take Five” in front of me…

I was jolted back to the present by my grandmother’s wailing and shuddering. She moaned and let out enormous sighs with drooping shoulders. She did breathing exercises, she screamed, she spoke to herself and she spoke to him. I was afraid that she was going to collapse, ending her life right there and then. I didn’t realise I was crying until I heard myself heaving great breaths and felt that my face was wet and burning. A few close girl cousins hooked onto me with their red eyes and took me outside.

The sun blazed and we were all choking on our saliva and tears whilst cars hissed past with loud music. And then I noticed Dominique. Two girls I knew from the Viola section were talking in the back seat of her older brother’s idling Honda Civic. I started to cry louder, and turned away. How could you? Betray me like this. How could you be the funeral director’s daughter? I turned back. She walked slower to look at me as she loaded a heavy wicker picnic basket into the trunk of the car. I couldn’t stop staring back at her, blurry-eyed and red-faced in my cousin’s arms. So I gave a crazy frantic wave, with my fingers stiff and splayed, just for the hell of it, to see what she would do. She hesitated, but waved back, quickly looking away again to grab the water floats and beach bags.

OLD PEOPLE

I've been thinking about the idea of aging a lot lately....well, more than usual. Every year since I turned 18 (ok so that only makes two years so far) I've been crying on my birthday. 17 will always remain one of the biggest, craziest, best years of my life (I doubt lol). I thrive off of the fact that people admire how much I've already done at such a young age. People over here are constantly amazed that I will be going into my third and final year of University at 19, and graduating at 20, ready to start a life in the US on my own; independent. But that is so useless to me. If only they knew the life I lived when I was younger. ULTIMATE OVER-ACHIEVER! And now that I think about it, I guess that's why I was bullied so much. Then, with my depression, I just stopped...achieving, period. I didn't give a shit. And I was the most popular kid around. EVERYONE wanted to be my friend, and they would still tell me how great I was, which made me even MORE depressed. And now, I feel all washed up. I want it back; the skills, the envy, the admiration. There are kids on here like Miss Couturable who make me feel like dirt. Anyways, I guess, reading this passage over now, I see that it has just been something I needed to get off my chest. I hope it makes me start working my ass off now. I AM NOT OLD. Someone please tell me. People laugh at me for crying on my birthday and I am not even legal in the US yet. Tell me. I HAVE A LOT AHEAD OF ME. I HAVE NOT YET LIVED. I AM NOT. OLD.

Yesterday, my parents and I were having a serious and seriously long discussion on Skype about my accommodation situation here in London. My particular course (Creative Writing) doesn't have exams in it so we finish the school year much earlier than everyone. This year, I'm finishing by the end of April, while people are staying on 'til June (SUCKS TO BE YOU!). But then, it also sucks to be me too in this case. Basically, I'm on campus, and have already paid off my accommodation fees for the Spring term, which means I'm set to fuck about in this room until 6th April. Then, the summer term begins..and we have to pay £868 to stay here from April 7th to June 5th. So...I emailed the accommodation officer to tell her I would be going back home on May 1st, and only staying 3 weeks into the summer term (which at £90/w I calculated would be only £270). She emailed me back to tell me I would still have to pay the whole thing. So I freaked. I started packing my suitcase and everything! Because I WASN'T DOING THAT!

Why is this related to old people? Well, my Grandfather is my only remaining London-based UK relative. The three other families I have to run to in the UK if I ever needed a place to stay are:
1. My aunt and uncle and their 4 kids who just moved to Cambridge
2. My aunt and uncle who live in Derby
3. My aunt and her two kids who finally got tired of London's ridiculousness and moved to Qatar a month later after being offered a job.

BUT! My dad told me his father (my grandfather) was back in Florida where he has another house. 'He told me he would be back since November!' I cried.
'Well, things happen. The house in Florida has serious flood damage so he is stuck there fixing it. Did you know, his wife, your grandmother's birthday is today and she fell and broke her collarbone? So he is staying longer because of that too. Please take some time today to call or email her,' said my dad.

So I do NOT know where I will be living in April, because of old people (yes, the accommodation officer is also old with a stern jaw and reminds me of Glenn Close's character in 'The Devil Wears Prada'). I. Hate. Her.

MORE OLD PEOPLE NEWS!
One of our assignments for class on Tuesday is to take a piece of writing we did back in Year 1 in our Life Writing class and try to re-write it the way we would like it to be written now; with regards to the knowledge we gained in the past year on what would work better for a story etc. So, over the past few days I've been looking at one about my grandfather dying called "A Death in the Family", now renamed "Loss". It was pretty good but I had a lot to change about it this time around. Instead of it being a real life event plucked from my youth, I sort of fictionalized it this time to make it more interesting. Because, really, all it was before, was me talking about my grandfather dying...and....whether we like it or not, people die all the time. So, I've been deep in the past recently, re-thinking that whole incident and what my grandfather's life was like. It's been a sad, pensive couple of days.

BUT he also helped me realise something! I don't think I told you, because I was afraid to do so before, but I am entering the Vogue Talent Contest for Young Writers this year and one of the entry requirements is a piece on someone who has been an inspiration to you, and that's been the toughest bit of the entry for me thusfar. Even though I don't know who the hell I am at 19 with severe mood swings, the 600 word Autobiography bit took me 45 minutes to write! And I am already ready with something to nail the 600 word contemporary arts review. But...now, I'm thinking I should talk about my grandfather as an inspiration.

I have also been inspired...by...I don't know what/who, I guess dead people everywhere, to share with you said short story. I've been so afraid all these years to share my work but Year 2 has really been an impactful, life-changing year for me so it turns out, I am now ready to share! I am now ready to get a move on with life, I guess. Which is great because I thought I would die before I ever got my work published because of my fear. But I AM YOUNG, and there is nothing I can do wrong at this stage. So, why not? What's the worst that could happen? (that was me trying to be positive about age). I'll post it in the next post since this one is dreadfully long.

WORDS OF WISDOM

"Sometimes there is just no way around it- we are boring and we are sick of ourselves, our voice, and the usual material we write about. It's obvious that if even goig to a cafe to write doesn't help, it is time to find other ways. Dye your hair green, paint your nails purple, get your nose pierced, dress as the opposite sex, perm your hair."

"Actually, one small prop can often tip your mind into another place. When I sit down to write, often I have a cigarette hanging out of my mouth. If I'm in a cafe that has a "No Smoking" sign, then my cigarette is unlit. I don't actually smoke anywah, so it doesn't matter. The cigarette is a prop to help me dream into another world. It wouldn't work so well if I ordinarily smoked. You need to do something you don't usually do."

"Borrow your friend's black leather motorcycle jacket, walk across the coffee shop like a Hell's Angel, and sit down and write. Put on a beret or house shoes and a nightgown, wear work boots, farmer's overalls, a three-piece suit, wrap yourself in an American flag or wear curlers in your hair. Just sit down to write in a state you don't ordinarily sit down to write in. Try writing on a large drawing pad. Wear all white and a stethoscope around your neck- whatever it takes to simply see the world from another angle."

My Goddess Natalie Goldberg, author of my 'March Book of the Month' on the right says the coolest things. Now, mind you, I don't think it's all that spectacular of an outfit but normally when I sit down to write I'm in a dingy hoodie and a bad mood. I started making a little effort when I head out to write in public. It makes me feel more like a writer for some reason, because people sort of expect a writer to look 'cool' and chill, snug in a cafe corner staring at you with a pen scratching his/her chin. This is what I wore last at Starbucks where I put forth a very fruitful three hour writing session, with the help of my Grande customized iced coffee.

I LOVE YOU

Because it was Ed's birthday and they had mistakenly put the Gu brownies in the fridge which you're not supposed to do and that made them hard, not gooey, and we were making a sundae, together, in the kitchen, with two flavours of ice cream that I chopped a banana into and you took a hard brownie, standing next to me with your sleeve grazing my arm, and grated it all over the ice cream and it looked meant to be.

SHEPHERD'S BUSH ADVENTURE

So, if it wasn't for my most amazing London friend Sherel calling me around noon saying she had problems and needed to talk to someone, I would not have gotten out of bed at all and had a 3 hour majorly productive writing session that harboured some raw and exciting bits of prose, and even some poetry, which I tend not to tamper with.

I sat in Starbucks waiting for her naturally fashionably late ass to show, with my Venti (I upsized expecting to be there ages, good call) Iced White Caffe Mocha, with which I customized by chucking the usual white chocolate syrup and replacing it with half cinnamon and half vanilla syrup. Yes, I know, it is genius. The word of the blogger. Thanks be to Kara.

I think I wrote about 6 A4 page sides of my notebook, which included planning out my next short story for my portfolio, a few Beat Generation-esque poems about love, descriptions of the people around me, and luckily there are a vast number of weird people lurking in Shepherd's Bush, and just general thoughts. I also decided that one of my interests is crab migrations on Christmas Island; ever since I was a little girl. I know. Leave me be. I've always wanted to go there and since I can't organize that anytime soon, I have decided to write a short story on it. Okay, you think I'm weird. Check it out for yourself.

I bet you're thinking, "Don't fricking tell us about your stories, show us!" My lecturers always say that, "SHOW, DON'T TELL!" Trust me, as time passes, and when they are finished being re-drafted and edited many times, I will let them go, release my babies, let them grow up in your minds. I promise.

For now, you can just have a look at my suicidal memory in my last post. And thank you, lovely Guerreira for commenting on my piece. It really made an already great day extra better, and who would've thought more joy could come to a day minutes to midnight?

After listening to the inspirational words of wisdom that my friend Sherel had to say about not giving up on being a writer and killing myself, we went to Chop Chop, where a plate the size of a hubcab of good Chinese food costs roughly £3. Go there. Nuff said. Then, we decided to catch a movie at the Vue. And we met a man.

"Sherel, what should we see? Jumper was shit, and sorry but I've seen Cloverfield, Sweeney Todd, Juno and Be Kind Rewind already."
"Well, hahahaha oh look! They finally brought out that movie with the ugly girl running from a car in underwear, 'All the Boys Love Mandy Lane."
"Well, do you wanna see that?"
"NO! Can I please spend my money wisely for once?"
"Well, I heard No Country for Old Men is wicked. It won best picture. Oh sorry, we're blocking this man."
"No Country is definitely a must-see girls, unless you're looking for a chick flick. No Country's a drama."
"I thought it was a thriller."
"Well, yes, both." Sherel gets scared. "It's not a spilling guts type of movie, it's pretty fucking weird...and brilliant. It's like a 'what the fuck' movie, yuh know?"

Well, yes, it is a 'what the fuck' movie, and What the fuck. It was brilliant. I didn't realise how hot Josh Brolin can be when he's not in a funny movie like Grindhouse. Apparently he wasn't even the one casted for the movie. It was his 67 yr old father actor James Brolin, but Josh showed up by mistake (HOW DOES THAT HAPPEN? HOW EMBARASSING!) Maybe I'm creepy for thinking I could have hot people sex with him, but Sherel liked him too, and we are pretty bipolar when it comes to guys. I mean, I helped her pick out a huge purple fake diamond 'bling' ear stud for her boyf today. Here are some other 'off' guys that I find attractive.

Anyway, unusually hot guys aside, this guy we met ('Call me Anthony, or Doctor Voice') was old+british+unattractive=not my type, but I REALLY liked him, in a 'I want to have awesome conversations with you' type of way. We talked to him for about 20 more minutes, well I did, not Sherel. She listened to us go on about movies and screenplays and movie scores (he writes movie scores and is actually quite famous) and how we secretly LOVED Cloverfield but didn't want anyone to know that (I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE!) and he was impressed with my movie knowledge and I was just so excited with HIM! Has anyone ever felt like that about someone? Like you just HAD to be friends with that person? I suppose it is sort of like Juno befriending Jennifer Garner's husband in the movie, or the relationship in Lost in Translation, minus the 'Ohmygod, I love you' bits in both. I was really sad that he just turned around and left the theatre after talking to us, and wanted him to join us. Is that weird? Sherel had to listen to me talk about him over tea for 30 minutes. Anyway, be sure to see his movie 'Prison Ship' when it comes out. I don't know anything about it or if it's any good but he claims people are calling it the Die Hard 5. Okay that probably doesn't make you want to watch it so I'll scope it out for you guys and report back.

DEPRESSION AND OTHER WEDNESDAY DEALINGS

Everytime I read Natalie Goldberg's 'Writing Down the Bones: Freeing the Writer Within' I am continuously amazed at how spot on she is about the writing self and the living self at the same time. They are these two friends walking together down a summery street, hand in hand, in battered Chuck's in Minnesota. And every word, the more times my finger brushes over them in the pale lamplight, has correlated with my life, in the most tight-knit of ways, too eerie for me to comprehend. Over the last two days, I have been hanging on her every word. I have been particularly working with this one exercise of hers called 'I Remember...' You can guess what you're meant to do. And after I tell you a little bit about me, just to set the scene, I will share with you one of my memories.

ABOUT ME
You don't know much about me but you've been reading my blog so I thought I would share a little. It's a healthy writing practice to share, Natalie says. So, my name is Kara Richelle Martin. I am now unfavourably 19 years old living in London and studying Creative Writing. I hail from Trinidad and Tobago, and a very comfortable yet unravelling childhood(I am still a child), with uncalculated levels of preteen alcoholism, journal entries, distance, misunderstandings and haziness. In 2006 my parents shipped us out of a criminally escalating homeland and put us to sit in an air-conditioned world of swirling dust, cigarettes, Hummers and hypocritical culture; Abu Dhabi in the Middle East. I live back and forth between there and the UK. I am an aspiring magazine journalist and novelist propped up on nothing but Starbucks and yoga, and in love with someone I cannot reach. I sleep. I write. Period. Ever since I was 14 I have had clinical depression. It has not been easy.

THE EXERCISE
I remember hearing my mother's heavy footfalls up and down the corridor, the crashing of a drawer full of keys as she rifled through it, looking for the spare one to my door. I lay in a ball under a yellow sheet whose fibers I was examining millimetres from my eyeball. I waited for her as she banged and shouldered my little white door with its chain locks, latches and keyholes. I waited for her to burst through it and save me as I slid between my sheets slowly to see the effect of it rising and falling, of the fabric gently caressing the little hairs on my body. It made me shiver throughout. Eventually, she did and I heard the wood and lock snap and fall away and knew of the lime green paint chips that fluttered to the ground where the door handle had smashed against the wall. I told her I was sleeping while I studied her throat; all the swallowing it was doing. She swallowed many things. The new rule was to never close my door again. I nodded, still wrapped in my sheets.
"Did you take your thing?"
"What's my thing?" I forced her to admit it; the truth of me.
"Your pill, Kara!"
"Yes, I took my Prozac; my lovely Lilly" I always wondered why each capsule said Lilly on it.
Helplessly, she left. She really had tried it all.

That is why I kept quiet, for her sake. I was free to ruminate now over my glazed wound; the volcanic spill. I never cleaned them; just watched, for days. I liked the way the curdled, hardened blood pulled my skin when I used my arm muscles, to lift a fork to my mouth, clench my fist, to write this. I liked the way it stuck to some of my clothes' fabrics, and got wisps of cotton tangled in it, that had to be unwound really slowly. They had set in like a maze, and CLUNG!

That movie Gigli taught me how to do it right, make it count, along the thick green cordy vein, where the blue blood swims, from the wrist all the way up. But to me, it wasn't about direction, or technique, poise or design, quantity of strokes, intensity of insanity or level of mental illness, number of vials of tears produced. It was about glorious blood flow. Red. I liked the way the cuts were pathetically never deep enough, but if you gave it a minute or two, the skin would blush madly, and through microscopic perforations, the blood would squeeze forth and bubble like a little chain of shiny beads.

During the scabbing stage they looked like stitches. Sally from the Nightmare Before Christmas, and I, had the same falling apart limbs full of tally marks, like on prison walls. "How many more days of this? Let me count." And oh, how these railroad tracks itched and made me want to scratch them to hell and back and make them burst open all over again. You could be mistaken for a heroin junkie with all that itching and scratching.

My scars usually faded away pretty well, but sometimes it was almost sickly refreshing to see the scars raised on my skin, like fresh plots in a cemetary; buried things, at least buried as far as they could go, still somewhat protruding from the fleshy ground.

WRITING RETREAT

I'm on a writing retreat todayyyy!
It seems The Craft is coming to me more and more frequently these days, the more material I read. WHO WOULD'VE THOUGHT?! lol j/k. So...since my lecturer has once again cancelled a session with her this week I must tutorialize myself!
I'm sure I'll be itching later and feel the need to write a post but for now, while I go sit in Starbucks penning and papering and timing my laundry cycle in the campus laundromat (since people like to throw your intimates out to use the machines), I'll leave you with this THING:

With Sincerest Regrets

Like a white snail the toilet slides into the living room, demanding to be loved.

It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets.

In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing.

And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you,

You belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace....

The toilet slides out of the living room like a white snail, flushing with grief....

-Russell Edson

Personally, I love the toilet, Apparently I like taking pictures with him around. Here we are having a moment: