Seven

Happy seventh birthday, blog!

If this blog was a child it would be learning to write, and reading more and more complicated books... and costing considerably more money than it is! Pros and cons, you know.

Web hosting isn't terribly expensive, and I'm glad of that. It means I'm not forced to make this blog worth anything, you see. No ads, no regular updates, no pushing and striving to increase my readership, because truthfully - I'm sure you've noticed - it isn't really for anyone but myself.

It won't always be that way. I go through phases, and I'd like to make this place a little bit tidier, a little more entertaining - I need to give some serious thought to the design and layout and (let's be honest) the quality of the content, but there's no hurry as I see it.

I'm seeing my parents tomorrow. That's going to be good.

Denim

I've written a few posts on fashion before, and they've almost all revolved around how some people do dreadful, DREADFUL things to jeans. However, today I saw this photo of Sandra Bullock:

... which actually delighted me. Reminds me a little bit of these old jeans of mine:

So, yes. If jeans look like they've been hastily constructed from fabric samples, I am all about that.

The picture's part of this article, "41 regrettably tacky photos of famous people." YMMV, I think some of them are delightful, the above included... though I'm inclined to agree about all the ones where the subject's knees look like they're not on speaking terms.

What a palaver

What a strange day. Called someone out on a lazy sexist stereotype, in a civil way that totally left it open for discussion, and she told me to fuck off and left the way open for anyone who agreed with her to weigh in which they duly did. Wil's right; it's clearly troll season.



NEVER MIND HAVE A PUG THAT CAN'T RUN

 

Searching again

Everything has changed again.

How is it that I can feel as though I've done nothing, when in fact since my last post I've been illegally evicted, left Cardiff, moved in with my friend Dave and his parents, seen an opera about Nelson Mandela's life, written several poems, been dancing, filled out needlessly detailed job centre forms (it's just a change of address, for pete's sake) and several other things that escape me just at this moment?

It's always the same. As soon as I stop moving, it feels like I've accomplished nothing, been nowhere. I can only attribute this to a mercifully short emotional memory.

The job centre in Penarth is very different to the one I went to in Cardiff. Not that people weren't friendly in Cardiff, they were; but I asked three different people there on several occasions to take a look at my CV and let me know what they thought, and nobody did. The lady I'm talking to now, Jan, she seems golden. Actually offered to send an email on my behalf to a contact at a company that I'd be very excited to work with. So, we'll see, maybe I shouldn't give up just yet.

In truth, though, I'm starting to see that very few people get where they want to be by following the pre-ordained, tried and tested, government-sanctioned route. I've been hoping for some miracle dream that will tell me which direction to strike out in. Now's the time to do it, you know? Whether it's music or video-editing or writing or whateverthefuck, there's no better time than now to decide that I'm going to do it. Only... I can't decide what the thing is. What do I love enough to do every day?

I'm pretty sure I'm getting some of this from Ray Bradbury. He died on the 5th, 16 days ago, and it seems like he left behind enough pearls of wisdom to keep me thinking for a long while.

Don't think. Thinking is the enemy of creativity. It's self-conscious, and anything self-conscious is lousy. You can't try to do things. You simply must do things.

I know you've heard it a thousand times before. But it's true - hard work pays off. If you want to be good, you have to practice, practice, practice. If you don't love something, then don't do it.

If you don't like what you're doing, then don't do it.

But then... he did also say "we've got too many Internets." So I don't know.


I keep winding up back here, wondering what to do with my life, and I'm sorry for that. It must get repetitive for you; I know it does for me! But in the meantime, I've got a book of poetry to finish, a short story to write, a script to hammer out and a lot of real life to fit in around that. Wish me luck.

P.S. I think Cardiff council have gone clean-wall-crazy; walls that I'd expect to be plastered in graf are bafflingly silent. Am making do with the occasional found tag, but there's a legal wall on the bus route between Penarth and Cardiff that's a splash of dynamic colour. I always stare at it until I'm taken out of sight. Hope to get some pictures for you (well, alright, mostly for me) soon!

Silver linings

Today has been... not great.

It started off badly because I dreamed of my ex with his new lady, which I readily confess is my fault for rereading old emails yesterday. He was describing what he imagined our daughter would look like. I know, why not just stab myself in the face, right? It's like I have no comprehension of consequences.

Then I read Kim Rhodes' most recent blog entry. Let me tell you, I love this lady, and not just for being in Supernatural - she's funny, charming, ludicrously down-to-earth and does not deserve even half the shit that's been thrown her way. I haven't commented on this post. I really am at a loss for words. None of the standard platitudes really seem to apply in this case, but on the off-chance that she ever sees this: Kim, you're an inspiration; write whatever you need to and I'll be reading.

Since then it's been a blur of packing for storage, getting threatening letters and bemusing visits from our landlord. Did I tell you our basement flooded? Probably not, it happened just after the rant about the door went up.

Luckily I've got dozens of little silver linings in my friends, without whom I really would have thrown in the towel by now.

They cheer me up, look out for me, offer me places to stay. They make cups of tea and offer words of wisdom on twitter. They link me to footage of lizards and websites about cats to cheer me up. I also found this gorgeous playlist (Spotify link) by an old friend that has been slowing my heartrate down a little.

So to all my silver linings (and, if you're reading this, chances are you're one): Thank you. I love you.

When it's a jar

Some of you might be aware of the ongoing problems we've been having with our landlord / letting agencies (yes, plural). I've been keeping quiet about it on here because, honestly, the thought of writing down everything that's gone wrong is so bone-deep tiring that I'd sooner walk into traffic than lay it all out for you.

But, as a microcosm, as a focal point for all that negativity, how about we talk about the living room door?

• When we moved in, there was a cream-painted door with a blurry window in it. The handle was slightly shonky, but it was otherwise fine.
• When we got the lady from the council round to make a bullet-point list of things that needed to be fixed, the door made it onto that list. It's not a fire door, you see, and because our living room is open onto our kitchen, it needs to be a fire door.
• So they replaced the cream door with a plank of featureless wood.
• It's gradually becoming a fire door, so we're assured, but right now it presents more of a fire hazard. It's not sealed around the edges, so it's not fulfilling that function anyway.
• They eventually added a handle - the same cream-painted shonky handle from the old door. Looks out of place on the unpainted wood, but whatever, a handle is a handle.
• Then they added a closer, so the door closes itself, and requires a bit more muscle to open. Also fine.
• Well, today the handle fell off.

I have blocked the door open with a beanbag because if it closes now, we won't be able to open it.
Because it has a closer.
And no handle.
And still isn't a fire door.

My housemates are all pretty fed up of this place, so in an attempt to soften the blow, when I texted them warning not to move the beanbag, I ended it with *sad trombone*... but I don't think it helped.