Time

I'm not good enough. The list of things I would change about myself are as long as the phone book, and decidedly less interesting to read (and to write. As a favour to both of us, I will not enumerate them here). Ultimately, it's the length of the list that proved the biggest obstacle to my self-improvment; I get paralysed by the indecision. What's the biggest problem? What's the most urgent one? What needs long-term improvement? I have no idea. I hate lists.

I've always thought the "kid in a candy store" analogy didn't really encompass that moment: the moment when the kid clutches onto mum's skirt and hides their face because this is too many everythings.

I have, however, made a huge leap forward: I've targeted the one area that I really need to work on, and it's time management.

I've always been terrible at it. For the past 15 years, it's been the reason that I got incredibly creative with my excuses for having not done my homework. Remember this blog post? Of course you don't; it was seven freaking years ago (almost to the day), but it was by no means an isolated incident. Why do today what you can put off till tomorrow?

Maybe it's hereditary. My own family was habitually late everywhere. Memories of school mornings are a blur of stress and hurrying, trying to remember where in the chaos my shoes were.

One of the side effects of this perpetual lateness was that I am extremely paranoid about travel time. I am currently getting to work about an hour early in the mornings, just because the journey home sometimes takes a couple of hours. It's hard to calm myself down enough to actually leave home later in the morning. I prefer being early anyway, I tell myself. I don't get told off for being too early. I go for walks instead; mentally calculating and recalculating that, since it took ten minutes to get this far, I should allow twenty to go back. It doesn't make a lot of sense, I know.

Oh yes, that's a new development: work. I work full time in a call centre now; 36 hours a week, or thereabouts. So far I've had two weeks of training in customer service. I won't get paid until a month from now, due to fluctuations in the mysterious forces that govern administration. That's sad. I wanted money for my birthday this coming Tuesday. I'm deferring my celebrations until I am ludicrously wealthy a month from now. (This is my first full-time job; it will feel like affluence beyond reason to me!)

So my job isn't paying me yet, but what it is doing is forcing me to think harder about how I'm spending my time. If I want to catch up with friends, I can meet up with them in town for a couple of hours in the evening, or we can plan something on the weekend. That's it. No more spending a couple of days at a mate's house just because we've gotten addicted to a new cartoon. No more spending all day on tumblr, unless I've actively decided that that is what I need to do that day. (Sometimes that is what I need. Sometimes I crave the mental space to bumblebee around the internet, alighting on a topic for only so long as it takes my fancy.)

In other exciting (to me) news, a short story I wrote has been accepted for publication by the UK Zombie Defense League! I'll let you all know when it's out. I'm planning to buy the paperback and show it to everyone I pass for a month or two.

Here follows a miniature list of things I have been doing lately, in what I'll generously call my "hiatus":

• visited my family on the beautiful Isle of Wight
• saw Frankie Boyle perform, thanks to my lovely twitter-friend Meryl
• went to see Jonathan Coulton and Paul & Storm again
• discovered Gravity Falls and decided that Mabel is my soul twin
• the other stuff that I've already told you.

A few photos I've taken recently:

Judi, my big sister, who is crazy pretty and doesn't even know it

I finally managed to reattempt this after losing an SD card a few years back!

A helium princess. Blurry, but just about perfect.

To round things off and reward you for reading my witterings, here is a story told by Neil Gaiman, in which his family are more terribly late than mine ever were:

Might you be a feminist?

The other day, my friend and I slipped into one of our recurring conversations about feminism. Prompted by a couple of recent incidents (oh hey I forgot this one), we got talking about the label, and whether it's positive or negative, and what the implications are.

It's one of the subjects I get passionate about. After getting into the swing of my argument for a minute or two, I had to rein myself in, and I think I ended our conversation with "er but if you don't identify as a feminist I should probably stop telling you that you are one."

My friend is very aware of the way the world is. He knows that sexism exists, that women experience the world differently than men, that some aspects of the systems we live within are unfair and / or oppressive. However he rejects the word "feminist" because, in his mind, it reads as "man-hating female supremacist." (He's had some bad experiences with feminists in the past; what can I say.)

My good friend Paul has just written a blog post about this subject. He didn't formerly identify as a feminist, but now he does. It's an interesting read, and highlights a very important point: that's it's ok, even good, to let your views evolve. To change your mind about what you are, and what words mean. Labelling oneself is a flawed system, no doubt, but it's how the world knows what you stand for. I stand alongside those who believe in equality. I am a feminist. And I think perhaps it's even possible to be a feminist and not know it.

These pictures are via the spectacular ohdeargodwhy.

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.

Ukuleles and graffiti

My mum took me to see the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain! It was a lot of fun, they're probably the least serious orchestra out there (possibly tied with the Kazoo Funk Orchestra, I suppose). Here's an example of the sort of thing they do:



I also saw my first ever Banksy in the wild! It was this one; I couldn't get a photo as I was passing it on a bus, and it took me long enough to believe what I was seeing that there was no chance to get the camera out.

Luckily, I had a slightly more leisurely stroll down a road with some of the most exciting graffiti art I've ever seen. There were full pieces, reverse graffiti, even some yarnbombing!



More on my flickr, or on my facebook if you've got me there. But seriously HOW AMAZING are these... That last may become my motto.

Scrapes and japes

Last night, I was dragged out by my very loving friends. Knowing that I've recently made a decision that, while necessary, also completely sucks, they insisted on my company. Tiff made me pinky-swear, guys; it was that serious. We ventured into town for drinking and dancing, and I proceeded to have the most accident-prone night of my life.

Anna's list of minor wounds

1. Index finger: paper cuts, two. No idea how they happened, although I suspect my recent nail-biting is the culprit. Stung like crazy.
2. Knees: scraped. I fell over on the way into town (still completely sober!), and despite my leggings, took a layer of skin off. Standing up / sitting down hurts.
3. Hands: saved from my clumsiness by my unusual decision to wear fingerless gloves into town.
4. Face: elbowed by a 6'6" madman skanking at full speed. He apologised. Nose not broken.
5. Arm: bruised by being hugged into a wall by aforementioned madman. Hurts a lot but isn't visible, which is the worst kind of bruise as you don't even get kudos.

Tiff used her nursing experience to field-dress my knees with tissue paper from the ladies'. That's not so unusual for me; a few months ago I treated a pretty deep wound at a house party with makeup pads and sellotape because nobody there owned plasters. I still have an interesting purple mark on my knee from that one.

That was the first time I've been out dancing in quite a long time, and I went for it wholeheartedly, inhibitions significantly lowered by a couple of rum and cokes and the smoke machine that obscured my flailing completely. The people I went with were absolutely lovely; I got talking to someone about graffiti; he's hopefully going to email me some of his art for me to have uninformed opinions about.

Various people pulled / passed out / puked, ultimately returning to our house and crashing. It's quite nice, at times, to come downstairs to a living room full of people who are still drunk / barely conscious / insistent on us all returning to their house for "mystery hot chocolate."

It was very mysterious.

   I kind of ache all over.

      Still, at least it took my mind off -
       - oh man... this sucks.