I was going to write this last night but I was tired and emotional and I’m glad I didn’t now. However, after having a good night’s sleep, I am going to write about it, but hopefully in a way people can understand and in a way which doesn’t make me sound like a whining, attention-seeking child.
Last night, I saw all of my college friends in the same place for what will be the last time before we’re scattered off around the country to university. I think it’s pretty safe to say that things are never going to be the same again, there are people I will never, ever see again. People I spent the last 7 years of my life around, in some cases. Some of them I’ll miss terribly, others… well, don’t let the door hit you on the way out springs to mind.
Last night was presentation evening, which is an evening at our college, where parents, teachers, and students alike gather together in a “well, you made it through college” kind of way. We have one every year, but this was the big one because it marked the end of a long, and occasionally difficult, journey. In short, awards are given out and everyone claps a lot.
Last night, I received my BTEC Diploma in art and design, walked across the stage in front of bored students and parents, shook my course co-ordinators hand and walked off again, only to sit down and get a numb arse and hands that stung from clapping.
However, there was wine afterwards. So it wasn’t all bad.
Sitting there watching wave after wave of students climb the stage and having to clap every single one of them in turn made me realise something: Presentation Evening is just another one of those things my school/college organises in order to celebrate the achievements of their students and yet it ends up having the exact opposite effect on me. I always walk away with a bitter hatred of myself and everyone else.
Now, I should state here that I don’t usually hate myself and the rest of humanity, I’m the kind of person who likes to find the silver lining in things, smiling is better than frowning and fun is better than misery. It is just Presentation Evening that turns me into a snivelling emo child. (Although I did go there when I was much younger than I am now, but that’s a story for a different day.)
And at last, I think I’ve found the reason why it bothers me so much. It’s the inequality of the whole evening. Which isn’t to insult anyone who won an award, not least my friends who thoroughly deserved theirs, it’s just… well, I’ll use the example of one young man (who my dad commented will probably be the next David Cameron and I’m inclined to agree) won four awards last night. Two subject awards, the Extended Essay award and the Principles cup. I spoke to him after and he said he hates winning them, and I can believe it. We used to be in the same form, and every single presentation evening that I have witnessed, he’s won at least two awards. Not to mention he was Prom King, (which was chosen by the teachers, and nowhere near as a big a deal in the UK as it is in the States, but still…) and was an ambassador at the modern UN.
I think what I’m trying to say, is that with my school, you either are or you are not. My boyfriend is (he’s won the Principles Cup twice, for God’s sake!) I, apparently, am not. Mostly, I’m fine with that, I do enough, I get good grades, I got into my dream university. I’m fine with no recognition for every single other evening of the year.
But when it comes to presentation evening. It bothers me and it bothers me terribly. I want to win something, I want credit for those months and months I quietly worked my arse off. I want someone to recognise my talent, because I am talented, I know that. No, I’m condemned to the realms of those who never quite made an impression, good or bad. Those who never got into trouble, but were just never quite worthy enough to be praised.
I’m sure in a few days I’ll go back to being fine with my mediocrity, but right now, it’s eating away at me, piece by piece.
- Katie xx
Friday, 17 September 2010
Monday, 13 September 2010
The slow tick-tock
Good Afternoon!
I've got a whole 7 days until I start university. I'm bored. Terribly, terribly bored.
It's gotten to the point where the world seems to be moving irritatingly slowly. I cannot remember the seconds drawing out like this before. It's bothering me.
I'm making genuinely obvious observations. My fingernails are green. My eyes are blue. My antivirus software has discovered 79 potential risks.
I'm running a thorough background scan in case y'know, Osama is hiding somewhere within my temporary files.
I don't think I'd be so bored if it wasn't for all of this My Chemical Romance WTF-ery going on at the moment. (Should you be intrigued by my previous sentence, please visit Girl Automatic and get a comprehensive list of all the goings on there.) it seems it gets to around 10 or 11 o'clock, occasionally midnight (which is about 6 o'clock central time in the US) and things start to happen. So I've been staying up late to keep up and now I'm just tired. Tired and bored.
Even the little flag on my taskbar isn't telling me that there are URGENT MESSAGES WHICH MUST BE SOLVED RIGHT NOW!!!!! (Which I managed to ignore for almost a year without any problems.) because I clicked it and listened to it's advice. Now it's stopped flashing red X's at me.
Perhaps if I was this bored all the time I'd have a tidy room.
Hm. I still doubt it.
- Katie xx
I've got a whole 7 days until I start university. I'm bored. Terribly, terribly bored.
It's gotten to the point where the world seems to be moving irritatingly slowly. I cannot remember the seconds drawing out like this before. It's bothering me.
I'm making genuinely obvious observations. My fingernails are green. My eyes are blue. My antivirus software has discovered 79 potential risks.
I'm running a thorough background scan in case y'know, Osama is hiding somewhere within my temporary files.
I don't think I'd be so bored if it wasn't for all of this My Chemical Romance WTF-ery going on at the moment. (Should you be intrigued by my previous sentence, please visit Girl Automatic and get a comprehensive list of all the goings on there.) it seems it gets to around 10 or 11 o'clock, occasionally midnight (which is about 6 o'clock central time in the US) and things start to happen. So I've been staying up late to keep up and now I'm just tired. Tired and bored.
Even the little flag on my taskbar isn't telling me that there are URGENT MESSAGES WHICH MUST BE SOLVED RIGHT NOW!!!!! (Which I managed to ignore for almost a year without any problems.) because I clicked it and listened to it's advice. Now it's stopped flashing red X's at me.
Perhaps if I was this bored all the time I'd have a tidy room.
Hm. I still doubt it.
- Katie xx
Friday, 10 September 2010
I'm a Slave Unto the Mercy of your Love
I’m sitting in the passenger seat of a car. How I got here I can’t remember, why I’m here I can’t discern. The driver is a man, but everything about him is nondescript, his clothes are plain, his face is one I find I cannot commit to memory. I glance in the rear view mirror, on the back seat is a couple wearing tuxedos, they are kissing. I blush slightly and look away.
I try to look out of the window, tall hedges rush past, framed by an endless blue sky. We crest a hill and for a moment an opulent manor house is visible over the artificial horizon. I shift restlessly in my seat, craning my neck to better see our destination.
No sooner have I sat back than the car slows down, in front of us on this tiny, winding stretch of country road a red Ford Sierra is parked, horsebox in tow. The car fills with the acrid scent of smoke, I look behind me; the couple have stopped kissing and are now sharing a cigarette, which, I think idly, is almost the same thing.
There’s a tap on my window, I jump out of my skin. Standing outside is a woman, her hair is an elegant cascade of chestnut pincurls, she wears a long yellow coat, her left hand buried in her pocket. She opens my door and gestures that I get out. Dumbly, I comply.
“You made it.” She says in a soft Italian accent, almost emotionlessly. It seems to me that she doesn’t actually care that I made it, this is simply a statement of fact. “Follow me.”
She leads me up the ramp into the horsebox, and bolts the door behind us, we stand in the dark, the seconds draw out. Her perfume mingles with the scent of horses.
“I have a question for you; can you tell me the name of your first love?”
I blink, but in the dark the difference is almost impossible to determine “Sure… Evelyn, his name was Evelyn.”
“His?” She sounds incredulous.
“Well, yes, it’s a boys name and a girls name. It means the desired.” I mean to sound nonchalant but it comes out wistful.
She makes no reply, instead, I hear her walk away from me, the sound of straw beneath her feet. She flicks a switch and a turquoise dress is illuminated.
“Fashion is torture, right?” She says with an empty smile. “I’ll leave you alone to change.” She unbolts the door, leaves and shuts it again behind her, her footsteps grow ever quieter with the seconds.
I sigh and survey the garment before me: it’s awfully pretty, not something I’d ever choose to wear myself; the bust is too low and the hemline too high, and there are no sleeves. I run the fabric through my fingers. It’s satin.
It dawns on me as I change that I have absolutely no idea why she had asked me about Evelyn or indeed why I’m here at all. I had not thought of Evelyn in some weeks now, I had thought I was over him, but the very mention of his name sends a sharp pang of regret through my heart.
I slip the shoes on as the horsebox starts to move. I stumble slightly, gripping the slats in the side for balance. The world beyond rushes by; gold fields and green trees, the sun hangs low in the sky, A kestrel makes wide circles in the yawning sky.
And then, very suddenly, the world goes black. I’m plunged into the most velvet darkness, so deep I scarcely realise my eyes are open. The horsebox pulls gently to a stop and the door opens. By the light of her digital watch the woman takes me by the hand and leads me out into the unknown.
As we begin to walk my eyes adjust to the dim light, I am in a vast warren of caverns, the air is cold and damp, water drips icily onto my bare shoulders. I shiver.
“My name is Francesca Tosa.” She says “I was an opera singer, have you heard of me?” She asks.
“I confess, I don’t really follow opera.” I admit sheepishly.
She looks at me and tuts before moving on. “We’re deep underground.” She gestures widely around us “this used to be a diamond mine, but no diamonds were ever found here. These days it’s something of a secret. Very few people know it’s here.”
We turn a corner and emerge into a vast cavern, sunlight streams in chinks from somewhere high above, casting dancing shapes onto a subterranean lake. On the far shore fires burn and silhouettes move through the light. A few feet away is a small rowing boat, Francesca leads us to it and begins to row.
We have gone a little way when she pipes up again “I need you to answer a question, listen close, it is important.” I straighten visibly. “Tell me, are you heartbroken?”
“N-no” I stutter automatically, hoping I’ve given the right answer, something about this woman terrifies me, there’s something in her eyes that makes me measure the depth of the water beneath us and the distance to shore.
Francesca sits back and keeps rowing “Good.” she says passively “You’d be no use at all if you were heartbroken.” I let out a breath I had not realised I was holding, “You can recognise the heartbroken so easily” she continues gazing out at the far shore, the fire reflected in her eyes “I mean, look at them.”
I look closely at the figures on the shore; they are human, howling, screeching and wailing, but human. They are dressed in their finest, but they seem to have been that way for a long time, their clothes are outdated and tattered, hair is unkempt and the girls’ make up streams down their faces as if they have cried so long they can no longer count the days. All dressed up with nowhere to go I think solemnly.
Francesca takes a loaf of bread from under her bench and begins breaking it into pieces, throwing it in the direction of the humans, they snatch the pieces from the air and fight for the bits that fall to the ground. My chest feels tight and a sadness I cannot place grips me for a reason I can’t remember.
“Every time a person falls in love” Francesca says once she is all out of bread “they run the risk of being heartbroken. That’s why these colonies exist, it gives them someone to talk to.” She smiles like these distressed people trapped in this gloomy, dripping cave is a good thing. I move my eyes to my lap.
She rows closer to the shore and helps me out of the boat. Once we are on our feet she indicates a cave not far from where we stand, above the mouth neon writing, which has seen better days, reads: The Tunnel Of Love.
“You must enter The Tunnel Of Love, go up the rope ladder and into a kitchen. Ask for Steve.” She shouts her last words over the howling of the humans around her, something seems to have whipped them into a frenzy, I feel like I should fear them but I only feel sorrow. “Go, go quickly, before they get you to play Twister.”
It’s dark inside the tunnel of love, so dark, I brush my fingers against the walls and lead myself by touch. I stumble once, I seem to drown in the sickening feeling of falling before I steady myself.
I feel as if I have been walking for miles, but it must’ve only been 30 feet, behind me I still see fires burning. I think of Evelyn, the colour of his eyes and the way his graceful hands that glide through the air in elegant little circles when he speaks of something he cares about. I wonder with a sad little smile if he’s thinking of me as I think of him.
Eventually, I see a shaft of light illuminating the fabled rope ladder like it’s an ascension to some heavenly place. I grip the closest wrung and look upwards, the light comes from a toy torch, attached somehow to the top of the tunnel. I inhale deeply and begin to climb, the ladder swings horridly at first, it’s so difficult to get a proper foothold in heels. All too soon I reach for the next wrung of the ladder and find that I am at the top, above me is a trapdoor, barely big enough for me to squeeze through.
I haul myself through on the palms of my hands and land in what has to be the least ladylike manner. Around me I see steel countertops and shelves full of beans and custard powder. Across the kitchen a portly man wearing sandals with thinning grey hair looks at me curiously, a knife clutched in his hand. He’s chopping liver.
“Um… Hello.” I smile nervously and scrabble to my feet.
He looks me up and down “Hello.”
“I-I’m looking for Steve” my voice is drowned out by his chopping.
“Pardon?” He scrapes the liver into a dog bowl.
“Steve.” I repeat “I’m looking for him.”
The chopping man smiles sadly “Well you’re in luck.” He pierces another piece of meat with the tip of his knife and holds it up so I can see. “You found him… well, his heart at least.”
I frown, inside, part of me begins to scream. “What?”
He doesn’t seem to hear me “Unfortunately, Steve’s heart wasn’t broken, so now it’s only fit for dog food. I’m just chopping it up for Dido.”
“T-That’s human heart?” My voice is so small I barely hear it.
He looks as if he is about to reply, but then he stops, sniffs the air. “Horses.” he says, his eyes focused on a place I cannot see, remembering. “And a certain perfume.” He focuses back on me “Do you know a woman called Francesca Tosa?” He tries to keep his voice light, but there’s an edge to it.
“Y-yes, I’ve just been with her. Why?”
He shrugs, his eyes cloud with tears. He shakes a thick finger in the air and turns away from me, heading towards a greasy old phone mounted on the wall. He dials an internal number.
“Hello? Yes. Inform Lockheart that the Italian is on the premises.” He hangs up abruptly and walks back to me.
A long moment of silence passes before he composes himself enough to speak “My name is the Weeping Butcher, Francesca was my lover.” His voice quavers slightly towards the end of his sentence. “I was in cookery school in Verona when we met, she was an amateur Soprano.” He chuckles hollowly, a single tear escapes him and rolls down his fat face. “She’s a lesbian now. She doesn’t want me any more.”
I tilt my head, fighting the compulsion to touch his arm or do something, anything, to console him. “And you never really got over her?” He shakes his head, tears pepper his purple smock. I try to smile comfortingly but it feels sickly “I know how that feels.”
“My real name is Carol.” He tells me with a sniff “But no one calls me that any more.” He turns away, hiding his face, he taps the side of the dog bowl with his knife, the metallic sound cuts through the air like invisible ammunition. “Dido.” he calls, it takes me a second to realise he’s talking to the dog. “Dido, din dins.” Into the room lollops a gold-bellied Doberman, hungry and slobbering. The Weeping Butcher puts the bowl on the floor and she begins to eat up the innards of poor Steve. I purse my lips and look away.
He turns back to me his shoulders slumped “I wish I hadn’t told you my real name now.” He sighs “It’s a girls name. It’s embarrassing.” He’s leaving before I can offer any comfort. “You can do whatever you like, listen to my Walkman, or take Dido for a walk, there’s a poodle in the garden she likes.” Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in the kitchen with a dog hacking up pieces of human heart. I feel sick all over again, only now I feel hopeless too.
Dido does not have a real lead, something I discover after searching the entirety of the pokey little kitchen, I rifle through cupboards of cutlery and Clingfilm, baking paper and turkey basters. The best I find is a drawer full of shoelaces all tied together and with a sigh, decide that it will have to do. I tie one end to her collar and wrap the other around my hand.
I scratch her head “stupid dog” I tell her as she blinks dumbly at me.
She half leads, half drags me through a manor house, the very same one I’d glimpsed in the distance on the drive here. We reach a wide, elaborate conservatory and a scruffily dressed boy brushes past me.
“Sorry” I mumble.
“Evelyn.” He mumbles in return.
I stop dead and watch him walk away, “Stop!” I call when I have regained my voice “What do you know about Evelyn?”
He looks at me blankly with slumberous eyes. Dido begins to bark at something I’m not looking at and tugs at her make-shift lead. “Everyone around here knows about Evelyn” he replies in a matter-of-fact tone. “Follow me.”
Dido tugs harder and the shoelaces snap, she darts away and I’m torn between chasing her and following the ragged young man. I dither helplessly on the spot, before eventually letting my burning curiosity get the better of me. “Wait!” I call and break into a run after the boy in the burgundy blazer.
He leads me through the garden, past a group of gymnasts making a human pyramid in the last of the light. There is a lake in front of us, he sits down and begins tracing shapes in the dirt. I crouch down next to him.
“What do you know of Evelyn?” I ask again.
“I know that he’s here, and you’re going to have to write him a song.” Evelyn’s here.
“Where’s Evelyn?” My heart races with the thought of him, the way he smiles, the feeling of his hand in mine.
He shrugs, he does not make eye contact with me “where is not important, it’s the why that matters.”
“Why is Evelyn here, then?”
“They say that there is a cocktail that can cure heartbreak.”
“And?” The desperation in my voice shocks me.
He finally meets my eyes “And you’re going to have to write a song to keep him.”
I laugh, it sounds wild around the edges “A song? I can’t sing, I can’t even rhyme!”
“Well you can always sell your soul for the ability to play keyboard.” The colour of his eyes are the last moments of sunset “Well? Would you do it? Would you sell your soul for the ability to keep the one you love?”
In the distance I hear the gymnasts cheer as they end their practice for the day “yes.” I breathe. “Yes, I would.”
He almost smiles “correct answer.” From somewhere under his coat he produces a little Casio keyboard.
“That’s it?” I turn it over and over in my hands “I sold my soul for this? Clearly souls don’t get you much in this economic climate…”
“Don’t knock it.” He replies, getting to his feet “it’s a perfectly good instrument.” We begin to walk away I steal one last look back at the lake, his absentminded patterns in the dirt spell a word: devotion.
I look back and he’s gone. I scan the darkening garden for and sign of him, but he seemed to have faded into the air. I wonder dimly if he existed at all, the little Casio keyboard in my hands tells me that he did.
I turn into an open side door of the manor and find myself in an ostentatious staircase, paintings of people I once knew; family and friends adorn the walls in gilt frames. Statues of people I met briefly, taxi drivers, waiters, people from coffee shops stand solemnly, staring. Their marble eyes everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I reach the top and find myself on the roof. Evelyn stands a little way away, his face in profile. The last traces of sun illuminate his delicate features, he’s every bit as beautiful as I remember him. In his hands he holds a cocktail glass full of a translucent, red liquid.
“Evelyn!” I call to him but he doesn’t hear, separating us is a vast mountain of books, all paperbacks. I reach out and take one, the cover announces proudly that it is called The Ballad of Peter and Stavrula. I put it down and pick up another, the dog-eared cover reads Love in the Time of Dog Food. And so it goes on, they are all romance novels. The last one I pick up is called Don’t Let Go. I do a double take; my name is on the cover. I put it back down and begin to climb.
The mountain shifts under my feet but I do not stop, I climb until the evening wind catches in my hair.
“Evelyn!” I call again. He looks up at me now, his dark hair shines, he smiles sadly at me.
“I wondered how long it’d be before I’d see you again.”
“I’ve missed you, Evelyn.”
He bites his lip “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
“Why?” I can hear my heart beating in my ears
He takes a deep breath “Because it’s over, I’m sorry, I need to move on. We can’t deal with heartbreak forever.”
I go cold, I feel like I’ve been shot through the heart. “B-but…” I stammer uselessly.
He shrugs “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s over.” In his hand something yellow glitters, a match, “We have to burn this place down.” he casts it onto my mountain, my stronghold. The flames begin to crackle warmly. He looks at me with apologetic eyes and starts to walk away.
I grit my teeth, the flames will take a while to reach me up here, so I sit down, rest my keyboard on my lap and strengthen my resolve.
“Wait! No, Evelyn, Stay!” He turns back to me one last time, my fingers strike the keys with a strange grace and urgency, I draw in a breath and begin to sing my last song, my song for Evelyn.
(Based on my Hurts journey, to carve your own path search A5M4 in your Spotify search field. More information on Hurts visit their official website)
I try to look out of the window, tall hedges rush past, framed by an endless blue sky. We crest a hill and for a moment an opulent manor house is visible over the artificial horizon. I shift restlessly in my seat, craning my neck to better see our destination.
No sooner have I sat back than the car slows down, in front of us on this tiny, winding stretch of country road a red Ford Sierra is parked, horsebox in tow. The car fills with the acrid scent of smoke, I look behind me; the couple have stopped kissing and are now sharing a cigarette, which, I think idly, is almost the same thing.
There’s a tap on my window, I jump out of my skin. Standing outside is a woman, her hair is an elegant cascade of chestnut pincurls, she wears a long yellow coat, her left hand buried in her pocket. She opens my door and gestures that I get out. Dumbly, I comply.
“You made it.” She says in a soft Italian accent, almost emotionlessly. It seems to me that she doesn’t actually care that I made it, this is simply a statement of fact. “Follow me.”
She leads me up the ramp into the horsebox, and bolts the door behind us, we stand in the dark, the seconds draw out. Her perfume mingles with the scent of horses.
“I have a question for you; can you tell me the name of your first love?”
I blink, but in the dark the difference is almost impossible to determine “Sure… Evelyn, his name was Evelyn.”
“His?” She sounds incredulous.
“Well, yes, it’s a boys name and a girls name. It means the desired.” I mean to sound nonchalant but it comes out wistful.
She makes no reply, instead, I hear her walk away from me, the sound of straw beneath her feet. She flicks a switch and a turquoise dress is illuminated.
“Fashion is torture, right?” She says with an empty smile. “I’ll leave you alone to change.” She unbolts the door, leaves and shuts it again behind her, her footsteps grow ever quieter with the seconds.
I sigh and survey the garment before me: it’s awfully pretty, not something I’d ever choose to wear myself; the bust is too low and the hemline too high, and there are no sleeves. I run the fabric through my fingers. It’s satin.
It dawns on me as I change that I have absolutely no idea why she had asked me about Evelyn or indeed why I’m here at all. I had not thought of Evelyn in some weeks now, I had thought I was over him, but the very mention of his name sends a sharp pang of regret through my heart.
I slip the shoes on as the horsebox starts to move. I stumble slightly, gripping the slats in the side for balance. The world beyond rushes by; gold fields and green trees, the sun hangs low in the sky, A kestrel makes wide circles in the yawning sky.
And then, very suddenly, the world goes black. I’m plunged into the most velvet darkness, so deep I scarcely realise my eyes are open. The horsebox pulls gently to a stop and the door opens. By the light of her digital watch the woman takes me by the hand and leads me out into the unknown.
As we begin to walk my eyes adjust to the dim light, I am in a vast warren of caverns, the air is cold and damp, water drips icily onto my bare shoulders. I shiver.
“My name is Francesca Tosa.” She says “I was an opera singer, have you heard of me?” She asks.
“I confess, I don’t really follow opera.” I admit sheepishly.
She looks at me and tuts before moving on. “We’re deep underground.” She gestures widely around us “this used to be a diamond mine, but no diamonds were ever found here. These days it’s something of a secret. Very few people know it’s here.”
We turn a corner and emerge into a vast cavern, sunlight streams in chinks from somewhere high above, casting dancing shapes onto a subterranean lake. On the far shore fires burn and silhouettes move through the light. A few feet away is a small rowing boat, Francesca leads us to it and begins to row.
We have gone a little way when she pipes up again “I need you to answer a question, listen close, it is important.” I straighten visibly. “Tell me, are you heartbroken?”
“N-no” I stutter automatically, hoping I’ve given the right answer, something about this woman terrifies me, there’s something in her eyes that makes me measure the depth of the water beneath us and the distance to shore.
Francesca sits back and keeps rowing “Good.” she says passively “You’d be no use at all if you were heartbroken.” I let out a breath I had not realised I was holding, “You can recognise the heartbroken so easily” she continues gazing out at the far shore, the fire reflected in her eyes “I mean, look at them.”
I look closely at the figures on the shore; they are human, howling, screeching and wailing, but human. They are dressed in their finest, but they seem to have been that way for a long time, their clothes are outdated and tattered, hair is unkempt and the girls’ make up streams down their faces as if they have cried so long they can no longer count the days. All dressed up with nowhere to go I think solemnly.
Francesca takes a loaf of bread from under her bench and begins breaking it into pieces, throwing it in the direction of the humans, they snatch the pieces from the air and fight for the bits that fall to the ground. My chest feels tight and a sadness I cannot place grips me for a reason I can’t remember.
“Every time a person falls in love” Francesca says once she is all out of bread “they run the risk of being heartbroken. That’s why these colonies exist, it gives them someone to talk to.” She smiles like these distressed people trapped in this gloomy, dripping cave is a good thing. I move my eyes to my lap.
She rows closer to the shore and helps me out of the boat. Once we are on our feet she indicates a cave not far from where we stand, above the mouth neon writing, which has seen better days, reads: The Tunnel Of Love.
“You must enter The Tunnel Of Love, go up the rope ladder and into a kitchen. Ask for Steve.” She shouts her last words over the howling of the humans around her, something seems to have whipped them into a frenzy, I feel like I should fear them but I only feel sorrow. “Go, go quickly, before they get you to play Twister.”
It’s dark inside the tunnel of love, so dark, I brush my fingers against the walls and lead myself by touch. I stumble once, I seem to drown in the sickening feeling of falling before I steady myself.
I feel as if I have been walking for miles, but it must’ve only been 30 feet, behind me I still see fires burning. I think of Evelyn, the colour of his eyes and the way his graceful hands that glide through the air in elegant little circles when he speaks of something he cares about. I wonder with a sad little smile if he’s thinking of me as I think of him.
Eventually, I see a shaft of light illuminating the fabled rope ladder like it’s an ascension to some heavenly place. I grip the closest wrung and look upwards, the light comes from a toy torch, attached somehow to the top of the tunnel. I inhale deeply and begin to climb, the ladder swings horridly at first, it’s so difficult to get a proper foothold in heels. All too soon I reach for the next wrung of the ladder and find that I am at the top, above me is a trapdoor, barely big enough for me to squeeze through.
I haul myself through on the palms of my hands and land in what has to be the least ladylike manner. Around me I see steel countertops and shelves full of beans and custard powder. Across the kitchen a portly man wearing sandals with thinning grey hair looks at me curiously, a knife clutched in his hand. He’s chopping liver.
“Um… Hello.” I smile nervously and scrabble to my feet.
He looks me up and down “Hello.”
“I-I’m looking for Steve” my voice is drowned out by his chopping.
“Pardon?” He scrapes the liver into a dog bowl.
“Steve.” I repeat “I’m looking for him.”
The chopping man smiles sadly “Well you’re in luck.” He pierces another piece of meat with the tip of his knife and holds it up so I can see. “You found him… well, his heart at least.”
I frown, inside, part of me begins to scream. “What?”
He doesn’t seem to hear me “Unfortunately, Steve’s heart wasn’t broken, so now it’s only fit for dog food. I’m just chopping it up for Dido.”
“T-That’s human heart?” My voice is so small I barely hear it.
He looks as if he is about to reply, but then he stops, sniffs the air. “Horses.” he says, his eyes focused on a place I cannot see, remembering. “And a certain perfume.” He focuses back on me “Do you know a woman called Francesca Tosa?” He tries to keep his voice light, but there’s an edge to it.
“Y-yes, I’ve just been with her. Why?”
He shrugs, his eyes cloud with tears. He shakes a thick finger in the air and turns away from me, heading towards a greasy old phone mounted on the wall. He dials an internal number.
“Hello? Yes. Inform Lockheart that the Italian is on the premises.” He hangs up abruptly and walks back to me.
A long moment of silence passes before he composes himself enough to speak “My name is the Weeping Butcher, Francesca was my lover.” His voice quavers slightly towards the end of his sentence. “I was in cookery school in Verona when we met, she was an amateur Soprano.” He chuckles hollowly, a single tear escapes him and rolls down his fat face. “She’s a lesbian now. She doesn’t want me any more.”
I tilt my head, fighting the compulsion to touch his arm or do something, anything, to console him. “And you never really got over her?” He shakes his head, tears pepper his purple smock. I try to smile comfortingly but it feels sickly “I know how that feels.”
“My real name is Carol.” He tells me with a sniff “But no one calls me that any more.” He turns away, hiding his face, he taps the side of the dog bowl with his knife, the metallic sound cuts through the air like invisible ammunition. “Dido.” he calls, it takes me a second to realise he’s talking to the dog. “Dido, din dins.” Into the room lollops a gold-bellied Doberman, hungry and slobbering. The Weeping Butcher puts the bowl on the floor and she begins to eat up the innards of poor Steve. I purse my lips and look away.
He turns back to me his shoulders slumped “I wish I hadn’t told you my real name now.” He sighs “It’s a girls name. It’s embarrassing.” He’s leaving before I can offer any comfort. “You can do whatever you like, listen to my Walkman, or take Dido for a walk, there’s a poodle in the garden she likes.” Then he’s gone, and I’m alone in the kitchen with a dog hacking up pieces of human heart. I feel sick all over again, only now I feel hopeless too.
Dido does not have a real lead, something I discover after searching the entirety of the pokey little kitchen, I rifle through cupboards of cutlery and Clingfilm, baking paper and turkey basters. The best I find is a drawer full of shoelaces all tied together and with a sigh, decide that it will have to do. I tie one end to her collar and wrap the other around my hand.
I scratch her head “stupid dog” I tell her as she blinks dumbly at me.
She half leads, half drags me through a manor house, the very same one I’d glimpsed in the distance on the drive here. We reach a wide, elaborate conservatory and a scruffily dressed boy brushes past me.
“Sorry” I mumble.
“Evelyn.” He mumbles in return.
I stop dead and watch him walk away, “Stop!” I call when I have regained my voice “What do you know about Evelyn?”
He looks at me blankly with slumberous eyes. Dido begins to bark at something I’m not looking at and tugs at her make-shift lead. “Everyone around here knows about Evelyn” he replies in a matter-of-fact tone. “Follow me.”
Dido tugs harder and the shoelaces snap, she darts away and I’m torn between chasing her and following the ragged young man. I dither helplessly on the spot, before eventually letting my burning curiosity get the better of me. “Wait!” I call and break into a run after the boy in the burgundy blazer.
He leads me through the garden, past a group of gymnasts making a human pyramid in the last of the light. There is a lake in front of us, he sits down and begins tracing shapes in the dirt. I crouch down next to him.
“What do you know of Evelyn?” I ask again.
“I know that he’s here, and you’re going to have to write him a song.” Evelyn’s here.
“Where’s Evelyn?” My heart races with the thought of him, the way he smiles, the feeling of his hand in mine.
He shrugs, he does not make eye contact with me “where is not important, it’s the why that matters.”
“Why is Evelyn here, then?”
“They say that there is a cocktail that can cure heartbreak.”
“And?” The desperation in my voice shocks me.
He finally meets my eyes “And you’re going to have to write a song to keep him.”
I laugh, it sounds wild around the edges “A song? I can’t sing, I can’t even rhyme!”
“Well you can always sell your soul for the ability to play keyboard.” The colour of his eyes are the last moments of sunset “Well? Would you do it? Would you sell your soul for the ability to keep the one you love?”
In the distance I hear the gymnasts cheer as they end their practice for the day “yes.” I breathe. “Yes, I would.”
He almost smiles “correct answer.” From somewhere under his coat he produces a little Casio keyboard.
“That’s it?” I turn it over and over in my hands “I sold my soul for this? Clearly souls don’t get you much in this economic climate…”
“Don’t knock it.” He replies, getting to his feet “it’s a perfectly good instrument.” We begin to walk away I steal one last look back at the lake, his absentminded patterns in the dirt spell a word: devotion.
I look back and he’s gone. I scan the darkening garden for and sign of him, but he seemed to have faded into the air. I wonder dimly if he existed at all, the little Casio keyboard in my hands tells me that he did.
I turn into an open side door of the manor and find myself in an ostentatious staircase, paintings of people I once knew; family and friends adorn the walls in gilt frames. Statues of people I met briefly, taxi drivers, waiters, people from coffee shops stand solemnly, staring. Their marble eyes everywhere and nowhere all at once.
I reach the top and find myself on the roof. Evelyn stands a little way away, his face in profile. The last traces of sun illuminate his delicate features, he’s every bit as beautiful as I remember him. In his hands he holds a cocktail glass full of a translucent, red liquid.
“Evelyn!” I call to him but he doesn’t hear, separating us is a vast mountain of books, all paperbacks. I reach out and take one, the cover announces proudly that it is called The Ballad of Peter and Stavrula. I put it down and pick up another, the dog-eared cover reads Love in the Time of Dog Food. And so it goes on, they are all romance novels. The last one I pick up is called Don’t Let Go. I do a double take; my name is on the cover. I put it back down and begin to climb.
The mountain shifts under my feet but I do not stop, I climb until the evening wind catches in my hair.
“Evelyn!” I call again. He looks up at me now, his dark hair shines, he smiles sadly at me.
“I wondered how long it’d be before I’d see you again.”
“I’ve missed you, Evelyn.”
He bites his lip “I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
“Why?” I can hear my heart beating in my ears
He takes a deep breath “Because it’s over, I’m sorry, I need to move on. We can’t deal with heartbreak forever.”
I go cold, I feel like I’ve been shot through the heart. “B-but…” I stammer uselessly.
He shrugs “I’m sorry, I really am, but it’s over.” In his hand something yellow glitters, a match, “We have to burn this place down.” he casts it onto my mountain, my stronghold. The flames begin to crackle warmly. He looks at me with apologetic eyes and starts to walk away.
I grit my teeth, the flames will take a while to reach me up here, so I sit down, rest my keyboard on my lap and strengthen my resolve.
“Wait! No, Evelyn, Stay!” He turns back to me one last time, my fingers strike the keys with a strange grace and urgency, I draw in a breath and begin to sing my last song, my song for Evelyn.
(Based on my Hurts journey, to carve your own path search A5M4 in your Spotify search field. More information on Hurts visit their official website)
Monday, 6 September 2010
Look Alive, Sunshine.
(Aka the My Chemical Mystery of 2010)
We've been here before, I remember it well, 2006, the emergence of theblackparade.com and the amount of anticipation and hype created by a single phrase "the Black Parade is coming." and that was only one website, only 5 words.
Well, it's bloody well happening again, the Official Site has become a sort of hand-held TV... thing, with 5 channels listed. Also, there have been some very interesting twitter accounts springing up. But you know this already.
Here are my personal theories:
RFDD: I'm not sure where to start with this one, the image itself is a simple test card and apparently, it's the same test card that was shown for 2 seconds before the Soviets broadcast images of Area 51 on American TV. The title Acronym I'm really not sure about, my friend suggested "Really Funky Dancing Ducks" but somehow, I don't think that's true. I would like it to be, though. There was a suggestion about it meaning Restriction Fragment Differential Display. Which, after a bit of intrepid Googling, I realised is the most complicated thing in the world. What I can discern before my brain started to go to mush is that it either seems to be something to do with preserving food at a molecular level, or removing DNA. Sorry, I was never good at science.
BLND: Immediately I thought blind. With the overall feeling of the website being one of desertification and an atomic wasteland, I immediatley associated this with blinded by radiation. The image for this is not something I like looking at for too long XD This has been widely attested to be a testcard from Brazil, it being broadcast with that same musical accompaniment too.
WKIL: we kill is what I thought when I first saw it. There's talk that this was a pirate radiostation in the '70's, that was shut down due to a lack of valid licensing. The image has thrown up a lot of theories, it seems, on the surface at least, to be that of a man in profile losing then gaining temperature as shown by thermal imaging. A pair of good eyes will tell you that the temperature gauge ascends far higher than any human could survive. Two links came out of this: firstly, was this article about altzheimer's and the images are eerily similar. There was also a theory that it was some sort of alien? Area 51 theories can be found here.
KLSK: Classic? This shows us an image of a rotating Radiation warning sign, two of the blades are covered in what looks to be blood, the other blade has KLSK written on it in marker. The song playing in the background is "A Horse With No Name" by America which is an allegory for drugs, I'm told. The title for the song in preproduction was Desert Song, now, does that ring any bells? Hm? It's also about a 9 day journey, so perhaps something will happen in 9 days?
HTBT: Heartbeart. The final channel, showing an image a digital camera shows when refocusing and a heart monitor in the background. Is it just me that thinks that the heart rate sounds strange? Out of sync, almost. Perhaps this comes back to the radiation/altering DNA via radiation theories. i.e. this person is being treated for radiation sickness or somesuch? I don't really know the symptoms, (other than your body goes to hell) but surely it's plausable?
Right. I really need to continue my every day life, so when I get back I'll update with some more of my pet theories on the Twitter Accounts.
But in closing I will link you to this, The Quiz Broadcast which is what this whole debacle reminds me of, I'd imagine My Chemical Romance haven't been watching a British comedy series, but still, an album inspired by a Mitchell and Webb sketch? I'd be in heaven!
- Katie xx
We've been here before, I remember it well, 2006, the emergence of theblackparade.com and the amount of anticipation and hype created by a single phrase "the Black Parade is coming." and that was only one website, only 5 words.
Well, it's bloody well happening again, the Official Site has become a sort of hand-held TV... thing, with 5 channels listed. Also, there have been some very interesting twitter accounts springing up. But you know this already.
Here are my personal theories:
Channels
RFDD: I'm not sure where to start with this one, the image itself is a simple test card and apparently, it's the same test card that was shown for 2 seconds before the Soviets broadcast images of Area 51 on American TV. The title Acronym I'm really not sure about, my friend suggested "Really Funky Dancing Ducks" but somehow, I don't think that's true. I would like it to be, though. There was a suggestion about it meaning Restriction Fragment Differential Display. Which, after a bit of intrepid Googling, I realised is the most complicated thing in the world. What I can discern before my brain started to go to mush is that it either seems to be something to do with preserving food at a molecular level, or removing DNA. Sorry, I was never good at science.
BLND: Immediately I thought blind. With the overall feeling of the website being one of desertification and an atomic wasteland, I immediatley associated this with blinded by radiation. The image for this is not something I like looking at for too long XD This has been widely attested to be a testcard from Brazil, it being broadcast with that same musical accompaniment too.
WKIL: we kill is what I thought when I first saw it. There's talk that this was a pirate radiostation in the '70's, that was shut down due to a lack of valid licensing. The image has thrown up a lot of theories, it seems, on the surface at least, to be that of a man in profile losing then gaining temperature as shown by thermal imaging. A pair of good eyes will tell you that the temperature gauge ascends far higher than any human could survive. Two links came out of this: firstly, was this article about altzheimer's and the images are eerily similar. There was also a theory that it was some sort of alien? Area 51 theories can be found here.
KLSK: Classic? This shows us an image of a rotating Radiation warning sign, two of the blades are covered in what looks to be blood, the other blade has KLSK written on it in marker. The song playing in the background is "A Horse With No Name" by America which is an allegory for drugs, I'm told. The title for the song in preproduction was Desert Song, now, does that ring any bells? Hm? It's also about a 9 day journey, so perhaps something will happen in 9 days?
HTBT: Heartbeart. The final channel, showing an image a digital camera shows when refocusing and a heart monitor in the background. Is it just me that thinks that the heart rate sounds strange? Out of sync, almost. Perhaps this comes back to the radiation/altering DNA via radiation theories. i.e. this person is being treated for radiation sickness or somesuch? I don't really know the symptoms, (other than your body goes to hell) but surely it's plausable?
Right. I really need to continue my every day life, so when I get back I'll update with some more of my pet theories on the Twitter Accounts.
But in closing I will link you to this, The Quiz Broadcast which is what this whole debacle reminds me of, I'd imagine My Chemical Romance haven't been watching a British comedy series, but still, an album inspired by a Mitchell and Webb sketch? I'd be in heaven!
- Katie xx
Saturday, 4 September 2010
New Start
I had a blog once before, however, for some reason, all my well crafted, hard earnt entries disappeared. I'm not really sure how, but they did.
So here I am again, starting again. With a readership of my boyfriend when he can be bothered. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, if I'm going to write this I don't want to censor myself.
So let us begin.
My name is Katie Loewy, I'm 18, I live in Birmingham in the noble United Kingdom, and in just over two weeks I'm starting a jewellery and silversmithing course at Birmingham City University. Now is a good time to be alive.
That, of course, is the most basic of basics, but that'll do for now because I'm lazy and I want to talk about the inconsequential things that bother me, not the inconsequential things that don't.
Namely this: I've written a novel (well, technically 2, but I won't look at the other one.) and I'm in the process of editing it, it is called The Hands that Guide the Cities. It is my baby. I'm very proud of it.
Except at the moment I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I HATE IT.
Well, why? Good question, I've run into a dead end, written myself into a corner for the millionth time, only I've stopped seeing getting out of it as a challenge. I see my characters as shallow, my plot as a tacked on piece of nothing and my subplots boring. I'm feeling sorry for myself.
I know I should work on it, because it's a big thing, and I love it, and I'm writing the sequel in November for NaNoWriMo. That, and one day I'd like it to be published. It's not something I'd admit aloud, because, well, I don't have a degree in English literature, I'm an art student who loves to write. It's just a side project. Just something stupid.
But these days I've been dreaming more of being a published author, and less about being a successful jeweller.
Oh, and last night I had a shit scary nightmare about spiders.
- Katie xx
So here I am again, starting again. With a readership of my boyfriend when he can be bothered. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing, if I'm going to write this I don't want to censor myself.
So let us begin.
My name is Katie Loewy, I'm 18, I live in Birmingham in the noble United Kingdom, and in just over two weeks I'm starting a jewellery and silversmithing course at Birmingham City University. Now is a good time to be alive.
That, of course, is the most basic of basics, but that'll do for now because I'm lazy and I want to talk about the inconsequential things that bother me, not the inconsequential things that don't.
Namely this: I've written a novel (well, technically 2, but I won't look at the other one.) and I'm in the process of editing it, it is called The Hands that Guide the Cities. It is my baby. I'm very proud of it.
Except at the moment I hate it. I hate it. I hate it. I HATE IT.
Well, why? Good question, I've run into a dead end, written myself into a corner for the millionth time, only I've stopped seeing getting out of it as a challenge. I see my characters as shallow, my plot as a tacked on piece of nothing and my subplots boring. I'm feeling sorry for myself.
I know I should work on it, because it's a big thing, and I love it, and I'm writing the sequel in November for NaNoWriMo. That, and one day I'd like it to be published. It's not something I'd admit aloud, because, well, I don't have a degree in English literature, I'm an art student who loves to write. It's just a side project. Just something stupid.
But these days I've been dreaming more of being a published author, and less about being a successful jeweller.
Oh, and last night I had a shit scary nightmare about spiders.
- Katie xx
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)