The Forestry Of My Mind

Ok, I appear to be suffering from a bizarre form of 'Post-Traumatic Blog Syndrome'.

It's taken me eight months to finally break the cold, thick layer of ice that had formed over my pool of creativity, and now I find myself consumed with guilt because of my neglectful behaviour to this particular scribbling nook. So, the time has come for a very late New Years Resolution...let's call it the April Endeavour, because that sounds a hell of a lot snappier.

I, Kathy, shall hereby vow to write my poorly constructed and ill informed rants against the evils and idiocies of society, as well as any completely nonsensical ramblings about whatever fell out of my head on the day of writing, as often as is humanly possible given the sudden increase in my social life.

If any of you read this you'll just have to imagine some inspiring music playing over the above segment, because technology isn't yet that genius.
Really, I didn't stop because I didn't have anything to say. The day I don't ever have anything to say is the die and even then I'm not so sure. I like the think that whenever I do snuff it I'll come back to explicitly haunt the people who've really pissed me off over the years. Or, more realistically, the people who piss me off from beyond the grave.
For example, if I were to pass someone littering in the street, I would appear to them in all my ghostly regalia, and whisper in my spookiest of voices, "I suggest that, if you don't want to see my face every time you're on the John or about to get lucky, you pick that up."

By cracky, pretty sure that'd do it. But I digress, what I mean is that I've had plenty of things to say about plenty of things, but I haven't really had the means to express them properly. I'd go to the keyboard, and no words would come. It wasn't so much writer's block as writers barrier. Things wanted to get through but there was something stopping it. I think it's gone now. Hopefully it won't come back for a while. Hopefully.

So I apologise again, and with luck there won't be be any more unfeasibly long absences.

Wow, it's been a while.

A lot of things have happened in the last few months, finally getting to University probably being one of the most significant. But there are other things. Things I don't really care to think about too much for a lot of reasons...

But this is it.

December 27th: My grandad passed away after a long period of heart problems and dementia. He died on my parents wedding anniversary, in hospital, alone. I didn't get to see him before he died, but I could've done a week before. Instead I decided to stay at home. Why? Because my boyfriend was visiting. I lost the opportunity to see me beloved grandfather for the last time because I wanted the day with my boyfriend. Even now I still feel ashamed at my selfishness. It kills me to think that the last contact I ever had with him was a five minute phone conversation, where he could barely talk because he was so exhausted from getting to the phone in the first place.

What's worst of all is that he had to die in hospital, the place he hated so much. For months leading up to his death he'd been in and out of hospitals and the care home, because my poor nana was too ill to take care of herself let alone her husband. And through all that time he kept saying, 'If I could have just one thing it would be to go back home again, but I know I can't. I know your nana can't cope.' He kept forgetting that he could hardly walk anymore, that he could hardly breathe. He was certain he was getting better, when every day he was getting worse.
The night before he died, nana had a dream when he came to her and said 'I'm sorry, Joan, I can't go on anymore.' She was in hospital too, with pnuemonia on the heart, but she was in a different place. My grandparents were miles away from each other, and they didn't even get to say goodbye.
It's been so hard seeing him go. There was a little part of me inside that believed he was never going to die; that he'd be here forever. I still miss him, and I think about him every day. We were very close, and it really does break my heart I didn't get the chance to tell him how much I loved him in person.

So I suppose that was really one of the main reasons I haven't written here in such a long time. For a while I lost my words. I think I may have found them again finally.

Recently however, my father has been made unemployed, and he's struggling now to find work. What a terrible time to find yourself in that position, in the middle of a recession where jos are being cut left right and centre. Now someone like my dad, who is immensely clever and very experienced in his field of work, can't find a job. What on earth does this say about our situation? What's it going to be like in a few years time when I leave university? All I can say is I really feel for anyone entering the job market now. It'sa very confusing time for all concerned.
So basically, the atmosphere in the house is very changeable. Since I came home for Easter there's a part of me that's been wishing I was somewhere else, just because there's this underlyin gloominess that just won't lift. My mother doesn't work, and she's been consistently flitting between depressed or panicky. She keeps talking about selling the house or me leaving University, which has truly worried me. I don't know what to say to her, though, other than, 'It'll be alright. He always gets a job one way or another.'
This sentiment simply isn't ringing true anymore because he's never been unemployed during a financial crisis of this scale. I've been doing my very best to maintain a certain level of positivity but my own moods can be very dependent on those of others. I'm like a sponge, soaking up the surrounding feeling until I'm swollen and dull with it. So my cheeriness has dwindled and I'm back to my usual depressive self, compulsively writing my worries in a black book late at night and praying to whatever's up there that it'll come right in the end. But my hope is rapidly running dry and wearing thin.

Very soon, it's going to break.

Once upon a time, as in books
I took the black road to the woods
And there I met my stranger friend;
The wolf who smiled, sharp teeth to rend
My heart, so young and red with blood
He did me mischief in the wood.
Now white as snow I walked the path
And risked the Wicked Witch's Wrath,
For what care I of dangers here?
I am the 'She who has no fear'.
I see the Prince in Winter's sleep
And know I have no tears to weep,
I shall not kiss his frozen lips,
My heathen mouth his flesh shall rip.
My crimson shawl is all they see
whilst Night Beasts take their love from me.
I wander black as ebony
To the house of my dear Granny;
My basket carries flesh and blood
Of dear Mama and Father good.
The changeling child all dressed in red
shall bring the wolf to Granny's bed,
No poisoned apple knows my fate
In forest shadows I shall wait.
The Beauty and the Beast I be
The curs-ed and unholy free
Upon the world I hunt and prey
On innocents who dare to stray.
What big eyes you have, and such teeth!
Out leaps the beast that lurks beneath.
I, Little Red, the Riding Hood
Will do you danger in the wood.

So.
Yes, I'm lonely.
Really, really bloody lonely.

What do I have to do to get my so called 'friends' to actually, you know, spend time with me? What am I doing wrong? Do I smell? I bet I smell. Am I omitting from my body some offensive sound or sensation which can only be heard or felt by others?

I have been a hermit this weekend. By the look of things it's to become a permanent position in life.

Friday: Felt the urge to go out. Got in touch with friends. Here were their responses.
Friend 1 - Oh but I'm really tiiiiiiiired.
Friend 2 - The machine ate my card and we're not spending your money!

Godammit.

Saturday - Was obliged to stay indoors and 'look after the dog'. This is my life, my parents go out to some party which I could have gone to but was not in fact invited by said parents (very good for the self esteem), and ended up having a hormone induced identity crisis. I felt starved for affection. I wanted a hug, just one hug, off someone who was not a relative (and therefore obliged to give affection) or a friend (ditto). I couldn't get my mind off the fact that I was stuck indoors feeling ugly and unloved on a saturday night. So what did I ed up doing to remedy that?

Played Guitar Hero 3 in my bra and a top hat.

That is my life.

Guitar Hero. Bra. Top hat.

I'm angry right now.

I think I am, by nature, a very passionate person. When I believe in something I will put my whole being into defending that thing, so I try not to let myself become too involved in many world subjects. There are are however a few things in this fetid little life that genuinely make my body revolt in fury. These things are in order of importance:

1. Whale Hunting. This is by far one of the greatest crimes we humans, in all our power, carry out every single day. One day, all of the Whales will be gone, but I can guarantee it will not be the way of the Dolphins ala Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It makes me want to scream when I think about these beautiful creatures being butchered alive for no real good reason. Cultural heritage can fuck right off as far as I'm concerned.

2. Paris 'Oh my Gaaawd that's so hot. Look at my little dog, I dress it in clothes like a people person!!! I'm so pretty and cool, gimme free stuff cos I'm amazing.' Hilton. (Oh yes, I'm her biggest fan clearly). What a useless human being she is. What does she do? Gets paid obscene amounts of money to act like a total moron and flash her underpants (and everthing else to boot) at the paparazzi. Is this girl incapable of getting out of a car with her legs together?

I'm sorry if I've caused any offence. But I think the hormones are raging and I needed an excellent rant against humanity because, and again I'm sorry, we're pretty fucking ugly as a collective race. I appreciate that there are decent people (many of you read my blogs and for that I thank you), but as a whole? Pretty shitty.

Save the Goddamn Whales.

I'm reading a novel by Markus Zusak. It's called 'The Book Thief'; it's set in 1939 onwards through the Second World War.
It's narrated by Death, and as the blurb says, 'he's never been busier'.

When we gave Death that capital 'D'? I have been thinking about who decided to personify him - it - and transform it - him - into that elusive figure: that cloaked, scythe wielding skeleton we know so well.

I can imagine that it would be quite comforting for people to think of Death as some Regular Joe, going about his job like the rest of us slobs. We're paying his pills with our sicknesses; our fatal injuries are his collaterol, we're the down payment on his house.

Death's just your average schmoe working the Nine to Five of Eternity. Except he doesn't get to go home like the rest of us. We're paying for his house but God knows he never gets to live in it; Nine to Five in Eternity counts for All Time. The title's just a formality.

Soul Taking's a difficult career. You don't get Tea Breaks; Death doesn't have time for a quick cuppa and a crossword puzzle...he's just too busy. His wife and children never see him; in fact his wife's having an affair with the Pool Boy, but don't tell that to Death if you see him any time soon. He's stressed enough as it is.

Why the scythe? Why the Cloak? Am I the only one that thinks it's not the most efficient of uniforms for the Grim Reaper himself? I've always seen him as a suave, suit and tie kind of man. More business like, smart, reassuring to his clients. It's not the most comforting of images is it? That the last person you meet would be this huge, cloaked chap with a sinister lookng weapon in his hand...but it would be all right if you met this handsome man in a pin strip suit, hair slicked back, clean shaven, weilding a brief case with the contract of your life inside.

"Sign here to move on to the next life," he'd say with a dazzling smile. "It's quite literally a once in a lifetime deal."

Sure thing, just get me a pen.

I have no right to be depressed.
But I am. Why?
What is there in my life that is so terribly awful, so awful, that I want to scream all the time? What is it I can do to take away the emotional hurt?
Nothing, not really.
I know myself only to an extent. There's another version of me, the depressive me, that sleeps somewhere in the darker recesses of my heart, the deepest pits that I can't find alone. I can't find it, it finds me. And when it does it takes over me completely. Surely that's a sign of some psychological problem? What other reason is there to feel the way I do now?
It's times like these when I can't know myself because I feel like I'm trapped in my own head, struggling to break free from the clutches of my depressive self. They are two parts of me that make the same. They're like two extremes of my personality, not two different ones.
I just want so desperately to be happy. Really, truly happy, not the sort of fleeting happiness I seem to experience during the day. That kind of happiness never lasts, and it always seems to come with a bring down, because you've lost the feeling you've been missing for such a long time. You think that maybe, just maybe, it will stay with you for good, only to have it leave you again.
It's much harder to cope with that way, it's like being tricked.

This morning, I picked up the newspaper and read it. About half way through what should I come across?

I'll tell you what: an article describing the Vatican's condemnation of the Harry Potter books. Apparently these tomes are pure evil incarnate; celebrating the cult of satanism and encouraging young impressionable's into following this dark path. The Vatican believes that Harry Potter is a 'grave lie' and a poor hero for children to follow, because not only is he a magician but he has no religion. Harry Potter is on the fast track to eternal damnation, essentially.

So I suppose it'd be all right if Harry Potter was a Muslim or Jew? No, it most certainly would not. The Vatican are incredulous because there is a series of books out there that are loved by both children and adults, that they have not been given the chance to approve. They are pissed off because Harry Potter is accessible to everyone, and not under the influence of a set of rules which may or may not be right.

They believe that Harry Potter is himself an evil and poor quality hero. Where does that come from? Never once has Harry Potter done anything remotely evil. He's so white bread he's boring. It's the characters around him that are interesting (Fred and George beng a prime example of that). The worst thing Harry Potter ever does is prowl the corridors after dark...even when he's in his rebellious years all he really does is shout and cry.

So does the fact that he's a wizard make him evil? Hell no! You ask any child whether wizards and witches actually exist and they'll probably say 'no'. Ask them if Harry Potter is a bad person and they will also say 'no'. Ask them if Lord Voldemort is a bad person and they will undoubdetdly say 'yes'.

Which is my exact point. The Harry Potter books follow the age old Good vs. Evil structure. It's teaching children about morality; the importance of friends and family and doing the right thing rather than being seduced by power. Where does Satan come into that? Here is an unlikely extract from an unseen Harry Potter book:

From Harry Potter and the Satanic Orgy

"But Professor Dumbledor," Harry said as Hermione painted a pentagram with fresh goat's blood on his bare chest, "I'm not sure if summoning up the dark forces of Lucifer is a good idea."

"Oh do be quiet my dear boy," lisped Dumbledor in an amazing portrait of gay stereotypes. " Only with the awesome power of the Prince of Darkness may we defeat the slightly less evil Voldemort. Now get on your knees and let Mister Weasely have his way with you."

"Get in!" laughed Ron.

You see my point.
Good God, it's just the sheer ignorance of it that truly smacks my gob. Let's think how many Catholic priests have ruined the lives of young children by molesting them? I'd say that's blurring the lines of evil a hell of a lot more than a simple children's book.

Whatever happened to letting children have an actual childhood? Is the Vatican so desperate to get this Godless society back under the great thumb of religion that it's attempting to destroy the happiness of thousands of children? Can't they see that it's pure fantasy, pure entertainment? Are they really that blind?

It's a sure sign of desperation to see a spark-shooting wand as a threat.

'Once upon a time...' is one of my favourite phrases. It sets a tone for magic and beauty and fear; a world is constructed before your very eyes, such is the power of these words.

I read a lot of myths and fairytales; they are essentially the fabric which holds my existence together. The whole culture of the fairytale has definitely had an influence on who I am. They fascinated me as a child and continue to fascinate me now. but there is something that really must be considered. Everybody knows the classics of the Western culture (even though we filched them off the other countries), but do we ever really question their nature?

In my collection I include: The Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Anderson, anthologies adult reworkings, collections from around the world, novels, graphic novels...
One of my favourite books is 'The Bloody Chamber' by Angela Carter. If you haven't read it then I must insanely encourage you to (though I've found as a reader I tend to get put off books when people force them on me, *cough cough* 'The Davinci Code' *cough*). It's a compilation of short stories based on fairytales with a so-called feministic twist. If you've ever seen the excellent Neil Jordan film 'The Company of Wolves', which I quoted in my last blog, was birthed from the story of the same name. The book is wonderful and evocative, emphasised by Carter's beautiful writing. She is someone I look up to massively, and I think she was taken from us far too soon.

What it is about these stories is that they are incredibly dark and sinister. Children accept the horrifying elements without question (well, most of the time), but with they grow up they realise that these childhood tales are really not for children at all.

But of course they are morality tales wrapped in imagery. They were always intended for adults, in fact the Brothers Grimm began their collection with that demographic in mind, but they read them to their children to keep them quiet. Even watered down versions of well known fables like Snow White and Cinderella still hold a little darkness between the pages (that is excluding the Disney films, which up until the 'The Little Mermaid' and 'Beauty and the Beast' contained the weakest heroines known to man and the twee-est approaches to the stories).

It wasn't until I was older, about thirteen or so, that I realised the true extent of Snow White's suffering or what really happened to the Ugly Sisters in Cinderella (let's put it this way, ravenous and vengeful birds + eyes = unpleasant reading). It's all about sexuality (which Carter was very quick on the uptake with), development of the soul and human nature; so much packed into an apparently innocent five minute bed time story. When I am a mother, I will only read the ture fairytales to my children, not the namby pamby, PC ones of today. The fairytale is still significant to society and should be preserved as they are, not forced into something new. Snow White lived with seven dwarves, taking that out of the title doesn't change that.

My childish desire to be a princess never really did fade. The hope that you could be beautiful and revered by others, that your singing voice would charm whomever you so choose.

Princesses have the best adventures, if they don't want to be rescued that is.

First things first.

My two year relationship has been over for week today. To be honest, I can't find the words to write it all down, but I will say this: It was for the best and we're going to stay friends. I am fully aware that is a sentence uttered by countless people during breakups but I know it's the truth with me and him. I can say this because we say eachother yesterday and it was the same as out old relationhip, albeit missing the 'boyfriend-girlfriend' factor.
Except every now and then he'd touch my arm or rub my shoulder like he'd forgotten we weren't together anymore. I didn't mind.

Such a lot has happened since I last wrote but I don't want to put it down here. Christmas was Christmas. I got far too much as usual.

New Year was...forced. If I'd been given the option I would have locked myself in my room and screamed until it was all over. I hate the idea of getting dressed up in a tarty outfit to go to some shitty party in a shitty pub where you drink too much and let yourself get chatted up by shitty people and throw yourself about to shitty music and pretend to be happy even though you've had a shitty year filled with pain and misery and celebrate the start of a fresh shitty year.

Roll on 2008! The Cynical is officially here, fuelled by break up petrol and tiredness.

What much else can I say? The older you are, the less special everything is.
I fear I may be turning into a recluse, especially given my night time behaviour. I'm tired but actively avoid sleep; staying up til 2AM, squirrled away in my room watching foreign films and writing or sketching, whatever takes my fancy I guess. I won't sleep until I know I can't stay awake any longer.

I'm becoming increasingly frustrated with the company of humans. I want to be on my own in a cottage somewhere by the sea where I can seek solace in my books; absorbing stories of cokney show business twins (Wise Children), Oepipus and Freud (Where Three Roads Meet) and perverts with stupid names (Lolita). They're soaked in my skin and I live and breath them all day and all night. When I see someone I want to warn them 'never trust a man whose eyebrows meet in the middle' or pinch them and see if they're real.

Why, what quick hands you have.
Yes, all the better to write with my dear.