31 May 2009

31 May 2009, Sunday

I can't fucking write. That's what I think when I sit here trying to find something "interesting" to write for this blog. Not that anyone reads this anymore, but in the respects of therapy I feel like I should keep it up.

I used to write a lot. Like not just non-fiction. A lot of fiction stories. They weren't too bad, for my age. No juvenilia of Louisa May Alcott or the Bronte's, but not too bad. Can't even start a sentence for a story these days. Totally beyond me; no longer inclined toward my spontaneous, imaginative self. I don't let myself go really, I think. That's a shame.

28 May 2009

Craig Ferguson being funny! So great!

You have to watch this! Do you hear me. Have to! I am making you. You cannot NOT watch it. So, watch it.

12 May 2009

you tell 'em Char

I am neither a man nor a woman but an author.
Charlotte Bronte (1816-1855

09 May 2009

stream of consciousness

I need to write on here -- even though I don't know what to write -- and everything I do is so grammatically incorrect and boring.

I want to write that it is weird being back home. I don't even feel like I lived in London most of the time. I feel different at home, like I'm a different person, a better person, a more mature person, but also I'm upset that I'm in the same place again. I feel safer at home. It is difficult to be in a place that you feel safe, but also feel is not a place that you would ideally like to be. London was ideal. Illusionary really. Really, it was. It seems wrong that I am here, but I was not right in London.

Now I've decided to just write whatever comes in my head.

I don't like it here. I don't like necessarily the people around me, while at the same time I love them and often have fun with them, but I also wish there was more, some sort of ideal person -- ideals for me -- an ideal friend, an ideal lover. I'm so alone I feel. Even surrounded by people I feel alone. That sounds cliche. But it is true for me. I am in my room and the wind is blowing outside and I have decorated my room differently than it looked before, but still essentially the same -- with the same books, paintings -- the wind is blowing very hard and sounds like what it does when you live on the remote moors of yorkshire -- I spent one weekend in yorkshire and heard the wind blowing and knew that was what is sounded like when the Bronte's heard it.

Fuck, I loved Yorkshire. I loved London. It was so good -- but so bad at the same time. It was good b/c I was somewhere else than where I grew up -- and I loved the foreigness of it and the people to an extent. But my classes were horrible, and, really, I think I just didn't want to do that -- grad school, no it was just the next step.

I'm watching the jane austen book club. Modern day people relate their own life situations to what happens in jane austen stories. But I don't believe -- and have never -- that what happens in her stories happen in real life. I always wished they would -- to a certain extent -- the bare outline of it -- meet a darcy (although I always preferred knightley, despite his brusqueness and lackaisadasical manner) well just meet one of these guys. You don't just meet them though. I don't at least.

I'm pretty negative all the time now. I can't write something here without it being negative. I hope this is just a phase, transition from naive young girl to wiser older woman, which transition I hope does not also include the dashing of all my hopes and dreams.

I just want to be happy.