dust to dust

One of my best friends is dying right now.

I can't be there with him, or his boyfriend. Because we live on opposite sides of the earth.

I want him to email me and tell me it's all a joke.

Because it's not funny. It never has been funny.

God, I used to just say things like "I don't care if people use drugs, it's only them they're hurting". And as selfish as it is to say, it hurts me more now than it hurts him.

If he dies, I don't know how I'll ever be able to talk again. I'll have to swallow everything I've ever said to him, all the "I love yous" all the "I hate yous" and all that shit in between that means everything in retrospect.

I'd never thought I'd live in retrospect.
We're too young to.

He's twenty one.
I'm seventeen.

And he's dying.
And I can't do anything about it.

I've been searching for my wings....

I know I have so many crushes that flit in and out of my life: the Sex God continues to be a constant distraction in IB Music, the Obscure Objects occasionally leaves a kind message on my Facebook wall and stirs up old emotions best left dormant, my gay best friend say something cute and I instantly want to marry him… Needless to say, I’ve got the “cosmic horn”. If you don’t know the reference, please go read Angus, Thongs, and Full Frontal Snogging to find the definitive meaning of a teenager’s life, particularly mine. Although I don’t have very many hot men like the main character in Angus seems to.

Anyhow, long story short: another crush has developed. And it’s not just a “crush” per se; it’s a bona fide like. The hapless subject happens to be a year younger than me (alas) and one of the Sex God’s good friends.

So, basically, every time I see him, that song by Patrick Wolf goes through my head: “Oh! My Augustine, Augustine!/
Oh! Is this forever, ever? Oh, oh/ Sweet Augustine, Augustine/ Do we kill this one tonight?/ And now come the tears, heavy and hot/ It becomes clear, this is all we got”.

I’m not really sure why I get that in my head; I think it’s the anguished way Wolf sings it, so from the belly, from the deepest pit of his soul.

Anyhow, so the boy, who I think I will nickname Citrus Boy, after his band which I shan’t tell you what it’s called, is pretty much one of those perfect people. The kind of person you want to die next to.

Which is so funny, because I’m never this attached to anyone. Ever. Not true. But I haven’t been so lovelorn in a long time. And it’s a nice feeling, to settle back into that hopeless laughing and that perfect knowledge of unrequited love.

if I were alive right now—

I'm sick. So, here's some McAvoy to make myeslf feel better. Twenty four hour flu is the bane of my existence.

more geek out...

Guess who is so desperately obsessed with James McAvoy that she rented Children of Dune last night to watch and totally be in love with him? Yeah, okay, like that's hard to guess. I mean, I don't usually speak of myself in the third person, because that borders on a little psychotic, but it's okay, really. I've gotten in the bad habit of referring to myself as we—

I was talking about Children wasn't I? Okay, go see it. It's really good, extraneous of anything to do with James McAvoy, although his copious shirtless scenes are gratifying.

Anyhow, good movie. If you like the original Dune, and aren't a fan of the Dune movie by Lynch, you'll like this one. I swear. If not, you can send a worm after me.

geek out time...

Is it permissible to scum to the worst of female generalities and stereotypes, and admit that I am obsessed with Jane Austen? I've never quite understood it; but I suppose my obsession and preoccupation with Austen began with the film Sense and Sensibility (you know, the one with Kate Winslet and Emma Thompson?) which led to a long and lengthy love affair with the novel; and thence to a much more fulfilling relationship with Pride and Prejudice.

I have to admit that Jane Austen is sort of the quintessential female vice; we succumb to her witty verse and her romantic endings. And of course, Mr Darcy is every intelligent girl's dream; slightly proud, very dashing, and quite willing to humble himself in the face of true love. That is still my male ideal, and as unfortunate as it is to admit it, Darcy is a fictional character and beast. There is no such type of man. I hate to admit, because it breaks my heart something dreadful, but Darcy is no more and no less than a figment of her imagination.

Which is perhaps why I found the new movie Becoming Jane such a beautiful idea— I saw it this afternoon. Not only did it combine my love of Austen with my love of James McAvoy, but it had pretty dresses and evidences of a ball in the adverts. Not to mention I cried when I saw the trailer. And that wasn't just because Mister McAvoy was as beautiful as Apollo.

I loved the idea that she had loved— and maybe lost. Because as any true disciple of Jane Austen knows, she did not die happy. She died impoverished and alone. And that in itself is distressing, because I often pondered to myself, "how the fuck can she write about extreme happiness and perfect endings when she herself had far from it? She'd never even fucking experienced life, how can she write of it suchly?"

But to say this is to deny Austen's vivid imagination— we can all remember quite clearly that the Gothic novel Jane Eyre also stemmed from inexperience. To discredit her imagination would discredit the book itself— and we cannot deny that Austen and Brontë's work contained undeniable truths about human nature.

Anyhow, the movie is sweet and sentimental, and I cried far more than I should have. It was enjoyable in a quaint, whimsical way, and Ms Hathaway was charming as usual in her customary head strong character. There was nothing to recommend or to insult about it. I enjoyed it, and I also was disappointed.

But I'm very excited about James McAvoy's new movie, Atonement which bloody doesn't come out in the States until fucking December, and I'm also excited about this Hugh Dancy film coming out soon enough. It's called the Jane Austen Book Club. Tell me that doesn't sound wonderful.

more than words

Second post of the day.

My parents are out of town, with my brother and sister. They've left me alone in the house.

True to character, I am going to do some things I shouldn't. I have a friend coming over some time in the next couple days and we're going to smoke in the backyard.

But I'm not going to throw a wild party; even though I kind of want to do something like that— I won't. I'm too honoured that they respect me enough to leave me alone in the house. Isn't that kind of funny? I'm really proud that they trust me enough at home alone.

And the funny thing is, I miss them so desperately. I know that I complain about them like an old woman. But they are really quite the best parents for me. I wouldn't have done well in any other household. I respect them, I love them, and I have enough independence to flount some of their rules but not break the big ones.

Funny, huh?

of lasts

My Grand-Aunt died recently, and I will admit that I am very sad about it— not because I knew her very well, or that I was very attached, but because it means that my grandmother is getting old, and she is realising it.

I think there is nothing worse than death, except for the realisation of imminent death. We all die— it is natural, it is what happens to us. We cannot complain or whine about it, because it is just life. Life is life is life. And death is death is death. We all have to come to terms with our mortality.

This is all so easy to spout off now— if I actually sat and thought about it, I would probably get in a state of panic and freak out. This is understandable.

But it's hard to watch my grandmother mourn and come to terms with her own mortality at the same time. It all makes me feel so immature and worthless.