The New Look

I will now try to not change skins for at least five minutes.

A song of sixpence..

"hmmmmmmmmm hmmm hmmm....."

A tuneless hum that permeates my soul. Soft background noise that plays to everything I have ever done. Lead weight that hangs around my neck. The beating heart beneath the floor board even.

Can you hear it?

Im almost sure that everyone I know and everyone I meet for the first time, the last time, can all hear it. The soft strains of tuneless humming. I shake my head to sway the sound and the people think I disagree, but I dont. And the sound just never stops humming.

But there was this one time, or two or three times, when the humming made sense. When I could hear the little girl that sang that song, no that nursery rhyme, in a clear, pure voice that was untouched. The song didnt hum in her mind.

Like it does in mine.

There was a moment you know. A moment when that little girl stopped being a child that could sing a rhyme in innocence. Her body stayed young and childlike, and that was her crime. She was no longer untouched and pure. She couldnt sing anymore.

I couldnt sing anymore.

And the humming began. It never stops and I dont think it ever will. There is no safe place, where the sound wont find you.
I will live with those echoes forever.

Immigration Stamps...

Nothing like flipping through your pasport to see where youve been.

Romania, Bucharest, July 1999 a horrible trip to visit family, and worse stay with them for three whole weeks. I saw my first naked football match, got shot by a paintgun manned by my obnoxious cousin, got into shit for beating the crap out of my cousin for shooting me with a paintgun, stuck my toes into a glacier lake and threw up at the sight of blood sausages.

Spain, Madrid, 2001 a horrible trip to visit family and worse stay with them for two whole weeks. I saw my first live football game - Real Madris Vs Valladolid at the Bernabeu SWEEEEEEEET, flirted with cute waiters and overpaid for coffee and juice, got drunk for the first time on a jug full of Sangria, started a family feud that still rages today over the good tickets to see the match, seriously bonded with best friend who went on trip too.

(hmmm i see a pattern)

United Kingdom, London, 2002 a horrible trip to visit family and worse stay with them for two whole weeks. I cant even remember what I did so traumatic was the trip. I think i went to
Manchester and smirked at Old Trafford.

Thailand, Bangkok, 2005 a fabulous trip, just me and dad living in a five star hotel witha kickass spa where i had many a fine massage. I bought a teapot, a wooden dragona and met a real cute guy on their subway type thing.

Etats Schengen, Italy, Uk, Switzerland, France, 1998 an incredible bloody trip with no family cept Mom and Dad. Bought TONS of stuff went everywhere, had my bum pinched by cute foreign boy. Chased pidgeons in Venice and Trafalgar Square, ate pizza by drifting gondolas, was scared pissless by Gumbo Prawns in Geneva, took the Hop-on Hop-off bus tour in London and went to the London Dungeons. Ahhhhhh fun...

No Title

It has been a long time since I have felt the urge to just sit here and talk. I have after all a captive audience, and even if my loyal few decide not to read this particular litany, I would never know!

The truth is, Ive been searching for something grand and explosive to inspire me. Something that will leave my fingers and colour this page and scream out what a fantastic piece of writing it is. It isnt like the old days anymore. Now the things that I write have to be 'real' writing, whatever the hell that is. And its all because of the fucking labels.

(yohan I know youre a fan of the labelling, and there is going to be some bashing of it here, so you might want to stop reading now)

We label everything. I sit down to write and even before I type out a singe line I have to think, "what will I label this piece? I cant write just anything, it has to fit into a label!!!" Not the most conducive to writng a masterpiece. Though honestly, blogspots over enthusiastic organistion sickness isnt the real problem. I have been compelled to label myself and I chose the label of writer.

So obviously, now I cant write a bloody thing.

Its so infuriating. I have always hated labels, because the minute you have one you have a content, a list of ingredients, a recommended use and, worst of all, a best before date. Do we really have to go through life being followed by an expiration date??

I refused to be labeled a gurlfriend by any boy for years because people always got this knowing look in their eyes when they heard you being called that. It drove me crazy. (I relented eventually because not being able to call the gurl youre 'with' your gurlfriend leads to massive insecurity and drama queen tantrums, which is much worse than being equivalent to your average canned good {Canned good because they are almost all label [My god my writing has sunk to this level].}, but thats a different post altogether).

My point, yes there is a point, is this.

Once youve been labeled, youre fucking screwed.

So in the spirit of rebellion, I declare tomorrow official Un-Label Day! Get together and burn your labels! Celebrate your metaphorical nakedness!

Please dont stop reading my blog. Ill get better I swear.