Do you trust me, Clive?

Well, what a wonderful way to end a wayward decade. My sister and I truly climbed upon the rock-rap 90's bandwagon of Rage Against the Machine and our unabridged pleasure at the prospers of our protest have left me quite giddy. Like a little girl creeping downstairs on Christmas morning- the glory, the splendour of seeing all the presents splayed out across the floor, the half-eaten carrot, the sherry devoured, the sooty boot marks on the carpet. Bliss.

Ay, music fans, I'm sure you share my joy. It's not that I am a massive RATM fan, I wouldn't go out of my way to see them live but I harbour an inextinguishable hatred for the X-Factor and everything related to it. Trips home to the Southside are bittered by the putrid stench of Cowell. I abhor it. I express my disgust at the monotony of modern day music making to my parents who, ashamed yet content, gaze at the telly-box with addicted helplessness like monkey's forced into cocaine. My Mother pleads 'I hate it, I just watch it for the laughs, promise.' Just like the rest of the nation then? I’m sure.

So imagine my utter delight when I found this group which was revolting against the bullshit, joining together the like-minded music-lovers of the late Noughties like something from our nostalgic sexual fantasies of yesteryear! The revolution had begun and I was taking part! I was standing hand-in-hand with those who just wouldn't take it no more more. No, they wouldn't take it no more. I ain't gonna stand idly by while the bridal reply of a marriage of styles is "Yeah, but what's their demographic?"

I ain't gonna take it no more.
I ain't gonna take it no more.
I ain't gonna stand idly by with a tut and a sigh while inside we all cry out for something new.

I ain't gonna take it no more.
I ain't gonna take it no more.
Soulless music, artless lyrics.
Goalless movements, heartless gimmicks.
Controlled and clueless, careers lasting a minute.
If this is the big life, well I ain't lookin' to live it.
We ain't pushing the boundaries, we're blowing them up.
We ain't trying to expand the scene, we want the scene to erupt.

Ay, Dan Le Sac VS Scroobius Pip knew what they were on about. Alas, if only we were revolting against war! Against poverty! Against racism! And not just against some grossly over paid high-waisted git called Simon who we have all chosen to demonise. Even so, we like to pretend that we play an active part in history, don’t we? Like we were there when the first plane hit, when the bus exploded, when the wave consumed, when the carpet was forcibly removed from under the Cowell’s feet. I was there! I've cut out the article to show my kids. Not that they will care or understand the sheer endlessness of my joy or how we won. How we did it. How my sister got whiplash moshing in our living-room to the live Radio1 coverage. Or how I made a video. Or how we told the man in Vue cinema about Christmas number 1 who really didn’t care at all.

Glory is mine, forever, amen. I have defeated this decade and all its horrors just by downloading a song titled, ‘Killing in the Name.’ So it's sort of apt then, really.

The Crying of the Lost Things

So it's crunch time. I'm starting to think about my blog in terms of how I can fit it into my life, which surely means the mouth is beginning to unfasten and I'm taking a nose-dive down the oesophagus.

I'm in a horribly pensive mood. I'm in a horrible regret ridden mood. I have a 2,000 word essay due in on Wednesday and it's slowly eating the lustre out of my eyes.

I want to be a dancer! I want to be on stage! I want to be the one you wish you'd fought for!

Bloody hell. I don't even have anything creative to post to whoever out there reads this humdrum little ditty of mine. I just feel like writing, I feel like creating, like being being being.

I bought this vintage fur coat. I walked to uni today in said vintage fur coat and it felt like everyone who saw me was thinking, 'Douchebag, take that off, you are not a successful-aged-gracefully old starlet, you are not Elizabeth Taylor, just because they are vogue does not give you the god given right to wear one, k?' Yeah, I was thinking about it that much. I love it, it isn't real fur, before the tide of detestation consumes my soul, but it is delicious and it was £20 and I could not say no to the charming, peculiar little lady at the back of the antique shop. I tried it on and she said it's been waiting for me for 40 years. And she had a smelly, almost dead dog who, when I bent down to stroke him, lent against my knee like he’d been fighting off collapse. His eyes said he was grateful for the support of his cumbersome little body. How cruel, keeping a decrepit little thing alive like that. And in an antique shop. Quite fitting, actually.

I look at trip down Elm Hill on my lonesome and found myself in this alleyway, and there was a black cat and we exchanged pleasantries. There was a door that was open and I was thinking 'Is this a shop or someone's house?' It looked a bit like a shop because it was adorned with old fashioned sign posts, like the sort you get in the Toby Cavery when they're trying to be oldsy-woldsy. But these were genuinely oldsy-woldsy, antique type things. So in I trotted. There was a young man sitting in the corner. I was surprised to see such a young man in such a place of antiquery. He had an N-Dubz hat on, though he'd defiantly resent that association, and a vintage jumper like he'd just stepped out of the Milkbar. I said hello. He seemed put out. I must have been the only customer he’d had all day and he was probably watching porn on his little laptop screen or the Antiques Road Shop. I continued regardless. ‘Oh what a place!’ I remarked, ‘It’s like an Aladdin’s cave!’ I exclaimed. He said ‘Yeah.’ There was a skeleton hanging up in the corner holding a moth-eaten umbrella. Maybe it was the skeleton of the previous owner and he'd done a Pyscho type thing and pretended to be her and then he was going to murder me with the 1867 cheery wood pick-axe behind the counter. I turned around sharpish expecting a pick-axe to the face and a fitting Eee Eee Eee!!! BAM! Crash! Blood blood blood ddeeaaattthhh. No. He was still watching his Roadshow. I continued to browse. There were two stuffed animals in a freeze-frame-type-position where an otter was attacking/being attacked by a snake. And a basket of sea shells. And an array of glasses with lenses missing. And a bird cage that I quite fancied. He said it was £25. I could probably have used my feminine charms to haggle it down to a tenner but I hate haggling, it makes me feel like a gypsy, and he might have killed me then for disrespecting his judgement. So I left the boy with his N-Dubz hat, which I shall now associate with him always because he was shamefully rude and looked like he was into prog-rock-anti-folk. Pah.

Essay, Emily, the Restoration, libertinism, sexual immorality, seventeenth century literature….. I’ll post a poem instead, as the story has no real end.

The Crying of the Lost Things

When you took the anxious-bitten
Archers-bow lips, and painted them across
Your body, her voice was rented out
To your wanton, whispering litter and
You threw her fears across
The cellar. Her heart had always been
So sheltered, with thighs reserved for the
Tastes of drowsy thumb, but under your skin
She says, my body feels so very numb and
I don’t know what it’s like to come
Girlish clutters say heavy hellos.
Oh listen, won’t you, to the crying
Of the lost things, the dying of a time bomb,
Decaying since the drums began.
No, I will not regret this man, says she
With the skin displayed, undone
And the crying of the lost things
Drowned, by the rushing gush of sun.

Sneak, russet filters run bright into
My eyes. The dreams I’d been having
Removed lost things from my mind, but awake
Those lost things I’m very sure to find.
On turning, I saw a lump of flesh
My body, yellow, seemed now unfresh
Sticky memories of sweat combined.
Tasting tears, I am salty and reminded of
How moonlight took me away.

No, I will not regret this man, or hope for better
Or hope for land, land from hot floods, coming.
No, I will not regret this man, says she
With the skin displayed, undone
And the crying of the lost things drowned
By the rushing gush of sun.

Maybe drinking wine would validate my sorrow.

Hello. The Mass of Christ pulls closer on my winter-kissed face and I think I'd like to see my family.
Re: Poetry.I wrote it so much more last year. This year my creative flow has been stilted and starved. However, I did write this merry little ditty, joyful as it is, entailing the laziness of many bone idle bums around me. My ex-boyfriend used to tell me, much to my distaste, that all my writing was morbid and I needed to write about happiness, but happiness does not induce words for me, sorrow does. What sort of writer does that make me then? Confessional, I suppose. But most of the time I use imagery so detached from my own experiences that it can't be seen as a piece of me, more a piece of how I conceive every one else. Anyway, pretentious drivel over, this is a bigbravebold move for me, putting poetry on t'net. Enjoy it, hungry penguins.

cold fat unspeaking.

body is just bone idle
to the new rise of day watch
as it reverts into stone at the
thought of easy gone away introvert
and officious again the calendar
strikes time away sluggishness
corrupts your brain so defeated
unmoving you’ll stay corpse cut
eyes shut shine dissipates
and those joints gain clots of cold fat unspeaking.

your tongue tastes
its fate your forgotten liberty
falls
fast
for the trap
of fatigue consuming your sight
and conceit carving
reason from none of conviction
unwilling to fight
the cold war that's just begun

The Girl

So I only got a bloody first for that assignment. I couldn't be happier, I think I had a little, secret cry. This blogging business hasn't enraptured me yet, but I am going to give the seed some TLC and see if the bud will bloom.
I'm posting an article I wrote about my lovely Mum, again this was for class. I'll get around to writing some real blog-style prose later but as a sleepy student assignments are as much effort as I can fathom. Maybe the Christmas period will harvest my creativity, maybe it will release me and I'll flow like mulled wine. Maybe I'll write a really cynical piece about being single at this ghastly time of year. Maybe.
The brief is completely fantastical. If Marie Claire actually did e-mail me asking me to write for them my smile would make me top heavy.

Write a 600 word feature on your Mother for a collection of intimate articles celebrating the inspirational lives of older women, as told by their children. These articles will aid our Super-Mum campaign, which will coincide with International Women’s Day (8.03.2010) and Mother’s Day (14.03.2010).

Remember, at Marie Claire we pride ourselves on being ‘More Than A Pretty Face.’ We are the fashion magazine with character, substance and depth, for women with a point of view, an opinion and a sense of humour.

----

When I got to the age of thirteen I stopped seeing my Mum as my superhero. It wasn’t a cognitive decision; no major tragic event took place that would tarnish my opinion of her, in fact, we became much closer. It came suddenly, this impulsive realization crashing on top of my hormone-ridden head like a rally-car to the chest, the sudden understanding that she was a human being.

Now, however, my Mum is Athena, Greek goddess of wisdom, war, and skill. She battles through every set back with brute force, her power is ethereal, her love is tangible. Although every part mortal like myself, I don’t think she could ever be just a woman. Human being or goddess, how has Sharon Buchanan managed it? With the perusal of two wildly successful careers, raising four children and remaining twenty-five years happily married, I want to know how all these accolades can grace one woman who is yet to turn fifty and, of course, how can I learn from her successes?

When asked to sum up the last twenty years, my Mum automatically traces back time in her filo-fax of a brain: everything is in its place, under-file, organized and completed. Her 16 years in the Health Service peeked in 1990 when she became Head Occupational Therapist. Then, to coincide with a move across the country, took a u-turn and began to pursue a career in education. “It wasn’t planned,” she says, “When I moved [to Kent] in 1999…the plan was to take a complete break, but I’m not very good at being at home so that break lasted about 2 months!” The career change was a happy coincidence and before we had a chance to unpack the boxes she was passing her Certificate of Education and taking a permanent position at a local high school. Laughing, Mum jokes, “I never thought in a million years I’d be more than just a classroom teacher!” But to those that know her, this statement is easily dismissed. Ten years later and she’s the Head of Sixth Form.

A plethora of bold decisions has placed my Mum where she is today, “I’m one of those people who thinks ‘if I’m going to do this, it has to be to the best of my ability.’” If the tapestry of her career is anything to go by, pushing yourself to achieve- regardless of the no-sayers- is the formula for success.

Having grown older, the extent of her ambition and her relentless pursuit for happiness astounds me. When I was a bouncing “dolly-faced” baby, my parents’ both had full-time careers and three children- all under three year’s old. “I wanted to be surrounded by laughter and build individuals, moulding and creating them…It’s the ultimate gift.” And, of course, we cannot forget the main man in all this, my Dad, whose support and resilience has turned him into a Greek titan, holding up the heavens on his shoulders. “The key to any marriage is based on a solid foundation of love, mutual respect, and passion; without those three key elements, it becomes hard to communicate.

To understand that you’re Mother is a human being, just like you are, is to reach an age of emotional comprehension where you can accept mortality. I remember it distinctly. Before, my Mum was as solid as a house, unquestionably able to soar through her adult world with thunder-bolt precision. Then, like flicking a switch, my Super-Mum was an emotional, warm blooded woman, mortal to more than just kryptonite. Respect doesn’t even cut it. It’s more like awe. Awe that one woman, who does not have super powers, could accomplish so much, could drag herself on hands-and-knees over life’s hurdles without the ability to fly- it defies belief. But then that’s the role of a daughter, isn’t it? To hold your mother in a light where she is the epitome of ‘Woman.’ After all, regardless of the fact she’s just a woman, she’ll always be a goddess to me.

I'm not sitting down til I'm older.

Hello blogging world... wherever you may be...

I am new to this scene. I'm partially joining you out of curiosity and partially for a project at University. We're studying the impact of 'citizen journalism' on the media and as I'm a total blog virgin- bloirgin? Virog? Blirgin? Blirgin.- as I am a total blirgin, I feel the need to set up my own little spot in this bizarre little universe and explore. I planned to do the same with Twitter, but I seem to have missed that boat, it makes no sense to me. Why tweet when you have facebook? I was going to say that it seems pretty self-indulgent, but then so is facebook. And so is this. It's all very self-indulgent, this absurd internet culture. You'll learn very quickly that I loathe and love it, like a little whirlwind of indecisiveness.

So. What to say to the world in my first blog? I'm dipping out a little here and just posting a review I've written for my Journalism class, it is my first ever review and I like it. Please enjoy and please let me know if I am doing this blogging milarky right.

The Crown Jewels, MARINA AND THE DIAMONDS

Preppy, pretty, perky little Marina. She tells us that we are her Diamonds, and we do not protest. Her first EP has sauntered onto the music scene like a handful of falling pixie dust, glittering amongst the mainstream like a mermaid in a swamp. Little heard of until recent months, Marina is defiantly our next big crush. A kitsch-filled, glee inducing marinade of pop beats and Kate Bush inspired vocals, the girl herself boasts the fashion sense of a deity (with thanks to Vivienne Westwood, so says Marina) and the lyrical prowess of a hormone-fuelled poet. Overall, an extrovert’s wonderland.

When you listen to The Crown Jewels, it’s like having a very small slice of a very decedent cake. With only 3 tracks and a bonus remix, Marina teases her fresh Diamond’s, dancing around their ears, nymph-like, until they are mesmerised. And so we warn you, music fans, of this undercover siren.

Her first single, I Am Not a Robot, instantly enraptures. Marina’s precious voice, combined with the tinkering piano and sudden beat drop, make for a single that will certainly grace the indie club scene. Her voice has been hailed as charmingly mid-European- the Kate Bush parallel born from the elasticity of her lilt and its powerful, significant range. A perfect all rounder, it seems. However, does our darling Marina have the ability to save herself from the ‘Solo Female Artist’ black hole currently consuming the likes of La Roux, Florence + the Machine and Paloma Faith? What with the sudden influx of such over-branded artists, Marina could be at risk of falling from her individual little pedestal. Alas, it cannot be.

Currently untouched by the big name labels, Marina is still very much herself. This encourages us a great deal, as does her song Simplify, which works to move away from the synth-pop scene and embraces a ‘recorded-in-my-kitchen’ sound which gives us a wholesome, deliciously refreshing kiss on the cheek. There’s hope yet, right?

Wrong. Dishearteningly, Marina’s re-recording of Mowgli's Road will be released by major label Atlantic Records on 16th November. Another one bites the dust? We sincerely hope not. Our thoughts are filled with images of our new favourite girl bearing all on a billboard, promoting Swarovski, air-brushed beyond recognition.

The hype is beginning, the black hole expanding; our only hope is that lovely Marina maintains her wonderful quirk without loosing herself in the process. After all, Marina recently blogged, “I don’t want to be extremist. I want to find some middle ground, some kind of alternative existence as a female artist.” Here’s hoping.