Nope.

There isn't a love song I'm happy with. Nope, not one at all. There isn't a dream I haven't had.
Maybe the best thing for me to do tonight is, raise my glass to the bar.
And hope that somehow, the bar man can give me what I'm thirstin' for.
I'mma thirsty.

Here, I have a prayer.

My love I send to Hwana.
My love I send to the series of Yu(oo)'s.
My love I send to the bear I miss over the ocean.
My love I send to a boy, who I'd pray smells the same as I left him.
My love I send to the ladies who dress as the finest of china; just dance.
My love; from a yellow bird on top of a lonely mountain.
It was a long long time ago.

My fears for the countryside you call home.
My fears for the roads that you travel on each day.
My fears for the seas you sail on, and the skies that you fly.
My fears for you, my dear.
It's not so safe, now.

My hopes for your nights.
My hopes for your bustling city transactions and your fine pen.
My hopes for your art that you ignore whilst money is on the agenda.
My hopes that money will not deter you from happiness.
I hope you're happy.

My dreams fly me over the ocean.
My dreams to whisper in secrets with you, that they don't know at home.
My dreams to be awake again in two years time.
My dreams come to me as I sleep on the floor.
In the afternoon sun.

The cranes hanging on my window are still tonight. There is no breeze to stir them. Their heads are turned in mismatched directions, as if they aren't sure how exactly to go about their migration. They don't know where to start. Neither do I.

Deer wearing the mask of a bear.
Bear face.
Deer heart.

All I Want For Christmas

1. Richard M. Nixon
2. A Jewish Doctor Husband
3. A Wailing (feature) Wall
4. A Pair of Industrial Sized Clogs
5. A Reprise of the Petrov Affair
6. A Cure for Pins and Needles
7. A Really Really Tiny Horse (Like a REALLY Little One)
8. A Felicity Shagwell Costume
9. A Sewing Machine, Spatula and Dryer (to make me more gender appropriate)
10. A Moustache.

Oh and a Glee Box Set.
If Santa has more of a sense of humour than Julie Bishop, he'd probably get me this stuff. We all know he's just pretending that he is ficticious.

Connection.

I feel this connection. It's strong, and lasting, and fills you to the fingertips. Yet, I've never been to this place before. It's not mine.

I trace large characters in the air while I lie in bed, o yo u yu eo yeo, avidly attempting to remember the slant and stroke order. There is an urgency created in the darkness, as if learning for a purpose, the moon peering in through the window at a girl doing strange hand actions, trying to figure out why. I'm sure if the moon was conversational, and I could fully explain myself, I would answer him. But the real truth of it all is, I have no idea why I am drawn to this particular system. All I know is that one day, when I was supposed to be concentrating, I looked to the left of me and just watched kun gom writing. I didn't know what it said. I don't think it mattered. It was the way he shaped his characters. It was the face he pulled when he was trying to think of the best way to express before writing. Now I spend nights at a time, with my bing translator, slowly matching words to shapes. Reading kun gom's day. Blogs. News reports.

no ran sae. that's who i am, on top of this lonely mountain. in between languages. connotation confuses you within both. so what's the point of belonging to just one?

Dreamed. The misspelling is important.

Once I dreamed an idol dream
Back in the late September,
His voice was dark, his eyes were dark
My heart grew black and tender.
His breath was burnt with cigarettes,
Presence hallowed by the bar
and suited up with devils teeth
Who'd lament for gin swept stars.

Once I dreamed an idol dream
that my piano had been drinking.
His necktie had slid down to the floor
in a drunken stupor; sleeping.
Yet, as wax pools on my window sill
I get hungry for the blues
And dream again of Factorytown

the blind-sick howls,
the smoke spat fuse.

The Hangover.

There is a feeling that you could not quite describe other than with the phrase 'hangover'.
It fills you to the brim and rips through the pits of your stomach,
you feel cold of the mountain that you left only momentarily as ice down your shirt.
Eyes sting from a glare of white.

An erratic buzz where conversation once was. Connections are blurred with your own tongue and anothers, you don't understand it, but you belong completely. Turn your head to face the wall, gazing at the letters that paper it. They get a little more yellow each day I see them. Some curl at the edges, blutac hardening to a solid against the wall. Everyday the letters age, every day they turn a shade, every day I feel just a little bit better about leaving it all in August. I'm just one step closer to being back to tatami. At home my bed feels too high. Some nights I'll slip off with my blanket and pillow, and sleep on the floor. There I feel grounded.
I heard once that 'the story is in the soil; keep your ear to the ground'. This was told me by a man, over a recording, who spends his days and nights searching for a yellow bird. Or in Korean, they say it, No Ran Sae. That's what Ji Hwan told me. I keep my ear to the ground. I listen for the story. Dig through the dirt to find the hidden treasures. If you listen closely enough, you can hear the drumming, like in Jumanji but less African. The story I hear, when my ear presses to floorboards, is the same another would hear in Indonesia, within their own home. Through the tatami mat of her Japan. The tiled floor of his Brunien apartment. The dirt floor of his Cambodia.

Kami adalah dunia.
When you put this into a translator in English, it is 'We Are The World'. When you reverse it, and put it in written in Indonesian, it says that 'We Were The World'. Now I'm not sure.
But the tone is not for me to decide.
It'll change whenever I read it back to myself.
I'm never quite

sure.

Open The Door and Here Are The People.

This is a post for Mrs McCauley (and possibly to Mrs Parsons, depending on whether you gave the link to her[not that I mind or anything, I just don't know]).

Maybe not all of these posts are relevant. Some are written as tributes I met overseas. Some are music reccomends with links. But there are some creative writing pieces. This is a little entry to point you in the right direction of the stuff you might be interested in.

-October; Particulars, Swelling and I'm full.
-July; Something Borrowed.

These are my main creative pieces, and the rest are just.. you know, Sally kinda stuff.
I hope you enjoy. And, don't read into it, put the technique mind to rest. I wasn't thinking technique while I was writing.
:)

I really really want this tattoo.

I found it on a Marc Johns website. I love his stuff. One of my favourite artists.

www.marcjohns.com

But this tattoo is on Anniken's arm from Norway. Yes, she AND her arm are from Norway. But I would really love to have this tattoo. If not there, then maybe near my ankle or on my hip. :)
That'd be pretty cool ya.

The Month of October.

I feel that these blogs have been an excuse to get out of serious homework. Thus, the sudden burst in October. It's so hard to fight procrastination, if your methods of procrastinating are actually influential, useful and with a general point.

I think instead of ancient history, I'll write my own instead.
Tonight, I dream of FACTORYTOWN!

Particulars.

You know sometimes I remember the odd things. The details. The patches in the carpet that are a little more worn than the rest. Or in this case, the positioning of his shoes. Whenever he takes off his shoes, they are always angled in the same way. Left front perched ontop of the right, socks barely concealed but still tucked within the shoe. I don't know exactly why this coincidence particularly amazes me, yet if I were to try and do that everytime I took off my shoes, I shan't think I'd be capable at all. It must be some form of talen, taking years of the right training and environmental exposure to adapt to this perculiar habit, this perplexing talent.
Yet.

That's not the only thing I've noticed. I've noticed the length of beard he finds just right. I've noticed the way he can speak loudly to his friends and feels incredibly awkward around me. I've noticed that when we do get talking, he quickly changes his lean from his right, to his left leg as my brother passes. I've noticed the semi-tone drop of his vocal pitch when he's trying hard to impress someone.

He tends to be a noticable boy. I think.

Aspiration.

One day, I am going to be a supermodel.
And I'm gonna tear this shit to the ground. And take you by suprise.
And.

Everything will be Good.

Swelling.

Do you ever feel like your eardrums are going to swell up and close due to the layerings of different noises? Individually uninteresting, the rustle of flipped pages and the sound of keys dropping on a wet sidewalk, yet when pulled together, and added to a droning voice, leg readjustments, yawns and whistles, there are so many individual pieces of information that I find it hard to detangle myself from the noise. This swell I find so disconcerting puts me on the edge of my heart beat, one falter from my precarious perch could send me into all sorts of strife. It makes you feel nauseous, when your heart seems to fill your chest, brimming with an unknown uncertainty, an inconstistancy of your usual thought that you just can't place.

You feel like you can hear every movement ever made. Your hearts breaking through your chest, swelling and teaming and writhing to free itself from every one of your pores. Your arms feel heavy, a solidified and clumping weight filling from your finger tips up. Eyelids are rigid, set in a half-open stupour as you try and seperate yourself from your weight. A tension fills your throat and finds the brunt of the attack shunted backwards, a longing to say something burning and pressing and wishing it's way into existance, but never through the lips. Only the eyes.

I feel inflated. But less positive.

Is Rather Suprised.

You know why?

Because on the whole Harry Potter buzz that I've been hooked on recently, I've found out that Tom Felton, who plays Draco Malfoy, is a musician. And I really really enjoy his music. He's got one of those really great English alternate voices, almost like.. the Kooks but slower, and not quite as good. So I really enjoy it.

:) Bonus.

Timothy Mann, the man, the myth, the legend.

Timothy Jeffery Mann. I will never ever know how to spell your middle name. Because, evidently sir, neither do you. This is a tribute written about Tim, for Tim, because he really doesn't know how much I truely appreciate him. For those on looking, not knowing much about Tim, this is the low-down. Tim is my best friend. We're in a band. We travelled Japan together. We're going to revisit in 2012. He is the sweetest man that I have ever met, and probably the most ocker Aussie bloke ever (apart from his Dad). I'm really glad that I met him. Like on a scale of one to how much I value my life.. it's up there with my life :)




My journey with this boy in Japan was absolutely life changing. I know that sounds terribly cliched, and I apologise for this un-Sally sounding entry, (it's lacking my usual gruff affection that I apply to my writing), but it's completely and utterly mutha' flippin' true. Without Tim I would have gone completely bonkers. The best reminder of home. Like carrying around a little portable pocket home, so you didn't miss the real home at all while you were away. He was a person to hug when all the other people didn't see the need for physical contact. He was the one who also didn't think it neccessary to wear shoes all the time (thank god, I would have died). He shared with me the music that I missed so much, and always reminded me of what exactly I was doing at the time. 'Hey Sally. What are you doing right now?'

'We're having a barbeque. On the rooftop of a building. Within a conference. IN JAPAN!'


Tim's me best mate. He knows me better than any other person in the whole globe. He knows what I'm thinking, when I need a hug and the best thing to say for every situation. He'll put up with my girlie movie choices (YES EAT PRAY LOVE) and most of all, he is just the coolest guy in the whole world. Ever.

Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever. Ever.

A Couple More People.

Kan Yamane. This boy is a real delight. Seriously. He's English speaking accent is American and knows how to make and take a joke. He knew all the colloquialisms, which was good because Tim and I were hardly understood overseas. Kan lives in Tokyo, has a traditional Japanese boy haircut and PLAYS THE SAXAPHONE. Which, you know, is cool. He was a ladies man overseas, to be sure, and when Tim and I first got a glimpse at his picture we were both definite that this kid was going to be some form of Japanese gangsta. Which didn't end up happen. Thank God for that.
I talk to Kan alot. He can pull off a skirt really well, and makes a wonderful evil stepmother. And boy can he use a fan flatteringly! It's a little bit scary. I miss Kan. Kan Yamaneko. Neko means cat. By the way Tom. :P

This is Ramaaaaa. He was probably one of my favourite people in this program, definitely within the international kids. He was (and still is, I assume) ADORABLE. Honestly, the smile on this kid could let him get away with murder. Or something equally as serious. Like cat lifting or drug trafficking. Rama has the most amazing singing voice I have ever heard on a guy that I met. He is the real deal. And he is MA BIG FELLA. To put it in Australian terms. Just a real, charming gentleman, part Australian and doesn't have the arts as subjects in his school! Which is craaazy! Oh and another about Rama was he is always really well dressed, even when it was casual clothing. Very impressive. But honestly, one of the nicest guys. He could be so rude to you, but it was just SO FUNNY that you could get offended because you were too busy laughing! I miss him alot. Hopefully I'll go see him soon. Visit him when he is living in Perth. That sounds like a good idea.

This is Kim. First person Tim and I ever met on AYEPO. It was pretty funny. The whole flight, I had been admiring her shoes and thinking that she slept in an unusual position on the plane. Turns out as we were getting off that she overheard where we were going and she was heading to the same program. Bonus. Kim really helped us break the ice I guess. She was really nice and encouraged us to speak to the other international kids. Most of the time I intentionally tried to freak her out by pulling my uncomfortable lines, but she just didn't cave in! Which is suprising, they are pretty bad. She was really great to talk to, quick witted and always there to lend a hand with anything we needed. I really missed her when she and the other OBs left early (OB stands for Old Buddy, and were participants from the program of 2009). Hopefully she'll rock over to Australia soon. Or I might go back to New Zealand. It is a wonderful place, as you know, Tom.

Facebook Says I'm Cedric Diggory.

But we all know this is a lie. For one thing, I am certainly not dead. Although being killed by Lord FRICKEN Voldermort would be on the top of my ways to die if the whole situation wasn't actually a fictional novel. This brings me to post about a story I'm not sure whether you've heard. I'll recount it anyway.

I assume that you are familiar with the Harry Potter books. Even if you haven't finished them, you know there is some little scarred kid called Harry who runs around fighting crime using only a piece of wood, and accompanied by a redhaired male dreamboat and an intelligent brunette girl. I read the first book by myself when I was seven years old. That was in the year 2000, also the year of the Sydney Olympic Games and all that while that I think about it. No wonder I went crazy about it, it was my new craze of the millenia! Anyway, I loved it with a passion. I could recite line after line of the books, we have the board game, and the website was the most visited address between the hours of 4-5.30pm in the afternoon of a weekday. The character I always associated with was... yep, you guessed it.. Hermione. I thought I was pretty clever, and all the things that Hermione was supposed to be. My hair was wild. I was a suck up. The usual.

And then the movie came out. In 2001.
I was devestated.

Not because the movie came out, I was thrilled about that. It was the casting that got me into a right spin. Honest to God, I hit my pillow so many times. I couldn't get over it. I mean, all I could think to myself was 'She's only THREE YEARS OLDER THAN ME! THREE! THIS IS BULLSHIT!' (well, maybe not the .. this is bullshit .. part, because I was still only 8, but you get my drift). I was angry for weeks. I went through all my flaws of character, and realised I could have never been her anyway. I was hardly british enough. Or Emma Watson..y.

So you know, I got over it. I still love the books. Rupert Grint is still number one hottest ranga in the world, fo sho. But you know, facebook, even in your stupid little quizzes, you find another way to stab eight year old Sally Gorman right in the heart.

I am not Cedric Diggory.

I AM HERMIONE GRANGER OKAY?
I AM.

Glad we sorted that out.

Photographic Montage, in a non-montagial form. Pt 4. Jinbo!

Badi credits the photo. Again.
You know, I had a lot of trouble writing this entry about Jinbo. I've stopped and started, left it for another day, written three pages and then deleted it just because it didn't say what I wanted it to. I suppose I could put a couple of one-liners together and finish with 'here's to Jinbo! the funniest man that ever lived!' but I would have missed alot. So I think, I'll just write everything I can possibly think at the time of now. I'm sure Tom that you've heard alot about Jinbo from me already. But I think he deserves something written. Something he can find if he wants.

Jinbo and I only first became friends because I was a little too bold for my own good. I walked straight up to him, not knowing his name, and pointed at him aggressively. "What are you doing wearing my dad's shirt!" I said, "That's my dad's shirt!". He replied profusely with "No, no it's not! This my shirt! Mine!". We continued to play bicker, the shirt he was wearing was the same colour green as my Dads, as well as having the little embroidered crocodile on the chest. Initially I called him Dad. Although he was never really a father figure. He was way too funny to be my Dad, although cheers to my Dad for being way cool (for if he reads this). I sat next to Jinbo a couple of times after that. We became friends. He called me 'Charlie' sometimes, or the occasional 'YO CRACKER!' and I called him 'Dad' when ever he wore that shirt. You know Tom, he can play the piano! Really well! And he can cook. No wonder we got (facebook) married :P Jinbo was one of my best friends of my experience. Honest to the applicable significant being in your prefered lifestyle, might be God, might be ducks. Who knows.
So in August, I met a man named Jinbo. There is a picture of him with Tim and I at the top of this post. He's a transformer, and a panda. And he can down a bowl of rice in three seconds flat. Which is, you know, FLIPPIN' AMAZING.

This man made me laugh so hard that I fell over. This man made me try the nori packets with the Hello Kitty covers that was just so DAMN DELICIOUS (oishii!). This man helps me to calm down when I'm freaking out over exams. This man urges me to work harder, and make more of myself. This man makes me miss August 2010 so much that sometimes I feel like crying. He is a good man.

I hope you meet him one day Tom.
He's your cup of tea.

The Promised Lyrics: Watermelon Man.

Watermelon Man; written September 2010.

This song was written about my experiences during my stay away in Japan and how much I loved it. The title comes from a boy that I met, called Junpei and his stripey green pyjamas that made him look like a little watermelon. Adorable!

I came home from summer coming back to spring

Weeks had gone so fast they could have never ever been

And while I was away, I met a watermelon man

With his stripey green pyjamas and a tucked in waistband

His best bloody buddy had a big soul voice

Who took so many pictures that you didn't have a choice

To be in, or out observing them,

At least he was preserving them,

The best nights I'd ever ever had

(WATERMELON SAID!)

'Go Singing in the Night', don't be scared of your voice taking flight.

'Be Careful' what you say! Don't you ever let it run away!

Hold me tight, don't let me go..

JOKES, 'NO MEANING' JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!

Boo Boo Boo Boo Boo BOO

We went swimming in the sea and jumping out of boats

They made us wear life jackets just incase we didn't float

And our tutors didn't swim because they forgot their suits

Mikey wore his green shorts, we all ate dragonfruit

Ichariba cho de, I know my speech is pretty bad

But you guys are the best friends that I've ever ever had

Oh I will see you all again, when I get back to Japan

You know, you know it's my plan!

(BUT WHILE I'M AWAY!)

Go singing in the night, don't be scared of your voice taking flight

Be careful what you say! Don't you ever let it run away!

Hold me tight, don't let me go!

JOKES, NO MEANING, JUST LEAVE ME ALONE.

Boo Boo!

:)

Photographical Montage, in a non-montagial form. Pt 3. Mike, Chulsung.

I posted this photo because Michael (Mike, Mikey, Yoo etc) really liked this photo when I took it. So I thought that he might enjoy it if I put it on my blog. I've already briefly mentioned him before in maybe.. two of my posts. Guess it's because he had such a big inpact on me. Probably my best lesson teacher during the whole program. I would call him 'sensei' :P but I think it wouldn't be personal enough. We are family. He is my Korean brother. During AYEPO, he taught me the value of trying to understand, even if you couldn't. He punched me in the arm every morning, just to check if I was alive and kicking. He would make fun of me everytime I dropped food from my chopsticks. I would find different languages to call him old in, even though he insisted that he was a '19 years old boy'. I did the math Mike. You are old. You know though, I don't care if he is old. He doesn't act old. He doesn't look old. He doesn't listen to old music. Well, not really old music. But ANYWAY, this is beside the point. Again. I'm very good at getting beside the point.

This man taught me a lot of things. He's taught me that names are not important. He's taught me to ALWAYS be camera shy, as he knows how to get a bad photo of you. He has taught me the need to speak up, even if you are a little afraid. The smallest can have the largest mouths. Even if you are quiet, you can learn not to show it. He did. And he was the quietest of all.

My big bear of a brother.

Photographical Montage, in non-montagial form. Pt 2. Yu.

To be honest, this isn't my photo of Yu. It was taken by Badi. So, now that it is credited, moving forward. Yu is one of the most brilliant ladies in the world. She was my Okinawan Mother, and a home away from home. We called her Mum alot, or at least I did. In joke with my mate Yuki Ono you see. She did all the things Mums were supposed to do. Like make sure that you weren't feeling sick or gave you a shoulder to cry on. You know I had to use that at least once. I'm a bit of a wuss that way, you know. So here is my little tribute to my second Mum, Yu.

What a lovely, lovely lady.

Photographic Montage, in a non-montagial form. Pt 1. Badi.

I don't even think Montagial is a word. I don't care to be honest. But anyway, that is beside the point. This is a photo of a boy named Badi, sleeping on a bus. Well that's his shortened name (not, 'Badisleepingonabus' just Badi [THAT WOULD BE REDICULOUS]). He has quite a long name, and his last name is ACTUALLY his father's first name! FREAK OUT. Anyway, I think this kid is one of my greatest friends ever. Even though I've only spent three weeks of my life actually being with him in person. I suppose it's when you are thrown into a difficult situation, the same as everyone else, you bond with the people around you quickly, for support. Like with AYEPO 2010. English was the required language, but the bridge between Japanese and English was sometimes really difficult. Badi would have been any native English speakers first choice, in our situation. To be sure. Not only was he super at English speaking, (it being better than his Malaysian, or so he says), he has a FANTASTIC taste in music as well as being an excellent musician himself and is really easy to get along with. He actually features in the song that I wrote recently. I'll have to post the lyrics later on here for you to see, ;) . You might enjoy it. Anyways, I'm trying to persuade you to think that Badi is a good guy. Which I'm sure you don't doubt :P One thing you really need to know. Brunei is a place. It's a Kingdom infact.
Look, he's just cool okay?

A few Reminders.

Camera mens faces don't appear on film. They have this special technique that they develop over time. It's why they become camera men really, because they dislike and find it hard to be in photographs and film. Apart from Norio. Norio really enjoyed having his photo taken. That's why you can see his face in photos. But not this man. Oh no. He has no face.
Pretty nice guy, though he filmed me dropping food and followed me into my room once. That was a little awkward, being filmed in my room.


I met another camera man while I was overseas. This one was one of my favourites, and he went by many names. I mainly called him Mike. He was alot older than he would let people know, but I knew better. He hid behind his camera alot, and wore the best green shorts I have ever ever seen. I also enjoy his blog. Called.
www.mediamob.co.kr/apulsa/Blog.aspx
He told me that Apulsa means something close to 'Gosh' in Korean. Which I enjoy. I also enjoy him. He is a very talented man, but won't let you tell him so. So I thought that I would post how talented I think he is on the internet. Win.

I really enjoyed the hair within this photo. Both blonde and brown. And Yuka's glasses are amazing. I don't think there is ever a point in time when this lady isn't 'Gosh Darn the Most Amazing Lady You Have Ever Seen In Your Life'.
She is truely wonderful.

I'm sure there will be more photos some other time. When I am not so tired.

I'm full.

You know, I'm FULL. Bloated infact. Bursting at the seems. Crammed. Ladened, packed and jammed FULL. Brimming. I am completely FULL. Almost to the point of being consumed, by my own.. FULLness.

I'm FULL of lots of things. Emotions, Memories and Blood mainly. Oh, and Water. Lots and Lots of Water. Water that swells through the pores into beads on my forehead. Water that squeezes itself through the corners of my eyes and catches itself on my lashes. Water hammering into my skull and dampening my hair at the turn of a tap. Water soaking the hands until they wrinkle and soften. Water barraging the barricade, breaking through the walls of my jeans and trickling slowly down to pool in the bottom of my shoes.
Water usually gets rid of a lot of things. Dirt for one. With the assistance of soap, you might be able to make markings dissapear, like pen or texta. Permanent texta is not so easy, but with persistance, it comes off and you are clean again. But, with the bodies need for water, it's survival dependant on your levels of hydration, as well as the need for you to be clean (again, water gains YAHTZEE), all this water that I have does not seem to be doing its job.

Water is supposed to make everything fresh. It gets rid of the markings, and cleans you from the outside in. Removes the dirt from underneath your fingernails. But I don't suppose they've come up for a way that water can clean the consciousness of a person. That'd be a little extreme for modern day scientists. Unless they have and they've kept it a secret. They always keep the most useful things a secret.

But I guess secrets are necessary. Living without secrets is not common these days. I'm not sure that I know someone without secrets. I know I have secrets. There are secrets in my writing, and there are secrets in yours. There are secrets in your mind as you read what I type. You might tell them to someone one day, or you might not. That's entirely up to you.

The one thing I know about my secrets is:
I'm FULL of them.

Deer, wearing the mask of bear.

There was a boy that I met once. He would not let me believe that he was a man, so a boy he remained, stretched out and taught in a body that made him awkward. Deer, wearing the mask of a bear. A brother by chance rather than by blood.

He told me I could call him what ever I would like. 'Call me any name, name means nothing. I am me. You are Sally.' From then I have felt grounded.

Call me what you will.
That is what I have learnt.

Returning to the sand.

'I can sing a song so blue that you will cry inspite of you, little wet tears on your baby's shoulder. Little wet tears on my baby's shoulder.'

Watching men cry is a tricky thing to experience. You don't know whether to comfort them or let them deal with it. For example, when leaving AYEPO I got out of the bus and to my right there was a boy that I knew. I'll spare his name. I looked at him and dropped my bag. Next thing I knew, I had this big lump in my arms, sobbing uncontrollably and wailing.

I was faced with several options;

a) Say nothing, stand and hold.
b) Pat the boys head, and try and stir him out of crying.
c) Throw him off and tell him to be a man.
d) Turn into a transformer and explode.

I knew the last one was a little unlikely. So I went for option B. This had it's negatives and positives. The negative was that the boy and I were still parting. The positive part is that he eventually stopped crying so that he could give me a smile. Thanks bruiser ;) But honestly, I doubt many girls my age would know how to deal with a guy crying.

It's kinda.. tricky.

Oh and another thing.

Herr Barr - Chris Clark,

definitely worth a look at on youtube.

All those recommendations have made me quite thirsty.

One of my favourite blogs in the whole world has to be my friend Nathan's. It's wonderful. I think I'll link you to it.

It's http://www.cryptofthecolossi.blogspot.com/ :)

He has this amazing manner about his writings, which I find particularly delightful~!

I also really really enjoy the original factorytown. Made before we knew it, by a man we've never met. We each have our own factories, different ways to get there. I apologise if he found this similar. I had launched my obsession before I knew of his existance. So in advance, Mr Man (if you read this), I apologise. And I love your work by the way. Absolutely brilliant.

http://www.factorytown.blogspot.com/

Explore.
Enjoy.
Eel.

I was looking for a smaller word than 'Enjoy' that started with 'E'. And Eels make me happy.

An Amazing Paranoid Android Cover; You Should Take The Time To Listen.

Copyrights to Radiohead and Tripod.

:D

Someone Borrowed.

I remember my dreams. In great detail.
So I find it rather hard not to become attached to the people within them, and often wake very sad to see them gone.

There was a man in a warehouse. With a very dark voice. I was in the rafters, high up and nervous to move. I couldn't see his whole face, but one side seemed to be scarred. So I dare say, the other replicates. He was mumbling to himself, and had a mop and a bucket. He seemed to have trouble focussing on what he was doing. I had been watching him closely for what was a very long time, only seeming momentarily for me, when he looked up into the rafters. And everything stood still.

There was brown. And there was warmth.

It's funny, how you think you've never seen that person before, you'd swear on it that you'd made them up. A little imaginary man in your head.
This one is real though.

I met him at a party. Though he didn't meet me.

Skin Virgins.

Blink.
You've never felt your chest vibrate this hard before.

Blink blink.
The music is loud; yawn and roll over.

This boat you're on, mother fucker, is gonna tip. So don't rock it.

Turn over. You see a brother lying beside you. His arms are crossed, behind his head, gazing absent mindedly at the movie tent roof. He doesn't want to get up either. It's too cold for this.

You're on your feet. Wave to the people you don't know as you search for your breakfast. Leave it behind and move closer to the fire. Feeling comes back to your fingers and toes. I was scared Sally, where were you? You catch their eye and pull them close to you, not letting go for a long time. They are shivering, jacketless, though for thought of greater woe. I was scared. Drinking my blood.

No more news, you don't want to hear it. Friends OD-ing and hurting themselves, you think you've had enough, thankyou very much. Time to pull on your boots and get to work soldier. A smile from a boy in a yellow rain coat sparkes life into your day. Even though the boy you want and need is miles away. Your best friend is ignoring you. You've never been so cold.

My head hurts.

JE-CRAWLIN-HOVAH!

I live in a little place we used to call Factorytown.
One word. No breathing inbetween.

I lived with a boy called Tom.
I called him Cat mostly. And he called me mouse.
We used to run through the streets looking for food and bits of old books.
They burnt them mostly; they don't know how to read.

It's pretty cold there.
The girls dance in the streets for money.
While the men work in the factories.

So.

WELCOME TO FACTORYTOWN.
YOU'LL NEVER SLEEP AGAIN.
I love the night time.