That week.
It is a rare thing for me to do a blog entry on "and today I did this blah blah blah, the cat puked" so on so forth. This week however has been exceptionally good for a winter week. During the winter I curl up in my spine and hibernate. Yet this past week I've been, well, unusually happy. For the first time in a long while I feel safe.Most of this happiness is connected to how much funny things have occurred. On Monday for example I turned up to English completely manic from lack of sleep, food and an interesting dose of yummy painkillers. It was a fun lesson. In our groups we had to cut and paste images which relate to our character from Hamlet. My group had been lumbered with Mr Complicated Hamlet from the beginning, it helped for this task as it provided us with a wider range of things to chose from. Louise had to do (not literally) trusty Horatio. I actually persuaded her to put a fish and some curry on her picture then she went wild. She added sideshow Bob from the Simpsons and a turtle. It was so funny thinking of ways she could link the images to Horatio.
Me: Well rice sticks together sometimes and that's what Horatio and Hamlet do.
Louise: Fish is good for the brain!
When she actually presented it to the class it was hilarious. Dr whateverhisnameis was like, "Hhhuummm yes very original." I thought hers was the best presentation. The only reason I convinced her to find a home for my fish was because my group wouldn't let me stick it onto ours.
Me: But what about the pirate ship he jumps on.
Group: Oh God don't start about the pirates again!
That pirate ship thing is funny I tells ya! I can just imagine him jumping on board with no one to back him up, shitloads (shiploads heh heh) of burly pirates scowling down at him. Then he gets out this tiny spoon and goes "I'll take you all!" It makes me laugh so much picturing it, but my group find my fantasy scary. Or just me possibly. Strange.
Then when I got home form school I dragged Poobelle to my house to help me carry a dustbin bag of shredded paper down to the recycling unit with me. We looked like a few pills short of a suicide Im telling you. The bag was immensely heavy so we were basically running and shouting things at each other through the falling snow. Then I had to take my shoe off and I was hopping around for a while trying to stuff my foot back in the shoe, Poobelle used the opportunity to slap my bare back causing me to shriek and her laugh in her evilly satisfied way then continue. Shopowners actually came and stood on their doorsteps to watch us.
When we reach the recycling bin its another problem facing us. The slit is far too small for the dustbin bag. When we try to pour it in shredded paper drifts to the ground and mixes with snow. The guilt of littering compels us to ask the near by florist for a broom, "To you know, just borrow." Unfortunately the florist only had a broken dust pan and brush which was most likely a bollocks excuse to stop us from "stealing" the broom. I may be an adolescent but I'm not going to get major kicks from stealing a broken broom; this time is my prime (apparently)! Im in the blossoming dawn of my-3 and a bit year- relationship with booze I have better things to drink than steal brooms. Unless Im wasted in which case it is very witty of the booze gripping my mind to do so and I thank you not to question it.
Dedicated to cleaning up the scraps of my childish handwriting from the mud we returned to attain frozen dirt to the underside of our fingernails.
Poobelle: They'll arrest us you know.
Me: On paper charges?
Confidently we laughed in the security of a joke. Then to reprimand us with the harsh reality of paper crimes a police car siren drowning the cockiness of the jest. Subdued, Poobelles face dropped into the infant expression of fright. It was silly of us to get caught up in our game. But on that main road in the dark with the bolts of machinery holding frames of curiosity forever moving; we felt guily. Like there was some odious crime committed and tell tale paper snowflakes lay in the mud crying out to the passersby in their cars. Incriminating me the unreadable snippets of ink- words carved into a gravestone, they will not be my eternal reference. Words of a girl sharing with me little else than a name, transition and writing. Those words won't condemn me, I will expand and like the bin-bag slope of paper in the recycling unit, I will try to accumulate. Her words are not needed I can discipline my own.
Before I go to out to dinner with my family, to sit round a table and laugh with my brothers, blotting the vacuous expanse of circular booby-trapped thoughts. Before I leave I announce inwardly to my room, "She/they are gone we are unburdened." Still guilt hangs.
Recycling. I ponder is "I" everything to come. In a few years will another me be shredding once again? The natural fear of being gone, present me raising herself up in self-defense. No this template is good, expand.
BOOGIE
posted by Boogie @ 9:27 PM
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