(Couldn't resist this - supposed to working but instead passed some time pawing through my old journals from school days. All I want to do now is give me a cuddle)
I have not been watching television or going to see movies. I am too busy. Too poor. I have no money to fuel the things i would like to do.
But I went to see Perspectives, the year 12 art exhibition. I wandered quickly through, lost in thought. My dexterity of mind, my impatience, does not give me many avenues for examining other people's talents closely.
I was struck by one of the exhibits. A self portrait, pensive, stripey blue and white pajamas. Another - a scene of Australian life, three overweight vacant faces staring at a TV screen, surrounded by cultural icons. Sad. Both were sad. I wondered what sadness was behind this pretty girl with the pensive eyes. She was reflecting, locked inside an all-girl's school. Feeling trapped?
I notice, here and there at irregular moments, art surrounding me. I see a wall covered in graffiti, marvelling at the cartoon images assaulting the viewer with bright colour. I write as if on some kind of drug. I'm not. I am pensive, too. I can't express myself in pictures so get lost in words. Today I have been vague. Sunday. Nothing day.
I feel like crying, I'm confused. I feel young. I feel old. Paradoxes surround me. I am leader, I am follower. I have been working today. Never before have I had such a lack of motivation before exams. I cry silently for intelligent people lost in social expectations, intellects quenched by beer, not knowledge.
I try to define my boundaries. I love words. My career is defined by that. Never will I be a clothes designer, a commercial artist. I covet. I want to be everything.
I want to be the girl in the blue and white pajamas. I want to be Sylvia Plath. I want to be rcognised. I want to be ignored.
I want my words to touch someone in the core of their soul. I want my essays to be clear insights into the deep workings of an author's brain. I try to fight feelings of failure as one of my essays is beaten senseless by a more intelligent person's insights.
I depend on my writing. I need it. I need clarification, and peace. If I was religious I would pray.
I beg you to understand my words and the complex
*later in the year*
Last night! A night of nothing but so much fun. After six hours of virtual solitude and history history history Deng Xiaoping and what not I emerge back into the land of the living. Mindless television for an hour or so.
Carl bounces in. Do we want to go out? We all four decked out in groovy jackets against wind and rain. Drive to Fremantle in search of pool tables and smoky atmospheres. No go.
We drive to Cottesloe beach and tumble out for a bit of living. We leave the car and trek to the rocky jetty, standing out surrounded by crashing waves sending up saltspray and coating our faces with mist. We feel fear and exhilaration. We climb the rocks and sand to grass and take in the scene. For a while we stand against the wind take off our jackets laugh out loud and let the wind be our support system. My mind is clarified, cleansed.
*later still in the year*
I stupidly got up an hour earlier than I needed to, because my clock was set an hour before the actual time. Damn I needed that extra hour.
Life is blah blah ho hum drum. I have no crush on anyone and noone has a crush on me. I eat when I am stoned and I am stoned too much and more and more and so on.
My life has become all kinds of excesses, none of which are good for me. I am 18 in 26 days.
That is three weeks and five days.
That is 25 sleeps.
That is 19 working days.
And this is quite pathetic.