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in her face, the mirror of your dreams
Ugh. Had horrific personal crisis today and had to be talked back into sanity by mother. Was shaking and almost in tears as I drove us back from the National Portrait Gallery, and anyone who knows me well will realise that this is a Big Thing.
I'm calmer now. Feeling less like I'm drowning and more like chocolate is the best invention in the world ever.
I think my parents may have forgotten that I'm bi, though *headdesk*
NB - For anyone currently suffering from English creative strife, I'm happy to proofread/tear apart/edit for you. Send it to my Hotmail or Gmail, but comment here so that I know it's been sent, yeah?
You know, I really had something more worthwhile to post here, I swear. Ah yes. Nicking from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
villainny, 'cos it looks like fun, posting here so that this entry is something more than just a self-pitying deluge of moping.
Would you do something for me? If you have time, of course. Call it a writing exercise.
I want you to look at the room you're in. When was the last time you looked at it? When was the last time you didn't automatically just think bedroom/study/computer room, and leave it at that? Look around you. Think.
If you have time, I'd love a description of it, in as little or as much detail as you like. How does it make you feel? Why that particular picture, over the computer? I'm insatiably curious. If you don't want to write though, that's fine, but take a look. See what you've forgotten to see.
The desk curves, neatly slotted into one corner. It faces the join of two walls, one which is almost entirely window (facing out into the backyard, pool and bricks and snatches of herb garden visible). Currently that wall and the corner directly in front of my eyes are covered with floor-length curtain, pale cream with a green/orange/red pattern of bamboo leaves and other odd plants. The desk is a mess, as usual - piles of CDs, old floppies, software manuals, green mousepad with the squishy wtristrest to prevent RSI. Printer, cables running everywhere, tiny globe, tins of pencils, incense burder, lamp, calculator, sheets of paper, pencilcase, physics folder, manicure scissors, digital camera, bracelet, old clock that doesn't work. Chaos of my life.
To my left, a small chest of drawers in the same smooth false wood as the desk. Top covered in photo frames, one precious porcelain doll with ice skates from a trip to London seven years ago. Small ceramic bowl full of nails, elastic bands, paper clips, safety pins, things to hold other things together. Drawers full of notepads, stickers, crayons, remnants of childhood and half-forgotten stationary that I always mean to use and never do.
Further to the left, taking an anticlockwise tour, built-in wardrobe. Bright spots of distraction on the doors - Runaway Jury movie poster, LotR, Harry Potter, Peter Pan, Treasure Planet poster that was stolen from the cinema an age ago. Pictures drawn bytammaiya and sanguia, a single headshot of James Marsters my sole genuflection to teen idolatry.
To the left again, firestaff and various cosplay swords lean against the bookshelf. Sides covered with a collage of stickers, a huge amount of nametag stickers from a million and one events, a bizarre little shrine to myself that I add to automatically. Moving from the top to the bottom - hardcover books, manga and artbooks, photoalbums-magazines-birthdaycards-emptynotebooks, two shelves of softbacks (double layered, the ones behind irritatingly out of sight and mind), bottom shelf dedicated to reference books of a truly incerdible variety, many bearing prize certificates on their frontispiece.
Left again, the small amount of space before the door is filled by CD player and CD collection. On the wall above - a quilted work by my mother, dragon and castle and an "F" done in gold thread. Photo frame holding an old birthday card that I thought was pretty, a poster of Elijah Wood and Karl Urban from before Two Towers came out. Leads on to the door - Matriz poster, Arjuna poster, very old nameplate with Benjamin Bunny on it. Hung on the doorknob are bags of all sizes and a small teddy bear with its paws sewn together, hanging like a gymnast in a pink tutu.
Third wall, the one opposite the window - full-length mirror hung about with various paraphenalia from Christmases and opening nights of stage shows and weddings. Second chest of draws, old heavy dark wood, the tribute to girlish vanity. Hair things and jewellery in a mess over the top. Then the bed, in the corner, single and slender with a bookcase in the head - filled with favourites, often replaced. The place of honour for my literary loves, currently alarmingly Pratchettesque. Along the top, my collection of candles and dragons and daggers and a bottle of deodorant looking very out of place. Tiny ceramic dragons from Wales that fall off whenever someone bumps the bed too hard. The wall above - anime, Final Fantasy, drawings byhikarudragon, odd things printed out and liked and stuck up with old pieces of Blu-Tac. Haphazard and colourful and spilling onto the last wall, the one to my right.
Even more pictures and posters and photos and poems, holes between them flled with trinket-holders, remnants of a dolphin obsession in my youth. Medals hanging from hooks, a drop-down photo holder that always makes me smile to look at. And directly to my right a cork noticeboard covered with recipts-businesscards-randomosity, surrounded by free postcards, edge-to-edge collage, up as high as I can reach. Which brings us round full circle.
Carpet and walls are basic cream, ceiling is white. Not exciting or dramatic, but I don't come here to be exciting. Floor is habitually covered in junk - at the moment it is adorned with textbooks, Dance Fest costume, comics, box of tissues, CD cases, shoulder bag, schoolbag, skating bag. It doesn't feel as comfortable when the floor is pristine, although it gives me something of a sense of accomplishment. Doesn't feel like my room unless there is music playing and the door is at least half-closed, keeping in the heat and the personal feeling.
When I set out to describe, man do I describe.
Sorry about that.
I'm calmer now. Feeling less like I'm drowning and more like chocolate is the best invention in the world ever.
I think my parents may have forgotten that I'm bi, though *headdesk*
NB - For anyone currently suffering from English creative strife, I'm happy to proofread/tear apart/edit for you. Send it to my Hotmail or Gmail, but comment here so that I know it's been sent, yeah?
You know, I really had something more worthwhile to post here, I swear. Ah yes. Nicking from
villainny, 'cos it looks like fun, posting here so that this entry is something more than just a self-pitying deluge of moping.Would you do something for me? If you have time, of course. Call it a writing exercise.
I want you to look at the room you're in. When was the last time you looked at it? When was the last time you didn't automatically just think bedroom/study/computer room, and leave it at that? Look around you. Think.
If you have time, I'd love a description of it, in as little or as much detail as you like. How does it make you feel? Why that particular picture, over the computer? I'm insatiably curious. If you don't want to write though, that's fine, but take a look. See what you've forgotten to see.
The desk curves, neatly slotted into one corner. It faces the join of two walls, one which is almost entirely window (facing out into the backyard, pool and bricks and snatches of herb garden visible). Currently that wall and the corner directly in front of my eyes are covered with floor-length curtain, pale cream with a green/orange/red pattern of bamboo leaves and other odd plants. The desk is a mess, as usual - piles of CDs, old floppies, software manuals, green mousepad with the squishy wtristrest to prevent RSI. Printer, cables running everywhere, tiny globe, tins of pencils, incense burder, lamp, calculator, sheets of paper, pencilcase, physics folder, manicure scissors, digital camera, bracelet, old clock that doesn't work. Chaos of my life.
To my left, a small chest of drawers in the same smooth false wood as the desk. Top covered in photo frames, one precious porcelain doll with ice skates from a trip to London seven years ago. Small ceramic bowl full of nails, elastic bands, paper clips, safety pins, things to hold other things together. Drawers full of notepads, stickers, crayons, remnants of childhood and half-forgotten stationary that I always mean to use and never do.
Further to the left, taking an anticlockwise tour, built-in wardrobe. Bright spots of distraction on the doors - Runaway Jury movie poster, LotR, Harry Potter, Peter Pan, Treasure Planet poster that was stolen from the cinema an age ago. Pictures drawn by
tammaiya and sanguia, a single headshot of James Marsters my sole genuflection to teen idolatry. To the left again, firestaff and various cosplay swords lean against the bookshelf. Sides covered with a collage of stickers, a huge amount of nametag stickers from a million and one events, a bizarre little shrine to myself that I add to automatically. Moving from the top to the bottom - hardcover books, manga and artbooks, photoalbums-magazines-birthdaycards-emptynotebooks, two shelves of softbacks (double layered, the ones behind irritatingly out of sight and mind), bottom shelf dedicated to reference books of a truly incerdible variety, many bearing prize certificates on their frontispiece.
Left again, the small amount of space before the door is filled by CD player and CD collection. On the wall above - a quilted work by my mother, dragon and castle and an "F" done in gold thread. Photo frame holding an old birthday card that I thought was pretty, a poster of Elijah Wood and Karl Urban from before Two Towers came out. Leads on to the door - Matriz poster, Arjuna poster, very old nameplate with Benjamin Bunny on it. Hung on the doorknob are bags of all sizes and a small teddy bear with its paws sewn together, hanging like a gymnast in a pink tutu.
Third wall, the one opposite the window - full-length mirror hung about with various paraphenalia from Christmases and opening nights of stage shows and weddings. Second chest of draws, old heavy dark wood, the tribute to girlish vanity. Hair things and jewellery in a mess over the top. Then the bed, in the corner, single and slender with a bookcase in the head - filled with favourites, often replaced. The place of honour for my literary loves, currently alarmingly Pratchettesque. Along the top, my collection of candles and dragons and daggers and a bottle of deodorant looking very out of place. Tiny ceramic dragons from Wales that fall off whenever someone bumps the bed too hard. The wall above - anime, Final Fantasy, drawings by
hikarudragon, odd things printed out and liked and stuck up with old pieces of Blu-Tac. Haphazard and colourful and spilling onto the last wall, the one to my right.Even more pictures and posters and photos and poems, holes between them flled with trinket-holders, remnants of a dolphin obsession in my youth. Medals hanging from hooks, a drop-down photo holder that always makes me smile to look at. And directly to my right a cork noticeboard covered with recipts-businesscards-randomosity, surrounded by free postcards, edge-to-edge collage, up as high as I can reach. Which brings us round full circle.
Carpet and walls are basic cream, ceiling is white. Not exciting or dramatic, but I don't come here to be exciting. Floor is habitually covered in junk - at the moment it is adorned with textbooks, Dance Fest costume, comics, box of tissues, CD cases, shoulder bag, schoolbag, skating bag. It doesn't feel as comfortable when the floor is pristine, although it gives me something of a sense of accomplishment. Doesn't feel like my room unless there is music playing and the door is at least half-closed, keeping in the heat and the personal feeling.
When I set out to describe, man do I describe.
Sorry about that.
no subject