in her face, the mirror of your dreams

[fahye]

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 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.

Comments

[ryokophoenix.livejournal.com]

Am considering doing the describy thing, if only I wasnt so exhausted/stressed.
I want to see you firestaff! (If you were a guy, that would sound dirty). >.<

*hugs* Otherwise, I hope you feel better. Am not sure what your personal crisis was, but am happy its over and that you're all good again. ^_^ *hugs again*
Would send you my creative, but would frankly be embarrassed.

[izumihydra.livejournal.com]

i think i'm offended.

[ryokophoenix.livejournal.com]

Freya = scary fanfic author.
Tegan = read everything I've ever written since like year 9, since me evolve from crap to slightly less crap. I could never surprise you with my crappness.
I hope.

[izumihydra.livejournal.com]

that's slightly better.

[ryokophoenix.livejournal.com]

*pats* I appreciate your help with my crappness.

[izumihydra.livejournal.com]

you're not crap. don't make me hurt you.

[ryokophoenix.livejournal.com]

*runs away*

[miscellanny.livejournal.com]

I'm on YM for the next... um... well. Short time. But if you want to talk?

I'm sorry, kid. *hugs*

I'll mail ya later.

[not-in-denial.livejournal.com]

Hmmmm, description.....

The truth is that you don't notice the room very much when you first walk in. It's just a room, it could be anywhere, it could be any kind of room. Though a few steps in it does blur into focus, and the mind registers the items that inhabit this space. Strangely, even though the computer takes up a large portion of the room, it's never the first thing noticed. No, the first thing noticed is always the bookcases.

Ah, the bookcases. Three of them, white and over six feet tall, stuffed so full they shame most libraries. All kinds of books, everything from David Eddings to Louis Lamour, and then to Isaac Asimov. Most the books are old editions, not many bought after the year 1990. They're all well-read, the spines are creased so heavily they look like static on the TV. The shelves are not just full of books, however, as there are videos and DVDs there as well.

There's an old, broken computer chair in front of the bookcases, with a red folder resting on it. The chair is grey and black, and the backrest has a humourous tilt to it that makes it look drunk. Behind that is a white step-ladder.

Opposite the door are two white cupboards, and inside those you'll find more books and videos and DVDs. One of them also has several office supplies, such as pens and rulers. Along another wall, there are two small sets of drawers, filled with blank CDs and burnt data CDs. On top of those drawers are folders and boxes filled with more CDs, stacked about a foot high.

Behind the door, there's another small white cabinet. This one is filled with odds and ends, some CDs, some office supplies...what's in it is not what is interesting--what's interesting is what's on top of it. A thesaurus, one of my most beloved books, that is sadly growing dusty. Next to it, a small red bible, the one I got for free when I was in year seven at Goulburn High School.

I remember that day at school--the other year sevens were laughing at these people who gave us the bibles, sneering at them and doing things like ripping the bibles up or burning them. It didn't bother me that they did that--what bothered me was that they did it while the men who had given the bibles to us were still around. It was a blatant, disgusting display of immaturity and intolerance.

That, in fact, is why I keep the bible there--it serves me as a reminder that the world is not as kind and willing to accept as I wish it would be.

Also on top of that cabinet is my headset, and my scanner. The scanner is usually covered by a tea towel with a picture of a black cockatoo on it, to keep the dust off. There is also a flashlight next to the scanner, it belongs to my father.

[not-in-denial.livejournal.com]

Then we come to the computer desk, and the computer. A lovely grey desk with multiple levels--one for the keyboard, one for the computer itself and the monitor, a smaller shelf for documents, but we keep the gamepad there. The top of the desk has the printer, modem, and two speakers on it. Up by the left speaker, there is a tiny labrador plushie, the type that clip onto your shirt by their front paws.

The monitor is usually in action, even if no one is on the computer it may be downloading through either WinMX or G3Torrent. In the unlikely event that it is not in use, however, then the wallpaper will be Puss in Boots from Shrek 2, doing his cute eyes. The monitor's resolution changes depending on who used it last--it will either be in 800x600 or 1024x768 resolutions.

The keyboard is ergonomic, and the mouse is optical. The mousepad has Darth Vader and Boba Fett from Star Wars on it. There are piles of notepaper around the computer, as well as a clean notepad and two black pens.

The computer chair--the real one, the one that's actually used for sitting on--is green and black. The fabric is torn on the seat, and it looks in general as though it's seen better days. On a small stand of a white frame with glass surfaces next to the computer chair, there is a CD holder with most of the frequently played computer games CDs. Most of them are Star Wars games, oddly enough. Behind the CD holder, there is a red Manchester Utd cushion, and sitting on top of that cushion is a Droopy plushie. On the lower level of the stand, there is a packet of photo copy paper, and below that, some folders.

In front of the small stand, there is a tiny waste paper bin, with many scrunched up balls of paper in it. Extension cords run rampant in this room, mostly grey in colour.

The room always has an odd smell to it, no one's quite sure what it is. It's not a particularly pleasant smell, so you can be sure that the window is opened as often as possible. Unfortunately, my father doesn't approve of having the window open, so ninety-nine percent of the time, you will find the window closed and the blinds drawn. Often this room has a cramped feeling about it, as though it's always shut up--which, in fact, it usually is.

The truth is that this room is not a comfortable room. The only comfortable place to be in this room is sitting on the green chair, staring at the computer screen. Even then, there must be no one else in the room, or it loses its comfort. A person hovering in the background will cause tingles to go down my spine, and will cause me to become snippy and impatient. The door to this room is always shut if someone is in here, but because it's "public domain" as it were, no one ever knocks before entering.

The lightbulb in this room is an energy saver, and the room always has an unhealthy yellow tinge because of it. The room is sick, which is perhaps fitting when you consider that the person who spends most of their time in this room is me--the chronically sick Erin.

~~~

Jesus Christ, and you thought YOU rambled. *blushes*

[woodstock-21.livejournal.com]

Frar, I've sent my english creative to your gmail account. Can you proofread it and send it to my school email? 1275 is the ID number.

[sanguia.livejournal.com]

frar, watch your back. you're getting hugged tomorrow. it's going to be a long and squeezing hug, of the rib cracking lung punturing variety; it will come when you LEAST EXPECT IT. if you ever feel like unloading anything onto me, i'm here man. hug threats still stand whatever you try to do to stop them.

[fahye.livejournal.com]

Done!

[halcyon-libra.livejournal.com]

*snuggles* ;; I'm glad to hear that things are better for you, but I don't like hearing that they sucked in the first place. I'm here if you need me.

And I just woke up and don't have the energy to describe my room. ^^;