carry on

Spring creeps in so slowly and I still haven't learnt to cope with this waiting. The sun at a low angle, the slanting shadows, the streets covered in dry rubble, the billowing dust, the tough piles of dirty snow in the shade.


Springs have traditionally not been my forte, and so the brighter the days and the muddier the grass, the harder it is for me to sleep and to smile.


I'm feeling a bit adrift right now, with my exams over and nothing to do but apply for summer jobs and think about the future. I'm waiting for May, for that almost-summer phase of spring, and listening to this in the mornings.

(Also, thank you for your comments on my last post. It really does mean a lot to be offered these words 

of encouragement and trust.)

hands and knees

skeleton me

(On a completely unrelated note, I might have started another blog for my rants and things. 

Go check it out if you are inclined to enjoy reading, well, rants. And things.) 

tuesday morning

So I'm done with school. Almost. Not quite. But we're definitely past the beginning of the end. (I don't know quite how to feel.)

Lately I've been doing voluntary work in the presidential elections. I've been queuing for concert tickets at arse o'clock in the morning. I've been spending quality time in the library. All in the midst of enormous piles of snow and harsh winter sunlight.

(And yesterday I got to see Ultra Bra live, as a result of all that queuing et al. And it was. Just. You know? Pretty much the best thing ever.)

silly things

This feeling dropped into me like a stone while I was wading knee-deep in snow, 

this longing for warmth and summer. 

(Also: oh my goodness Ben Howard.) 

monday links (poems, essays, soundtracks, magic)

Spoken word poetry: Taylor Mali on What Teachers Make. (This made me cry, shoo, off you go, watch it.) 

I recently stumbled upon an online quarterly called The Junket, defined by one of its contributors as 'a forum in which we can nudge each other into writing'. More than just that, it's a collection of well-crafted and often exquisitely beautiful essays. I especially recommend Picking the Lock by Susanna Hislop, about passwords, locks and memory, among other things. Or maybe On Knowing the Words, where Thomas Marks speaks about learning poems by heart. 

I'm also completely smitten by Downton Abbey. Not only is it the perfect period drama (involving the First World War, romance, exquisite costumes and clashes between social classes - what's not to love?), the soundtrack is perfect too, especially for cold October days like this. The sound of sloping lawns and tea. 

And last but never least, Marco Tempest's TED talk on The magic of truth and lies (and iPods).
Pure magic - truly.

hand

By Jesper Waldersten. 

sunday

A Sunday made of revision, Hemingway and tea. And the Sunday papers. (I don't think I've ever discussed my intense love of newspapers? It's untamable to the point of absurd.)

day by day (old joy comes back to me)

So here we are, well into August, and the familiar melancholy-tinged end-of-summer nostalgia is hitting me like a freight train.

Endless rain and nights too cold for bare feet, a prep course in Swedish for my final exams, the approaching start of my final year in school - it's all slightly too much. (And I do know the days still swelter with heat and there are warm days to come, but nonetheless there's no escaping the blues.)

For the past few weeks I've been intensely unhappy and disconcerted, in the familiar shaky-hands way. Unable to sleep, listless and vague. Clinging to the idea of summer having flown by without much of an impact. (Forgive me my maudlin tendences, this'll get brighter I swear.)

And then last night, at the seaside with music and friends and a sunset, I got to thinking about everything I've done during the past two months, how undeniably and inexplicably happy I have been.

And so maybe there's nothing to be sad about. Maybe what I need right now is a good cry and a shoulder to lean on, and then I can face this mystifying concept of autumn with a heart less faint. I aim to be prepared, this time around. With wellies and jumpers and fingerless gloves. I'm already waiting for the cooler days in September, the darkening night and coloured leaves.

And in the meanwhile, I have ten more days of (almost) absolute freedom, to be spent with friends in that glorious sunshine.

notes from an island

So there was the sea and the smooth cliffs pouring into it.

There were sunsets to warm the bone to its marrow. (Sunsets I mostly spent on the phone, because sometimes you need more than beautiful views, you need tangibility.)

There were small cold waves to dive into and lots of books to read. (I mostly read Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald. It's been years since I've last read it cover to cover and it's very different from what I remembered. And I might have outgrown Fitzgerald, oddly enough. He's too melancholy for my state of mind.)

There was a lot of thinking and even more writing. Pages upon pages. Most of it utter nonsense but sometimes there's no need to judge. Not right now.

There was a huge bed to lie back on and listen to my breathing during the nights when sleep didn't come. A small lamp to light up the walls made of wood and outside the steady sighs of the sea.

expect the unexpected

(Incidentally:

There are some essential things I am learning to do this summer.

Like collapsing into the arms of friends as a way of saying hello, letting myself be folded into familiarity. Trusting the people I love to support me.

I am learning to speak of the future without trepidation. It seems to be the thing we mostly do these days, outline plans for when we graduate, for when we send ourselves into the world with just our wits and hearts, open wide. Over and over, universities and gap years and beyond, into marriage and children and everything that comes along with adulthood.

I am trying desperately to learn to trust. I am fighting the urge to distance myself from the people I love. Because sometimes fear is insignificant when compared to what could be without it.)

hands learn more than minds do

Sarah Kay performing her poem Hands. "Some people read palms to tell your future, but I read hands to tell your past."

a hand to hold

 

Some days it almost destroys me. Some days the disappointment settles into my chest with the weight of several anchors, dragging me down.

Some days I need a hand to hold and a tummy to lay my head on, and some days I need other people to believe in me.

Because although I'm trying to learn to feel better without needing to constantly rely on other people, some days are too heavy with tears. Some days I just need to be told who I am and why I am worth keeping around.


(Also, this Noah and the Whale thing is getting out of hand. How can a band singing I do believe that everyone has one chance to fuck up their lives and accompanying that sentiment with violins expect me not to fall head over heels in love with them?)

hands / seaweed

Seaweed from Tell No One on Vimeo.

Today I'm in need of some solid ground. A few things to make me feel human again: this spectacular video (25 seconds well spent), soaking in the sun for hours after school and getting to see my little brother (he is one cute kid).

Happy Monday!

tuesday blues (and a bit of hope)

My hands shake when I'm upset these days. Upset or nervous or sad or anxious or just in need of some kind of reassurance. Generally the fits last for most of a day and they tend to make me feel even worse. Sometimes the shaking spreads, making my teeth chatter and my throat feel thick with impending tears.

So my hands shake in my lap and they shake around my pencil and I clench them into fists to make it stop. And I try to laugh it off and complain about it but really I'm just terrified, because it's scary to see your feelings manifest themselves in something so physical.

But then there are friends to hold my hands still and to hug me close. There are hopeful text messages and a bit of wan sunshine. And gradually it eases. The knots I've twisted myself into begin to unkink. I spread my fingers out in front of me against the spring wind and I can hold them still again. And I breathe out and close my eyes.

pale grey saturday

The first lazy Saturday in who knows how long. Studying Swedish and Spanish and getting slightly mixed up, planning next weekend and the one after that, thinking on which artists to go see live. Lying on the floor looking at the atlas, because that's how I spent hours on end as a kid, and what do you know, it's still incredibly entertaining.


I've also been fixing the layout of my blog, which I've been meaning to do for quite some time. Just look at all those pages I've stuck in the header! A brand new About Me page! And all those fun lists! (Yeah. So, um, you can check them out if you feel like it.)

(Also, all the snow outside? You're tacky and I hate you. It's April, get your act together.)

(more) anchors

There's something about this picture. Maybe it's just my endless fascination with tattoos. But, despite most of my sailing plans for next summer kind of falling apart, anchors bear my heart with them, as do ropes and pinrails and hardwood decks, and those delightful flying jibs.

maybe not love exactly

"The questions I would have liked to ask people were, Are you in love? What are you reading?" Françoise Sagan

My answers are I'm not quite sure, maybe not love exactly and e.e. cummings. What about you?

PS. I'm dreaming of thin-soled shoes and the dry, warm cobblestones beneath them. Also of wearing dresses and cardigans and no coat on top. And pastels, striped shirts, being able to tie my hair up.

hello darkness, my old friend

I made a mixtape, again, in celebration of spring and hope. Always hope. Sorry about the rambling title. 

Happy weekend!

Treatment for Melancholy, or, Hello Darkness My Old Friend (You're My Only Vice)
Simon & Garfunkel: The Sound of Silence
James Blake: Limit to Your Love
Camera Obscura: Happy New Year
The Tallest Man on Earth: The Gardener
Emilíana Torrini: Big Jumps
Angus & Julia Stone: Mango Tree
Sufjan Stevens: Pittsfield

how i want to live

In a small wooden house in the woods. With a rickety bookshelf and sunlight through the branches. With a little darkroom and all the tea I can drink. Rain on the roof and lazy days in bed. And pillow forts and nights by the bonfire. Biking to the nearby seashore, because I need need need the sea, the sharp waves breaking brittle against my legs.