So, I'm posting again. After a very, very long break, that in fact didn't have to be any longer than two weeks.
Oh well, those things happen. At the very least, I'll try to do better from now on, because really, my deadjournal it the best place I have to bitch and whine about life. Not only I've made mistakes in my maths test yesterday (I've mistaken a "dopisany" circle with an "opisany" one), but today my most stupid friends, namely OG and Pink Panther, nicked my "Eragon" during the double free period and I was forced to spend it being systematically driven insane by the aforementioned friends.
OG's response to my demands that they give me back my book was "Love you too, Turzyn.". At which point I started smiling very, very widely and maniacally, and she wisely buggered off. Also, I still have to write the page to the Class Chronicle about Women's Day and find more information about Jacques Derrida for Monday's lessen with Wardrobe.
Oh, the joy.
Well, I'm off to google the guy. Philosophy much?
I'm going to sleep, which is not surprising, considering that I'm going to get up at half past 1 am. Why, would you ask? Well, I have to be in Berlin about 5 am, so it's only logical.
I'm flying to Las Palmas tomorrow, which means - Gran Canaria!
It also means that, for about two weeks, I won't be able to write in my deadjournal. Not that anyone but me would notice. It's not like I've given this address to my friends and acquaintances - I just wanted a more-or-less-diary. Which I got. Which is good. And let's quit the rambling now.
And I found some v. nice music today - Martina McBride, to be exact. She rocks! Or at least "Concrete Angel" does.
She walks to school with the lunch she packed
Nobody knows what she's holdin' back
Wearin' the same dress she wore yesterday
She hides the bruises with linen and lace
The teacher wonders but she doesn't ask
It's hard to see the pain behind the mask
Bearing the burden of a secret storm
Sometimes she wishes she was never born
Through the wind and the rain
She stands hard as a stone
In a world that she can't rise above
But her dreams give her wings
And she flies to a place where she's loved
Somebody cries in the middle of the night
The neighbors hear, but they turn out the lights
A fragile soul caught in the hands of fate
When morning comes it'll be too late
A statue stands in a shaded place
An angel girl with an upturned face
A name is written on a polished rock
A broken heart that the world forgot
Right now, my voice sounds like I've been chain-smoking for at least thirty years. A bit hard, considering that I'm only fifteen, but hey, who cares about logic anyway? And I don't even smoke. The taste is absolutely repulsing.
I hate being sick. At least I get to stay home and read whatever I gan get my hands on (in case of printed books. When it comes to the web - whatever I can get my mouse on.), which is, a Xander would say, of the good. ANd I'm officialy Xander-obsessed from now on. But that doesn't matter, really, because the guy has probably most potential from the whole series. And it's all Sarah Michelle Gellar's fault, anyway. I would have liked a Season 8 (and 9, and 10, and...) but nooo, I don't get to see what happens to Xan. And I'm having a bloody coughing fit right now.
Did I mention that I hate being sick? And the pills aren't helping at all.
On the other hand... I have a good excuse to drink lots and lots of my beloved vanilla tea, as it helps with my troath , so I guess that's good, too.
I'm seriously considering talking Mum into going somewhere in Africa that isn't Canary Islands. Wonder how long it would take to convince her?
And again, I spent too much time on the phone with Olga. Not that it was easy. Getting through to her, that is. Every time I called, before 6 p.m. that is, the line was busy. So I got a bit (all right, more like monstrously - I mean, how much time do you have to ring you best friend to get her on the phone? 'Cause I've lost count after twenty three.) annoyed, and waited until aroun half past seven. Well, this time it wasn't so bad, really, only half an hour, but still.... I rarely use the phone that much.
What really, and I mean really shocked me when Olga told me of it, was that our beloved form teacher, who we call Szafa (which means 'wardrobe' and you honestly don't want to know) not only didn't 'grill' anyone during Chemistry, but she was actually - wonder of wonders - caught smiling once or twice.
But I presume that either the impending winter break or her natural, more cheerful character showing through the 'Teacher Mask' (yes, the title most certainly deserves the capitals) caused her to behave so frivolously, but I shall point out that the former is much more probable.
Did I get the Wes-speech right? Sorry, not Wes-speech, but Watcher-speech. And I believe that "Celeste the Vampire Slayer" is one of the better spin-off from the series. Xander's Very Very Perfect Watchery Tweed Suit just... rocks my socks?
And that was frobably the lamest expression I could've used there. I certainly spend too much time reading stories in which teenage speech patterns are clearly visible. On the other hand, what the hell? Apart from the retired, teenagers are practically the only ones that have time to write anything. Of course, there ARE some exceptions... Mmmmmm, Kałużyński....... Double mmmmmmmmm...... Remarque....
Yes yes yes! The results of the 2nd level of the Polish competition are on the web, and I'm in for the finals! As it was scribbled in my calendar last year, yes, tak, ja, yup, yeah, si, and whatever else! On the other hand, I'm rather apprehensive about the next level, because there were 16 people with better results this time, and only the best 10 wins. So, I've got to work this time. And I mean, really work. Read all the books again. (And I'll just pretend that it isn't going to be a looooooooong, v. boring time spent on digesting information that has nearly no use in the real life.)
Ugh. The extremely scary, Trying Summer Clothes On Day arrived. Several hours dressing in various outfits to find out how you look in them - completely ridiculous, mildly laughable or (best level here) mediocre. I mean... one set of clothes, I can stomach. Two, okay. Three, even. But three hours?! Now that's a nightmare.
I can hardly complain that much, though. I found the cutest devil costume that I wore to some or other school event in first grade of primary school. Guess what? I can still wear it! And look extremely childish indeed, but it was fun, so there.
And I'm still reading Baczyński. I love the guy. And I think that I'll go write something now.
Reading much? Then again, I am. Just not what I should. Not th ecompetition books, or even "Syzyfowe Prace" that are our assignment for Polish, but Baczyński. I love his poems. Maybe because they're dark, and true, and there is insanity - so very, very human - in his portrayal of war and life and Earth. Of people and angles and God.
A verse of his poem - "Knight" - made me think of Xander Harris. Not the one eveyone wathing BtVS sees, but the guy who had a choice: live a normal life or stay, always outnumbered and always outgunned, in the fight. And he stayed, because to him, there was no choice at all. And it was true, that his power was seeing things. Seeing and silence. Because beneath the babble and the lame jokes, there was a good listener, a guy who knew when to stay silent and do what needed to be done anyway, and craved no recognition for what he did. A God's pensive thought, indeed.
It got me writing, a bit, and the words just flow on their own. Instead of arrenging them neatly and trying to write a book, I let them flow, like a story told by a campfire would, of an unrecognized hero that learned to become one with Earth herself because he could hear Her - and the stars, and the fire, and the ocean - singing, and found the rigtht words. I wish I was able to do so, too. And maybe, just maybe, someday the words will come if I keep trying.
And I intend to.
I'm still sick. Not as sick as yesterday, because stuffing myself with varous pills etc. has some, if meagre, effect. The effect is as follows: my throat is no longer killing me, just being vaguely irritating. No progress in the nose and head departments, but I can hardly expect miracles from the contemporary medicine's finest (and is Zyg the only one who recognizes the sarcasm here?).
I spent nearly the whole day playing Heroes III. Honestly, making a bloody pulp from neighbour kingdoms and occasional bands of stray mercenaries, building a more-or-less healthy economy and conquering the world is fun. But damn, I HATE marshes. They just suck. No way anyone can win with one of those. Unless, of course, the computer is really obtuse. Happens sometimes (like when some scenario is too difficult otherwise, and the basics are... umm... easy?). Still, fun. Mum seems to be a bit peeved at me, though. No idea why :) apart from the fact that I am still forbidden to do ANYTHING with my computer without her agreement, and this time, I... forgot to ask?
Oh who am I kidding.Not even DJ Gogiel would buy this.
I also spent 40 (spelled: FORTY) minutes on the phone with Olga. Not much interesting happened at school, and the winter break draws nearer and nearer... and I got all the questions that were on the WOS test, so I rock. But at least half of that time was spent trading jibes and on some good, old, invigorating mental sparring.
Not having anyone to creatively insult (and who can insult you back equally creatively), like for example your best friend, is proving to be boring. Hence the computer games.
I didn't go to school today! I didn't go to school today! I didn't go to school today! I DIDN'T GO TO SCHOOL TODAY!
Alright, so maybe I shouldn't be so happy about me being ill, missing a bunch of tests (well, actually, when I think of that one, I probably should), my throat trying to kill me, having a constantly running nose and sleeping nearly the whole day through.
On the other hand, Mum's in a worse situation. She coughs - a lot - she has a stuffed nose too, and can't take the time off at work, because she's going on holiday with me when the winter break begins. And we both have to stuff ourselves with pills, and take Bioparox, and some stupid drops. At least I finally got my contacts back on, so I'm not half-blind anymore. Thank Lord for small blessings.
I'm trying to read Dickens' "Great Expectations". They are not half bad, really. Just... the language is archaic, and I certainly have some troubles with deciphering it. The glossary proved its usefulness today. And at least I know where 'Clem' and 'what's the what?' (or rather "What's what", but who cares?) come from.
The doctor asked a lot of seemingly unrelated questions. But I know that they were important somehow, I must've just missed their importance. Weird much?
I remembered another quote from "The Bird of Paradise". "And there's nothing left to fear. Nothing.".
I'm afraid of that day.
I mean, of course there are things that I find stressful... tomorrow's Geography test, for example... or things that I'm a bit afraid of... like not getting to the next level of the Polish competition and then getting laughed at by everyone... but I don't have any phobias. Spiders? Snakes? Things with a lot of teeth? I find them dangerous, but fascinating and beautiful too, and any fear I might have of them is overshadowed by that. Speed, height? I love them. Ridicule? Got mostly used to it in the primary school. There's only thing I really fear, and it's Death. Not my own death, at that.
I'm not afraid to die, because I desperately believe that, when I go into the light, someone will be waiting to greet me. But every time I leave the presence of one of my family, I wonder if it's the last time I see them. If I will go back from school or wherever one day, and shatter again into millions of sharp pieces because I'll have lost someone I really love. I'm terrified of it.
And when there's nothing left to fear... It means that nobody I care for is left on earth. Only me and the world that mostly doesn't give a fuck, except when someone wanders over to kick you when you're down.
Enough of the angst. I did a Buffy personality test today, and guess who I am? Spike. Why am I not surprised?
Probably because another test, this time one designed to tell me what kind of mental disorder I have, showed "Antisocial Personality Disorder" and "Unipolar Depression".
And I still don't know anything for that Geography test. And I have a cold. And I'm just shutting up now.
Theathre today, again. I'm realizing that I'm beginning to love theathre. Espacially when the plays are like "The bird of paradise".
A monodram, in which Arkadiusz Buszko shows what it really means to be a brilliant actor. He was overexpressive, psychotic, and perfect. The perfect schizophrenic. And you know what? Seeing this, thinking of how laughter at our own expense is the only thing we have left, talking to invisible people, blending with the music that sometimes turned into grating noise (and the noise was perfect too), loving phantoms and dancing with the bird of paradise, being the bird of paradise in our dreams... I recognized myself in it. I have my own beloved ghosts.
And the ending... "No, it's only me. Alone." It fits, somehow. That "every one of us is trapped in their own night... alone.". Because we are. And the music, the ascetic decorations and the marvellous light effects on a small scene in a small theathre only make us think of it. And accept it.
And when I go to sleep tonight, and every night after this one, I hope that, for a moment, I will learn to fly wthout wings. In slow motion, morph into an arrow and slide among the leaves, up into the sky. And then, I'll fall. And there will be no loss and longing, because just for a moment, the air won't have been crushing and confining me, but helping me.
Helping me fly.