Fear

My palms are sweaty. I go to wipe them on my jumper, but they shake too much to hold the fabric. My breath comes shorter and shorter. I look down at my pen. What have I done?

I sense rather than see it coming. The time, dreaded as it is, drawing nearer. Please not me, I beg. Not today.

Now it has a form. Red. Pretending to be kind. Closer. Always closer.

Surely enough, it moves towards me. No. No.

It's stopped.

Avoid eye contact.

'Now, Skye. Perhaps you'd like to read what you've written?'

Catastrophe?

'Nothing in my world will ever be the same again! Seriously! Why are you laughing so much?! This is catastrophic!'

'Seriously, Nikki? Ever again?'

'I will be considered a felon! A national disgrace! No-one will want to look at me again!'

'No-one wants to look at you now...'

'...'

'Okay, I didn't mean it. How are you holding up?'

'They told me I can get another one in twenty minutes.'

'Well twenty minutes isn't so bad.'

'You wouldn't say that if you were here. A guy just walked past who looks exactly like you-know-who!'

'OMG Voldemort?!'

'...'

'Just kidding, I know who you mean.'

'Then why do I get the feeling you're still laughing? Seriously Cathy, I can see my life breaking into fragments! I'm falling into a bottomless pit! And you, my only friend, are laughing!'

'Jesus Christ Nicole! You missed a train!'

Nocturne no.20 in C# minor - Chopin

favourite classical song at the moment
totally going to learn it

Le Voyage Dans La Lune

If you like this, watch 'Hugo'.
It's a movie about a boy who lives in a train station.
I swear this was in it too.

Also, John Williams write the music, so it's automatically awesome

Muses

We also talked about the Muses from Greek mythology.
All I could think of was these guys:

Words as colour

Today we talked about Vladimir Nabakov.
When he heard words, he also saw them as colours.
This reminded me of one time I was with Orchestra Victoria.
The conductor spoke about this composer who saw the sonds with colour.
When he was conducting, he'd stop and tell the players 'No, more blue, more blue!'
And that's just something I thought I'd write

Daffodils by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed--and gazed--but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils. 

If- Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you   

    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,   

If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,

    But make allowance for their doubting too;   

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,

    Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,

Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,

    And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;   

    If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;   

If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster

    And treat those two impostors just the same;   

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken

    Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,

Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,

    And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings

    And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,

And lose, and start again at your beginnings

    And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew

    To serve your turn long after they are gone,   

And so hold on when there is nothing in you

    Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,   

    Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,

If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,

    If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute

    With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,   

Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,   

    And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

Grandad's house

In creative writing, we are writing memoirs.
This is what I wrote.

Grandad's house was on two levels. That was a novelty for us, who had only ever resided in bungalows. We therefore took great delight in sliding down the wooden stairs one after the other, or sometimes having races. it did result in a sore bum afterwards, but so totally worth it.

The stairs led into the dining room where we ate our Sunday lunch. On the windowsill were little glass bottles, all different colours. My dad said they eld alcohol, but I still like to think that they were potions, rewards in return for perilous quests.

On other days, when the table was pushed to one side, we pulled out the lego. I was never very good at it, always planning a house but only building a wall. There was often a fight for the boat and the door pieces, not because they were needed, but to give a greater sense of accomplishment.

Later on, my grandad got some dolls, barbies and the like. They were the new lego. I distinctly remember this one dress. It was bluey-green and tiered. It looked ridiculous and, to this day, I would never wear one. I don't remember if there was a Ken doll because we were all girls and eschewed boys with a firm hand.

The lounge was beautifully old fashioned. Old plates my grandma collected lined the walls. They always looked clean, but how they remained that was is still a mystery as they were up by the ceiling. The chairs were so comfy. They were a weird sort of beige, but the feeling of sinking into a cloud when sat on totally made up for it. On each arm was a doily. There were quite a few doilies. I don't know why, they didn't do anything I could see. My mum thought they were silly, too.

On the wall hung an owl. Not a real owl. One, it turned out, my mum had made when she was in high school millions of years ago. It was a strange texture and had a freaky looking face. I can't say I was that fond of it.

Just for fun (WARNING: quite nerdy)

My Next Door Neighbour

My next door neighbour is a queer fellow. He’s really tall (6 feet I’d say) with a neatly trimmed grey beard and moustache. I can’t tell if he has hair, though, as his head is always covered by a magnificent top hat. He always wears a tail coat, too, in vibrant colours that catch the eye.

His name is Mr Goodfellow.

Mr Goodfellow’s house is tall and thin, just like him. It’s four stories high and each level has two windows with brightly coloured curtains. The bricks are reddish-brown and the door is white. There is no number on the door, yet every morning the postman delivers two envelopes.

Each morning on my way to school I look at the two envelopes sitting outside his door. They have no stamp and no address. All they say is ‘Mr Goodfellow’’ in an elaborately curly script. Each afternoon when I come home, the envelopes have gone.

“He’s an odd man, that Mr Goodfellow,” my mum says one night, spooning peas onto dinner plates. “I remember when he moved in. All he had was a battered suitcase, nothing else. Do you remember, George?” Over at the computer, my dad grunts and the subject is dropped.

The next day on my way to school, I see the same two envelopes. My fingers start to itch and before I can change my mind, I reach out and snatch the first envelope. Stuffing it into my bag, I walk away, trying hard not to look suspicious or walk too quickly. I swear I can feel someone watching me.

All through first session, the letter seems to weigh my bag down. It isn’t until recess that I get a chance to open it. Sitting in my usual spot, I pull it out of my bag. My fingers tremble with anticipation. In one clean swipe I get it open. Inside is a single sheet of paper. Slowly I pull it out and flatten it.

The paper is blank.

I blink, stunned, but it’s definitely blank. I turn it over, hold it to the light, and even tilt my head. Nothing. The paper remains as stubbornly blank as my brain when I need to write an essay. 

Disappointed, I start folding it up again when I get an idea: why not get someone else to look at it? All I needed was a second opinion.

“What does this say?” I ask, unceremoniously shoving the paper under my friend’s nose. He takes it, frowns, and then turns it over. His brow creases as he flips between the two sides. Suddenly, his face clears and he starts to laugh.

“Good one, dude,” he chuckles, handing the sheet back to me. My doubts confirmed, I carefully refold the letter and slide it back into the envelope. Using a trick my father taught me when I was seven; I reseal the envelope so you can’t tell it was ever opened.     

For the rest of the day I feel agitated. Questions run through my head, all chasing an answer skilled in the art of evasiveness. Teachers call on me to prove I’m listening, but when I can’t provide answers I get withering looks and extra homework. Home time can’t come soon enough.

Finally my freedom is heralded by the nasal pealing of a bell.

As I round the corner onto my street, I can see Mr Goodfellow waiting outside his front door, visible even from this distance thanks to his choice of a neon green tail coat. My palms start to sweat and I pull the envelope out of my bag. I walk closer and closer to the tall, thin man who suddenly looks imposing.

“Er… the postman mixed up our post this morning” I say, handing over the envelope, praying my hands weren’t shaking. Mr Goodfellow takes it without saying anything; he just stares at me down his long crooked nose. Slowly, with long, knobbly fingers, he slits open the envelope and takes out the blank sheet of paper. My knees tremble as his eyes move backwards and forwards over the paper as if he’s reading. When he finishes, Mr Goodfellow chuckles then looks at me.

“It’s funny; the postman never usually gets mixed up. Perhaps I should put in a complaint.” His tone was firm, but I could swear his eyes were laughing at me. Still, I couldn’t let the poor postman take the blame for my wrongdoings.

“I’m sure it wasn’t his fault…” I trail off as Mr Goodfellow purses his lips and peers at me closely.

“Young man, do you want to come in for a pot of tea? You have many questions for me, yes?”

“But…my mum…expecting me….”

“Nonsense, I’m your neighbour.” Mr Goodfellow contradicts me easily, grabs my elbow with a firm grip and steers me into in the house. “Get in quickly, we don’t want anything escaping. And make sure the door is locked firmly!” prodding me in the back to accentuate this last statement.

After I hear the front doors lock click, I turn and find myself in the most peculiar hallway I’ve ever seen. Every single door is painted a bright pillar box red. In contrast to their dusty surroundings, the doors were spotless, not a speck of dirt lay upon their gleaming surfaces. I turn and even the back of the front door is red.

“Do you intend to stand in the doorway for ever? I was under the impression we were to have tea. I do enjoy a good cup of tea.” I turn and see Mr Goodfellow standing by one of the red doors. As I walk to him, puffs of dust escape from the carpet. From the corners come scratching sounds, but when I turn there is nothing there. “Quickly, quickly, into the kitchen.” Mr Goodfellow ushers me through a door then turns and pushes it firmly until the locks click.

The kitchen is pretty normal on first glance, but when I look again, I notice things; ordinary looking cups and saucers have moved from one side of the room to another in the blink of an eye; cupboard doors open and close though no-one is near them; little footprints appear in white powder as if someone has been dancing in the flour jar, but then disappear just as quickly. In the center of the room stands an ordinary looking wooden table with two chairs and a checkered tablecloth. I blinked and a teapot, two tea cups a pot of sugar and a jug of milk appeared.

Ignoring my gibbering, Mr Goodfellow walked over to the table and started making himself a cup of tea. Something pushes me into the seat opposite me and I fell into the chair with a soft whumph. “Do help yourself to sugar and milk. You can never have too much sugar in tea I think.” Mr Goodfellow pushes everything towards me. “Now, about those questions…?”

I reach for the teapot and make myself a cup, firmly avoiding the sugar. Mr Goodfellow purses his lips, but says nothing.

“Are you magic?” I blurt out, then immediately blush as Mr Goodfellow starts laughing. He keeps laughing, a low throaty chuckle that fills the room and seems to echo off the walls. I blow on my hot tea, waiting for him to finish.

“No, my dear boy. I’m an ordinary man, holding less magic than a Satsuma. But I do happen to know those who are.” He wipes a stray tear from his eye.

“So that letter….it was magic? From someone magical? Because it’s blank.”

Mr Goodfellow gets a stern look on his face. “You know, it’s the height of bad manners to read another’s letters,” he admonishes me “And it wasn’t blank. It was a rather amusing letter from my aunt in Russia.”

“But is was blank.” I say again. “Even James said it was!”

“James? That boy you call your friend?” I open my mouth to object, but Mr Goodfellow wasn’t finished “You would’ve been better off asking that girl who sits behind you in almost every class.”

“Who? You mean….Scarlett?” I ask, caught by surprise “Why her?”

Mr Goodfellow looks disapproving again. “Because you are going to feel extremely blind if you go around your whole life only looking with your eyes. Scarlett is one of those rare people who have been able to truly see since birth. You should invite her around someday, I know you like her.” I choke on my tea. “And what’s more, she likes you too.”

“Really? You think so? I mean…uh…don’t be stupid.” I take a hasty gulp of tea, and then cough loudly as it goes down the wrong way. Mr Goodfellow arches a thin grey eyebrow. I look away, but then quickly look back. “Why are all the doors in your hallway red?”

“Well, that’s a simple one. I haven’t cleaned yet.” He looks at my confused expression and sighs. “At this moment in time, my hallway is inhabited by some rather unpleasant things. Red doors, in most cultures, are believed to hold off spirits or ghosts, especially the bad ones. While most of my time is spent chasing down lost letters,” he glances at me then and I look away, embarrassed “they serve as protection for the rest of my house. In the near future I hope to clean out said hallway and change the doors to a much pleasant colour. And then, my other residents will be able to use the house as they please.”

Just then, the most beautiful sound comes floating into the kitchen. A melody, as pure and sweet as the first flower that opens in spring fills the kitchen that seems to sigh. Mr Goodfellow smiles. 

“Layla’s up.”

“Layla?” I ask “Who’s Layla?”

“You’ve finished your tea?” I nod “Well come and see her. She lives on the second floor.”    

The hallway is the same but different. The shadows seem more defined and I swear they move. I gulp and follow Mr Goodfellow. No matter how closely I tread where he treads, small puffs of dust appear under my feet yet not under his.

Behind the door we enter this time is a narrow stairway. The song is louder now. It beckons me up the stairs, but before I follow it, I turn to Mr Goodfellow.

“You’re hallway is the creepiest place. Clean it quickly.”

His face breaks into the brightest smile. “You saw!”

He climbs the stairs with a new spring in his step. On the landing, the music reached a crescendo until it seems to reverberate in my very soul. Without thinking I walk to the door on my far left. Before I get there, it swings open. I vaguely see a small something scurry inside.

Slowly, I step into the room. It is set up like a girls bedroom painted in a sky blue. Hanging from the ceiling the largest birdcage I’ve ever seen. It’s painted blue too and looks like one of those old fashioned wire ones. On the perch in the middle sits a bird- no a girl. I blink. The girl flickers quickly to a bird and then back again. Then I see something gold glint in a patch of sunlight streaming in through the open window.

It’s a padlock; the biggest padlock in the world.

Tears stream down my face as the realisation hits me. This girl is singing for freedom, for the sweetest thing in the world that she has never tasted. Through the film of my tears, I see a small crowd has gathered at the bottom of the cage. It’s the most miss-matched group of characters you could think of. The front row is smaller than my hand and the back row so tall they have to stoop even while sitting. Then I blink and they’ve gone.

“Come on.” Mr Goodfellow whispers from the doorway. I jump, having completely forgotten the strange man who I will never look at the same way again.

Out on the landing I wipe my eyes furiously. “Is she a girl? Or a bird? And why is she locked up?” I demand, the music still sweeping through the air.

“My poor sweet Layla” Mr Goodfellow’s eyes glisten wetly and one tear streaks down his cheek. “I shall tell you her story some other time” I begin to protest, but he raises a hand “It is getting late and we don’t want to worry your mother do we?”

Realising he was right, I stay silent and follow Mr Goodfellow down the stairs and into the hallway. Trying not to look around too closely this time, I make my way over to the front door. To my surprise, Mr Goodfellow joins me outside. He closes the front door firmly then puts his hand on my shoulder.

“Daniel, today has been quite a day for you, hasn’t it? I know you have begun to see. I should have guessed Layla’s song would help” he smiled, but then his face turned grave “A whole new world has been opened for you today; you must not abuse it. You must learn as much as you can. All the stories are true. Ask around; you are not the only one who can see. Oh, and don’t forget Scarlett. You both are welcome any time.” Ignoring my quiet protests he says in a quiet voice so small I almost miss it “I hope I have chosen right” then he smiles at me one last time before turning back into his home.

The next day as I pass Mr Goodfellow’s house I see the curtains twitch on all the levels. I feel lots of eyes watching me curiously as I walk down the street. This is going to be different, but I smile as I think of all the things I have yet to discover.  

Today we listened to Beethoven's 9th Symphony.
The New World Symphony by Antonin Dvorak is one of my favourites to play as well as listen to.
Movement II and IV are my personal favourites out of the lot.
It was written about America. Dvorak was inspired by the Native American music he heard when he was there and based this symphony off that.

The Princess Bride

I'm totally reading this again.
S. Morgenstern is AMAZING.
You should totally read this book... or at least watch the movie.
He is sarcastic and witty and everything you want in a book.
I love it.

First post!!!

Hello.
I guess I'm now an official blogger.
Wow.
I have to blog about my inspiration and ideas, so be prepared for this to get weird.
It is supposed to link to the lecture topics, so that'll reign me in.
Sorry.

P.S. I love my new shoes