Spools of Thought. #1

My inner-Robin is calling to the forefront of my mind.

My inner-Robin is calling to the forefront of my mind.

Sometimes when I cannot fathom a real story, or post in this case, I just write whatever comes to mind. I call them spools of thought for the notion that our thoughts can be much compared to string around a spool, ready to be sewn.

What I cannot surmise in this life is grasping reality. Like I’ve said before, I live in a dream land of my own accord with all the special effects elements you could think of. I’m someone who is fully affected by the weather. For the past few days we’ve had nothing but dense fog and mist, and being that I live in glass, I always note the weather trends as they occur. Mist really puts me out. It actually has a way of tuning out my good conscious and making me wonder about things when in reality, I should be studying for my finals and exploring around the city as usual.

I find it hard to concentrate thereafter. It’s like being in a book! And I end up narrating my thoughts and actions so perfectly, I always think I should have a scribe following me around. I swear my most conformed words only occur when I don’t have a pen handy. Does this ever happen to you, whoever you are?

Sophisticaters, I call you, because it should be a worthy title. You should be credited with such an honorific. But now I feel as though I cannot even credit A Sophisticate. I fear I cannot uphold my title.

Peaks and valleys, is one of my old mottos. I just happen to be in a valley.

To put it short:  I’d like to have my shit together at this moment. Yet I don’t. I need to clue into reality. Like a reminder of some sort. You know, like the proverbial sounds of an oncoming train…?

A reminder…a reminder….

Does anyone have any suggestions for this rut? A rope or ladder perhaps? I’d take a helicopter too. I’d very much like to get back to my life now.

The Refractions.

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This is in response to the Anti-Bucket List Prompt. Since I’m pro-Bucket List, it was really difficult for me to come up with anything to write down. I read the prompt and thought about light refracting through a glass of water, shards of brightness that do not indeed shine where they are supposed to. In that sense, theses things could be considered my refractions.

Books that I never want to read include:

  • Emma, by Jane Austen (because I fell asleep through the movie).
  • Any books or writing pieces by Stephanie Meyer (Twilight author).
  • I wish I could un-read Fifty Shades of Gray but seeing as I’ve already done it (I lost a bet with Heather was forced to read them). But I will refuse to watch the movie until the day I die.
  • The Diary of Anne Frank. I’m sorry, I know it’s important to history and being that history is one of my biggest passions, I should be interested. But I think the issue with this one is that I am too interested. I really don’t want to put myself through that.
  • The really long Charles Dickens book that I forget the title too. I don’t even think it’s worth it.

Places that I never want to visit include:

  • Nowhere. I would go everywhere. Whether that be a poor country, a war zone or something completely redundant like Paris. I’m just a wanderer.

Things that I never want to do include:

  • Getting married. That would hold me back I think. I’m very selfish when it comes to the idea of marriage.
  • Hate my job. You wouldn’t believe the number of people I know who are just depressed with their lives because of the field they chose to be in. I would dread that.
  • Settle down in one spot. There’s something about my life that just keeps pushing me around, to and fro places that I can’t even fathom what it would be like to establish a real home somewhere. I don’t want to do it. I want to be in constant motion.
  • Climb a mountain. Not unless I was visiting some Buddhist Temple or something. I really just don’t think it’s worth it.
  • Live in the tropics. I don’t like the tropics.

People I never want to meet include:

  • Hilary Clinton. I just don’t like the Clintons in general.
  • ANY Kardashian or Jenner. For obvious reasons. It’s not that I hate them, I don’t know them personally to hate them. I just extremely dislike their personalities and honestly believe that they are repelling.
  • Anyone on any country’s Most Wanted List.
  • Other than that, I don’t make it a habit of disliking people for no cause…so this list is rather poor. I try to see what’s good in everyone and on occasion I’m known to be more accepting of people than others.

These are my refractions. There aren’t many because there really isn’t a lot I dislike in this world. Everything is an experience.

Not a ‘Just Book’.

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Everything in the world exists to end up as a book. -Stéphane Mallarmé

This here is a post about literature. To find more specific reviews done by me on YA lit, you can visit Bookinity (bookinity.co.uk).

Why do a post dedicated to books? Because like the events that occur in one’s life to shape them, books occur in mine. Music does too, but that’s more difficult to read a blog about. Books are…chapters in my life. I had this English teacher once, one of the only smart teachers I’d come by in high school, who believed that there was an honest difference between literature and just books.

He explained his logic that literature ascertains a certain quality of writing alongside employing literary devices that gave air to a brilliant work of fiction. Then he made a face and said, “Just books are Twilight. Dense paperweights.” Or something to that effect. Twilight was involved with much hate and was compared to paperweights at some point. He devoted the rest of the class complaining about it.

But it wasn’t as if he were wrong. I mean, technically speaking what he said made sense to me. But I really didn’t believe it until I got a weak mark on one of his papers. Being an average, yet bright student, I was accustomed to high marks when it came to English papers. I confronted him, he said that the writing was fine, but there was no depth.

I’d never really been criticized by a teacher like that. It hurt, I won’t lie. So i spent the rest of the semester devoted to earning this teacher’s acknowledgement that I was a good writer. This was the man who had only ever given out one 99% on a paper with the belief that absolutely no one could ever achieve a 100%. This was the man who quoted Shakespeare and read a play out loud with the same effect of watching a Christopher Nolan film.  I at least wanted to hit a ninety range. So rather than starting papers the night before, I started weeks in advance, and I got him to read over revised copies before handing it in. I devoted all my spare blocks to his class.

Finally, finally I got a 92% on my final paper. He written that he’d loved it as a comment and even the students sitting around me were in awe. A 92% in any other class was easy enough to pull off, but in his? Not so much. I felt…really brilliant. Respect for him was very selective. A Nobel Peace Prize didn’t even faze this man. It was all about being witty with prose for him.

Weeks later after exams, I went back to him to get my final mark for the course. As it turned out, he’d lost one of my older projects entirely and marked it down that I’d never handed it in, bringing my mark down a considerable amount as it was worth a lot. I went back to him to inquire and he told me to resend it to him by email that night. It was imperative I maintained an 80% in English for my enrolment at university in the fall. I was actually worried. That was a new for me.

I came home from school that day and he’d written me an email to ascertain that I had gotten a good mark and that he didn’t need to review the assignment:

It read: You write good essays. You deserve it.

I never went back to see him. I wanted his last words to remain his last. That I write good. That I deserved it.

I guess my lit reviews are also a tribute to him. Hopefully, through this, I can maintain his belief about literature. I believe that I do.

The Ground Floor

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I’m not a flake.

I realize it’s been about a month…maybe more, I don’t like counting. It’s not that I had no inspiration either, or that I wasn’t reading other blogs (I’m always reading, everything and anything. You guys interest me more than you know). It’s just that I hadn’t had the time. And I don’t believe in putting down quick words without a real thought.

You deserve more than that.

So, on the incredulous notion that I’ve been only thinking about you in my brief but oh so long…sabbatical…we’ll call it, let’s get back on track shall we?

This post is about The Ground Floor. The Ground Floor is this space right next to my building that cohorts one of the most luxurious memberships only. Better than being a Daughter of the Nile or a Freemason or a member of Mensa.

Or so it would seem.

I have no idea what they do down there. The Ground Floor is seemingly this wide space where talented people meet up to…well, I’m not sure. Some days they play instruments, classical music that floats down the street and catches your attention. Other times they stand in a circle and just talk. Sometimes they’re doing origami. Overall, it would seem that they all just band together to produce creativity, one of the most generative spots that I have ever crossed by accident.

I found out about The Ground Floor one day in the summer as I walked by when they were practicing music outside. Their space is all glass so it’s hard to hide what goes on in there. But as I walked by, I smiled to say hello, not wanting to disturb them. I went on not caring.

Few days later I walked by The Ground Floor on my way home and saw inside their space. There were no tables or chairs I surmised, but rather things– unclear decorations that dangled from the ceiling, streamers that fell from the halogen lights. A map of the world hung up against one of the walls. The smallest of desks was pushed into the corner, smaller than you’d see in an elementary school, with a work lamp and a laptop that barely fit on it. I had it in my head that next time I saw one of their members, I’d ask them.

It took a few weeks until I saw one of them again. I was walking with Gracie, my sister, and asked her if she knew what happened there. She shrugged. A woman I’d seen there before, with a tallish stance and always in a turtleneck and skirt, was smoking outside. I waved, she smiled, I asked her what The Ground Floor was and she gave me a little shrug, tossed her cigarette on the ground and went on back inside.

So you see, this is evidently an organization with a certain image to maintain. A certain secret.

I’m dying to know what it is. There’s something about them, the group of people who all band together on sporadic nights to share their creativity, something that seems so rare and valuable that I sort of find myself in both envy and awe when I walk by.

It’s officially become one of my missions.

A shrug can hold many meanings I learned that day.

The Day of All Days.

Peugeot Onxy, my love.

Peugeot Onxy, my love.

My goodness, the question of all questions has been asked. What would you do on your day off? Well, if it was truly a day off, I’ve a solid answer for it.

Sparkles.

I hate sparkles. The entirety of my dislike revolves around the notion that I hate sequins and feel that they are the tackiest thing a girl could put on. They are an abomination.

But back to the concept of still or sparkling. A still day would still shimmer with sparkles, for if it does not it’s not a true day off. That being said, in this relative sense, I’d need my day to sparkle.

Go figure, as if A Sophisticate would ever not be doing something. Viktor claims it’s a sickness. That I don’t know how to not think of things to do.

But when the world’s quite literally at her fingertips, then what’s a girl to do?

The day would begin with visiting a new spot. Anywhere in the world. France, Romania, England. The second would be making a friend in that new spot. I feel it a necessary tradition when visiting a new spot, as the memory would grow fonder in my mind.

Next: the ballet.

Afterwards, a classical concert. Did you know that I’ve only ever been to one classical concert in my life? I scarcely remember it at all as well, because I was too little.

Then I believe I’d attend a car show. I absolutely adore luxury vehicles. The one of choice right now is the new F-type Coupe.

Also, my favourite concept car is the Peugeot Onyx. Heather says I’m odd for daydreaming about cars. I always get distracted in the middle of a conversation because a sleek Maserati would slip by and I just gape, slack-jawed at it until she snaps her fingers and asks me what I’m looking at. It’s much comparable to a dog with a bone.

Anyway, back to the day of all days: reality.

If I had none of these things at my disposal (which, honestly, I don’t), I’d spend my day off in a decent bookstore and build a fort with my favourite books and climb inside and read Shakespeare aloud in different, animated voices.

Why, you dare ask?

It’s my day off. Don’t judge me.

Sparkling or Still

The Irish Giant.

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I wish I could allude to some sort of past glory days, but the truth is I’m probably too young for that. I don’t have some amazing tale about living through the 70’s or about my voyage across the ocean. My salad days were running through the trees and pretending to make salad with my best friend. That and re-watching Toy Story to no end.

Either way, my salad days are pretty much entirely bleak. And there’s definitely no dressing on that salad.

They remind me of the stories I read about the boyhood of Fionn Maccumhail. He used to run around the forest too, but least the animals would chase him back. He’d run with a thorn to prick them with and would catch ducks under water by snagging on their feet. If you’ve never read the Boyhood of Fionn, you truly are missing out on some decent Irish storytelling. The book will make you realize just how impure we all are in our lives today.

Anyway, there you have it. My salad days and the boyhood of a legendary Irish giant.

Salad Days

The Skeleton Key

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When I was thirteen I did a mind exercise that my teacher recommended. I was told to close my eyes and envision a scenario where a key would materialize in the palm of our hand. When we opened our eyes we were to describe that key in full detail and draw it out.

Mine was an old, brass skeleton key with carvings of flowers etched into it.  It was painted golden, but somehow I knew it wasn’t, maybe because it seemed that I could feel the weight of it in my palm. it wasn’t any precious metal.

Anyway, the key was supposed to be something to interpret who we were in our past lives. I think I was the only one in the class with a key so antique that upon looking at it, the teacher told me I must’ve been a princess in my past life. I gave her a flat look. She was a frilly type, and she probably believed I was going to buy in on her romanticized interpretation of my past life. She caught on to the look and amended: I must’ve been royalty.

I wondered about that. A key that could tell you your past. How would that help anyone today though? Were we not completely different people in our past lives? What benefit would I get from knowing who I was then, today?

I thought about it some more. My tastes today. Not accustomed to royalty per say, but rather tradition. I owned the traditional things. I adored the regal things and class. Books, poetry, music, art…all in classical tastes.

Perhaps she wasn’t so far off the mark.

A key to see into your past life. Maybe we’re all the same person in every generation.

It would only take a skeleton key to know for me.
Golden Key

Bob the Barista.

Who is this man?

Who is this man?

There are certain people in my life that upon meeting I just think “You are something special.”. In some cases it’s attraction on a romantic level, but in most cases, it’s just plain interest. It can happen with anyone to be honest. I have it with people on the street that I only glance at for the briefest of moments. But this moment induces some sort of alertness in me, and I end up wondering about that person. I don’t wonder about a lot of people. I know people want to believe I do, but I don’t. I’d rather not think about you unless you choose to share whatever’s going on with your life to me properly. Otherwise…I tend to live in my mind by my own accord.

Bob the Barista is just plain interest. Bob the Barista has worked at the same Starbucks since what feels like forever now (perhaps longer than five years). I’m interested in him. Perhaps it’s because he’s acquired a hipster beard since before it became trendy or perhaps it’s because he’s worked there long enough to finally catch my eye. Either way, Bob exists in my mind and I’m not sure why.

Bob the Barista is a poet. Bob also has a real name, but I don’t care to know it. Once I nickname people it’s really hard for them to break out of that namesake. I number people too, but maybe that will come up another time. Bob is an art student. Bob has a girlfriend who sports a short bob, coincidentally. Bob is in his late-twenties and knows how I like my name spelt. Aside from that, Bob really knows nothing about me.

Or so I think. He’s almost always there for mine and Heather’s Starbucks dates and is always seen in the background wiping down tables or helping other customers. He can be compared to a extra in a sitcom. Just there for the movements in the background. But it wouldn’t exactly surprise me if he knew details about me because of it. We’re loud enough, and we visit often. At the very least Bob knows my name.

I wonder about Bob. I’m not so sure what poets do exactly. I figure they sit on windowsills and stare out into the rain with a pad and pen I suppose. Yeah, that seems…poetic. I know the rain puts me in one of those moods. Heather says I’m not allowed to strike up a conversation with him because she thinks “it’s wierd”. I don’t think she realizes how hard that is to refrain from that exactly, especially considering what I know about him. I just want to be able to walk into my favourite Starbucks and say “Hey Bob, what’s up?” And he’ll reply with something fitting and ask me if I want my usual.

I think every customer deserves that bond with their favourite barista.

Maybe then I’d use his real name. It’s hard to say. What gets me about this the most is that Bob doesn’t realize that there’s an interest in Bob. He probably just goes about his life attending poetry slams with his soccer mom girlfriend.

So here’s to the Starbucks barista who doesn’t realize he exists–Bob the Barista.

Who is Bob the Barista? And what kind of life does he live exactly?

Self-worth for Sale

I hear tattoos are supposed to increase your self-worth. Something about choosing an image to remain permanent on your skin for the rest of your life is said to–I don’t know–increase your oxytocin levels or something of that matter. I can likely say I won’t ever get a tattoo. Why? Because I can never imagine marring my skin like that. No image is better than the real image. No message is better than the one seen in plain sight. So why on earth do people get tattoos?

The same reason people smoke. The same reason hipsters stretch ghastly holes in their earlobes. The same reason I deliberately wave to the person behind the stranger walking toward me. To feel badass, or important. Haven’t you ever done that? If not, then perhaps you should test it out. It’s quite powerful, and in all honesty I do it for fun. The person just about jerks when they see you waving, and their eyes get a little testy before they flush and realize it wasn’t for them. They lower their heads and walk on past as if nothing happened.

Perhaps that is quite crude for me to do. But I do get bored. What’s a girl to do when she forgets to bring her novel from home?

I enjoy mind games. They entertain me on my long walks to school and back. For about forty mins, I can make people look where I want them to look, make people do double-takes with an odd face, make people point a finger back at themselves in confusion. In a city that walks everywhere, it’s hardly likely you’ll ever see that stranger again. And by the time you reach home, it’s a ephemeral moment lost in your time-stream. And theirs. Least that’s how I rationalize it.

I’m quite the prankster, obviously.

If self-worth was that cheap, we’d live in a manic world.
Wait a second…we already do.