i write scripts now

writing scripts is not too easy. though perhaps its because its non fictional. perhaps i should flee away into a world of fiction and fantasy. good old head. there's never a problem that cannot be solved by ignoring all of reality around you and pretend your somewhere else.
 though i should probably get on with some work.

procastinating is such an ugly word. I prefer "dicking about"

I am writing a journalistic script for my Media group.

I have it open, at least. some of the words are there. the other ones, the ones the cursor haven't typed yet, are getting impatient because i'm supposed to be typing them.

i'm not supposed to be reading, listening to my Florence and the Machine record, writing something completely different, or, for that matter, updating my blog telling you all the things i'm doing that aren't work.

i think i mentioned that i have no talent for journalism. I showed you some blogs that have too much talent for journalism, some incredibly enjoyable journalistic blogs, that I follow, and read religiously.

another thing i shouldn't be doing, i suppose. why is it so difficult to write jounalism? i have written lots of short stories. perhaps i only have the writing ability for fiction, and am unable to type a report, or study,  or academic journal, or anything to do with my real human feelings. i can only write fiction things. which isn't a bad thing.

but the journalism people can do that aswell...

i can't (unfortunately) write a news report on something fictional, so i'll have to buckle down and write some good old fashioned journalism, even if it kills me.

or i could play videogames, or give the Violin another go. or iron all my socks...

the Harp Spider

From within the web of string,

the Spider's harp begun to sing.

his hammer legs plucked at the maze,

the spider weaves the harp for days.

“It's Matruy. M-A-T-R-U-Y.”

“OK, thanks, I'll write the order number on the receipt. It's out on the 14^th, so we'll see you then”

“OK, thanks. Bye.”

as she left HMV, Viren (Pronounced Ver-ren) Matruy pulled her coat further over her, bracing for the cold autumn winds. She wore a big black woolly duffel, which was perfect for keeping the cold off her in this sort of weather. Her hair, which is very dark purple, neck lengh, and always shaggy, whipped about in the wind.

She had ordered the Blu-ray for Quatermass and the Pit, one of the Hammer films she did not own yet in her collection. She is a keen collector of films, and won't stop until she has converted all of her impressive DVD film collection into Blu-Rays. Her friends always warn her against it; it's needless, expensive, and soon enough a brand new format will come out and she'll have to start again.

Viren loves expensive things. Just look at her. She picked up the Mustard Yellow coloured dress she was wearing from a pricey shop on London's Petticoat Lane. (it is not dissimilar to the colour of the dress worn by the woman on the Stella Artois train advert). It has become her favourite dress, and she had quickly picked up a pair of vintage Doc Martens in the same colour (which weren't cheap). Her black leather handbag is John Lewis, £79, one of the four identical ones she owns. The black Duffel was £200. as far as she is concerned, she is earning the money, who why not spend it on lovely things?

She removed the duffel coat as she entered one of the Café's in her native town, Kenilworth. Today she had shopped around the town, instead of taking the bus to one of the closer cities, like Coventry or Warwick. Despite the easy access, and much larger range of shops available, today was a Kenilworth day.

She was halfway through her Peppermint Hot chocolate and her cream of Tomato soup when she first heard the music. She looked up, though it would be nearly impossible to see her look up, since from nearly every angle her thick, messy fringe covers both her eyes.

The music was coming from somewhere close by. It was a gentle twang of strings, running up and down the octaves like a tidal wave. There was no proper melody, like someone was absent mindedly flicking at the strings without looking, or without knowing how to play.

Viren looked around. There wasn't any harp in the café, and the speakers were playing the usual slow jazz melody tunes those sorts of places usually play.

Pretty much every coffee shop in the world (with exception to all of them in New Orleans) wants to

be like all the ones in New Orleans. The black frame windows, the jazz, the strong espressos. This one was no exception. However, there was no harp player, yet the mysterious plucking continued.

Viren didn't know why new Orleans crossed her mind – to distract from the music, maybe. She hadn't really thought about it before, though she had spent a lot of time, in between shopping, browsing the French Quarter, and visiting the sights, drinking strong, sweet black coffee in the various cafés.

Anyway. The harp music continued to mindlessly twang out. Viren scanned the café. No one else seemed to have taken notice of the music.

his spider heart has picked his love,

the tune will drown them from above.

his hammer legs will never rest,

his spider heart will know what's best.

Viren had spent most of the morning asleep. She had work, but it didn't matter that much.

She worked from her attic. It was drenched in the afternoons sunlight, and the hanging plants form the slanted roof hung around her shoulders like spiders legs.

She sat at her posh desk, turned on her red retro anglepoise lamp, and got to work. She restores the covers of first editions for collectors and dealers. Popular fist editions would sell for thousands. She had restored a first edition copy of the Great Gatsby last month, which had sold at Sotherby's of London for nearly £100,000. there was a lot of money in classic books.

Today she had been handed a copy of the Hound of the Baskervilles, that was in a fair, but not fantastic, condition. It was published by George-Newnes, London, 1902. it was not too big a job, as it was only expected to sell for too much. She was getting £1,000 for the job, and the book was expected to sell for about £5,000, if the job was done properly.

This particular job required the cloth cover re-dying, and some cover design restoration. The first job would be the dying.

She was carefully removing the cloth cover from the back when the mindless tune struck up again. This time, she took it more seriously. Yesterday, In the café, she was concerned, but eventually assumed that the music might have been playing from someone's phone or iPod. She was used to people playing music too loud through their earphones on her many bus trips to Coventry or Warwick.

However, this time, there was no other way around it. The music had to be coming from somewhere. It was still the same, tuneless tune, though this time it sounded lighter, and much more pleasant. Like when you listen to a song at first and it doesn't sound right, but when you come back to it later on and it sounds so much better. Your favourite song, and you didn't notice the first time.

Despite the pleasantness of the melody, she felt the need to find its origin. The music didn't sound like it cam from a particular source. In the café, she had located it to an unnoticed web, hidden in the top corner of the café wall, near the toilets. The web looked thin and full; not cone shaped, but a normal, maze-like web. She told the Baristas, and one of the braver ones brushed it away with a dustpan and brush. After that, the tune had stopped.

She searched through the plants, and on the windowsill, and around the corners of the old room. There wasn't any webs. Yet the music still continued, and the more she searched and the more she listened, the more she didn't want it to go away. It felt warm and light.

Despite herself, she tried to put her fingers in her ears. The music continued inside her head.

his spider harp will always play,

his one will never get away.

the tune will tell them deep within,

the spider's love will never thin.

Viren didn't get up today.

She lay on her bed, smiling. She was feeling lazy and content. She hadn't felt the need to dress; though eventually she left the bed to put on a mustard yellow dress she was sure she didn't really care about. She would have thought about what to do; the book needed finishing, she could go shopping, she could visit friends, or pick up her blu-ray from HMV, or go on holiday. If only she could hear herself think.

Her head was full of beautiful harp tunes. The soft, mysterious, mindless melody. She could only hear the repeated twang of the harp strings. She could see thin, black, hammer legs, swinging in the air, tapping on long silky wires that stretched across the room in odd directions, like there was electrical pylons out of sight, all connected, all facing different directions. Though it could have been her fringe, which was always in her eyes.

She felt light, and bright, and full of fire. The feeling, the strong sense of relaxed excitement and deep bliss. She never wanted the melody to end.

The midday sun shone through the bay windows. The wires shone a slight grey-blue, and she thought they were slightly vibrating in the air. She tried to brush her fringe out the way, but was too content to lift her arms.

The harp has caught the spiders pray,

the woven tune has had its say.

the lover's caught deep in the spell,

don't try to leave; it won't end well.

on returning to university, and not going out

  this week was the first one back for the second year of university. if I had the blogging talents of the Fantastic people who make these awesome blogs, (here and here) then perhaps I could go into detail more on some of the events, such as the odd question on the bus, and my awkward introduction to my film course. if these things were made up, perhaps I could talk about them in better (or at least some) detail, however my journalistic and autobiographical skills are no match to other blogs. (did i mention this one and that one?)
  not going out, a past time I enjoy, might be coming back to haunt me, however. the world of the student outside lesson circle seems to take place in the clubs, town nights and house parties. I don't have much talent for such things, and might be losing out as a result.
   it might not matter, though. I have got through life pretty well without going out too many times (I do occaisonally wander in, out of curiosity and a need to keep up with the times and things), and I bet there's other ways to keep up with the student social world without going to town every night. all I need to do is find out how...

(in case you were wondering, I was unnessecarily introduced to my film course by another one of the teachers, for no specific reason. the method used ("hi everyone, this is Izaak, he'll be joining your film course. he's brilliant!") suggested a "he's a bit special and scared of everyone, so please be nice to him" approach. then I could find a chair, and stood about like a divvy for a bit while i looked for one. not the best "how do you do.")

(as for the bus, someone i don't really know from my history, but know enough to say hello, asked me on the bus, unespectedly, and quite loudly, "are you single?". it wasn't until after i made some sort of excuse that he explained that he ment single honours. i had misunderstood. however, throughout the week I did get a cake, and a couple of hugs from a couple of lovely friends, so it wasn't all bad.*)

*just to make sure you know, i'm not a bit special and scared of everyone, despite evidence to the contrary.

hmm...

not returning to university until next monday, spnding a non-university week in liverpool is.... dull.

have been spending more than my normal amounts of time in Bold Street coffee, waterstones and the Lego shop. the only problem is that these places cost money.there is little to do to kill time in liverpool for free (there are parks and galleries, but...)
my recently decided mission to make more friends this year should go well. hopefully.

sort of looking forward to monday, when uni starts again.

the Sun and the Moon

Based on an Idea by Ant Briscoe.

The Sun hates the Moon.

Look at him – whizzing about the stars like no body's business. Hanging around that Earth. Only him, as well. Billy no mates. Saturn and Jupiter are the party planets.

“Oy!” the Sun blared, as Moon glided past for the umpteenth time.

“yerwhat?” Moon wasn't listening, shot right past.

“Oy!”

next time Moon came around, he stopped. Moon knows the Sun doesn't like him, so he's less sociable when he talks to him.

“yeah?” Moon asked.

“what do you do, really?”

“what?”

“what do you do? Why does Earth hand around with you?”

“Well...” Moon started, thinking. “I'm night-time, aren't I? When you tip off the horizon, I pop out, keep the sky interesting...”

“only because you reflect me!” Sun protested. “anyway, your not really needed for night-time, are you? I bring light, which is essential for all life. Night-time is just the lack of me. Everyone goes to sleep at night, anyway. Are you that boring, that everyone goes to sleep when you arrive? When I leave, everyone's like 'oh, well, never mind, I guess I'll go to sleep until Sun comes back.'”

“I'm useful...” Moon muttered, still in thought of something to put that smart-arse Sun in his place. He suddenly piped, with more than a hint of pride, “I'm beautiful.”

“what do you mean?”

“I'm romantic. The shivering light of the Moon, the shiny blue haze, the dark craters, the face of the Moon... I'm serene, and peaceful. You, your overbearing. No one can even look at you, or they will never look at anything ever again! You are so ugly and so bright, I cannot imagine what it would be like, how it would feel to never be looked in the face.”

a low blow. Sun burned a strong, deep red.

“you insignificant little rock! You tiny, tiny clump of dust! I could fir out a solar flare, without any effort at all, and blow you, and your whole stinking world into atoms and dust!”

“all right, calm down, Sunny boy...”

The Sun had had its moment. He returned to a bright yellow-y white. He sighed, breathing out slowly. Things were all right again. Moon made a mental note not to push things too far for a bit.

“So..” Sun continued, “why are you important?”

“the seas?” Moon suggested. “I've got the sea's going down...”

“yeah, I'll give you that one.” Sun agreed. “the tides are important to Earth.”

“thank you” Moon quietly replied. Right then, which is better, day or night?”

*

“dawn?”

“dawn is nice,” Moon replied. “I like dawn. A new day.”

“yeah, I like dawn, too.”

“you would,” Moon retorted, “that's when you start working!”

“all right, easy...”

“How about Midday?”

“Midday can fuck off!” Sun snapped. “I hate midday. how do you feel about midnight?”

“I love midnight...” Moon soothed. “midnight is the most peaceful part of any day. It's either a shiny new day, or the last remaining part of the night.”

“I like lazy afternoon.” Sun replied. “its so peaceful. Occasionally I'll burn the sky a slight reddish tint. I think it adds something...”

“I'm noticing a pattern” Moon suggested. “peacefulness. There are certain parts of day and night that are peaceful and serene. Perhaps we cannot really decide on which is better. I mean, without night, there would be no day, and without day, no night. One cannot really be better than the other...”

“still...” Sun suggested. “I prefer day. They may be both necessary, but I'd prefer to work day than night, any time.”

“I would hate to work day” Moon replied. “I love the quiet of the night.”

“Oy!” Earth shouted. “Get to work!”

Sun and Moon may not get along, but they both enjoy the occasional debate. Earth always comes along to interrupt things.

“Well, I better be off...”

“same. I'll see you around, sometime.”

“yeah, see you later.”

and both the Sun and the Moon went back to work. They would meet up, again and again, forever an ever, and they would continue to argue and debate over which of the two is more important. And they would never decide on an answer.

the Starbucks Tree

working on the trams gives you time to write. especially when the work entails sitting in the canteen for seven hours because there aren't any trams to go on. i worte two things during that time, and here is the first:

What did you expect to find
underneath the Starbucks tree?
is the fruits hung on it's branches
really such a Mystery?

did the corrugated cardboard leaves
really leave you that confused?
did you really never know
how the plastic cups were fused?

the cappuccino starts to flow
through the roots and in the maze
the coffee brews, the days go past,
the Earth and Sun both spin a daze

the frappucino branches brew
the freezing chlorophyll to make
the caramel that gets its flavor
from the sugars in the lake

the paper cups pluck from the tree
and are filled with drinks galore
the townsfolk come from all around
they are always after more

so there you are, the Starbucks tree
and I'm amazed you didn't know
that such a tree could ever be, that Coffee drinks
from it do flow

we're you expecting gold, or drugs,
stars or lightening? things like that?
those other trees should have them there,
in the woods your looking at

a tree for everything, for dreams,
a tree for bread, a tree for tricks,
but this tree is the only one
where you can get your caffeine fix

so lets all hail the Starbucks tree,
the only one i ever go
to visit, 'cause it gives you drinks,
and that is all you need to know.