moorish moods and lowland libido

this morning, i got up and went to the beach.

something i regularly contemplate as a bumpkin who craves wild space, but never actually do because in reality i am a lazy son of a bitch.

but, as i had the last 3 days off to work up the energy, today i went.

and it rained. sticky hot incesant drizzle.

the vaguely gothic and dead romantic scottish summer of a desolate beach in the fog will always leave my speechless. (and it didnt hurt the humidity was so high i came home with amazing and freakishly natural farrah fawcett hair.)

brilliant really. too fucking bad i am now all wet, hot, and bothered and completely alone. sigh. seriously. i need a dial-a-fuck-buddy for these type of emergencies.

i feel like holly hunter but with all my fingers.

sara the obscure fanatacist

it has recently come to my attention my love of fiction in all it's manifestations, is possibly nothing more than egomania.

every book, every film, television or website is about me.

is a painting of my life as it is, was, or could have been. how i would be or may become given the right inscentive and opportunity.

in hopeful, ironic, or desolate ways, i consume in an ongoing search for someone who gets it.

and when one aspect of my life seems bent on overwhelming my every sense, it is the only thing i see no matter where i look. everywhere voices are echoing my current tempestuous heart.

am i jude? am i sue? arabella? her bitch ass husband i cant even be bothered to remember the name of? is it temptation, fate, or lust? does it matter? what is true?

a 200 year old book about fucking wessex farmpeople and here i am feeling pinned. my selfishness knows no bounds.

whatever way the wind blows in my current headcase, sue is just now on par with amy march.

this is me meditating:

- i just want someone to spoon
- i cannot fucking believe jennie will be here soon. let the party begin!
- phil is leaving. i have known for months but it feels raw and harshly true now.
- i miss my sister
- i want to know i wont cave and be something i'm not for someone elses sake
- i dont want to worry about maggie in the war torn congo.
- i am scared i am not capable of being myself if we do this.
- i feel guilty for not seeing more of mr. detjen this week
- i wish i wasnt so crap at ironing. how can you be bad at it?
- i cannot believe i just joined myspace. jesus fucking christ.

marvels and wonders

today, maggie came.

my heart leapt when i saw her. and suddenly everything was okay. maybe just tabled, but i was okay. she can do that you know. she is like a breath of fresh air and a hand to hold and so incredibly perfect in everyway i wish i could be her. i wish i could marry her. i wish i could have her around forever. i wish i could give her to everyone and share what she means. anne didn't know the half of it when she called diana a kindred spirit. she is truly the best woman i know and i am proud and glad and overwhelming thankful to have her. even just for the weekend.

the only other person i feel i know like this is my sister. she is like that. the sororial link. one look and the world could spin backward for all i know. it makes me miss kate. but more so it makes me grateful women like this exist.

whether lolled on the couch watching football or walking home arm in arm, i glow when she is around. just a reflection of her wonder i am sure, but i feel like i could fly.

the salisbury steak of life

i am tired a lot.

but only just recently have a hit a level of fatigue that negates all other life.

i am tired of pretend. of everyday taxing. of anticipated monotony.

i don't want this pseudo-life. with will-they-wont-they relationships, and mediocre careers. cute work outfits and wild work nights-out. the routine of disappointment, distraction, and denial.

ready made life packets now available in your grocers fridge. it's so easy, so mouthwatering and tempting. so cheap and lo-carb. promising you can be sated in minutes, the e-numbers veiling the lifelong regrets that will follow.


i have a week off starting tomorrow.

a week on my own. no holiday. no flatmates. just an empty canvas. and i want to come out the other end sure of something.

it might take a spirit guide in the woods goddammit, but i am not going back to that.

i am unwilling to settle.

week of weird

such a random week. out three nights in a row like it's college and i need to get laid - only half of which is still true. also, freckles galore from lunch hour picnics in the graveyard and other anomalies of scottish life.

monday
- dinner at author friends. we had mexican and coronas, i apparently am now a reviewer for his new magazine, and his cockatiel thing is adorable. and named bellamy. sigh.

tuesday
- cam home from work feigning illness because the tsunami of cramps crashed into my abdomen rendering me entirely useless
-slept for ages
- practiced - and by practiced i mean screeching wails that made cats cry - my violin

wednesday
- wore the polka dot dress in all it's glory
- made killer moroccan zucchini couscous
- watched my beloved bruce campbell

thursday
- had dinner at liams
- went to weirdo pubquiz and was hailed the master since all the questions were things like who's on mount rushmore (and i didn't even have to specify which roosevelt) and the theme tune from gummy bears.
- hooked up again. for once not feeling rejected, denied, broken, or drunk. but i am undecided and horny. seriously. i kind of love it and i kind wish i'd grow up already.

friday
- tried not to be awkward at work after the fact. and kind of just wanted to have sex in the stationary cupboard all day.
- watched the football with jules
- went to massively weird leaving-do/ continental house party with amazing daquiris, enforced casualness with liam, and the guys from work including ugly sexy (whose new hair cut makes him look like a rugged tintin). maybe we should have left early nad just had sex, but instead just completely tabled it (probably because i was the worse for rum) and went home totally PG.

saturday
- work blows. i hate my job. i so had been looking forward to locking ourselves in an office to do grade 2 paperwork (and not anything more nefarious. probably.) but had to serve stupid school kids all day.
- went to fancy-pants debut authors party in the rehersal dinner dress. had fabulous gin martinis. hobnobbed a bit and then got bored of small talk and went to the movies.

and now i am home for what feels like the first time in days, glad to have slept and wondering what my next move is.

culture clash

since when did office casual "i'm not trying but damn sexy anyway" ever involve
a, me
b, blue pinstripes
c, paisley?

and yet, in the land of uk fashion, i am so going to get away with it.

either i am going blind or have finally assimilated the anti-matching genetic code of the british.

but so help me god, if i wear leggings all bets are off.

should any of you actually watch the world cup, you should all be cheering for holland.

not only because they have the most complex ethnicity etymology - oh the dutch from holland who are the netherlands - or because their football kits refer to a political event hundreds years old. seriously. william of orange is old news boys.

but because the are my team in the office pool. and not only do i want to kick fuck-heads ass, but i could win money. and money is a good reason to like sports.



well, that and one of theif forwards is hot.

vie melodien

in the dappled sunlight of my gold coifed room (perhaps we have finally out run the porn dungeon title), i was moved to music this afternoon, and picked up my violin.

an instrument (and object) with which i have had one of the most tumultuous relationships of my entire life, leading to our five year estrangement. a separation i felt compelled to reconcile these last few weeks.

as i opened the ridiculous case, still tattered from tiny locker jams, the complete familiarity and yet entire foreignness of it was overwhelming. it was all there - the massive sponge stain, the fancy import rosin that'd been a christmas gift, the spare Dominant strings in their hideously retro packaging, the suzuki books covered with garish stickers.

i won't pretend i was ever a prodigy. by the beginning of high school i'd given up practicing all together and within two years was relegated to the back of the orchestra with the stoners and dropouts (where a whole different piece of my education began). but even in the later years, in fleeting moments, it was perfect.

the right tune, the right note even, and i could just soar. it was a voice opening in me. an unanswered truth.

sometimes, just for a minute, when playing something breathtaking, i felt whole.

and perhaps it was the fleetness of these moments that pushed me away. my lessons were chunks of prescribed classics chosen for their modal shifts. our orchestral pieces were heavy on cello melody because everyone knew they were the only halfway decent section, and mostly 40 minutes too long for anyone with ears.

and i was uninspired. the one thing it promised seemed to be forever beyond my ability and not even a concern for my teachers.

so i left it. a nostalgic relic, a closed possibility. a dream.

and as i lifted it to my shoulder today, i thought perhaps i should have left it there. to rot in my parents closet.

i am absolutely rubbish. clunky. out of tune. slow. airy. childish.

the hickey on my neck of which i was so secretly proud is long gone, the grooves in my bowfingers filled back in. we no longer fit, my violin and i.

we are like reunited lovers, trying to find where we were. how we were. limbs akimbo. bodies out of joint.

and of course we can't. i am not the same size or shape or player i once was. we'll have to begin again, finding our voice, seeking the sweet spots. retuning ourselves.

it hurts a little the songs i scrape through now are dated in mr. dewey's sharp masculine scrawl '02/25/94'. that i can hear the strength behind notes that come out as whispers makes me wince.

but oh, the promise of that power. that expression is what brought me back. that it's still there, this voiceless singing and challenging flight. the possibility of momentary transcendence.

if i am patient, we can, once again make music.

Stephen Slays

i know i am less than politically active in my daily life.

i live in a bubble of my own making consisting mostly of castle ruins, fictional romances, and very hot shoes quite content to ignore the "hell in a handbasket" scenario towards which i would be otherwise inclined.

this completely voluntary ignorance, coupled with my living abroad (i keep wondering if i'll ever get to refer to myself as an ex-pat) lead my information to be sorely outdated if not entirely made up.

that said, today sonja pointed me to Stephen Colbert's White House Corrospondents Address. holy mother fucking hell. That man has balls the size of Montana and as Chris says, we all know one man who is going to get audited this year. Damn he is clever. Though I must say, it's a shame the biggest laughs came at the safest jokes. Where is Gilbert Godfried when you need him?

I've always had a thing for Stephens (well, the few of that moniker that are straight...). But give me a well informed wise ass Stephen (especially with bowtie) and i am equal parts awe, lust, and fear - a stunning combonation.

summer love

it's fucking sweltering.

the dense humid air, ripe and full. the teasing promise of rain and agonisingly long days of lethargy.

in this heaviness and sticky weight, all i can think of is sex.

the moist air of sleepy breath. the damp pockets of skin between shoulders or below collars. the hot weight of a limb thrown carelessly across my body.

fuck me.

on my mind

- there is a mouse in my room. and most disturbingly, it looks kind of cute scurrying from shadow to shadow.
- it is both a relief and a burden i decided to drop the teen-years drama i skipped the first time around smack in the middle of my otherwise incredibly okay 20s. a relief they have come and i am not some anomolous android and a massive waste of my fucking time.
- even i can only survive on left over pizza for so long
- i lied. there are two mice.
- i cried today. in front of someone. and he held me and pet my head. thank god the weirdness factor didnt surface until after. i would be even more bothered if he thought my weepy face was sexy.
- i know. we were doing so good. i am disappointed in myself.
- actually i am most disappointed that he's gone and got all hot on me. sneaky libido. i don't need this shit.
- also, this is my "artie strongest man in the world visits a stone circle" re-enactment:





i adore my newly rediscovered stupidity

i've still got sand in my shoes

i have not written because i don't know what to say.

the last week and a half have been overwhelming. three vacations in a row will do that to you, even if they aren't as loaded as mine. they've been amazing. but hard.

first i had 3 days completely alone in the highlands. a freeing solitude which rekindled my love for scotland and even brushed with "finding myself in the wilderness" cliches. it was amazing and good for me. and i found a new favourite place at cawdor castle.

then i had a weeks road trip through gorgeous country with one of my favourite people. beautiful and fun. i was relaxed and at home being silly in the mountains and basking on waterfalls. i liked being together every minute of everyday and not needing the guards and shields the city and other people inspire in me. being alone together.

so much so coming back was a bit of a shock. and disappointment. i told us we could stay that simple and content here, but i know the pressures of town and life wont let us. i am trying not to miss him though we see each other everyday. (ps, no it was completely platonic despite our past transgressions. and it was really good for us to be normal again)

but it was a short lived doubt as the next morning i picked up dad for a whirlwind weekend of touring and adventure and entertainment. he is so easy and yet so taxing. so wonderfully there for me and knows me and wants me it was incredibly perfect, and yet the second he left now i miss him and everyone else i have that closeness with even more. its like he reminded me what i am missing and it hurts.

it was great. i did love it. i am so glad he came. but now i miss him.

and so for a week now almost i have been back. and feel tainted. outside. disallusioned and alone. it is still the same silly job and the same pretty flowers and the same cute shoes. and it doesnt feel like it is enough anymore.

i am not enough. i am not who i was free in the mountains. and i dont like it.

perhaps it will pass. the romance of a holiday will wear thin. real life will regain meaning.

but i think more than anything i am sick of the hollowness. i want to be inspired.