Good Morning, Pandora.

Candle.

2010-12-31T22:57:00.001Z

Her footsteps were loud against the stone floor, clicking heels making a mockery of the silence that surrounded her. She received a few looks, but none of them betrayed the annoyance she suspected they must really be feeling at her intrusion. They didn’t like her – she knew that quite well – but they’d never dare to openly defy or undermine her. It made her want to beg them to hate her aloud; the paradox being, of course, that they hated her purely because they simply weren’t permitted to decide for themselves. They blamed and feared her for it, but in reality she’d rather hear them catcall than see them stare at her like they did – blankly. Wordlessly.

Their church here was made of wood, save the floor. She was used to stone, but supposed that commoners couldn’t afford it; stone was expensive, but wood they could chop with their own hands at their lordship’s command, and with it they could build their own churches. The chapel in the manor was beautiful, with stunning glass windows and an organ with a sound so clear and loud you could hear it right throughout the building and into the grounds. The pews were carved dark wood, the likes of which you’d never find in any forest in the country – but it was all rather oppressive, and the chance of him bestowing the place with his presence quite overruled any feeling you might have had of His holy presence. It was a godless place. Here in the local church, the walls were plain; the pews were more like flat, long stools, and the altar at the front was merely a block of wood, more or less. She could feel freedom and heaven filling the unspoiled space with its glory, and felt she could breathe.

There were no services due at this time of night, but she drew down her hood and took a seat at the front of the church anyhow, staring calmly into the flickering candlelight before her. Edward would see to it that she was disciplined if it was discovered that she had left, she was sure – it was quite possible that she’d be found out, of course, but there was simply no way for her to reach this settlement on foot. If someone checked the stables and found a horse missing as well as the foreign mistress, then so be it. She simply couldn’t stand the smothering atmosphere in there any longer.

Being a virtuous woman herself – of course – she had met only very few men in her time, but Edward was a devil of a man. He had been perfectly charming when he had needed to be to ensnare the hard-won promise of her hand, but since then there had merely been a very transactional consummation of their marriage and very few words passed between them. She was grateful that he had so many unfortunate serving girls to entertain himself with if the fancy took him – this feeling didn’t come without a heavy serving of guilt, but she felt that any woman in her position would feel the same. She had fast discovered that once, with Edward, was quite enough.

It suddenly occurred to her that it was perhaps a little lacking in sense to light candles in a wooden church, but then again perhaps it was a comfort to know that thus far, the holy spirit had endeavoured to preserve the building and its visitors despite the natural hazard. It was not tempting fate so much as demonstrating that they were all eternally protected. It was inspiring – especially as the candles had not fallen and burned the church to ash as soon as she had stepped inside. They hated her, certainly, but God seemed to be on her side; or not on the opposite side, at least. She was alive, against all the odds – she was alive, and she carried life within her too. For the first time since she’d arrived in this foreign country, she felt at home – felt clarity, even.

She stood from the pew and trailed her finger quickly through the tip of the flame. It didn’t burn; a real mystery of science. Perhaps. Sliding her hood back up, she turned and walked back down the aisle of the church, looking bravely into the eyes of any man or woman who turned their eyes to her until she stepped back into the blanket of blackness outside. Her horse was still waiting patiently, and she called him over, thanking him quietly in a tongue unknown to this world as she mounted the saddle. The harsh sounds felt comforting in her mouth – she hadn’t spoken a foreign word for months, and using them again at last was something like coming home.

The ride back from the village was a long one, but seemed to fly past in the space of mere seconds. Her heart thudded along with the horse’s heavy footsteps, mind working quickly as she wondered after the climate of the house at the moment. It all depended upon whether her disappearance had been discovered – if it had not, business would be going on as usual, but if for some reason Edward had wished to see her and found that they were unable to find her, tension would be creeping over the walls like ivy. As she led her horse into his stable and bade him goodnight, she cast a quick, quiet glance into the servant’s corridor. Nobody was rushing about; in fact, she could hear laughter from a distance away. She had not been found missing by anyone that mattered, then.

She lit the candles on the small tables either side of her bed immediately upon reaching her room, and changed carefully from her outdoor robes and day-dress into her nightgown. In this state of moderate undress, before she slipped on her night-robe, she looked down at her child and smiled thinly. She had not yet begun to swell even after five months, but she knew that their son grew within her anyhow. Tying the gown fondly around her stomach, she rang the small bell beside her bed to call a serving girl to her. It was not her place to call Edward to attend to her, but she hoped he would do so any way, even if only out of outrage at this disregard of the conventions of the hierarchy. Certainly enough, mere minutes after she’d set the serving girl to her task, Edward knocked at her door and entered.

“You… called for me? Are you well?”

“I am,” she answered evenly. Any moment, he would unleash something malicious and biting at her. This was all merely a pretence. “Will you join me?” She extended a slim hand towards him and he approached the bed, a low frown on his features. He was not a handsome man, her husband, but he was agreeable enough. Sometimes when she saw him about the home and heard him speak in that low, curious voice of his she understood what she had once been taken with, but quickly reminded herself of what he truly was. A monster.

He looked up at her mutely as he perched on the edge of her bed, his expression an infuriatingly patient one. Where was the outrage; the anger? It unnerved her not to hear that which she knew he must surely feel. He was an awful man; a despicable creature. He ought not to hide it. “Yes?”

“Edward,” she said coolly, “I am carrying your child.”

“No,” he said tiredly, wiping his brow with a hand and turning away. “No, you are not.”

“I am,” she asserted, suddenly indignant. “I am carrying your child, and He will be our lord Jesus Christ reborn.”

“I think you ought to rest.”

“I can feel Him growing in me.”

“You cannot possibly be carrying my child, let alone the son of God.” He stood, ringing the bell to summon a servant. “Have you been spending time in the village church again?”

Here it came; the thunder. “I have every right to go.”

“Yes; yes.” He wiped his forehead again, ringing the bell again with a mark of irritation on his face, though it had been mere moments since he had first done so. “You have the right, but it upsets you in this way every time you go.”

The implication hit her like a slap in the face; so much so that she almost felt as though he had really done it for a second. “Are you trying to suggest I’m unsound?”
“Bertha…”
She reached for the candle on her bedside table and threw it at him, snarling furiously; he dodged it quickly and stamped it out on the floor, raising his arm to defend himself from the other she threw. “How dare you? How dare you?”

He ducked out of the door to escape her screeching, but she felt at no greater peace alone; tearing at the bed-linen, she tore at the plate of candles on the other bedside and tipped them onto herself. With a piercing cry she acknowledged the pain of burning, and her delusions fell in on themselves and collapsed as a small group of servants swept in to restrain her and quench the fire with a bucket of water. She spluttered into the cold, weeping and suddenly aware, and prayed to God to let her child survive the madness – for she was mad. Quite mad; and very much capable of being burned to ash.

E-Books are a contradiction.

2010-09-04T18:18:00.001+01:00

Reading is tactile. I touch the pages with my hands, absorbing the atmosphere as well as the words. Shutter Island is intense, rubbing the page corners between tense fingers; Trainspotting held wide apart as I stare down at it, confused, and try to imitate the accent as quietly as possible in an attempt to clarify its meaning. The Book Thief is flicked through constantly as I read it, delighted, and fans the dust in the air into other people's personal bubbles. The Beach is held firm as I attempt to ignore the constant growing hunger for the next page; Harry Potter less so as I relish the most important find of my childhood.

There is nothing to be gained from a cold hard screen. Fiction online is never as enjoyable as you try to rest your eyes every now and again, straining; characters jump from paper pages, but simply stare wistfully at you willing to be printed out online.

I would rather carry my entire library on my shoulders than buy an E-Reader, and that library is fairly sizeable.

Sometimes, I remember important things that I'd almost forgotten about.

2010-09-01T00:00:00.001+01:00

Today, the most important thing of all occurred to me - at least, the most important thing in my life right now.

I can't do this.

I have fifteen days left, discounting moving day, before I am officially independent. I don't feel independent. I'm staring at society's mother bird as she pecks me out of the nest, but I'm not quite ready to fly yet. Even if I am, I don't feel that way. I don't want to feel that way. I can't leave my friends and my routine and my home. Suddenly this house has a personality, and it's one that I can't leave behind. It feels like a third parent, almost; a safety net with its own washing machine and tumble drier - a stocked fridge and Pepsi practically on tap. I can't sell my beloved car. I can't move to a place where the Tesco could be anywhere and the places I know and love are nowhere.

I can't do any of those things. How can I be expected to abandon life as I know it in favour of a whole new world? They all say these will be the best years of my life and that three years won't feel enough by the end of it, and I know they know better, but right now it's hard to believe that this is a beginning and not an end. This is the end of I can.

Still, I've just remembered something important.

I want to do this.

Maybe I can't, but I want to - and I will. Fifteen days, discounting moving day; let's tick them off instead of striking them through. I'm going to miss you all. Keep in touch.

Here are some things that happened this morning.

2010-07-23T12:26:00.001+01:00

A white butterfly flew through my garden.

I watched the washing machine spin for ten minutes. I've never seen it working before.

I mistook a knock on the door for the noise the washing machine makes and missed a call from a door-to-door gardening salesman. I call that karma.

I sent more texts this morning than I have for two weeks prior to today combined.

I waved at my rabbit in the garden. She looked at me, somewhat nonplussed, and hopped away.

I heard my song of the moment on an advertisement.

When I was little, I thought love was a serious thing.

2010-07-21T11:49:00.001+01:00

It seemed as though you needed to be stony-faced to express it. In all the Disney films the Prince was fairly stoic, after all - all this Very Dangerous rescuing-from-a-tower and dragon-slaying; not entirely fair, actually, and I never found murder very becoming on a handsome prince's criminal record, but to my younger self it was fairly heroic. It probably wasn't quite as common to find the princess just as lovely, but all the same, my impression of love was very grey - almost inhumane.

With a few years behind me, though, I'm ready to reassess that judgement. I'm no expert - is anyone? - but now I'd say that love is laughter. Love isn't serious at all - it means a lot, of course, but it's about whimsy and happiness, not duty and definitions. It's all things to all people, though, I suppose. Personally, I can't wait.

Last night I dreamed I had a kitten.

2010-07-19T12:22:00.000+01:00

He was given to me by my mum as a present, and I couldn't think of a name to give him, so I temporarily called him Kitten. He was almost pink, and I adore him. He's like a ghost-pet now; I want him very badly, even if I know I can't have him. Not yet, anyway. Maybe when I've left university and am living by myself, me and Kitten can be reunited in the real world.

I've always wanted a cat. I think I'm kind of like a cat myself, aside from the mice-chasing and milk-drinking. They're affectionate, but they need their own time too. They can be alone.

I look forward to meeting you, Kitten. We can be off-colour together.

Cathy has a thing for obvious beauty.

2010-07-18T22:07:00.000+01:00

Cathy has a thing for obvious beauty. Her room, though tasteful and inarguably her, is decked in photographs of or representations of aesthetic masterpieces - naturally occurring, human and human in origin. Her garden is dominated by flowers - bright flowers; pretty flowers. It's overbearing. Cathy's not the sort of girl - woman? - who appreciates the subtle beauty of simple leafy plants or ivy, and sometimes my eyes complain if they're made to admire the flowerbeds at the foot of her garden for too long.

Of course, I ignore them. It's Cathy. She won't be satisfied until I pretend to be thoroughly appreciative of her efforts. I smile.

"They're beautiful."

"Thank you."

She takes this as an indirect comment on her own beauty. It's possible that it is. Even if I pretend not to be, I am always taken aback by her. Traditionally speaking, she's no Helen of Troy, but she has an outstanding ethereal quality to her which cannot be ignored. Freckles rest on her face like snow that won't quite lay; not supposed to be there, but awfully nice to look at all the same. Perhaps her hair is too hot for snow. It falls down past her shoulders in red waves, floaty and uncontrollable and honest. She pretends to dislike it, but she's just as taken with it as I am; as we all are.

"Shall I take a picture?"

"Is there space for it on your wall?"

It goes without saying that she intends to immortalise this summer's crop as part of her wall display; maybe it's silly of me to ask, because if Cathy wants there to be room for another photograph, then there can be. She's a passionate woman, declaring that each latest addition to her wall is more inspiring than the last, but they fall like leaves as the seasons change and she becomes enamoured with something new.

Some photographs are evergreen. Part of the reason I've stayed by her side for so long is because one of them is of us - it was taken at a festival of some sort, so far as my memory serves. The sun wasn't shining and the bands were all awful, but we loved it all the same; reason being, I loved her, and she loved being loved. This picture of us doesn't say a thousand words - it only needs three. Kiss, smile, love. Cathy has helpfully cut these words from two magazines and a newspaper and stuck them nearby. It's a good thing only me and her close friends are allowed into the sanctuary - I'd feel somewhat vulnerable otherwise, with my heart spelled out in those thirteen damning letters.

Thirteen. Is it unlucky? I can't tell.

"Of course there's space. Smile."

"What... with me in it?"

Under the scruntiny of her camera lens, I flush. Cathy has a thing for obvious beauty, and I am neither obvious nor beautiful. To allow her to capture me like this for analysis later would expose me. If that happens... no, it can't happen.

"Of course with you in it, silly."

"Cathy, don't."

She doesn't understand; I can see she doesn't understand. She's a vain old thing, Cathy; has reason to be, I suppose. I adore her - she knows I do. She's allowed to be vain in my presence. It means she can't possibly comprehend how I feel, at least until she's developed the film - does it herself, of course, because this is Cathy, and every picture she takes has to remain hers every step of the way. I can see her now, developing the film in the dark and holding me up to the red light, squinting; finally realising my inadequacy. She can't have it; I need to carry on decieving her, because she is all I have.

"Sarah."

I have a horrible habit of forgetting what I want to say when she says my name like that.

"Sarah, I think you're wonderful."

It isn't that I've forgotten what to say this time.

"Let's be in the picture together."

I don't care about the picture. I vaguely register the lens snapping shut, preferring to take in the beautiful paleness of her extended arm; the odd bend in it, and the flutter of her eyelashes against my cheek.

She lowers the camera gently as I kiss her. She doesn't want to damage the film.

Photograph by Courtney Carmody // OpenEyesPhoto at Flickr.

I should probably wake up.

2010-07-17T21:50:00.000+01:00

It's getting on, but I can't resist the temptation to hit the snooze button on my alarm. Doesn't matter, right? I've got plenty of time yet. There's still university before I need to get up; grow up.

No.

Everybody knows that the early bird gets the worm. I don't want to waste my day bored in a job I don't want - I want to write. I want to write until it gets too dark to see the page, and then some.

That means I need to start now, and keep going. I plan to. In fact, no. I promise to.

Corporate love.

2010-07-17T19:26:00.000+01:00

If you sat and listened to a day's conversation, what would you hear? Compliments, maybe; sincere or otherwise. Relationship troubles - and boasts. Plans being forged and broken. Politics. Slights against a person's character, sometimes swiftly followed by an uneasy justification. Declarations of love for a human or a thing or a concept. Descriptions of the weather. Laughter. All of these; none of them.

One thing, at least, is absolutely guaranteed. You'd almost certainly hear complaints - mainly, I contest, complaints about work. People who think they're not valued enough; people who can't stand the sheer monotony of it anymore. People who abhor their superiors - people who want to be their superiors, even if the outlook isn't good. People who want longer breaks, shorter hours, better customers, a comfier uniform, more challenges, a company car, staff discount, greater satisfaction, more holidays, and/or new co-workers. Of course, the most common complaints revolve more closely around money. Why aren't we being paid more? Don't I deserve more than this? Should be paid a King's ransom with the type of work I do.

On the face of it, business doesn't love us. I beg to differ.

Without money, any company would die. Money pumps around the vast, oddly-shaped body of every facet of the business which it keeps alive; money defends it against attack, and money makes it stronger. As any parent or lover might, corporations bleed for us. It hurts, and the blood might be desperately needed elsewhere, but they bleed for us all the same.

Isn't that what love is about? We need each other, us and The Corporation. We support each other, and empower each other. We fight, we curse each other and we blame everything on each other, but in the end it doesn't matter. It would still bleed for us; can we say the same? Unless forced, how many of us would willingly sacrifice that which is so important to us for the corporation under which we slave - our time?

We ruffle our feathers. We're not working for charity. Someone's got to making a living and pay for food and frivolities around here. We need our wages. We need our wants to be fulfilled. It knows this, and it provides for us, even though it knows there's really nothing it can do to make us sacrifice a second of our time back. Unconditional, almost; your money is your manna, and it's guaranteed monthly if you keep up your side of the bargain.

Some might say that it doesn't bleed enough for us; that it gives just enough for sustenance, and sometimes not even that. But you're not that kind of lover, are you?

Roll over, Spielberg.

2010-07-16T22:07:00.000+01:00

Perhaps I'm biased, but I've just seen Inception, and I'm quite confident that Christopher Nolan is - rightfully - about to take the top seat in directing. It's arguable that Steven Spielberg is currently 'The Big One', perhaps chased by Peter Jackson and... yes, alright, James Cameron after Avatar. Now, though, after The Dark Knight and this new triumph, it's quite possible that Nolan is about to usurp him - yes, even with Mr. Spielberg's wide and wild fanbase and vast variety of interesting and somewhat cult films. Inception, though, is arguably far cleverer than Jaws or Jackson's Lord of the Rings - far more innovative than Avatar, even, in every corner save special effects.

This isn't to say, of course, that the CGI in Inception leaves something to be desired. It doesn't. The sequences in which gravity takes its own course are incredibly fluid and believeable; a stray avalanche towards the climax of the film could perhaps have been more polished, but it isn't as though it detracts from the overall experience as is. Frankly, nothing but a horrible decision to make Inception in 3D could have distracted from its brilliance, and thankfully Nolan is far too mature for that.

The absolute genius of the film of course lies in the ending, so I can't discuss that, but it's disappointingly rare that excellent films manage to do themselves justice in their closing sequences - take The Matrix, for example, which is what people have tended to choose to compare it to despite the distinct lack of PVC in the costume department. It's an excellent film, but did it have to end with Neo flying off into the sunset - sorry, clouds - in the middle of a crowded street? According to the Wachowski brothers it did, but Nolan prefers a far more subtle and thought-provoking end, and it's much better for it.

In a nutshell - go and see this film. See it now. You will not be disappointed.

I don't want to introduce myself.

2010-07-15T21:17:00.000+01:00

I'm a writer, and I like exploring the weaknesses in human nature. If the Greek legends are correct, I owe a lot to my blog's namesake. I love reading, film and the smell of books, but 'love' isn't an adequate verb for the way I feel about writing. I'm eighteen. Biologically I'm female, but really I'm genderqueer. The Müller advert with the cow that wants to be a horse running along the beach makes me smile. My idols and heroes are a varied bunch - Oscar Wilde, Harvey Milk, Carol Ann Duffy, Stephen Fry, Lady Gaga and the Beatles. My favourite books are Let The Right One In, The Beach and the Harry Potter series.

The Twilight franchise makes me ill, but it also gives me hope. If Stephenie Meyer can get published, why can't I?

Today I did more or less nothing save for writing. I adore those days - and there are plenty of them now that college is over forever. There's nothing to distract me from what I love except family drama - and that's almost a motivation to sink further away from the social circle and leave interaction behind. It almost helps. Of course, if it's noisy, it's no good at all, but squabbling is natural. Silence isn't; not here, anyway. I'm not used to it.

Sometimes, before I sleep, I'll turn the fan on my bedside table on, but face it away from me. The hum it makes is comforting. I hear my gerbils biting at their cage, demanding attention, another cardboard tube and chocolate drops. I see the standby light from the extension cable by my bed and my various games consoles. Sometimes it's so late that I see real light creeping in, curious, around the edges of my blinds. It's relaxing, but I still can't sleep. I can't sleep when I'm myself, because that just doesn't make sense. There's too much to think about.

I think that tells you enough about me to begin with. As Kat von D decided on her website, it's impossible to learn anything about anybody if they merely describe themselves. I intend to update frequently; I'm sure you'll learn more about me from my posts than you ever will from my hapless attempts at self-introduction. Pip pip!