Tonsils are curious things.
What were once a pair of seemingly useless and quiet members of Elest's anatomy, have now suddenly made their presence known by becoming seriosly inflamed.
Can't swallow my own saliva. :)
-Funny how human beings like subjecting their fellow human beings to the grizzly details of their ailments. Why do we do that? Does sympathy offer a degree of comfort in the face of physical pain/discomfort? I'm not seeking sympathy though, I'm basking in the glee of your horrified reaction when I tell you, with a Miyavi-grin, that the back of my throat is oozing puss :)
Also, I think I'm making the most of the situation because I rarely ever get seriously ill like this. In fact, this is the first time in a very long time, that we are actually on antibiotics. (we, in the multiple personality sense of the word -I'm feeling a bit lonely) And No, we're affraid this is not the kind of illness which will feel neglected and leave if we ignore it. In fact, ignoring it for a week seems to have made it worse. See, sometimes you have to know when you can get away with not giving a toss...coz sometimes you can't.
In any case:

Penicillin.
Alexander Fleming.
Ian Fleming.
James Bond.
A damn good British Literrature and Film essay.
English MA.
As yet, still incomplete MA applications.
I promise I'll do it after the review for Shooting Dogs, coz the deadline for that is sooner.
Having a hard time starting...
Arigatou to my illness.
Which brings us back to Penicillin, and I wonder how fast it works...?

Also, as of yesterday, there has been a new addition to our household (which is, and continues to remain, despite all my efforts, a big dump (new boiler. missing cabinets. new kitchen. soon.)) ...No, not the boiler, Elest's iPod.
(!!)
It's theductive.

Shooting Dogs review, here I come.
...Miso soup helps.

Sounds: Joga...Where has Bjork been all my life?
Emotionaly and physically exhausted.


Life is a necklace of fears (my love)
Your uncried tears on a string.

-Bjork, Bachelorette

These sudden ups and downs are making me nauseous.
Maybe I'm bipolar.
Or just a piss-artist.
Or worse, both.

Little Minx saw cherry blossoms today and thought of ideals and passion and sacrifice...and last spring and the one before...and then that James Blunt song: In your eyes, now, I see no bravery. No bravery any more, only sadness.

Walking upto Edgware Road in the rain, with Faaria getting absurdly excited about a van making soap bubbles as it drove past, the wet pavement under NewRocks set off the following:
This moment is so beautiful. And it's sad that we are fragile, because what will become of it when we are gone?
Who is it going to matter to, when there is no one left that knows or remembers it?
Life is one big stupid tragedy if this is all. If all this beauty in our moments, in our memories, in our words, in your eyes, in my sadness, and a fleeting instant of feeling happy...is for naught in the end...of what ever and whenever.
That's why there's got to be more to come after. That's why our souls have got to be immortal, so that we will never forget. And that's why there's got to be God's love, because sometimes the love you feel is too great, and painful and fleeting, to be for anything of this world that can't keep it.

So far the MASTER plan (pun courtesy of Ryo), which is still in progress mind you, is as follows:
Little Minx is curently ruthlessly job hunting and not being a snob about it (as she'd been before) coz she is prepared to settle for any flee-bitten-jew job that'll pay somthing towards funding the MA. (Except working for NEXT or McDonalds)

Meanwhile I'll face the two final weeks of CELTA, I'll fail that bloody course MY WAY and I'll go down laughing like a maniac! Old Azazil style! (mind you, I wonder if Satan did go down laughing...? ok, joking aside, i dont think i want to wonder, I'm geting cold, sad feelings of devastation)

The current predicament now though is as follows:
Do I do a (strainght) English MA
or
the Shakespeare one
or
a Creative Writing one at Royal Holloway? ...I need advice, nay, direction, offered by a patriarchal/paternal figure. Daddy, as you would have guessed wasn't helpful-
Elest: Dad what should I do?
Dad: ... I donno Sev, what do you want me to say?
Elest: Anything. Say anything!
Dad: I donno Sev, whatever.

So, I've emailed Gordon (and for the last time, people, he's not a flirt! He's my father figure! Right up there along with Sting (and with a dad like mine, it's perfectly normal for me to be collecting father figures, Bill did. (And with two films dedicated to kill off one character, Bill's coolness is indisputable...maybe one day I can be like that: Kill Elest I. Kill Elest II (of course the cold blooded seeker of vengence will be myself- that's the twist. (where the hell was I and how did I get here??)))

And then there is the Dubai thing. 'Figure, once I've MA-applied, and if I find a job out there, I can go off for a bit to work and save in the Arabian gulf...Unless anyone has any objections...?

Ps. iPod front: we are £60 and counting. (yesssss!)
Pps. Gordon just emailed back! Who wants to come see him at the British Lib. with me on Wednesday? (Sarah? Misba?)

For Tasy, from the book we'll never publish coz it's probably too self-indulgent.

...See it all began in Stamfordhill, where a Scary Wicked 'Vat-To-Do?!' ruled a dingy little school with an iron fist. The first few days had been lonely, but then on the Friday of that week they sat the new new-girl next to the old new-girl and this is what happened several months later:

"YOU and YOU," fingers jabbing, "Alveeys making trouble! Alveeeys like dis!" Fingers making a fiddling gesture which is supposed to mean something, but the two terrified little girls forget their terror for a moment of mutual bemusement. "Dooon't look at each udder!" the terror returns with a vengeance.

It's gonna be fine inshallah, I promise.
It always has been.

...I just made a life changing decision.
Where was I when the universe, nay, God was trying to tell me something?
I'm here now.
(wrings hands)
And now to do something crazy to celebrate.
(grinns like an idiot)
...
Thank you.

Sound: Disarm, Smashing Pumpkins
Little Minx is going to pack her laptop and go away.
Standing in the 29 at rush hour with some guy's elbow in my face, and feeling like what has become of my life, merely amounts to a series of failiures and massive mistakes, I decided that I've got absolutely nothing susbstantial to stay here for.
Severing every illusion, every self indulgent hope and stupid 'what-if?', and pissing off without looking back is gonna feel almost as good as putting a blade to the real thing.
...
I suppose I could settle for a cigarette, but this would entail me dispensing some currencey. Do I want that iPod badly enough? Yes.
Tas tells me single tickets to Dubai are £270. The question now is, when?
...
Damn this.

Ps. Little Minx got an official (on headed paper) letter today during tutorial, stating that she will be awarded a 'fail' for the stupid CELTA course she never wanted to do in the first palce, unless she drastically improves on a number of points within her next 2 teaching practice lessons. Oh, no pressure of course. And since you'll merit that the odds of this actually happening are rather grim, considerring I've not only lost all self-esteem and motivation after being told there's nothing authorative about my too-casual-and-chummy class room manner, I F***ing quit!
...
There are much worse things in the world.
Alhamdullah.

I've noticed I've been trailing off alot lately. 'tis the curse of the inconclusive sentences of Clare Brant. I think her's was a bit more sinister like though, mine's just...ummm...tired? tragic? I-can't-really-give-a-shiKt-to-finish-what-I've-started-saying-coz-it-will-amount-to-naught-any-way...like? It doesn't really... sigh.

See.

I just cut my foot on the futon and can't be faffed to tend to it, so Huden is trying to stick a bandage on me while i write this.
Huden: Elest, you're not lady-like at all!
Daoud: yeah you should be like, 'oww, help, assist me!' (in a squeaky voice. I'm capable of squeeking. I can suddenly squeek the living day-lights out of people.)

Elle est stoned, is not really stoned, but she is failing her course! WOOOHOO! 'twill be fine. It's not as bad as some things, and I've already started feeling good about it. Resignation becomes me. Shrugging ones shoulders doesn't require saying much.

But do not give up hope,
because He, who can produce weakness from strength, can bring forth an even greater strength from this weakness.

-Rumi-

...upon a darker note, and picking up from yesterday: yeah, all this sounds nice in writing, but it's not a significant other's flaws which prevent us from loving, it's our own. Kindness thrives not, where we are but sorry pieces of self-involvement, who look out only for own interrests. I too am guilty of this. It comes with insecurity, and distrust in the ultimate shape that things will take in spite of our struggles.
There is no love lost, because there is no love left.
And so i fought off the urge to not get off at Oxford Circus this morning. The urge to stay on this train till it's final destination: for re-assurance, for my blind comfort...anything to make this go away.
But I'm re-embracing my dissilusionments. 'breathe in this bitter monotony, which promises to last for ever.'

...and yeah my period's late, what of it?...pisses me off, AND THAT'S NOT TO SAY U CAN UNDERMINE MY ANGSTING JUST COZ I'M EMOTIONAL! THIS IS REAL, AND I EVEN HAVE A POETIC OBITUARY TO LAY IT TO REST WITH!

I need some chocolate to get through today, but I've got no cash or change for the machine outside, and Mark is eating his in front of me! :(

10:15 - Think Intern has just come in! HA HA!
The Lord of the Rings figures on the shelf beind me aren't Matt's. They're Malcolm's. Malcom being one of those old fantasy-nerd men, hence, best suited for the job of talking to ilustrators about dragons, griffins and Rabbits with twitching eyes. I should have known. (of course, this doesn't make Matt any less of a comic book nerd, becaus Matt has a Tigger mug.)
Unfortunately for me though, Malcolm, who looks like Tery Pratchett with long hair, isn't here today. If he was I probably wouldn't be sitting here idley as I am now, coz he was the oly one who had something for me yesterday: 'Elest, how would you like to write a review for a book that hasn't been published yet?!' (Elest: 'ha? You daft?' -I didn't really say this.) Elest: 'I'd love to! I'm used to bull ***ing.'

10:58 - Think Intern has just been given the mind-numbingly dry task of writing a review for IP Review magazine, about a book on Software Patents. That'll teach you not to ask Matt for spare work next time. Matt: 'I'm warning you, you're going to be fast asleep by 11:30. It's certaily not written in lay-man's language.' -oh, thanks!

11:07 - FARHANA'S HAD A BABY BOY! AAAAAAAARGH! -Jeeeezus, this is freaky. It's gonna take a while for me to digest this.

13:23 - Screw this, I'm going on Amazon where someone might be able to explain what this stupid book is about, in English.

14:40 - Lunch break over, and half of Think Intern is back to work, while other half is looking for frequent distractions to keep awake with. Shakila's fallen in love with Wenworth. I aint feeling him...oh I know! I'll google Haido and re-fall in love with him!

...You know, the reason why the amazing ones (guys) are the ones too far to get with, is BECAUSE they're too far to get with. Yes, I'm stating the obvious borderring on a cliche here, but bear with me. With the ones that are close enough to get with, u discover your very-rewarding capacity for overlooking flaws as you discover just how human they are. This, I think, must be a beautiful thing: loving in spite of our humanity, while our natures are actually pre-conditioned to seek perfection on a higher plain. You can call it compromising. I think I'd like to call it the toppling of idols...which are really just as flawed and inadequate as us. And when I can love this inadequecey for all that it is, because it is me, as I am it...then maybe I can worship the perfect hand that fashioned us thus.

SPECIAL FEBRUARY ISSUE OF CEN, AND A TRIBUTE TO WHAT IS LEFT OF THIS SENTIMENT.


...a dream of perfection, an illicit truth of something whole. Something which breathes between the black and white, which fills in gaps and wishes away silence. Something Music tries to, but cannot define and Art clambers to capture but holds in itself. Something you find in sad eyes and crooked mouths, in voices that make you feel safe and hands that hold your secrets. It is the contradiction of violence and despair, the detractor of flaws. I love all that paints the confines of the word Beauty.
Alternatively, I love Seth Cohen from The O.C. and Krispy Kremes.

-Shakila Rajendra, Sub Editor-


...everything that's wrong with everything that's wrong. Because wrongness is in the eye of the beholder, lingering only momentarily, in search of what's lacking, fuelled by the lack's promise of it. You are, because I am not. Because perfection and symmetry is only reserved for the divine, and I can sing my praise to it with the ugliness of my flaws. Because even Sisyphus made meaning out of supreme meaninglessness.
I love me, because I am Your promise.

-Elest Ali, Contributor-