It Had To Be Perfect

My make-up ended up face down in the carpet as I was preparing for a party last Saturday night, when this blog began; but this is exactly the opposite of how I feel.

I arrived at the party impeccably dressed, thoroughly pleased with my wardrobe, a general rule – you have the perfect amount of clothes if you can dress for any weather and create a look. And I can, I had a gypsy thing going on, floor length scrunched satin and lace skirt, with brown boots, matching brown top and flowing thin black half-length jacket. I met with the hostess, the birthday girl, and noticed that she was undoubtedly the prettiest one there, without a single ounce of jealousy. She’s lucky, everyone deserves to be the most beautiful at their own party, and she had no trouble with this. I got introduced to my mother’s old work friend who is younger than I am. This girl and I, she being the only person apart from the girl whose 21^st it was and my mother, whom I knew; got to talking about all sorts of things in a superficial party atmosphere sort of way. Then she wandered off with some other people she knew better to talk about the things that real teenagers do. I was left sitting on a lawn chair, getting my hair full of smoke from the open fires, watching the much prettier older girls than me hit on guys I never found attractive to begin with, and get really drunk. I on the other hand, had my pooncey Mount Franklin re-used bottle of water lying in a paper bag in the kitchen and periodically poured some of that into a glass. Everyone was drinking, a great deal of them younger than me. The girl I met even asked with great interest and surprise “Do you drink?” (I later though of holding up my glass of clear liquid, shaking it delicately from side to side and remarking – “Straight vodka!” then downing the whole thing) I instead told her that I didn’t really; she then leant closer to me and further from my mother and said with a knowing sympathetic air “Doesn’t your Mum let you?” My mother, who was standing chatting away merrily to someone, full glass of wine in hand, payed no attention. I told the girl the truth, believe it or not, that my mother was completely fine with it. The look of surprise on her face was bottleable. Here I am, seemingly average teenage girl, with a mother who lets her drink, at a party, NOT DRINKING? Does not compute!

It reminded me of a story that I thought of telling her before I realised she wouldn’t get it at all. I was at school and this popular girl, who had recently taken quite a good natured interest in me (as some of the popular people do, me being a curious oddity to them and all) asked me about my weekend. I said that it was good and she then inquired whether I went to any parties. I replied that I had actually, (this was the weekday after the LAN party with the boys) she then asked, now with greater interest – Did you get trashed? (or smashed or wasted, one of those great teenage synonyms). I had heard this repeated so many times among their group that I actually let out a quiet snort.

Question 1: How was your weekend? (implying that school is not any form of livin’)

Question 2: Did you go to any parties? (the only acceptable sort of recreation for an up-and-coming teenager)

Question 3: Did you get drunk/wasted/trashed/smashed/sloshed? (the only acceptable sort of pursuit at parties, and the measure by which the night is judged)

I pulled my mouth to the side in an amused sort of grin and responded that it wasn’t that sort of party. She gave me this puzzled look and with a tone of subtle alarm asked “Well what kind of party was it?”

“It was a computer party, we all link up our computers and play each other at games.”

“Oh. Oh OK.”

Anyway back at this party I was beginning to get disheartened, and in true fashion started outlining a blog on the subject. Scratching at my make up worn for the benefit of no-one, looking at my skirt which was getting dirty dragging on the concrete… and as I looked over I noticed that they were set up for karaoke, not only was there a hired jukebox but a monitor set awkwardly into a box adorned with two microphones. I was hopeful and yet even more depressed; the way I saw it, the night could end two ways, with me not trying it out and berating myself afterwards, or with me making a complete and fully conscious fool of myself. Then after the speeches, the birthday girl’s brother took the mic and began to belt out some tunes to keep the hangers on amused. I recognised him as the same person I had seen in the kitchen as I arrived, the only person worthy of note. He had this amazing bone structure. You know how they typically depict Frankenstein’s Monster (I can’t remember who on which show was being anal about this but they are right, Frankenstein is the surname of the doctor, not the name of the monster) he has a lager squarish forehead and a strong neck, with large cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Well this guy had a bone structure reminiscent of that, not to put you off, it certainly wasn’t unattractive on him, he wore it well. So there he was, the only notable person in the room tying to get people to do karaoke. I was considering it when this song, Everybody’s Gone To War by Nerina Pallot, which I had loved earlier that night while sitting morosely on the lawn chair, came around again. I walked confidently toward the microphone and joined… let’s call him Frank, and no that’s not a clever identity concealing pseudonym like Mr. Crushing and Mr. Emo, I really still don’t know his name. We roared through the song and afterwards, between songs he quickly commented “You really carried that song, I hardly know the words.” But the good fortune doesn’t end there, we then continued through a whole host of old favourites and I even had the calm state of mind and time to notice that I sounded good and I was entertaining people, all eyes were up front, and most of them on the confident subtlety dancing me. “Frank” and I were having a great time, smiling and often turning to each other for emphasis and lyrics, moving in time to one another and the music. And, I noticed, first with sadness and then glee; that he had a girlfriend. She was the one that I had seen walk in earlier, remarkable by the fact that her tits walked in before she did. She would have been a C-cup, maybe and B and a half, but she had them pushed up so far and crammed into a black top so small that she had that gross effect of the double tits (as some plump women do). There was the line of the boobs, the top part with the cleavage, then this line where the top of her bra cut into them and then a separate bulge for the part which was actually sitting in the bra, with the top sitting somewhere in between. I’m sure you’d have seen this sort of thing before, in short – gross.

So there she was, Miss Big-Tits, sitting sourly in a chair, directly in front of us, eyeing her boyfriend with a sulky expression and folded arms; whilst glancing over at me bitterly and applying her lipgloss with such anger she held the tube like a shovel and carved in into her face. Oh god, it made my night, not only did I flirt with the cutest guy there, master Karaoke and get complimented on my good voice by the hostess, but I make that sour cow jealous…

The only downer was that I lost my Mount Franklin bottle which I bought at the Spiegeltent, and had kept since partly because of its significance and partly because I never buy bottled water and it was the only one I had; and I lost my umbrella. But it was far too good a night to be spoiled by that. Spiegeltent bottle, umbrella-ella-ella? Get it? There should be a song, the irony is delicious.

On Monday one of my teachers was away so I took the time to retire to the study hall and do nothing instead. So sitting out of my usual place in the classroom, where I would usually be staring at the clock in an otherwise good class, counting the minutes to my singing lesson; I forgot all about it.

A friend of mine came in afterwards and we talked for a good 20 minutes until he mentioned something about the school production’s rehearsal.

Then I realised.

I hastily gathered up my things and arrived panting uselessly as she was turning to leave. I had also forgotten my money. I, being not much use for anything puffing and nearly half an hour late, played her my songs. I played the Lisa Loeb one first and she enjoyed both the song and my version of it. She then suggested that we do that one next term. I’m looking forward to it, although I’m a little affronted by the fact that I’m obviously still bad enough at it for it to be worth teaching to me. I then handed her a nicely drawn up copy of the lyrics for Depravity and Gravity, placed side by side line for line. I warned her of the lewd lyrics and assured her it was all artistic license, and that the aim was to keep as much as possible, but turn it into something as far removed and humorous as possible, without ruining the melody or pace. She read the original and then had a little giggle over the first bawdy lines, and by the end she had a full faced incredulous laugh going on as she put the sheet back on the table with closed eyes. I played a bit of Gravity so she could get a feel for the original. Then I played Depravity and through the intro explained the technical side of the track. She seemed to like it a great deal, especially the bridge and my backing vocals. I then told her of my indecision about which to post and she replied instantly: why not post both? I had considered it, but I was still so wrapped up in the idea that my voice was terrible that the thought didn’t bear real consideration, I thought more of sparing people from it as much as possible. She said that I was exactly right about it being more important that this was the only way I could sing something original with music, than which song was technically more tuneful. She said both were really good and made no hint about any reason to be embarrassed about posting them in a public domain. We agreed that lessons would have to be rescheduled and I shall be having them tomorrow. But I did not have to pay for the very rewarding time I used to play her the songs.

During Monday night/Tuesday morning I had a dream. Which is rather muddled by this late stage but I shall try to recount it as it is of some significance.

I was on some sort of school trip, but it was together with tourists and Dolls fans. We came on a bus to this shipping container of sorts, which was about the size of 4 of them. It had a layout reminiscent of my living room crossed with my mother’s friends’ dining room inside, and a slate floor. There was a nook for the supporting band, a bar in front of the stage, a sitting area to the side of that, walled partially with books and bookshelves and a storage area right up the back. The whole place was relatively dark, and had a Spiegeltent like air to it, but it didn’t have that same theatrical feel to it. It was a welcoming place, although low-ceilinged, and incense burnt so liberally that piles of ash six inches deep gathered on the slate underneath. Strangely the room did not smell of it. I sat on the only carpeted area where all the other fans tourists and school friends were waiting and eating warm pull-apart passed out by the hosts. After eating some we all slowly realised that Amanda has been sitting at the bar to the right of us the whole time. She then began a song about rollerblading, to which I distinctly remember thinking “Ah yes, that works, she said something about loving rollerblading and being very good at it on her blog.” Which in real life she hasn’t. Maybe skateboarders hanging out at the back of the bank, but nothing of rollerblading. She then slid away from the bar wearing a pair of very nice black rollerblades, she then skated about the back of the place around the shelves and crates with ease still holding a microphone in one hand and singing the song. Next thing I knew, I was out near the entrance, half in the bright cold sun of midday in winter, half in the instant dark mid-evening that enveloped the container. And I was wearing my own ugly chunky silver and green rollerblades from my childhood, but I had the distinct notion that I had thought of putting them on before Amanda had hers. But here at the door I was being eyed by a blushing group of Dolls fans waiting for the next show. I was floundering in my skates as I tried to look like I knew why I had them on, my feet slipped about under me as I desperately tried to right myself, ending up with one arm on either side of the cold metal door frame with my legs splayed. I may not be the best rollerblader, and I’m no use at skate parks, but I am nothing if not sure footed. They muttered something about a try-hard and a tragic before sniggering and running off. I managed to get the damn things off and slinked in behind the shelves and behind the crowd to the side opposite the door. And then as Amanda took a short rest the supporting band struck up next to me in the nook near the seating area. I recognised two of them, two girls who go to my school, one the drummer who I only remember that fact that I did know her, and not who she was; and the lead singer an iconic Year 10 whose voice and bold style both I envy, but do not want. And the last was a man of about 23 whom I did not know but had great musical vision and was rather good looking. And here I am, an onlooker, looking at these girls who are all younger than me, and their gorgeous companion, support Amanda on tour. Somewhere there was an opportunity and I missed it. A great despair tugged at me as I leant against the bar.

Just then a police officer opened the exit door, which I had not noticed before, stuck his head in and called for one of my acquaintances from school, telling him that he wasn’t in trouble, but that he was with the wrong tour group and he should go back immediately.

I was wishing the night was over. Praying for even the worst moments of the first time I met Amanda. Amanda, who was paying no attention to me this time around as she returned to face the opposite way I was on the other end of the bar, smiling over her adoring fans all sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of her. Very symbolic indeed. And me, the only one short of the bar attendants doing anything different. I was over this scene, and I walked through the scene like the dream it was and absentmindedly started prodding and gathering up the piles of ashes. In this time some of the guests cleared and eventually Amanda turned to go back to where she had been before and finally noticed me. In this time I had gathered a bluish pile of ash and some gritty more brown coloured stuff. She watched me for a moment, and I watched her out of the corner of my eye, noting that the thing which was most unfamiliar about her face in my first encounter was now disconcertingly at the other extreme. Her mouth, which spreads into the most disarming grin when you first meet her in real life, an expression yet to be captured on film, had lost its almost comical breadth and pout. Her lips were pursed in a most unfamiliar manner, shrinking them to a third of their size. It was the only time I saw her face in the whole dream and the only thing I noticed about it. She wandered off and retuned with the pile of pinkish ask that I had had my eye on. Side my side we poked at the curious substance on the oak bench, Amanda eventually producing a rough basket. We shared a weak smile.

As I was waiting for the bus at the exit on some cushions with my friends Mr. Crushing remarked that my hair looked black today. I said that it was not black, and still should have some auburn coloured dye in it. He held the limp strands in his hand and with a note that could have been mistaken for sadness said “No, it definitely looks black.” Maybe it’s because I haven’t washed it all that recently, I answered distractedly. He made a face of concern and dropped my hair back against my shoulders.

The next day, I remember returning early the next morning and barely having enough time to get ready for school, which always starts on a cold foggy morning in my dreams, and the bus pulls up on a road next to my house which does not exist. The land of my dreams has a distinct, different and road map and orientation to real life, but it is eerily consistent.

From behind the bus comes another acquaintance of mine, a young girl of enviable beauty and her twin. She is holding my rollerblades and my umbrella, which I quickly realise I left behind on the trip, I find that I am holding my own school shoes and a pair of lovely blue leather court shoes which belong to her. She gives me the umbrella with a short explanation that I forgot it, we exchange shoes and she says that she likes my school shoes; I admit that I like her heels that I picked up. We swap shoes again, but I find that my size 6 and a half foot (the largest size I buy) is just a little big for her shoes and hers a little small for mine. We swap back just in time to see the bus drive off.

Yesterday, regarding my own languorous yet purposeful stride, between book and bus stop, I note is displays the air of absolute control among other things, which I am feeling. A smirk plays on my lips as I reach for my phone with all the grace of popularity, they don’t know I’m blogging.

This book I am reading is affecting my mindset and my vocabulary, and I like it. The girl who gave it to me (I swear I have told this story about a million times before, and not in a mocking way, its just a very classic situation, which is just meant for telling when someone asks about the book I have my face buried in). This girl, who was in fact the same one who was in my group for singing with my second teacher, was sitting at her desk in art class with her head bowed over a book. I sat down next to her, as she is a nice person and the only friendly face in the class, and out courtesy asked what she was reading. She stated proudly that it was the Nightrunner Series by Lynn Flewelling, she then went on to tell me how great they were and how many times he has read it and that I would love the series because we had such a common interest in that sort of thing, considering we both liked this same computer game, and how there were two series, one a companion to the other, but that I would probably like this one better and that she should bring it in and I must must must read it. So next class she turned up with this arm-load of books and sifted through them, prattling all the while before handing me the first of the series Luck In The Shadows. We then moved to the other room to do our work away from the less focused kids and she bent closer to me and advised, with discreet caution and cupped hand “Some of the characters are bisexual.” I barely masked a wry smile as she said that, grateful that my reputation was forgotten, and the irony was not lost on me. I replied with the same practiced nod and murmur one gives someone who mentions a great affliction in passing.

Something such as that was not about to ward me off the book, in fact I was much more intrigued than before. Sexuality means that there are situations in the book which call it into mention. And as I read further there indeed were. It was the nature of this text that got me thinking about this sort of thing and its place on my blog. I had thought about writing about things of that nature, as it fascinates me like everything else, and is therefore worthy of discussion, and I talk about it with the same openness and forthrightness as I do anything. But I don’t know, there’s some sort of additional line when it comes to matters like that. Though this does not stop Amanda, and I smile at her comments of a sexual nature with an appreciative knowing smile, devoid of any immaturity or awkwardness common among my peers.

(I swear, it’s the book doing this to my vocabulary, and I apologise if it makes the text cumbersome, but for the moment I regard it with perplexed interest.)

I feel liberal enough to be completely confident about discussing such matters among friends, which pleasantly surprised a few of the more curious ones. But it may be breaking my rule about the content of this blog being suitable for my mother. But still I feel that it is worthy of note that scenes in this book make me feel like reaching out with a profound vulnerable yearning which left me wondering about sex and romance in general.

Something that I picked up in your last comment Idril, about family and how one should have already started having relationships for that. I know. Somewhere in my life I keep envisioning this man, a Brian (for those familiar with the Dolls), an Edward (for those familiar with the Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer) and a gothic musical intelligent prince charming for anyone else; who will fulfil what all the other people have lacked, sweep me off my feet, kick me into gear, help me with my band, be a guiding light, a supporting pillar, and a constant source of inspiration. It reminds me of this fucking fantastic line from Amanda’s blog which I will quote poorly for you now: “(They are) wondering, too, if
someone is going to open the door to their bedroom one night and say:
"i know you’ve been waiting for me for years and i’m finally here.
things have gotten way too out of control, my friend. before we get
to the meaning of life stuff (and believe me, we’ll get there) let’s
start with something simple, like your closet."” It just encapsulates it perfectly. Even at the clearest moments that hits home and fucks me up. But the other half of me knows that I don’t need someone like that, I shouldn’t need someone like that, and that there would be no use in wanting something you don’t need. I am a strong independent woman and at the moment I feel on top of the world. The second half chuckles with a wisdom rarely seen from her and her obliging companions, and pointedly counters ‘What use has reason like that ever been?’

One of the only and surest things that you can say about all relationships is that they are complicated. And they can all agree I don’t need that ruining my reverie.

There is this boy that I know, who if you give him an inch he takes a mile. I confessed, well not so much confessed, as that would imply guilt but mentioned, that I had felt a bit of an inclination to kiss him. We had dated before and broken up some time ago on good terms, so I thought nothing of mentioning that little sexual air that somehow slipped between us in that instant. I regard all of it with a great curiosity and openness, and I expected him to be interested and react somewhat like I did - wasn’t that weird and mildly mysterious? But alas he did not. I do not know enough of these matters to know who had the better ground. Should I have avoided saying anything since I was aware of the fact that sex equals love to many men, especially him, and yet proceeded in spite of it? Prepared for a little sexual banter and yet unwilling for any attachment which may have hurt him? Or was it he, who knew full well of my opinions on love and starting a weighty relationship with him again? Who should also have known what to expect and not laid guilt on me for not attending to his every whim thereafter, because he assumed I was in love with him?

Anyway, this was not something I even planned on writing about in the first place and now I have ruined the flow.

I am also writing about a time past, again, so my feeling behind it is not the same. Can you tell when I do that? I think I can in the end.

This is going to be by far the longest blog by far, only out-stripped by the one I heavily quoted Amanda in and one laden with pictures.

I shall continue with this train of thought although I doubt anyone will get to the end of this truly exhaustive effort. I have not updated the page in 11 days, but I last blogged only 4 days ago.

To explain fully about my situation regarding relationships I have to fill in a bit of background. A few years back I was as insecure as the rest of them, submitting to the societal pressure that woman is not complete without man. Running around trying to play the game like everyone else until rather suddenly I realised how much of it was total shit. I since grew sour of the situation and focused on my independence from it. This granted me a new clear-headedness and I have not wanted for more since finding my niece among a group of all male friends. In a friendly flirtatious way on their part, and an honourable one on mine, they fill my need for that sort of thing. All of them are a great deal of fun and a comfort to me. It’s a strange amorous arrangement, but nothing unpleasant has come of it, no-one belongs to anyone and everyone understands that. I am going to miss this strange little arrangement, perfect and remarkable in my teenage world. I don’t know how to thank them, and in their own guarded jibing way, I know they will miss me a great deal. My harem, I call them secretly and fondly in my own mind.

I feel like the master of my domain at the moment. I often find myself strutting down the corridors of the school feeling as though I own it, imagining myself with a glass of wine in one hand. I stroll from class to class easily striking up a conversation with teachers, handing in pieces of work that I am genuinely proud of only to receive full marks in return. Thinking calmly to myself about how satisfying it will be to hand in my next project which is well within my grasp. It is the most gratifying feeling. The future may be uncertain, by I own the moment that I am standing in right down to the ground. I manage school with ease and enjoy it quite a lot of the time, I am following my dreams and making inspiring progress, I have a social life I once could have only dreamed of, I am well fed and housed, and all my limbs are still firmly attached. Not even my period, or my irascible mother has succeeded in tarnishing my mood. Life is good. And I wish to spread the message and the feeling forth from here.

I have found that thing which was missing in my singing nearly half the blog ago. I no longer feel that I am struggling through porridge to something maddeningly just out of my reach. I was absentmindedly plucking through my collection of songs with the microphone on, and when I listened back I had done a passable job of whatever shuffle had thrown my way. This was, this is, all I have ever wanted, to be able to do that, to find that confidence – and that’s one thing I never mentioned, when I got up to sing karaoke there was no apprehension, none of that throat tying pre-speech nausea that I resisted with such fear, I wanted to do it, I was proud of how far I had come and the clarity of the stage came to me in a time that could have just as easily paralysed me, just like it did that time in the final exam for Drama; and I enjoyed it, I entertained , and it was the greatest feeling short of the realisation afterwards… the computer shuffles ‘Sing’ my way, “Life is not cabaret, we don’t care what you say, we’re inviting you anyway, you mother fuckers you’ll sing some day…”

Which leaves me only to direct you to the music widget to your right which I pray is working…

☆Anika☆

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