fuelled by fury

Lately, I've been coming out of a couple of my classes filled with fury. Not a bad self-destructive anger though, but rather the kind that fuels your passion and gives you more energy to improve the situation.
Often, the misogynistic, racist, homophobic and generally ignorant attitudes and ideas that my classmates (and teachers!) often spout can often leave me riled up and incapable of doing anything but silently fuming, too shy and too frustrated to be articulate.
But, amongst all my thinking and writing and reading about feminism and intersectionality and equality, I am realising the importance of feminism being something I do, not something I am. And I'm glad I have this fury to fuel those acts of 'doing feminism', and doing everything really. Obviously, I'd love to live in a world where I don't have to get frustrated over the girl next to me calling a classmate a slag, and I'd love to live in a world where everyone has equal access to education. But as long as we live in this world, where this unfair stuff does happen all too often, I want to have the energy and passion and anger to change it.
I guess I might be the 'angry feminist' in some of my classes. But I'm realising that's not such a bad thing. As long as my anger leads to me working for actual change for real people, I'm okay with that label.

been thinking about a lot feminism lately, as i work my way through the second sex and toy with the idea of doing some activism at school and every bloody week change the children's clothes in my charity shop from two dumb racks of boys and girls to a much more sensible baby/toddler and kids. I'd say this kind of feeling is applicable to everything though? Let me know. 

hello may

Nothing motivates me quite like sunshine -- somehow, maths homework is much nicer when done sprawled out on the school field with friends during lunch break, and art coursework is a million times more enjoyable when it's photography with friends in a sunny back garden, and even a quick run feels (almost) like fun when it takes place during a spring sunset.
This winter has been long, and April ended up being sad and cold and unmotivated. I'm very behind in a lot of things, after a four-week long bout of ennui and physical exhaustion. This sunlight seems to be reinvirgorating me though, and I'm ready to catch up with everything that got left by the wayside during April. Here's to May -- a month of art coursework and late-night writing and Chemistry revision, but also of nights with friends and mornings in the park and a bit more happiness. 

it's okay to force yourself to write!

Some days, I write like it's the only thing my body knows how to do. Hands flying across the keyboard, journal pages filling up, words in my heart. It comes thick and fast like snowfall overnight and I wake up the next morning and I see everything that I have written, pages stacked neatly on my desk. They would reach to my knee if I laid them on the floor and they contain good words. There's a lot of shitty writing in there -- there always is, there's bound to be. But it's good, and I am happy, and I am writing.

Other days (weeks) (months), it hurts to write. There are more tear stains than words on the pages and I'm backspacing everything and the words are not flowing. For some reason, when this happens, I get some dumb idea that I'm some kind of genius who doesn't need to practice writing but will just get a flash of inspiration and write a masterpiece in weeks. But I'm not Faulkner or Kerouac or Dostoevsky  and this is not happening. I am not a river that cannot flow if the water of inspiration is not flowing through me. I'm just a girl who's going to keep on forcing out clumsy metaphors and writing on regardless.

Most of the time, my writing is forced to some extent. Most of the time, my writing is fairly shit. But I'm not going to sit around waiting for lighting bolt to hit me with the perfect story. That's dumb, and that's not how it works. I'm going to write every day, even when it's forced. And when I get that feeling, writing writing writing like it's the only thing my body can do, I'll write more. Those times, I write all night and I write in the back of my German book and I write on the back of discarded receipts at work. But most of the time, I sit down, and I write. I'm exercising the muscle, and I'm pushing myself, and I'm forcing it. That doesn't mean my writing means any less to me, or that it's somehow worse because it's not some weird epiphany every day. It just means that I'm practising a skill. Words and writing mean so much to me, and that's why I care about honing my craft. Sometimes I'm going to have to force the words.

I won't give up.

because I read this today, and because a girl told me I was lucky because I didn't have to try at English and I said I did, I do, I write every day, and most of the time I hate what I write but I love what it means to me so I keep on pushing myself to get better, and she just looked at me as if she couldn't possibly understand. Why would I make myself work so hard just for a few words? Because I love it. 

summer, come soon

I've been burying myself in anything even loosely resembling warmth and sunlight lately -- reading books set in the deep South, listening to hazy summer music, eating mangoes and blood oranges, hunting out crocuses. I'm amazed that they've managed to survive the snow we've had lately

And it was foolish, yes, but yesterday afternoon we sat in one of Cambridge's parks and drank coffee and practised cartwheels. And it was bloody freezing, but it was sunny for an hour. We weren't passing that up.  It's back to cloudy skies now, and there was even a snow flurry earlier, and I've tugged the sleeves of my jumper down over my hands to try and conserve a modicum of body heat.

I am so ready for disgustingly hot days, where the mere thought of even touching one of these jumpers would make the heat unbearable. For now, Truman Capote and Best Coast and a smoothie are the closest I can get to that.

Summer, come soon.

summer come soon from catchingstars on 8tracks Radio.

p.s. yes, i'm talking about Capote here, and yes, that is Salinger. but it's more aesthetically pleasing, since my copy of Other Voices Other Rooms has a black-and-white cover, but Raise High The Roofbeams/Seymour: An Introduction has that perfect cover that matches my mango smoothie. (it's also one of my favourite books EVER so yeah)