A Curious Girl: Hello and welcome to, "It's the Arts"

I'm still feeling a bit ill, but I've resolved to go to school tomorrow, if only to provide an ear to Chris's rantings on Delirious? (this is a gratuitous question mark) and catch up on what I've missed, which is likely to be pages of notes for Mrs. T, Mr. B and Mr. JE, but thank heaven I have a lesson with Dr. C on Thursday and so don't have to go through that torture with everyone's favourite robot.

(The term 'android' isn't quite right, as it simply means 'in the form of a man', linguistics please note)

I shouldn't mind, after all, I like robots, but Mr. JE would be easier to bear if he was as endearing as R. Daneel or as clever and intuitive as R. Giskard, but no, he's not Asimovian at all. I can't think of a suitable analogy, anyway, he's as dull as that surgeon at the beginning (and end) of The Bicentennial Man, not like our wonderful Andrew Martin, Artist, Scientist, Writer and Civil Rights Activist. (Still haven't seen that damn film!)

Sometimes I feel Mr. E has hidden depths, in fact I'm certain of it, because he actually smiled at Mrs. A, my lower school science teacher, and almost managed to sound interested, and besides, the government wouldn't waste an almost convincing humanoid on such a measly setting as a school.

Unless he's for an experiment. Maybe I should e-mail the Black Vault with this little theory! Haha! They tried to fob a robot onto us, but I was clued up by my Asimovian obsessions and recognition of his not-quite-real emotions.

I don't really mind him, as he does help out, and when he told me that lunchtime about how he marked homework, that was surely an act of an independent mind, because he'd been actually listening to me prattling on about getting Cs in homeworks all the time when Dr. C and the rest were giving As and Bs.

(Editor's note 2001-05-23 - I'm being a bit cruel here. He has more recently been observed to anger, smile and even blush slightly. He's also much more bearable when you think of this.)

I don't want to go back tomoorow, but I don't want to stay here in limbo, where I lie reading with perpetual sinus pains and aching limbs, wondering about where my life is headed. Chris told me this evening when she called to check on me that Dr. A II (I will never call him Dr. A, because only Asimov can have that title!) said that my essay was one of the best, even though I thought it was going to get me another B-. The fact that I could have spent another hour at it leaves me wondering why on earth I'm so set on science, let's stuff it in and become a writer/illustrator, with a second home in the country - no! A second home in the *city* for when I need my fix of fumes and the stinking sweaty breath of people.

The above sentence is part of being under the influence of Malachy McCourt - I read "A Monk Swimming" today and it was hilarious and the writing was beautifully and wonderfully rhythmic and lyrical, but though I felt sorry for Frank McCourt during his hard times in "Angela's Ashes", I just felt annoyed with Malachy and wanted to tell him to get his act together. Amazing. I even felt sorry for Frank in that last chapter, when he does some "romping with a woman" and gets worried the priest will tell, but through the hordes of whores in "A Monk Swimming", it was hard to conjure up an ounce of pity for Malachy's 'struggle'.

Still, I have to say, although disgusting in many details (in fact, this was one of its strong points :-) ), "A Monk Swimming" was entirely captivating, if rather immoral. That last part was a bit heartbreaking, I'll admit.

I'm going to lend my guitar to Abi. It has occurred to me that a completely failed musician who can now play about four songs, chords only, on the guitar and "The Entertainer" on the piano has no right to be withholding a musical instrument from a talented friend who lends me good books (ie. both the McCourt books, and I'm going to ask to borrow 'Tis as well). Let's face it - I'm never going to feel anything much but frustration when it comes to music, and besides, I have my keyboard, which I would play if I could be bothered to put it on its stand and get a chair out. My poor negelected other instrument is gathering the dust, and deserves to be with a more loving owner, if only until that owner can get herself a decent instrument which has more that just one new string (the rest are old and battered) and costs more than 25 quid. If I want new music, I'll get my arse (Malachy McCourt again) over to Chris's and get her to play her latest creation.

I owe it to Abs, and I want all you lot, whoever you are reading this, as witnesses. I could never write "I would like to be able to play the guitar forever" because let's face it, I can't play the guitar, and I only bought one because in some idle moment of fancy I thought I might make a musician. Not in a million years, my sweet, but Abi might.

So why all this blasted soliloquy on a damn guitar, you might be asking. You said 'lend' not 'give'. Ah well, it's true, I did say lend, but knowing her parents it might be ages until a replacement arrives.

Whilst I'm on this point of lending, giving, etc, I might as well think about Christmas presents. What am I going to get anyone? Mum wants some UB40 thing, Clive an Enya CD, but from there on in, I've no idea. Last year I got Sara (was it really only last year?) a copy of her favourite book, "My Body, My Enemy" and Abi some candles (seeing as I gave her an expensive present this year for her birthday, as opposed to last year's poem, I think I've redeemed myself). I gave Chris something or other that I cannot now recall. I know one year I gave her "Teenage Worrier's Guide to Lurve" but I haven't go a clue what last year's was. Or her birthday present. Hmm. I gave Nickie letter paper and envelopes, which wasn't bad, I feel.

I don't know what I want, either, other than a sleeping bag and maybe a van Gogh calendar. Right now all the things I want - aha! Thought of something! "Gold" by (who else) the great Dr. A. Other than that, I want ever-lasting friendship, purity, certainty, and a boyfriend. Anyone got any of them? You can have my Ł300 keyboard, seeing as we've already established I'm a crap musician.

It's amazing the things that this diary has revealed to me - mainly that I constantly moan. I'm annoyed very easily, but then again, I don't get visibly angry easily, but usually just cry. When I do get angry, I usually get quiet with it. I fantasize about destroying people in my rage, reducing them to a cowering, cringeing heap, but instead I just swallow it down and get on with being belittled. I'm also lazy, and passive, partly due to being low in confidence, I suppose. I'm also prone to get obsessive.

But I have my moments. I have my philosophy on different types of everything, and there are some types of confidence I'm overflowing in. I can talk and talk and talk, and *perform* (writer/illustrator/actor! wahey!) to an incredible degree. My audience captivated, I'm exhilerated, and like that time with the Conjoined twins speech, I stare at their fascinated eyes and I feel no fear. I suppose it's like this diary. I can say whatever the hell I like, reminisce about crap, because I have my wall to hide behind, I have the space between the stage and the seats to distance me from my merciless emotions.

This is why I spent about 10 months telling every living soul how I felt about one David S. - everyone, that is, except for David, who remained blissfully unaware of my tireless affections towards him. The observer is my friend. They can comment, advise, berate, but they don't have to act on it, and it's this kind of acting that gives me true fear.

On the subject of conjoined twins, I've been thinking about Jodie and Mary. The separation was yesterday, and I spent the night wondering and praying, not for Jodie, but for poor little Mary, because to quote the old adage (or should I say, cliche) where there's life, there's hope, and so there's no hope for Mary unless she has a soul.

Does she have a soul? It hurts me to think that this wretched living thing, no matter how brain damaged or deformed, weak or pathetic, was killed only a few months into her stay on this world.

For anyone who doesn't know about this affair, it's the case of the conjoined twins, one of which, code-named Jodie, had a chance of life and was providing life-support, at cost to herself, for Mary, her heartless, lungless, breathless sister who couldn't even cry out in pain. I got so wrapped up in this that I almost feel we have a link, me and the infant conjoined sisters, and although I was for separation (as both Mary and Jodie would die soon anyway) I can't help but think of Jodie's rejected sister. Jodie is still alive, 'stable', but Mary is dead, and her eyes probably never even saw the light of this world. So it's her I've been praying for, not her 'bright and alert' sister who'll probably get to see many things, and her existence won't be so futile that she had to be destroyed for someone else to live.

Thoughts of Jesus come to mind. Ah well, bless that tiny soul and keep her safe.

I wish I was a better person. My goal for tomorrow is to do one good, decent, loving thing, and lending Abi my guitar for an indefinite period doesn't cound, as I thought of that today. Yesterday in fact.

There are many other things I could say, but I don't have the time. It's now nearly nine o'clock, but I've also had dinner during the time in which this entry has been open.

I leave the thousand other things unsaid, and I leave thee to comtemplate of the meaning of thy own life. I love archaisisms.

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