For whatever strange and unexplainable question, i decided to have a peek at Colleen's (the person who i blamed my fallingout with everyone on) onlione journal. And I'm glad i did. The first thing I see is an entry posted to me dated a few days ago. It was pretty long-winded but it was basically her justifying herself for creating an alias to check up on me throughout the year. Apparently she'd been worried about me for whatever reason, and had created "Ashlee" to confront me and befriend me through my online journal.

I'm not too sure what to make of the whole thing, but i do know that I'm way over this. Whatever happened last year should stay there, i don't want this one incident to dictate the way i behave for the rest of my life. I've learnt several things about myself, and so i can say that, yes i lost nine potential friends, but in the long run, I've become a different person because of it.

Sorry for the incoherency of this entry ...

.Megz

The thing that shit's me i think more than anything these days - are people who lie simply to make themsleves seem more superior ... I mean, for fuck's sake be proud of who you are people, and if you're not - DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT! I've come across my fair share of bullshitters in my short time on this forsaken world, and yeah - i am to a small degree myself a classified crap-spouter, but when it comes to introducing myself and discussing certain topics or whatever - i'm truthful right down to dotting my i's and crossing my t's. Why do people have this ... i donno, obsession i guess, with "selling" themselves? Fucken hell - if others aren't willing to get to kow you for who you really are, then why on earth should you waste you time trying to "win" them over?

*shakes head* not sure where i was going with this ... but is it making any sense?

.Megz 

Meh - a blog for me ... something I dug up from Yr10s English folder ....mind the poor language, seriously can't be fagged cleaning it up ...

You could spend just one day in our town, and never want to leave. Even though we’re not important enough to earn a place on most maps, we do exist, and darn proud of the fact too. The moment you pass the crooked sign claiming our existence, you can’t help but be engrossed in your surroundings.

Main Street consists of nothing but a handful of small stores fringing the narrow dirt track. Each building no wider than next, saving for the Hotel on the furthest corner. Beginning at Old Tom’s, you can’t help but noticed that the paint on his window is barely visible, the faint letter’s answering the question that the dust covered windows could not. You are temped to enter the old antique store, to see what treasures are held within, but you are cautious and continue on your walk, glancing back only once to see a pair of eyes peeking out through a smear in the grime.

The next store along is more of a shanty than an actual building, and yet it brings a smile to your face immediately. By the door is poor Barty, looking as tired and run down as ever. He looks curiously up at you from his low position, but makes no move to greet you properly. You fish around in your pocket for the last of your afternoon biscuits and place them gently by his nose, petting him a few times on the head before standing up and walking past the sign (“Hairdresser”) and onto the next. Barty’s tail swings back and forth at a slowed pace; his gesture of thanks for your kindness.

Continuing on, you take a glance across the street, a hand brought to your eyes to shield them from the burning midday sun. Two men in kaki shorts and plaid shirts are working laboriously at manoeuvring a tractor’s engine out of its resting place, both baring unshaven, sunburnt expression.  Taking a few more moments, you watched fascinated by the two men who, between them, could lift a half-tonne engine out of its hood using nothing but a series of ropes and pulleys. Eyes hurting from the glare, you step back under the shade of the veranda to further investigate this side of the road.

The General Store is as long as its two preceding buildings put together, and twice as deep. As you reach the front door, you glance inside and wave your greetings to Mrs Greenbury, who happily returns your gesture in a high, squeal-like voice “Hiyah Darl!” and comes immediately tottering towards you. As politely as you can, you escape her consistent offering to “Have a cuppa and a chinwag” and hastily move on, your hands now loaded with a sandwich, an apple and a bottle of water.

Just as you reach the door of the local Hardware store, an outburst of giggling causes you to turn your gaze across the road again, this time to an empty lot of land. Squinting, you notice a group of five or more small children playing in the dirt under a great Ghost Gum, its large roots protruding through the red-dusted earth. Two of the kids are swinging from old tires, hanging by rope on two of the thicker branches another two pushing them from behind. The fifth is running between the two, shrieking with joy at the risk at being knocked down at any stage. Two women sit on a hollowed log by the tree, talking animatedly to each other, both nodding enthusiastically at the other. One catches your eye and raises her arm in a wave. You wave back before turning your attention once more to the street.

Coming to the end of the shopping strip, you stand before the Hotel facing the end of the red road. Turning slowly, you allow your gaze to soak up the panoramic view, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Nothing but a vastness of glowing, vibrant red earth can be seen for miles, broken here and there by patches of yellowing grass and native bushes. Scattered around are the grey, twisted corpses of dead trees, and an even fewer amount of thriving gums. Weaving in and out in all directions are miles and miles of barbed wire and post fences, slicing the haggard terrain into unequal sections. Their purposes become known to you as you spot small clusters of cattle, sheep and horses grazing hopelessly at the abused ground before them. The bright glow of tin sheds can be seen here and there dotting most of the fields, reflecting the sun hanging overhead. There are few houses as such that you can see, but figure that there are more elsewhere, off into the distance.

One last look at the shimmering horizon, and you turn around to face the last of the stores: the local Pub, and your home for the night. The ring of the bell on the hinge of the door announces your presence to all inside, and you can’t help but grin your response to a stepped chorus of the locals’ “G’day’s” and “Hiayh’s”.

God it’s good to be home again.

k, so there's a person i know who seems to be hurting  herself everytime she has to talk to me. I'm beginning to feel it's more out of obligation than the actual interest ... I've known Michelle for what, four years i think and she was  the one who stuck by me whilst the :"shit": was going on ... but nowm everytime i call, or she calls ... we have nothing to say. *shrugs* I suppose coz we're not in each others faces each day, we don't have much in common ....

meh, pointless blog ...

.Megz 

I’m currently in the midst of cleaning out my desk drawers, and stumbled across a short story I’d written about two years ago now. Pardon me for the poor use of grammar and the like, but have a read and tell me what you think. (Note: yes, this was a Fanfic, but I have conveniently change the name … but most will still be able to guess I suppose, who the intended person is anyway)

There’s something about working with clay that just seems so, magical. Transforming a cube of cool, solid, putty-like material into a beautiful, delicate work of art – brings the greatest sense of satisfaction, something otherwise not achieved in life. One needs no idea, no inspiration, no image of the completed object to form something of brilliance – something as worthy and priceless than life itself. No, all one needs is Talent. Not the type that appears on tv or in newspapers, in the cases at art museums or in the pages of history books – no, not that sort of Talent. The sort that extends from the heart, from the very soul of the person – a nameless Talent, an unidentified Talent, a Talent that no one knows of and yet everyone possesses.

            It seems my hands have a mind of their own; kneading, molding, scraping, pressing, flattening: sculpting. How quickly my fingers work, gliding over the surface, smoothing away bumps and unwanted blemishes – marks that are not wanted for the finished product, marks that will make the sculpture seem incomplete.  I know not of what I create, only that it will be perfect; that it will be mine.

            Rough, worn hands work laboriously fixing errors, the chipped and broken fingernails becoming tools for delicate details and highlights. Fingertips bath in warm water and then return to the masterpiece, softening the cold bulk, and searching for telltale cracks. Between finger and thumb, protruding additions are added and pressed together then scored shut with the used of yet another nail. And yet still the hands carry on, continuously molding, creating what they will, never pausing, never slipping up.

            Hours onwards, the sculpture draws near completion, only the finer, more timely details to be fashioned.

I finish with a sigh, and for the first time, remove both my hands from the formation. It is now left to dry: the sunlight of the following three days baking it, sealing the magic within the creation.

At last, it has set and now for the finishing touches.

            First, a wash it is given, for what a masterpiece would it be, all covered in dust and dirt? A light buffing with the softest of cloths removes stubborn grime and lose particles, drying the solid piece in the process. It is then time for the most vital part of the creation to take place, the part that will determine the fate of the sculpture.

            A faded, off white-peach colour is applied to the whole object, acting as both an undercoat and as a base colour. It is from here that every other colour is picked. To crown the object, a dark brown is chosen, slightly lighter brown highlights added to give dimension. Towards the edges of the brown section, a finer brush is used to distort the idea of solid sections, to meld the two areas together.

            Most detail is focused on the front of the object. Various tones of the base colour are first added, to again create the sense of dimension and life. The top section of the front, had been deliberately made to seem flat, only slight protrusions added to distort this idea. Faint scoring had also been used, and in doing so had created a different texture the remaining of the piece. The slight bumps had been edged with the faintest details and these were painted in the same brown used on the top, again breaking the sense of bold, easily separated areas.

            In the course of the final hours of sunlight, the piece was eventually completed, all painting ceasing at the first chirp of the crickets. And yet it was still incomplete.

            A rough night, I slept; dreaming of failure, of imperfection and of betrayal. Why spend so much time on it, only to leave it unfinished? When I wake, I know what I must do, I know how to finally put an end to my work: to feel satisfied.

            Dipping the tip of the brush in the clear lacquer, I slowly bring it up to one of the deep creators carved into the front of the sculpture, and let it drip into it. The thick liquid sits on the lip of the hole, quavering slightly for a moment, before leaking over and running down the length of the piece, leaving a shiny trail in it’s path. I repeat the same action using less lacquer so that it doesn’t spill over before undertaking the same procedure on the other hole.

            I step back from my Masterpiece dropping the brush from my hand. I have finished, at last it is done.  Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and allow my lids to ease apart, their lashes wet with tears. I stare at the object in front of me, and find I’m staring at the face found only as a part of my deepest sleeps. From the thick, tasseled mop of his spiky hair, my gaze falls straight to his perfectly formed cheekbones and down to his narrow chin, sporting faded pink, bowed lips. His small nose is positioned in-between the two giant orbs that pierce deep into my very soul. He, like myself, is crying, tears spilling from his lids and over his thin lashes, trickle down his cheeks, pooling at the nape of his neck.

“Don’t cry Jordan. Everything will be ok, everything will be fine. I’m here to look after you”

Smiling, I walked over to the replication of my infatuation. With a quick movement, I pushed him across the table and watched him soar to the wooden floor.

With a crash, he breaks into a million pieces, a cloud of dust springing up to confirm he’d been destroyed.   

I slid to the floor in a heap of baggy clothing, exhausted and spent.

“Once a Fan, always a Fan; for an Acquaintance they will Never be” I murmured, my words echoing gloomily through the silent house.

~~~~

“It won't be all right despite what they say
Just watch the stars tonight as they, as they disappear, disintegrate
And I disintegrate 'cause this hate is fucking real
And I hope to shade the world as stars go out and I disintegrate”

(A.F.I ~ Death of Season)

Yes I’m sad, so sue me …

.Megz

I now understand why I get so confused in my household when someone decides to chuck a wobbly. See, I had been previously basing all Barrett arguments and reasons for shitty attitudes on serious and momentous conducts … but it has come to my attention that I have been misguided in thinking so.

Now, in the past two hours, two members of our lovely and close-bonded family decided to take the world on a short trip up shit creek.

SCENARIO ONE:

Mum gets back from picking up Steph from a friend’s house where she’d spent the past 12 hours at a sleep over, and hence, hadn’t yet had a wink of sleep. Bleary-eyed, I walked into out family room to find mum screaming the place down and Stephanie stomping her way to her room. After about … I donno, half an hour of screaming and random swear words, mum was able to calm herself enough to explain that my “dickhead” of a sister stubbed her toe as she’d climbed out of the car and then knocked her head on the wall as she walked through our front entrance. Now, I had been patiently waiting for mum to explain to me where the actual problem lay, when she bellowed: “why can’t she fucken well be more damned careful?!”

Needless to say I had to quickly evacuate the room to release my sudden onslaught of giggles. My cool-headed mother had cracked the shits because my sister had stubbed her toe and hit her head. Wow - …. Could someone PLEASE explain to me why this is the need for a screaming match? I mean, I though Steph had ACTUALLY done or said something …

SCENARIO TWO:

After that little incident, I then treated myself to breakfast (bowl chopped up banana and yoghurt). Lo and behold, I had quite happily devoured the LAST curved, yellow fruit. Now, not such an issue in it’s own right, but I hadn’t been informed that it was RACHEL’s banana. In truth, no one but Rachel had been informed that it was hers. So when she got home from work, I was officially written down for death row. I mean, I had, after all, eaten HER banana.

But you see, her side of the argument was that she’d taken it OUT of the fruit bowl so that no one would have eaten it. I wanted to tell her that it was because it was siting so invitingly on the counter all by it’s onesies that I had decided to make it a key ingredient to my morning meal.

BUT IT WAS HER BANANA.

In conclusion, I have discovered two things about my family as a result o fthis morning’s events: 1) DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT, under ANY circumstance, bump or knock a part of your anatomy in mother’s presence, for otherwise, you are to be banished to one’s bedroom by an onslaught of verbal abuse, and 2) NEVER eat Rachel’s unmarked fruit that she didn’t buy nor claimed rights to, or you shall be given the official title of “Fucken Cow” or “Bitch”, or any other highly original insult she can think of in the peak of anger and mouth-foaming.

*shakes head* I live in a wacked family. If someone could please highlight in either of these scenario’s any once of normality, it would be most welcomed …

 .Megz

The effects music has on me and the way I think is quite amazing really ... I've been told a numerous amount of times that i like a weird collection of music, which i suppose when you look at my albums - is quite true. But like all people, i have favourite's that i listent to when in certain moods - Missy Higgins easily being my new favourite for chillin'. But damn, i like things ranging from The Butterfly Effect, The Corrs and Korn! Rock/ Alternative tends to dominante my collection, but still bands like The Beatles, Leann Rimes, Michelle Branch and Savage Garden have their place. Heck, i spent the first half of my petty existance envloved in Pop ... and still i pull out an album every now and then and reunite myself with them ... embarrased to own Backstreet Boys? No, simply because they were a band that will forever remain apart of my childhood ... Sure, Five For Fighting, Hoobastank, Pennywise and The Rasmus each have their own style ... they too each hold an element that speaks to me, and hence have become fav's of mine ...

*shrugs* the point of this blog is basically to say that i'm proud of ALL my music and people who bag others for what they listen to need to get blown. Music speaks to people in different ways, different genres lending themsleves to a range of emotion and atmosphere ... I'm happy to be one of the people that will give just about anything a try before my judgement, and even then - they can still grow on me and evolve into a favourite ...

quite a pointless entry really!

.megz

PS ~ I dare you all to have a good look at your cd collections and I bet you too can say that you have quite a range ... check out your Primary school stuff, and for God's sake - play an album! Anything you feel embarassed about, put it on, dance around and feel PROUD to do so!!! (but just make sure you have headphones on and don't sing aloud ....!!)

So despite my last entry, I'm actually feeling pretty good about myself today.

Saturday night proved to be a success as my family took me out for dinner. 'Enzo' is a good-given gift to this world, the food being absolutely devine!! Man, i love my Italian food ... and this place make is almost as good as Nonna ^^ I was pleasently suprised to see that mum had gone to the liberty of inviting Jazza, Oli and Ian as well; a nice twist in the evening.

My prezzies aren't anything to brag about save the Greenday ticket my sis got me ^^ Thursday night me and Rach are gonna boogie till the sun comes up (or until the concert ends .....)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

was pondering earlier today (as one does on their day off) ...and decided that "18" has a better ring to it than "17" ... funny how 1yr can mean so much ....

.Megz