2 posts tagged “nostalgia”
I know I’ve been quiet on here lately, but for once it’s not because I’ve been neglecting my Vox blog for the sake of dashing about like a loon and spending every waking minute rattling away at my laptop on other more pressing projects. I have been doing both those things in abundance in the weeks since I last wrote on here, but that’s not why I haven’t updated. I’ve been hiding from you. Mainly because, these days, I’m reluctant to indulge too heavily in online navel-gazing. It never used to matter to me; ever since I signed up to LiveJournal almost ten years ago, for the majority of that time, I couldn’t care less about telling the whole entire internets who I had kissed or who I was courting, the time I was sent home from school covered in blood and in hysterical tears because my best friend had slashed her wrists in the toilets, or what train station I’d had to sleep in after “running away from home” to see my favourite band. (I always slunk back the next day, sheepish and guilty about having made my Mum worry; grubby and tired with torn tights and lovebites, and neurotic that I’d end up failing my exams because I’d spent too much of my time that should have been spent on coursework or revising on chasing my favourite musicians around the UK, smooching maniacs, talking to strangers and vomiting neon alcopops all over my shoes.)
I don’t mind owning up to those times now, mainly because enough time has trickled by for it to feel like those memories belong to someone else entirely. And although at the time there was nothing romantic about the hours we kept or the way we behaved, in retrospect it’s easy to fetishise the way we were, and to get nostalgic about a much-edited and romanticised version of the past. But the present is another matter altogether. Although as a reader I love tell-all bloggers that disclose every voyeuristic detail, as a writer I find it difficult and unnecessary to be that open, honest and truthful about the things that matter.
(Just to clarify, I don’t in any way intend this to be interpreted as a criticism of those that can and do wear their hearts on their digital sleeves. I can completely empathise with writing as a form of catharsis and confession; it’s just that I personally find it too difficult until I’ve had a healthy dose of time and distance.)
Times are tough for everyone at the moment. And, if I’m sensible about it, I can’t and shouldn’t complain. More than anything else, I’m tired. That’s all. Turns out this enthusiastic but scattergun approach of mine can be problematic at times; although you have several sticky fingers in lots of lovely pies, you can end up spreading yourself so thinly that by the time you’re done, there’s not much left. That’s how things are at the moment, and although it’s exhausting, I know that all the working weekends, scrimping and saving and squirreled away time and effort will be worthwhile. In the meantime, I’ll try not to bore you too much with my bitching about being a social recluse and never having enough time/energy/money (delete as appropriate) to do the things I’d like to. So if it seems like I’m avoiding you, little blog, it’s not because you’ve been forgotten or deliberately ignored. It’s just because, at the moment, it’s taking all my time and concentration to repress insecurities, stay tenacious and keep chipping away at the other million and one tasks demanding my attention. Normal service will be resumed soon, and I’ll be back to rambling about Patti Smith, Patrick Wolf, books, frocks and everything else. In the meantime, please be patient. I’m doing my best.
So, I haven’t posted for a while. Mainly because I’ve been scuttling around the country and haven’t had much time online to assemble my thoughts into any kind of coherent order. I went to York and Leeds and crunched through the snow with frozen toes. There was a vat of mulled wine, strawberry daiquiris and Sainsburys basics-range brandy. And a lot of dancing, at the awful club we used to go to on at least a weekly basis whilst at university. It’s still the same; sticky-floored, drab and selling fizzy vimto and gin for only £1.50. And for once I managed to keep my heels on until almost two. And I realised I really am lucky to have such passionate and creative friends.
All of my friends living in Yorkshire at the moment are older than me. And I haven’t finished a fanzine since I was sixteen years old. But the idea that my friends still make fanzines, and are still crazily passionate and sincere about music, writing, art and each other is so romantic and idealistic that it makes me dizzy. So I’m glad that the tenuous threads connecting us all haven’t unravelled yet. Sometimes maintaining those relationships seems unrewarding. But the nattering away about nothing in the middle of the night this weekend made it all worthwhile. Even if it was fucking freezing wrapped in sleeping bags with the heating not working.
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In other news and reviews, the latest instalments to my BitchBuzz series Literary Heroines to Love are Anna Kavan and Emma Forrest. Emma was kind enough to field my interrogative questioning with eloquence and grace, so it’s the least you can do to head over there and read all about it.
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A plethora of exciting new ideas are bubbling under the surface of everything I’m scribbling at the moment. To the extent that it’s hard to order my words in a logical fashion. So if I’m not making much sense at the moment, I’m sorry. Bear with me, and all will be revealed. I just need to sit on these eggs for a little while longer. But when they hatch, well. You’d better just watch out.
