Saturday Night Fever

No, not talking about the cult movie with John Travolta. Not talking about a wild craze to go out either. (But if anybody's in for a trip to the movies, give a shout, and pick the film...)

Talking about a relapse into the detestable flu that kept me from school last week. Not that I resent not going to school, of course. School's a hateful business. I'm still juggling the idea of creating a runaway club in the woods behind ours. 'Just Too Cool For School', with really cool and crazy members. There won't be many, but hey, better than nothing, innit?

Still, stayin' away from school means catching up, which is an even bigger bitch than school itself.

Which I still have to start on. Yep, heard that right.

Other Potentially Cataclysmic Idea: going to Study Help at school. Because I'm in a deep, deep dip in my results. Thanks to MT, but that's only part of the story. Truth is that I can count the tests for which I studied in the good way on one hand this trimester. The ones for which I studies half-assed-ly, on the other. The ones for which I didn't study at all: they're all the rest. Quite the list, innit?

But don't want to completely mess up the whole thing; that would be a Big Bad Idea.

On Other Things: I realised I'm the Latin teacher's pet. Even though I have execrable results. I was supposed to get punished for not having made my homework three times (actually much more, but I hid it every time, and I think she deliberately looked over it). I admitted I had yet again not translated the extract, and awaited to get my extra assignment. And I didn't get it. Instead, she asked me to study better for Latin (we had just received the grades of our latest test, mine was 19/40). I mean, in what position does this put me in front of those who already got punished? Not that I give a fuck about most of these guys, there's even one I absolutely loathe, but damn, where's the honesty in that? Where's the equality? Why do I get privileged? Not that I'd want to make that extra assignment, I loathe Latin. Not as much as I loathe Bas, but I loathe it.

Damn, life is complicated. Actually, life hates me.

About the SLB.

Small Little Brother, for those not yet familiarised with my strange acronyms. I don't call him tiny, cause then he gets all whiny, and since he's already a pain in the ass, don't want to go that road.

Now he's got a real ego problem, he wouldn't be the first, I know a lot of guys who have them, starting with the Great Red Haired Fashion Slave, but actually the SLB is worse, which is kinda saying something.

I mean, I get he's the youngest and Mommy's Sweetie, I get he's all cute and boyish and dimply, but seriously people, are me, my other bro and my dad the only ones who see through? Isn't it painfully obvious when he's looking at you? The little manipulative angel, Mr. Devil In Disguise, if your smile was less cute you wouldn't act that wise, besides I'm jealous that all people find you nice, you little brainless desperado, strolling around like you own the place, while you often can't even keep up the pace.

I guess this is a simple sibling rivalry, with me being the Brains and him the Beauty, yet sometimes it just hurts inside, him hogging all the attention while we have to fight to keep our part of the prize. So what if he's a fucking drama queen? I've been an amateur actor for ten years, I've seen younger & better than him! So what if he's cute and full of energy? He's a kid, isn't this what they're supposed to be?

I've always said I don't care about getting attention, the truth is I love praise and the spotlight slightly more than the next person. I love being recognized, it's what I work hard for, not the money or the grades, but the cheers and the praise. Nothing feels as good as a standing ovation, nothing feels as good as hearing 'You know a hell of a lot, for a 16 year old person.'

I'm getting to the point where I worry he'll have a girlfriend sooner than I have a boyfriend, the dimple heartbreaker, he's by 6 years my junior, now that'd just be shame. God I'm rambling. Good thing most people never remember my name. Still, I don't want to stay invisible all the same.

It's going to take more than some time to make me shine, but when I do, I promise it'll be bright. I'll overshadow the SLB. Serves him right.

I never wanna go back to school.

I'm on end-of-sick-leave. It basically means that I have the voice of an old frog, that my throat is killing me and that someone's finding it funny to play djembe in my head, but at least the world doesn't turn around when I stand up any more, and I don't have the urge to sleep all day until two in the morning any more...

It also means I've missed a day and a half of school, which I'm going to need to make up for, but at least I didn't miss any tests, cause that really is a pest to catch up.

It also means I'm missing the MT editing afternoon, which is really not nice of me, but I doubt the djembe playing person would have let me do any good work.

But it also means that for the first time in many, many, (too) many days, I spent an entire day doing nothing productive. Not nothing at all, cause it's impossible to do nothing at all, but nothing worth anything. All I did was sleep till 7 PM, listen to the radio for two hours while doping myself on aspirin and lemony throat pills + syrup and then sleep till two AM, toss 'n turn for another hour, then fall asleep again until my alarm went off. It was fucking bliss, aside of the 'feeling like shit' part. I don't know if you've ever seen the film 'Alexandre le Bienheureux', which is about a guy who decides to spend the rest of his life in bed after he is freed from his wife, who bossed him around for decades. God damn, that man is a genius. I never saw the film completely, but how I like the general idea!

And why would I need to go to school? I've spent enough years there by now to know how to read and write, and what would I need more if my dream profession is, indeed, author?

Okay, I admit that being a writer is a plan A that will have to be pushed back as a plan B, because success doesn't come when called. But I really don't know what I want to do yet. I got myself a delay of year by signing up for the AFS School Program, but it's not like I'm going to be illuminated over there. (Gosh, now I re-read this I've suddenly got this image in my head of me dressed up as a Christmas tree)

I feel another wave of wobbly non-nausea coming up, so I'll leave this be and will go back drinking Coke, cause mom and dad say it helps against nausea. And if they say so, it is that way. Amen to the God of Sarcasm.

Flotsam, Jetsam, nothing about Wham!

I've been told I'm in the perfect mood to write. Well, thank you, Great Red Haired Insomniac, but mood is not inspiration. I could write about your coppery hair, but I doubt that subject would bring any benefit to the community. Not that the rest of this blog does, anyway.

Since I've started a paragraph, I better get on. Leaving things unfinished is both terribly frustrating and an almost guarantee they'll never be finished. For me at least. Those characteristics are actually a good thing, because they'll prevent me from ever committing suicide (having not finished life, I'll be unwilling to quit it), something Copperhead & China Girl were slightly worried about after reading my last post.

Broken English Geek hasn't reacted yet, so there's no news on that side.

Not that I'll ever really do it. I'm too much of a coward. If I ever want to 'jump into the unknown' it'd have to be really quick and painless. Painless because otherwise I'd never dare to do it and quick 'cause otherwise I'll chicken out.

And where the fuck I'm I supposed to get 'quick & painless self-killing material'? Not at the local drug- or hardware store. So my life is pretty safe, aside from the fact that I absolutely don't have the urge to kill myself. At the moment.

Enough about suicide. If you're thinking about it, call the suicide hotline or the Samaritans.

On better things: I'm finally gonna perform as an Elvis lookalike before Flemish people. I'm getting a tad worried about their reactions, as I'm used to a familiar and very tolerant public: the scouts. Nobody cares if you're out of tune or haven't got the costumes: if you've got the moves, you're in the groove and they'll like pretty much everything. Bah, we'll see this weekend. Worst that can happen is total humiliation in front of strangers that I will have to meet again. Lovely.

I need a bit of official training anyway. If the 'Meldert Talent Show' ever runs, it'll be the whole school watching. Bah, if I humiliate myself there, I only have to get through the rest of he year (and since my reputation will be ruined by then, I'll be able to do pretty much everything that disgraces your image to school pupils. Freedom.) and then I'm off, so again nothing to worry about.

That's about it from Me-land. I only did this because Copperhead heavily suggested, so if I bored him or you (or both if you happen to be him) it's his own damn fault. Night-night. 

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, school starts again. Talk about big shit. Deadlines and the like. Really not where I want to go.

Sooo, this calls for drastic measures:

• Tomorrow, I'm gonna ditch every bad thing in my life.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna throw all my responsibilities out of the window. (Ouch. Very bad, painful rhyme)
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna stay in bed, solve world hunger and tell no one.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna write a book.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna build an empire.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna clean out my closet.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna re-read my whole library.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna be happy.
• 
  

And all that before lunch. For the afternoon:

• Tomorrow, I'm gonna make Frankenstein happen for real.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna listen to all of @Qrivi (on Twitter) aka The Great Red-Haired Whatsit's music recommendations, which I never do.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna listen to all Elvis Presley ever recorded and make a Top to Flop list.
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna write my biography in French and English, and send the first version to VDM.fr and the second to FMyLife.com
• Tomorrow, I'm gonna take a nap.

By then I'll have done everything worth it and I'll kill myself. No need to endure only life situations that would be disappointing after that.


Don't take it all too seriously. After all, tomorrow is another day.

I is someone else/Je est un autre/Ik is een ander

Who am I? Have I even got the right to ask such a question? To someone else than myself, I mean. Besides, what is a human being anyway? More than a name, what is it that makes us who we are? Is it our thoughts? Our memories? Our histories? Our relationships to people, animals or even things? Our genes? Our character? Our tastes? Our behaviour? All of the above? Or none of it, maybe? Is what we are in the end not who we are in the eyes of others? When you're an individual among 7 billion others, what you think of yourself hardly matters. It's what the others think of you -- as they are a bigger part of the 7 billion -- that puts the most weight in the balance. I've always thought myself observing, bordering on voyeuristic, but others often characterise me as shy and discreet; if only they knew. Voyeurism is a part of the XXI th century. What is Facebook, or Twitter, or whatever social network, but a pair of enormous goggles pointed right at all the acquaintances you 'spy' on? And not only do you spy, they also give you all the information, it's like they've installed big display windows, showing us their lives like stores show us things to make us buy. Doesn't it have something obscene? Yet we love it. We love it so much we can't stay away from it; we love it so much we're not letting our friends and neighbours do it on their own, no, we now all feel compelled to tell the world how much homework sucks, that we've run of chocolate, that we really don't like X or Y, who of course in the end will stumble upon that statement. "Never put anything in writing, son, and never trust a man with a small black moustache." Thank you PG Wodehouse, point taken. Points to Mr. Andy Warhol also, for realising long before the prime of Facebook, Netlog, Twitter, MySpace and all their siblings that everybody would be famous for 15 minutes. Perhaps we expose ourselves like they expose themselves because that way, we feel even, and don't feel like stalkers? Stalkers who are themselves stalked stay stalkers. Of course I have nothing to say. I'm on Twitter. I'm on Facebook. I have a blog where I talk about my life and my views. But paradoxes are a common thing, especially when it's about paradoxical differences between the way we think , talk, and act. Je n'ai jamais prétendu être parfaite, personne n'en a le droit et très peu de gens le font, pourtant beaucoup d'entre nous se servent de cette non-revendication comme une excuse pour leurs erreurs. N'est-ce pas ça, aussi qui définit qui on est? Nos erreurs? Comment on les corrige? Comment on les prend en main? Mon père a essayé de m'apprendre que la personne qui reconnait sa faute et vient demander qu'on l'excuse n'est jamais ridicule, que seul celui qui se trompe, le réalise et campe sur ses positions est ridicule. Et pourtant, on ne se sent jamais aussi petit et ridicule que lorsqu'on vient se présenter devant la personne à qui on a fait du tord. Pas pour le fait qu'on demande de se faire excuser, on se sent ridicule d'avoir commis la bourde qu'on a faite. Est-ce que notre manière de réagir n'a pas son importance non plus? Mais ça voudrait dire qu'on est différent à tout moment, et qu'il n'y a pas de vrai 'je'. En soit c'est pas plus mal, ça voudrait dire que qui on est, c'est nous, en direct, là en face de vous. Il faudrait qu'on soit assis et que vous nous ouvriez le crâne et analysiez toute la merde qui se trouve à l'intérieur. Un gros paquet de merde avec de rares diamants à l'intérieur, tellement petits et rares qu'on a du mal à les trouver nous-mêmes. "Le génie, c'est celui qui a deux bonnes idées." Comme c'est vrai, et je sais même plus qui l'a dite, celle-la. Je sais que c'est Proust qui a dit que les années sans souffrance étaient celles où on apprenait rien, que l'enseignement venait avec toute la merde qu'on a à traverser. Pas étonnant qu'il y en ait qui se retrouve à l'intérieur. J'ai dix-sept et il y a des jours où j'ai l'impression que l'humanité toute entière m'en veut, où mon corps est fait de plomb et où j'aurais aimé mourir. Comme n'importe quel ado pur jus, quoi. Ce ne sont que des coups de blues qu'on envoie bien vite valser. Celle-là est de moi. J'en suis relativement fière, à cause du blues/valse. Je ne suis pas fière de grand chose, alors si c'est ça ma plus grande réussite, vous voyez de quoi je tiens? D'un jeu de mots pas trop minable, mais franchement pas transcendant. Bon Dieu c'est déprimant. Ik ben wat ik ben, trek je plan daarmee -- wie is diegene die zich zo'n uitspraak kan veroorloven? Niet het buitenbeentje. Niet ik. Wat een drama is dat geweest, nu twee jaar geleden. Ik kom naar school met een hoed. Een mannenhoed. Duidelijk geen modehoed: simpel bruin, simpel vilt. Een beetje een werkhoed. Was het de kleur? Was het het model? Het duurde nog geen dag eer de tweedejaars door de school de bijnaam 'Indiana Jones' hadden gelanceerd. Na een maand deed ik de hoed niet meer aan. Tegen mezelf zei ik 'omdat het onpraktisch is op de fiets' maar ik wist het wel beter. De meesten waren met de bijnaam gestopt nadat ik hen vriendelijk had aangesproken, nog meer nadat ik hen iets agressiever berispte. Maar de jongens die het hadden gelanceerd stopten er niet mee, en toen ze de naam beu waren, begonnen ze met het deuntje. "Ta ta da taaa, ta ta daaa..." En dat bleef, ook het jaar erna. Ik was toen al intelligent genoeg om te weten dat hen klappen uitdelen niet de oplossing was. Maar ik was wel te laf om wat dan ook meer te doen dan op wraak zinnen (en alleen zinnen). Ik vind dat dingen moeten worden gekocht om gedragen te worden. Wat heb ik aan een hoed die ik enkel buiten schooluren draag? Niet veel. Dat verhaal blijft mij achtervolgen. Ik koop nu nooit meer hoeden. 't Zal voor na het secundair zijn. Bijna niets illustreert wie ik ben beter dan dit verhaal. Een beetje een pathetische figuur. Een speelbal. Iemand die niet echt voor zichzelf opkomt. Ik ben wat ik ben, en wat dat is weet niemand. Niet jullie die dit stukje hebben doorgelezen, waarvoor dank, niet ik die het mijmerend heb geschreven. Wie ik ben kan morgen drastisch veranderen. Wie ik ben kan morgen niet meer bestaan. Daar hecht ik geen aandacht aan. Ik wil mij enkel over iets uitspreken als ik kan garanderen dat mijn antwoord vastligt. En ze zal nooit helemaal vastliggen. Maar op vrijdag 5 november 2010 om 1:05 en het uur ervoor, was ik deze woorden. Magali Françoise Geraldine Marie Ghislain Bosmans aka babeluda.

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I'm looking for inspiration, the real thing, the real deal, the real Tabasco, neatly packaged and shipped directly to my brain, thank you.

If you know where to find some, please contact me.
If you can sell me some, I'll pay handsomely.
If you can give it to me in unlimited shape, I make you God.

I'm not the first or the last in search of this precious thing, but boy would I like to find it. I need it more than I love food (and believe me, I do love food).
Apparently it comes almost naturally to great writers. If you have to fight too hard to get it, writing is not your vocation.

... I guess I pretty damn well missed my vocation.
Yet I love writing! More than I love food. When I write I do not think about food or eating, and believe me I'm thinking about that most of the time. No wonder all my attempts at dieting fail.

I used to love the autumn holidays. They made me want to go out and live like a gamekeeper, with a dog, a gun and a battered jacket, spotting and hunting wildlife.
Now I just hate them, because they mean 'work until you drop'. Work for school, especially. I'm not thinking in terms of 'I have a week vacation', but in terms of 'If I finish everything by Wednesday [which I won't, sadly] I'll have half a week's worth of preparing to go back to school'.

Which adult I know told me the last year was the best? Oh, that's right... About all of them! And I haven't had a year where I've wanted to throw up from sheer disgust more than this one. Even my mother thought they had us overworking. Go figure.

Worst of all is the teachers complain quality of the work has diminished over the years. Why the fuck do you think that is? It's simple logic, a fucking law of fucking nature: increase the quantity, decrease the quality. We only have so much time on our hands, if everything gets less time, well of course it's going to be less good. And they are the teachers?