Well, I did warn that I'd post terribly infrequently... I've been 110% caught up in trying to keep up with eisteddfod/school work, and things like this seem slightly less important, strangely enough.
I have no idea what I intend to write here... perhaps it's a little pointless.
Oh, wait, here: have a drawing!

This is one of the few drawings I've attempted in coloured pencil, and is slightly strange. 

Make of it what you will.

^.^

When did life become so vile that it stopped being OK to be individual? When did standing up for your opinions stop being praised? When did it start being  shouted at with a myriad of insults and looked down upon with the stares you read about in books that involve shooting daggers from the eyes? How is it that we're told to be ourselves one minute, and torn down for being ourselves with the turn of the clock?

Society's become a backwards place. It boldly declares to us that we should not be afraid to be who we are. We shouldn't put walls up to the world; instead we should tear them down and let those who would judge us see over the rubble - see past the masonry of makeup and the stonework of silence, the words we never spoke because we were too afraid of what they'd say.

But then, the minute the walls come down, instead of treading carefully through the wreckage to examine the person it's exposed, society shoots flaming, hate-ridden arrows past our non-existent defences, while they hide behind their fake imperfections, and the inevitable happens. Brick by painstaking brick, we rebuild our walls, all the while dodging the insults that are hurled at us from behind stronger defences than ours could ever hope to be. Their walls are built with prejudice as the cornerstone, littered with intolerance, reinforced with ignorance, and the slits in the walls that they spit abuse from are composed entirely of cowardice. Our walls will never be that strong... unless we join them, and build our own castle of hate and malice.

For once, I think, society should take its own advice.

Six word story

We had to write six word stories in English today. (We're doing short story writing in English. It's great).
The result?:

Broken girl for sale: scars included.

A something I had to write in English class once...

The perfect, unbroken stillness hovered in the shimmering air – palpable; tangible. A gentle evening breeze caressed my cheek as I gazed towards the far horizon, on fire with magnificent shades of pink, orange, blood red and fading blue. Higher in the sky drifted wispy white clouds, fragile, yet majestic in their own right, and tinged magenta at the edges. Enveloping me was a sweet scent that was hard to place; all I knew was that it was clear, pure and heavenly. As I sat on a velvet soft cushion of grass, the mountains seemed to rise around me – not threateningly, but as if to protect and comfort me.

From within the deep silence, a soft voice floated out delicately. ‘Ella?’ It did not seem to disturb the tranquillity of the gorgeous evening, however. If anything, it enriched it. The voice was low and gentle, musical and lilting – it made me smile, and, the same as most other times I heard it, I was so absorbed in its music that I forgot to respond. ‘Ella?’ The voice called my name again, and this time I turned to see him, a tall figure standing behind me, the only thing that could make this day more wonderful than it already was. He had his hands casually tucked in the pockets of his jeans, and a simple, easy smile played upon his lips. His curly brown hair flopped uncooperatively in his face, stopping just short of his eyes. His eyes – bluer than the midday sky and swirling with a beautiful magic of their own, they sparkled like the sun reflected off the sea on a brilliant cloudless day. Those eyes could make my heart pound so fast that it threatened to burst out of my ribcage.

‘I knew I’d find you here,’ he smiled, his words like a symphony in the beautiful evening stillness. ‘Leith,’ I began, but before I could continue he covered the ground between us in two steps, the grass springing back to cover his footsteps. He lowered himself down beside me and we slipped into comfortable silence, watching the breathtaking scene before us. The mountains rolled towards the horizon, the clouds hung lazily in the sky and the brilliant sunset painted the sky in every possible shade of pink and red. I was just thinking that this day could not be more perfect, when Leith slowly, shyly, slid his hand into mine.

"It is foolish to tear one's hair with grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness."

~ Some random guy who I really want to quote but whose name has been lost to me in the swirling abyss of the internet.

An Unconventional Love Poem

So occasionally when I have nothing else to be doing, I sit and write whatever goes on inside my head. This is one of those sorts of poems. I don't think it's very good. But that's ok, let's see what you (if you really exist and actually happen to read this) make of it. Constructive criticism (of the polite, useful and grammatically correct kind) would be welcomed.

Your eyes are blue and sparkling as the ocean

And just as deep

Oh, wait

That’s too mainstream

What, then, can I say?

Your eyes are blue as the sky?

No, that’s been used before

How about this:

Your eyes are as blue as that funny toy car

That my little brother once owned

It wore a hat, and a smile was painted on its face

Probably by some machine

That spent its whole life doing just that –

Painting funny smiles on funny toy cars

Like the one my little brother once owned

That are as blue as your eyes

Your voice sounds like angels singing

Oh, forget that

Someone’s said it before

Perhaps:

Your voice sounds like the sweet bubbling

Of the underwater spring rushing to meet the air

At that place where I used to go camping

It was crystal clear water, pure and lovely

That flowed down the creek –

And we swam, and played quaint little games

Surrounded by the crystal clear water

That bubbled to meet the air,

That was pure and lovely,

That sounded like your voice

Your lips are soft as flower petals

No, no, I’m sure that’s too unadventurous

Your lips are soft as velvet?

I’m quite sure that would feel strange

I’ve never liked velvet

Plus, I’m sure it’s been used before

Let me try again:

Your lips are as soft as the teddy bear

That’s older than I am

That I’ve cuddled relentlessly every night

Since I was born

That I christened ‘Bear Bear’

At the ripe old age of three

And he has been ever since –

Bear Bear, who’s older than I am

Who I’ve cuddled every night

Who’s as soft as your lips

I’m reading this

And realising it doesn’t flow

And doesn’t rhyme

And probably is the strangest love poem

You’ve ever bothered to read

But perhaps

If it flowed

If it rhymed

If it wasn’t the strangest love poem you’ve ever bothered to read

It would be too conventional

^.^

A Handful of Drawings/Paintings/A Hippopotamus

As well as being an amateur writer/sort-of-poet, I (occasionally) pick up my pencil and (on even fewer occasions) my paintbrush and become, for a blissful and messy while, an amateur artist. I think it's fun. I don't pretend to be fantastic, but that's OK, it's a bit of a creative outlet for me. (As are many other things).
So here are some of my artworks (for want of a better word). Please do excuse the terrible photography. I may be many things, but a photographer is not one of them. Psssht. My camera cost about as much yoghurt that's nearly reached its use-by-date. (OK, maybe a little more than that. But not much). (Also, excuse my use of lots of brackets. Bad habit of mine). Anywho, here goes! ^.^

I personally love this drawing. Simply because it's simple - nothing ridiculously complicated, no intense shading or anything of the sort. It was fun to draw, and it's about music. Music music music music music. 

This is an apprentice study of M.C. Escher's Drawing Hands. You should really check out the original. It's spectacular, and a lino-print, unless I'm mistaken (which I could well be). Do correct me if you know otherwise.

My old piano tuner used to tell my little sister and I, when I was about six years old, that there was a hippopotamus in the piano. OK, I know it's backwards, and this time there's a piano in the hippopotamus, but close enough. I think it's very cute.

I'm despairing. It's a mushroom cloud, but it's sideways. And I simply cannot make it turn around. So, enjoy this sideways mushroom cloud.

My grade 10 drawing teacher's favourite drawing that I ever attempted. I even forayed adventurously into coloured pencil.

I'm despairing again. Batman is sideways.

There! ^.^ Maybe I'll put some more up later. And hopefully they won't be sideways. I do not understand why that is happening. What a strange occurrence. 

On a completely unrelated topic, I have a challenge for anyone who happens to be reading. 

Say 'bubbles' and make it sound ANGRY.

I understand that this is an exceptionally strange sort of challenge, but I'm curious, to say the least, as to whether it is actually possible. I have tried, failed, and sounded incredibly bizarre while doing so.

Enough from me. 

May your day be filled with all sorts of strange and wonderful things. ^.^

Gazing in at the world from the outside through a sepia tinted filter that some call exclusion and some call uniqueness, I watch the hyenas knot tightly into bickering, gossiping cliques. They're planning their next move. Too cowardly to destroy targets full of life, confidence and strength, they know that the easy victims are the ones who are already broken. The ones who have been shattered into a million and one pieces, yet somehow drag themselves along, slowly swallowed by the shadow that torments them. These, the hyenas know, will be the ones that cannot hold up their spiderweb defenses against the bitter words that are hurled from the scavengers' lipsticked mouths. 

The hyena's leader cackles as she pulls out a pocket mirror and, peering into it, painstakingly powders her picture-perfect face. Beside her, a fledgling totters around in six-inch-high magenta heels - apparently it's the 'new thing': the new must-adhere to phase in the twisted book of society's rules. Butt-cheeks and breasts hang out from all-too-human garments (that, to the innocent and unaccustomed eyes of those outside the pack, appear to be several sizes too small) that barely clothe all-too-human figures. Matchstick human figures. Small, skinny, unnatural, but dominant human figures that cluster together in the safety of the pack, crouching in the shadows to tear any remaining self-esteem mercilessly from their next victim, to viciously rip away any lingering shreds of hope that cling to their quarry's despairing form. 

Listening to the caustic, all-too-human babble that pours forth from the cluster like a waterfall of toxic waste, I feel as if I could shoot each neon word from the poisoned air and watch them as they tumble, leaf-like, to the dusty ground and bleed into a noxious brown slick. A mire of insults, betrayal and trickery that waits to trap helpless prey and send them skidding towards misery and confusion.

The pack titters and sets off, striding, slipping, stumbling and strutting in their assortment of sky-high shoes, to lie in wait for the next victim. 

I shake my head and back away, glad to be an outsider. 

So now perhaps the strange and bizarre title for the blog makes a little sense? I see things, well, largely differently to a lot of other people. Don't get me wrong, I do have friends, who don't mind that I'm bizarre, and they're wonderful. But the above... writing... thing... (I don't know what to call it, do tell me if you have a clue) is a small insight into the way this jellyfish/outsider/artist/poet/dreamer sees the world around her, spinning in fifty-seven directions at once as the wind and the voices of strangers melt into one and the colours flicker into one never-ending rainbow of black and grey.

^.^

I should be honest: I know next to nothing about blogging, however, I've been looking at some recently and have decided I want to be different. I will try and avoid bombarding anyone who reads this (if that ends up being anyone at all) with a constant barrage of my day-to-day life. I've tried reading those and they seem awfully long and tedious. Perhaps that's just me, and I suppose that's what you're supposed to do with a blog, but I propose something that's perhaps slightly abnormal, but that's ok, that's me summed up in two words. Anyway, this is just intended to be an outlet for my many extraneous thoughts (if I were Albus Dumbledore, I'd use a pensieve, but I'm not, so I won't), so here's the plan:

I'll probably share:

- Random poems/short stories/unnamed, stray things that float into my imagination and meander out my fingertips

- Drawings of mine

- Quotes that I like

- Pictures that take my fancy (could range from anything I've found on the internet (I'll try to reference appropriately) to photos I've taken (beware, I'm not great at photography) to anything else in between)

- Perhaps books I like 

- Songs I find worth listening to (also beware, I have a strange and muchly varying taste in music, from Beethoven to Bastille, Linkin Park, Coldplay, Imagine Dragons, occasionally Taylor Swift and pretty much anything in between that takes my fancy. Oh, and Of Monsters and Men. Can't forget them)

- Random rants (which I'll try to keep relatively short and easy-to-follow)

- Thoughts; philosophical, insightful or otherwise

- Anything else that springs to mind that I feel the need to write about

Terms and Conditions - OK, not really terms and conditions in any way. BUT: I do not promise to post something every day, or even every week. Heck, I might miss a few months. I'm unpredictable like that and I have school and piano to contend with. I'll probably post about a million things during this holidays, including lots and lots today because I can and it's most exciting while it's new (OK, straying into hyperbole and tiny bit there, but I hope if (and that's a big IF) anyone's reading this, they get the point), and then forget about it the minute school starts. Also, I do not promise to make sense. 

OK, I think that's it for now. Expect lots of random stuff today while I'm enjoying have fun with my new blog toy. ^.^

Here's a picture of a jellyfish all for you, whoever you are, and if you are at all, just because I like jellyfish ^.^

(No reference I'm afraid - scavenged from the bottomless pit of the internet quite a while ago)

This is a poem I wrote a while ago. I guess it doesn't need much introduction, so, here it is:

Pretty Girl

Pretty girl

Don’t listen to him

When he tells you not to take that sweet

Lying soft and tempting within your reach

Waiting for you to eat it

Don’t listen to him

When he says

“You don’t want to put on fifteen kilos now, do you?”,

In a mocking, joking voice

Don’t take him seriously

He doesn’t mean it

He doesn’t know it hurts

Pretty girl

Don’t look at her

When the example she sets is one

Buried under inches and inches of perfect,

Painstaking makeup

Hiding her flaws

Don’t look at her

When your friends say

“She has no imperfections, why can’t you be like her?”,

In beautiful, envious tones

Don’t take it personally

They’re not thinking

They don’t know it hurts

Pretty girl

Don’t pay attention to them

When they knot caustically into their cliques

Like swarms, their safety in numbers

Snickering at you because

You are different

Don’t pay attention to them

When they say

“Why aren’t you like us, why don’t you fit?”,

With sarcastic, acerbic words

Don’t take it as an insult

They don’t understand

They don’t know it hurts 

Pretty girl

Block them out

When they point perfectly painted fingernails

Sharp and faultless as their bitter voices

Not piano fingernails

Block them out

When they say

“What is she good for, why is she taking up space?”,

In lilting, mockingbird voices

Don’t take it on board

They don’t know better

They don’t know it hurts

Pretty girl

Above all, do not care

When the world around you is shallow as a rock pool

Anything meaningful reflecting off the sparkling surface

Waiting to blind someone

Do not care

When the world says

“Why have you come out of the mold differently?”,

In a genuinely confused tone

Don’t take it to heart

It doesn’t comprehend

That it hurts