You Clicked. It's Not Too Late To Click Back...

Actually, it was rather annoying: even when I was sitting on the side of the pool in Sicily, knee deep in cold water and in the shade of a tree that may have been a palm tree and may have been a banana tree and may have just been a tree, watching the sky with a copy of American Gods on my lap, all I could think about was how to blog it all.

I'd hate to put all that thought to waste, so I suppose I'm still blogging.

(It's almost as if I see everything as being made valid only once it's been posted. Which reminds me of an argument, actually, that I really need to lose. Do we actually have any right to space travel? Do we even need the right to? And the like.)

But, yes: the house, to clarify, had a pool, and also a pool table (and a massage chair and CCTV and a steam shower and and and) and was rather like someone who had never seen an expensive home but had read a description of one had designed it. The decor, see, didn't quite fit with the fact there was a pool table. Nor did the fact that the room I shared with Sean had neither A/C nor a window, despite the fact that every other bedroom had both. I sound bitter, but we're talking thirty-one degrees on a cool night, and my room's unopenable high-up block of glass that lets in light also let in the last of the sun.

While I'm complaining, actually, let me say this: eighty-four mosquito bites.

But apart from that, yes, it was good, it was good to watch the pile of books by my bed (eleven) shrink to none just as it was good to watch the moon rise over the ocean and to see, ha, yes, a meteor and also! My God, there were bats. Awesome, I do think.

But this could easily become a very very very long post even if I decided not to actually talk about any of the ruins or the food or the people or the, Christ, the politics. And god knows I mostly wasn't thinking about any of that: just blogging, and wondering what e-mails I was missing and whether I'd ever be able to swim properly and how long my freckles will stay out for and whether I really missed lurpack more than the internet and whether I really missed the internet more than, say, London itself, or my bookshelves or, you know, gaming, or, hey, any fellow human beings?

Or debate club?

(It is good to be home. It is very very good to be home.)

Here is a fact: yesterday, Legoland was closed due to drainage problems. And here is an opinion: that'd be bad, but yesterday was good anyway, because Kew gardens is.

And here is an aside: I was happy.

And here is something else: I very almost decided to stop blogging yesterday.

Here is an explanation: I found myself typing "I can't care, anyway: I blog and, well! Look at all those great poets, writing beautiful miserable angry things twenty years later; look at their greatly symbolic suicide attempts; look at their messed-up lives. They cared; they made monuments to their tragedies, in their poetry, and in the poetry of their day-to-day. They did it right, Saoirse, girl. Why do you get it so wrong? You are just an attention-seeking adolescent, and you know it. You really ought to shut up and try to actually feel something.", and feeling oh-so-very angry with myself on several hundred levels; guilty, too.

(Because this isn't what he wanted. But, really, what did he expect? That I could laugh it off? He's dead. Sha lalala lala la. Yeah. ((And I will never be lonely. Said I'm never gonna be, lone-ly.)) And what does it make me that I forget what he wanted? And what does it make me if I carry on?)

And a conclusion: I don't know whether I will be blogging. I may wait until I get this counselling, wait until I am not just pouring everything onto you, online, and then see if I can do it again. In any case, I am in Sicily on Friday, and I doubt I will have access to the internet there. Wait; we'll see, I suppose.

Nine months, by the way, in fifteen days; I like the analogy to pregnancy that can be found with tumours (Oh, you did not see his stomach swell.) I want to say, the birth is now, but no: the child is instead nine months old now. He may now be crawling; he may now realise he misses his parents when they leave the room and he may cry when they do so.

(I can't cry any more, did you know that?)

God: the one thing I love about the summer holidays is how normal and natural life suddenly becomes. It may be the sleep. Not having to wake up in time to be late to school means I tend to dream more, I tend to smile more, I tend to read more. (Today I finished No-One Belongs Here More Than You , by Miranda July, which I can describe only as charming.)

On to the recounting of events, I suppose:

Alice slept over the night before last (it was also her birthday, although that was mostly a coincidence. It was an excuse to celebrate, though), which was definitely nice, if tiring; I am Bad With People, and find spending so much time in company exhausting- which is entirely my fault, understand.

Anyway: I saw The Dark Knight with OtherDominic some time last week (Thursday, that was it), which was rather good, despite the rather dodgy politics of the entire film (Oh, it's an amazing film, but, Christ, you know that already). Even because of it; there's a nice argument to be had there.

Going further back into the recesses of my memory, Alice and I saw Her Naked Skin, about the women's suffrage movement, at the National Fri-or-Satur-day before last, which was good, even if the twist was rather unsurprising. Maybe it was just my boredom at some of the more tedious scenes, but I was thinking that they- yes, those two, it's obvious, isn't it?- were about to lunge at each other. Which makes it sound like a bad play; it wasn't. Far from it, it was clever, and entertaining and interesting and would have been useful if I hadn't just done the History coursework. And the rotating stage mechanics broke half-way through, so we all got free ice-cream.

What else?

I was working on Saturday, and received my First Ever Wages. (Thirty pounds, which is good, considering my age and such, and the fact I would very nearly work for free there. It feels very good to have a job, something like routine and structure and normality, which I know is a very adolescent thing to say. I'm good at it, in a way that is so utterly ordinary; I like the customers, and the pricing gun is so macho and I love putting on Pulp and chatting with communists about what Common People really means and finding out that, actually, I know how the till works and, and, God, it's so me, working in a bookshop, so much so that I never even realised).

And tonight, I will read until I realise I am not understanding the words any more, and then I will sleep until the sun is too bright, and then I will have breakfast. Maybe I will go to the exhibition on skeletons at the Wellcome Centre, or maybe I will simply take a walk to the park. It will be a good day, because there is no reason for it to be anything else.