Twist and Shout

and I don't want the world to see me, 'cause I don't think that they'd understand

2008-07-23T19:13:00.004+10:00

][ soundtrack iris goo goo dolls ][ mood contemplative ][

It's been a busy couple of months for me, falling into the full swing of my final year at high school, finally deciding what I want to do with my life after school (and the utter hell of the HSC), and various other things, some good and some bad.

Fortunately, these past holidays, apart from being absolutely full of school work for my impending HSC trials, my brother also proposed to his girlfriend of 2 years, and she accepted. I'm absolutely thrilled about this -- I love Jen and her sister Jess, and will be thrilled to be able to call both of them my sisters. And I'm happy for my brother too. It's funny -- I look at him with Jen as opposed to his past girlfriends, and they just... fit. It makes sense, them being together. Plus, they're adorable together. I wish them all the best in their engagement and then their married life together -- I know they'll be able to do what our parents were never able to, and make it work.

Unfortunately, the situation with my father and my family has had so little improvement, that it's just depressing to even think about it. I mean, I like to think I'm holding it together just that little bit more than I used to, but even sometimes I just need to break down and lose it.

I know I haven't dealt with the situation with my father in the best way, but even when I try to be rational about it, he bites my head off.

Take today for example. He's just had cataract surgery, and expected that this would be his "miracle cure" and completely fix all his sight problems. As it is, he's a 54 year old diabetic who doesn't take care of himself, and has detaching retinas anyway.

His ophthalmologist told him that this surgery wouldn't be a miracle for him, it would just help him see a little better.

So, today when he bitched at me that "The cataract surgery wasn't the miracle cure", I calmly told him the following:

"It was never going to be. The artificial lens can only do so much -- there's no replacement for the human eye." [[I've been studying my biology option -- "Communication" for the impending Trials. I know a fair bit about optics basics now. And I know enough about accommodation to know that an artificial lens isn't a replacement for a natural lens -- it can't accommodate properly]].

I know, maybe I was too clinical or "intellectual" [[because, apparently, we all talk down to him and make him feel like an idiot]] for him, but I didn't think it deserved the swearing and "stupid bitch" I got for it.

I wasn't even bitchy when I said it. He wanted sympathy, but he should know by now that it's the last thing he's going to get from me. Seventeen years of emotional abuse, and the last thing I'm going to do is pander to him and what he wants.

I honestly don't know what I did wrong this time. Normally, I set him off because I breathe, but this time...

I suppose that's why it's hard to study so much of Gwen Harwood's poetry in English Advanced. Harwood seems to love mentioning the bond she had with her father, and English teachers continually mention the "special relationship between fathers and daughters..."

Yeah.

His loving nickname for me is "stupid fat slut/bitch/whore", and mine for him is "complete bastard".

Special relationship my foot. I'm not even like Shakespeare's Cordelia from King Lear. I don't love my father according to my bond, no more, no less. At best, I pity him. At worst, I hate him.

Moving on, now that I've been thinking that little bit clearer, I've realised just how socially stunted and socially retarded I am. It seems that, so very often, I don't really think before I speak, and then I'll say something and feel like a complete moron for it. Not to mention, the paranoia. I'm convinced so many people hate me, and I don't know why.

Well, no. I do know why -- because a fair few of them, at the very least, don't like me. Or don't think of me the same way I think of them.

Which, I'll be honest, is why I was so surprised when my brother told me I was going to be a bridesmaid at his wedding. More often than not, I feel like I annoy him, and that I don't factor into his life as much as he does into mine. It's why I never put much hope into him really wanting me to move out with him; I don't plan on ever imposing on them when they're married, despite Lachlan's offer (because that's what I'd be -- an imposition.); why I always feel, when he and I are having "sibling time" that there are so many other people he'd rather be with.

Pathetic, I know, but its how I feel.

So, I really didn't think he or his fiancée would want me to play such a big role in their big day. Don't get me wrong, I'm so touched and honoured that they would even think to make me a bridesmaid, but I'm sure there are a million other people that they'd rather. Or that deserve the honour more than I do. I mean, listening to Lachlan tell Mum about their choices, and the others make sense. Me, on the other hand. Me... I don't understand. [[Sometimes I think they don't even like me. Either of them. And that's not something against the two of them -- that's me. It's all me. I mean, the only consistent thing in all my failed relationships is me, so why not, right? The saddest part is I don't know whether I'm just too paranoid for my own good, or whether I'm reading a subtext somewhere along the line...]]

I guess it doesn't matter. Not really. They've got over a year to change their minds, anyway.

I really don't think it's healthy for me to hate myself as much as I do. Sadly, there's not much I can do about that right now.

P.S. -- To my facebook friend/phantom reader: Thank you. But really, this blog is entirely too depressing to read through. I wouldn't blame you if you stopped now. In all honesty, the only reason I think I pour myself out here and not in a diary or a word document on my computer is that at least here, it feels like someone's listening. And that's nice, every now and again.

Everything I've said here, I don't think I would dare say to anyone's face. (not to mention, I've had such bad experiences with friendships in the past that I try not to share everything. With anyone.) And I'm lucky enough that most people I know can't be bothered to read blogs, least of all mine. And the people I do, I really feel like they wouldn't want to slug through the teenage angst, self doubt and depression of a seventeen-year-old girl.

I should probably go and study for my trials.

you're so damn hot

2008-04-28T13:34:00.002+10:00

][ soundtrack you're so damn hot - OK Go ][
][ mood aneurysm's a mood, innit?][

Dear internet:

This is Robert Pattinson:

He is full of win.
You might know him better as Cedric Diggory:

Or as Edward Cullen:
It doesn't really matter, because he's made of awesome.

No, seriously. Made of awesome.

Plus, there's the added bonus that he is Very Pretty.

Oh, *swoon*
hmkthnxbai.

... and yes, THERE goes cognitive thought for the evening.

bruises that won't heal

2008-03-14T21:44:00.004+11:00

][ soundtrack no surprises - radiohead ][ ][ mood depressed ][

Dear Lachlan,

I really wish you'd start speaking to me again. You know, more than one sentence responses and one worded sentences.

Your sister,
Rebecca.

the bitterness inside is growing like a newborn

2008-03-13T11:57:00.006+11:00

][ soundtrack new born - muse ][ ][ mood contemplative ][

Firstly, I'm just going to take this opportunity to express that I am going to win my bet against Natalie.

Now that's out of the way, I can finally move on.

So, we are well and truly into the swing of things with the year 12 half yearly exam period. Unfortunately, this means higher rates of stress and screaming from the year 12s as we realize just how much these next few weeks are going to suck. Tasks worth anything from 10% to 50% are being held, and needless to say, we're all going somewhat insane.

No seriously. I've spent the better part of the past few weeks attempting to wish myself away to the Goblin King for the simple reason that (a) come on, it's the Goblin King; (b) I think I'd make a fantastic Goblin (and I know many of my friends/teachers would agree with that; and (c) Being a Goblin would be a whole lot better than being stuck at home, alone, with my father, like I am right now, and will be for the next 2 nights.

But I have to be positive, right?

Upside: I've finished the majority of my exams.
Downside: I've failed the majority of my exams.

Upside: I get today off
Downside: Tomorrow is the Chemistry exam.

I can't wait until this is all over. Hell, I can't wait until next year, when I've finished school, finished the HSC.

And now, I need to get back to the Acidic Environment. Chemistry just isn't going to learn itself...

She burns like the sun, and I can't look away...

2008-03-08T16:33:00.008+11:00

][soundtrack: Sunburn - Muse][ ][mood: stressed][

She stared. She didn't mean to, not at first, her eyes sliding over the words glaring back at her from the near-blank screen. Azure protested against her attempts to focus, blurring with exhaustion and stress. Eventually, she gave up.

The words were there, the ideas were lying dormant inside her tired brain.

Music danced through her ears as she stared vacantly.

Her head hurt, the blood pounded behind her eyes, demanding she spend less time forcing herself to recall these useless facts and pointless words, and more time lost in the blissful oblivion of sleep.

Sleep. That sounded fantastic right about now.

She hadn't been getting enough over the past weeks, held by the stress of her work - the orders of her education - but she hoped that this would all change soon. The exams were soon to start; soon to end.

Then she could (and would) sleep for a week.

An nobody in all of Oz, no Wizard that there is or was would ever keep her from her dreams then.

History and memory, representation in text:

History: Examinations are to start soon.
Memory: The stressed blonde girl forcing herself to create a speech on United 93.
Representation of events: The above.
Unreliability of memory: With the amount of sleep I've been getting, I rather fancy myself as Elphaba now. I'll probably even remember these few weeks as those when I went around with green skin and black hair.

Now, you'll have to excuse me while my brain explodes.

You know the lies they always told you and the love you never knew

2008-02-22T19:57:00.007+11:00

][ soundtrack: Black Balloon - The Goo Goo Dolls ][
][ mood: furious ][

You know, in some cultures, when children reach the age of 16, they're seen as mature enough to make their own decisions. To be seen as responsible enough to take on their own life.

Where I'm from, kids can leave school at the age of 16. 16 is the age of sexual consent. 16-year-olds can move out of home.

Right now, I'm slightly closer to the "17" side of things, and yet I can't even be trusted to have the door to the study shut, because apparently I'm so vacuous and dim that I'll allow myself to be picked up in some chatroom by a pedophile. Despite the fact that I don't go into chatrooms, and the only people I talk to over the internet are people I know.

Or I'll be in here, looking at pornography. Because that's totally what I do with my spare time.

I swear, if I'm not a "useless fat slut" with that man, I'm something else. I'm worthless, stupid, lazy, a waste of space and I "never-put-anything-away".

Apparently, I mumble so he can't hear me, I'm a "rude little bitch" because I don't want to respond to him when he insults me and yells at me.

Is that so wrong?

And, of course, right now, I'm at home alone with him. I'm holed up in the study (with the door shut, of course), trying not to cry and making sure that there are no sharp objects around me after the (somewhat) promise I made to a friend after my last bout of weakness.

I can't even go outside and get something to eat for dinner, because he'll make some side-comment about my weight, or he'll give me that cold glare.

Or, you know, call me a "stupid little bitch" again.

I almost wish he hit me. Then I could call the police and get him out of my life. Or get a restraining order against him.

I know the bible says to "Honour thy father and thy mother", but, riddle me this, how can I? How can I honour a man who, without conscience, has raised me in a household of domestic abuse?

it's never over, my kingdom for a kiss upon her shoulder...

2008-02-14T20:57:00.006+11:00

][ Soundtrack: Lover, You Should've Come Over - Jeff Buckley ][ ][ Mood: Tired ][

Dear Internet -

I don't like equilibrium.

- Rebecca

P.S. I'm not overly fond of Horace unseens either.
P.P.S. And while we're at it, financial maths bites.

broadway is dark tonight

2008-02-06T20:04:00.002+11:00

This is an old post I found that I recently re-read and found myself just as incensed as I was back then. So, I decided to repost it on this blog to further my message.

][ soundtrack: Broadway - Goo Goo Dolls ][][ mood: frustrated ][

In my spare time, I maraud as a drama teacher (I'm currently gaining my second diploma in the Dramatic Arts. [[side note: I've now gained this diploma. Officially, I'm an Associate of the Trinity College, London]] As part of this diploma, I'm required to teach classes of youngsters how to correctly perform, speak etc.)

The other day, during her son's lesson, the parent of two of my particularly talented students turned to me and asked "Are you an Ancient History student?"

I responded: "No,"

"Why aren't you an Ancient History student? You should be. You look like an Ancient Student,"

After struggling with myself whether I should be offended or not, I replied: "Well, I'm a Latin student. Perhaps that explains it?"

She clicked her tongue at me and scowled.

"So if you were doing an assignment on Ancient Rome, would you chose Etruscan, Early Republic, Late Republic, Early Empire or Late Empire?"

I told her Late Republic --> Early Empire.

"Oh, so to do her [daughter] assignment, I'd need to look into Caesar, correct?"

Of course...

Hold on. Rewind and let's try that again.

There is nothing which frustrates me more than parents who don't allow their children to complete their school assignments and instead insist that they must because the child isn't good enough, eloquent enough or they're simply too controlling for their own good.

My parents have never completed any assignments on my behalf for the simple reason that how am I going to learn if I don't do the work myself?

This woman's daughter is highly capable in Latin (I've helped her with her homework after our lessons before) and has a more extensive knowledge of Roman history than I did at her age (because all I remember from Year 7 is Caecilius est in horto) and is perfectly able to do her own school work.

And yet, in the daughter's own words "She never lets me do my own assignments".

I'm sorry, but no matter who you are - that's not on. Homework and assignments are set to help the students prepare for exams and to assist them in learning the material.

Parents should not decide to "step in" and do the work to "save their little babies" from possibly getting a poor score.

Kids need to take the fall every once in a while so they can get back up again and learn from it. Do your child's homework and they never will.

I just needed to get that off my chest

behind the hatred there lies a plundering desire for love

2008-02-06T18:52:00.002+11:00

][ soundtrack The Boy With The Thorn In His Side-Jeff Buckley ][
][ mood Pensive and guilty. ][

My stomach hurts. And not in an "I feel sick/I've eaten too much/Someone just punched me in the gut/I hate being a woman" sort of way. More like the sinking feeling one associates with insane guilt. Like the guilt of knowing/being accused of giving one of your favourite teachers [[though Lord knows I'd never admit it to his face... and with my stubbornness and cynicism, I'm sure he'd never guess it either. Plus he totally hates me and wishes I'd either drop dead or drop his subject]] grey hairs.Urrgghh. If he was 30+, that'd be okay. Because it wouldn't be me, but rather his age. He's not. And talking about it makes my stomach feel worse. So, moving off this tangent [[I need stronger tape for my mouth...]], I've been thinking about how I'm viewed within my friends, my grade and my school.

So many people now immediately associate me with various stages of my life:

(a) I'm "the emo". For crying out loud, I just because I (used to) wear a lot of black and used to cut myself doesn't make me an "emo".
(b) I'm, apparently, scary. Which I don't get. I've only ever snapped at one girl who I haven't known very well, and that was when she ran off with my splash cymbal. My Sabians are like my children - I'm very protective of them and was scared witless when it went missing. I apologized to the girl at a later date, but she should have heard me say "Hold on roadies, let me pack away my cymbals THEN you can take the stands".
(c) I'm a Latin nerd. Okay, I'll admit that the subject is [[on-again-off-again]] my favourite, but the term "nerd" implies that I'm actually good at it. And as my father reminds me ever-so-often, I'm "totally fucking useless" at it. Honestly, I don't even know why I'm doing it anymore. The teacher hates me, my tutor thinks I'm a spastic, and I can't do it acceptably anymore.

Oh great. Now I'm depressed.

I think I'm going to go and sit in the corner and cut myself.

[[That was sarcasm. I'm, in actuality, going to sit in my room and do chemistry and Latin continuers whilst crying out of stress, annoyance and... yes... upset.]]

oh, don't try to be smart. you don't even know what an oubliette is, do you?

2008-01-29T19:14:00.001+11:00

][ soundtrack: Labyrinth ][ ][ mood: frustrated ][

[ rant ]

I hate school.

How disheartening is that? Term I hasn't even started yet and already I hate school.

I mean, with the loads upon loads of holiday work we've been given...

Teachers: WE DO MORE SUBJECTS THAN JUST YOURS. PLEASE COMPREHEND THAT AND ADJUST YOUR BLOODY WORKLOADS ACCORDINGLY.

Just because we're at a selective high school does not mean that we DON'T burn out when overloaded with essays, practice papers and other tasks of EVIL.

No seriously, I hate school.

[ / end rant ]

the greatest day in history, death is beaten, you have rescued me

2007-12-14T23:42:00.002+11:00

][ Soundtrack: Happy Day - Tim Hughes ][ ][ Mood: Tired ][

Okay, this is just to answer Laura's question. Sorry it took me so long to get back to you, but I was at Ekklesia at my church until 10 minutes ago. (It was awesome. ... I've also developed an addiction to oranges. Whee!)

Anyway, postridie pueri ad ludum accedunt can be translated as "On the next day, the boys, coming near to the games..." [[as a clause]], or "On the next day, the boys come near to the elementary school/training ground/games". This is because accedunt is a present, active, indicative verb. puer is a second declension masculine word. We know it's plural because of accedunt (as you so correctly pointed out, the "-nt" ending - Thank you Ms. Klimek for that rote-learning bribery). If you don't believe me about puer, here's the entry from my dearest friend and favourite Latin companion, William Whitaker, and his words:

puer.i               N      2 3 GEN S M           
puer.i               N      2 3 LOC S M           
puer.i               N      2 3 NOM P M           
puer.i               N      2 3 VOC P M           
puer, pueri  N (2nd) M   [XXXAX]
boy, lad, young man; servant; (male) child; [a puere => from boyhood];

Seriously. William Whitaker = my hero. Link is on audio-video-disco. Okay, that's it. I'm definitely considering a career as a Latin teacher. I kick tailfeather at this (no seriously, stop laughing.)

If you're interested, I'm going to be in at school on Monday for a chem lesson at 10 until 1. If you come normal time, I'd be happy to give you a quick help session/rundown on Year 9 Latin. Just let me know what you'd like :o)

P.S. Bonus points if you can tell me why this picture is related to both you and I.

and while he spoke of many things, fools and kings

2007-12-08T22:38:00.003+11:00

][ soundtrack Nature Boy - David Bowie ][][ mood Pondering ][

Procrastination: Love to hate it, always try to avoid it, but embrace it none the less. It can come in many forms, whether it be reading a book, listening to music, tidying one's room, or putting up the Christmas decorations.

Mine was the latter.

In fact, it was as I put up the Christmas tree and decorated it, I was struck with a thought.

In my hand, I held an ornament for the tree - a little snowman with flushed rosy cheeks, a wide grin and dressed in a scarf and beanie. In his stumpy little arms, he lovingly clutched a set of skis.

I began to consider this. Skis, obviously, imply in this ornament the idea of a "white" Christmas - one with snow. You ski on snow. Snowmen are made of snow.

Is it therefore not ethically and morally wrong for a snowman to even consider skiiing on what he is composed of? I mean, it would be like a human frolicking in visceral material: weird and wrong from the one who is doing the frolicking's point of view (except, of course, if it was Freddie Kreuger. Or some other deranged psychopath).

Would it not be like one skiiing over one's family? Or like mock-fighting with the entrails of some unfortunate humans who were not brought into existence? Or even worse, were and were then destroyed?

Naturally, I then began to feel a little queasy and just hung the snowman on the tree, moving on to pick up a nice "safe" gingerbread man, eating a gingerbread cookie.

I adamantly refused to even consider going there. [[cannibalism.]]

... I think this is what I get for decorating the house with tinsel from the 80s and listening to The Cure and The Smiths whilst doing it.

don't let anyone tell you that you're not strong enough

2007-12-06T18:14:00.002+11:00

][ Soundtrack: Raise Your Voice - Hannah Montana ][
][ Mood: Supportive ][

Just a shoutout to a little friend of mine today - I figured here would be the best medium for me to comfort her, rather than on the crowded train, surrounded by "his loyal and loved" students [[It's misathropy. So sue me.]]

So Laura, here's to you.

To start with, oh sweetheart, don't say things you'll regret like "you hate Latin". Trust me. I say it on a regular basis. To his face. I've also shouted about my hatred of the ablative case [[but I'm gettin' better. Seriously, I've gotz dat ab-lative skillz now, yo!]] at the top of my lungs, and (yes, it gets worse) the words "Frickin' Latin. It's a damned dead language and it's stupid and pointless and the teacher frustrates me and damnitall. that. stupid. frigging. language!! I hateithatehatehatehateit!!!" may have crossed my lips. In front of him. literally. But I'm telling you now - you don't hate Latin. You're momentarily frustrated by the teacher's lack of knowledge of our gender. Trust me. I've been in his class for 3 years now, and he unknowingly pushes my buttons and sends me into the malevolent, misanthropic, snarling daemon I can be [[it's called growing up in a domestically abusive environment. Sends you crazy. Hense me.]] I think that's perhaps why he hates me. I've snapped at him one-too-many-times when he's pushed a boundary he hasn't realised was about to crumble... [[now he just doesn't care. Seriously. Skipped half the class at one point because I had to have an "intervention", walked in with blotchy cheeks and bloodshot eyes - totally ignored me. He learns, eventually. ... or maybe that's just me.]]

Anyway. Back on topic - I'm going to say this now. The Latin prize doesn't matter. The prizes are generally judged not on class, but examinations. Okay? I know it hurts, but it'll be ok. The world isn't going to crumble, your favourite teacher isn't going to start loathing you [[BUT - I have my tutor's details, and even just next year - I can (and I'm happy to) help you out if you need it.]], and, at least for the next 2 lessons, you're going to have work to do. Who cares if he doesn't like you working through the Troy booklet? One would think he'd be relieved to see someone working from it. Lord knows I did the whole thing and home, demanded it was marked (it wasn't), and he never saw me translate a single line from it.

Damn. I'm off topic again.

Laura, honey, you know I'm always going to be here for you, okay? So don't be afraid to ask for help with anything. If you want, I'm happy to run stuff through with you, just like I do for the girls I tutor, and to help you go over things you've learnt/will learn. And I'll answer your questions as best as I can. And ask my tutor the rest :o).

You've got a great mind for Latin - don't let this dishearten you. Unfortunately, life's not fair. Often, it sucks. But the measure of how great a person you are is that you can pick yourself up from something like this and don't let it stop you. Don't let it fester. Let it go, and know that next year, that insignificant piece of paper is going to be yours.

It's working towards a goal. Now you've got one, keep it always in sight and know that I'll do whatever I can to help you achieve it.

Don't stress about sir, okay? He doesn't know. He has a Y chromosome, for crying out loud. A Y is an X, missing a little thingy. And, unfortunately, understanding women is what's not there.

amoribus [that's an ablative of manner, yo.],

Your dear nerd-friend

(and remember - those misanthropic and suicidal tendencies are mine, hun.),

Stocko

P.S. Lesbia has nothing to do with this. I just felt like it. Seriously. Because I'm feeling emo like Catullus after the bio prac. [[gaaaaaaaaaaaaay.]]

teenagers scare the living sh*t out of me...

2007-12-05T12:46:00.002+11:00

][ Soundtrack: Teenagers - My Chemical Romance ][
][ Mood: Amused ][

Well, once more I find myself the victim of the dreaded "Assessment period". Just one problem: Now they actually count.

Oh. merde.

Fortunately, after two days of gruelling, cruel and awful exams, I've been graced with a day off. Not a full day, mind, but close enough. See, this morning I had to go into school for Concert Band rehearsals (I need all the help I can get before speech day), and also to hand a few things in.

Then, on the train ride home, I found myself surrounded by the year 8 girls, on their way to their picnic day.

Oh. Sweet. Merlin. It was... disturbing.

See, when I was in year 8, yes. My mind resided in the gutter. Because I had a 22 year old brother, and had grown up around his friends. When I was 11, said brother told me "As soon as you're 18, I'm going to make you watch Pulp Fiction. Oh wait, it's on cable in 10 minutes... eh, close enough. Sit, Bubba. Your education begins". I was 4 when my brother started going through puberty, and when his friends were decidedly dirty.

I was quite knowledgable for a youngin'.

But these girls... they put me to shame. From Kogarah to Gymea, I was regailed with dirty tales of stalking, (n)e(u)rotic fantasies, sordid affairs, squalid rumours and the all-out tawdry.

Primarily based all around one student, and the male staff members.

Needless to say, I will never be the same again. I'm completely and utterly scarred.

Even the most ribald, scatological and salacious of my friends have nothing on these girls...

... eheu, that's quite depressing.

everyday i spend with you is the new best day of my life

2007-11-23T20:19:00.003+11:00

][ Soundtrack: Must Have Done Something Right - Relient K ][

][ Mood: Reflective ][

Over the past term in our school Christian Fellowship, the ISCF leaders have been presenting their testimonies to the gathered crowds. With a speech today about a lost speech from Christ's flock, I began to think of my own testimony and my history with Christianity.

I, like so many of the other leaders, was born into a Christian family, with my mother and father strong worshipers and heavily involved in the church. I went to Sunday school and church services every week as a little girl, I learned my memory verses, said my prayers each night, eagerly participated in nativity plays, protesting myself as Rebekah in each activity regarding Jacob and Esau - heck, I even helped wash up the wine cups after communion.

As I grew up, my father's commitment to the church waned, with his attendance only being noted on major Christian holidays. Then not at all. My brother went through a rough patch with our family church and began attending his girlfriend's in Croydon. And my life fell apart.

In about year 8, I lost my best friend for the first time, had to deal with everything that was happening to me as I grew up, school work became overwhelming, and my father became misanthropic. And I became depressed, even going so far as to harm myself in a desperate plea for solution to my problems. And my religious practices fizzled and died. I stopped going to youth group because I couldn't stand to be around people who were so happy about life when all I wanted to do was die.

And things got worse before they got better.

I questioned my faith extensively, asking why, in a typical egocentric teenage fashion, everything bad happened to me. I turned away from the church, deciding I couldn't set foot in those halls again until I knew the answers to my questions. There was just one problem - I refused to look.

This behaviour continued on until, I'm sad to say, halfway through last year when I received the phone call to tell me my best friend slipped from the hangglider she was on, hit the water, and died. I was beside myself, and I remember I cried until I couldn't cry anymore. I couldn't believe it. I collapsed on the floor beside my bed and stared at my bookcase, where I had a picture of her, from the last time I ever saw her alive with my own two eyes, refusing to believe that she was gone. Because if she was gone, then what was to stop me from going with her? I'd been saved two years prior by the early return of my brother from work, but what was to stop me from dying, just like she had? And there I was. Fifteen years old, and I realised my own mortality. That one day, I was going to die. And I didn't know when.

As my former-English teacher would put it, I'd lost not only my best friend, but my innocence as well. I was distraught.

And then I saw it. Sitting where I'd left it, two years prior. My bible.

At this point, I was so hopelessly lost, that the cynical girl I'd become was quashed and I turned to God for answers.

And, lo and behold, I found them. Yes, I would die, but if I repented - If I turned back and embraced my faith once more, then I would have eternal life. Yes, she had gone - but she had gone to a better place.

I'm not going to lie and say that immediately all my problems were solved, but at that moment, I felt that little bit better. Sometimes, even now, life is difficult and I struggle to be strong (and I know I am still weak), but I know I have Christ.

And slowly, I began to re-ingratiate myself with my Christian friends. I began going to youth group again. I became involved once more with ISCF and the Christian fellowship. I embraced my religion once more, and I was happy. As Renee told us today, it made my faith stronger. Because now I knew. And once more, I believed. I was saved.

It's funny, the more I think about it, the more I'm reminded of Jesus' parable of the Lost Sheep. I truly feel like the sheep that strayed from the herd - the one whom the shepherd went seeking through dangers untold, and found. It may sound egotistical, but it's how I feel. Because

The Lord is my shepherd, and I shall not want.

and all i can taste is this moment, all i can breathe is your life

2007-11-11T17:47:00.001+11:00

][ soundtrack: Iris - Goo Goo Dolls ][ mood: nostalgic ][

It's funny how the simple act of flicking through a photo album can make you long for times which have passed. Even more so how you can look at a single photo and wonder how so much has changed in a handful of years. Or how you can look at a photo of yourself grinning and laughing, and wonder whatever happened to baby Rebecca.

I mean, there are photos of my family, all together, laughing and smiling, almost as if we can stand the presence of each other for more than 5 minutes. As opposed to now, where you stand in a room with the foul tempered man who puts the pater in patriarchal control freak, and he'll call you a tramp, a slut, a whore and a whole host of other names. Why? Simply because you can't get the computer to work properly because he's accidentally downloaded spyware and viruses which crash the system.

There are pictures of my brother and I, clinging desperately to each other, but with grins on our faces. That hasn't changed. Nor has the fact that during his teenage years, he taught me things that no three-year-old should. Like how to flip off your parents. Or swear like a sailor. You can see his life-phases, from a happy boy, to a surly teen, to the man he's become who I admire so very, very much. To be who he is, coming from our home - it's only by the grace of God.

There are pictures of my parents, looking like they're genuinely in love. My mother's not crying all the time, she actually looks genuinely happy to be there.

Considering my mood yesterday, this one really isn't a step in either direction. But it's still depressing. I think that's what I get for being a Jeff Buckley fan.

don't be like the one who made me so old

2007-11-10T02:46:00.002+11:00

][ soundtrack: Dream Brother - Jeff Buckley ][
][ mood: Melancholic. ][

With not only my final year of high school well and truly in swing, but also the end of the 2007 HSC looming just past the weekend, I can't help but consider exactly what life, and what I am going to be like this time next year.

My heart's saying "giant, raving lunatic".

... My head's inclined to agree.

I mean, I've spoken with friends in the graduating class of '07, and all I've heard are horror stories which turn my blood cold with fear at the odious and malignant nature of the exams (or at least, that's what they say), and it does little to alleviate my fears, rather it makes them escalate.

Suddenly, I'm doubting myself and my subject choices more than before, wondering if I would be better off dropping my extensions, or whether it is too late to remove myself from certain classes so as to not only content my terrified heart, but also my pedagogical leaders.

I can honestly say it: I'm totally petrified.

Each lesson I feel more and more that my teachers (and, perhaps to some extent, my tutors) see me as borderline retarded, or at least appear to look at me with a deep seated wish that I were not present in their classes.

My reports have just provided all the more evidence for this.

It seems so long ago that Assessment Tasks were merely the Half-Yearlies and the Yearlies, and that the HSC was something that didn't concern me. That the Year 12s were those crazy seniors who chased us from their quad with sticks, rather than my peers.

My current school is the one I have stayed the longest at, and the realisation that this time is soon to come to an end is staggering. All through my primary schooling, the moment I became settled in a school, I was removed and placed in another. Initially, it was the local public school. Then the Christian school. Then Danebank, where I formed friendships that I would treasure dearly. Then MLC, where I formed a bond I'd never dreamed of before - my best friends. And then I somehow stumbled into St. George, where I've remained since, that time only seeming to waver with the possibility (and in fact, the maternal promise) of leaving for some finishing school in Mittagong. And yet, I remained at St. George, and this next year which looms so darkly upon my horizon will mark my sixth and final year.

And the saddest part is that I can't see a light in the distance, like I once did. This coming year was supposed to mark her return. She'd promised us that she would find her way back from Shanghai. But once more, we lost her. And this time, it was so much more permanent than a flight to China. Because none return from where she has gone.

Every day I seem to find some reminder of her, and more and more lately I find that I miss her. Part of me still dreams that one day, she's going to turn up in front of me, laughing and saying "I got you good, didn't I?"

But, as Alyssa told me before, I know that can never happen. And all the more, I feel worse for lashing out at those who didn't deserve it. People offered me support, but I threw it back at them. I was so selfish and so stupid, and I acted so rashly and harshly. I think it was that moment where I handed out the right to be hated.

"If there's anything I can do Rebecca..."
"Talk to me again when you can raise the dead."

I really wasn't kidding when I said melancholic. I suppose it's the essays, assignments and lesson plans, demanding to be written. But at this moment, I can't obey. Oh, how pathetically poetic.

I think I'll go and read. It's always calmed me before.

dance, magic, dance

2007-11-04T22:28:00.002+11:00

][ soundtrack: dance magic - david bowie ][
][ mood: hyperactive ][

... did I ever tell you that you remind me of the babe...?

Well, I've hit day three of my unexplainable mania, and I don't know whether to be worried or not. I mean, all of this seemed to kick in at lunch on Friday, when I sat in and played Trivia at Lighthouse. And even then I think that was started by the brilliant English lesson which somehow dissolved into "LATIN WARS! I'll strike your ablative with my vocative! I'll get you and your subjunctive!" from Mr. Morris, and elicited giggles from two of the Latin-bods in the class, and one, sitting with a smirk, pretending she wasn't there.

... and no that bod was not me.

... what babe...?

Of course, matters were made worse in tutoring that afternoon when I only managed to make myself seem a halfwit, rather than a wholewit. Or just a plain twit. Furthermore, I'm not an ablative-retard. I actually got some. Without cheating. ...or William Whitaker's Words.

... the babe with the power...

Things deteriorated from there to being sent pictures from Friday's titration lesson in chem, which found Natalie, Courtney and I writing "veni, vidi, vici" on our volumetric flask:

(I blame the mania), Natalie taking a photo of not only it, but me writing it, and the aforementioned girls planning my death and ultimately picking on me (as per usual) on Saturday afternoon.

... what power...?

Matters were not helped by my insistent viewing of "Labyrinth" and the development of an absolute love for prior mentioned film, and a creepy, almost strange fan girlish behavior for David Bowie, once more.

... the power of voodoo...

And then, of course, playing "guess what number I'm thinking of" and "Word Association games" with siblings of my pedagogical leaders, or talking with my own brother's students caused matters to disintegrate further.

... who do?

That said, I should take this opportunity to apologise to those I've freaked out over the past few days. Honestly, I blame the sugar-free [v].

you do!

And the Goblins.

... do what?

Seriously, when in doubt, blame the Goblins.

... remind me of the babe!

a song, played on a solo saxophone

2007-10-13T22:13:00.001+10:00

][ soundtrack: the last night of the world - miss. saigon ][

][ mood: teary ][

Well, unfortunately the school holidays are once again winding to a close and I find that, once again, I've done absolutely nothing productive all holidays, unless you count playing Sims until your head aches, tiding your room and attempting to do school work, only to discover that the Disney Channel is far more interesting than Livy.

I'd have to say, though, that I have done something semi-productive and almost-school related, and that was my viewing today of the musical Miss. Saigon.

I can, in fact, claim it was related to music simply because (a) we played the selections from Miss. Saigon in orchestra this year [which was a brilliant work - and I loved my part... which is why I felt so ripped off that the drummer was replaced by a keyboard, as far as we could tell...] and (b) Miss Saigon was composed by Boublil and Schönberg. Lo and behold, who were we studying prior to school letting out? Schönberg. Okay, it was a completely different Schönberg, but what the hey. Close enough, right? (And yes, I am and HSC Music 2 Candidate. ... oh dear, just saying that makes me feel queasy).

At any rate, Miss Saigon was beautiful and heartwrenching [not to mention, musically satisfying]. As both an actor and a musician I found that I could really appreciate all the work which went into the production and, furthermore, as a musician who has played the works I can really appreciate the musos who worked so hard to put on such a great show.

Not to mention, I went to see it with two of the best people - Ros and Flora. Honestly, I think I love seeing musicals with these guys for the simple reason that we all sit in our seats and act like such music nerds, giggling when the songs modulate, wincing at dischord, picking the out of tune oboe or the accidental ritardando's and accellerando's and, of course, lauging at the comparisions we can make between their ensemble and ours. And, we tried not to groan at the drummer who got all excited when she could pick the fact the drum kit was electronic, halfway through The Heat is on in Saigon - her favourite piece from their selections in Orchestra.

In fact, the musical almost made up for the fact that there were awful trackworks between Sutherland and Central and I had to catch a rail bus, then wander all through Central trying to find my music buddies.

... almost.

Wait in the Fire...

2007-09-15T15:24:00.001+10:00

][ Soundtrack: Grace - Jeff Buckley ][ ][ Mood: Chirpy ][

Jeff Buckley > life. Still.

Once again, I'm procrastinating instead of writing my English speech. In my defense, I've started to write it, and I've started to compose my polonaise for music.... and I've got a 2nd draft of my integrated project composition... But I had to put these someone before I cleared out my hotmail inbox.

Yesterday, a good friend of mine in my Latin class, still stressed after our last exam, decided to... modify... some of Livy and Virgil's quotes, attempting to express just how lacklustre year 11 felt their performance was. Also how frustrated we were after we left the exam and (both jokingly and seriously) told off our poor teacher.

As she'll probably maim me if I credit her, she'll remain anonymous. My favourite quotes are italicised:

"The cruel fates better call Livy back again!"

"...Hoping that the gods would be favourably enough inclined to shoot Livy into particles..."

"Who has destroyed miserable year 11 Latin? What such great madness!"

"Then public panic stifled the year 11s, after it was announced that Livy was in their exam, soon they heard the wailing and dissonant cries from their teacher, marking their unseens..."

"For since there was no hope that we could translate Livy, who had left his work behind, it was decided that we should kill him instead."

"The loss of a famous fake gossiping historian left in the city, who's already dead (or about to die once year 11 gets their hands on him), would be easy,"

"A sacrifice had been established on the Quizzical Hill for the Yr 11 Latins. And that sacrifice was Livy."

"Some dragging Livy as the situation demanded,"

"...and the whole of Livy having lost his sanity (of making such stupid prose) was carried straight down in ruin." (in the underworld along with Virgil and Catullus, where "even now, chilled by death, we await to kill them once more!"

"Odi Livium et Amo... non-Livium"

I really do love the year 11 Latin class. We're just like a little family of nine girls [soon to be 8 - :o(], with an uncle who attempts to make us learn a language, in between hitting Angellia with "metaphorical bricks of love"...

...y'know, if Uncles avoid the family of girls in between lessons, really dislike them (above all other classes), and has every reason to do the aforementioned.

Right. Verisimilitude and Music compositions. I can do this.

I mean, how hard can it be to compose an 8 bar polonaise and make up its portfolio?

or a 2 minute speech on United 93 and Temeraire?

... despite the fact Temeraire is a novel on dragons and not a biography as its supposed to be. And that it was given to me and checked twice by my English teacher...

too young to hold on, but too old to just break free and run

2007-09-05T19:40:00.002+10:00

][ Soundtrack Lover, You Should've Come Over - Jeff Buckley ][
][ Mood Reflective ][

Jeff Buckley > Life.

Once again, I find myself fiddling with a new blog, when I really should be doing something [anything.] else. Mainly studying for Music, practicing for my prac exam, writing my music compositions or (more pressingly) writing my English Oral speech. Verisimilitude of United 93 vs. a biography which isn't a biography in the slightest.

The exam period's been going off pretty well, though I have the sneaking suspicion I've failed Chemistry, Maths and Latin. The latter is the most worrying as I'm not only picking up extension Latin next term [God help me.] but I'm also tutoring two girls in said dead language.

But I digress.

Next Wednesday I have the distinct joy of performing in the school's "annual" Meet the Tutors concert. This is pretty darn worrying because (a) I'm performing in a few ensembles on the night; (b) I only received the music for one of those performances today, (c) I'm conducting an ensemble I've only conducted once before, (d) I'm conducting and (e) I have the distinct feeling I'm going to have to sing in a Toga.

If I refuse to wear a Toga for the Classics dinner, I'm not wearing one to prance around a stage, pretending to be Meg from Hercules (The Disney version).

Furthermore, I'm finding myself increasingly wanting to just move out. Lewis has been in an awful mood lately, and will holler and swear at me for even the smallest things (I'm sorry father but I needed to study for my Latin exam), sit on his backside and watch the TV all day, not work, and then have the gaul to call everyone else lazy. Well I'm sorry that I was so exhausted after my Exams/Prac teaching/Work that I just kicked off my shoes and collapsed, but it doesn't make me lazy. Other things, yes. But not when I've done nothing to really deserve it.

The worst part of all of this is that as a Christian, I know I'm supposed to "honour thy father and thy mother", and mostly, I can deal with Mum (except when she's taking out his rage with her on me), and I can happily honour her. But him? It's a real fight. We don't even speak anymore unless it's him yelling at me for something I touched, or something I did, or something I didn't do. Some mornings I wake up to being called a "stupid, fat lazy slut" for no apparent reason. When I lost my best friend the first time and my life went down the toilet, he mockingly told me to "go and hang myself in the backyard".

And people wonder why my self esteem is so low and I don't get help for my depression.

I guess my insecurity with him explains why I hate it when people hate me. Teachers, friends, students - I hate it. It drives me insane when I know I'm hated. Which, I guess, is why I harp on about the fact the Latin teacher hates me (or, at least, has every appearance of doing so. I hardly see cold glares, face-falls and heavy sighs whenever I'm in the vicnity as a sign of like, or even apathy - despite my best efforts to become the nice, polite, good-little-Christian girl this past year, I'm still as loathed as ever.)

On the up side, (as I said earlier) I've gained myself another Latin student! I'm now tutoring two junior girls the basics of Latin, which is a whole lot of fun. You never realise just how much you miss Caecilius until you're translating Livy. Then all you want is the nice, simple, cheerful Caecilius est in tablino.