I am definitely meant to be writing my dissertation right now but the Ostrich in me is doing what all Ostriches don’t actually do in real life - bury their heads in a mound of sand. I wonder where this myth came from? Why would an Ostrich even feel compelled to do such a thing? Hello sand, here is my Ostrich head. I hope you don’t mind if I stick it in you for a while. I’m feeling a bit scared at the moment and I’d rather be choking on your grains than bother with my problems/tasks right now.

Anyway. NEWSFLASH I am going to Glastonbury again.

I wasn’t supposed to be but Scott bought a ticket from me from the last lot that went on sale the other day. Though I bought crippling wellies that were the wrong size last year, and spent half my time hobbling around the site trying desperately not to complain for fear of making myself look like a whinging idiot, I did actually enjoy myself.

I imagine the rare sunshine that graced the site for four entire days helped tremendously, as did Leonard Cohen, and the stripper-boho-fairy dancers used by Goldfrapp too.

I was proud of myself last year for going, mainly because despite my fear of Poo(p) and all things associated with the functions of our intestines, I braved the infamous longdrops of Glastonbury daily whilst there (albeit with help of an olbas oil inhaler and wetwipes) At least I know what to expect this year.

I will also make sure to smother myself in sun cream as I made the mistake of forgetting on the biggest day of the festival (saturday) severely burnt my face and thus missed Jay-Z’s epic performance due to a pretty bad case of sun-stroke, instead spending the evening by myself in the cinema field with only Alvin and the Chipmunks and Iron Man as my solace.

I almost looked like Lucifer up there. I look forward to more thrift stall magic finds such as these:

More of this too…

So, Glastonbury 2009. The line up is again, not very good this year but in my head unless Radiohead, Muse or Bowie are playing, which they are nor, I won’t be particularly bothered about anybody who is playing. Fleet Foxes are a must of course. Instead, I shall roam the fields like the observant wanderer that I am, though I will begrudge the two mile trek to the now relocated cinema field.

Any other news? We have been planning our trips around New Zealand which is a bit exciting. I’m still trying to convince Scott to spend more than a night in Wellington.

I have realised that half of my follow list on twitter consists of ex-Whedon actors and actresses. I’m not sure what this says about me, except for the fact that I am more of a die-hard fan than I ever thought was possible, what with the Buffy thesis as well. You can never be too old to love, is my motto.

Still following the Flight tour. Scott joked that it would be just our luck that when we went to New Zealand, the two Kiwi’s would tour the UK. I am mortified at the possibility of this thought. If that happens, I will throw a FizzGig Tantrum, like so:

Fizzgig Tantrum

I can not comprehend the idea that I might not get to experience their Sugalumps in person.

Graduation is looming. I am annoyed that I am leaving with £21′000 worth of debt. The actual debt doesn’t bother me, but the fact that the University force me to pay another few hundred pounds on top of the thousands already given to them, just so I can have the privilage of graduating in a cap and gown in front of my proud parents. It makes me feel a bit ill at their greediness actually. The University, not my parents.

Out and Over.

I guess this is a bit overdue, although I am not quite sure about blog etiquette so perhaps I shouldn’t be worrying about the length of time it takes between my posts, nor getting anxious over leaving my readers, of which there are very few, bored whilst waiting for another mundane post.

It really doesn’t matter does it?

Anyway, a quick update goes as follows:

Working on my dissertation, which if you are interested, is focusing on Franchise and Commodity vs Iconoclasm in American Cult Television - using Buffy the Vampire Slayer as a case study. I was originally supposed to study House but a few things happened and I had to change my ideas to suit word count and research so….

I can’t end that sentence.

Tickets for our trip across the globe are booked. Roll on 29/11/2009 and the shores of New Zealand. Please.

This summer I shall be visiting London twice. The first time is to support a friend at a poetry magazine launch, Magma, in which he shall be published. A group of us aspiring poets/writers/bums are going to take London by proverbial storm and hopefully make a few thrilling adventures in the two days that we are there. We probably won’t be that exciting, but London, prepare for our arrival anyway.

Then In July I’ll be heading back to watch the amazingly funny Rhys Darby deliver some stand up-voice manipulation-artistry kind-of-caricaturish-type-thing…. watch Imagine That if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Or this link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cIZs6svBqkw&feature=related

Once again, I’ll be seeing Radiohead live. 3 Times in 3 years isn’t bad going really, is it?

During the time I have been absent from establishing my cyber self via I am Heather (I am Heather, if you didn’t already guess) I have fallen just a little bit in love with New Zealand’s guitar-based digi-bongo acapella-rap-funk-comedy folk duo artists Flight of the Conchords. I can not describe the joy they have brought to my life and mind and heart-soul-brain-limbs. They are like a roll of sellotape. They ARE love. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_tDNKYOwSI

I am probably, most definitely about 5 years too late in discovering them, but I don’t think they’ll mind a late-arrival fan.

This weekend was strange but happy. The things that I did see and do I did not expect to do and see prior to 11pm on Friday night. It was exhausting, but full of laughs, great unexpected company and the sea. The sea, as you should know if you know me, always always ALWAYS makes me happy.

Here is the beginning of something I started, but evidently did not finish. As is my way.

Laelia.

Sleeping Beauty, dead to her dreams
surrounding the ornate white bed,
found in a kitsch white palace,
in her utopian kingdom. Also white.

With no breath to take in
the sumptuous smell of twenty-four
vibrant, dying white lilies,
laid beside her own wilting form.

It began as a willful end to a weary wait.
No longer able to resist the beautiful death
offered to her by a cornucopian bloom, enticing
even the boldest spirits to an eternal slumber.

Violets, roses, daisies, and bluebells
haunt the halls with a mounting reverence,
their splendor rising slowly amongst the grounds,
standing gallantly with defiance.

“Poison me, sweet chrysanthemums: with
the saccharine delicacies of your Asian nectar, I shall
drown your flavours hurriedly, amidst the scents
of an Aztec Laelia I discovered at my feet today.”

Their seedlings craved stolen light
found through failing ceilings, nurturing
damp and putrefied wood found in idle doors
and the unoccupied pantry.

And here are some late night musings that are not very good at all but still exist to be read, regardless of their worth.

I asked her to take my hand and she did, even though it was dry with apprehension. I always thought palms were supposed to get wet when somebody was nervous, but no, mine are in need of a scrub and cream. She asked me why she had to take it and I told her that she wouldn’t understand if she didn’t. If she was not an extension of me, then she would not know me. They always say your arms are an extension of yourself, and if your arms are an extension of yourself then your hands are an extension of the extension. So, she can be me from a third perspective this way - even if it is lacking.

Your hand waves from the window
but she walks and walks and cannot see you.
Maybe the sun was too bright and you
were too shiny to see today.
You stay there for a few hours and a day
and she walks past once more.
Now the clouds are out and you
aren’t as shiny.
She still doesn’t wave.

I put my hand on your knee and you look upwards. Like my face was there and not over here. I wonder why you always have to look away. Something important happens and you look away: probably in the hope that there is something more thrilling than my dead-white face.