The Unfinished Heart

[This was part of an assignment for A-Level English Language and Literature as a poetic representation of this painting of Lord Chatterton. Props to my English teacher for the inspiration.]

The heartbroken adolescent, bordering on adult;

Flame-hued curls of a boy, sparse stubble of a man.

One arm trails from the bed like an unfinished sentence,

Unpunctuated and discarded.

Tattered pieces of his broken heart, torn to shreds on the carpet,

On unlined paper, the ink still fresh,

Like a bullet wound to the shoulder- not quite fatal.

He considered, in his final farewell, his once-happy self,

A youthful romance of gaiety and light-headedness,

Her sly smile and storm-cloud eyes flecked with ivy-

The letter penned in her hand.

25.06.11

Wax drips onto watercolour paintings,
Distorting colour and ordered lines,
Geometric shapes oozing through the fabric of the paper.
Picasso wouldn't mind, I suppose-
"Artistic licence" - making something new,
Instead of ruining a classic.
Dali's clocks already melted,
Butter-smooth over wicker branches,
Lazy arms of a dying oak,
Like a banquet waiter, cloth over forearm,
"Anything else, sir?"
Dripping wax like clocks and soft sugar spills,
Butter melting in the sun.

15.06.11

I tiptoe on the edge of life,
Pirouette en pointe between the white and yellow lines
As the train burrows like hot blood through the veins underground,
An arabesque on the cliff's edge, live bait dangled to the darkness below,
And in one wrong move I could be snapped up by the dark.
But as I bend to take my bow, an acknowledgement to my imaginary audience,
The white knight catches my waist, moving me,
And we waltz away from danger, spinning through the forest,
Escaped from a tragic jewellery box entrapment.

NO MEANS NO.

"However we dress, wherever we go, yes means yes and NO means NO!"


Yesterday, I was one of the five-thousand voices chanting in unison in a march against victim-blaming in cases of sexual assault.


"Slutwalk" was sparked by a comment made by a Canadian policeman in January 2011 that "women should avoid dressing like sluts in order to prevent being victimised." Following this, in February, whilst presiding over a rape case, the judge noted that on the evening in question "sex was in the air," and the victim's behaviour and outfit (a tube top and heels) may have given the "wrong impression". Furthermore, the fact that the victim was wearing makeup and had been drinking was also called into question. Although the defendent was found guilty, he was sentenced to two years' probation and was required to write an apology letter to the victim. The typical sentence for a rape crime is at least three years in prison, yet in this case the defendent was not considered a threat to society, merely "insensitive" to the fact that the victim may have been unwilling, and thus served no jail time.


This case caused a massive public outcry and led to the founding of Slutwalk. The co-founders used the word "slut" because that was the word that the Canadian officer originally used to describe women's attire, and because of its negative connotations and frequent offensive usage. It  has historically and consistently been used as a derogatory term to describe sexually promiscuous women, but in context is often merely used as casual insult, perhaps even aimed at those with a non-existent sexual history. The organisers stated that women "are tired of being oppressed by slut-shaming; of being judged by our sexuality and feeling unsafe as a result. Being in charge of our sexual lives should not mean that we are opening ourselves to an expectation of violence, regardless if we participate in sex for pleasure or work. No one should equate enjoying sex with attracting sexual assault."


The original Slutwalk march took place in Toronto on 3rd April 2011, with over three-thousand participants, and then spread internationally to major cities in the US, India, Australia, Africa, Asia and Europe. Yesterday, on 11th June 2011, I took part in the London Slutwalk as one of the five-thousand protesters marching through Piccadilly, chanting slogans such as "However we dress, wherever we go, yes means yes and no means no," "My dress is not a yes," and "Clothes don't rape people, rapists do." Other chants were more specific, such as "We are all chambermaids!", an allusion to the alleged IMF rape of a chambermaid at a Manhattan hotel.


Some protesters, both men and women, dressed in stereotypical "slutty" attire, wearing fishnets, heels, and some only in their underwear, whereas some took the opposite approach and covered themselves as completely as possible, scarves wrapped around their faces and wearing dark sunglasses. Others merely dressed in ordinary clothing, but the message was nevertheless the same; women can be raped no matter how they dress or how they behave. Some held signs bearing their own slogans: "It wasn't my fault," "slut pride" and "just because I dress like a hussy, doesn't mean I want you near my pussy."


As we passed through Piccadilly Circus, construction workers paused in their digging, residents leaned out of windows, and pedestrians stopped in the street to watch the procession. Many of them showed their support by cheering, thrusting their fists in the air, and clapping as we marched past. Once we reached Trafalgar Square, the entire procession assembled to listen to the inspiring yet heartbreaking series of speeches by organisers and representatives, including members of the English Collective of Prostitutes, Women Against Rape, and the Black Women's Rape Action Project, among others.


Although each speech discussed different views, the general idea was altogether the same; speaking out against those who say that women who get raped are "asking for it" by the way they dress, the way they walk or if they were flirting or under the influence of alcohol. Against cuts to rape crisis centres, and virginity tests forced upon asylum-seekers to determine the "good" women from the "bad" ones. Supporting women who are disbelieved in court due to their sexual history, sexual orientation, skin-colour or social class; women who are disbelieved because they are less attractive than their alleged rapist; women who feel they cannot come forward for fear of deportation of arrest; women who lose the power of speech and are unable to report the crime.


Slutwalk, for me, was an eye-opening, truly inspirational experience, and I urge women and men everywhere to stand up for the human right to feel safe in their home country, with a police force who protect them and a government who supports them. Speak out and stand up- NO-ONE deserves to be raped.

When the Aliens Come

When the aliens come, they will snatch up the bankers,

The lawyers, attorneys in three-piece-suit languors,

They’ll prod them and probe them for more information,

And then, those aliens will come back for the nation.

They’ll snap up the babies in buggies and prams,

And the kids who sell tabloids at newspaper stands,

And once they’ve devoured their fill of the gossip,

They’ll  come back and steal the ones who have lost it.

They’ll take all the people who’s minds have all melted,

The loons and the crazies getting high off their felt-tips,

The ones whose lips trail long strings of drool,

Who foam at the mouth and giggle like fools.

They’ll abduct all the teachers who’re sick of their jobs,

The chavs and the townies and back-alley yobs.

They’ll sneak in through the chimney on good Christmas eve,

Take all of your presents and Christmas-tree leaves,

They’ll take all your toys and your books and your dog,

They’ll steal your parents and sneak out through the fog.

And finally, they will take everyone famous,

Authors and actors from the great to the shameless,

Stars born in poverty who then made it to millions,

Who walked down the red carpet dressed in vermillion,

They’ll take the whole country and squeeze onto their spaceship,

Take off through the galaxy with the sound of a whip.

And once they are gone, you’ll be left on this planet,

With nothing but memories and a spare tennis racket.

For a century you’ll wander around like a shrew,

And silently wonder why they didn’t take YOU.

Away Message

Dear Readers,

 

The writer of this blog has recently been swallowed by the Revision Beast. He comes in the form of many textbooks, countless reams of lined paper, and coloured flashcards. He feeds on stress and coffee, emitting only average grades. For the time-being, she will be unable to post on her blog. Please excuse the interruption. We assure you, it is for a viable cause. She will be returned relatively unharmed in early June.

 

Sincerely,

AQA and Edexcel

Friday Is the New Black.

Do you know what day it is? Have you checked your calendar? Does your watch have a day-of-the-week setting? Well, for those of you who have been in prison or living in a cave for the past seven days, it's Friday, Friday, Friday.

For the benefit of the lucky few whose ears have not yet been assaulted by what is now being widely referred to as "the worst thing that has ever happened to the music industry", click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CD2LRROpph0. For a video with so many views, it seemed impossible to find for all the parodies, song analyses, reviews and interviews that followed.

Thirteen-year-old singer Rebecca Black released her first single, "Friday" on March 14th, which over the weekend went viral for all the wrong reasons. The comments on the YouTube video ranged from "horrible" to "I hope you cut yourself and die," whislt the rest of us just clap our hands over our ears and hope to God that sometime soon we'll get it out of our heads.

From the onset, the video makes a mockery of itself. Rebecca Black's alarm clock rings at 7am and she sits up in bed, her hair curly and wearing full makeup, and in case we didn't know what was going on, she sings in a monotone, "7am, wakin' up in the morning, gotta be fresh, gotta go downstairs." And all of a sudden she's fully clothed, standing downstairs with straight hair, and her monotone continutes: "Gotta have my bowl, gotta have cereal... tickin' on and on, everybody's rushing." That's funny, because when I'm late for school I always have time to straighten my hair and make a music video.

The song continues, and Rebecca proceeds to tell us that she's "gotta get down to the bus stop, gotta catch my bus." Wait. Hold it. You catch buses at bus stops? I always wondered what they were for... Well, don't leave us in suspense, Rebecca- do you catch your bus or don't you?

No, she doesn't. Her friends pull up in their silver convertible and are adamant that she get in the car. Yes. Because all thirteen-year-olds in the US can drive. And own convertibles. They're kickin' in the front seat. They're sitting in the back seat. Which seat can she take? CRISIS. Don't worry, Rebecca, we'll do the maths. If the car seats five and there are two people in the front, and two people in the back, we strongly advise that you sit in the only seat available.

She then proceeds into a chorus where the words "fun" and "partyin'" are used more times than Justin Beiber has ever used the word "baby".

Strangely enough, the young "star" is not fazed by the intense hatred and general negativity towards her. In fact, in an interview, she expressed her glee at the fact that "even if they don't like my song, it's still stuck in their heads," which may be the most spiteful comment I've ever heard from a thirteen year old. In fact, she has already planned to release an album as well as a new single, "LOL". I hope she knows that most will "lol" at her, not with her.

The Great Adventure

At the end of February, with a week off school and no imminent exams, my family and I jetted off on our annual(ish) skiing trip. Not to the luxurious slopes of the Alps, not to terrifyingly exotic Italy, nor the elegance of France. No, for our ski trip we chose a much quieter, unexpected location: Poland. Now, on this trip, we learnt many things about the Polish. Firstly, most do not speak English, and the ones that do are limited to phrases such as "oh my God!" and "fucking gay". Secondly, they put ketchup on EVERYTHING (and as I suffer from saltomophobia, my food choices were limited). And thirdly, their buses are always five minutes early, which makes it somewhat difficult to estimate traveling times.

But, after three days in below-freezing weather, strapping strips of wood to our feet every day and stumbling around in boots that weigh about as much as a set of obese triplets, we decided that, having memorised all the local ski slopes, it was time for a change. Together with my sister Bex and stepbrothers Jonny and Dell, we took the bus from Bialka, where we were staying, to Zakopane, the main ski resort in Poland. Unfortunately, our combined senses of direction being poor as they are, we ended up renting our skis and purchasing our ski passes at the Nosal slopes, on the opposite side of the mountain to the glorious Zakopane resort.

Needless to say, we had an Adventure.

Nosal consisted of several blue level learning slopes - bunny slopes, as Bex called them - and one more difficult slope; a button lift could take us halfway up, where the piste was red level, or a chairlift could leave us at the top of the mountain, the looming black slope that led into the red. After racing one another down the icy red slope several times, we decided it was time to face our fears and try the black.

I found myself absolutely terrified and shaking in my heavy skis as a rickety, one-seater chairlift inched its way up the mountain, eventually dropping us one by one at the chilly peak. However, Jonny and I found ourselves distracted by an intruguing trail leading through the woods to our right. Assuming that it was a short path that would loop around and lead us back to the mountain, off we went through the trees. A few metres down the trail, the left side of the path cleared of trees and opened up to a spectacularly beautiful, breathtaking mountainside view.

After ten minutes or so, we came to a clearing. In addition to the one from which we had just come, three other paths led to this point. Only one led downwards. Instant panic sparked between the four of us. We were near stranded, a kilometre downhill from the ski slope, our only mode of transportation glorified wooden sticks. We were cold, we didn't speak the language, and this was feeling far too much like Narnia for our liking.

Suddenly, it occurred to us- this was not a ski trail. This was a hiking trail.

The only way was down.

So down we went.

We skiied in silence until we damn near ran out of snow, and severely scraped up the bottoms of our skis as we glided over rocks and stones in our desperate attempt to find civilisation. Eventually we had no other option but to take them off and walk, in our ski boots, carrying our skis, for as long as it took.

It could have been days.

Fortunately, it wasn't. We soon reached a cluster of buildings about halfway down the mountain; a restaurant, a pub, and a corner shop. And, thank God, English speakers. We admitted we were lost, and asked as politely as we could (whilst speaking very loudly and clearly to be sure they understood) how to get back to Nosal.

"Nosal?" they said, astonished. "How did you get here from Nosal? On skis?"

After a speedy lunch, we stumbled down to a paved lot where we could see buses and taxi cabs waiting. We soon discovered that we were in fact at the base of an enourmous ski resort; unfortunately, our Nosal ski passes didn't work there. We split up and desperately tried to find a way back. "Don't worry," Dell reminded us. "We're having an Adventure."

Several minutes passed, and a man headed over to me and my sister, grinning creepily. Although we made it clear that we did not speak his language, he jabbered in Polish. He pointed across the way to his horse-drawn carriage, then pointed to my sister and me, and held up four fingers. Forty zlotys. Bex then explained, in English, that there were four of us, holding up her four fingers. He nodded and held up four fingers again, thinking we'd been confused about the price. We went back and forth for five minutes straight, holding up our fingers and pointing at thin air. Eventually, he wrote "40" in the snow, and Bex pointing to our four sets of skis, meaning four people. The man ahhhhed and held up eight fingers. Eighty zlotys. And my sister ahhhed right back, and told him that the taxi said he would take us for 50 zlotys, and wrote "50" in the snow. He nodded, they shook. It was a deal. Proof that one should never attempt to haggle with an Israeli, regardless of what country you're in.

Eventually Jonny and Dell returned, and Dell eagerly explained that he'd found a ski path down the mountain that the hikers had said would take us back to Nosal. But the rest of us were tired, and very much attracted by the idea of a ride in a sleigh. "It'll be part of the Adventure," Jonny claimed. However, in this case, the majority did not win, and off we skiied down the mountain.

After five minutes, the path ended, and we were still nowhere near Nosal.

However, determined not to pay for a bus/taxi/horse-drawn carriage, we travelled via a combination of skiing on pavement, skiing on lakes, and carrying them. Eventually, after what seemed like several hours of much snapping and arguing, we reached the base of Nosal.

The four of us collectively retold our dangerous tale over dinner that night. We had barely begun when my father spoke up. "Wait a second," he said, narrowing his eyes and holding a finger in the air. "You had an Adventure, didn't you?"

Yes, Dad. Yes we did.

7 Reasons to Be Alone on Valentines Day

1. In a moment of twelve-year-old dramatics, you rip up a Valentines card and send the pieces to the crush who turned you down. That's okay- he's not so hot now :) (2006)

2. You're visiting family in Texas, and your aunt and uncle take pity, giving you Hershey Kiss socks as a Valentines gift. Sweet. (2007)

3. Your family decides to visit your sister in Israel, and stop off for a three-day vacation in Turkey on the way. You pick up a 24-hour bug on the plane and spend Valentines throwing up and sleeping, while your family is off sight-seeing. Your boyfriend breaks up with you by text the following week. (2009)

4. Your family decide to go skiing in France. Your dad gets to spend Valentines with his girlfriend, and you spend it eating an entire jar of Nutella with a plastic spoon, thinking about how far away your boyfriend is. (2010)

5. You're on a flight back from spending a weekend in Texas for your cousin's bar mitzvah, and accidentally pour coffee on yourself. (2011)

6. Your boyfriend has too much work to see you.  (2011)

7. You have school tomorrow anyway.  (2011)

8. That entire tub of ice cream in the freezer is lonely. You feel obliged.  (2011)

9. You have a sinus infection. (2011)

10. And the flu. (2011)

This is why God invented chick flicks.

Minnie Shlipak Martell, 1929-2011

My beloved grandmother lost her battle with Alzheimer's earlier this week. I was not able to fly out for the funeral, so I wrote this to be read out instead of my being there.

Dear Mimi,

 

It is said that one of the most common and most effective ways of dealing with grief is to write a letter to the person you have lost. It is not a letter you send, or even one you keep. There's something therapeutic about just writing it. So here goes. I hope you're listening.

 

I never got a chance to thank you for the things you have done for me. It was you that inspired me musically; I remember once, when I was five, you caught me playing the piano with my feet. You told me no. You told me that's not the way you play piano. You made me apologise to the piano. And now I can play it properly. Maybe you don't remember, maybe you couldn't even hear me really, but I played to you last time I visited. I played the same pieces over and over again; because they are the only ones I know how to play; but I was playing them for you. I will still play for you... and I hope you're still listening.

 

I want to thank you for teaching me to appreciate the English language, and the effect it can have on one person. It was through you that I began to understand the beauty of words, and the poetry of speech.

 

I want to thank you for my mother; they say that one learns how to parent one's children from their own parents. Well, for that I thank you, because I could not have asked for a better mother, and it was you that brought her into the world. I want to thank you for my Aunt Susan too, and the family she created; some people don't even know their cousins, and most do not have the relationship that I have with my extended family. So thank you.

I find solace in the fact that you won't be hurting anymore; that you'll be able to be with Poppa again, and that you'll have your mind back. To those who have asked me if it was a shock to hear the news, I have simply said that, yes, I will miss you, but that you lived a full and beautiful life; you saw and did a great many things; you touched the hearts and minds of many people; it's your time. For some people, it isn't, and we are all lucky to have had you in our lives, and that you had a long one. But we are at the end of it, and we must say our goodbyes.

I love you, Mimi; I always will love you and think of you every time I play music or sing or write. I hope you're listening because I will always be playing for you.

Love Always,
Your Granddaughter,
Kayla.

2010: Condensed

It began in a cinema. Stuck in Texas on New Years 2010, I spent my evening watching Sherlock Holmes with my mother. Incredible as the movie was, it was a fairly depressing start to my year, with the knowledge that most of my friends were out partying. The rest of my year, it goes without saying, was considerably more eventful...

JANUARY

Like the nerd that I am, the highlight of this month was meeting Alex Day and Charlie McDonnell for the first time. Better known by their YouTube aliases of Nerimon and Charlieissocoollike, they are possibly two of the coolest geeks on the planet, and amongst other feats have invented the music genre "trock" (time lord rock, for Doctor Who fans), attempted to make it to the top of the UK music charts, dyed their hair ridiculous colours and have occasionally spent time just sitting there looking pretty. In January 2010, my best friend Pixie and I travelled up to Covent Garden to partake in the making of an original Alex-and-Charlie music video, and to meet the two in person. Charlie, known to be the better looking of the two, was bombarded with squealing fan girls, thrusting slips of paper at him in the hopes of getting his autograph. More of an Alex Day fan myself, I swooned over the adorable grin and witty banter of the man himself... And then returned to Pixie's afterwards for a pleasant girls' night in.

FEBRUARY

As Kerrang! magazine readers will know, every February, Relentless energy drink sponsors the magazine's UK gig tour. With All Time Low headlining, I immediately bought tickets for myself and friends. On the day, we all stood in the queue for five hours, and it was more than worth the wait. Having met a whole group of new friends, and sporting rather a lot of neon paint, we rocked out to the sounds of My Passion and Young Guns before screaming our heads off for the main acts. Losing my voice, my energy and perhaps my dignity was entirely worth it for the great bands and my new friends.

MARCH

If not the best part of my month, Retro-Physical was certainly the most interesting. The day after moving in with my dad, I attended one of the most out-of-hand parties the world has ever seen. Attempting to squeeze some two hundred people into a normal-sized house was risky enough, without adding alcohol, drugs and skimpy clothing to the mix. The first thing to be stolen, strangely enough, was the host's ten-year-old brother, and the next morning, still slightly inebriated, the host found almost all the food in his kitchen to be missing too...

APRIL

As most Jewish festivals go, in biblical times someone tried to kill us, in the end we won, the attempted murderer was hanged, and the only way to celebrate was with rather a lot of food and alcohol. Purim is no different, although for some reason in addition to getting very drunk and very fat, we must also look very silly while we do it. This year I trudged into school dressed as "The Runaway Bride," wearing a wedding-esque dress, trainers, and carrying a hitch-hiker's  knapsack. Amongst the best costumes were Pac-Man and Inky, a lego brick, a Facebook wall, the Seven Deadly Sins, and a she-male. Every year the science department groups together for their costumes, and this year did not disappoint, as all were dressed as fairy-tale characters, the hottest teacher of course dressed as Prince Charming...

MAY

I think it goes without saying that the best part of this month was my sixteenth birthday, which was one of the best weekends of my entire life. The day of my birthday was also the last day of school before study leave, after which my entire year group traipsed to Stonegrove Park for the annual year eleven egg-and-flower fight. Afterwards, Pixie and my other best friend Kermit trudged, absolutely covered in everything from mayonnaise to smashed plums, back to mine for dinner (after showering of course, although it took about a week for all the traces of the fight to disappear). The next day was spent chasing all of my friends around the town centre in a vicious game of  Assassins, and then returned to Stonegrove for a lovely picnic. Altogether, the best birthday since my fifth.

JUNE

To celebrate finishing my GCSE exams and his AS Levels, my friend JB and I went to see what I still describe as the best gig I have ever been to. My favourite band since I was ten, Green Day played the Wembley Stadium as part of their 21st Century Breakdown tour. Supported by Frank Turner and Joan Jett, it was one of the best moments of my year, if not my life, and I was mind-blowingly impresessed with the audience interaction and simply the way the band enjoyed themselves onstage. My love for this band goes so far as the fact that I nearly cried when Billie Joe Armstrong, sitting alone at the front of the stage with an acoustic guitar, said "Some of my favourite bands have split up... Some of my favourite musicians have died... But I swear to God, the only way I'm getting out of this band is when they roll me onstage in a fucking coffin."

JULY

It is difficult to choose one moment of the summer as my favourite, but one of the most memorable is definitely the Ben n' Jerry's Sundae Festival, where I paid a mere £15  for free ice cream all day, fairground rides, fun stalls and live music, with Scouting for Girls headlining! It was a fun day all in all, with crazy golf, mechanical pig racing, sack races and a helter skelter... Definitely in my book for next year!

AUGUST

Every two years, my mother's best friend Robbi hosts a family-and-friends reunion, something I always look forward to, as not only do I spend one week with people I love but hardly see, but it is hosted at the Rocky Mountain YMCA in Colorado, my favourite place in the world. One of the other groups staying at the YMCA was the East High Band Camp, and my love for all seven American Pie films had more than prepared me for such a situation... But the various band members had, unsurprisingly, heard it all before...

SEPTEMBER

I have taken part in every school play available, but I have never had the opportunity to broaden my horizons and audition for something more professional... until now. In the week before starting Sixth  Form, I attended a series of auditions for the MakeBelieve charity production of Fame! the musical. It was a long shot, but I made it through my first singing audition, and then, somehow, with my two left feet, got through the dance audition as well. My third audition got me through to the ensemble cast, and I was ecstatic at my own achievement. Unfortunately, the burden of school work coupled with the school play, and the fact that I need both a social life and enough sleep to function, dictated that I could not, in the end, take part.

OCTOBER

Need I say it? At the adult end of our teen years, Pixie and I were desperate to relive our childhood this Hallowe'en, with the only tradition we knew: trick-or-treating. So, with a group of our closest friends, we dressed up as various spooky creatures and characters, and ran around the streets of Finchley; cackling, scaring children, and begging strangers for candy.

NOVEMBER
Although it may not be evident for the English, there is a holiday between Hallowe'en and Christmas. My favourite of all Hallmark moments... Thanksgiving. As always, my mother and I hosted our annual Thanksgiving dinner, and invited various Americans, family friends, along with Pixie and Kermit. A night of laughs, stories, and enough food to feed an army (and their enemies). And what was I thankful for this year? Well... scroll up.

DECEMBER

Without a doubt, the best part of the last part of my year was Limmud Conference. In its thirtieth year, this festival of learning, spirit and mind-blowing atmosphere was better than it has ever been before. The sessions I attended ranged from a lecture on Evangelic Christian beliefs on Rapture, a panel debate on Israel vs. The Diaspora, and midnight jams with The Hoff. And when I wasn't in sessions, I was constantly meeting new people, playing and listening to music, drinking coffee, and generally having the time of my life.

NEW YEARS EVE...
My 2011 began standing in the middle of a suburban street in Borehamwood, staring up at the fireworks, and a stream of beautiful Chinese lanterns blinking in the darkness of the night. Surrounded by friends and drunk with the euphoria of New Years eve, I wondered what the following year would bring...