I LIVE BETWEEN CONCRETE WALLS

Bought some new books (sorry Mother, I can practically hear your voice going "Juliaaa! How will we get all of these books home?" But I did give away six! Which, now that I think about it, doesn't really help me; if I gave away six, how come there's still thirteen here? Never mind...):

Sylvia Plath - The bell jar
Elfriede Jelinek - The piano teacher
A.S. Byatt - Possession

Mom and Dad, simply because I miss you and I love you. So young, so happening! Now you're oldies but goldies.

AS LONG AS YOU PLACE ME AMONGST ONE OF THEM GREATS, WHEN I HIT THE HEAVENLY GATES I'LL BE COOL BESIDE JAY-Z

More of my writing, from CotMWM:

"Once I went to a festival with Avery and his friends. It was a decision made on the spur of the moment, born out of boredom; I had just returned from four days in the archipelago, where I had been staying with a boy I used to date once upon a time. Four blissful days in the sun, swimming, talking about literature and drinking absinthe. They had been nice, but I needed some pulse, some people, some light. So when Avery asked me along, offering me a ticket that his brother had declined, I said yes.

When we were driving to the festival, we rolled down the windows, put our heads out and blew smoke rings. The stereo was pumping out the latest, obscure indie music. I didn't say much; I felt too much of a clichéd twentysomething to be able to comfortably join the conversation which (naturally and inevitably) had turned to drugs and travelling. I had nothing to add in the drugs department; unless they wanted to hear about taking cough syrup to fall asleep faster or taking Zoloft in order to alleviate depression, my opinion was irrelevant. And travelling: there is nothing as boring as having to listen to other people's travelling stories. It's even boring to tell them; you can never do them justice and pictures show nothing. That's why I rarely take pictures when in another country. I end up only remembering these forced images of my trip instead of what really happened. So I just sat there, watched the clear, blue sky and tried to allow myself to feel just as young as I actually was without hiding behind a protective shield of irony. It didn't work. I began to regret coming along at all, thinking about my bed at home and the books still waiting to be read and written."

-The creativity of the mess we make, Julia Melin

Finished reading Dead famous yesterday, reading Cat's eye by Margaret Atwood now.

Borrowed Extras from Ramona, and I have to say, Ricky Gervais is a genius. I wasn't sure he could top The office (and he can't) but it's still amazing. Although I keep turning away from the TV in shame when Andy (Gervais' character) does or says something horrible which is all the time, although this character is much more likable than David Brent from The office who I ended up loving in the end anyway, especially when he finally told Finchey to fuck off. And Stephen Merchant is brilliant.

CRUISING MED LOW-LIFESEN

Haha, Dead famous is so funny. It's so spot-on, all those "It's, like, totally wicked. I'm like, so loving this at the moment" sentences. I can't really stand Ben Elton as he seems to be one of the single-handedly most annoying guys on this planet, but he is a very good writer when it comes to observing today's uninspired youth.

UPDATE
Haha, OK, am I a child of my generation or what? I just spent 30 minutes watching clips from my favourite season of Big brother on youtube (Dead famous is about a similar TV show). Note: a) I just spent half an hour watching 4 minute long clips of people who either fight, get drunk, lounge on the couch for an obscene amount of time, eat crisps, stare idly into space or do all of the above at the same time, b) I found this amusing and intend to watch more clips, c) I did all this while lounging on the couch, eating crisps and d) I have a favourite season of Big brother. Should I get the gun now or...? (But hey, it was like totally awesome, you know?)

IT WILL, IN ALL LIKELIHOOD, BE A STRUGGLE FOR A CHILLINGLY LONG TIME, "IT" BEING LIFE, THE ONE WORD THAT IS UNIDENTIFIABLE IN ITS PUREST FORM

So, it's been a long time since I posted anything from CotMWM here. So I'll post some different paragraphs/excerpts OK? I can spot a few mistakes, but I'm way too tired to bother with correcting them.

"The cocktail of emotions made my stomach turn. I went to the bathroom to throw up but leaning over the bowl, nothing happened. Nothing ever happens. So I just sat on the floor for a while, reading the messages and graffiti written across the walls, but they were meaningless or meant something but not much. I considered adding something to it but couldn’t think of anything that would be significant to me in a year’s time. It was both reassuring and frustrating; if what I was doing now would not matter in twelve months time, why the fuck was I spending so much time worrying about my life? Why did I stumble out of pubs and clubs, why was I heartbroken? To pass the time was the answer. What else? I pulled myself up from the floor, making sure I didn’t touch the toilet or the weird-looking specs (blood? Semen? In this seedy excuse for a decent pub nothing was impossible) and unlocked the door. Three girls were standing outside, waiting in line, not talking although they seemed to be friends. I didn’t have the energy to figure out their relationships to each other or why they all kept busy on their cell phones while sending each other glares that plainly wished for the others to go to hell. Probably boys, I thought while washing my hands. It’s always boys. How predictable."

-The creativity of the mess we make, Julia Melin

I LIKE TO THINK OF BUNGEE JUMPING AS SUICIDE FOR INDECISIVE PEOPLE

Books I hope to get for Christmas:

Norman Mailer - The executioner's song
A.M. Homes - Music for torching
David Cullen - Columbine

ASSAULTIVE IN ITS INSISTENCE THAT "DREAMS HAVE NO BOUNDARIES" AND OTHER SENTIMENTS THAT EVEN HALLMARK WOULD REJECT AS TOO FUCKING MUCH

Bought Dead famous by Ben Elton today at Oxfam. I've read if before and thought it was quite good, but didn't want to pay too much for it; 2.99 seemed reasonable. I went to London yesterday but didn't go to Waterstone's. Needed to save the money. See, even Julia knows how to be a hustlin honey when she has to be.

I'm not really in a reading mood at the moment. Think it might be a combination of just having three weeks left in Cambridge so I really just try to hang out with my classmates as much as possible and The shield. For some reason, if I'm really into a TV show I never read and vice versa.

Don't really have anything to say. In all honesty, my life is currently mind-bogglingly boring. All I've done today is listen to La Roux and smoke. See, while waiting for my glory days to come, I'll sing a song.

GONNA CATCH THAT PLANE AND FLY JUST TO GET AWAY FROM THAT COCKSUCKER, MOTHERFUCKER DARKENING MY MIND

"Ghosts? Sure.
I know all about ghosts."

The green mile - Stephen King

A CLICHÉ IS JUST ANOTHER WORD FOR PEOPLE EXPERIENCING SOMETHING HONEST

One of my favourite authors, Bodil Malmsten, writes a lot about The Shield in two of her books, Hör bara hur ditt hjärta bultar i mig (loose translation: Just listen to how your heart beats in me) and Kom och hälsa på mig om tusen år (translation: Come and visit me in a thousand years). The books are about the time she lived in France, the country, her life, her garden, her neighbours. They are both pleasant and heartbreaking. Anyway, I brought this up to show you I'm in excellent company as far as my love for The Shield goes. It appeals to everyone, from the 20-year-olds to the 65-year-olds.

Finished reading Michael Collins' The secret life of E. Robert Pendleton yesterday. I don't know what I think about it, it wasn't as good as I thought it was. Got pretty boring at the end. Anyhoo, reading The green mile now.

ONE HAND DON'T KNOW WHO THE OTHER HAND'S STABBING

OK, I can't believe I still haven't finished The secret life E. Robert Pendleton; can't remember the last time it took me this long to finish a book. However, I think my The shield obsession is to blame; I've been too busy drooling over Shane Vendrell to be bothered with picking up a book. However, won't buy season 7 as everything is getting so sad so will have time to read.

Anyway, bought Stephen King's The green mile yesterday. I've read it before but that was a long time ago. People seem to have so many different opinions on whether he is a bad writer or not (critics think he is, the public begs to differ) but regardless, he's a great storyteller and sometimes that's all I ask for.

If you want to read some more on this:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_King#Critical_response

This is pretty interesting:
"Some in the literary community expressed disapproval of the award: Richard Snyder, the former CEO of Simon & Schuster, described King's work as "non-literature", and critic Harold Bloom denounced the choice:

"The decision to give the National Book Foundation's annual award for "distinguished contribution" to Stephen King is extraordinary, another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life. I've described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind. He shares nothing with Edgar Allan Poe. What he is is an immensely inadequate writer on a sentence-by-sentence, paragraph-by-paragraph, book-by-book basis.""

OH, AND SHE INEXPLICABLY MAILS ME A CACTUS EVERY VALENTINE'S DAY

Today I fell in love with a guy at a café. He was the cutest guy I've ever seen, all sparkling blue eyes, brown hair, dorky hat. He was there with his girlfriend and he seriously couldn't keep his eyes of her and man, it was so adorable! Made me wish we could switch places. After I had seen him, I was happy all day haha. Funny that, how complete strangers can evoke (invoke?) these feelings in you by just merely existing. Like Vince says in Queer as folk; "Sometimes you see these men and you think, that's it. That's him! He doesn't even know you exist, but you think about that man for the rest of your life." Or something along those lines.

I stopped reading Peyton place and went for The secret life of E. Robert Pendleton by Michael Collins instead. It's good, not one of those books that will stick in your memory forever, but it's entertaining for the moment. The Times wrote this about it: "This excellent novel draws on several genres - the campus novel, the rival-novelists novel, the classic crime novel - to make something unique" while Waterstone's Books Quarterly said it gave "a nod to both Donna Tartt and Stephen King" and I couldn't agree more. I love campus novels as well, like Curtis Sittenfeld's Prep and Tom Wolfe's I am Charlotte Simmons. That all-American campus life has always appealed to me.

Oh, and by the way, I just got the mock exams we did last week for the Proficiency class back and I had 85 % on the Reading exam and 96.5 % on the Listening exam. Seriously, just soak up the awesomeness that is your friend Julia. Just do it!

And also to update you on my The shield obsession: bought season 5 yesterday and have two episodes left. Um...

AND I'M LIKE, THANKS A HEAP COYOTE UGLY. THIS CACTUS-GRAM STINGS EVEN WORSE THAN YOUR ABANDONMENT

I'm sick. Seriously, since I came to England I've been sick so many times I've lost count. Probably the air. The cold (although, I come from Sweden; cold shouldn't be a problem for me). Anyway, this past week has been great even though I haven't bought any new books (bought season 4 of The shield instead). I really can't buy any more books though, 'cause I won't be able to get them all home. But, since I can't buy books for myself I'm gonna buy books for the children of my host family. You know, like Christmas presents as well as good-bye gifts.

So I'm thinking, for the nine-year-old: Ronia the Robber's daughter by Astrid Lindgren as you obviously need to own something by Astrid Lindgren at some point. And also, because Astrid Lindgren is awesome; my favourite character was always Emil (as in Emil of Lönneberga). Still love those stories and oh my God, the music! Epic. Anyway, for the three-year-old I plan to buy Where the wild things are by Maurice Sendak because it's such a lovely book. I think I might have been two years older or something when I was obsessed with it, but still. I actually cried when I saw the movie trailer for it (I know! But hey, nothing beats nostalgia.) So yes, conclusion: if I can't buy books for myself, you better believe I'll find someone to buy them for! Haha.

Some epic music from Emil of Lönneberga (the accent is awesome):

THOSE OLD PIOUS SISTERS WERE RIGHT; THE WORST PART IS OVER, NOW GET BACK ON THAT HORSE AND RIDE

I'm incredibly tired but unfortunately for me, I have homework to do. I'm reading Peyton place right now but haven't gotten so far. Seems like a really good book though.

Anyway, listened to The Shins today and their song Turn on me sorta sums up what CotMWM is about pretty nicely, especially this part:

"'Cause you had it in for me so long ago, boy, I still don't know, I don't know why and I don't care... well, hardly anymore. If you'd only seen yourself hating me, when I'd been so much more than fair."

And also, Australia by the same band.

When I write CotMWM, I have to revisit old times, old wounds, old loves of mine. But it's not painful at all; somehow it's fine, it's not even nostalgic. It just needs to be done. And when working on CotMWM, I realise that, even though liking these different boys sometimes sucked, I'm really happy I at some point did. Not only because they are awesome writing material haha, but because it was nice to have them in my life. So thanks boys I've been in love with and don't know anymore; thanks boys I've been in love with who later turned out to be great friends; you were all pretty awesome (well...). Haha, no. And you really are pretty great writing material even though I never explicitly write about you. I write about me, or someone like me (write what you know eh?). As Margaret Drabble once put it:

"I meant to keep myself out of this story, which is a laugh, really, I agree: I see however that in failing to disclose certain facts I make myself out be some sort of voyeuse, and I am too vain to leave anyone with the impression that the lives of others interest me more than my own."

"Just as we cannot think of spatial objects at all apart from space, or temporal objects apart from time, so we cannot think of any objects apart from the possibility of its connexion with other things."

Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus - Ludwig Wittgenstein

PORNOGRAPHY IS THE THEORY; RAPE IS THE PRACTICE

Apparently, it was Halloween yesterday. I saw more girls dressed in Playboy bunny suits and cat suits than I've seen in my entire life. The boys accompanying these girls did - surprise, surprise - not have any costumes on whatsoever, but were dressed the way they normally are. Honestly, being a girl and being heterosexual makes me depressed sometimes. Especially here in England because man, do the boys and men of this country seem to view girls in a pretty weird (and despicable) way. Without writing too much about it (this is, after all, a blog that's supposed to be about books), we were discussing prostitution, strip clubs, porn and feminism in one of our lessons this week and my teacher's thoughts on that stuff... Jesus Christ. (Note: I'm not judging all English guys based on my teacher. Of course not! I'm judging them by how guys act when I've been out and the way I've heard English boys talk as well. Haha.) Anyway; disregard this paragraph (or, you know, shape up). There are (probably) nice (English and otherwise) boys out there. I've just had a bad week with the male population of the world.

Now, to get to books-related topics: Finished reading The end of Alice two days ago and bought three new books yesterday:

Michael Collins - The secret life of E. Robert Pendleton
Grace Metalious - Peyton place
Alice Sebold - The lovely bones

Was thinking about buying The informers by Bret Easton Ellis as that is the only book by him I haven't read, but seriously, I don't like his writing anyway. I flicked through The informers in the shop, reading a paragraph or two here and there, and all I could see was yet another book about a bunch of self-obsessed, boring cokeheads who should just grow up, cut their hair and get a job. It seemed to me to be exactly like Rules of attraction which basically is a book about five people taking drugs and forgetting the names of the people they sleep with. I read it and was like "Am I supposed to, in any way whatsoever, care about these people?" I have the same relationship with Bret Easton Ellis as I have with Chuck Palahniuk; I buy the books, I read them, I hate them. Just routine. But nowadays I can't even read them; one more book about drugs, London, blow jobs and coke-binges, and I might just vomit out of sheer boredom.