The Last Unicorn plea for help
Have you ever read "The Last Unicorn" by Peter S. Beagle?
Have you ever seen the animated feature?
Heard the music?
Dreamed of unicorns galloping the foamy crests of waves?


Do you know the author has not received a dime from his work?


Browsing the net I came upon this:
www.the-last-unicorn.net


Excited that there was a movie project, I went to check whom was the producer, there were non in the credits.


So I went to google and found this in Wikipedia:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Unicorn
# 4 New film development


And inside I read that the Author Peter S. is currently in a public conflict with Granada International, successor to ITC Entertainment, seeking to be paid what he is contractually owed for the 1982 film from these sales, other distribution, and merchandising.


From there I went here:
www.peterbeagle.com


And finally here:


www.conlanpress.com/youcanhelp/


I couldn't believe that one of my favorite author has have such a hard time.


Please go read this:
www.conlanpress.com/ht····eak.html


And help to spread the word.

I'm writing an essay called 'Pavlov's Dogs', either to use for a later univeristy task or perhaps to submit to a suitable newspaper or magazine for publication. It centres on the youth culture of today, the current trends of 'tribalism', the impact of the war on terror, globalizaton, mass media, realiy tv etc. I just want to get some opinions on people to see if what I'm writing has any credibility to it. Rest assured, I would never use a direct quote without first contacted the person and asking for permission. I really want to want to know what 'tribe' (for want of a better word) you think you belong to - goth, emo, hippy, ned(chav for those who are English) Metal-head etc. Why? What does it mean to you? Do you even like being classed in such a way? How do you think the general public views you? How do you view yourself? Anything you think you need to express about yourself or your chosen livestyle, just message me.

I went to the beach today. All my friends are away at Download, so I hopped on a train, then a bus, then a taxi and went to the beach down at West Kilbride. I haven't been there in years. There are housed built up nearly to the shore now, and the beach itself was packed with people soaking up the sun. Still, if you walk far enough there is still isloated areas. I found where I'd played hide and seek with my brother as a child, stowed my bag (containing my usual 6 or 7 notebooks) in a hollow in the rocks and went for a swim.

There really is nothing quite like swimming in the sea. I learned to swim in salt water years before I could in a chlorine pool. I've never been afraid of it. I swam as far out as I used to, to where I could see the seals flitting about in the deeper water ahead of me. Once, about ten years ago now I suppose (that makes me feel so old), I swam too far, and came face to face with one of them. It looked at me, and I at it, hanging in the water not daring to move, that is, until I needed to breathe. I surfaced, and it swam around me, poking it's head out of the water, scrutinaizing me with it's endless black gaze. Then I dived under and swam full throttle for land, knowing my mum would be in hysterics if she saw me so close to a wild animal (that incident at Edinburgh Zoo with the tiger was proof enough of that). Still, it was nice to watch them today, they're so full of spirit, a joy to behold.

I stayed in the water for what must have been a long time, cartwheeling with the waves, weaving and dancing just above the sand. When ever I'm in the sea, I always get songs spinning round inside my mind. This time, it was Tale as old as Time from Beauty and the Beast, quite a lot from The Little Mermaid, serveral Smashing Pumpkins songs, Doro Pesch and some random old songs I only half-remember from my childhood. It was fantastic, rising and fallling with the pulse of the water. In school, when I carried far too much weight, I used to dream about being an aquatic creature. It's the nearest thing I suppose I will ever get to flying. I can do anything in the water without fear of injury with a grace and ease i will never feel on land, and most wouldn't think it to look at me, but I'm an excellent high diver. Shame it wasn't possible to dive at the beach. There aren't any cliffs there. It's odd, but as I've already said, I'm never afraid in the sea. There's never any feeling of being desperate for air, I never feel overwhelled by waves or currents. I simply relax and go with them. If I need to get back to shore in a hurry I simply dive to the bottom and speed over the sand. I always kind of felt like the sea was a caring being, almost like a mother, making sure I was never hurt. Though I suppose if I ever was in the open ocean, or somewhere known for man-eating sharks, I would feel a little different.

I got out of the water when it was beginnning to chill, and sat on the beach to dry off as the sun was going down (I'd forgotten a towel, but I don't really care what I forget so long as I have enough notebooks). The sun was bright red, and the clouds hit by the firey glow cast shadows across the sky. I'd never seen that before. I wrote in various books until I was dry enough to get dressed. Then, I walked up from the beach to the nearest 'Little Chef'-ish place, bought myself dinner and ordered a taxi to the nearest train station. And I got back just in time for Dr Who. Not bad, certainly better than spedning £140 for Download. Even if all my friends are there, I wouldn't want to spend all that time and money on a lineup I really don't want to see.

Yesterday was a great day. I never expected it to be, as I had to wake up at 5:30 to get to my journalism exam on time. The exam itself was alright, got to question the values of mass media and have an angry rant at reality TV.

Afterwards, everyone said they were either going to the library, or to the bar in the union. Niether of which appealed to me, as for once we had a beautiful sunny day in my rainy little country. My parents were in London, my brother organising a gig, I had no reason to return home, so I decided to take a walk up to Kelvingrove Park.

I love when the waether's good in the city, it brings out all the buskers. Street painters, jazz muicians, the bagpipe -african drums combo, singers, magicians, jugglers. It's like the city has a whole new life in the sunshine. I stopped off at Waterstones to get a couple new books, and bought a new sketchbook and watercolour pencils from WHSmith. Outside, there was a band singing 'Country Roads.' Anyone who already knows my taste in film will immediately know that the Whisper of the Heart version of the song was caught in my head for the rest of the day. Which, as it put me in an even better mood, I thought deserved my loose change, so I emptyed the contents of my pocket into the guitar case and went on my way.

So, off I went up Sauchiehall street, with the tune running around in my head. I bought a balloon off a clown because it was in the shape of a fairy, and tied the string to my bracelt so it wouldn't fly off. When I finally got to the park, I saw to my delight that the swings were completely disserted. So, being the incredibly mature 18 year old girl I am, I grabbed one and started to see how high I could go.

Once I was thoroughly exhausted (about an hour in, what can I say, I love the swings), I collasped on a bench that was mercifully in the shade, pulled out my new sketchbook and began breaking it in. The film version of country roads was still in my head, and without realising it, beagn humming it, then singing. I nearly had a heart attack when I heard music coming from the other side of the hedge. Violin music. I stopped singing and peered over the hedge. There was girl on the otherside, very pretty with dark skin, black hair and long slender limbs (so obviously there was a slight pang of jelousy, but it passed in a millisecond), with her violin at he chin.
"Well," She said, looking very annoyed "Are we doing the song or not?"
So, I clambered over the hedge and landed in the flower bed (less gracefully than my pride liked), still trailing my fairy balloon and my new books.
She started playing again, and I started singing an clapping out the rythm.
When we'd finshed, she told me it had been good, not great. We needed all the other instruments.

We walked around the park, and I threw my uneating sandwhiches to the ducks. It transpired she also knew the March of the Sinister Ducks, and wouldn't be satisfied until she had sang all of it, to the bewliderment of the old age pensioners taking an afternoon strool. We talked about university. She was doing maths and said it was an easy skive course. I replied that english was the true skive course. For in maths, you have to have the correct answer, english mearly requires clever sounding bullshit padded out to a four page essay. Like my theory on the varying realties of fiction. After listening to all my crackpot hypothosis, she asked why I didn't do philosophy. I told her it took itself too seriously, English you can have a bit of fun with, everybody knows it's mostly waffle.

When the van came round I bought us ice-cream and she got in the Irn Bru. We talked about coursework, the easy days of highschool, friends, family, how hard it was to get good world cinema or any music that wasn't emo, exams, drawing, music, writing, whether or not ghosts were real, the annoyences of romance, holiday plans and what we'd like the future to be like. Then I saw it was getting late, so we walked off to the bus stop outside the museam, She went off one way, and I went the other. It was only when I was sprawled out on the back seat of the bus, with my sketchbook on my belly, the ballon dancing crazily over my head and a bottle of slightly warm irn bru pressed against my lips that I realised I didn't know her name. Shit.

Still, It was a great day.

Ever feel so apart from the people you love, that it freezes you to the core?

My father is tearing into my brother because he's dropped out of college for the third time. My mother is sobbing and pleading him to stop. Owen's taking it in his usual cool way, though his nerve is starting to wane. And just like when I was a child, I sit and listen at the top of the stairs, hardly daring to breathe.

The words 'fucking fantasist' have come up several times. I wonder, does my father see me in the same way? I have my dreams, I want so badly to succeed in the arts. I know I don't have the looks for acting, and nobody would train me anyway, but God, I miss it so much. My parents ignored the letter my drama teacher sent them, the one where she implored them to support me in it. She believed in me didn't she? Or did she just pity me? And now, I'm so terrified of trying to go back to it. But christ, the examiner couldn't tell me apart from those who had been trained thier whole lives. He couldn't, he looked surprised when I told him how I'd never had thier chance.

God, it's not fair. Why couldn't I have had those chances? I asked, I begged as a child, but my parents where always working, and I had to spend every day locked in a house with an old soldier and a women with degenerative demensia. I couldn't sing without annoying the neighbour upstairs, I couldn't play-act without my grandfather giving me some military lecture, I couldn't dance without my grnadmother taking her cane to me I so wanted to dance, and sing, and act. But I never got the chance.

But, I have my writing, and through that I could get back to that world, be part of it again. Even if it's only in the shadows, at least I'd be near the limelight. Besides, I have three stories that I know will be great novels. They need an emense amount of work. But I'll fight tooth and nail for them. I HAVE to write, it contains everything that i am.

I'll bet my father thinks it's a silly dream, but I'm not as blind as my brother. He can get by with luck, personality and looks for now. But it won't last. I'm going to stick in at university, expanding my knowledge and bettering myself. I'm going to work like a dog over summer, so I'm in a realistic position to follow my dream. And I'm going to take it. I never had the chances I so longed for when I was young, but I'm not going to spend all my time moping and lose the ones I have now.

I think I'm the only person to be this chilled out during exam time. My friends are all running around like headless chickens and I spend my time my garden blowing bubbles and watching butterflies. I'm in the third day of my 5 day creative writing exam and I still haven't finished the story, but I can't get worked up about it. I'll probably end up doing it at the last minute.

I have a grand master plan for summer. Finish exams on the 18th of May, get a job on the 19th. Save money all summer, partly for the 'Great Euro Adventure' as my friends call it (apparently it's a test for the 'Great Yankie Road Trip'), and partly so I won't be broke next year. I'm going to write like a girl possessed, well moreso than normal, and probably get stressed to the eyeballs. It'll be worth it in the end though.

The only slight hiccup in this plan could be my friends', and my mother's, constant schemes to fix me up with someone. At least Pauline understands. Who the hell could withstand a relationship with me? We had such a laugh about it over ice cream on friday. She says I'd turn a sane man emo in a week. What a horror to unlease on the world! Now, all I have to do is make the others understand.

Still have no idea what to get my brother for his birthday. Maybe if I could find him a toy meerkat. He say's they're 'well metal beasts.' Anyone know where I can get toy meerkats?

I have made, what is for me, a monumental decision. I have decided to stop writing my book, for now. Many writers would look upon me with distain for such a decision, but I truely believe it is for the best.

The major problem is, I am never satisfied with the end result. The story I have to write had been in my mind in some for or another since I was 6 years old. I know there is something good in the idea, but it's shrouded in all my old ideas and childish cliches. I have to seperate the real gems from the rocks.

I'm going to spend a hefty chunk of my summer holiday in research. There are aspects of the book which are beyond my knowledge. Places and cultures which, at only 18, I have not seen. I cannot do the story justice without first grounding it in a solid foundation.

I have to sort out the characters. Why is the villian evil? Is he all that evil at all? Is such and such a character too 2-dimensional? Is this chapter really crucial to the plot? Does the plot have enough fact? Does it have enough heart? All I know for sure I finally have right are the beginning and the end. The ending, from what I have read, and from others whom I have told it to have said, breaks the last rule of fantasy writing. I cannot allow such a thing to be swamped by confusion and bad expression.

Why am I writing it at all? I haven't ever given that any thought. Normally I just write, I never question it. That's fine for some stories, but not this one (well two). I have to know it inside and out, then I have to get my heart back into it. I yearn for the days went I would be up to four in the morning scribbling away. But I can't rely merely on the exuberance of youth. Not anymore, not if I want to make this my best peice of work.

All I know for sure is, if I hurry this, and it is shown to the world, and years later I look upon it's failings, growing to hate it more and more every day, it will be the single greatest regret of my life.

Tonight was the first time I have stepped foot in a church in years. It still makes my skin crawl. My grandfather will lie in there until the funeral tommorow. I heard everyone telling me that I must have so many happy memories of him, because he always loved to tell stories. I heard my brother and my cousins telling eachother of all the great times they had, how funny he was, those fantastic stories. I feel cheated. I was the one who was there for him when he was dying, I helped my mother care for him in his old age, I pushed his wheelchair when he could no longer walk, and he barely ever said a word to me.

What was it about me that rendered me unfit for his attention? Why was I the only girl he never called sweetheart? Was it the way I looked or my personality? I don't understand why he would lavish attention on his other grandchildren and yet bearly look at me.

Maybe, in the end, he felt cheated too, by the time he could have opened up to me it was too late. I'd given up on ever expecting him to love me. Now I guess I'll never know. I did right by him anyway, treated him with the care and respect he deserved, and I can't expect any more from him or myself.

He died at 6 am today. It was better for him I'm sure.

I am fed up with emo kids. Right now I don't care if I offend them. All their whining, 'I want to die' 'Let me die now' 'I haven't found a true love by my 14th birthday therefore I might as well be dead.' WILL YOU JUST SHUT THE FUCK UP (or at least don't bother me about it, and while I'm at it - keep your shitty music away from my ears)!!!!

Every emo kid I meet seems to be middle class with a free access to thier parents bank account. They're only problem seems to be believeing the world should revolve around them! Jesus fucking Christ - I never meet anyone - well get out of your bloody room you fuckwit. Everyone made fun of me in highschool - your not in highschool anymore, move on. I don't have a boyfirend/girlfriend - hardly surprising if all you do is whine. Besides if you expect one person to solve all your problems your fucked from square one.

Worst is those people who moan about cutting and suicide. I know for a fact your lying you fuckers. People really suffering from depression want no-one to find out, and they want to get over it, not tell everyone in sight in a vain attempt to get some attention. God, not even twenty and already wanting to die (unless you've had serious problems, and I mean SERIOUS here, not going to a school dance by yourself or listening to pish music in your room at all hours) then just shut the fuck up. I've seen people die, I've held thier hand as they've gone. Death is not a fucking fashion statement! God almighty! One emo kid asked my friend to go to her birthday party 'cause, you know, it could be my last considering my depression'.

If you have problems, solve them, don't moan and expect someone else to make everything better. If you need money, get a job, if you want to better yourself go to university, if you hate your parents move out. It's your life, do it yourself. And for Christ's sake, don't come to me with your pathetic little attention seeking fashionable depression! I am sick of being nice to you fuckers. Don't come up to me after fucking lectures and follow me round like a lost puppy, begging for my advice because I look so damn interesting. Don't start inane conversations about how you were traumatised by loosing a toy when you were six. Either say something worth saying (it can be intelligent or fabulously fucking stupid, but make it worth the breath) or say nothing at all. AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD DON"T TELL ME ALL YOUR PITIFUL LITTLE PROBLEMS. I know what real bullying is, I've seen it, lived through it and stopped it happening to others (not by whining either, by taking god-damned action). I know what pain is, my mother is a nurse for gods sake, I've seen people with diseases you don't want to know exist. Just today I heard a 80 year old man crying for his mummy because he was so afraid of the halluncinations he sees 24 hours a day. So don't come to me and tell me your going to jump under a train because you lost your favourite CD. Right now I AM NOT IN THE FUCKING MOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My grandfather is dying. He's an 90 year old former soldier and army diver. He fought in world war two, and afterwards served in Palenstien, the Mediterrianian, Canada, The Soviet Union, various countries in Africa and he other places I can't recall at the moment. He never smoked, swam and ran at cometeting level, always focused on health, except for when he ate fish and chips, I suppose they were his weakness. The British military wouldn't let him die in Eskine Hospital like any other deserving verteran, why? Because cancer spread to his bowls and bladder and they valued the new carpet more than the dignity and rights of a man who gave up seeing his children grow in order to sevre his country. It's enough to make anyone loose faith in the millitary.

I don't think I've ever had a full conversation with my grandfather. He and I are too different, he's a soldier while I embrace the arts. He loved order, and never understood children. Spending so much time being looked after by him in childhood seemed to open a gap between us, and niether of us ever knew how to close it. He always prefered his son and grandson's anyway. That's what my mother and aunts say. They say it as a joke, but unlike me they've never had any acting training, and the pain can be seen in the back of their eyes.

The hospital he is in is a discrace. The RAH. The walls are faded beige, the floors vomit green linoliem. There aren't enough cleaners, the nurses don't know one patient from another and there is a man a view rooms down from my grandfather who is constantly plaqued by horrendous hallucinations. No one has thought to give him a sedative. He calls out "mummy" and occasionally "daddy", he wants to be saved. I'm not surpised they've done nothing for him. My mum and aunt (both nurses themselves, though not in that hosiptal) had to take it upon themselves to empty the catheter, update the medical charts and rub oil onto his feet.

The room is awful. The curtains are odd, the walls are the same colour as the moldy sweetcorn I found in the back of the fridge last week. The only flowers are half dead and hidden on the window behind a curtain. The radio doesn't work, but ti's constantly left on with the static buzzing. The sheets, pillows and duvet all are covered in plastic, practicallity over comfort for the dying. Worse is the mirror. It's cruel to place a mirror right before the eyes of a dying man, especially my grandfather. He was such a strong man in his youth, from the few photo's I've seen, he looked like a film star of the day, with his typical pre-welfare-state teeth the only thing marring the illusion. He always took great pride in his appearence, and though such precision hasn't been passed through the generations to me, I understand how terrible it is to loose something that you've always taken to heart.

I remember seeing myself in a mirror once when I was ill. I was fourteen, at that time periods felt like my entire body was tearing itself apart. Pain would rocket up my spine, setting everynerve on fire. Some months I would faint, or be unable to walk. That month, it was both. I remmeber being dumped on my bed by my father and brother, and I could see myself in the glass. Pale as death, lips blue, bloodless, eyes glazed, chest heaving, and the trickling blood weaving its way dwn my leg, twisting itself between my toes. It scared me to my very soul, and he has to see himself die. How... terrible.

He can barely speak now. Tonight, I think he said 'I love you' to us all. But it could have been something else. I was sure I heard him say 'Don't let me die like this.' I don't know whether anyone else did or it was just my own fears playing tricks in my mind. I don't want to ask. i don't want to upset my mother. Becoming an orphan at any time in life is heartbreaking, I will not allow her to suffer anymore than she has to.

I only hope my grandfather is granted a peaceful death. It would be kind to let him go in his sleep. I doubt if he'll live to the end of the week.

Jesus fucking christ. How the fuck am I supposed to pass my Journalism and Creative writing course when the assignments are due two weeks before we get any lectures on the chosen subject, the library doesn't stock any of the books on the god damned reading list and the tutotrs don't have a clue what they're doing? Fuck! My journalism assignment is due friday and I still don't have a clue what the hell I'm suppost to do! Where the hell do I fucking start, other than getting drunk and angry and repeating the same angry rant over and over again? The only advice I got from my tutor was 'it will write itself.' No it bloody will not, neither will it be written by me or any others in the class! And the word limit keeps going up 1000, 1500, 2000, 3000. MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND YOU PILE OF FROZEN MONKEY SHIT! I will NEVER be a professional journalist, I haven't been this pissed off since I had the demon snake bitch of death art teacher in high school. She was awful as well, though I suspect she had some sort of deep rooted anxiety and jelously as she had never wanted to teach (failed artist you see). This guy choose to teach, he doesn't need to. He could easily make enough money through his freelance journalism. God! You can't just decide to teach and then leave everything to the last minute and throw assignments at your students that are impossible to do. They keep pileing up, and the ones that require the most work count for the least percentage of my overall mark. What utter bollocks! Fuck. Fuck fuckity fuck fuck. 'It will write itself.' They only thing that will write its-fucking-self is my complaint letter to the head of department. This course had gone to hell this semester.

Surely it's not right for me to want to quit university ever sunday night? There has to be something wrong with that. I just have no drive, nothing, nada, zilch.

The library has decided that have stolen one of thier books, and are demanding I pay for it. Fuck that! It's a bloody politics book. What the fuck would I want with a peice of shit like that. From what I've heard from other students, the likly senario is - I hand in book, desperate student sees book. Said desperate student can not be arsed checking out book, as they need it on more than short term basis. Steal book. I was last registered with it, therefore, the library want me to shoulder the cost. As I said before. Fuck that!

Philips going to the nunnery, Pauline's happy in academic-land and Heather, well, she's basically stopped talking to me except when I'm feeding her on fridays. I'm drifting in a fog. I know what I want, but see no way of getting it. If I'm not careful, I'll descend into the realsm of pure studenthood. Frm what I can tell from being in university, most students these days are the beige of society, slumped around campas dresses in baggy brown clothes arguueing about crappy indi songs that all sound the fucking same. I seem to be using the word fuck a lot. Wonder if that has any deep psycological meaning.....ah fuck it.

Why has my muse deserted me? I can get through anything as long as I have an idea I need to get down on paper, but without...well, I'm fucked. What to do...? What to fucking do? I can't drink because of my medicine, I can't get high cause I'm too fucking sensible (and poor). No way to escape reality with my creativity on hiatus. Oh shit, I've being avoiding the 'r' word since primary 2, don't want it all crashing in on me at once.

I need to get away. To be somewhere absolutely new, and absolutely alone. Somewhere where I don't have to worry about letting my family down, about failing in university, about having no life and little to no prospect of one in the fucture.

My ears hurt a lot, and all the medication does is make me lose sleep, worry a hell of a lot more and get even angrier at bad actors.

Ever fell like you've made a mistake that you can't undo? I'm starting to think I'm not cut out for university. It's not that I can't do it, far from it, I could do most of the work in my sleep. That's where the problem lies. Nothing challenges me anymore, and the only class to even slightly spark my interest is History, but only when Professor Finlay is giving the lectures.

I feel so drained, so passionless. Every day I get up, ride the bus for an hour then sleep through uni with my eyes open. I haven't felt anything uther than the dull throb of bordem in the back of my skull since drama ended last year. And the worst of it is, I don't know how to get any of that feeling back. I have no time to myself, when I'm not working my mother needs me to help with caring for my grandfather, or my friends want to hang around and do either fuck all or go the bloody cathouse. Debs seems to feel the same as I do, but we're the only ones who actually want to do something adventurous over summer to combat this dead sensation. We could all manage a weekend or two on the continant, and since we have the car we could drive to places we've never been. We could even go to the Whitby Goth fesitval in October, and I can get my revenge on that Bloody 'Dracula Experiance'. Well, I could if the rest of my friends weren't either, lazy, cowardly, or heading to a nunnery (I swear that boy will become a god-damn priest at this rate)! Ireland would be good too, and it's not like we're jetting off round the world or anything. How can they be so afraid. We're young for christ's sake, and we might never have this chance again. Instead they want to spend all there time in my room playing the same old games on my PS2 and falling out over bordem.

I really wish I could get into drama school, but since all I have is my Advanced Higher they wouldn't even let me get my foot in the door. It's weird, I don't fit in a Uni because they take one look at me and say 'drama student' and I can't get to the academy because they say I'm too academic. Besides I can't let my parents down. I'm the sensible, good child. I just wish that if I can't do what I really want they would at least be happy with what I settled for for them. All they do is complain that I want to take the creative writing and english. They want me to do Politics, which is the single worst subject I have ever taken (and that included high school tech class)

I seem to be in an odd mood at the present. I'm cheerful, yet pissed off with just about everything. I''m annoyed at not being able to get drunk with my friends due to the fact they only need one cider to get wasted, at my feet, covered in blisters and cuts, so all I can wear is my oldest platforms (they are more comfortable then any normal shoe I've ever owned) that theaten to give way any minute.

Also, I find myself angry at a great many people. Bad actors (as always), pretencious arseholes who think they've got the greatest brain ever to grace the earth since they made it into the first year of uni. I bet at least half of those morons will drop out by the end of the first semester. I dearly want to kick the shit out of people on public transport who instead of giving up thier seat for the elderly or people with really young kids, give them a dirty look and flick the goddamn Sun in thier faces. People who read that excuse for a newspaper deserve to be fucked in the ear with syphilic cacti (but hey, that's probably writers pride, it's genitic, as is madness apparently). Aslo, the fuckers on Buchanan Street who keep preaching that evryone who deosn't sign over all thier mobey to them will go to hell. To you whore-hopping, chimp-buggered assholes, I simply say, you have the freedom to say what you want. I'm all for freedom of speech, but don't get so damn angry when I turn round and question you, and when you tell me my questions are heathenous, don't be surprised that I scream at you. I've been to two catholci schools, as a little kid and as a teenager. I've had enough people telling me not to ask questions to know that such people are slowly choaking to death on thier own shit. I'm studying journalism, I was born to ask questions you self-rightous arrogant mother fuckers, expect me to be angry when someone tries to stop me getting at the goddamn truth. Oh, and people who visit my eflwood gallery but don't comment, I know you're there! I can see it on the visit counter at the bottom of the page!

But worse is probably the kind of men I seem to attract. There's only one guy I met in the 'real world' (Matt) recently that I haven't wanted to castrate on sight with a blunt and infected instrument. But, at least my friends aren't trying to set me up with anyone anymore. I have certain rules -never set me up, never settle or be settled for and never lower my standards. Hmm, maybe I was right in my last conversation with Debs, romance in Scotland is dead, or at least viewed with fear and/or suspistion. Odd, considering the amount of trashy roamce novels set here. odded still in that I AM a romantic by nature, is it possible for me to survive with my romantic heart and cynical mildly paranoid mind. Guess I'll have to wait and see.

Finally wrting proparly again, novel's finanly out of the rut thanks to an old dictaphone I found. I prefer the old thing to the new ones on offer, partly because I don't have to have a PC to use it (MACS WILL INHERIT THE EARTH), but mostly beacuse it's heavy, it's real, tangable, not like the microscopic peices of shit I could have bought. Writing needs to be real, and since I never have time to write anything for myself, but seem to have plenty of time to wander round my house talking to myself, it all works out.

Well, I'm still unhealthily obsessed with a fictatious charctaer I evented aged six due to a blood-loss induced hallucination, I still have no job, next to no love-life, piles of university work to do which I haven't even looked at, and probably won't until two days before the deadline, so all the set books will be gone for the library. Oh well, cramming works for me, so does getting the books no one thought of using. Makes me look intelligent instead of lazy apparently. On the upside, I'm just pissed off enough to write well, have done a multitude of drawings on the bus home every day and because I haven't had time to eat and have had to walk around the city all day I'm getting fit. And I have n extra week on my history essay, and from what I heard, no one's even thought about examining the flip side of the question, and I have the only books to do it. People should really look passed the set booklists. Another thing for me to be cheerfully pissed off about.

I've worked out why I couldn't stand my early school life. I met someone from those far away days in Fresher's week (though I'm thankful that they were only visitiing, seeing them day after day at uni would be awful), and she's now a complete wreck. Alcoholic with two children, and another on the way. She still hates me, and would have assulted me if alcohol hadn't denied her use of her legs. Though everyone I know tells me I'm justified in hating her, I simply can't anymore. When I saw her lying on the floor of the bar, crying her eyes out and telling me what a twisted freak I was, I lost every bit of my anger and resentment. All I can feel is over-whelming pity for her, because as a child she had dreams of wealth and glory, and now is completely disillusioned. It's the reverse with me, as I've gotten older I've let go of my anger and bitterness regarding my old life, and am now making a new existnace for myself, with my creative passion untethered and my friends around me so we can help eachother.
    I don't feel guilty about turning away from the church either. She is still a zelous catholic, and I'm glad if it gives her some comfort. But when we were younger, she would stick pins in me when ever we were trotted into the church for services. I was told over and over by teachers and preachers that I was nothing without thier version of God, that without dedicated faith, I was nothing but an empty shell. I see now that I was never the empty one. I never depended on icons or the drama of wine and bread becoming blood and flesh, relying on myself for comfort, in the form of stories or my drawings I did on napkins (as there was never in real paper in my grandparents house). My creativity saved me from my suicidal thoughts as a child, and now I'm able to support myself with those same childish dreams. I'm glad I never grew dependant on the version of truth that was battered into me. I'm glad I stuck with my passion above all else. I only hope the girl I met again will be able to draw on her own strength in the future, as my attempts to consol her were only met with violence. I wish her all the luck and love I posess, and hope that she will understand that she has my full and unconditional forgiveness.

I had a discussion with a woman when the bus broke down. She was telling me that people are ruled by either their anger, or thier sadness, but generally show anger when sadness governs them or vise-versa. She was also telling me that the attainment of happiness is more important than personal freedom. I could not agree with her, even after she lectured me for the best part of an hour. What we are told is happiness (as Alan Moore pointed out in V for Vendetta) is a deceptive cage, holding us back from absolute freedom. True happiness can only be found when we have stepped out of our self-imposed confinement and ventured into the scary vast space beyond. I'd rather have that true freedom than the ideal of material happiness.

I keep seeing stuff about it being 'the soldier' who protects our freedom of speech, and I can't help but think, no. it's not. A soldier is payed by the army to follow orders, they are what they have always been, innocent poor people used as cannon fodder. However, I agree that our rights have been fought for, not by soldiers, but by warriors. People, warriors are self made, follow no orders and fight for what they believe is right. This can be down without guns or swords, and very often turns on the people who play puppet master with those in the armed forces. Warriors, not soldiers, truely defend our rights, be it with the pen or the sword.

I was talking to two very nice japanese tourists in the city today, just relaxing the Kelvingrove park as I like to do. After about half an hour of conversation they decied my name didn't suit me, and gave me a long list of alternatives, the only two I can remember being 'Aika' and 'Ouka' (please note i don't know the japanese spelling for the names and there was also the problem of a heavy accent which means I could have misheard them in the first place). Funny thing is, my drama friends told me the same thing. Hmm, I just think it's strange people want me to have a new name, I've sort of grown attack to my original one over the years.

I am suddenly very powerful, and let me tell you, it's fucking great! I now have complete control as far as my art class is concerned. The SQA really shouldn't leave confidential information lying around. You see, teachers get paid for each class they do. Nothing wrong with that, except for the fact that I, an Advanced Higher Student, share class time with the higher class. Thus, my teacher gets paid for two classes for using the time for only one class. However, that could all change. Art schools hate AH. It's only good for people like me who want a degree in the arts that does not involve and Art School (for me it's journalism and creative writing, for others it could be drama and so on). This means that a lot of people wanting to go to art school drop the course before finishing it. However, if less than 50 complete the course next year, it will be scrapped. Bye bye to the pay for AH classes. Now, art teachers are being told to inforce what students are directed to believe the course is (for example, freedom of a candidate to hold complete creative control of their folio). They have been instructed to inforce the curriculum, meaning, they did not do so before. After the shit I had to put up this year, I know that the course outline is different from what perspective candidates are lead to believe. After being lied to and jerked around and stressed and having my artistic freedom taken away, finding out that I am not the only candidate being force fed their bullshit PISSED ME OFF. So, I informed my teacher of the information I had. Having power over someone who's treated you like shit for a year feels good - really good. Now, I have ten days extra to have my folio finished, and she hasn't been calling my house trying to get me in (to do nothing) during exam leave I need for drama preperation. I wonder though, how next years AH class will react if I gifted them with this information? If they knew THEY had the power? If they quit, no more AH, and there's no pay for subject that doesn't exist. Ha! Having power is great!

Is it wrong to want to live my own life? My mother seemes to think so. I hate where I stand in my family, I love them but I'm not close to any of them. I can't name their favourite song, or the things they did in their youth that made them happy. They know nothing of me, giving me money whenever someone like the school or a writers group tell me my work is worthy of merit. Why does someone have to tell them that I can write? I want to be close to them, but every time I try they always find a way to avoid it, I'm not sure whether or not it's intentional. Tonight, we had my relatives over. However, every friday I meet up with my friends who I don't see that much any more, just to keep in touch and remind ourselves of why we are such good friends. I helped with the dinner, tidied the house, finished all my homework for the weekend, and asked to go over to Heathers. After just telling my brother he could do whatever he wanted, my mother told me I had to stay in because of my uncle and aunts' visit. For the whole night, I was never asked to say a word to them. I was upset as the night went on, because I won't see my friends for a few weeks during exams. My mother asked what was wrong, and I told her. She told me that we no longer had the mother-daughter relationship she thought I had because I was being so selfish. I drop anything and everything I'm doing to help my mother, and she turns against me for wanting one night of relaxation when I wasn't wanted in my house anyway. How does wanting a little time with my friends, who at least know me well enough to read my work and support me in what I do destroy nearly eighteen years of love between a mother and child? I can't see how I am the over-dramtic one just because I enjoy acting (which of course, I must give up for my family and become the university daughter they can boast about), when my mother is willing to cast me aside over something so trivial. How can she praise my writing awards I get for expressing myself, when she punishes me for telling me how I feel? My family don't read my writing, have never seen me act, reduced me to singing only when I am sure I am alone (when I was once an accomplished singer), and see no connection between me and my art work. I suppose it should come as no surprise that they know so little about me. I just wish I didn't have to choose between my own life and living the way that is acceptable to the family. Whenever I feel torn like this, all I want to do is write, paint, do something creative. But the muse is always strangled when I feel like this. Am I bad for even wanting to express myself at all. I guess I'll never know so long as I have to choose between the family I love, and the life I want so desperately.