Red Alice

When you are 18 the world is very small and your are very selfish.

You also feel infinitely old.

This I have recently discerned. At least, it's a true summation of me.

I feel like I must know what-who-how-why-where I am, and anxiety grows from the uncertainty. I am absorbed in myself. Who I want to be, what I want to do with my life, the necessity of knowing now against the imagined peril of un-knowing.

I want to write-draw-direct-sleep-illustrate-love-venture-discover-settle-fall. I want this and I want that.

My world, myself, me and I.

30 seems close and ancient and the very last oppurtunity for living and dreaming. Even though, with a little perspective, one can be reassured that it truly isn't.

I am 18 years old, and in another 18 I will be 36. And in another 36, I will be 74. And that's (touch wood) a long way away.

And 74 isn't even that old.

I have started to believe that it is only in thinking-rushing-scrabbling for success and direction that one can truly age the soul, and that this is why, at the moment, I am so topsy-turvy and frazzled around the edges. I am trying to shine like a burning flame, forgetting that in burning the foundations of a fire quickly smoulder and float away on the breeze, lost and fragmented.

We must learn to flow like water. We must learn to breathe and let the current take us, us fervent, frightened, fiery 18 year olds. We are infinitely young. We must make mistakes and learn from them. We must be open to change and possibility.

Graphic Designer, Writer, Director, Nomad, whatever. Let's just see what happens.

Things aren't what they seem through the looking glass.






{{The Author wants to caution the reader that for all her idealism and attempts at philosophy and peace, she is only 18 after all, and a very noob-y 18 year old at that.


She is also a hypocrite, and will continue to moan and fuss and worry about her future and the loss of time for a while yet.... maybe until she turns 19.}}

Tall Jan is Malicious.

My family are a pack of hyenas. (Or, at least, can be.)

And I am a black sheep among them.

Or, at least, can be.

Tango. Oscar. November. India.

Green peas, aquired.


I have to say... it is amusing, watching my licence photos get gradually more horrendous. And it must be terribly boring, being an RTA supervisor. I swear, I must have only briefly sucked my lips in for the barest of seconds in response to the awkwardness of the situation, in between a good minute of fully acceptable teeth-baring. I can imagine E. Merry with her finger on the photo trigger, waiting with weary amusement for that perfect, candid moment - moments we just don't want to see on anything remotely legal.

Conversely, though, my frozen features are perfect for a moustache - is it very illegal to deface driver's licences?

black dog fire child. smile alice smile

people just don't blog anymore. perhaps being shot at by millions of points of light just doesn't compare to breathing one's whispers onto the silent pages of a secret book.

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AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

that is all.