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[Oct. 31st, 2009|12:55 am] |
I NEED A ROLLER DERBY NAME
I have 24 hours to come up with the derby name that I will love for the next eternity. This shit is getting written on the back of my singlet and being FILMED for TELEVISION during training on Sunday. PLEASE HELP ME BE AWESOME.
Suggestions:
Mighty Mouse - this is my favourite at the moment, because Mouse was my nickname in high school and I am tiny and I think this is cute and just tough enough, but maybe not enough sass?
Eleanor the Carnivore - Because I am often referred to as "Tegan the Vegan".
Trouble. Just plain ol' Trouble.
... That's all I've got.
My dad wants me to be called "Turducken" because he enjoys the idea of me being named after a disgusting dish that gave my best friend food poisoning. A little too cryptic, Dad.
Help! Sassy, cute, clever. Help! |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 22nd, 2009|10:33 am] |
| [ | mood |
| |  i don't care | ] |
| [ | music |
| | Regina Spektor - Far | ] |
The Last Time I Was This...
Apathetic About an Important Deadline, I was in high school, not going to high school. There was a list of End of Semester assignments due for classes I may have attended once or twice in the whole term. Over the three years of my effort at secondary education, I first stayed home and built castles with LEGO, then stayed home and swam, and finally stayed home and wrote fiction. The assignments always got done, often late, and high grades begrudgingly given and accompanied with notes about attendance.
Those three years were accompanied by a feeling of detachment, which was better than the gripping panic that sat in my chest on my way to school, on my way to recess, on my way to lunch, on my way to the bus stop. I liked learning, I liked the teachers but oh fuck, I hated my peers. I didn't understand how anyone could be so mean to someone who is was so intrinsically nice. I had never met a nasty person before I went to high school.
I recently got word that the campus is due for demolition. There is a reunion in August. I plan to demolish some faces.
Now I have a guy's screenplay waiting to be read and assessed, promised delivery: yesterday. I'm writing web articles and descriptions of pedigree dog breeds*, due last week, like everything. Through ten years of assorted employment, I've finally figured out that working for myself, in pyjamas, means no more panic.
But there is severe detachment.
A foolish confidence that it will get all done and I will get a good grade.
I'm yet to be proved wrong, but my guts know it's only a matter for time.
For example: There are dogs to write about but I am updating my LiveJournal.
- Tegan
* Ethical dilemma, but she paid upfront (and generously), sorry dogs. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jun. 20th, 2009|05:37 pm] |
The Last Time I Was This...
Carefree and Running At Dusk, I was a kid, belting through five acres of Central Victorian bush down tracks made by wallabies. Dusk had painted everything navy blue and I was hurtling over blurry sticks and scrub, dodging trees growing in wrong places, my feet bouncing off the ground and feeling like they were responsible for compacting the clay. I ran simply because I wanted to be going towards the yellow glow of Home faster, to throw myself in front of the fire, put my face as close as I could and feel my cheeks rush from winter-chill to burning hot. I was light and knew nothing of breathlessness or burden.
This evening I ran for a kilometre because I ought to, I should, because it would be good for the three things that mattered the most to me: my brain, my blood and my bones. For a kilometre I breathed cold air in--in--out--out-- in time to the sound of my feet on the wet cement. For a kilometre I left my body and let it push itself along, working out its kinks and aches, my eyes on the horizon and my legs liquid.
After a kilometre I was over the Glebe Point Bridge*, somewhere in Pyrmont, half-lost and shortsighted. It was here that I first stopped caring. I sprinted up a steep rise because if there's anything I hate more than running up a hill, it's walking up one. And I bolted across the road when the greenman started beeping because it was fun to pretend to be running into traffic.
Beside the Fish Market**, with the sun suddenly gone and the world that same navy blue, I burst into a sprint, a run, a dance, rain spitting on me and I was smiling, laughing, bounding over puddles and swatting overhanging gum leaves with my palms. My chest burnt, my legs didn't exist but I just wanted to be Home quicker, to have cheeks warmed by my $30 electric heater. I knew about breathlessness and burden but it didn't touch me because I was too fucking fast. So fucking fast. And so fucking light.
photo of how i feel by erinsaysgo2jail
- Tegan
* also known by some as the ANZAC Bridge, but not by me.
** Similar to steep hills in terms of the appeal of casual stroll vs running away from. |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 25th, 2009|11:45 am] |
101in1001
Start Date: 25th January, 2009 | End Date: 23rd October, 2011
( My 101 ) |
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| (no subject) |
[Jan. 1st, 2009|04:29 pm] |
This year is for writing.
If you would like to be my friend, write something. |
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tegan's journal