Just dropping by

It's been over a year.
Nothing noteworthy happened.
What did happen, and I am noting it only to toss some content out there (and avoid responsibilities), was that I am suffering through the third month of inexplicable itch everywhere on my body, and even more inexplicable affinity to burst into tears for no apparent reason more or less twice a month.
I also fell in love.
Not with a person, I don't think so, rather with the attention and affection they show me, which has me clinging rather desperately and very pathetically to them. Poor sod hasn't realized yet that I burn and the warmth he gets from me isn't scalding because I hide the embers deep, so very deep, and bury them under temperance and kindness.
Or maybe I simply overreact to my own emotions and the barest hint that a person finds my company remotely enjoyable.
In other news, I still talk little, do less, browse the Internet and somehow still got a scholarship, which rekindled my hopes to save enough money to build (have someone build) me a PC that will support new games for at least three years. Maybe even as soon as for Christmas.
Life is good, even if sometimes I have to fight tooth and nail to hide my crying.

Tirra's adventures in culture: Florence + the Machine

  Long ago I made it a major point on my bucket list to see Florence + the Machine live. First chance was in Berlin, on December 1st 2012, but I waited too long with buying the tickets and they sold out in early July. Learning from experience, I purchased my tickets for both Woodkid back in May and Florence this past Saturday well in advance, and I was right to do so - where normally it would be possible to come up to festival gates of Coke Live and buy a ticket on the spot, this year everything sold out shortly before the event.

  And what an event it was. Due to Wu-Tang Clan, another major star of the festival, being late by several hours, the crowd who came to CLMF just for F+TM started gathering in front of the Main Stage very early on rather than filter in through the dispersing audience of Wu-Tang the moment the hip-hop band finished playing an hour before Flo. As I arrived on site over two hours early, you couldn't squeeze a finger in within twenty meters from the barrier. To the day of my death I will be proud of the fact that when Florence walked up to her microphone and started singing I was deep into the Golden Circle, between me and the barriers only two outrageously tall men (whom I nicely asked to let me slip in between them, only to be bluntly refused this minimal courtesy) and some two or three meters away from the passage in the middle. I was lucky to be passed by a large group of determined people as I was trying meekly to worm my way closer from the outskirts of the throng while Tres.B were on stage, standing in for WTC; I grabbed on to them and let myself be pulled right into the heat of things, heedless of any and all risks that getting there in sandals involved. (Either way, my feet were better off in sandals than they were in Dr Marten's on Woodkid, though the pogo was comparable).

  On the downside, the closer we got, the more glitter was tossed around, and by the time we were within the tightest-packed part of the audience half my chest was covered in it. When Florence herself pulled out a pack of the golden dust and started generously sprinkling whoever she could reach, it just wasn't worth the fuss to avoid being lathered with it - apparently Golden Circle isn't called golden for nothing and when I caught up with my friend after the concert, it was blatantly obvious I'd been there, as illustrated. :) Even today, four days later, there's glitter under my eyes that no amount of scrubbing my face raw could remove, and later I just didn't bother, keeping it as a memoir of sorts.

 Florence was every bit the fairy and escapee from a Rosetti painting that I remembered her from live performances recorded and uploaded to YouTube and, to my utter bewilderment, proved that she is, indeed, capable of holding a tune for nearly twenty seconds without taking a breath. On our part, the audience didn't disappoint, either - half of the time I couldn't hear her over the horrible singing and general screaming we did. Though oxygen was scarce, notions like personal space and subtlety were left behind well out of the festival grounds, glitter entered my trachea and lungs in cancerous amounts and I very much felt like in a frenzied herd of cattle condensed like sardines in a tin, it was easily one of the best experiences of my life. Artists probably say that worldwide on every concert they give, but Florence spoke very warmly of performing for Polish audiences - that the reception is much more enthusiastic than anywhere else; that she will return gladly and loves singing for us. And I, for one thing, believe that; the cameras sweeping overhead never really capture the passion of the crowd on festivals, but what went down on Coke Live felt far more vibrant than what footage from other events, better suiting the burgeoning, all-consuming and pure energy of F+TM's songs. 

 I am now trying (and going to fail) to eloquently put to words my glee over one particular moment, when Isabella Summers, stationed almost right in front of me, had a while to pay some attention to us rather than her instruments, and, by some miracle, spotted me behind the two men over whose shoulders I was doing my best to look. My hands were high up, the red paisley bandana that had earlier slid from my head tied around my wrist, which probably caught her eye enough to see it when I playfully waved my fingers at her with a face-splitting grin, and she responded in kind. [insert my joyful squealing and a bit of flailing at the mere memory.] I don't know how much of it is my wishful thinking, but I choose to believe it was the way I just described rather than Isa greeting the crowd in general. :D

 After the concert I met up with a friend and we ambled towards the official festival shop, where a stroke of luck allowed me to purchase the last of Florence's Raise It Up t-shirts available - and what a stroke it was, for just as it was laid out in front of me and I was pulling my card back from the terminal two girls asked about it. Afterwards we tried to get something to drink, but to no avail - the queue to the coke stand resembled a concert audience, refusing to move in any direction, locking us out. By then exhaustion was catching up with me and I started cataloguing my many aches: ribs and shoulders from holding my hands up all the time, calves from standing on tiptoe, thighs from jumping; jaw from singing yelling at the top of my lungs, neck from craning my head up; sides from being elbowed by the ever-shifting crowd. On the bus ride back to the city I collapsed on the seat, boneless, realizing with a sort of dazed detachment that I'd been standing, walking and bouncing on my feet for close to five hours straight with no rest and no need for one, and not even a scratch was visible on my nearly-bare feet despite them being regularly stomped on. Someone next to me was dozing off standing. The city was alive with concertgoers coming back to wherever they were spending the night or straight to the station to catch a train home, or to a party if they had enough energy to dance and drink some more. I suppose such antics wouldn't be beyond me, either; I stayed up for nearly an hour after I got back to the hotel where I was staying with my mom, blogging excitedly, and couldn't fall asleep when I finally went to bed, getting maybe two hours' worth of sleep until mom roused me for breakfast at nine am. 

 I am incredibly glad I was there, and hope I get to see Florence + the Machine at least once more - and perhaps get into a meet&greet with the band, or sneak backstage to express my love for their music and performance personally. I just got news that Woodkid will be visiting Poland again in December, too, so maybe these dreams pertaining to him will come true - provided I buy tickets on time, that is. :)

Terror will strike her

  Też macie te piosenki, których w pewnej chwili macie potrzebę posłuchać, po czym odtwarzacie ją przez dwie godziny w kółko? Dziś taym utworem jest Kiedy stanie się noc, piosenka Rasputina z Anastazji, filmu notorycznie przypisywanego Disneyowi, a który Disneyowski nie jest. Nie wiem, czy gdzieś po youtube krążywersja polska, równie dobra zresztą; składa się jednak tak, że to wykonanie Iana Cummingsa dobiega z moich słuchawek dziś wieczór.

  Z innych wieści, AO3 posiada żenująco mały wybór fanfiction dla mojego ostatniego OTP z Deus Ex: Human Revolution; zaledwie 10 prac, z czego trzy pisane bukwami, a jeden (co zabawne, chyba ten najlepiej napisany) po polsku. I choć generalnie moje doświadczenie z fanfiction ograniczam niemal wyłącznie do tekstów angielskich, z niejaką satysfakcją przyznaję, że Deus ex Amor jest napisane świetnie, w soczystym, dynamicznym stylu nieco podobnym do Grzędowicza, jednak o niższym natężeniu testosteronu i większym skupieniu na emocjach postaci i wiarygodnym portrecie psychologicznym, co wydaje się łatwe w fanfiction - w końcu postaci już są, wystarczy je wziąć i wstawić w swoją historię - takie jednak nie jest. Co mnie frustruje, to to, że w połowie rozdziału czwartego utknęłam na dylemacie: czytać dalej, czy najpierw przejść grę? Narazić się na spoilery czy ponieść kolejne piętnaście porażek w pierwszej boss fight? (Czyj to był w ogóle genialny pomysł, umieścić tak trudnego bossa na niemal samym początku rozgrywki?)

  Mój problem chyba rozwiązał sam Steam, odmawiając uruchomienia gry pod pretekstem "skanowania w poszukiwaniu aktualizacji gier" która trwała bez końca.

  A spójrzcie, nie. Już działa. Przez dwa tygodnie odwlekałam ponowne próby pokonania Barretta, obmyślając strategie wykorzystujące mój żałosny ekwipunek - jeden granat, pistolet maszynowy i karabin snajperski, do tego mój chyba jedyny atut - wyrzutnia rakiet, po którą (po poniesieniu jakichs piętnastu śmierci w mniej niż pół minuty każda) wracałam przez cały budynek - i jeśli najnowsza zawiedzie, przełączam się z trybu Give me a Challenge do najprostszego jak ostatni noob. Assassin's Creed mnie nie przygotowało do takich wyzwań.

  I ja chcę projektować gry, a nie potrafię jednej przejść. //facepalm

Heatstroke

It's stiflingly hot again, the heat clinging to my skin and clogging my mind, quelling any motivation to do anything productive. The temperature is only bearable downstairs, where I holed myself up for the better part of the afternoon with a book and a cat. Descending the stairs feels like peeling a thick layer of wool off myself, finally hearing and seeing my surroundings with clarity. In this weather, I feel excused from being creative. However, reading Neil Gaiman's introductions to Smoke and Mirrors had my mind boiling with concepts; the brief descriptions of each of the texts' genesis proved to be an inspiration surge like few things these days. I didn't get through many of the actual short stories before I had to go water the garden, yet I was influenced by the visions he paints with his words already. Fun thing? Once I got out from the blessed chill of my basement, all of it fled my mind without trace or even a word of farewell. Ergo, it's high time I moved north from the polar circle; incessant daylight would only be a perk for someone with no regard for the time of day, anyways.
Two months ago I promised myself a NaNoWriMo and only got down five pages in my trusty notebook, out of which perhaps a half is of any literary worth. Words are assaulting me at times, but they dart about so erratically that I have little chance of capturing them and writing down, let alone incorporating into one of the pieces I'm currently working on. The closest I got to writing in recent days is this post, a sorry ass excuse for a text; here's to hoping it gets me back on track and making progress on any of my WIPs.
Cheers, everyone; cheers, my anonymous IE user from the USA, the apparently only visitor to my blog, if the stats Blogger provides me with are worth anything. [:

Oh mr Lemoine

Remember how I mentioned I'm a huge fan of Woodkid? Well, if the facts that a) I traveled halfway across the country alone in the midst of exam season to see his concert and b) actually finished a drawing of his stupid beard - which is a thing, I hardly ever finish anything - aren't proof enough, I don't know what is, save maybe stalking him, and ew man das creepy. (but here's an idea...)

The final product: deviantart, tumblr

Hey, Furball!

  Look at the cutie that mom found last night, seemingly abandoned, and brought home. 

  It's probably a she, her arch enemy is her tail, unless she spots a pen or a bag strap and she snores a little at night (provided she managed to fall asleep); my hands are once again scratched artfully and my keyboard occasionally trodden on. The tiny devil fits into one of my palms without much trouble and has successfully embarrassed two of our grown-up cats; one still refuses to come close to her, hissing from afar. She's also a little attention whoredrama queen, crying loud when there's nobody in a room and harassing human feet if she is not paid attention to.

  That makes three cats in the household, which proves that I am genetically pre-programmed to be a weird old single lady with seventy cats. :D

I don't mackle enough, I need to mackle more

  Lo and behold, me hearties, here goes the song I've been thrashing to these past few days (because what I do can hardly be called dancing. Then again, a lot of things that don't necessarily resemble said activity are, and nobody throws a hissy fit about it.)

  Having spent ten days in utter bliss, I come back to throw words at you. Celebrując koniec matur oraz edukacji szkolnej, wraz z niesławną grupą beznadziejnych indywiduów pojechałam w góry, gdzie w domku na zboczu o kącie nachylenia jakichś 35 stopni, które pokonywałyśmy niemal dziennie, mieszkałyśmy w tym, co lubię określać jako "burdel studencko-kawalerski": zestawione trzy łóżka o materacach trzech różnych wysokości i miękkości, w których spało cztery w porywach do pięciu osób, każdy talerz i szklanka z innej parafii (wyjątkiem były słoiczki po Nutelli), wstawanie o której się komu zachciało, wieczne kombinowanie czy jest cokolwiek na obiad, ogółem - życie bez zobowiązań poza tymi wobec własnego żołądka. Takiej wolności i beztroski nie zaznałam nigdy wcześniej i możliwe, że nie zaznam nigdy później. Człowiek bowiem, gdzie się nie uda, wszędzie zastaje regulacje: o konkretnej godzinie musi zrobić konkretną rzecz albo być w konkretnym miejscu, albo ktoś go nadzoruje lub kogoś musi nadzorować. Życie codzienne to pasmo obowiązków już od dzieciństwa, gdy rodzice regulują, kiedy jesz, kiedy śpisz, a kiedy się bawisz. Ten wyjazd więc był niezwykle odświeżający w tej wolności; nie czułyśmy nawet potrzeby wykorzystywać jej jakoś szczególnie, na przykład dokonując niezwykłych wyczynów.

  Oczywiście, nie wszystkim nam było tak lekko; ktoś musiał pójść po bułki, ktoś ugotować obiad, ktoś posprzątać i pozmywać. Niektóre z nas wciąż kompletowały teczkę na studia, jedna musiała po kilku dniach wrócić na egzaminy. Życie się o nas dopominało, ale przez większość czasu nasze wakacje były dokładnie tym - wakacjami. Wbrew prognozom wszelkich krewnych i znajomych, nie zaczęłyśmy sobie skakać do gardeł, żyjąc w osiem osób w jednym małym budynku, co dowodzić może zarówno zgrania grupy, jak i tego, że być może tłumimy jakieś konflikty. Taki kwas potrafiłybyśmy jednak wyczuć, więc nie sądzę, by chodziło o to drugie.

Tirra goes to the movies (and gets overly excited.)

  So guess who finally got her shit together and went to see Gatsby, only to be met in the theater with this trailer?

  Not to demean the adaptation of Fitzgerald, but I'd lie if I said it was the film that I've been thinking about for the better part of today. Of course, it was great in its own right - I was admittedly impressed with the sheer splendour of the sets and costumes, although the takes that served only to rub the 3D in our faces annoyed me even in the good ol' two dimensions and I got the impression that the concept and overall feel of the film was somewhat unpolished. But... to the point.

  The trailer in question is pasted above for your amusement. If you know the first thing about Woodkid (other than my unhealthy obsession for that goddamn bearded midget), then you've heard Run Boy Run. And if you watch the above video, you'll soon connect the dots that form the reason behind my barely contained velociraptor screech and wild flailing/thrashing in my seat that I kept under control just enough not to attract the attention of the cinema workers who would politely ask whether to call the ambulance or I'll leave on my own.

  (Yes, I got it this bad for his music.)

  Frankly, I'm surprised this film wasn't all over my tumblr dash for past few weeks at the very least; not only it has Alfred (I'm so sorry mr Caine, it's either Alfred or Miles from Inception), dr Banner - I mean Mark Ruffalo - and Jesse Eisenberg along with Morgan Freeman himself; it has sparkling VFX that every person who ever appreciated Tron would drool over, potentially Inception-worthy plot and enough action to challenge any of Marvel's Phase One films. For me, that's enough of a bait to wait eagerly for the premiere, which in Poland is - lo and behold - on 28th of June, nearly a month from now, which, in turn, makes me somewhat glad - its mysterious absence from tumblr, if unbroken by today's premiere, will keep me blissfully spoiler-safe.

  Ever since I first decided movies are my thing soon before JC's rampant CGI blockbuster "Avatar" hit theaters, my life pretty much boiled down to waiting for upcoming films. These days I await an opportunity to see Star Trek: Into Darkness, Man of Steel, Thor: The Dark World (aka In Which Loki's Under Control but His Locks Aren't) and pretty much everything Marvel got up their sleeves; Only Lovers Left Alive and somewhere close to half a dozen other things that slipped my mind for the moment. See, the life of a mass culture appreciator is a busy one.

  I should be blogging less. And less in English. This was supposed to be a bilingual blog, for fuck's sake. x)

Bełkoty pomaturalne

  Wakacje się zaczęły. Właściwie już w zeszłym tygodniu, w środę, po czwartej po południu. Wtedy to wyszłam z sali 303, w której przez trzy lata znosiłam edukację przedmiotu język angielski poniżej mojego poziomu oraz lekcje wychowawcze, gdyż anglistka miała również pecha być naszym wychowawcą. Ostatnie, co w tej sali robiłam, to pisanie matury z historii sztuki, notabene na poziomie rozszerzonym; gdyby egzamin ten był obowiązkowy i mógł zaważyć na moim zdaniu lub nie, nie spałabym do 28 czerwca, do ogłoszenia wyników, obawiając się najgorszego.

  Matura to temat rzeka. Wielu moich współabiturientów narzeka, że to jedyny temat poruszany z nimi na spotkaniach rodzinnych - jakże zresztą w maju częstych przez pierwsze komunie. Sama również dawałam upust swojej irytacji z tego powodu, gdyż nie było wizyty u wujostwa, podczas której ktoś by mnie nie pytał albo o egzaminy, albo o studia, w ciągu ostatniego... półtora roku właściwie. Z jednej strony jest to denerwujące o tyle, o ile wszystkim się zaczyna wydawać, że w moim życiu i osobie nie ma nic interesującego poza edukacją, której się poddaję, podczas gdy moje zainteresowania leżą zupełnie gdzie indziej; z drugiej strony, trudno ukryć że mnie też prościej rozmawiać właśnie o maturach. Jest to po prostu temat wystarczająco neutralny, poza tym o bezcelowości egzaminu ustnego z języka polskiego mogłabym nadawać przez godzinę (nie, wciąż się nie pogodziłam z faktem że moja prezentacja, gdyby nie kretyńska restrykcja do piętnastu minut, trwałaby niemal pół godziny a nie przyłożyłam się do jej przygotowania wcale). (: