| [ |
mood |
| |
content |
] |
| [ |
music |
| |
ghostwriter ed harcourt |
] |
One has to wonder if there really is a girl under the pile of bags and suitcases that are moving (and only so by the grace of God) in a sluggish pace through the bare halls of a new loft overlooking the bay. The set of the sun explodes in fiery red colour streaked with the beauty of orange, pink, and yellow pastels that swirl together like the churn of a cotton candy machine. Each ray of light streaming overhead from square-cut windows reflects off the teak floor in a rosy glow that bounces up to catch the dark ringlets of Hattie Burch in an artistic sheen. Just as she would like it! A delicate hand extends from under the bags after much shifting to grasp the brass doorknob of a room shut. A grunt escapes her throat as she works her wrist to turn the knob and expose where is going at large.
The room is near empty. This is save for the sleigh bed made of pine resting in one corner that is set catty-corner from a matching desk. The bed is set with elegant white sheets completed with a lacy eyelet comforter of a downy material. The desk has sparse decorations on it, these include a sleek silver laptop and desk calender featuring the works by the impressionist painters. By the look of the date, it has been some time since she actually flipped through the pages! Without a second thought, the bags fall from her hold onto the wooden floor with a soft thud. Thoroughly satisfied with debagging herself, she steps over a quite full duffle bag to reach the whicker chair before her computer. Her long fingers curl over her mouse as she clicks on it to bring the screen into life.
Oh, San Francisco! Pity. I vaguely remember hearing a song about this glorious town when I was younger. Mother was so dreadful about her show tunes. That is what you must endure when you are the child of an eccentric and a barrister. On the first hand you have flowers woven in your hair as you sing such interesting works as tiptoe through the tulips (heaven forbid that the theme did not go together!) and on the other you are studying the case of Ellis-Jones versus Rhys-Jones. Damn those hyphenated Jones that dominate England. Is Jones that stereotypical of a surname in my beloved country? I had always believed it was more popular in the States. Along with Miller. Oh, and Smith! I paid little attention in global studies.
Harriet Amelia Burch. Please, for the love of the Queen, call me Hattie. I feel so distinguished with that as a nick. Perhaps that should just be old? Nonetheless. I was born and raised in Birmingham. That would be the Midlands. In the jolly country of England. Oft confused for the capital of one of the fifty when I say it. One would think my accent would determine I am not from the States, but people can be so daft. It is an awful trait. I am thankful that only wonky teeth and fairly dull taste buds course through my veins as genetic flaws. Those and a very droll, dry sense of humour! I was uprooted from my life when father received a further promotion to partner with the American branch of his firm in San Francisco.
It will be a change! A learning experience! This is what I was told repeatedly. Please. I was aware I was not moving into Birmingham the second. Did my parents not recall all of our various trips? Heavens to bitsey! They are so strange. Now that is a genetic flaw in all parental types. Shared by all nations and genders! I hate how terribly cronkite I must sound. Vey. They sent a portfolio of my work to the prominent art school in this town before the move. I was never informed until I went for the mail a few weeks before moving. In England, I had attended Whisp Academy. Similar to my new school, Whisp catered toward the liberal and performing arts. Lovely experience. I had done most of the set designs for the drama productions since upper fifth. Shame I will not be able to do the original play that Jasper will be putting on this year.
Obviously, my skill is in visual arts. Give me a brush, a pencil, pens, pastels, oils, ink; bloody hell, just give me anything that I can scratch and scribble with. I draw. I design. Most of all, however, is my love to paint. I am shit with vocals. Even moreso with an instrument. I'm not very well with a camera; it would seem, sadly, that all of my photos turn out slurred, blurred, and with half a head cut off. Oops. I am a horrid actress. I cannot write a creative story to save my life. I dance very much like a Brit -- ie, I can waltz. The arts and I, essentially, do not walk hand inside hand. I love the technical side of theatre. I stick to costume design, set design, and the occasional dabble in lighting. The adoration of my life is a large canvas with buckets of paint to just create. I experiment very much with my art. Some of it is utter shit. Most of it is fairly decent. Conceited? Who is not at this school? You must be talented to get in, afterall.
I would be near impossible to wrap me up in a nice package. I am so much a contradiction, a real amalgam, that I seem almost hypocritical. How can I be such a nice girl who swears like an American truck driver! Fuck me, cunt, I am not sure! Terribly sorry, there. I am a Brit who likes France? May the miracles never cease! I, unfortunately, did not endure their famously awful manners or shitting pigeons during my trip. I had good cheese, even better wine, and was treated with the purchase of a hideous beret that always manages to cover my whole face and make me look like an escaped teen from the local holding house. Always a pleasant way to introduce myself, eh?
Hattie wants uh How can you be British and not make reference to the Spice Girls!
|
![[info]](http://www.caleida.com/img/community.gif){kind=small}
![[info]](http://www.caleida.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}