Jessica's Japes

Popping Back

Jessica — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 16:59:30 +0000

Thought I would pop back just to see what the old blog looked like..

Quite strange to be here. I kinda wish I could find the time to blog here again but work dominates all.

I have been away from London till recently, working at a provincial theatre to ‘broaden my experience’. Hmm.

Good fun to be honest.

And I have been doing a little extra work for a friend’s writing business, proofreading manuscripts and the such like. I’ve also agreed to help judge a story competition he’s setting up. The boot is well and truly on the other foot!

Unseasonly mild here in the UK, but the promise of colder weather to come. Oh goody, time to get the thermal bra and knickers out!

Love to all.

Little Girl Found

Jessica — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 11:01:23 +0000

The little girl sat, lost in her own world, swallowed up in the large brown creased leather chair. All around her the hustle and bustle of the bookshop went on. People standing around perusing the latest editions, elderly customers seated in comfy chairs with their reading glasses perched on the end of their noses, and schoolchildren eagerly showing their discoveries to enthusiastic friends. The little girl was oblivious to it all. Her head swirled with hobbits and dragons, her eyes glued to the pages, her legs kicking out in the rhythmical pattern of reading.
“Ah, there you are, Jessie. Thought I’d lost you for a moment. You been okay?”
“Sure, Daddy.”
The little girl looked up and her large brown eyes flashed at the smartly dressed man in front of her.
“I went for an explore then found this book and now I’m fighting a dragon.”
The man chuckled.
“Haha, just another normal day in Jessica Land, then. Let’s go buy that book for you.”
The girl shook her mane of brown hair.
“No need, Daddy. You got the book at home. Third shelf up, seven books in from the left. In your study. I can get it from there tonight to finish. If you don’t mind, Daddy?”
A smile cracked wide across the man’s face.
“Oh no, I don’t mind, Jessie. Come on, let’s go relieve Mummy, she’s been looking after your baby sister all day.”
The little girl bounced off the chair, placed the book precisely on the table where it had been on display and grasped the man’s gloved hand.
“Daddy?”
“Yes, bumpkin?”
“I know what I want to do when I’m grown up, like you and Mummy.”
“Oh really?”
The man steered himself and his daughter through the thronging crowd, barely able to hear the little girl’s words. Pushing open the glass panelled door he stopped on the elegant stone steps of London’s most famous bookshop and breathed in the chilly autumn air.
“Daddy, were you listening?”
“Sorry, Jessie, too many people in there. Now, what do you want to be?”
The little girl beamed up into her father’s face as her smile spread across her lips. Her eyes twinkled.
“I’m gonna read all the books in the world, work in that bookshop and then work in a thing called a theatre!”
“Wow! Now, how’d you know about theatres, we haven’t been to one yet. Said we’d go at Christmas, to a pantomime, didn’t we?”
“Mmm, yes, Daddy. But I kinda seen one, and it’s me. I know.”
The man laughed and stepped down onto the street, still hand in hand with his daughter. As he did so a young woman collided with him. She stopped, looked up with blazing brown eyes and a tired expression. Muttering a quick ‘sorry’ she hastened up into the bookshop.
“Come on, Daddy. You said we had to get home to help Mummy.”
The man, who had stopped and stared at the retreating figure of the woman in her blue faded jeans and short cream jacket , shook himself out of his daze, and started walking.
“Damn funny, Jessie.”
“Daddy! Mummy doesn’t like you saying that word!”
“Sorry, bumpkin. But that woman just now, splitting image of Mummy when I first met her at a matineé. Few years ago now, bumpkin.”
The man shook his head.
“Come on, fruit pie. Home we go!”
As they set off towards the Tube station, the man’s head turned briefly back towards the bookshop…

Little Girl Lost

Jessica — Thu, 25 Aug 2011 14:15:30 +0000

The little girl wandered along the streets of London. Her head turned left and right, up and down, amazed by the flickering lights and bustling people. She stopped and stared at a large display of glittering jewelery and shoes. A smile crossed her cherubic face. The girl looked around and gazed down at the damp pavement. She was sad that there was no gold there. Hadn’t the story said the streets were paved with gold? Shucks, she thought, another lie from the grown ups. But the little girl lifted her head of shiny shimmering brown hair, smiled and skipped away, dodging the swinging bags and umbrellas.

As her pace of exploration slowed the little girl found herself looking at huge buildings with colourful displays and enormous pictures of strangely garbed people. No one was going into these places, just hurrying past, lost in their own world of thoughts. But something was drawing the girl to the dark doors that hid mysterious interiors. Pressing her nose to a glass panel she stared inwards, making out a few shapes, a counter, and other doors leading she knew not where. Just then, to her right, one of the doors opened and a large gentleman in some kind of uniform stepped out. He glanced lazily around, wandered down a few steps and took out a cigarette and lighter. As he puffed out the white smoke, the little girl slipped behind him and disappeared into the dark foyer.

Faced by a long counter and numerous doors, the girl murmured an infant’s playground chant and tugged open the second door on the right. She wandered curiously down a dark corridor towards another door with a glass panel at adult head height. With effort the little girl pulled it back and immediately stood still, amazed. It was like falling into Wonderland’s rabbit hole. Stepping out of the gloom of the corridor she gazed at a fantastical scene. Ahead, on a vast stage, men and women moved around in apparent choreographed chaos. Men sawed and painted wooden constructions, gaggles of people sat and walked in the aisles and seats, and lights were manoevred overhead with colorful beams bouncing off curtains and walls. A small group of men and women rehearsed movements to one side, laughing and chuckling. On the stage the most beautiful woman the girl had ever seen swept to the front, her brilliant red damask dress like a sun at the centre of a solar system, her yellow blond hair framing an angelic face, long, slender arms practising gestures and commands. Hurrying back and forth like a Cinderella figure, a young woman in jeans and t-shirt scurried up and down the stage steps to the people seated in the auditorium.

The little girl could have stood there for eternity, lost in this make believe world, just like she might become lost in the first pages of a new book. But she knew she must leave. And turned.

Down on the stage Jessica puffed out her cheeks and mentally crossed off another task. A voice came out of the darkened seats. “Jessie, dear, can you get me Patrick Stewart on the phone? Use his personal mobile number, I can’t stand that vacilliating agent of his. ‘Make it so’ – haha!”

Jessica flipped out her Blackberry and as she did so a movement at the back of the theatre caught her eye. She glanced up and saw a small figure pushing open the door. The figure halted momentarily and turned to look at the stage. Jessica narrowed her eyes as the little girl disappeared into the black corridor. For a moment she could have sworn she recognised the face. Her own, from many years ago.

London Life

Jessica — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 13:48:06 +0000

Sorry but this is not a piece of fiction writing, so apologies if you dashed over here thinking I had started blogging my work again! I just thought I would respond to an email an online friend sent today, asking if I were okay in London amidst all the riots.

Well, it has certainly been interesting, and a little scary. In fact a hell of a lot scary at times. For those of you who live outside the UK and depend on the TV coverage and website news, let me confirm that many of the rioters/looters were of school age. Absolutely unbelievable! Yes, many of those arrested were older, they were caught carrying things away or photographed on CCTV and later arrested. But many of the people running up and down, throwing things at windows and swearing and jeering at the police were aged about 10 to 16.

The best scene was seeing a troop of about twenty riot police charging such a crowd and seeing the little b******* run for their lives. I’m pleased to say the police caught some and quite rightly handled them roughly. I just wish they could have taught the parents a lesson or two as well!

Right then, back to work! Theatre life goes on as usual.

It’s Strange

Jessica — Sun, 10 Jul 2011 09:21:52 +0000

It’s strange to be back here. Entering my blog feels like rifling through an old box under my bed and discovering dusty schoolbooks and creased photographs from years long gone. It’s taken me several attempts to even get this far (partly because I forgot my password!).

I’m now living in London, sharing a flat with three girls. University days are over and work in the real world has begun. After considering the safer options of law or teaching, I decided to go for my first love ( well, second love since publishers have yet to sign me up on a multi-million pound writing contract). Whilst writing at Oxford I had become involved in a theatre group and although at first I was just writing the scripts, I became fascinated by the whole environment of a live performance. Not from the acting point of view, I’m not the next Nicole Kidman, but the whole shebang of writing, producing, directing, etc, etc. Sooooo, with a little help from family contacts and a lot of bootlicking here I am, working from the bottom up in a London theatre. I know how the present director likes his coffee and what time the costume designer likes her doughnut, so the only way is up! Eventual aim? Well, while continuing to write the yet to be published bestseller, I will have to make do with merely directing or producing or writing the next West End hit. Watch out, Lloyd Webber!

Will I continue blogging here? Unlikely, I think. It seems like something from a long, long time ago. Part of my lazy school and university days. Maybe I will pop back at times and give an update, we’ll see. My work takes up six days a week at present so right now I’m trying to fit in all domestic and social tasks into Sunday. Oh and getting some sleep! My flatmates comprise one budding actress, one junior publishing assistant and one waitress waiting to be discovered as next year’s catwalk model. No money between us, but a million laughs everyday.

Okay, the washing machine is calling me. Look for my name in lights…

Interview

Jessica — Thu, 26 May 2011 09:20:35 +0000

I thought I would post this interview which I did for Jingle Poetry recently as I know some of you do not frequent that website. I’m very preoccupied with completing my postgrad work now and also committed to producing writing for one of the writing groups I belong to here in Oxford, so I thought this would be a ‘cheap’ blog! It also gives me the chance to blog one of the questions and answers which was left off the post on Jingle Poetry – either by accident or maybe design as I was recommending non-poetry sites to view!

1. Who is Jessica?
Jessica is Jessica D’Angelo. I’m a postgraduate student of English Literature and Language at a college in Oxford, England. I share a rented house with two other female students. My parents live in London and I have a younger teenage sister, Amelia. When I’m not flicking through dusty volumes of literature or staring blankly at a computer screen I enjoy sports, walking, movies, theatre, shopping (mainly window!), travelling, reading, visiting graveyards, staring at the stars and wondering who’s staring back at me, chatting to drunken friends, writing rubbish, dreaming of princes on horseback, playing with cats, and being horrible to my sis. (Oh dear, this is sounding like an application for an online dating service…not that I’ve ever…)

2. Tell me about your blog/s/, about the name and what it means to you? When did you start blogging?
I guess my first proper blog was on Windows Spaces Live. I think I started in 2008. I’d had a profile on Bebo before that but it was really for interacting with my schoolfriends. That first blog was more of a mix of postings. I put up a few stories and story openings, comments about my studying, things I’d found out in my work, and some ‘dark’ poems. Some of this material I’ve reblogged on ‘Jessica’s Japes’. When I came over to WordPress in 2010 I was jumped upon by someone called ‘Jingle’ within 48 hours of blogging a poem – and the rest is history! Certainly I had no intention of writing so much poetry before discovering this community. To tell the truth, I actually prefer writing stories and other prose!

The blog on WLS had no special name, it was just ‘Jessica D’Angelo’, I think. But I started to use an image I found on Google of a cute, slighty threatening female jester as my background and I came up with the ‘Japes’ part then. I still use that image sometimes as my icon when I get sick of seeing my face staring back at me.

To be honest I have a love/hate relationship with my blog. Mostly I love it and am proud of what I have posted and the people who visit. But there are times when I want to just ditch it all. That’s one reason why I occasionally miss a Poetry Potluck, just to regain control of my life! When I was looking for a new platform for my blog I had a lengthy discussion with another online friend about blogging and we agreed that you get to a time when there’s not much point just continuing to blog and getting the same people saying the same comments over and over again. I would be genuinely surprised if ‘Jessica’s Japes’ was still going in April 2012!
I’ve also started another blog, ‘Jessica’s Reviews’, where I review films, books, etc. It was a Christmas vacation idea and I’m not sure if I have time to keep it going now.

3. When did you first write a poem? Do you remember it?
It must have been when I was around 6 or 7 at school, we probably were given some kind of acrostic poem to write. I can recall a phase of writing slushy romantic nonsense when I was 13 and then dark gothic stuff a year later. Hopefully I destroyed it all during the last house move!
I can clearly remember writing a story when I was 7. It was about mice travelling to the Moon. Not sure where that idea came from – probably ate too much cheese the night before!

4. Is there a style of writing you prefer? Do you write only poetry?
As I indicated above, my first love is writing prose. I like to try out different styles of fiction, some humorous, some serious, some just straightforward storytelling. I belong to two writing groups here in Oxford, one in the university and the other in the city. These give me a wonderful opportunity to try out my writing on people and get immediate reaction. I’m currently working with a group to create comedy sketches for an Easter show in my college. As these commitments have increased so my blog has become more a place for a laugh and a quick poem or two!
As far as poems are concerned I go through phases. Maybe rhyming couplets, then free verse, then a set metre, etc. Whatever!

5. Favorite poem you’ve written?
I wrote this one on a Friday afternoon after surfing the net waiting for the weekend to happen. I found a luscious photo of chocolate and the poem just formed in my head at once. I wrote it in 10 minutes, posted it and immediately had a few comments from fellow chocoholics. Later it was featured on another website and I entered it for a Poetry Potluck.
http://jessicasjapes.wordpress.com/2010/10/29/i-want-chocolate/

6. Inspirations! Where do you find them and what makes you comfortable writing?
Sometimes I like to use prompts, like those at Poetry Potluck, or someone may just mention something that sticks in my mind. Often I think of a title and then create the poem around it. I use this method particularly with my ‘dark’ poems. Sometimes I just get into a theme, like ‘First Kiss’, ‘First Love’, etc. (keep checking, I may get around to ‘First Sex’ sometime…). Many of my poems are written in the kitchen as I cook or help cook our evening meal. I rip down paper from the shopping list notepad on the fridge and scribble lines down. At the end of the evening I empty my pockets and hopefully there’s a poem there! (Beware, one week my poem will just be a shopping list…)

I must add here that most of my poems and other writings are purely created from my imagination. I get people commenting on my darker poems and even some of the lighthearted ones where it’s clear they think I am writing from personal knowledge or experience! It’s like an article I read recently with an author who was accosted at a book signing by many fans who demanded to know how he could possibly write about his character taking part in the First World War since he, the author, clearly wasn’t alive then. The author was quite amazed that his readers didn’t understand how he had researched the situation then used his imagination! Anyway, don’t worry about me, whatever I write about!

7. Favorite books? Authors?
It may sound like an easy choice but it has to be Charles Dickens. It was reading ‘Great Expectations’ and ‘A Christmas Carol’ at school that really switched me onto literature. His characterisation is just unbelievable and his storytelling perfect. ‘Bleak House’ is my overall favourite.

8. If poetry was a dessert, which one would that be?
It should be a strawberry cheesecake, making you drool at the very sight and melting in your mouth as you devour it. Sadly it can also be an overcooked treacle pudding, a glumpy indigestible mess!

9. If you could live in a book, which one would that be?
‘Alice’s Adventures In Wonderland’ by Lewis Carroll.
I am Alice, you see, and you are all just characters created by my imagination…
And, hey, I get to play with Johnny Depp’s Mad Hatter all day long. And hopefully Johnny all night long…

10. Being part of Jingle community, what are the benefits?
Well, the obvious one is that you can get lots of people to visit your blog!
More seriously, it’s great to meet other writers, of all ages, backgrounds and cultures. It’s like having a whole new university literally at your fingertips! I just wish I had more time to study their blogs thoroughly.

11. Are there particular blogs you enjoy visiting?
This is a hard one. Apart from the Poetry Rallies and Potluck I really struggle to find time to wander around the world of blogs. And I don’t want to upset anyone by failing to mention them here!
I would have to list Gally Lines ‘Lest I Smite You’, and Richard North’s ‘Artswebshow’, and Lynda Roberts ‘Echostains’ and ‘Bookstains’. You can find their links on my Blogroll. You’ll notice that none of them produce much poetry! My interests are varied, you see.

12. Any advice for people who would like to write poetry?
Just have a go. Anyone can write poetry. If it’s just for fun you won’t worry what people think of it, join something like Poetry Potluck and meet lots of people, some take their poetry seriously, some don’t!.

Dark Eyes

Jessica — Mon, 16 May 2011 07:25:05 +0000

Dark eyes flicker
Tired with ages past
Dead gleam reflecting times lost
A tear of conscience creeps in descent
Burning skin;
Stare deep
Immersed in rockpools of decay
Be lost in desires undiscovered
Fearful of sudden surface.

Dark eyes flicker
Taunting light
Piercing golden hearts forever chilled;
Ebony iris coldly cast
Repellant love.

Dark eyes flicker
Beware their glance
Piercing deathly.

© Jessica D’Angelo 2011

(And here’s a video version of the poem with images and background music. The poem is also entered in Poetry Potluck.)

Limericks

Jessica — Thu, 12 May 2011 13:44:00 +0000

There once was a girl called Jessie,
Who was forever so damn messy,
She dribbled her coffee,
Then snorted a bogey,
And licked up both from her dressy!

(And here’s a more adult one – so click away now if you’d rather not read it!)

There was a girl called Cunny,
In bed she was oh so funny,
She did love to lick,
It gave her a kick,
Ms Lingus was such a hunny!

(Both were inspired by Lynda’s post about Edward Lear over at Bookstains)

Dark Wings

Jessica — Tue, 10 May 2011 13:11:00 +0000

High standing, cloud imitating,
Poised like Damacles’ sword,
Silent wings caressing chill winds,
Black-eyed girl espies lovers lost;
Careening rain drop-down,
Feathered dark exterior glossy,
Blood red fingernails curl and grasp;
Silent assassin’s descent,
Ebony laquered mane flows,
Smile of insatiable hunger,
Two hearts dissolve
Dark anti-beauty climax;
Head held high
Grey moonlight drenched
All love flees
Dark wings
Descent.

(a little extra – piccies and words – I know there are errors but dinner was cooking at the same time!)

Driving us mad

Jessica — Thu, 05 May 2011 09:25:43 +0000

(Life with three Oxford girls continues apace)

People with a nervous disposition may want to click onto another blog right now…

Rosie is learning to drive.
Or should that be ‘Rosie is learning to drive us all mad.”
If people want to remove General Gaddafi from power they should just point Rosie in a car in the direction of Tripoli and he’ll be off into self imposed exile before you can say ‘L plates!’

So, we are now in week 5 of her driving instructing. And Rosie gets so nervous that she insists that we two accompany her in the car. A good idea? Let’s see what happened last Saturday morning…

It’s 10 a.m. The lesson should have started. Lucy and me are waiting on the kerb. The instructor is tapping his fingers on the sides of the steering wheel. We grin sweetly at him and glance at our wristwatches and then the front door. Finally it opens with a flourish and out pours Rosie. The tightest pair of skinny jeans you have ever seen creak and groan as she negotiates the four steps down to the pavement. Her stilettos clip irritatingly on the stonework. I point at the shoes and raise my eyebrows at Rosie. “I’ll take them off and drive barefoot.” “No, you won’t, young lady,” came a stern reply from inside the car. “Oh, ducks!” said Rosie before disappearing back inside to find a pair of flat, middle aged shoes.

And off we went, in a serene rabbit hopping manner. Rosie does little driving in between lessons due to the fact no-one will let her near their car, so the first mile or so of each lesson are like two long lost lovers reacquainting themselves with each other’s pleasure zones. Eventually we are progressing smoothly – at 5 miles an hour in first gear. ‘Change up, my dear, change up!” The instructor shows patience beyond the call of duty as Rosie accelerates like Lewis Hamilton and actually reaches 10 mph. Second gear. Phew!

Lucy and I start to relax and take in the sights of Oxford, or should that be the shops of Oxford. Fingers point this way and that as shoes, skirts, blouses and bikinis are spotted. That’s one thing we like about Rosie’s snail-like driving – it gives a girl a chance to study the clothes on display!

Rosie is told to take the next left. The indicator suggests she wants right. The red light tells Rosie to stop. She seems to want to dispute that command. A swerve, a halt, a manoeuvre and a second or two after turning left we get the left indicator signal….

Onwards we trundle, a fan club of cars trailing behind us (well, they haven’t much option as they can’t overtake!). The instructor spots a car park he uses for reversing practice and calmly announces – “We’ll take a little break here, I think.”
We all lurch forward, our seatbelts twanging in surprise, as Rosie interprets ‘break’ as ‘brake’. Horns ring out as major shunts are narrowly avoided. “The car park, Ms Davies, the car park, if you please.” The instructor recovers his notepad from the footwall and brushes back his rapidly thinning hair.

Practising reversing in a largely empty car park is usually a sensible idea. Maybe not so if the driver looks over her shoulder and finds herself staring into the eyes of her two best friends. Lucy and me pull no faces, wink no eyes, make no sounds. Yet each attempt ends in guffaws of giggles and crooked parking. In the end we two retreat to the tarmac and leave Rosie to manoeuvre with an empty backseat.

It was a good thing it was a Saturday morning and not a late afternoon – two girls in short skirts and stilettos standing in a lonely car park can give the wrong impression.

Oh ‘L’…