giving words wings

I do declare that someday I shall make a grand bonfire by setting alight the vast number of 'self-help' books in my possession (save for perhaps a dozen or so 'favourites').  The rising smoke shall be the chicken-soup-for-the-heavens-soul.  And I will dance around those flames with ridiculous abandon - mostly because of the space I would have created on my bookshelves, but also partly because it will signal a time when I don't feel the need to fix myself anymore.

I decided a little while ago that 2016 should be the year of big internal shifts. In order to have my life change in all the positive ways I want it to, things have to alter.  It's a multi-pronged goal, that quickly summarised would look a little like this: 

1. Discover who I am;
2. Be OK - nay - happy with who I am;
3. Be confident enough to take my place in the world, as this authentic me, and
4. Make no apologies once I get there.

That 'place' is proving a little elusive, and its distance varies from day to day.  Some days I think I'm going ok, but most days what I really want is for someone to side-step into my world, and flip that fucking switch for me.  And the truth at the heart of everything I've been trying to say, since I started forming words, is that all I really want is to be loved like I've never been loved before, and I want to feel, be and emit the glow of that glorious love like no one before me.

supreme source

Everyone deserves that, right? Isn't that why we're here?

always me

Love is a dwelling known from a place of dreaming, and at its heart, a room.  A room filled with mirrors, trinkets and things.  

Not loving oneself is like a hand grasping out at those glistening treasures, but not believing there is a right to reach for such delights. It is a gesture, a hesitation that screams I don't deserve this. And so, all those 'things' remain in some sad, stateless place, gathering dust and shit. Hidden from view.

Until of course I decide I am worthy, and realise that those treasures are mine to do with them, whatever I will.

I hope to dwell here awhile.

Illustration by Lisa Falzon

the miss list

As 2015 clambers through its final days, I tried thinking about the things I had achieved, the notable experiences and such that had marked my 32nd year on this planet.  It turns out I wasn't able to produce much of a list - so, in the absence of the groundbreaking, heart-shattering, mood altering list I had hoped to yield, I instead have a list of things not yet achieved.

1.
As a 32 year old female, attempting to adult her life, I shamefully admit that I have not been able to master the fine, and delightful art of the 'winged eye-liner' (à la exhibit 1A). The style, so beautifully worn by the likes of Angelina, Adele and Dita, still eludes me.  If I die before I successfully recreate this look, someone please ask the mortician to grant me a set of kick-ass wings for all of eternity. Maybe I should put this in my will.  Hmmm, I don't have a will. Should I? Fucking hell.

Exhibit 1A

2.  

Considered writing a will. Fuck you, item number 1.

3.

Fallen in love - or been fallen in love with. Frida Kahlo said that one should, "take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic". That's what I want, I want that (see exhibit 3A).

Exhibit 3A - I feel like this image sufficiently conveys aforementioned look of magic. *swoon* 

4.

Successfully mastered my body and mind. (This one might take a while).

5.

Maintained regular writing activities, and/or blog entries. Guilty, guilty, guilty.

6.

Become a musical genius.

2016 - look out!

shadow self

I am so profoundly broken.

Death, life, grief, pain, time and life have pummeled me. I don't remember who I used to be, all I know is that I am not that person anymore. She is gone.

I feel as if, in her place, is this shadow version of me. This half-life me. She's ugly; bitter, angry, tired. I can't conceal her anymore.  She is the person I have become when all my other masks fail me. I have no energy and I have no means to keep her hidden. I don't know what to do.

I wish I could run. Home doesn't feel safe anymore. I am judged here, by people, the past, the mirrors. I want to run to a place where I can scream and cry and not be condemned for what may escape my mouth.

I am at the end of my tether.

artist unknown

ruby tuesday

source

I find myself sunk by a wave of sadness.  It feels like everyday lately has been a test of my willpower and resolve.  Forced to say goodbye to light parts of myself and this darkness feels heavier than normal.

Leaving myself open to ridicule, I admit that saying goodbye to my pet rabbit Ruby on Tuesday has been the proverbial straw.  I've just had enough.

It's funny how that 'enough' line keeps moving.

I feel like my empathy is being eroded, my patience withered - as I become more bitter and twisted in a job I loathe, surrounded by narcissistic assholes that I just can't stand.  Worst of all? The reality that I let it happen.  That somewhere along the line I relinquished the control. I hate myself for becoming this hateful person.

I'm not sure how to describe this place I find myself in. I know where I am, and I know that I should be scared, that I should want to be around people and talk and laugh - but I don't. I just don't.  I can see the sun shining through the canopy of crap, but I want to be alone for a while.

I want to sit in this place and gather strength, so that I may go backwards to find the pieces of bundle I dropped from my basket, to find those parts of me that need to be revived, buffed, shined and re-installed.

I hate public pools

As part of my foot 'rehab' my only form of exercise at the moment is almost entirely limited to that which can be executed in a large body of water. I don't have a pool at home, or have access to an ocean, so I am forced to slum it at the local sports centre.

As if it's not bad enough I have to wear a ridiculous bright blue foam belt that makes me look like a giant she-child while "water-jogging" [read: doggie paddle and/or furiously thrash limbs in deep water]. Nope, nothing remotely dignified about it.  In fact, I could arrange my hair into a delightful french roll (no, that's not true, I can't actually do that, but I could pay someone to) while parading a string of pearls atop my rashie, and the only thing that could make that scene more graceful would be me submerging my entire body under the water, and never resurfacing again.

I didn't realise the intensity of my hatred for public swimming pools until just recently.  Of course, every time I walk through the doors, the heavy air hits my skin and that unmistakable scent of chlorine violates my nose. All those old anxieties and fears born of being a poor swimmer, turns me to my former eight year old self and I actually have to stop and think "no, it's ok, you're an adult now".  But even as an adult, pool-etiquette is fraught with potential anxiety.  There's the fight for space and small shreds of privacy, and then the fact that without lane ropes, people become savages.  Straight lines people - what have you got against swimming/walking/ogling in straight fucking lines?

really? what's the point here?

Poise is not easily achieved at 7am on a Sunday morning, especially after learning all the lanes are occupied, or empty but signposted "Closed to Public" and therefore off-limits.  Today I had to share the small heated pool with 'extremely hairy man', and his sidekick (who can only be distinguished from his 'friend' purely by the lack of excessive back hair).  I had applied my "fuck-off" face, because, I don't know, I just don't want to 'chat' when I'm trying to exercise; I don't feel like smiling politely that early in the morning, I don't even want to acknowledge that I'm really here, because in my mind, I am trying very hard to be far, far away.

For the second weekend in a row, I had a lifeguard do his best to casually approach me, before cutting straight to the hard hitting question...
lifeguard: excuse me - is that a-
me: NO, it's a rashie!
lifeguard: oh yeah.... cool
You can't get eye contact from them any other time.  No, God-forbid someone was actually drowning, they'd be too busy stalking someone they suspect is wearing street clothes in the pool. Dumb-asses.

Sure, they'll let hairy, sweaty, inconsiderate people in - but they'll shit their pants if you're found to be wearing 'street clothes'.  I tell you, they could do with letting some people wear ordinary shirts into the pool - I'm probably one of them, but 'extremely hairy man' is definitely a strong candidate.  I am thinking about getting some paint, or bleach and etching into the back of my rashie "yes, this is a rashie". Dumb-asses.

Mostly, on days like these, I hate public pools because it is so glaringly obvious that I have submerged my [clean] body into a large cocktail comprised of water, probably snot, definitely at least a little pee, almost certainly shit, without a doubt sweat, hair, dirt, chemicals and a band-aide - there is always one band-aide.

photo love

source

This is why I love photography. 

No indulgent 'selfies' or overcooked pictures of bare legs on the beach (why?) just slithers of time, telling peoples stories.

rhetoric

I'm walking this invisible line of who I am, what I want, how I feel and it keeps moving.  I'm so tired of asking myself what's it all about, what's it supposed to mean, how do I make things better?

I'm trying to live an enlightened existence, one where my footprints don't leave dents in the dirt, where I can do no harm, but still be able to etch "I was here" into the bark of a couple of trees along the way.

I have decided living generally requires courage.  In case people hadn't noticed, shit is kinda fucked, but in spite of that, you have to roll out of that bed and face each new day, because if you don't, well what's the point?

I don't think I'm in the vicinity of a point here - but I just think, amongst the shit, you've got to find something to hold onto, even if it's just your other hand, and that quiet internal coward uttering maybe you are OK?

"When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." 
- Hunter S. Thompson

the manifesto

where it's at

strategies for working with stupid people

Every now and then you meet a person, who on every conceivable level annoys the complete shit out of you. It's as if your aura's clash and repel like charged magnets, or batteries, or whatever the laws of science say. I have one of these people in my wider work team, and I'm really struggling to deal with him. From this moment on, he shall be referred to as 'Beet-Boy'.

I used to consider myself a 'nice' person, but the longer I spend in the approximate company of Beet-Boy - the more nasty and horrible I become.  I am unable to hide my disdain for Beet-Boy - I verbally, passive aggressively assault him whenever the opportunity presents itself. I know this isn't right - it's a poor reflection of me and it's mean to him - but I just seem to lose control of my face and mouth where he is concerned.

He's like an eight year old in a forty year olds awkward body - he has zero social skills, is lazy, nonsensical and arrogant.  He wears inappropriately short-shorts, eats cold baked beans from the can and likes beetroot way too much. He has googly eyes which pierce (and not the good kind of piercing), and overall I just can't stand the sight of him without my face hardening and my words turning venomous.

Admittedly I don't have a lot of tolerance for stupidity - but I really do need to feign some form of respect for Beet-Boy, who is technically my 'elder' and my work superior.  I hate feeling like a bad person, and just wish I was able to rise above all the shit at work that brings me down like a sinking stone.

Until that lotto win happens, I might have to grow accustomed to keeping my mouth shut - or biting my tongue, turning the other cheek, twisting my own arm, pulling someone elses leg.... wahhhhh!  I thought nature was supposed to 'natural select' the stupid out of a species.

in the eye of the beholder

I've pretty much been lounging around the interior of the house for five days, high on painkillers, wearing my pajama bottoms all day - yeah, you heard me, and sporting big black retro-shaped sunglasses like an alcoholic movie-star under house arrest. I'm that cool.

No, in truth I've been hiding in rooms with closed curtains and quiet lights because I had eye surgery.  The pajama bottoms are pure comfort and convenience - and the sunglasses, well, aside from helping with the sunlight situation, they also provide a slightly more glamorous feel, than my bright red swollen eye lends me.

In my mind, I like to think I look like this..

But when the glasses come off, I look a lot like this...

I have one more weeks reprieve, before I have to put on some actual pants and face the real world like a proper adult. It's not terribly easy looking at the world right now, especially when your brave face is not a particularly pretty one. It's times like these I wish I were the kind of person who didn't care what people thought of me.

letting go

"There comes a time in life when you have to let go of all the pointless drama and the people who create it and surround yourself with people who make you laugh so hard that you forget the bad and focus solely on the good.  After all, life is too short to be anything but happy." - Karl Marx

A glorious photograph by Jerome Berbigier (source).

I figure this must be what peace looks like.

change of heart

My female-ness is sort of in hyper drive right now. While I often 'joke' about being a 29 year old female with no prospects who is well on her way to becoming a cat lady, I've come to realise quite recently that I don't actually want to be alone. There is a huge part of me that wants to be noticed, that wants to be cared about and loved - although I am completely without the balls to initiate 'contact' with men-folk, which is sort of where the ideal falls apart.

Hence, I am looking around me as if driven by primal instincts, sniffing out anyone half decent - and I mean anyone. Ashamedly the new bloke who empties the bin at work looked almost dashing in the green reflective glow of the rubbish bin lid today - whistling and smiling in his khaki uniform - he seemed like the kind of simple my life requires. And don't get me started on the tradie contractor I've been devoting REM cycles to. Except maybe I will, because he looks a lot like this...

The small company he works for tends to be called in to do odd bits of work around the place, most recently he has been working on establishing the amenities of a new building right on my doorstep at work. So of course, there's been trench digging and flexing calves and glistening triceps. This guy is freakin' fit! And polite, and hard working, with dark brown skin and glorious grey-blue eyes, he had me at "good morning".. those couple of times he said it, like, months ago. Clearly my imagination doesn't need a lot of encouragement.

His presence has been infrequent of late, which made me sad...

So, this week when he returned to continue, and possibly complete the work, I was delighted. I was all....

As the days wore on, I continued to sneak glimpses of him through the wooden blinds and found countless legitimate excuses to journey outside to chance an encounter. But the days ticked over, and I was all...

And now he's gone, the trench has been filled and compacted and my work days feel a little emptier than they used to. 

But, if I'd known then what I know now - perhaps I would've seized the opportunity of the late night walk to the public library with my girlfriends and Justin-big lips, for a pash on the pine logs too. I'm told he slobbered a lot, but, meh - beggars can't be choosers right?

to the moon and back

To the man who brought us the moon - rest in peace.

levitation love

I stumbled upon this clever lady today. Her work is so gorgeous - I love that the 'levitations' make the photographs look like dreamscapes, but they also feel completely planted in the real.  I want to fly too. She's sort of my hero now.

SB

how to be a woman

If ever faced with a situation, in which I needed to refer to myself as a 'woman', I would always mentally stutter on the word - as if it were an untruth. Of course, physically I fit into that category just fine, but emotionally.. mentally - I've never really been sure.  I don't know if it's because I feel 'woman' is a descriptor saved for strong, self assured females; mothers or mature types that have grown into themselves? As for me, I don't feel strong or sure about anything - mostly I'm just trying to keep myself relatively sane and alive on a day to day basis.

So, when I heard about the book by Caitlin Moran, entitled "How to be a Woman" - the category of which it belongs is 'Humour/Feminism' I was intrigued.

where it's at

'Feminism' is another one of those uncomfortable terms for me.  I suppose that's because in my head I thought that feminists are the kind of folk to burn their bras in giant bonfires, yell at men, be generally dissatisfied and kind of argumentative. The sort of women who might cause me to blush with a controversial comment, and challenge me to think - have my own opinions and be bold with them. However, this is all beside the point, because this book is not really like that at all!

In her book, Moran isn't trying to turn us into bitter and twisted man haters - instead it is a humorous look at things from her point of view - littered with truths, life experiences, and the stuff of things to make you think - to make me think.

At its beginning, Moran talks about the logistics of being a woman - she states "..in many ways, there is no crueler or more inappropriate present to give a child than oestrogen and a big pair of tits". Well, she's preaching to the choir here with that one - it was the long hot summer of 1994 that saw me eternally condemned to sports-days in my baggy school jumper. God, that was shitty, and inevitably futile - just as Moran observes "the problem with battling yourself is that even if you win, you lose.  At some point - scarred, and exhausted - you either accept that you must become a woman - that you are a woman - or you die.." (of heat exhaustion perhaps?)

It interests me when she likens the fight of feminism to an analogy of broken windows.  "In the 'Broken Windows' theory, if a single broken window on an empty building is ignored, and not repaired, the tendency is for vandals to break a few more windows.  Eventually, they may break into the building, and light fires, or become squatters." In her mind, perhaps if we don't sweat the small feminist stuff - which in this case, are the broken windows, then women won't have a chance with the big stuff because our whole house is going to be burnt down by squatters! (I promise she explains it far better than I do!)

Later, Moran addresses the question on all our lips: am I a feminist? To which she provides a brief but effective assessment: "Put your hands in your pants. a) Do you have a vagina? and b) Do you want to be in charge of it? If you said 'yes' to both, then congratulations! You're a feminist." Simple really. Yes, and hell yes - for the record. She convinces me further with: "what do you think feminism IS, ladies? What part of 'liberation for women' is not for you? Is it freedom to vote? The right not to be owned by the man you marry? The campaign for equal pay? 'Vogue', by Madonna? Jeans? Did all that good shit GET ON YOUR NERVES?" And then, to cement it all, she later affirms "...it's not as if strident feminists want to take over from men. We're not arguing for the whole world. Just our share."

Other note able quotes that had me giggling in delight, or thinking... or both:

"When did feminism become confused with Buddhism? Why on earth have I, because I'm a woman, got to be nice to everyone?...I don't build in a 20 per cent 'Genital Similarity Regard-Bonus' if I meet someone else wearing a bra.  If someones an arsehole, someones an arsehole - regardless of whether we're both standing in the longer toilet queue..."

"What is feminism? Simply the belief that women should be as free as men, however nuts, dim, deluded, badly dressed, fat, receding, lazy and smug they might be.  Are you a feminist?  Hahaha. Of course you are."

"Because at the moment, I can't help but notice that in a society obsessed with fat - so eager in the appellation, so vocal in its disapproval - the only people who aren't talking about it are the only people whose business it really is."

"Based on my own personal experiences, 100,000 years of male superiority has its origins in the simple basis that men don't get cystitis."

"When we discuss the great tragedies that can possible befall a woman, once we have discounted war and injury, it is the idea of being unloved, and therefore unwanted that we wince over the most. Elizabeth I may have laid the groundworks of the British Empire, but she could never marry - poor, pale, mercury-caked queen." Now this, I relate to, because I am one of those silly women who thinks this way.

On shoes: "Women wear heels because they think they make their legs look thinner..they think that by effectively walking on tip-toes, they're slimming their legs down from  size 14 to a size 10.  But they aren't, of course. There is a precedent for a big fat leg dwindling away to a point - and it's on a pig."

"If I'm going to spend £500 on a pair of designer shoes, it's going to be a pair that I can a) dance to 'Bad Romance' in, and b) will allow me to run away from a murderer, should one suddenly decide to give chase."

On kids: "To be frank, childbirth gives a woman a gigantic set of balls. The high you get as you realise it's all over, and that you didn't actually die, can last the rest of your life. Off their faces with euphoria...new mothers finally tell the in-laws to back off, dye their hair red, get driving lessons, go self-employed, learn to use a drill, experiment with Thai condiments, make cheerful jokes about incontinence, and stop being scared of the dark."

"Every parent has their particular moment where they realised that, since they'd had a child, nothing really fazed them anymore. For me, it was the day that potty-training Lizzie went wrong, and I had to kick a poo, across a falconry display, in a marquee, at Regent's Park Zoo."

"Feminism needs zero tolerance over baby angst. In the 21st century, it can't be about who we might make, and what they might do, any more. It has to be about who we are, and what we're going to do." Well said Caitlin Moran!

On the ugly machine that is gossip magazines: "I've read more about Oprah Winfrey's arse than I have about the rise of China as an economic superpower. I fear this is no exaggeration. Perhaps China is rising as an economic superpower because its women aren't spending all their time reading about Oprah Winfrey's arse."

On how to know: "...in the same way you can tell if some sexism is happening to you by asking the question 'Is this polite, or not?', you can tell whether some misogynistic societal pressure is being exerted on women by calmly enquiring, 'And are the men doing this, as well?'"

On ageing and plastic surgery: "I want a face full of frown lines and weariness and cream-coloured teeth that, frankly, tells stupid and venal people to FUCK OFF... Lines and greyness are nature's way of telling you not to fuck with someone - the equivalent of the yellow and black banding on a wasp..." I really like her theory.

On the reality of not being a princess: "Accepting you're just some perfectly ordinary woman who is going to have to crack on, work hard and be polite in order to get anything done is - once you've got over the crippling disappointment of your thundering ordinariness - incredibly liberating."

"Simply being honest about who we really are is half the battle...there's so much stuff -in every respect - that we can't afford and yet we sighingly resign ourselves to, in order to join in, and feel 'normal'. But, of course, if everyone is, somehow, too anxious to say what their real situation is, then there is a new, communal, median experience which is being kept secret by everyone being too embarrassed to say, 'Don't think I'm a freak, but..."

Upon finishing this clever read - I'm not entirely sure that I'm ready to accept I will never be a princess; I'm not even sure what kind of woman I'm trying to be, but like Caitlin Moran: "what I really want to be, all told, is a human. Just a productive, honest, courteously treated human. One of 'The Guys'. But with really amazing hair." Yep, that about covers it.

SB

open seas

Over the weekend, I took some time aside from 'normal' life, to check out a travelling photographic exhibition. The photos were of nature; animals and landscapes of the most amazing quality. I could be seen wandering around the temporary gallery, oohing and ahhhing, commenting in awe - as if talking amongst friends - but it was just me, the frames, the walls and the cornered worlds they created.

One stunning black and white image of a whale underwater caught my attention, and reminded me of something from long ago.

When I was a little girl, my Dad worked from an office complex that shared its space with many varied businesses. One of the neighbouring offices had the most beautiful image hanging from its wall - and every time I would visit my father, I would stand mesmerised by this photographic print. I can see it now - black and white image - white boarder, thin black frame - it was enormous (or perhaps it just looked so, to a small me). The photo was of a perfectly symmetrical whales tail, breaching the surface in an almighty wave of water. I thought it was amazing. I used to look at it and think that someday I'd like to see a sight like that myself, for real. Even back then, I recognised how a photo could capture a moment so wonderful, magical, that it could move me to take a step back in awe. While the photo amazed me, the scale of it scared me, and even now I can't think about it, or look at a similar image, without a quickening of my heart.

Source

I shouldn't have any particular affinity with the sea - I practically live in the desert and I'd barely scrape double digits if I had to count the times I have swam in the ocean.  Still, I love to watch it when I can.  I love thinking about the world that exists beneath the surface - where creatures like these rule. (Which is why I fucking hate seeing the Japanese hunt them for their "experiments" - it's a disgrace... however, for another time). The ocean makes me feel small, it reminds me that beyond the decisions and actions of individual people, beyond my mind - there are forces much greater than us - it humbles me, and strangely comforts me.

I have been drowning in my own seas of late - within the depths of my mind.  Sometimes I can feel so far out in the deep, I forget that there is land, or that there will be again. I have felt vulnerable, that perhaps I'd perish - tired of treading the water. As my feet begin to find land now, I start to recognise the way forward - I might stumble, but I will continue to move. I have been thrown a life jacket - and I feel silly for thinking at the time that I might never make it from the waves, for thinking I was alone out there. But, I think perhaps at one time or another, we are all swimming - we all have our seas, some deeper than others.

SB

oh crap

It is entirely possible that I completed an entire session at my local gym yesterday, with a "POW!" sticker attached to my ass.

More disturbing still, when I got home and said sticker was discovered - it had ripped in half, so it actually said "PO".

Pop art greatness from Roy Lichtenstein

See, only bad things can come from exercise.

SB



tiny triumphs

Beautiful creation by Rachel Howard, 'Black Dog'

I have now replaced ugly emotion with Easter egg chocolate and internet shopping. So I will get fatter, and also be poor.  Plus, there's a cat that keeps hanging around the house - so I could just start my cat collection now. 

I'm only being semi-serious when I say these things... On the plus side, my sense of inappropriate humor is still intact.

SB

singing in the rain

 "Fowl with Pearls" by Michael Sowa

 
A bird doesn't sing because it has an answer, it sings because it has a song.
Lou Holtz

SB