Vale Bonnie

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die... Eccles. 3.1

I had to say goodbye to my best friend yesterday. She'd been in my life for 11 years.  

Life was kind of shitty when we first met.  I was going through college, carrying out someone else's idea of my life.  I'm not too sure how my sister and I finally swung it - but the parentals had finally agreed to let us have a pet dog.

Mum and I rushed to the pet store this Friday afternoon.  I could even tell you what I was wearing, as if that mattered.  There were a couple of different kinds of puppies for sale. In one enclosure sat a white, fluffy, delicate little thing, and next to that there was a shy, fuzzy, brown bundle we deemed most likely to be loved by Dad.

She was so small, you could comfortably hold her in one hand - soft and lively, delicate in her own kind of way. I wish I could tell you about the ride home with our new puppy.  I wish I had been smart enough to soak those minutes in so that I could recall them in full-colour-high-definition now.  I suppose I was just too excited to be going home with our special little bundle.

We thought about names overnight, made lists, but nothing stuck. I remember 'Tess' was on the list (as I recall, "Mcleods Daughters" was popular with us girls at the time) along with many other possibilities.

Saturday morning came, and I had to go to my crappy part time job, a place where you weren't allowed to call the boss by his first name. He was a naughty boy stuck in a bearded mans body. 

I finished work, slipped off my wretched shoes and found she had a name: "Bonnie".

Bonnie was so small, she got lost in vastness of our backyard.  As a young pup, she took pleasure in bathing herself in her giant water bowl, and rubbing herself all over the green lawn.  As she grew, she loved to play - she got big enough to enjoy the toys we'd brought her, when really revved up, she would run in circles, huffing in excitement with her tail tucked under as if conforming herself to a more aerodynamic shape.

But, she had little frailty's too. She became nippy, and at times short tempered, especially after we had her spayed. We'd wondered if abuse was in her past.  She wasn't great with new people, tall people, or people with booming voices - she would crawl with her tail sideways, and urinate if they reached out to pat her. Poor Bonnie, she was a bit damaged, like me - and that somehow made her even more special.

She'd bark when the roller door opened, and when the doorbell rang . She'd chase nearby doves like a warrior when someone caught her by surprise, and took pleasure in keeping cats out of her territory. If she were inside when you got home from work, she'd be first at the door, greeting you with her shy little shuffle.  It wouldn't matter what had happened that day, she was a reason to crack a smile.

Like me, she loved her food, and I was always happy to share my peas with her.  She loved spaghetti, and roast chicken and had an uncanny ability to hear the peeling of a carrot, or the opening of the biscuit barrel.

Most nights I'd have a cup of tea, she'd wake and share some biscuit with me. It was our routine, our tradition.

Life is made up of increments of time, pieces of things put together to make a whole day. Bonnie was so ingrained in almost every part of my life, I'm utterly devastated by her absence now.  Now there are wide, gaping holes in the days - the silence is crushing, time has slowed to snails pace these past two days - I feel sick when I remember for certain she's gone.

I could go on and on about her, but I won't.  I know some people don't understand how animals can be grieved so fiercely. And to me, those people aren't such great 'people'.  My Bonnie - for all her faults and flying jumps was beautiful. She wasn't conventional, or easy to understand, but she was my friend and the best kind of 'person' I might ever know.  Up until yesterday I don't think I've ever felt so alone.  My 'almost Tess', my friend under the table, my hello at the door, I will miss you forever.  And forever feels like a very long time right now.



Rest in peace my little Biscuit.

she laughs at the days to come

Three days ago I felt myself crumble again. Not sure about the trigger, perhaps a culmination of all things - of feeling time press up against me, of not having an escape route. So I created my own.

Once again, side-lying - unmoving with a blank, unfocused stare. Acutely aware of the absence of visual focus, but so totally locked on the imperceptible pain and numbness that had swallowed me whole. Like pins and needles of the mind.

I was a mess of tears and words that made no sense. Stunned and mute to the thoughts and feelings I couldn't recognise. I couldn't go to work.

It's Sunday evening now; normal life looms and I feel silly with fear. I don't know how I'll feel in the morning. If those same feelings will wash over me again? I hope not. When it happened I thought I was going bat-shit crazy (again). I doubted everything. I doubted myself.

But here I sit, I have waded through. Regrouped? Delusional? Who's to know? Time will tell I guess.

If we all have the tools to be our own solution, then maybe I just need to remember where I set mine down. I know I had an almost full kit once - granted, some items were borrowed, or fashioned from the things of others, but they worked well enough.

I found I had spent so much time distracting myself; neglecting myself; I hadn't given my bundle any option but for the ass to fall out of it. It's a lame and weary saying, but we do have to be our own best friends - no, actually scratch that, we have to be like a sister to ourselves - friends you choose, family you are stuck with. In a completely non-weird way, how can I possibly stand a chance if the only person consistently stuck by my side, from birth to death, is the first one to sabotage me?

So tonight I sit in a place of just being. Of accepting that life is balls sometimes, and that I should probably look after numero uno. Remembering that things rarely make sense, hurt when you don't expect them to and that the world feels small when you spend too much time looking outside. It's big and it's bad, and also fucking ridiculous, so one must remember to laugh.

an empty cage

This morning we found one of our family pet birds dead on the floor of his cage. He arrived one Christmas Eve, some fifteen years ago - another of my Mother's infamous 'bird phases' - she was going to teach this long-billed Corella to talk. He would be called Jake. Some time later we would come to question Jake's gender - as Jake never really got the hang of the whole talking business.

The sight of a lifeless animal, head crashed to the floor is not a nice one.  It's a vague idea that might cross your mind briefly, whenever you are reminded of the special animals in your life, when you remember they won't be here forever - but in those moments you quickly shake the picture from your mind, to think about another day - some distance in the future. We don't know what happened to Jake - but he was supposed to outlive us all, we had heard they could live for 100 years, and supposedly he was to be my inheritance one day, when my parents would no longer be around to look after him.

Jake was an odd creature - a little damaged like the rest of the members of my family.  A plump body, about the size of an AFL football, covered in brilliant white waxy feathers; beady black eyes, surrounded by a circle palette of old-lady-blue-rinse coloured crinkly skin, and a blush of coral on his 'cheeks'. And gracing the top of his head, a scaly intimidating crest that would rise whenever he was mad, or rain-happy, or scared - and when it rose, the slightest salmon pink shade could be detected beneath the feathers of his crown.

Jake could be an unadulterated pain in the ass.  He and I had a strained relationship at times.  With his fiercely hooked long beak, I could never understand why he would be spooked by gentle doves and cockatoos that got too close to the border of his world - his cage. His squawk would resound in the tiny depths of your cavernous ears - he was bloody loud, and shall we say, generous with his voice.  Whenever my little nephew would get scared by Jake's noise, I would simply tell him "it's ok, Jake's just singing".

He disliked small quick children, people wearing sunglasses and aggressive folk who tried to make him 'sing', along with the aforementioned doves/magpies/crows and any other animals that might get too close; he didn't seem to like my big camera much either. He loved sunflower seeds, apple and spreading his wings in the rain; he was also quite partial to a head rub (from the right person).  It was moments when the summer rain would trickle down the front of his cage, Jake would cling to the wire - wings outstretched, feathers flapped, crest high and proud - I think doing some pre-programed ancestral dance of the Corellas - it was these moments, I liked him best.

"JAKE! Shutup Jake! SHUUUUT UPP!" We all screamed many, many times throughout his life.  I feel a little bad now, for cursing him so much. I loved to watch him waddle on the bottom of his cage, like something from a prehistoric age - he was clumsy and cute in his quiet moments.

Before having to leave for work this morning, I had a little cry and I tried to comfort my Mum, who would without doubt be feeling the loss more than me.  I would see my Mum, red faced, watery eyed, briefly rise to look through the kitchen window to see the cage Jake used to occupy, only to remember it was empty now, and she would weep again, recalling the loss.  My Dad left for work, sombre and stone faced; I had the impression he would hold it together, until reaching the confines of his car, or office, where he would be free to shed his tears, it's what I would do, if I were him.

He was just a bird, a noisy, funny little bundle of feathers and beak, but he was a part of the family.  Sometimes I think the larger the animal, the more space it takes up in your heart, and the bigger the shattering shock to your gut when you see them fallen and unmoving.  It's easy to forget the small parts that make up the stage setting of your life - the things, people, creatures, trees - most unnamed, go unnoticed until the day they aren't there anymore. They bring colour and shape to our existence, and leave holes of various sizes when they cease to be.  It hurts when things like this happen, the endings always so much more vivid than the journey - but they enrich our lives in untold ways, and I suppose in these moments of upset, that's what we need to focus on.

Drowning Girl

'Drowning Girl' - Roy Lichtenstein

I am tired of this fever. Tonight, my repertoire of emotion is limited to anger and frustration.  I have a cold that won't go away - my head is heavy with fatigue. Add to that, I am seemingly physically incapable of creating GHD curls and that just fucking pisses me off, no end.

I see the GP tomorrow, where I plan to talk about the meds issue.  Perfect timing, as always.

May peace be with you at least.

SB

the state of the hermitage

I haven't been writing a lot lately, sometimes because I've been exhausted, a little because I haven't had much to say, and sometimes because I don't know how to say what it is that I'm feeling.

In the past, I have shocked some people with the insight into my thoughts - perhaps for a few reasons.  Maybe they didn't expect it; they didn't understand; or because they thought that my thoughts were rubbish.  The last statement I agree with, because yes, sometimes my thoughts can be utter waste.  But, I think when I try to censor my outpourings, I run into problems - because when I'm not truthful, it means I'm obscuring things - and this gives the hidden parts a chance to chatter in dark corners. They have been chattering, and I have been listening in, and it has been ugly.

I have been told, by what I would call a reliable source (a Psychologist) that we all have an internal monologue - that is, without sounding 'crazy' - a voice, in your head, kind of commentating or observing.  I think some of us are more in-tune to it than others; I hear mine a lot and it is not a particularly nice monologue, because mine is paranoid, frustrated and mean. Perhaps my sensitivity is a consequence of spending too much time on my own - there hasn't been anything to drown out my doom radio.

Today was quite a rough day.  There weren't the usual amount of distractions available - some members were missing from the workplace, and there was ample quiet time.  My work struggles, and people struggles are well documented here; I always feel that I am ill-fitting; I don't belong; I'm not wanted.

Despite whether these thoughts or 'observations' are real or truthful is beside the point - because I hear them so often that I believe them. My doom radio is like an investigator, or a bad P.I. at the very least - because any behaviour, or occurrence that might support these notions, just becomes further "proof" that I am lonely, that I am not wanted - that I am all the things it tells me I am.

People that know what I speak of will nod their heads in agreement, others that haven't experienced such things - I suspect I lost somewhere around the "we all have an internal monologue". But it is all very hard to explain, because it is not in the real - rather, it is the imagined space that sits atop our shoulders - dense and isolating.

I am Brad Pitt and Edward Norton, "Fight Club" style - it is 'feeling' me and 'doom radio' me, punching it out.  It's all harmless play fighting... until it's not. Until the bruises hurt, and the bones break.  I feel like I'm breaking today.

Today I am alone, I am not good enough, I am easy to forget, I am a thorn, a raincloud, a fifth wheel, I am invisible and an eye-sore, all at once.  In my head, all of this is plausible - because the lunch room goes quiet when I'm there; because I'm told about after work drinks after everyone else is invited; because everyone has tickets to an Anzac day event that I didn't know about; because there is cosy laughter in the room until I enter; because it's all take, take, take and hardly ever any give. Nothing feels genuine and everything feels wrong. Round pegs. Square hole.

I think about wanting to come off the depression/anxiety medication - because I think I'd rather go it alone.  But if I feel this now, on the meds - what will it be like amplified - without armour?

I cry, because I want the hurt to stop; because I'm not ok inside, and I'm tired of smiling on the outside. I think it's unfair that I have to live, feeling the way I do, while everyone else gets to switch off their voices.

There is my doom radio voice, and then there is me - and we inhabit the same body, and sometimes I don't know that I can win.

SB

crashing walls

The front yard conversation had led her to feel as if in an alternate reality.  Tear stricken, muffled sobs - they had left her open - for ridicule? For hurt? As she walked the dark driveway to her car - her silhouette could be seen to shiver with strangeness.  Anyone looking from the front might notice the mascara running under her eyes - in places it's not meant to be seen.  Lord knows what would be said inside the house she'd just left - without saying goodbye.  She wanted to go hours ago - but lacked the bravery to get up from her new found corner in order to battle the crowd of people that stood between her and the door; between her and the way out of this party for assholes.

As she drove away, along the wide dark streets, she could be heard asking - as if interrogating herself, or God: "what the fuck just happened?" As if she could know the answer - as if anyone could tell her - as if God would.

*     *     *     *     *

It was four hours earlier I had been trying to find myself a valid reason not to go to this joint birthday party - joint between a person I loathe and a person I actually like. "Don't be a freak" is what I told myself "you said 'yes' so, you go - don't give people at work a reason to talk about you more."

One outfit freak-out and I was teetering the edge of the line - something pulled me back, and I went.
Things progressed ok - I had exhausted chit-chat with the unfortunates sitting beside me - some laughs and awkward pauses - I wasn't up near the keg - I wasn't drinking, save for the half a glass of wine I took in an effort to blend - but I outed myself the moment I arrived; I always do.

After a long while someone decided we should move inside as the breeze was picking up.  This could be an opportunity to sneak out? Blend with the natives - move in a pack.  Once inside I fumbled with my bag - seeking out my phone ..the time...exactly how much time had I invested? But then she approached.

The new addition to our team 'C' - she'd been gentle and sweet since she started - but we'd barely gotten past pleasantries.  I always thought we might get along - but never cared to chance such a risk.  When thinking about trying to make friends with your potential work supervisor - it always paints a messy picture.

C had been enjoying herself - I had seen her through the window, chatting with people she knew and others she didn't with equal ease - it surprised me, and made me a little jealous that I didn't have the same qualities.  She came up to me - asked me how I was going at work - admitted I didn't look so happy these days.  I don't recall what came first, the hugs or the hard hitting questions - at first I thought she was one of these affectionate drunks - but then she hit a raw nerve, and despite my best efforts, my eyes teared up ever so slightly. "Yeah, I'm ok... you know.." verbal dot dot dot, I shrugged.  In my head, I'd long been at the point where I couldn't lie about work anymore.  She saw it.  She kept going.  She spoke about how she felt I was lovely and kind - part of the reason she had chosen to accept a permanent position. "You do so much, I wish other people would see that" she said to me.  I tried to deflect - I too had been curious to know how she was handling work - being new to a profession and workplace is never easy - plus there is a fragility about C that I've always seen, wondered and worried about.  Conversation stuck firmly on me. "I worry about you" she admitted - while casually leaning on the back of the suede lounge-chair.  Surrounded by people.

It was getting too much and I said I wanted to go out the front.  I cried and she hugged me - I apologised.  She kept going on... "if you ever want to catch up - please let me know, I'm only a phone call away... I think you're such a beautiful person" hug, hug..."I tell my Mum about you... you remind me of my sister."

I'm not even sure what I said - shocked by the circumstance.  How is it the one I had my eye on to protect was the one comforting me? Worst of all, I thought, she was obviously verging on drunk - would she even remember she'd drained my watery secrets, come day light? So many hugs, some initiated by me, most by her.

I told her I was going to go and I left - without thanking my hosts - I was shattered and I didn't really know why - what had this all meant? What would it mean on Monday? What's it going to mean inside that house, when a workmate might come to ask where I'd gone?

All this leaves me feeling a little uneasy and vulnerable. It feels like one of those crossroads moments - where either nothing could happen, or something brilliant could - depending on the direction.  Those insecure thoughts rattle in my mind; is she trying to make a fool out of me - is she trying to get information from me for her own selfish use - is this her way of testing me - what if she told everyone what I said, after I'd gone - can she be trusted?

I just don't know.

SB

selective hearing

More greatness from mydeadpony.

I just can't hear anything yet.

SB

Just another bad day

My top lip has a permanent red scar from the mean cold-sore of 2007. I'd like to thank my dear sister for this, as it was her bridezilla tendencies who created a very stressful three days for me during a bridesmaid dress expedition. Today, I awoke to find a very angry red scar... and very quickly a bubble... then the pain... and the itch.  Good fucking morning, bitches!

I don't even know how I got this asshole of a virus anyway.  I only wish it was through kissing some hot bad-boy in a darkened pub corner. I suspect that it may have come from a poorly washed cup, utilised by my bastard pig of an ex-boss, during my part time job, about seven years ago.  Either that, or being the born worrier that I am, the virus sidled up next to me and just decided my body was where it wanted to be. I feel that both of these hypotheses are equally possible. (Hypothesis - now there's a word I know I haven't used since 2009).

So, I woke up with a cold sore today, and bad hair... and just a plain old bad attitude.  I always feel more vulnerable to general worldly shittiness when I feel ugly - like there's a chink in my armour, and thanks to the cold sore - everyone could see the chink. This provides almost perfect proof that attitude and outlook determine so much.  See, it's interesting how I know this, but yet I am still unable to shake the pissy, frustrated attitude I find myself wearing more frequently these days.

Then, add a family drama.  Today my sister had to take my five-month old niece to see a paediatric therapist (who belongs to my department at work), for follow up on a fairly benign issue.  I hear that at this appointment the stupid, old, bitter therapist tells my sister some horrific things about the state of my nieces head - introducing words like 'brain surgery' and 'never in all my years'.  At first I was a mixture of concern and anger - and then selfish thoughts, like why me... I can't take any more today. Then I got upset because I knew this 'news' had sent my sister into an episode of tears and poorly informed google-ing. So, I was trying to calmly talk it out with a co worker who I trust, but then of course, my voice starts to shake and I get teary - because in my heart I'm fearing for my niece, but in my head I'm wondering how someone with half a centuries experience can be so fucking insensitive with a new mother.

I just get so scared when I think about anything being wrong with my nephew or niece.  Like a parent, I want to protect them from bad things.  I don't want to see them disadvantaged, hurt or sick. I am genuinely scared, and they aren't even my kids. I also can't help but feel a little responsible; because of where I work, I encouraged my sister to seek out assistance with the initial problem... and now she's just in a state of utter panic, because of what my co-worker said to her.

There are just some days where I wish I could melt into the walls unseen - remove myself from waking life and just be deleted for a little while.  I wish I could have done this today, and taken my lovely niece with me.

I am so worried about all of this; I hope that it all turns out to be nothing - but that giant neon 'WHAT IF' hangs above my head.  I guess all I can do is hope, and pray and love the shit out of the people I care about, while I can - because the scariest truth of them all is that I can't control anything.

SB xx

Tangle

Apparently I'm 'normal' in all the ways that can be measured. And in all the ways that can't be..well who's to know?

I went to the doctor today for the results of all my tests - no explanation for my bodily freak out two weeks ago; oh well, I have chemical, molecular, freakin' GP certification that I am O. K. So why don't I feel it?

I had another run in with e-vil facebook. John was on just now, adding photos, doing general John things. I made myself 'active' to chat, thinking maybe, just maybe he might say hello. Nope. Seemingly that is expecting too much. He writes me a random email, like three weeks ago, he never responds to my response - dammit, sometimes I just want to cry for the futility of it all. This stupid waiting game.

You know, John is one of those men who five minutes before dinner, tells his wife he's going out for a pack of smokes and never returns. Stupid ass. Him, and me.

My unhappiness used to be relatively uncomplicated, now it's just littered with stupid man stuff.

"don't even try, still get the guy"
"let men chase you"
"engage the apricot"

Excuse me Zoe Foster, but I think you're just a little bit full of shit. This advice coming from the woman who hooked the co-author (i.e Hamish Blake) of this stupid book that I paid actual money for. Please note hazard #32 of online shopping for seriously insecure and desperate females bearing credit cards. Be an apricot - what the fuck does that even mean Zoe Foster?! Lets be honest here, I want to say I'm the apple high up on the tree, but actually I think I'm that mushy one that rolled onto the ground last season, that no one can be assed picking up. That's my fruit metaphor.

The book should've been cheaper - that's all I'm sayin'...

Boy, am I in a rotten mood. It's not genetics's fault, it's not facebook's fault, it's not John's or even Zoe Foster's fault, really. It's just the life and times of a Monday evening in the life of me.

Worse things happen at sea, right, at least that's what the oldies tell me.

SB xx

right, said

In the day
In the night
Say it right
Say it all
You either got it
Or you don't
You either stand
Or you fall
When your will
Is broken
When it slips
From your hand
When there's no
Time for joking
There's a hole
In my plan

Oh you don't mean nothing at all to me
No you don't mean nothing at all to me
But you got what it takes to set me free
Oh you could mean everything to me

This version is lovely - it lends you time to hear the words. It suits my mood tonight; I am sad and upset - and not even I want to know why.

SB xx

**the good stuff begins at 3mins 2seconds

always the meat

I feel like I'm the meat in the sandwich that is my family.  I'm not saying here that I'm the standout element in this equation - what I am saying, is that I'm the one who carries the condiments and seasonings - and as 'meat' everyone always expects you...to be there...in the 'sandwich'.  Actually, I don't know what I'm trying to say anymore. It's just sometimes I think I lose myself in the midst of other peoples dramas.

Case in point... Sunday morning - I am charged with taking most excellent photos of my niece and nephew for this years Christmas card distribution.  No pressure or anything. What do I have to work with? 1 x 3.4 year old male; 1 x 9week old female. In addition 1 x highly strung mother of said children. Farrrrk!

I might also mention, at this point, that I myself am in mid-battle with a summer cold. Patience is well and truly compromised.

So, to begin with - it's the boy. Single shots, then we try for a group shot. Yep, he's sitting.. finally, hold the sheet up Mum - UP UP!... ok smile... say cheese... c'mon - moon cheese!! Nope, he's too interested in checking himself out in the mirrored door....fuck me (internal voice)... ok, stop looking at yourself in the mirror - look at me... AT ME!.. look, what's in the circle - can you see anything?STOP.LOOKING.AT.YOURSELF.IN.THE.MIRROR... Open the freaking door - whoops, boys Mum has just relieved door of it's uppermost hinge, excellent (internal voice) - everyone just calm down... smile, smile, c'mon! Introduce silly prop yep, he likes it - except he's still not looking at me. Change of location; ok, lets go to the lounge chair.. eye contact, light's a little trickier... goddammit, now all he wants is the prop - give him the prop be careful... be careful you're going to break it! Ok, smile.. smile for Santa... smile for me....smile for the person who invented  wet wipes - just SMILE AT ME!!! (internal voice). Ok - now the baby. Baby is topped up with S-26's finest vintage - she's always happy after a feed I'm told.

Baby assumes supine position.. in a circle of Christmas lights... Grandma is waving a pink doll in and out of the viewfinder, above my head and back around again - makes focusing a little difficult (internal voice)... hmmm, baby not so open to cuing...Mum, get out of the light.. can you move her.. there.. no there.... fuck (internal voice). Right, baby's Mum get out, take the boy with you - it's too much, I can't handle it... I'll call you back when I need you. Baby's crying - fuck, she scratched her arm on the lights (internal voice) now she's really crying.  I pick her up - oh munchkin, I'm sorry, it's ok - bouncy, bouncy - SPEW... chunky, smelly spew at the top of my shoulder where my low cut top meets my skin fuck, we have major seepage here (internal voice). Grandma sorts the baby, I disinfect my upper right torso... away we go again. Baby holds still, some nice natural shots. Ok - bring the boy.

Boy enters, boys mother enters - not with that biscuit you don't - PUT-IT-DOWN (not me)
Boy does not cease or desist - that's it, no photos then - get out, go outside with your father (not me)
Mother escorts boy outside - boy mid tantrum slams door - ahhhh - oh my God! You just smashed my head in the door; he just smashed the door into my head!!! (not me)
Boy's upset - put the biscuit down for a moment, you can have it later - come on! (not me)
Boy continues to clench crumbling biscuit in hand, in defiance - that's it then - no photos (not me)
C'mon - we don't have biscuits in the photos (me)
Boy sits eventually - carefully place baby into boy's hands - single bad shot taken - baby cries. Boy wants prop. Prop not appropriate for baby and boy together.  Tears, screaming. THAT'S IT - I've had enough - no more, I'm done, pack up... I cannot handle any more of this (all me... all external voice).

It didn't end there - my nephew got himself stuck into some kind of tantrum continuum - he's up, he's down, he's crying, he's screaming, he's up, he's down... fuck the circle of life Simba - this shit is incredible.

The story ends when my brother-in-law drags my nephew to the car (kicking and screaming - this is not a literary exaggeration) and they go home.

By 11am on a Sunday morning, I was wishing I hadn't woken up. I felt angry with myself, guilty for maybe inciting the violent behaviour - I just felt shit really. As the meat, I fried. And I continue to cook today.

I am learning slowly, that logic is not a weapon or any kind of defence with children.  They just don't listen, they don't care if it makes sense - how can you compete with that kind of belief system - you can't!

Worst of all - my nephew is at the golden age, where he can recall the things you said to him, with emotion - at moments designed to deliver the hardest of punches.  Today, he recalls me telling him that he wasn't listening... I didn't get a photo because you said I wasn't listening.

So, this is where it starts.

SB xx

Catastrophe!

Dear God, if today had played out like a set of song lyrics, it would've surely taken inspiration from this Julia Stone song. From rise to set, this day has been one frustrating problem after another.



After the mornings events, I decided against going anywhere else for fear of being struck down by rogue lightening... or God's hand itself.  So, I cleaned my room instead.  It was sort of a momentous day - because today I packed away my childish things. Statues and trinkets which tell the story of my past, now reside inside two small cardboard boxes.  I feel a little empty now.  It's not everything, but it is a start.

Tomorrow - to the city I go for my 'super' breast check.  With all this disaster in the air - I'm a little bit afraid of what might await me.

SB xx

the way it is

I used to think I was the strangest person in the world but then I thought there are so many people in the world, there must be someone just like me who feels bizarre and flawed in the same ways I do. I would imagine her, and imagine that she must be out there thinking of me too. Well, I hope that if you are out there and read this and know that, yes, it's true I'm here, and I'm just as strange as you.

- Frida Kahlo

This quote breaks my heart - because it reminds me that I am calling out to someone who probably isn't there. I suppose this blog is my way of echoing Frida's words. Strangely, I know little about this woman - yet we are akin.  I too feel strange and flawed - an error yet to be discovered. These posts are my ink in the tattoo of time - except sometimes I wonder, if I'm not brave enough to own up to these feelings, beyond the keyboard, beyond the screen - what will become of me?

I am so, so lonely tonight.  There is no tune in my vast collection to set this feeling to. I search - Feist, Megan Washington, Laura Marling, Alanis Morissette - Christ no, Fleetwood, Gotye, Beyonce.  No, no, no, no.

I wanted to test myself tonight, thought I could handle a dose of reality - some distant facebook research.  Turns out, not so harmless. Turns out, I'm not so ready. Fucking facebook.

Best be off to read some self-help book; or rather somebody-else-help-me-because-I-can't-help-myself, book.

SB xx

that's what you get

Things are crazy at work right now - we are in the process of moving into a different location - so I've been doing a lot of packing and lifting all week. We have been trying to achieve things, but are being held up by incompetent or absent tradies - it's so frustrating. I do believe the art of organisation has been lost by most.

I am also mega angry with management and process.  I applied and sat for an interview for a position in my current department - I did this back in March.  I STILL don't have an answer.  Forget that while the position sits unfilled, I have to try and do the work of two people; forget that, as an adult, I need to plan things - so factors like whether or not I have a 75 hour or a 50 hour fortnight, kinda matter. Forget that if I were a doctor, surgeon or token project officer of fuck knows what, I would not be left waiting 29 weeks for a resolution.  It is bullshit.  And what's worse, whenever the subject is raised, my absolutely useless mangers manager, tells me these ridiculous vague lies which are just insulting to all involved.  I'm supposed to believe that the regional director just has so much fucking paperwork on her over sized desk that she can't get to the bottom of the pile in what, 20 weeks? Someone is telling me porkies, and I dislike this immensely.  Every time I see that stupid woman in a newspaper photograph, or quoted in a newspaper article, or her name at the bottom of a global email - I want to tell her to get her overpaid, over sized ass to her desk and sign my god-damned paperwork.  Is that so much to ask?!

Why I even went for this job, I don't know.  The pay is no better and there's just as many menial jobs as before - but I cared about people, so I wanted to do it full time.  These management people make me hate it, they make me want to leave - they make me want to hurt them the way they hurt the little people like me.  I imagine seeing my paperwork enclosed in a dull beige file, squashed at the bottom of a paperwork pile - where the regional director looks upon it, sees my nobody name, and nobody title and decides she'll leave it until next week.

What all of this says to me is that 'they' don't care, that 'they' can't be trusted and that 'they' do not appreciate me, or people like me.

Oh boy, I feel a naughty letter brewing inside of me - so they best hope I don't find a wealthy man to sweep me off my feet and marry me - because if I do, I will be telling them where they can stick that paperwork, along with that job!

SB xx

Angry bird

This weekend I have experienced absolute moments of fury - they seed from apparent non-issues. The sound of someone as they walk the hallway; a menial request of my time. Am I hormonal? Do I have some horrible brain tumour which is eating away at my central nervous system?

I can't describe it. Tonight, I sat down to practise my drawing, I felt I wasn't really in the mood but I persisted because I plucked a flower this evening from its bush and to not make use of it tonight would be wasteful, as no doubt it would wither by tomorrow. It was a waste anyway; I couldn't concentrate, the lines weren't making sense - I know what I see but I am incapable of replicating it.

I tried a study of the colours. This beautiful flower, not one colour, but many. Many mismatched hues that when blended by the magic of mother nature produced this amazing thing. Magenta, red, orange, yellow, white, pink... I tried to blend my pastels. It was a very poor imitation.

Why does everything always have to feel like such an effort? Why do things feel so hard all of the time? I feel like some tragic female version of George Costanza - not real tragedy, just a rather comedic result of lameness after lameness. Endless lame; pathetic, yet also seemingly a physical disability on my part to just reach anything good. Fucky mcfuck, if it weren't so hurtful, it would be funny to me.

Anger meets with disappointment and then tears, but I will not cry.

I've been feeling like this whole 'focus on me' thing has been positive for me - improving myself, but these moments pass so quickly, and all I'm usually left with is remorse for the same diversions in the road, replaying. Groundhog day. I always turn down the same track, I always realise only when I'm part way through, that I made the wrong choice. This leads to the big ones - why am I me, why am I here, why can't I just be somebody else?

I wish I was the moon, I wish I were a written word on a page - part of something, purposeful. I wish I was a bird, that I could fly away - soar on the breeze.

God, it's all so melodramatic isn't it? I hate coming here and crying about how awful everything is. Perhaps the real problem is that I am labouring under a misapprehension. All this time thinking that at some point, in this musical drama that is my life, that I will be due my tap dance solo at some point. Maybe that doesn't really happen at all? Or maybe it happens in select cases - like with movies stars and child geniuses.

I feel like a loose feather trapped in a room. No breeze to uplift and set me free. Confined to live out my days in an environment not made for me. The swishing feet of a passerby gives rise to a short lived flight, but too soon I am once again wedged. Waiting for something to move, for the earth to shake me free.

Oh, I don't know?

SB xx

nose meets grindstone

It was my first day back at work today, after five weeks of leave. Suffice to say, it was horrid. I felt like a child, facing a new year of school.  I felt like this:

I had a particularly rough night last night.  And by rough, I mean emotionally charged. It was everything and nothing - the real and the imagined that started it all - and once the ball got rolling, oh was it messy.  I'm still feeling very delicate.  I think without the distraction of an impending adventure, my mind allowed itself to sink back to reality - the John stuff settled... and, it didn't really help that I tried to check out things via that e-vil facebook... I remembered that I'm unhappy at my workplace, I'm actually pretty unhappy with my life.  I tried to write it down, in the hope that it would help - I'm not going to post it, because it's too messy, nonsensical and kind of verging on the suicidal.  Eeek. I scared myself a little.  I think it's hormones gone wild. I hope that's all it is.

I went through a really terrible period when I hit high school.  I never had an issue with the work, it was the kids, the change, the new system; then, I started to get teased, by one really persistent kid.  It got so bad - I cried myself into submission every week day and night, making myself physically sick because of it all.  At the time we had these really close family friends, who we would pretty much do something with every weekend - and it was those limited weekend hours that got me through each week.  It was only in the company of this family, that I felt truly safe - protected.  Last night I got a taste of that ill-worry again, and it was frightening.  Except now, I don't really have a distraction.

So, today I put on a pair of my big hoop earrings (because I always feel more powerful when wearing hoops) and I found the biggest, blood-red hair flower I have in my arsenal of hair accessories - and I crowned myself with it.  I needed more than hoops and flower-power... but these things always help, a little.

I wanted to look like this:

To save myself from this:

And this:

So, I survived day one. I'm not sure I have a big enough flower to see me through the rest of the week. I guess time will tell. Right now I just know I am so grateful to be home.

SB xx

the things we do to get by

When I left the house this morning, I felt good. I was driving my car down familiar streets; wearing nice clean clothes; my eye makeup worked out well; the day sunny - but warming, not hot; I was playing a corny song about it being a good life - up nice and loud, just the way I like my music; and just in that moment I felt ok. I didn't have to worry about normal life today; it was my day to do whatever I wanted. The feeling was fleeting, but that's what we expect.

I went to the gym, like a 'normal' person - thoughts wandered of course, they always do when it's me and a treadmill - no matter what music is playing in my ears. It must be something to do with the walking - my mind wants to be getting somewhere, even if it is confined to my head.

Of course, I think about him and those things more than I should, more than I want to. When I heard that his ex, (and my personal painful memory on legs) was coming back I wanted to cry and run and throw up - all at once.

I am now resorting to the world of imagination. If I pretend it doesn't bother me; if I pretend that I don't care and if I pretend that I am ok, about everything, the letter, his retort, my now apparent excommunication - then maybe, just maybe some of the 'ok' will stick. Like osmosis or gravity or something as equally mystical and scientific.

If I am not pretending, then I am wallowing - and that is pointless. And maybe it's starting to work; because sometimes I see there are things beyond it.

Yesterday I thought to myself that I just didn't want to be alive anymore (not because of the stupid boy, but because of everything accumulated) and today I think, maybe I will be ok. Because I recognise that there are a few, but fabulous and inspiring people in the world - and there are also little people in my world - who love me - just 'cause, and they depend on me - even if it's just to make cordial or build play fences for them. That's all I have right now, but I think it's special.

This is the life cycle of a StrangeBird. So many seasons have played out like this.  When is it going to change, I wonder.  If I imagine that everyday I am on the cusp of great change, surely it will come eventually.

And then, there are songs like these. Get over your hill and see...



SB xx

quietly devastated

I sent a very brief email to John today - not expecting much. I just wanted to say goodbye really. Deep down, I wanted him to answer, but I didn't know he would. He did, and I got the heartbreak I expected. He tried to be lovely about it, but he wanted to be honest. He said I am "a good friend" and that's how he "wants it to stay". I guess I knew this would be the response I'd get - but I'd be lying if I said I didn't have some small attachment of hope that it would go the other way. Because he addressed all this via email - I had to read this in public, at work...and somehow keep myself together enough to continue functioning - or at least pretending. It was one of the hardest moments I can recall.

So, electronic heartbreak - its speed is deceptive - you forget that such a mighty blow can be delivered from such an unassuming act of clicking 'send'. Wow. It was so hard to read; but it was never going to be easy was it? I am torn, and saddened beyond imagination. When I think about it too much, a feeling of nausea washes over me - a heavy stone lodges itself in the pit of my stomach as I recall the dream sequences, that will forever more be confined to my imagination. Ouch. That's a lot of images to re-write.

As the day wore on, thoughts of his email cropped up less and less; until home time, when I knew I'd be free of distraction, free to feel it. Except I stifle it still. If I were alone, or in the company of someone who knew what I had done, I would been a mess. But there is no one to share this pain with. Besides, I created it, I should be the one to carry it to it's grave, on my own.

I don't want to give up - on life and love and possibility. I really, really thought he was 'it' and it's just really hard right now to think about finding someone real to fill that void. If I thought he was real, but he wasn't - how hard is it going to be to find the actual real thing?

I'm so scared my destiny is to become a weird cat lady. Do you suppose this is how cat ladies are made? With stories such as these? I don't want to be alone. I don't want to be second, third best - I want to be somebodys first. Where am I going to find them?

I've been warned a couple of times about the amorous nature of the Italian and Greek men - it's not something I would normally seek, and I have my doubts about my ability to be on the receiving end of such affections, however, at this moment I think I could really use the ego boost. Just a little one.

On the inside I am a little girl crying in a heap on the floor, and all I want is for somebody to collect me into their arms, wipe my tears, dust me off, set me on my feet and tell me someday this will be ok, and this feeling will go away.

I wish I had the ability to split myself in two, scoop my sadder half into my arms and tell her it's all going to be ok, eventually. That this will pass. Except I can't do this, and I don't know if I can see 'ok' right now. It all hurts so much.

We've all got stories haven't we, of the ones that got away? I guess it's whether we let the story define and shape us. Right now, the wave of the emotion is sweeping me away.

I look forward to a time, when going to bed, does not mean crying until my eyes burn - when I can hear his name and not flinch; when I can look upon this and say it's actually ok.

SB xx

blossom every broken part

I'm at tethers end - ready for the world to stop spinning, or at least for me to sub-out for a while; sit on the bench and watch the rest of the team play.  I have so much going on in my head - it's a minefield.

Work is really nightmarish right now.  I've been waiting months to hear about a position I applied for, in the place I already work.  I think they drag it out, because they can - because they don't actually care.  It's an environment at the moment, where everyone is just at cracking point - how long can people expect to sustain that?  You can't rely on 'fight' forever - at some point, you have to take the 'flight' option - right? We aren't designed to fight continually.

I've been sticking it out for the longest time.  Hoping things would get better.  Staying in part, because of laziness - because I didn't want to have to meet new people; because I am comfortable where I am.  I also stay because I like my unique job and I won't find another like it. I don't know what I am going to do, but I don't know if I can put up with much more.

I have one week of work left, before I set off overseas.  Most recently, I had been consumed with nervousness about travelling and packing, and all the other stuff that comes with facing new experiences. But now, I wonder how I'll manage the next week of work.  The distance between here and there seems so vast.  I just want to be gone.

I hope that exploring new places and cultures will help me to figure out what I want - from life; from myself.  I hope that it will lend me a drive to get more out of myself, than just to be standing at the end of each day.

I haven't heard a thing from John - which could mean nothing, or it could indicate everything. But, there is nothing I can do about it.  I express posted my heart on Monday - it may come back to me marked "return to sender"... I guess it's the chance I take.

SB xx

love never runs on time

Real love can be found here. If I ever get married, this will be one of my special songs.

Love may have come to town this weekend, but I think I missed it (again).

SB xx