sms 1 for breakup, 2 for lolz

There’s always someone worse off than you. Or, someone who’s gone through something worse than you.

 

I shouldn’t forget that.

 

When I’m wallowing in my own boohoo, I need to remember that.

 

So yeah, my boy broke up with me by phone while he was hundreds of kms away and not going to be back in civilisation for at least 2 weeks. Well, at least he didn’t break up with me by email after we’d been together for 3 years, as happened to a friend.

 

What is it with guys they think they can do this and get away with it? Cowards I say. Loudly.

 

Where did our sense of decorum go?

 

Technology has a lot to answer for. We can too easily hide behind it to do our unsavoury work.

 

It gives us an element of detachment with another human being; an electronic wall with which to hide behind.

 

And through wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content

To whisper.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream: William Shakespeare (or was it his wife?)

 

We are no longer taught how to face things, and technology provides us with such an easy ‘out’.

 

We can now form relationships online without the messy business of being in each other’s physical presence, more easily able to be dismissed. We can now end relationships online without the messy business of having to ‘talk it through’ or ‘reach a conclusion’. We can catch and release with ease.

 

Any time ‘Facebook’ or ‘Twitter’ enters a debate, there are always those loudly proclaiming that those using these kinds of human connecting devices need to ‘get a life’. There’s an element of truth to it, I have to say.

 

Just as I theorised that those with long distance relationships may seek such a life because of a fear of physical commitment, so too those who live lives too fully online may be hiding from something similar.

 

Technology is definitely changing the face of human relationships, in that it’s too easily getting rid of ‘the face’. I’m yet to see if it’s wholly for better or worse yet, but in the arena of sticky situations that need to be faced like a man, it is failing dismally.

 

The end, since I’m half cut.

the wonder of the colour orange

 

I’ve started reading Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder again, and I think it’s going to be one of those books I will definitely get a lot more out of on the second reading, compared to when I first tackled it in my late teens/early 20’s.

 

For those who haven’t heard of it, it’s a journey through the history of philosophy as seen through the eyes of a 14 year old girl. Her philosophical brain is awakened with two questions: who are you? where does the world come from?

 

Already the first few pages have left me spending all of today in sneaky contemplation about the wonder of the world.

 

As newborns, we are launched into this world full of wonder and jaw-dropping amazement, but through repetition and through others’ nonchalance at our exclamations of wonder (and a little through science), we learn to accept the magic as normal everyday things, and eventually lose our sense of wonder altogether.

 

We are no longer amazed by such things as a world hurtling through space, grass growing out of the ground seemingly of it’s own accord, or flying birds.

 

We don’t question the ‘how’ or ‘why’ enough.

 

Tonight I chopped up a pumpkin that was beyond orange, like supercharged orange, and wondered how it was that I knew it was orange. I just see this particular colour and call it orange, because that’s what I was taught in school. I learnt to associate a certain colour of the spectrum with the word ‘orange’.

 

But what if someone else sees that pumpkin, calls it orange, but they’re actually seeing my version of purple? They label it orange because they were also taught to associate that particular word with that particular colour.

 

We just accept what we’re told. “That colour is orange” but could it be that Joe Blow sees orange as my purple and I see his purple as my green, and we both see yellow as someone else’s red?

 

Sure there are scientific things like spectrums and wavelengths and cornea whatevers, but is there a way to know whether our individual perceptions have any influence on how we see colours?

 

I mean, apparently pigeons can see ultraviolet light. How do they translate that in their little bird brains? Maybe their perception of ultraviolet light is really just similar to our perception of the colour brown?

 

As much as you could get scientific and talk about the eye receiving signals, it still comes down to those signals being sent to a brain which has been programmed a certain way. Surely that means there’s room for difference?

 

If that’s the case, then there’s room for difference in everything else we see too. Maybe nothing we are looking at in this world is actually what we think we’re looking at.

 

Curious.

blip

 

I declare 

this week now gone,

should be wrapped

in a scented nappy bag

and unceremoniously

thrown in the bin;

 

the timeline

on which it stood

should be obliterated;

 

the parallel universe

in which it occurred

should be erased;

 

the memories

created from it

should be expunged.

 

Tomorrow

is the beginning

of life.

frocks or fellas?

I’ve been hunting for a dress for the last week or so. Today I realised that my dress hunting and collecting, and my love life, have way too much in common.

 

I’ve had dresses that have been tall, short, medium, light, dark, and fantastically coloured.

 

Some were great at emphasising my assets, others not.

 

Some dresses have definitely been totally wrong for me but I bought them anyway and persevered with wearing them. Once I faced up to the fact they were just making me look silly, I never wore them again. Some are still in the back of my wardrobe because I’m unable to let go. After all, I paid a lot of good money for them. Others I had no qualms about chucking out.

 

Some dresses wore themselves out before I had a chance to. They were obviously cheaply made (oo, that’s catty). If I’m looking for dresses in a shop of some variation of ‘skanks-r-us’ then what else am I going to be expected to find? I need to shop more in the classy end of town.

 

A few dresses were only worn for one night – some of them holding fond memories, others rather regrettable.

 

Sometimes I’ve found a dress I really love, in a respectable high-priced shop, but I’ve left them on the shelf, thinking I wasn’t justified in spending that kind of money.  I wish I had just gone ahead and bought them, enjoyed wearing them, and consequences be damned. Who knows what fantastic experiences those dresses would have given me?

 

The dress I bought today doesn’t fit me properly around the top. I took it to a place to get the top section taken in and it’s going to cost a fortune. Not only that, but now I have a huge complex about my arse and thighs after the lady said it really looked like it should also be taken out around that area. Don’t bother buying a dress that doesn’t fit. It’s not worth it – to your bank balance, or your self esteem.

 

So, the next dress I want to find has to fit me perfectly without needing any alterations, be in it for the long haul, and make me feel absolutely wonderful. Ok world? Please and thankyou.

 

(Ps. I already have some killer heels ready and waiting…)

bye michael

What makes a celebrity death so different from a normal death? I'll tell you what -- people (and let's get this right, total strangers), feel they have a right to rubbish the person before they're even cold and stiff.

 

It makes me sick.

 

News of Michael Jackson's death sent a ripple around the world. It knocked the wind out of me. He's someone you just imagine will be around forever. I grew up with him, and now he's gone.

 

One of my early memories is of a littler version of me in primary school, standing in the library absolutely enraptured by a book with all the lyrics from 'Thriller' written out, including pictures. I was in heaven, so excited!

 

This man shaped my taste in music and I'm not the only one. His influence can be seen and heard everywhere, there's no denying it. His career spanned four decades for crying out loud. And yet, he's not even been dead 24hours and the viral emails have started, the vitriol on various blogs is cranking along, and everyone's got an opinion.

 

"He's a basket case and the world is better off without him" – would you say that about someone you actually knew? Why does it make it ok to say it about a stranger? Especially one who has either directly or indirectly given you such enjoyment?

 

And what’s with the jokes? The man died, for christsake, and you want to make a joke out of it? I don’t know who’s worse – the teller of the joke, or the one laughing.

 

Has this man become more than human? Did he go beyond human? Is that why we think it’s fine to treat him as some sort of inanimate object? He was a man, with children, and siblings, and friends, who have all lost him, and now they’re listening to the world rip the shit out of him.

 

I for one have realised how much I take for granted, and how many people I take for granted, thinking they’ll always be here.

 

I was going to finish by saying rest in peace, but he won’t even be given the dignity of that. Shame on us all.

 

 

thanks for the music.

sympathy ban

Such dichotomy:

 

I seem to be pushing my close friends away while I sort out what’s going on with me at the moment, and yet, I have no qualms about laying out all my crud online. What’s with that?

 

I just don’t think I will be able to keep it together when physically confronted with sympathy and pity from those close to me.

 

I don’t like pity. Especially when it’s disguised as hyper-interest in other areas of my life. You know, like too much laughter when I try and crack a funny – I hate that. It’s wrong of me to be like that, because I know it’s done with the best intentions, but it just feels so very fake. I don’t know if I could stand it at the moment.

 

Or attempts to divert my attention from what’s really going on with me, like let’s ignore the elephant. Well I certainly don’t want to talk about the elephant either, but the fact is it’s standing on my toes, it’s painful, and it’s kind of in the way of me interacting with anyone else. Until I get rid of it myself, I’m just going to be hidden behind a big fat grey arse.

 

But online, I can gaze at my navel and display its myriad fluff with relative anonymity. I can purge, without expecting a return of pity and sympathy, and honestly, that’s exactly what I feel like at the moment.

 

I guess this is a thankyou. And, a promise that I’ll shut the hell up soon…

 

---

who knows if the moon’s

a balloon,coming out of a keen city

in the sky – filled with pretty people?

(and if you and i should

 

get into it,if they

should take me and take you into their balloon,

why then

we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

 

than houses and steeples and clouds:

go sailing

away and away sailing into a keen

city which nobody’s ever visited,where

 

always

              it’s

                    Spring )and everyone’s

in love and flowers pick themselves

-- ee cummings                                       

detach. float.

I spent today on the couch, under my doona, in my trackies. Holed up inside while the rain fell outside (and through my roof tapping on my ceiling). I had a pity party, and no one was invited except me. Was lovely, and very much required.

 

After I got bored with looking at the growing water stain on my ceiling I watched daytime tv instead. Horrors. Although I do have this to say about daytime tv: it certainly puts things into perspective.

 

Take Dr Phil: three married couples, early 20’s trying to work out why they can’t stand their spouse anymore, and why (for two of the couples at least) they put up with physical abuse from the other (the third couple were just into threats of calculated murder). Now that’s misery. Makes me think, why do I spend so much time wishing for ‘marriage’ and/or relationship if it can turn out like that?

 

Then Oprah: the science of attraction – why and how people are attracted to each other. Apparently it has to do with smell, and right timing of the month. Hmm, pretty small window. No wonder sniffing out ‘the one’ is like a game of darts in the dark.

 

However, like a butterlamp glowing in the corner, the ABC offered up a little piece on Buddhism, snuck in between programs, to remind me of the philosophy of detachment.

 

In Buddhism, the four noble truths centre around the idea that life produces suffering, and suffering is created when we become slaves to our senses. When we crave, yearn, expect, we suffer.

 

The idea of detachment is not one of turning your back on everything in the world, but rather of becoming unattached to any outcome. To love without expecting anything in return; to view good and bad as cut from the same cloth, and as transitory events; to try and dwell in that part of ourselves where we view our lives as a third person: it is happening, but only to my physical body, not to the essence of me.

 

It makes sense; the only absolute in life is that there will eventually be death. Everything else is uncertain. We attach ourselves to human beings, but it is inevitable that there will be a parting, whether through our own design, or through death.

 

And so, I’m going to try and imagine myself as the centre of a merry-go-round – still and observant, while the animals wheel around me, and while people come and go, riding for a while, then getting off.

 

Next ride starts in 10. Get your tickets here.

is

 

this is me:

waiting for might be

living in was

avoiding is.

 

i hate is.

confront, admit, realise

is, is just me

no one else.

 

now what?

comfort, warm, be

give strength to

me from me.

 

i hate is.

absence is

a fond heart isn’t

is: alone is me.

 

this is all i want to do:

drink tea

listen to music

swim in melancholy.

 

reality.

curl up under blanket

let the wind blow outside

the wind, is.

one heart: void if removed.

Well. I find myself newly single. By phone. No last touch. No last sight. Poof. Ethereal. The boy that wasn’t there. The boy who felled my heart in the woods and no one was around. Maybe he never existed? I wish he never existed. In my life.

 

By phone. From hundreds of kilometres away. A dandelion. A puff of wind. Nothing. That’s what this whole relationship feels like now. Tentative. Pending. Gone.

 

Only the second person I have ever given my heart to. Now the second person to claw it apart.

 

What kind of fucked up karma do I have anyway? What lesson do I still not get? Doomed to repeat until I learn. What? That giving my heart away is wrong? Fuck that. Or maybe not. Maybe no one gets my heart. Maybe that’s my lesson. Maybe my karma is to hold my own heart. I don’t want to hold my own heart. I don’t want to sit in a room by myself and hold my own heart. Please don’t let that be the lesson.

 

I wish my life came out normal. Find man. Marry man. Have kids. Grow old and happy. I don’t know why that wasn’t meant to be for me. I wish it was. I wish I didn’t feel so goddamned unusual. 34 for christsake. 34 and single. Yeah I’m not the only one. But this mountain. I don’t like this mountain. I want to get off it. I don’t care what’s at the top. It’s probably a party full of married happy couples who did their job and procreated.

 

What is wrong with me? Am I defective? Great. Now I have to put myself out there again. Now I have to open up my naked body to another total stranger hoping they will become more than a total stranger. I can’t be arsed. It’s all too fucking hard. The rewards never come. I don’t think there even are rewards. My disillusionment is winning.

 

Not again. Please not again.

 

I can’t do it anymore.

 

Maybe the clairvoyant was right. 10 months ago. Said he was not the one. Said he was practice. Said a tall man would come along. Said I attract the boys. He’d be a boy. With potential. Where? It’s all grey and fog. I don’t see. I don’t care anymore. Come. Don’t come. Seems it will always turn out the same. Me, alone, shredded heart.

 

I can’t wait for the numb. After the weeping comes the numb. I know this from before. How long this time?

 

another from the vault

…another from my teen-angst files. Around the time I discovered cummings (no, …really? i hear you exclaim).

 

---

 

love

needs   :a new word the

old one has been beat

en to death or

 

has it just

had and en

ema

 

? become void

of meaning of

usage in its Real,

Sense lost

 

to a

love   less (

world turned their backs

on the un)

 

definable

definitive un--

ness

 

(do you love me yes)

 

conveyor belt

: do you love me yes

poor

 

love --

has fought

the constraint

of Understood

 

,become

the Heart

is the temple of Love)

is not

 

the mind the brain

the rash

-ional

 

(Love has not

one side

to put one’s finger

 

on;

is Truth

Love Is,

i need to stop watching the news.

I forgot to do a friday folly. Decided I might do a sunday silly instead.

 

Then I watched the news. Now all I want to do is cry.

 

I am so over man’s inhumanity to man. As far as I’m concerned we deserve what’s coming to us. I’m sick of hearing ‘why is god doing this?’ It’s bullshit – we do it to ourselves.

 

A girl is shot in Iran and bleeds to death in front of a camera and now it is all over the internet. Her eyes look at the camera, then blood pours from her mouth and nose, and she dies, surrounded by her father and men trying to help her. If you want to see it just twitter search Neda.

 

I’m sure Neda’s not the only person who died today, but she died in front of me and now I hold the imprint. Now it has personally affected me. Now I am sad and angry. Now I mourn her death.

 

We need to stop killing ourselves and inflicting pain and suffering on each other. We need to get rid of this thirst for power that is behind every evil action. We are all people trying to live, trying to work out our own shit in a shitty world. We don’t need to be making it worse for ourselves. Fucking grow up, world. You suck.

to opine

Is it easy to track the moments when our opinions change? Do our opinions mature, like our tastebuds?

 

I have an extremely vivid memory from early childhood of my father feeding me my first mushroom. I hated it! I can still see the view from my eyes as they squinted and watered over with my detestation. Now I can’t get enough of the fungi – raw, sautéed, souped, stuffed (mmm getting hungry).

 

There’s a school of thought suggesting we need to taste something around ten times for it to grow on us – perhaps why, having only dared to eat them about three times in my life, I still can’t stand brussels sprouts (I know, it’s such a cliché).

 

Does this theory hold true for our opinions? Do we need to be subjected to a certain opinion a certain number of times before it eventually becomes our own?

 

It’s a scary thought.  Opinions come at us from every angle. Every day since we started this life, someone somewhere has been telling us “we must” this, and “we must not” that, what’s wrong, what’s right, what’s evil, what’s good. How are we meant to know what are our own opinions, and what are someone else’s?

 

As our knowledge grows, our opinions undoubtedly change. We start to gravitate towards people who hold opinions that mirror or compliment our own. These people may then go on to change more of our views on the world, and we let them, because we trust them. After all, to trust someone is to trust their opinion, is it not?

 

But what if this never happens? What if people still hold onto an outdated opinion because they rarely meet catalysts of change in their lives? Should they be blamed for that?

 

Exhibit A: two old men and an old lady – I would guess in their 60’s, maybe early 70’s if they were in good shape for their age, doddering through the local supermarket. I happened to overhear the lady puff up and proclaim: “They should never have gotten rid of the white australia policy” (no, that does not deserve capitals), whereupon the two men congratulated her with “hear hear” and “rightly said”, therefore justifying her opinion, which most would now agree is very outdated.

 

My knee-jerk response, had I allowed it to occur, would have been to open a dialogue started with very unsavoury words, and backed up with something along the lines of you racist hag, if I were you I would not be proclaiming that loudly and proudly, thinking strangers around you are going to bow down and marvel at your intelligence, for you only come across as an unintelligent bigot not worth the time of day, so shut your poisonous piehole and keep it to your bilious self.

 

Lucky I didn’t, and lucky for them I found the last packet of dark chocolate clinkers and spent the rest of the day in happy clinker-land.

 

Generation after generation have learned their opinions from their elders, the first being “respect your elders”. Well I aint respecting any elders that have those kinds of views. I don’t care how many wars they fought in, how many kidney stones they passed, or how far they had to walk to school when they were five, it’s just not called for, and not worth my respect.

 

I would like to thank the baby boomers, my generation’s predecessors, for being (or seeming to me to be) the first generation to take the opinions hammered into them from childhood, and dramatically alter them; for having the nerve to think for themselves, instead of adopting the opinions of their elders; for passing that gift onto their children, who I hope in turn will pass it onto theirs.

 

Perhaps then, the opinion-tastebuds on our collective consciousness might mature into opinions worth listening to in supermarkets.

 

As for the old dogs, it seems the new tricks have escaped them, so I’m going to let them be (-racist bigots bite tongue bite tongue).

enter the blank here

blinking cursor

the blinking evil thing,

mocking my blinking brain derailment.

i have other things to think about

like (blink. blink. blink.) you’re putting me off.

stop it.

hands shut eyes.

i can hear you blink. blink. blink.

stop it.

like a puppy panting,

waiting for bones, or balls, or (blink. blink. blink.)

stop it.

i can’t think when you blink.

regurgitate letters, swallow words -

is that all you do?

make up your mind: in or out.

who controls whom?

the hidden poet

Most people, I would wager, go through an almost obligatory poetry phase in their life, usually around the time of other obligatory discoveries like Hendrix and Joplin, Simon and Garfunkel, The Doors and The Clash – ie. the teenage years.

Then, for some reason, they stop. Well, the majority do; a small number may sit down on the very rare occasion to pen some poesy in private, while an even smaller (say, infinitesimal) number go on to make it their life’s work. It’s a pity.

The task of writing poetry forces you to tap into the murky depths of your being, stir it around and play with whatever comes out of it. It’s raw, like a personalised psychoanalysis, tailor-made just for you.

That sounds like it could be a useful tool to arm yourself with – a scythe to help clear a path in the jungle that charades as this crazy-arsed life.

I cleaned out my wardrobe yesterday, and what did I find hidden in the corner but my stack of teenage diaries. Ugh I just got a shiver with those words. No, these are not pink and covered in flowers, doodles of love hearts and random boy names scrawled all over them; these are tomboy diaries, with tomboy words in them: outpourings of a wounded heart, anger, despair, darkness… the usual angst.

Hidden, almost like little buds peeking through a thicket wall, are a few poems, hardly any of which I remember writing (we’re talking ‘91, after all).

I’ve been gliding down memory lane, able to appreciate myself anew. Some of them are pretty good, most are juvenile, all were once me.

It’s inspired me to make more of an effort and take it up again.

So, for what I have now dubbed (for this week only, probably) “Wednesday Show and Tell” day, here is one poem coughed up from 1991, I’m assuming written during one of my many self-doubt moments.

---

The Poet?

I wrap myself in sounds

and smell all sorts of colours

just to get a Sensory

(and one

that can be read, mind you)

but all I do

is cliché my way

around a mexican hat olé

and step on it.

---

And this short piece, written during “Chemistry on a rainy day Monday (24th June 1991)” is something I should refer myself to often -

FREE

What I want is freedom.

I want the freedom to roam as I like, when I like. It’s stagnant and comatose confined in a rectangular room with metrically chiselled corners and cobwebs for decoration. I can’t live in a place where the walls don’t smile, and nothing vibrates happily; where colours refuse to visit because they found a clown two doors down who’s better company.

I want the freedom to smile.

I want the freedom to laugh when it grabs me (when it grabs me when it finally grabs me), and cry for joy, and sigh for beauty…

I want the freedom to open my arms and express a part of me whenever I want – and not have it slapped down and trampled on because someone has their vision of stupidity plastered over it.

I want to be able to realise who I am and what I’m capable of.

I want the freedom to love – I want the place to love – with all my soul and more, somewhere that cultivates pure love, instead of banishing it to a claustrophobic corner to weep silently and suffer in the coldness.

But what I want most, is the freedom from wanting freedom.

Why, in all my rights as a divine being, can’t I have the right to say,

I AM Free.

wail with it

Why don’t we own our feelings?

 

Why do we pull ourselves together instead of riding something out?

 

When did society determine it’s not the done thing to be sad, or ecstatically happy in public?

 

What’s with the veto on public displays of emotion?

 

Why do we shy away from the strange, and give a wide berth to people wailing with their own inner crazy?

 

Who told us we had to be so straight laced?

 

What is so scary about ‘different’?

 

Why didn’t I share my umbrella with a stranger getting drenched as he waited to cross the road? He even had a bald head. He must have been cold. Was I afraid of being strange?

 

Why do we contain ourselves so goddamned much?

 

Why do we stifle solo laughter?

 

We can’t be too sad (you should medicate), too happy (what are you on?), too angry (you need counselling), too human.

 

It’s a sadness we’ve inflicted on ourselves: we are expressive beings, and yet we repress the express.

 

Who’s gonna burst into song on the train tomorrow? (not me… people will stare… then what will I do?)

for smoph

I had a request from my blogger friend Smoph that I turn my bitching and moaning into poetry, and this is my 10min effort procrastinating at work today. Yes… I am well aware it reads like a poem written in 10mins, thankyou!

 

---

 

lost: one boy.

if found, return.

reward will be

my mended heart.

 

it’s not as if

we’ve had a chance

to make our love

an objet d’art,

 

and yet he’s gone

again and i,

alone and sad

am asked to start

 

a poem to

lament the hole

his absence brings.

ok… but why?

 

do poems make

a bitch and moan

digestible?

perhaps a sigh

 

when written with

poetic beat,

attaches wings

and makes it fly.

 

or maybe i’ve

just managed to

increase the wank

- this poem stank.

 

 

---

 

I aint a poet.

when will i take my own advice?

Seems I can give pretty good advice to others, just not to myself.

 

I just spent the last three hours convincing someone that something in their life was obviously not working, and trying to give them the strength and motivation to fix it. Do something about it and fix it. Just do it. Be brave. Take the step. Think of the positives. Think of yourself, your happiness. Time to be selfish. Make it happen. It’s hard, but you can do it. And here’s how you can start: try this, or this, or maybe this.

 

Why is it I can see so clearly what others need to do, and not myself, eh? Why can I life-coach others into making changes for the better, and not myself?

 

I have such clarity with others, but when it comes to me, it’s all fog and sandstorms. It’s all too hard. It seems I neglect myself. It seems I use myself as a warning to others. Take it from me, you don’t want to let it get to that. You need to try and do something about it before you let it get to that. Something I may have told myself, and ignored, on many occasions.

 

It is a strange phenomenon I’ve noticed more and more. When someone else needs help, the counselling issues forth from me, from god knows where. If I happen to step to one side and listen to myself talking, I suddenly realise “hey, that’s good advice. Where was advice like that when I needed it?”

 

‘Tis a great irony, no doubt.

fly-in/fly-out relationships. boo.

I have a very strange relationship. For the year and a bit we’ve been together, we’ve probably only been geographically together for a total of around five months.

 

First he’s away, then I’m away, then he’s away; we’ve only been able to catch up in the small gaps in between. It sucks.

 

I think it’s starting to take a toll on me. I’m feeling drawn thin. I don’t know why. It’s like a relationship you have when you don’t have a relationship. I don’t want that. Thinking about the fact I don’t want that makes me sad, because that only leads to thinking about what to do about it, and that leads to places I don’t want to go.

 

We owe the latest period of separation to the dusty town of Karratha, a town created to rape the earth, full to brim with men away from their loved ones/partners/families, doing fly-in/fly-out rosters for years on end.

 

Well, it now seems Karratha is going to hold my boy hostage for a total of three months instead of two. Mel is sad. Sure, there are relationships that go through worse separations and manage just fine, but I’m feeling quite raw and unstable at the moment, and this is not helping. Straw camel back and all that hack.

 

I noticed something the last time I dropped him at the airport at 5am for the next fly-out – men everywhere, flying out to one of the mining towns up north; women dropping the men off, hugging them, looks of sad melancholy on their faces; children in pyjamas realising another fatherly absence is on the way. It doesn’t seem right.

 

A large chunk of our men are flying north to work themselves raw, and leaving us to the task of coping without them. They come back broken and stressed, we patch them up as best we can; rinse, repeat.

 

In my line of work I deal with men who fly offshore for up to five weeks at a time, for years at a time. You would not believe how many marriage or partner breakups occur because of this. The men are away for such a long time, then when they return I imagine there’s always a period of re-acquaintance with your loved ones; almost like each of you has to get used to the other’s presence, and scent, all over again. When you are finally meshed once more, off he goes again.

 

The money is good, but at what price? My boy mentioned it was good to consider his bank balance. “But what about your love balance?” I asked.

 

What is this doing to our society? If I go by what it’s done to me in the short stint I’ve been through, it’s creating a society of broken and bruised hearts.

 

I guess I should have tempered this post with a warning that it was going to be a bit of a woe is me, and maybe I should just suck it up and cope with it. After all, he’s only doing sub-contracting work so it’s not like this is a permanent thing (unless work here in the big smoke continues to be non-existent). It’s just awfully frustrating that we haven’t been able to have a long period of time together since we got together.

 

People for whom a long distance love relationship is their normal way of life strike me as funny creatures. An intimate relationship is a physical thing, not just a mental thing – both need existence for a relationship to survive. It’s just like having a faux connection, an on-paper relationship.

 

I always wonder if long distance relationships occur more frequently in people who have trouble or are uncomfortable with physically showing love to another person. You know, like being able to say to the world they’re in a relationship, when for all purposes, they’re not.

 

If this relationship lasts (and I don’t see why it can’t – he’s lovely, I love him and his extremely random ways), then it is going to be one strange social experiment.

 

At least our ‘honeymoon period’ will go twice as long as everyone else’s…

 

---

 

And now for today’s instalment of bad day/good day:

 

Bad:

 

• I woke up with a hangover, without having done the drinking bit. I don’t think that’s fair at all.
• Went shopping for a dress. Failed dismally.

Good:

 

• I didn’t hit any cars in the crazy dodgem carpark
• I danced like an idiot in my living room to a kicking trance live stream station

fail

Today was the universe really testing me being off the happy pills. I’m giving myself a D minus, seeing as I’m ending this day in a quite tearful state.

Man you should see me. Beanie, dressing gown, ugg-boots, puffy eyes, Friday night and all. Some poor pizza boy just got an eyeful. Apparently there was a pizza ordered from my address. No, not me, and I’m the only one here. But it says your address. But I didn’t order a pizza. But is this your address. Yes and I didn’t order a pizza do I look like I ordered a pizza I didn’t order a pizza. All this said with a puffy tear-stained face, in my gown and beanie. Hooray for me.

I turned down two requests to go out because I had two other things planned, which I’m also hiding from, because I really can’t be arsed tonight. Simple truth.

Don’t even have it in me to construct the blog I had planned for tonight. It can wait til the mood is right.

Don’t even have it in me to explain why I’m sad. That can wait too.

---

So, for today’s instalment of bad day/good day:

Bad:

• Second day in a row of having more work to do than can handle.
• Found out boy will be away for a lot longer now, then have to go away again.

Good:

• I saw a willy wagtail drink out of a puddle
• I pigged out on dark chocolate clinkers.

playing solo

I had a very funny conversation with my boss today about being an only child (she is, not me). I thought it was the saddest thing in the world that she used to play ‘Guess Who?’ by herself as a child (and then I laughed, of course; not out of cruelty – it’s just a funny image. I mean really).

 

I have one sister a few years younger than me, and when we were kids, we fought like a cat and a dog that definitely do not get along with each other. But for all that, I’m glad I have a sister. Even if we don’t catch up that often, it’s kind of comforting to know she’s out there. Oh, and my little niece rocks (hello ellajellybean).

 

I wonder what it’s like to be an only child? Is your view on the world any different? Do you perhaps approach new people in a different way? Does the idea of not having, in essence, a ‘brother in arms’ affect how you act in the world? Do parents place more expectations and pressure on an only child?

 

I’m sure there are pros and cons either way. As an only child I guess you would receive more parental attention, but would that then lead to a feeling of being stifled by authority later in life? You would learn to enjoy things done on your own, but would that lead to problems meshing with others in group situations?

 

Only children, as with firstborns, are generally seen to be the high achievers in the world, and it seems every old stereotype of the only child is slowly being disputed and proved incorrect (spoilt – no; self-indulgent – not really; maladjusted – probably not).

 

There must be more points of difference between an only child and a child with siblings though? I mean, there are whole websites dedicated to only children (eg. www.onlychild.com).

 

I guess we’ll only find out what the real effects are when a couple of generations of Chinese ‘one child policy’ children grow up and plant their footprints firmer in the world. It was introduced in 1979 so the first batch have probably just produced a second batch. Has it created a generation of maladjusted, self-centred brainiacs? Stay tuned, I guess.

 

---

 

And for today’s installment of bad day/good day…

 

Bad:

• I made my tummy very sore and angry with me after feeding it three cups of coffee and lots of sugar before 10am, and then spent 10am-4pm doing impressions of Ricochet Rabbit – before crashing badly.

Good:

• I connected with fantastic new people who work for the same company I work for, doing the same thing, but who I rarely get to see, even though we only work a few floors away from each other. Plus, it was over an amazing meal at a gold plate winning restaurant, with good wine, lots of laughter, followed by awards that recognised the achievements of our fellow peers, and it left me with a lovely red wine feeling and a smile on my face.
• And it’s Friday tomorrow.

bad day good day

I have an idea.

As I’m finished with the happy pills which kept me relatively sane over the last month, I think I should now try and create my own level-headed stability by deconstructing my days in terms of bad AND good. I have a tendency to emphasise the bad, you see.

We easily forget that both good and bad exist in equal quantities, and you can’t really have one without the other. Gibran, as always, puts it best when he writes on joy and sorrow:

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.

Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.

-- The Prophet; Kahlil Gibran

And so, Today.

---

the bad

I had two moments today which made me make grindy-teeth noises.

First: occurred on the way to work at a particular merge-point which has often seen me engaging a bit of the tourette’s in the past. I don’t know why drivers have such a problem with merging in traffic. I suspect it is something to do with large egos wanting to ‘win’ in any situation.

The lanes had just merged into one, everyone was merging like a zip, and the car behind me was overlapping the back half of mine, but for some reason he sped up and started honking me. I don’t know what he expected me to do. Besides, it was obvious his only options were to let the other half of my car through, or plough into the side of me. Wot a nong. Go back to school, you fool.

Second: occurred when I got to work (mornings seem to be where the idiots cluster in my life). I received an email from someone I didn’t know, which stated “Hi Ruth, [no, not me] Can you please provide me with a quote on the following.. [etc etc]”. It was not from the company I’m employed to solely look after, so I dutifully replied, “Hello, I think this has been sent to the wrong address. My name is Mel. Regards [etc etc]”.

She replied “I sent this email to the following address [insert totally wrong address here.co.nz]. Is this not the Ruth I spoke to yesterday? I need you to provide me with this quote ASAP.”

Idiot. How can you not see the address of a received email and figure out that it is TOTALLY different to the one you are trying to send to, including the freaking country? I also don’t know how “My name is Mel” could be so misinterpreted. I’m still trying to work it out. And don’t even get me started on ASAP. Any time I see it, I want to automatically add IM in front of it.

---

---

The good

Gosh, this is hard…

First: I got to leave work early (well, on time) which was an accomplishment, because I was bombarded after lunch and started to drown somewhat. It was joyous.

Second: Umm… I’m glad I’m not Ruth?

---

See? Obviously more work required in the area of equal-weight.

ECHO..(Echo..echo…) or, self-pity 101

4,814,527. Nice number, yes?

This is my Technorati ranking, unchanged since I started around a month ago. I guess that’s a good thing – at least I haven’t gone down. It tells me there are 4,814,526 blogs ranked higher than me. Yay for me!

Technorati also seems to take great pleasure in telling me I have ‘no authority yet’. That’s ok; it just means that no other blog in the billions of blogs out there, link to mine. None. None at all. Existential sigh.

Truth told, I don’t even know if I want reach with this blog. So far I’m happy in my own little corner of the interweb tapping away to myself about life love and lunacy, but then, what’s the purpose and point of it? Sure, it means I get to poke myself an awful lot, and you, dear reader, get to laugh, but apart from that, what does it accomplish if I’m just echoing down a dark hallway?

I’ve yet to work out where I’m going with this. I’m hoping if I stick at it long enough, some creature will rise out of the murky depths and yell “bingo!” at me, and everything will fall neatly into place. Yes, yes, that’s it. Maybe they’ll even be holding Excalibur.

So, in the meantime, mediocrity is mine. I embrace it whole-heartedly (until the aforementioned creature comes along).

[fade to black]

hello brain, how are you these days?

Crisis. There are only two more St John’s Wort pills left in my little container.

That means I’ve been taking St John’s Wort for about a month now. That was as long as I was going to do, hoping by the end of it I’d feel normal enough to stop.

Well I feel normal. I should stop. Only there’s a problem: my brain is afraidy.

In case you’re not familiar with this little herb, it’s considered an effective treatment for mild anxiety and low mood (though debate still rages on this). Scientifically, it is thought that some compounds in the plant help regulate serotonin and dopamine levels.

I can only go by my month-long trial and confirm that it definitely helps level the moods out, taking the edge off the lows, and even (in my case at least) the highs. One symptom I wasn’t aware of until tonight is that it can cause photosensitivity, which definitely explains my sudden increase in freckles! Another batch of boffins are currently studying its use as an effective treatment for alcoholism using alcoholic mice (aside - how do you breed an alcoholic mouse?), and I think they might be onto something. I had a definite lack of interest in anything alcoholic this month. This is coming from someone who worships Grey Goose vodka and South gin with great gusto. But I digress…

When I was on holidays a week or so ago, I was so relaxed and happy I skipped a few, and on one day didn’t take any at all. All good, except the next day driving home I suddenly felt extremely anxious and ready to burst into tears. It was a strange sensation to go through, while at the same time stepping away from myself to try and analyse what was going on.

It was set off by a voice on the radio – some overly saccharine lady cooing about the afternoon’s program. I couldn’t stand it and started to panic. How weird is that! Then I noticed the traffic around me, the noise and chaos; I didn’t want to drive and concentrate for another minute longer.

It took all I had to try and control my breathing and not cry. I kept repeating to myself “I just have to get home, just have to get home”.

When I finally stepped inside my door I cried and still had no idea why. I ‘pulled myself together’ (why do we do that? why don’t we ride out an experience? another blog methinks) and still felt very shaky, totally not right at all. It was an effort to get myself to my partner’s house, a task I really didn’t want to do, and I should have listened to my little voice because I arrived on his doorstep and burst into tears again. Waa part two.

That’s when I started to worry – what if I was no longer ‘normal’? What if I was going to need to take these pills for the rest of my life? It kind of scared me, making me question if I was permanently broken in some way.

A friend of mine tried to put it into perspective – sometimes someone just has a quirk, a point of difference, a broken part, that only science and medicine can take care of. It’s not a bad thing, it just is. I’m still trying to chew on that.

Well, I’ve decided. I’m not going to buy more tomorrow. I’m going to see what happens. I will guinea pig myself and turn the scientific eye inward.

I’m actually quite scared. I don’t want to go back to the place I was a month ago. I don’t like that place very much. But at the same time I don’t want the training wheels on for longer than they need to be. My brain’s had enough of a respite. It’s time for it to be plugged in again.

Gulp.

happiness part 2: the journey continues

Ok this is an opening up of the soul even more, which I do in the small hope that someone else out there is going to go "me too!" Either that, or the pointing and laughing - both work for me just fine, because I'm doing this for me anyway, so it matters not.

 

I'm still trying to get to the bottom of what happiness is, where I can find it, how I can get it, am I standing in my own way of it, and for goodness sake why.

 

I still believe happiness can only be found within; I have no control over anything external. Things will be as they will be. I only have control over my thoughts, actions and reactions to everything external. Like the seed of knowledge offered by the Desiderata - change what you can, accept what you can't, know the difference. To let go of the struggle against the unchangeable - let be what is. That is at the core of being happy.

 

Right, so that's how I get to happiness. Sounds perfectly feasible. I have no idea why it proves to be so hard.

 

Next on the agenda then, is to work out why I don't do what brings me happiness in the external world, something to occupy myself while I work on getting to the happiness within.

 

What if I monumentally stuff everything up If I follow my dream? What if it makes me homeless? I detest the fact you have to take into account material concerns. I know not everyone does, but the struggle endured by them seems too much for me to bear. I don't want to make living any harder than I find it at the moment. That's the crux - I find existing in this world too damn hard. It's a chore which I don't have the strength to complicate further.

 

I didn't flap my wings a lot as a kid. Then I moved out of home at 17, straight into an 11 year relationship with someone I was happy to let make decisions and look after the grown up things. At the time I didn't realise how much I relied on this aspect of him until he was gone.

 

So I'm a late bloomer; I didn't have to start relying solely on myself until I was 28. And I didn't cope well at all. I mourned the loss of that relationship for two weeks. Two weeks! After 11 years. Madness. I had two weeks of crying, then no more crying. I knew people who cried daily for a year over similar situations. I just believed I had found the strength within myself. In a way I was right but it was not the right strength.

 

Three years later I went to a naturopath after suffering terribly with digestion problems and a feeling that I was just not getting any nutrients out of what I ate. The naturopath quite alarmingly said it looked like my body had been running on adrenaline for three years straight. My adrenal gland was almost totally depleted. So that's where my 'strength' was coming from - a chemical toxic to the body, only meant to be used in short bursts. Here I was, milking it dry, just to get through normal days.

 

There it is - I'm still a child trying to learn how to be an adult. I find this world a constant struggle, and I'm waiting for someone else to step in and take care of me. That's why I don't believe I have what it takes to follow a dream. Now I understand that, I can start the reprogramming.

 

embracing my disillusionment

No. I’ve got nothing today. I’m meant to be getting into the discipline of writing something every day, and today, I seriously have nothing. Worthwhile, that is.

I even tried to callously milk my friends dry while we sat around enjoying a sunday sesh at the local pub, to no avail. Although the philosophical discussions were exceptional, as were the discussions on farting. Top notch. Seriously. I’m not being sarcastic! I’m sure there’s a blog in there about the philosophy of doppelgangers, or of farting quietly… it’s just that my brain is full of too much beer to process it right now..

So I can only tell you about my day today. Which involves a man on the plump side, in a full length one-piece grey fluffy jumpsuit. I only wish I got a photo.

I threw myself outside into the world today, after spending all day inside yesterday. It’s not healthy to spend two days in a row cut off from fresh air, vitamin D, and other strange people.

I know, I thought, I’ll head into the city to try and find some clothes for winter, seeing as it’s getting cold and I have nothing to wear. I’ll give myself a mission: a) head into the city; b) find warm clothes. How hard can it be?

I hate clothes shopping with a passion. I’m not very ‘girl’ at all. It’s a chore which I refuse to embrace. It’s hard enough getting dressed once in the morning, let alone going to a public place and standing in a change room and undressing and dressing time and time again. I detest it.

It also doesn’t help that I have no idea what my ‘style’ is anymore. A couple of weeks ago I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror, wearing one of my many black Emily the Strange tees (one with skulls and death on it, but done pretty-like), dark jeans, heavy eyeliner, slicked limp hair, and discovered I was well on my way to emo, at the age of 34. Nay I say!

But, I have no other style. I’m not fluffy, or frilly, or (thank christ) ra-ra skirty, I’m just me a-la casual (with an apparent dash of emo).

So, the mission underway, I’m strolling through the city, connecting in milliseconds with casual glances at the people around me, when a thought pops into my head which I have to write down in my moleskine: ‘Shopping. I’m in the valley of the damned, embracing my disillusionment’.

I stop at a bench to write it down (my writing is atrocious – doubly so if I write when I walk), and I’m joined by a fairly large, possibly out of a mental hospital man, wearing a one piece, full length, grey fluffy jumpsuit slash body blanket slash wtf is it?

He’s dragging heavily on a cigarette and decides, since my head is buried in a notebook and I’m obviously engaged in intense personal thought, to strike up a convo with me. “I see that your writing is very small. You write very small. And you have small lines in the book. I can’t write small” wherein he pulls out his own notebook and displays it proudly, for me to acknowledge.

“I try, but I just can’t write that small, on the lines.” I think he’s going to open up his notebook to provide an example. I write faster, adding ‘sitting next to a guy in a 1-piece jumpsuit – grey, fluffy and he’s talking to me about writing in books. Funny stuff.’ I offer him a verbal critique of my horrendous scrawl, chuckling in that ‘don’t hurt me’ way.

It was truly bizarre. But I’m glad I’m not the only one walking around with a notebook of some description, writing down random thoughts on the fly. I wonder how many of us are out there?

A notebook in the bag is like a Harry Potter Pensieve – a place to pull out the threads of our random thoughts to review in a third-person perspective later down the track. I highly recommend it. Although if you’re wearing a one-piece at the time, and look a little like the crazy guy from The Simpsons who thought he was Michael Jackson, I may not acknowledge you while you do it.

Oh and in case you’re wondering, I failed on the clothing, but managed to find some fairly respectable winter boots. Much better than my last effort when I went looking for clothes, and came home with three new books instead.

belief (or, the philosophy of horton hears a who)

Belief is a funny thing. Some people need an arsenal of beliefs to be able to function in the world with any semblance of sanity. Others, like philosophers, toy with the idea of fundamental beliefs until everything becomes a “why?” or “what if?” (guaranteed to turn the brain into a tangle of noodles, believe me. Yeah, pun intended).

Why is it so many people get worked up over someone else’s beliefs? If that’s what gets them through the day, what harm is it to you? Unless their belief is that they should immediately harm you, I guess.

I started thinking about this after a post from a fellow blogger who can often be found reducing someone’s spiritual or religious beliefs down to a belief in pixies. It’s like everything is divisible by pixies with him. That right there, is his belief.

I find it fascinating how often this occurs in life – one person believes something, another person believes the opposite, both are convinced they are unequivocally right.

But here’s the problem: the word “believe” has an element of doubt woven into it. The definition is given as “accept as true; take as true; have faith” (ref: the little blue beat up Collin’s Dictionary next to me). To believe is not to know; to believe is to think something may be a possibility. As in, “I believe that’s right” – the word ‘believe’ could very easily be swapped out for the word ‘think’.

So what’s the point in attacking another person over a ‘belief’ that doesn’t mirror your own? Both of you are, in essence, just guessing anyway.

If you hold onto a stoic belief so tight you’re adamant the other person’s wrong and you’re right, and they’re on the other side holding onto an equally stoic belief that they’re right, and you’re the one who’s wrong, you’re both so closed off from what if’s, and possibilities, and maybes, neither of you will ever discover anything new in the world. You’ll never end up adding any more colour and knowledge to your life.

There’s no way to grow if your fists and mind are closed.

It’s like being on a path with blinkers on, never being able to see any of the other paths around you, some of which may actually have better bitumen, better lighting, better other metaphorical things I can’t think of right now… you get the picture.

While I was chewing over all of this, I happened to watch Horton Hears a Who and it explained what I was trying to make sense of, in full technicolour glory. This is a great movie. Dr Seuss is a legend. Go see it pronto (and then we can discuss what the tribble on acid was meant to represent…).

It’s so full of philosophy that you can google ‘philosophy of horton hears a who’ and get some pretty interesting pages out of it (albeit, not as many as ‘philosophy of the matrix’, but still impressive all the same. Hmm, given me an idea for a title…).

The philosophical grain I’m interested in though is the one posed by the kangaroo, who refuses to admit that Horton may be right and a whole world full of people does actually exist on a speck of dust. Horton asks her to consider the ‘what ifs’ – what if we’re likewise travelling around on our own speck of dust in someone else’s universe? She claims “If you can’t see, hear, or feel it, it doesn’t exist”.

Putting aside all the religious goodies in that (because otherwise this would go on forever), it highlights her close-mindedness. She refuses to accept it, and does everything in her power to make Horton refuse it too. His belief isn’t harming anyone, although she feels it’s harming the children (heaven forbid they question their own existence) and uses that as an excuse to take a moral stand and put an end to it. There’s no logical reason for her to say Horton’s wrong in his claim; her only reasoning is that her beliefs tell her otherwise. Silly kangaroo.

Letting someone else’s beliefs in for your mind to chew over can take you on journeys you might not have otherwise taken if you had just dismissed them outright. It might even lead you to a better place, and closer to the goal of not believing, but knowing.

friday fluff – full moons and freaks

Well two days out from a full moon and everyone’s gone trippy it seems. I can almost feel the crazy in the air. Ohhh, it’s a Sagittarius full moon – that explains it. Being a crazy saggi myself, I now understand…

It’s almost like every full moon has its own flavour. Sometimes I feel super-sensual around a full moon, sometimes sad, sometimes full of energy, sometimes wacked-out. This one’s definitely of the psycho kind.

I don’t think it matters if someone doesn’t agree with the moon’s influence on us in this way; to me, many people just seem to act noticeably different around a full moon, whether they’re aware of it or not.

It certainly explains my day today. Crazy came to town and everyone bought fairy floss. And truth be told, now that I’ve finished working, I’m starting to tingle a little with the crazy myself. Yeeeeaaaaahhh!

Therefore my imaginary (sorry, ethereal) friends, let’s put away the thinking thing for today and ponder the awesomeness of the moon, and what in the world this picture might possibly be trying to say -

It’s a gigantic billboard spied on my last trip to Melbourne. Can I get a ‘say what?’ brother?

rant (or, the philosophy of STFU)

Ok. I started writing a different post but I have had to put it on hold because I can't freaking concentrate! The reason? I forgot my earplugs today. I am forced to listen to the crap conversations going on around me and they are driving me insane.

 

All of this noise is drawing my mind away from itself and into conversations about farting on things, and shopping lists, and what someone did this morning on their walk, and what they did last night, and what they're going to do for lunch (what do you think maybe a chicken wrap or should i just cut up the steak i have in the fridge and make a steak salad?). I really, really, and make sure yunnerstand this, don't give a toss.

 

So many egos trying to clamber for top spot that everyone gets louder and louder with their talking, trying to talk over everyone else. So much "look at me. laugh at me. admire my wit." It's driving me so crazy I can't concentrate on anything. I am boiling like a cauldron about to spill over. I can't hold anything in my head.

 

I have to listen to the exploits of people I don't know and from the sound of it don't want to know. Blow by blow descriptions of tv shows full of more crap that I didn't watch for a reason. Words repeating over and over! Now it's a conversation about grug. All I can hear is grug grug grug.

 

(do you know grug? who? do you remember grug? grug? yeah grug. no. well google grug and tell me if you remember grug. it was the best show ever. no i don't remember grug. but it was the best! no, i don't know grug. jo, surely you’ve heard of grug. what? grug? yeah grug. no, never heard of it. ask bob. bob, do you know grug? what? do i know what? grug. grubs? no, grug! the tv show! grug? yeah. nope. hey i feel like potato cakes. nunnoh they're called potato scallops here. you don't sell them as potato cakes they're potato scallops. but the fish and chip shop across the road from me sells them as potato cakes. but i worked in five fish and chip shops and they're potato scallops. are they? yeah they’re scallops. yeah scallops. see jonno agrees. i'll ring dave and ask him. ok. i'm gonna go find someone who's heard of grug)

And on, and on, and on, and shoot me now. Quick, before I have to listen to anymore of the one-sided convos.

 

(yeah, the boys. what? you know. do you want me to get some spinach onna way home? or do you wanna do the fried rice thing. yeah. so, two noodles? no no. ok. so i get two noodles? yep. yep. yep. three. yeah. nah. yeah. but you can have steamed rice. i think there's steamed rice. i don't know. so i'll get the three. ok. yeah. nah nah. so... two noodles. what? nah she's got a thing with that guy. huh? lasagne? no don't worry about lasagne. like vegetables?)

 

Oh for the love of god.

 

What makes us do this to each other? Do I do this and I've just never noticed before? Do I talk crap about nothing on and on to my friends, trying to entertain them, just trying to inflate the air around me?

 

If you're talking, you're not listening. We don't listen to each other enough. Probably because, going by what I'm hearing right now, if we did, we'd be bored shitless.

 

How the hell are some people able to screen this out? How can I choose not to hear? How can I develop such precision focus to enable me to turn my ears on and off at my command? More investigation required, obviously.

 

It's at times like these I'm almost kiss-the-ground thankful for introverts.

 

Ok. End rant.

a sigh …

the morning fogged over in sympathy.
you’re gone again.
i’m alone again.

stretched thin
as i face another round
of self-reliance,

i curl into myself
trying to find
some comfort.

i am internal, quietly still,
waiting for what was
to be again.

i am one long sigh,
i am hugs on hold.
hurry up world, and turn.

a holiday vibration

I’ve just gone through silent hysteria, and after showering and ensconcing the feet in my blessed ugg-boots, I’m onto phase two: morose melancholy. Holidays will do that to you. The ending of holidays, that is.

No, there’s more to it than that.

The holiday: a blissful three days in the arms of the elements of nature – fire, earth, air, water – and nothing else. A beautifully sleepy and magical town called Denmark, 4 1/2hrs south of Perth, where ancient forest meets the majesty of the Southern Ocean. A chalet constructed by hand out of its surrounds, with water in front, and karri trees and granite boulders behind. No phone, no tv, no internet, no neighbours. No stress. My lovely man, and I.

We climbed granite rocks as old as time and let the wind blow through our being, hugged trees, and hiked hours through bushland to stand at the top of a rocky cliff to feel the power of the ocean converging from around two bends in the coast. We spent evenings watching the log fire instead of the tv, listening to each other instead of an electronic stranger, and listening to the birds sing the day to rest.

The hysteria: set in as soon as I hit the city limits. My Denmark vibration was gone. Cars were driving aggressively all around me. Traffic lights. Grey asphalt everywhere. No trees. Ugly ugly ugly.

I don’t know exactly what set me off, but it took all I had to stop myself collapsing into tears. I couldn’t breathe. Fight or flight kicked in, without my command.

So now, as has become my way, I’m trying to make sense of it. I’m poking it with the “why?” and a bit of the old “how?” for good measure.

Denmark really is a place of magic. I don’t mean the flippantly used idea of ‘magic’, I mean real ancient down to your balls magic. Magic vibration. You can feel it among the forests of karri trees, and emanating from the granite boulders when you touch them. You can smell it in the leaf litter, and the salt spray of the ocean. It’s a hum that works to renew every fibre of your being; immersion in something altogether magical - an imprint of magic incarnate.

In contrast, the city is a man-made environment; the antithesis of nature. The smells are vile, the sounds grate. The hum toxic and foreign.

This toxic hum affects us and we don’t realise it – we acclimatise. We make do. We escape it in our heads, online, watching movies, holed up with friends pretending it doesn’t exist, but it’s always there, and it affects us like a mobile phone in a low-signal area – our batteries deplete quicker.

We speak of going on holidays to ‘recharge’. Is this perhaps a subconscious awareness of how depleting the toxic vibration of the city is?

Personally, I’m now more aware that I have to recharge in nature; in the same vibration from which I was made. Nothing else will help me hold on to my sanity.