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.