Wax On, Wax Off

““I’ve never been certain whether the moral of the Icarus story should only be, as is generally accepted, ‘don’t try to fly too high,’ or whether it might also be thought of as ‘forget the wax and feathers, and do a better job on the wings.” ”

— Stanley Kubrick

I don't know about you, but I dream about flying all the time. I love it. And I can tell when I am close to waking up because my 'flights' turn into a strange kind of bunny hopping where I don't achieve much height and can only get off the ground for about ten seconds at a time; and the more I drift towards consciousness the shallower the jumps become.

Dammnit.

But when I am truly sleeps - then I am soaring over power lines, zipping around the sky, having a total blast. It's the ultimate freedom. Possibly, much like birds, I should be looking out for passing A380s, but in dreams they tend not to be a feature - it's all swooping and soaring and not so much being sucked into jet engines.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened with old Daedalus and the luckless Icarus if the latter hadn't got a bit too big for his feathers. Would the course of aviation history have moved up a good two millennium or so? Or did they even really exist - and if they were real people, did their wings do anything other than look like big flappy things which would have been ace Mardi Gras accoutrements? 

I may be naive, or simply a believer in the improbable, but I like to think that young Icarus was (obviously before he went splat) on the right track. You know why? A couple of reasons. One, he was willing to try something radical; and two, he was massively grateful that the the only person his father wanted involved in this project was him. So many parents would say 'don't - you'll always be here. This is my project, not yours, so naff off and leave me to it.'

Hubris may have gotten the better of I&D Industrial Aerospace, but if you are lucky enough to have awesome parents - or family members - who you engage with on a personal and professional level, don't ever, ever underestimate the value of their brains and their passion for what they do. If they let you in, be in.

And if they make you a set of fairy wings?

Wow. Never, ever stop being grateful.

And don't fly too close to the outdoor gas heaters.

Not Waving, But Drowning

“Inigo Montoya: I donna suppose you could speed things up?
Man in Black: If you’re in such a hurry, you could lower a rope or a tree branch or find something useful to do.
Inigo Montoya: I could do that. I have some rope up here, but I do not think you would accept my help, since I am only waiting around to kill you.
Man in Black: That does put a damper on our relationship. ”

— The Princess Bride

This may seem initially like a very depressing post, and nothing at all to do with gratitude, or even shoes for that matter (and when shoes aren't helping it means it's a bloody great beast of a black dog kind of day). And you would be right in some ways. It isn't a happy, marshmallow-filled, fluffy bunny kind of entry. But that's OK. Because sometimes, life just isn't like that - which is one of the reasons why I write about shoes some of the time (see Heel Thyself for background on that one).

I have been having what I tend to term a Long Dark Teatime of The Soul, or as I also call it, A Need To Give Myself A Good Slap Around The Head And Sort Myself Out. I am aware that the latter is not a technical psychiatric or psychological term, and quite possibly is actually frowned upon in said circles, but it tends to work for me most of the time. And one of the ways I deliver said Slap is to write down what is wrong - and also what is right. Having now done that, things are seeming to make a lot more sense.

Nobody can be happy one hundred percent of the time. That would make them robots. But sometimes - well, sometimes the happiness quotient slips below the acceptable mark to a point where it's hard to get the energy to come back to the median point on the table. And this is where the Slap is so important - and also hard to deliver when one is physically and emotionally tired.

Please be aware that I don't go around physically hitting myself in the head - I may be depressed but I am not masochistic (those who have witnessed me wearing shoes that are vastly uncomfortable but incredibly gorgeous please hold their tongues. Oh - I just mentioned shoes - see, writing things down does help!).

What I am talking about with the Slap is recognising that something is wrong; that you are perhaps caught in the UnderToad of Life and are being swept out from the shore. That the frantic hand gestures are not a sign of buggerising around in the waves and having a good time but are actually a gesture for help.

This is where the gratitude comes in. And it takes two forms.

I am grateful that I have incredible people around me who both are close enough and intuitive enough to recognise when I am in fact flailing and coughing up salt water. They are supportive and empathetic without being sooky-la-la (which they know I can't stand above all else) and they reach out to grab me without my having to reach for them first. They are all incredibly busy people - some in massively stressful situations or even outright dangerous occupations - but they support me, and in the right way. And secondly - I am grateful to myself. Which sounds supremely egotistical I know; but once upon a time I would not have had the strength to admit I was going under the water; and would instead have just let it take me out to sea and ended up who knows where for who knows how long.

So you see, this is about gratitude. As it turned out, it was also a little bit about shoes.

Mostly though, it's about not going under.

Because the School of the Slap doesn't believe in that.

I Shall Not Want What I Can Not Have

““Sometimes you don’t even know what you want until you find out you can’t have it.””

— Meghan O'Rourke, The Long Goodbye, A Memoir

There are times in life when we have to face up to some basic home truths. They may be tiny; they may be life changing. They may smack us in the face abruptly or creep up on us with the stealthiness of a thief in the night. It could be something as simple as 'don't have two short macchiatos at ten o'clock at night, because then you will end up writing your blog at one o'clock in the morning' - or as complicated as 'if you enter into X transaction with X person you will get burnt for X number of years'.

The point is, when they hit you, they hit you. And unless you take notice, you never learn your lesson. The reason for the saying 'it's all just a little bit of history repeating' is because we are stubborn creatures who refuse to listen to our own brains yelling 'you idiot, sharks patrol these waters... watch out or next thing you know, you'll be off the surfboard and a tasty treat!'

It's the same with the things in life we want and can't have - sometimes can't have immediately, sometimes can't have at all. I don't know about you, but when I want something, I want it. Any delay, and I want it even more. I know it's human nature, but it shocks me sometimes. There is no rational thought behind it; it is a primal urge that propels me towards whatever is in my line of sight like a missile zeroing in on its target.

And I don't necessarily mean material things (although admittedly when it comes to shoes, get in my way and it will be ugly as hell - for you I mean. Not for me, because I will be wearing beautiful new shoes). It could be something as simple as wanting personal space, or sleeps, or as complex as wanting an emotional investment returned.

What has this to do with gratitude? It's a bit roundabout, but I'm getting there.

I am grateful that gradually, I am learning something about wanting what I can't have. And whilst it hurts to admit it, like the whole home truths scenario, the fact of the matter is this.

Sometimes, even though we may desire them with every fibre in our being, things that we want, but can't immediately have - or can't have at all - aren't meant to happen for a reason. It's because they aren't good for us. A bit like eating chocolate cupcakes for breakfast five days in a row, trying to invite things into our lives which we desire to be there - but ultimately don't belong there - end up in only one way.

With a feeling of afterburn in the region of the heart.

And because chocolate cupcakes don't come cheap these days (and neither do new shoes) - an empty wallet.

So be grateful that you don't always get what you can't have.

It may save a serious case of indigestion, if nothing else.

The Katrina Monologues

““Most conversations are simply monologues delivered in the presence of a witness.”
”

— Margaret Millar

To get it out of the way - yes, my real name is Katrina. Feel free to use it.

Once.

And now, moving on:

One of the best things about writing a blog is very simple.

It's a chance to talk without anyone interrupting.

I know, I know - that's incredibly selfish. But when it comes down to it, the chance to have a captive audience is incredibly rare. So even if only one person reads said blog, as they are scanning my words on the page - or on the screen - it means that for a moment in time, someone is paying complete attention to what I have to say.

Fabulous!

I try very hard to listen to my friends, and make sure that what they are expressing is not going in one ear and out the other. What they are feeling is important. What they are saying should never be discounted; and let's face it, the art of active listening is rapidly losing traction in the Age of Apathy. But come on - who doesn't love the opportunity to express their opinions about life, the universe and everything without interruption?

It's also mentally a very soothing thing to do. It allows at least a part of your psyche to relax a little - well, that's what it does for me anyway. It means I can do a re-file of my thoughts and let some fresh air in, and usually gives me a little bit of clarity to start my day with.

I am immensely grateful for the ability to string words into some semblance of prose. To be able to speak to people in a way that resonates - not perhaps on a very grand level, but on a level that connects just the same.

And I am even more grateful that I get to do it without anyone interrupting me.

Because to enjoy one's own conversation may make us selfish - but it also makes us human.

And I defy anyone to say that they don't love the sound of their own voice...

Terms Of Endearment

““You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.””

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

I was writing an e-mail last night, and for some reason the way I had started it made me stop and think about the words we use when we are blathering on the page to our close friends and loved ones.

For example, I have a very bad habit of giving people strange nicknames, which they then for the life of them can't shake (enter the Panda and Dread P). Someone I think even described me as a 'nickname virus', which sounds vaguely unhealthy, but I hope was intended to say that when I give someone a nickname, that's it - they have no hope of ever getting rid of it.

Great. I am the equivalent of an STD for pseudonyms.

Hee hee.

Seriously though, the language of like and love is something that I feel very grateful for. I like expressing how I feel in words about those who matter to me. I like very much the fact that they express the way they feel in return - but I don't expect the return. For a reason.

It's as simple as writing to someone 'you are gorgeous', because they are. Using affectionate expressions is something many of us seem to be afraid of, because there is a chance we will be rebuffed in the return of call. But unless you express, you'll never know.

If you think someone looked beautiful, tell them. If someone made you happy, tell them that. If someone needs to know you care, for goodness' sake tell them. And don't go into it with expectation of acknowledgement, or because you think you should be saying something for the sake of it; if you do, then you are doing it for self gratification, not because you truly want to make someone happy.

I am massively grateful every time someone I love takes the time to write a word or two of sincere and expressive emotion. It's not gush or guff; it means they simply had to get onto the page - or the screen - that they were thinking of me at that moment in time.

Terms of endearment. They may not be conventional ones, like 'darling' or 'sweetheart'. They don't have to be between lovers. They are simply words that need to be put on a page because not to would be a disservice.

If anyone ever calls me 'nice' however...

That I would not be grateful for. And terms of abuse may become de rigueur instead...

But I Can't Trace Time

““Change in all things is sweet””

— Aristotle

I am going through some significant life changes at the moment, and as a result feel as though I am chasing my own tail half the time. You know what I mean - that headlong half-panicked, half-excited sensation combined with an 'oh hell, I have so much to do and no time in which to do it' tic in the back of your brain.

Is it weird to be grateful for that squirmy 'what the hell am I doing?' sensation in my stomach?

As I sit here in the Dread Pirate's seaward looking lair - which unfortunately is sans said Dread, who is busy buccaneering - I can't help but think of David Bowie's 'Changes'. I am trying to turn and face the strange, but at moments... well, I feel like facing the familiar and the known, even with the realisation that they are not what I want or need moving forward.

I think everyone experiences this at some stage when facing the unknown. Whether you are in a new job, new personal circumstances, a new town even - it's sometimes tempting to want to turn back the clock if only so that the uncertainties are removed.

But then - if you remove the uncertain, and stick with the safe, aren't you basically saying 'I know I wasn't happy with my life before, but it was the way things were, so I will just keep on going'?

This is a time for a leap of faith. Whether it is faith in your own abilities, faith in another person - it doesn't matter. What does matter is being brave enough to say OK, it may not work out - but if I don't try, I will never know.

Turn to face the strange. Be grateful for the unknown and the possibly precarious. You never know - time may have a treat in store for you.

Just this once.

The Peasants Are Revolting...Understandably

““I think that the older I get, the more I realise that the ultimate luxury is time””

— Michael Kors

Those who know me well are very much aware of my love of luxury. After all, why turn right when you can turn left? But some make the mistake of thinking that luxury is necessarily about material things, when sometimes the truly decadent and divine things in life are intangible or indefinable.

Take my adoration of the shoe for example. Yes, I adore wearing expensive high heels because let's face it, Louboutins can make an Oompa Loompa's legs look like Miranda Kerr's; but it isn't about them being costly which makes them precious to me. It's simply because they are beautiful. There are a hell of a lot of pricey shoes out there which I wouldn't touch with a bargepole, because they are really, really ugly. There are some very inexpensive shoes which are similarly totally gorgeous and thus get a spot on the Shoe Racks of Sublimity.

But on a higher level (if possible) than staring worshipfully at wondrous footwear, there are very different luxuries that can't be found in a shop. And it's these that I am most grateful for.

Having the time to read a good book. To watch a trashy TV show. Making a really delicious meal, even if it's only for myself. Laughing at truly stupid things with close friends who get the joke without explanation. Working for myself. Feeling healthy. Being thoroughly spoiled by someone simply because they want to make you feel great. Having people who care deeply about me, even if some of them are a long way away physically.

How are these things not luxurious? Because there are millions and millions of people on the planet who cannot count them as things they get to enjoy. Which makes them both rare and a privilege which I do not discount.

I am filled with gratitude for the luxuries I have in my life; not a life in the sun in the way most people would think of it - but definitely one that is less cloudy than most.

That's not to say that a private jet would go unappreciated... or naturally...

More shoes!

Strange Fruit

““For the sun to rot, for the trees to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.””

— Billie Holiday, Strange Fruit

This is going to seem like an odd kind of gratitude post at first. But it is to do with being grateful, so this is where it belongs.

I was in Sydney during the week for work, and most of the experience was ace. Also, awesome. I was not only productive, but I got to hang out with the woman I am rapidly beginning to think is going to take over the world within the next six months, and of course my dearest Hurricane Henry (more on this later).

However.

One thing really stood out for me in terms of how far we have to go - as Australians, and as a species.

I was walking down Pitt Street to my next meeting and was going across the pedestrian crossing, when a young girl of Asian descent stumbled and accidentally knocked into another - well, I'll use the word Causcasian - girl in her early 20s. She apologised profusely but the 'victim' was having none of it. Next thing, I actually heard the words which I honestly thought were a cliché - 'go back to your own country you effing gook, we're full up'.

I was appalled; not so much by the words, but by the venom behind them. It was real and it was obvious and it was frightening. What was almost more frightening was the other girl's reaction.

Resignation.

Having just come from holidays in South East Asia, where I was treated with kindness and respect and occasionally good-natured laughter at my language abilities, I was scared; both by the fact that someone in their twenties, who has grown up in mulitcultural Australia, not the world of the 50s or even the 70s, had this attitude - and also by the fact that the girl she attacked almost seemed to expect it.

Again, you may be questioning where the gratitude may be in this.

I am grateful that my parents raised me without prejudice. I am grateful for my friends of all nationalities, especially those who put up with me speaking their languages poorly whilst their English is amazing. I am grateful that I am, I would like to think, able to see past race to the person. And I am very, very grateful that despite the way this repulsive girl represented our country, in the main, Australians are seen as good eggs. Because most of us are good people, and I hope would still be horrified by such casual vindictiveness - not accepting of it.

I am also grateful to the young girl, whom I went up to and asked if she was alright.

'Yeah' she said in a very broad Aussie accent.

'I'm used to it. But thank you for asking. It means a lot. In fact, you've made my day'. And she grinned and we both went onwards.

Gratitude works both ways it seems.

Because she made my day too.

Straighten Up And Fly Right

““Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.”
”

— William Arthur Ward

Coming back from time on holiday can make it very hard to get focus and firmness of purpose to the forefront of the brain. I know that in theory I am back in business mode, but in practice? Let's just say that my mind may be wandering to a more exotic locale, where there may or may not be blue skies, even bluer pools and a swashbuckling pirate.

However - back to the grind it is. And I was thinking about this last night, when an excess of 'I don't want to be here' was flooding my frontal lobe.

I am massively, massively lucky that said 'grind' is doing something that I enjoy. I have written before about having the luck - and it is luck - of being able to work in a job that I actually like. But it's more than that.

This is about being grateful for the chances I have been given. I am well aware that I have been incredibly fortunate in the business connections that I have; but you know what? I am also fortunate in that I have a marketable skill. And I honestly think that part of having said skill, and being able to make a potential living from it, means one must give out more than one takes.

I am not saying that I am going to dress in sackcloth and ashes and run around suddenly preaching to birds and animals; what I am trying to say is that if someone you care for, or whom you know doesn't have the resources you have, asks for help, and it's in an area that you know something about - give it. Don't be grudging about it either.

For me, expressing gratitude for what I am given by others on a daily basis in terms of guidance and knowledge has become essential. And the way I can do that? By paying it forward.

A very schoolmistressy post this one.

But that's OK. Because sometimes saying how grateful I am is not easy, nor lighthearted.

And it doesn't need to be. Being grateful is not always being happy; sometimes it is being realistic and simply saying what is in your heart.

And in this case, what is pumping around my chest is the message above.

Give back. And be grateful you are able to do so.

Forty-One Is The New... Oh Forget It

““Women like a man with a past, but they prefer a man with a present””

— Mae West

So life is tough here in the tropics. Between eating, sleeping, swimming, drinking cocktails and - well, repeating the above - it's a hard knock life. I do have the small aggravation of the Dread Pirate's ability to tan in the space of a millisecond whilst I turn into the world's largest freckle to put up with, but these things are sent to try us. And I am enormously grateful for the amazing time I am having traversing South East Asia, with the opportunity to catch up with very old friends and really relax for the first time in a long time.

But the whole trip - there has been a certain something lurking. A shadowy spectre of doom. That phantom finger of uneasiness which caused the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up at odd moments, to feel as if the proverbial grave was being tangoed upon.

The clock has been a-ticking on the calendar of life. Specifically, on the days until February 6th. Which of course, came along yesterday...

And I officially got OLDER.

I know that there shouldn't be an emphasis on age, and I was pretty happy with the way I was doing for fuh-fuh-fuh...

Forty.

But then it had to click over to forty-one. Why? Can't I just stay perennially forty? Because it sounds so much cooler saying 'yep, I'm 40' than 'yep, I'm 41'. I don't know why. There is probably a thesis in there somewhere for some enterprising non-forty-one year old (read: young person) who has an inclination to explore this issue, and can manage it without the subjects of said thesis snarling at them like tigers; but something about the whole year '41' makes me feel all T.S. Eliot's 'J. Alfred Prufrock' and as though I am going to start wearing my trousers rolled and start going around groaning that I grow old, I grow old.

However. There is a solution. And it's a very simple and cost-effective one. In the words of the timeless and magnificent Mae West, you're only as old as the man that you feel.

I never, ever thought I would be grateful for a six month age difference.

As it turns out however, gratitude does come in mildly annoying but ever so slightly more youthful buccaneering packages.

With a light case of sunburn.

And a fair bit of cutlass wielding idiocy to take my mind off the approach of the Angel of Death.

Except of course when he is reminding me how much older I am than him.

Remind me why I am grateful again?

Planes, Trains And Automobiles

Sitting here at Sydney International Airport, where the big jet engines roar (you probably have to be of a certain age bracket and geek level to get the reference to this song), I was of course tempted to title this entry 'Leaving On A Jet Plane'. But then of course I thought about the way Mr J Denver, singer/songwriter, met his end, and had a bit of a re-think.

Besides which, by the end of the day, I will have covered at least two of the above categories of transportation, so all's hopefully well that ends well.

I must admit I have impressed myself. I have managed to restrict my packing to one - count it - one - medium sized bag (not counting carry-on, which doesn't count in the count of counting bags anyway). I actually culled and put the kitchen sink back where it belonged - in the kitchen - and only brought ten tops that look the same instead of twenty.

I may quite possibly have an aneurysm.

Either that, or for once in my life I thought about what I will really wear, versus what I would wear were it 1932 and I had a lady's maid and the Dread and I were going cruising with the Duke of Westminster in the South of France - and changing for every possible social occasion known to man in the course of a 24 hour cycle. 

Quite like that idea. Binky and Bertie and Whoopsie throwing the pink gins back with abandon while I wear Chanel and swan around sneering at Wallis Simpson.

As it is, the pool awaits, the Dread is en route with a bit of luck and a following breeze, and I am massively grateful for both of those things.

Mainly the latter.

Not that I'd tell him that.