I’d say it’s what separates us, not from the beasts, but the bestial. Creating the future, renewing a learned past - these are reasons to strive. Writing for and with love, taking and framing an image, stretching new melodic skins onto old skeletons of song… it’s how we manage to fly. It’s how we stay you and me, not us and them.
Unlike Osk, who seemed to establish his own tactical task force wherever we lived, scooping up neighbourhood feline troublemakers as sidekicks (including the memorable ginger behemoth Watson, with whom he used to scope the street from the safety of the shed roof), Jelly has the intelligence gathering skills of a sponge cake.
Anyway, somewhere in between my 'and then you should've done this' and 'why didn't you say x and y, rather than z', and 'for the love of monkeys and the general public's eyesight, you didn't honestly wear that heinous shirt did you', something he was saying about the dating extravaganza we were picking to pieces finally penetrated my cloud of self-congratulatory cumulo-waffle.
"Most people don't talk about how dates are progressing as a tender process, do they?" he asked.
"What?"
"She said I was 'part way through the tender process' and that she was judging me on my submission. I'd like to think there was irony involved, and I think at the time I may have given an admittedly weak "haha, yesssss, quite". Looking back, I'd have to conclude, computer says no on the presence of Fabulon or other aids to achieving crisply pressed linen."
Today is my 44th birthday. As stated by the woman I dearly wish I could have had the opportunity to drink under the table at the Algonquin, Ms Dorothy Parker herself:
“Time doth flit; oh shit.”
Sound a bit dismal and non-fizzy for a girl who loves shoes, champagne, rugby and books on her FORTY SECOND (remember this, people) birthday?
Perhaps.
But it's my birthday, and I'll chastise myself if I want to.
To anyone celebrating a birthday today, or anytime soon, I have some things to say to you, imbued with my heartfelt love, appreciation, gratitude, and infinite wonder at the people who continue to love me, not least of all the Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant.
““In youth, it was a way I had, To do my best to please. And change, with every passing lad To suit his theories.
But now I know the things I know And do the things I do, And if you do not like me so, To hell, my love, with you””
— Dorothy Parker
I've been wondering about
something recently. It's nothing ground-breaking - in fact it's
something women all over the world discuss on a daily basis, but for
some reason, it's been brought to the fore amongst the chicks that I
know very strongly of late.
Why
do we have such a low opinion of ourselves when it comes to the
opposite sex? Or to put it more bluntly; if things don't work out, why
do we always assume that we are the ones who should have done more, been better looking, been funnier, been smarter, been more attentive, been less needy, been more needy - and coming back to it again - been more attractive.
I
am not going on a feminist rant here. I consider myself a feminist; I believe enormously strongly in the equality of women and men
in life, in the workplace and in the home. I do everything I can to
promote that equality. But I don't think women are better than men, just
as I don't think men are better than women. My goodness, the person I
speak to fifteen times a day on the phone is a bloke (admittedly he is
also a Panda, so perhaps that explains things - ha, sorry Panda). I
suppose what I am trying to say is that in terms of he said/she said,
that's not what this is about.
This is purely about why we, as women - smart, funny, beautiful women - continue to blame ourselves when things go pear-shaped with boys.
And we do. We just do. And quite honestly? We need to stop.
There
is a girl that I know. She is one of the most giving, open-hearted,
loving and tender people on the planet; male or female. She would fight
to the death, not for herself, mind you, but for the people that she
loves.
She is beautiful both inside and out, which is a rare combination indeed.
She went out with a total nightmare of a bloke (and he is a nightmare - I know that of which I speak) at a time when she
was vulnerable and hurting and frankly, easy prey for someone to mess
with her head. Which he has done extremely successfully, to the point
where her self-confidence has been shattered to pieces, and I know that a
corner of her heart will now always have a sliver of broken glass in it
that will occasionally dig in and cause a small bleed.
And she blames herself for him not wanting her anymore.
I say this now to every amazing woman that I know - and as every woman that I know is amazing, that's a lot of women;
You
are pretty enough. You are smart. You are special, and funny, and
spectacular. You deserve to be loved and cherished and desired. If
things go wrong, yes, there is usually fault on both sides; but it is on
both sides. Don't assume it's because you are to blame.
I
am not a fan of Kasey Chambers. Honestly, her voice does the whole
nails down a chalkboard thing to me. But that song does resonate in a way - with one reservation; the words need to be turned inside out.
The message for all the gorgeous women I know should be this.
I am pretty enough. In fact, I am stunning. Particularly first thing of
a morning, when my hair is all messy and I have a bare face. I am not too outspoken. Informed opinionated is awesome; you should thank your lucky stars that you have a girl who knows what is going on beyond who has broken up with whom in La-La Land. If I
don't make you laugh, then tough noodles - it means you have a
craptacular sense of humour. Because I am funny as a funny thing with
added funny. I don't need to try it harder. I try damned hard, every single day.
Next
time a girlfriend breaks up with someone, and says 'it was all my fault - I
just wasn't good enough', I am going to do three things.
Firstly, get them wildly and inappropriately drunk on really good champagne.
Secondly, make them listen to an entire Kasey Chambers album as punishment for that statement.
And
thirdly - possibly a little while after the hangover, because they
won't be looking too crash hot, and it would be hard to justify what I
am trying to make them see - I will shove them in front of a mirror. And I will
make them stare until they see the truth.
They are beautiful.
And nobody has the right to say they are not beautiful 'enough'.
““Pleasing things: finding a large number of tales that one has not read before. Or acquiring the second volume of a tale whose first volume one has enjoyed. But often it is a disappointment.” ”
— Sei Shōnagon, The Pillow Book
The Pillow Book - well, the most famous one - was written by Sei Shōnagon, a lady of the Imperial Japanese court in the late 10th Century. It contains her daily thoughts, poetry, illustrations, opinions on others at court, the most amazing lists of her likes and dislikes - everything about her life.
It is a truly remarkable tome - yes, it is basically a diary, but it is so beautifully written and drawn that it transcends that into a work of art.
It is subversive. It is naughty. It is sublime.
I would do anything for the Lady Sei's turn of phrase - she was the year 1002's equivalent of Dorothy Parker.
What a pillow book gives is clarity. A nightly - or daily - way to sort out the tangled jumble of thoughts that sit in a snarl in our craniums, blurring our capability to function and just keep going on a daily basis. For me, it's also a way to express my opinions on life, the universe and everything - whether anyone is reading them or not doesn't actually matter - it's getting them onto virtual paper that matters.
Because as anyone who writes knows, the compulsion to get the words out of one's head and through one's fingers is constant and unchanging.
Much of what I write is never seen by anyone. Because I do have a true Pillow Book. It may be an iPillow - but it is a Pillow Book nonetheless. There is snark, there are what I would like to think of as witticisms, there are dreams. There are photos. There are drawings.
There is a life.
And in the spirit of the original, maybe I do have one of my lists that is suitable for this post.
List 14.
Things For Which One Is Truly Grateful.
Sometimes gratitude is intangible.
And in this case it comes from the sometimes bitter and ugly - but always brutally honest - observations of a woman centuries before her time, who inspired a teenage girl to start putting pen to paper. For which she will be eternally grateful.
““List 71. Rare Things - Copying out a tale or a volume of poems without smearing any ink on the book you’re copying from. If you’re copying it from some beautiful bound book, you try to take immense care, but somehow you always manage to get ink on it.””
