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."
How many times did you say as a child "I hate you!" and feel sick to the stomach afterwards because you'd used the word 'hate'? Maybe it was just me, but I doubt it. Now think about how often you use it. "I hate that idea." "God, I hate this, it's vile." "I hate him so much, I hope he rots in hell."
I use it all the time. I use it about Donald Trump on a daily basis. And I can feel the shadow creeping in on me, because I have forgotten how wrong it is to say it, and by saying it, to put thought into practice.
“““She was clean”: no piercings, tattoos, or scarifications. All the kids were now. And who could blame them, Alex thought, after watching three generations of flaccid tattoos droop like moth-eaten upholstery over poorly stuffed biceps and saggy asses?” ”
— Jennifer Egan, A Visit From The Goon Squad
I (rather foolishly) got into a debate the other night on Facestalk with people far younger than myself on the merits or otherwise of getting a tattoo. Once I stopped shuddering at the heinous spelling and grammar and concentrated on what was being said it was incredibly interesting to see the range of views from very young Gen Ys. Beautiful, ugly, go for it, don't do it - I loved to see the debate, and I also loved that my opinion was taken into account (although the 17 year old boy who said 'you're REALLY old!' is a dead tadpole walking).
I was reminded of this yesterday with someone asking me my opinion of tatts - for a few reasons - and I started thinking about why I really, really have never wanted one, when I have succumbed to pretty much every other trend on the planet and I have the pain threshold of a non-complaining elephant.
I know that people get tattoos for sentimental reasons, not just because they think they look beautiful, and I comprehend this. My friend Lady L has a breast cancer Pink Ribbon tattooed on her foot and as a cancer survivor I don't do anything but applaud that. Others have names or symbols - Angelina Jolie with the latitude and longitude of each of her children's birth places. All this I understand.
Yes, I see the beauty in them to some extent. David Beckham flexing his abs and running around without a shirt - well, yes. Until he opens his mouth, I will sit and drool like a mindless idiot with the best of them. (Sorry Becks, but the day you started spruiking about 'Pepsay' in that voice, you lost me at 'ullo').
The beautiful Miss A has them, and they suit her. I know the reasons behind hers, and I can appreciate them.
And yet.
The preponderance of meathead footy players with neck to ankle ink and twits like Justin Beiber covering themselves with symbols they don't understand - perhaps this is part of my 'thanks but no thanks'. Mostly though I think it's their permanency and the way they look on ageing skin. Today's proud eagle is tomorrow's sagging chicken after all. And the thought of living with a static image for the next forty years... quoting directly from yesterday's convo 'do I want a picture of Calvin & Hobbes lurking around for the next forty years?'
Well, no.
Perhaps the biggest thing for me - and this is very personal I admit - is something that is almost indefinable, and may sound painfully 'here she goes', but it's not intended that way. Judaism strictly speaking forbids the tattooing of the body for non-medical reasons as (this is simplifying it immensely) it breaks the sacred seal of the human body and the covenant with God. Piercings are the same - and yes I see the inherent hypocrisy as I have been there and well and truly done that. But with tattooing - what tool did Hitler use as the ultimate humiliation? What did he and Goebbels know would hit hardest?
And there we are.
On a very much lighter note, I secretly know what my ultimate objection is.
I will pick out a wonderful Chinese character, and have it put somewhere strategic for a select individual. One day I will be having a massage, or at the doctor, or wherever, and will be under the scrutiny of a Chinese speaker.
They will snigger, and I will ask them what they are laughing at.
'Why do you have the character for "arse" on your hip?'
Last night I had the pleasure of having people to dinner for the first time in my new home - yay!
To dinner, not for dinner; despite my love of quoting Dr Hannibal Lecter, I am not inclined towards cannibalism. Although I must admit, the thought of boiling a few politicians' heads is extremely appealing at present.
The reason I mention this is whenever I am talking to someone and they say 'Oh, I'm having X and Y for dinner' - well, all I can envisage is a big pile of fava beans and some fairly unpleasant screams.
And they ain't coming from little lambykins.
Not quite sure how I got onto Dr Lecter then - a need to fire up grammatically and a hangover from the desire to seriously injure a flight attendant on Thursday I think (see My House post for reference).
I must admit, I was a bit excited about the whole dinner shebang. Because I love cooking. Absolutely adore it. I love the whole process associated with putting great food on the table; I find it extremely calming and it means a lot to me that everything is (hopefully) perfect. But for quite some time I haven't been doing much cooking at all, which for a chick who used to regularly hold four course dinner parties for twelve people without blinking an eye has been - well, pretty blah.
So yesterday afternoon it was a case of dancing around the kitchen to extremely dorky music as I caked it up and threw garlic around like a vampire hunter gone wild; and naturally, being me, cut myself on one of my samurai-sharp knives just for that added touch of cheffy messed-up fingers authenticity.
It was ace.
And it made me wonder something.
Is cooking - or more to the point, being taught to cook - a lost art?
Much like the practice of writing (writing, not texting) thank you notes and other antiquated notions which Gen 'Y Do I Have To Listen To This Old Bag Blather On At Me' look at me blankly about when I mention them, is learning to cook slowly becoming a dinosaur?
I'd love to say 'Nope, everyone loves cooking' but the reality is, how many 25 year olds now would know how to make - oh, I don't know - gravy? And yes, I realise you don't need to know how to make gravy, because all you have to do is walk into Woollies and pick up a pouch of said substance and zap the hell out of it, but that's not the point. There is something hugely satisfying in creating something very simple and delicious from scratch. I'm not saying everyone should be spending their weekends boiling up huge pots of chicken bones and making stock, but taking the time - just occasionally - to not take the plastic fantastic option is massively rewarding.
And tastes even sweeter.
Because you know in yourself - even if nobody else at the table realises - that what you are eating was made by you. Not by someone in a pair of plastic gloves and a hair net somewhere.
And definitely not while dancing around to Vogue.
How could it not taste amazing?
Finger slicing good. Those knives are really, really sharp. Ouch.
