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."
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.
There is a reason why moveable type was invented. It was to stop people gazing at their own navels wondering if they were going to go to hell for thinking naughty thoughts about Lucy the dairy maid in the next village, and start them gazing at the inside of their craniums, and thinking about whether there was life outside their planet, and if the simplest explanation was probably the correct one, or whether something was rotten in the State of Denmark. Or perhaps if a rose by any other name would smell quite as sweet.
Granted, there's a hell of a lot still written about naughty thoughts and Lucy the dairy maid, but at least some of it is written in an intelligent way, and we can choose to read about Lucy the cow whose DNA is being used to find a cure for cancer if we feel like it.
Or stick with the dairy maid. It's your call.
““I also read about Heathcliff’s unexpected three-year career in Hollywood under the name Buck Stallion and his eventual return to the pages of Wuthering Heights.” ”
Being in a book.
I have been thinking about this subject for years, I think since I first started to truly comprehend the magic of written words on a page.
In other words (cough - sorry, couldn't help it), at a very tender age indeed, I was wanting to jump between the covers of The Velveteen Rabbit and make sure that goddamned Nursery Fairy made my bunny real. By holding her to ransom if necessary, or breaking her wand.
Similarly, as my reading tastes matured, I was certain, absolutely certain, that if Anne Shirley met me, we would instantly become besties and she would forget all about boring Diana, and I would of course then get to meet Gilbert Blythe.
Sigh.
I do have a point here, I'm just busy between the pages. Which I suppose is my point.
If you could jump between the covers - of a book, not a bed (rude) - which one would it be?
And I mean as yourself, not as a character. Much as I love playing Sherlock Holmes (the dreadful old misogynist), I would love to go in and be myself within The Hound of the Baskervilles, or A Study In Scarlet, and find a way of helping Holmes and Watson to the truth. Or maybe being an even bigger villain than Moriarty - depending on my mood at the time.
Which characters would you love to meet on a real life basis?
Some would be too depressing for words. Much as I love Rochester, I think that all that brow beating and gloom and doom might be a bit much on a daily basis. Plus there's the mad wife, and the corsets... meh. All a bit much.
Jane Austen on the other hand... I can imagine being friends with Lizzie Bennet. I could cheerfully smack Arsey Darcy around the head, but I do like a pair of pantaloons... and riding boots. Phwoar. Book of choice however would have to be Persuasion, because I actively, and actually, love the characters in it. I can envisage conversations with Anne Elliot, and Captain Wentworth. Although I am not sure I would last long simply not doing anything other than 'visiting' all day.
I would probably end up falling off a sea wall to stave off boredom.
I was obssessed with Game of Thrones when the books came out - I read them cover to cover and sequentially. Would I like to live within them? Realistically... hell no. It would be like living at the Fall of Rome, or under the Borgias. One would never relax. Plus there's the need to speaketh wryly at all times... no... miss that one. In theory, love it. In practice, no thank ye.
I dream about books. I worship them. The characters contained within my favourite books' covers are a part of my heart. They beat inside me. I never want this to not be the case.
However... life is not a novel. It may feel like a trashy paperback at times, or even War and Peace, but it ain't.
It's non-fiction. It is absolutely a book, but it is writing itself, and we need to live it without regrets and without fear, and with love.
It may not be the approach favoured by the authors we admire most, but who is editing this thing anyway? We are.
I am.
Admittedly, given the opportunity, I would hop inside To Kill A Mockingbird and never let Atticus Finch go... but then again, I could get stuck in 1984 with Big Brother, and then where would I be?
Write your own story.
Oh, and if you get the chance - help me encourage the Nursery Fairy.
She needs a bit of a prod that one.
““Love the life you live. Live the life you love.””
I cheerfully confess to stealing the attached quote from Miss Fiona last night about 5 seconds after she posted it on Pinterest. Fi, I owe you one - or possibly two glasses - of champers for this one. Luckily we are now in the same state which makes this eminently more achievable!
Having just mowed through a mountain of moving boxes, and dealt with all the detritus attached with the process of plopping oneself into a new location, I can cheerfully say that I haven't had a lot of love to spare for anything - or anyone - in the last few weeks. Which is why, I think, that this particular little piece resonated with me when I saw it last night. That and the enormous technological frustrations I was having, which when one's work is based online does not make the heart grow fonder of - well, anything.
To quote Roxie Hart in Chicago, you can like the life you're living, you can live the life you like - but liking it? It's not enough. You need to embrace the craptacular and the mundane as well as the awesome, even if there doesn't seem to be much point at the time. I may have been grumbling and gnashing my teeth as I unpacked what felt like the seventy two-hundredth box last night; but then I looked around and saw something spectacular.
A home.
It had appeared while I was bitching away to myself about packing paper and interwebs and I hadn't even noticed. Which is a shame, because it looks really speccy, if I do say so myself, and I should have enjoyed the process more, rather than only seeing the hindrances.
Life is such an amazing gift, and we squander it. We waste so much time thinking about what we might be able to obtain, or who we might be with, that we don't love the here and now. We also think it should be all highs and something out of a romantic comedy, with the whole 'wow' factor occurring on a daily basis, when in fact it's just life. Crap happens, and we have to deal. That doesn't mean we can't find some way to love the process.
I think that if I can write this after a decidedly average week, and mean it, that a lot of other people can manage to keep going with a bit more amour for the daily chore. And you know what? If you honestly hate things so much, or if life is just 'meh' and you can't see any joy down the line - for the love of monkeys make some changes so that you can love life more.
And maybe - just maybe - you will love yourself more in the process too.
One may even find the inclination to purchase a new pair of shoes. Believe me, genuine joie de vivre is needed for that.
Shoes know.
Love x
““I like Cinderella, I really do. She has a good work ethic. I appreciate a good, hard-working gal. And she likes shoes. The fairy tale is all about the shoe at the end, and I’m a big shoe girl.”
”
I was talking to someone the other day about this blog and they said to me 'I really like what you write - the whole gratitude thingy, it's lovely. It makes such a difference to my day - you should feel really good about it'. I was just feeling all warm and fuzzy (and perhaps a little teary, because well, it had been a bad day), and was about to thank them, when they put their hand on my arm and shook their head at me.
'You do ruin it all though of course'.
Huh?
'It's all that stuff about shoes. It's so trivial and shallow. You should only be writing about meaningful issues. Otherwise, well, nobody's ever going to take you seriously. OK, bye!'
And they were gone, like a well-intentioned air to surface missile which had completed its mission and could knock off for afternoon tea.
Said target of the strike stood there dumbfounded for a minute or two. And then realised something.
I like writing about shoes. If I didn't write about shoes, I wouldn't be able to write about anything more meaningful, because it is the trivial and shallow pretty bits of life that carry me through the sookypuss parts, and let me get on with being grateful.
Shoes are spectacular. They are an instant mood-lifter. Feel craptacular? Throw on a pair of black suede stilettos. Bam. Suddenly the sun is shining - even if just a little bit. Throw in a little black dress and the world is your oyster.
Something about a pair of stunning shoes makes me feel mysterious and alluring. Sometimes it makes the difference between me being able to go forth with confidence into a room full of strangers - or not. And they don't have to be high; they just have to be gorgeous. And much as I might tout that 'one must suffer to be beautiful', they also have to be comfortable.
Shoes are a little piece of heaven wrapped up in tissue paper and individual cloth bags. And I love them. From a purely logical perspective, there is no point to them other than to keep my feet from freezing. Do they love me back? Hell no. They are pieces of dead animal and slithers of satin and lace. I'm besotted, not insane. Are they a good investment? Only if leather suddenly becomes a viable building material (NB: check out leather as a viable building material). But that's not the point.
The point is, shoes are seriously fabulous.
And I will write about them.
Because otherwise I might hurt their feelings, and next time I wear my favourite nude patent Mary-Janes, I might get a blister.
And cue the insanity.
““One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” ”
The Panda posted on Facebook this morning that he was listening to certain music, and it made me feel the need to immediately get my butt out of bed... if only to put some music on.
And then get back into bed and write this.
Admittedly now I look like I have St Vitus' Dance, as I resemble a spider doing some kind of weird headbanging mattress jump up and down to Chris Cornell, but still. The ambition to be incredibly rhythmic is there; sadly, it just doesn't translate very well.
Music is amazing. I know I have talked about the the songs or pieces of music that I am most grateful for previously, but this isn't about favourites, or even about genres.
It's simply about rhythm and melody.
Rhythm... and melody.
Who in their teenage years didn't dream of being in a band - come to think of it, who still holds fast to that dream somewhere deep down? I have no hesitation in admitting that somewhere, somehow, Kate S is about to appear in another sell out stadium - or appearing out of the blue in a small jazz club to sing 'My Baby Just Cares For Me' and disappear into the night leaving people to wonder 'was that who I think it was?'.
That's the power of the beat. Songs are insidious - they get into our psyche and if they get a grip on our emotions, it's a life long love affair. You will always remember that moment where or when you first heard that song.
And sometimes it's a case of never forgetting the person who first played it for you.
So today, throw on some music. Dag it up. Play what you love, not what you think you should be listening to. As long as it's not the Bieber, I am not Tuneist. Anything goes. Oh what the hell - it's your eardrums - play the little weasel if you want. Just dance, as they say, like nobody's watching. Sing into your hairbrush, or your rolled up magazine, or toss the vacuum cleaner around like it's a microphone stand and you are doing the Mick Jagger strut to Start Me Up.
And the beat goes on.
And I am grateful that I can hear it.
