Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
The Wax That Melts Our Wings

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.

The Wax That Melts Our Wings
Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
The Lady Jellypants Guide to Grace and Poise

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.

The Lady Jellypants Guide to Grace and Poise
Shoes, Books & Cynicism
Kate Stone Matheson
Love Me Tender

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."

Love Me Tender

music

Put The Needle On The Record

““And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.” ”

— Friedrich Nietzsche

Yesterday was a rather enormous day for me in terms of kicking goals and taking names, and it got to the point where if I didn't find some way of letting some of the 'YAY' feeling out, I was going to spontaneously combust. 

Sadly, as I had the equivalent of ten metric tonnes' worth of work to get through, a mid-afternoon champers was out of the picture (dammnit). So what to do, what to do? 

Hard as it is to believe, I chose to - ugh - exercise.  

Which isn't actually as weird as it sounds. 

One of the perils of both a. working from home and b. sitting in front of a very large computer screen all day is that whilst the mind is massively busy, the body is in the equivalent of a chocolate coma. So at the end of the day - fidget central. And yesterday - I really, really needed to be running down the street, punching the air, saying 'I couldah beenah contendah' with Eye of the Tiger playing loudly in the background.

Or possibly the theme from Flashdance.  

As it was, I donned the black stretchy pants and running top (no need to not be chic about this - I was celebrating after all) - and off I trotted out into the exceedingly average Gold Coast afternoon. 

God. 

I really, really hate running. 

Admittedly I have Rheumatoid Arthritis and shouldn't do anything beyond a gentle amble, but - well, if Rocky Balboa could keep going, yada, yada, yada... 

And I bet the most the Duchess of Cambridge said whilst popping out the Royal Squealer overnight was 'oh, bother'. So soldiering on, stiff upper lip trembling slightly, knees popping like corn, I ran up to the beach.

The thing that got me there (apart from excess adrenaline over total work wins), and the whole point of this post, was this. 

Music. Really, REALLY loud music.  

Much of it was totally daggy, and I think I was singing along (or wheezing along) at the traffic lights, and bouncing up and down on the balls of my feet, so no doubt I looked even more spaztacular than usual. Plus I run like a total girl, so I must have provided the locals with some serious entertainment. 

But man, it was worth it. Music may be the language of love, but more importantly yesterday, it was the language of 'I can do this without having a myocardial infarction'. 

And also the language of total, total kick-arse.  

I'm going the distance. Possibly not for speed, Cake... 

But definitely the former. 

Aah, ahhhhhhhh... 

 

You Can't Stop The Music

““One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” ”

— Bob Marley

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.