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."
On both sides of the world, people who were going about their daily lives were suddenly forced into fear and horror and blood and pain and death - because someone else decided to make a nightmare become reality.
What I would truly like to understand is this; what is the reasoning behind these people doing what they do? Because what scares me the most is that there may be no reason beyond a wish to make themselves heard - not out of a cry for their cause, or their suffering, but simply because they are hollow people.
Horses change lives. They give our young people confidence and self-esteem. They provide peace and tranquility to troubled souls, they give us hope.
Toni Robinson
I think it would be safe to say that the past week could be put down in the annals of history as 'One of The Most Craptacular Weeks On Record. Ever. Full Stop. No Mucking Around Here, People, I'm Talking Crud In A Calendar'. It would also be fairly accurate to predict that the next seven days aren't going to contain a hell of a lot of unicorns and lollipops either, because the universe has a nasty habit of doing horrible things to good people; and whilst I am not a good person, I have incredibly good people in my life, and they are hurting.
I call all this general awfulness the Blergh. You know when you have just woken up, and five seconds after the feeling of blank 'who the hell am I?' passes you remember how spectacularly horrible things are? That's the Blergh. And boy, does the Big B seem to be on the rise at the moment, and making a run for the winner's podium. The Blergh is happiest when we are miserable; it thrives on tears and sadness and pain.
So when something silly happens amongst the sadness and fury, it seems to me we need to clutch onto absurdity with both hands and make the most of it. There's nothing the Blergh hates more than laughter; it is anathema to its very being. And if you want absurd, then taking a My Little Pony called - wait for it - Sunset Shimmer out and about for a drink pretty much hits the spot.
The background of receiving said Sunset Shimmer is impossible to explain; suffice to say I uttered the magic words beloved of 9 to 12 year old girls everywhere, and before you could repeat 'please include at least one accessory and a comb for her magnificent mane', young Shimmery was on my doorstep.
I wanna pony!
Admittedly I had envisaged an actual pony, but that's beside the point.
I don't think she would have survived the trip in the mail. The bag didn't have any air holes.
When I saw said eminent equine, I laughed until I cried. Then I think I cried until I laughed, because as I said, the Blergh has been in the ascendant all week. And I realised that even the dark dingy days have big fat sunshiny spots in them if you let the absurd in. Slowly that bloody Blergh seemed to recede just a little bit to a more manageable size - even if it was with a bad grace and muttering to itself as it did so.
The end of the week has seen Sunset Shimmer join the clan, although not without sideways looks from Osky the Spycat, who isn't sure whether he wants to eat her or throw her around the room. I'm sure both options will be attempted in the near future.
It has seen me get weirded out by all the bizarre things grown men do with My Little Ponies (thanks colleague of The Man Who Vaguely Resembles David Tennant for that line of information - no, really. DIDN'T NEED TO KNOW. EVER.)
But mainly it has seen, despite the continuing presence of sadness - which truly, truly does have a taste and texture all of its own - a receding of the Blergh's pervasive undertow, which can pull our legs from under us with unmatchable swiftness.
Beat the Blergh any way you can. Whether it's by hugging your cat, your kids, your Dr Whovian-ish whoever...
“What separates us from the animals, what separates us from the chaos, is our ability to mourn people we’ve never met.”
— David Levithan, Love Is The Higher Law
I have always loved the above quote for its optimism and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there is some hope for mankind. But unfortunately, on a day like today, when I woke in the early hours to hear the news of explosions, injuries and deaths at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, I feel as though it can be turned on its head.
What separates us from the animals - and brings us closer to the chaos - is our ability to injure, hurt, kill people we've never met; and not to do it with the purpose of survival - but to do it with the purpose of inflicting intentional pain.
Then I read on one of the live updates about a series of co-ordinated car bombs overnight in Iraq, which killed at least 55 people. Iraq is currently preparing for its first elections since coalition forces left the country.
On both sides of the world, people who were going about their daily lives were suddenly forced into fear and horror and blood and pain and death - because someone else decided to make a nightmare become reality.
What I would truly like to understand is this; what is the reasoning behind these people doing what they do? Because what scares me the most is that there may be no reason beyond a wish to make themselves heard - not out of a cry for their cause, or their suffering, but simply because they are hollow people.
What I want to say is not about apportioning blame to extremist groups, or pointing fingers at a particular religious persuasion, or anything along those lines. It is simply this.
The outpouring of love and support from around the world for the victims of the explosions in Boston is already incredible. It gladdens my heart to see it.
But I wonder; how many people are thinking of the dead in Iraq this morning. And I also wonder where and when this is going to end. After all, I sat in Jakarta as the Australian Embassy was bombed in 2004. I had been there for exactly two days. I watched again from the skies above the city in 2009 as a hotel with security to the eyeballs went up in smoke - and an Australian lost their life.
Because people are people are people. And some people have no moral compass.
Even if we call down the wrath of the angels on those who committed this act - there will be seven more to take their place. Unless there is a fundamental shift in the paradigm, nothing will change.
And all those who are willing to stand up and say 'this isn't the way it should be' - all of the people who do have the ability to mourn people they have never met - will continue beating their heads against a very solid brick wall of deliberate malice aforethought.
Thinking of you Boston, Massachusetts, USA. And Kamaliya, Iraq.
““Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.””
— Ambrose Bierce
I have as previously mentioned, a very bad temper. Not a sulky one; a fiery, burning hot coal, bring down the wrath of the angels number which is not attractive and tends to present itself in one of two ways. Either it is a short sharp blast of icy low voiced rational school mistress Kate, which tends to be saved exclusively for phone companies and bad restaurant service; or in many people's eyes, the far worse alternative.
I get horribly sarcastic.
They say that sarcasm is the wit of fools, and I am inclined to agree - because it is usually me who ends up feeling foolish after the fact.
And the reason is this.
If I'm speaking with forked tongue, quite often I'm not truly angry - or not in the sense that one may expect. What I really am...
Well, what I really am is hurting. I've been injured by someone close to me's thoughts or actions. And we all know that the best form of defence is attack, so rather than grab a box of tissues and have a good snotty cry - or for that matter say to the person involved "I'm upset", Kate the Bruce grabs her own personal spider and throttles it with cutting words and is off out of the cave before you can say Scots Wha' Hae.
Leaving confusion and destruction in her kilted and claymored wake.
I know I'm not alone in reacting this way. I'm useless at crying, so instead I get lippy. There are many of us out there. In fact, there should be a support group; Sarcastaholics Anonymous. Except we probably couldn't ever meet as a group because we would just take the mickey out of each other, which would sort of defeat the purpose. So what is the solution?
I think it's quite easy.
People need to be really nice to me.
All. The. Time.
Anger, sadness and sarcasm all magically managed. My need to paint face with woad and wear Boudicca type breast plate? Fading, fading... gone. The prickle of traitorous tears (just because I'm bad at crying doesn't mean I don't) subsiding back into the ducts of doom where they belong.
This could well work.
Maybe if that happened, I would be so calm and peaceful I would be able to visit North Korea as a peace envoy to Kim Jong Nutbags? Admittedly I'm no Dennis Rodman...
So I may actually achieve something sensible.
Anger is a wasted emotion. Trust me on this one. So if you are getting angry because you are hurting, or sad, or just because you're a bad tempered redhead - ask yourself why.
And if the whole Utopian ideal of people being nice to you is pie in the sky (which let's face it, it is - unless you live with the lemurs in a remote and human-free part of the Madagascan forests) - then rethink the people you are allowing in to your life, and therefore having the ability to upset you; or in the case of Kim J U and Dennis, the aliens.
Make your life a Martian free zone. That's quite a logical thought, my dear Captain.
Live long and prosper. Without getting pissed off.
““What separates us from the animals, what separates us from the chaos, is our ability to mourn people we’ve never met.””
— David Levithan, Love Is The Higher Law
I have always loved the above quote for its optimism and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, there is some hope for mankind. But unfortunately, on a day like today, when I woke in the early hours to hear the news of explosions, injuries and deaths at the finish line of the Boston Marathon, I feel as though it can be turned on its head.
What separates us from the animals - and brings us closer to the chaos - is our ability to injure, hurt, kill people we've never met; and not to do it with the purpose of survival - but to do it with the purpose of inflicting intentional pain.
Then I read on one of the live updates about a series of co-ordinated car bombs overnight in Iraq, which killed at least 55 people. Iraq is currently preparing for its first elections since coalition forces left the country.
On both sides of the world, people who were going about their daily lives were suddenly forced into fear and horror and blood and pain and death - because someone else decided to make a nightmare become reality.
What I would truly like to understand is this; what is the reasoning behind these people doing what they do? Because what scares me the most is that there may be no reason beyond a wish to make themselves heard - not out of a cry for their cause, or their suffering, but simply because they are hollow people.
What I want to say is not about apportioning blame to extremist groups, or pointing fingers at a particular religious persuasion, or anything along those lines. It is simply this.
The outpouring of love and support from around the world for the victims of the explosions in Boston is already incredible. It gladdens my heart to see it.
But I wonder; how many people are thinking of the dead in Iraq this morning. And I also wonder where and when this is going to end. After all, I sat in Jakarta as the Australian Embassy was bombed in 2004. I had been there for exactly two days. I watched again from the skies above the city in 2009 as a hotel with security to the eyeballs went up in smoke - and an Australian lost their life.
Because people are people are people. And some people have no moral compass.
Even if we call down the wrath of the angels on those who committed this act - there will be seven more to take their place. Unless there is a fundamental shift in the paradigm, nothing will change.
And all those who are willing to stand up and say 'this isn't the way it should be' - all of the people who do have the ability to mourn people they have never met - will continue beating their heads against a very solid brick wall of deliberate malice aforethought.
Thinking of you Boston, Massachusetts, USA. And Kamaliya, Iraq.
““She asked where he lived. ‘Second to the right,’ said Peter, ‘and then straight on till morning.’””
— J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
This post really belongs in two sections. Hmmmmm... actually, three. Because there is a lot of gratitude, quite a bit about shoes, and it sits nicely in the 41 bucket list items for the year.
Multi-tasking!
What a woman.
How is it involved in the 41 Steps? I am glad you asked (even if you didn't). Step Number Five: Live Somewhere You Have Never Lived Before. So that I am. I am about to grace (they may disagree with that term) the fair shores of South East Queensland. To feel the sand between my currently broken toes on a daily basis, and to further my ambition of NEVER GOING THROUGH A CANBERRA WINTER EVER AGAIN.
EVER.
So off I head to the Land Of The Long Orange-Skinned Meter Maid. Where ugg boot and bikini combos are considered the height of fashion and my paleness is a weird attraction for Japanese tourists on the Main Beach at Surfers. Where people watching is more than a hobby, it's a way of life, and where the best coffee and pork belly in the Southern Hemisphere can be found if you don't think like a tourist.
If there was a bookshop closer than Coolangatta (sorry - Gold Coast) Airport, all would be for the best in the best of all possible worlds. Thank goodness for the interwebs.
As for the shoes - well, I am having to pack them. Which involves much effort. Much, much effort. And multiple pauses to appreciate just how lovely my shoesies are.
I am certain they will love their new home.
There are built in shoe racks in the wardrobes.
Mainly though, this post is about gratitude. Gratitude for those people who have made my time in the Can pretty damn amazing. Who have made me laugh until I've had to cross my legs and hope for the best; who have held my hand in some fairly spaztacular moments, several of them involving various hospital visits; who have cried with me, drank, eaten, cried, not cringed whilst I've sworn at the rugby and netty and AFL on TV, again when I've sworn at live rugby, cried some more; who have propped me up and been inspiring, irritating, huggable and horrible.
Who have loved me and been my friends.
Gratitude is not quite a strong enough word for the emotion I wish I could express for what you have given to me. But it will just have to do.
And as I set off on the reverse of the road trip that my gorgeous sister Oonagh and I made about six months ago, this time with a very suss Thelma to my Louise in tow (Thelma as far as I know didn't have a 5 o'clock shadow), I am happily aware that in a few days time, I will be crunching through said sand. And also, that not too far up the road from my new abode, a buccaneering boyo will soon be home from adventuring to help make my life well - interesting. To say the least. God help the Gold Coast.
I don't know why P. Pan was so keen on popping off the twig.
Life is a big enough adventure for this little duck.
